we are bad news (well HE is), [part 2/2].
Part one.
EIGHT
Bob’s face is so red by the time he’s halfway through explaining to Frank that he’s fairly sure he is going to spontaneously combust. He hopes they will know to blame his death on Pete, and he hopes when Pete goes to prison for it he will be passed around like a pack of cigarettes and have to do push-ups in drag and all that. Pete pushed and pushed and now Bob has to ask Frank, or risk Pete getting him first. Which. No. Definitely no. So much angry, angry no. More no than he can contain.
"Basically, I just really want to pee on you," Bob finishes, face burning.
"Okay."
"What?"
"I said okay. Just let me get my shirt off."
"You ... said okay."
"Yup."
"What about if I wanted to tie you up?"
"Cool."
"And slap you about a bit?"
"Awesome."
"And ... I can really pee on you?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Frank ... is there anything you're not okay with? Like, is there anything you won't do, seriously ..."
Frank considers this for quite a long time. He'd look more serious if he weren't squirming out of his shirt and trying not to unbutton it as the same time. "Um ..." he flings his red tie in some unpremeditated direction. "... oh, if you gag me with one of Gerard's socks I am never ever speaking to you ever again ever." He gets stuck inside his own shirt. "And that's about it - uh. A little help, please?"
"This is why shirts have buttons."
Frank flails his ridiculous stuck arms around like mentally challenged flags. He looks like a Henson puppet having a seizure, and Bob's not sure whether to help him or do a Kermit impression. Frank stops and breathes harshly for a bit.
The white shirt is sticking here and there where it's sweaty wet and twisted, ink coming though like it's bleeding.
"Hold still," Bob says, and means it. There's an edge in his voice he barely recognizes, when he says it. Snaps it. Orders it.
Frank freezes, arms up in the air and shirt ridden halfway up his torso. He peers out at Bob where the shirt's buttons are gaping, wide eyed.
Well hey. It worked.
Bob keeps his eyes on Frank's and puts his hand flat-palmed against Frank's stomach, fingers touching the inked and, thumb brushing Frank's pink belt. Frank giggles, cracked and high. Which is kinda Frank all over.
Bob would laugh at Frank, still frozen with his arms up and barely able to see a thing, if his tentative fingers weren't anchored on warm skin, but they are, and Bob's fingers are steady as they brush up Frank's torso, skidding on damp skin, pushing Frank's shirt off over his head.
His voice is steady as his warm hands: "Clothes off. On your knees."
They're both externally steady and commanding, and internally giddy with what they can do. 'Hey, if I tell Frank to do something, he actually does it?' Why the fuck didn't he find this out sooner? Bob tries not to think about how this is also Pete's doing, because if he has to think about Pete he's going to throw up.
Frank leaves his clothing in a hasty pile on the bus floor. Bob thinks about telling Frank to pick it all up. Can't. No time. Desperately fucking ready with Frank on his knees, Bob's rapidly approaching too hard to pee straight - because dicks just have to be that fucking badly-designed, don't they? - and fuck if he doesn’t realise right then that they’re in the bus lounge.
The fucking bus lounge where Frank is currently naked and on his knees in front of Bob's completely and utterly obvious even through his jeans hard-on and Gerard or Ray or Mikey or Pete could walk in at any second-- Bob can't actually pee here. That would be bad, his brain supplies. He's not sure he believes it. He can’t think of the why right now.
Carpets, his brain suggests, before taking a little vacation in his balls.
He has to close his eyes against naked, half-hard Frank, with his head tipped up to look at Bob and his neck exposed and fucking asking to be marked. "Bathroom,” Bob snaps.
The bathroom is barely big enough for one Frank sized person, never mind the both of them. Frank has to kneel in the shower stall. Bob's got no room to move, so his hoodie gets shoved in the sink when he pulls it off, getting it caught on his wrist and banging his elbow into the wall with a loud hollow thunk, that’s not particularly painful if you don’t count how completely suave it makes him look.
Frank’s got a hand on his dick and his eyes half-draped. "Are we going to do this or what?”
"Rules," Bob says. "Don't talk unless I tell you. Don't move unless I tell you." And he doesn't really recall telling Frank he could touch himself, either.
"Yeah," Frank says. Pushing. Bob slaps him. Not hard. Frank said he was okay with it, but it's not something Bob wants to fuck up - Frank head jerks to the side more from shock than the force, and the hand he's had kind of casually resting on his dick squeezes and moves. Frank turns his head back slowly, mouth open and smiling just a little.
Okay, the boundaries are somewhere thattaway over the horizon and Bob is definitely going to do that again at some point. A lot. Maybe while someone can see. Frank's cheek is just the faintest bit pink, barely noticeable over their red flush, and his eyes are kind of glazed when he looks back at Bob, all big-big pupils.
"Understand?"
Frank nods his head, silent.
Bob takes a breath that he's sure everyone within a mile can hear, harsh and deep, hadn't even realised he was there yet, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than a minute, half a second ago.
Bob pops the top button on his pants and keeps his eyes on Frank. Frank's hand has slowed on his dick, loose and comfortable and okay, Bob has to look away from inked fingers stroking along the underside of Frank's dick, colourful knuckles and callused fingers, because otherwise he really won't be able to pee.
Bob unzips his jeans, his eyes on Frank's, barely controls his hips from jerking forward as his knuckles brush his trapped cock at the same time Frank tilts his head, just lets his head roll to the side, Adam's apple bobbing slowly as he swallows.
Bob's got his dick in his hand and no chance of this not being messy and his stomach doing cartwheels, arousal and nerves dancing through his insides to a throbbing beat: don't fuck this up.
"Are you -- you sure?" He wants to smack his head back against the bathroom wall (barely a few oh so convenient inches away) at the way that comes out, desperate and not even a little in control.
Frank doesn't giggle (thank fuck), but he does smile when he nods his head. Doesn't speak.
Bob pushes his stubborn dick down, wants this way too much for it to be easy, fuck, this would be so much easier if he could close his eyes, but there is no way in fuck-and he lets go: piss hits Frank, tattoos and skin splash-spattered with Bob's piss, fuck, his his his-- his piss from his bladder from his body all over Frank's in a noisy stinking stream. Frank's eyes are closed and his chin tilted up and he's intensely, perfectly Bob's, perfectly accepting, wanting it-and oh, it's messy -
- And fuck, he misses Frank when his hips jerk forward into his own hand, stutter -stopping and going again, wet everywhere, the walls, then Frank's chest-thighs-throat dick.
Loosening his hand around his dick is fucking impossible, he can't piss any more and Frank's still right there on his knees (on his knees, on his knees, just for Bob, because Bob told him to get on his knees) in the dirty shower stall-all, all (Bob strokes his dick), all Bob wants to do is come on Frank's face, now.
Just wants him dirtier and wetter-just wants to, wants to kiss him filthy. Kiss him wet and ruined and his. Frank shuffles forward, over the edge of the shower stall, and Bob looks down at him uncomprehendingly, until Frank's lips are right there all slick and wet on his dick (his dick still wet with droplets of piss, dribbling leftover piss). Frank's (damp, dirty, wet with him) hand around the base of his dick: Bob fucks forward into Frank's mouth and barely gets an uneven thrust before that's it, he's coming, Frank not letting a drop spill.
Which would be hot enough to make Bob's dick twitch again right now, if he hadn't actually had a plan that had just been sucked out along with his greater motor functions and his ability to form sentences -- he pokes himself in the eye with a knuckle as he wipes sweat off his face, and bangs his fucking elbow again. Fucking bathroom.
His dick is still in Frank's mouth.
"Who the fuck said you could move?" Bob asks, his tone bypassing commanding and coming out fucked out and quiet rough to his own ears. He shakes his head and grabs Frank's hair, pulls his head backwards off Bob's sensitive and wilting dick, a wet line of saliva snapping slowly between them. Frank's lips are all red, shiny in a close-mouthed smirk. Frank's hand is moving on his own cock now, quick and serious, like an engine part.
"Stop," Bob says.
Frank rips his head back, pulling his hair out of Bob's grip, doesn't stop moving his hand.
“Stop,” Bob says again, a warning. The backbone's leaking back into his voice.
Frank rears back and spits Bob's come at him.
He hits Bob's chest dead center. Frank's got good aim. Like a fucking spitting cobra.
"Fuck-- nrrgh-- you," Frank says; his smirk is open-mouthed now, all gritted teeth and attitude. Brattitude.
Bob smirks back and slaps Frank again. Hard, this time. Frank's whole body jerks to the side like a puppet on strings and his hand gradually slows on his dick as he rights himself, mouth open like he's going to speak again, and Bob almost wants to just let him, just so he can make Frank's other cheek glow matching red. Red suits him. It really fucking suits him.
"Hands behind your back," Bob says, before Frank can talk back.
Frank puts his hands behind his back.
Bob wipes a handful of spit and come off his shirt and dangles his fingers over Frank's face. He doesn't wipe; he crouches down in front of Frank, and wraps those fingers (wet and dirty) around Frank's dick. Frank jerks and a noise breaks tide-like in his throat, half startled "fuck", half incoherent groan; his hips push up into Bob's hand, his thighs impossibly tense, arched backwards-- Frank moves a hand from behind his back towards Bob's face, close enough Bob can smell piss-arousal even stronger.
His piss, Frank's hand.
"Behind your back," Bob repeats, squeezes his hand hard around Frank's dick, hard enough Frank stops moving entirely, utterly tensely still. "Behind your back," Bob says again, and Frank does it this time.
Bob leans forward and bites Frank's neck, speeding his hand up as Frank's breathing speeds and cracked little noises spill out of his throat into Bob's ears, Frank coming over his hand.
Bob's mouth tastes like his own piss when Frank kisses him, Frank's cheek is warm against his ear, Bob’s hand his still wet-sticky when he runs it over Frank’s back, cups his neck and pushes his nose against Frank’s hair. Frank smells exactly like he's Bob's.
It’s pretty gross. Bob is so pissed off they haven't been doing this for days now, weeks now, fuck, since they met. He is also so pissed off that it took Pete fucking fucking fucking Wentz being his own peculiar brand of asshole to get them to this. They shoulda already been here.
“You can talk,” Bob says.
“Harder, next time,” Frank says, his mouth so wet it's shining.
Bob flushes red, but he asks: “Which part?”
“All of it,” Frank says and licks Bob’s face, gets up, leaves him sitting on his ass in a wet patch of take-your-pick-of-a-fluid.
“Get me a smoke,” Bob yells over his shoulder at Frank’s naked ass; he considers putting his pants back on.
NINE
So Pete’s kind of pissed about Mikey ignoring him. He doesn’t care what Pete does to his brother, his favourite shirt or to his stage show. Mikey had actually played facing away from the crowd, away from Pete, the entire time he’d been foiling Bryar’s pee-related plans on stage. Hadn’t even looked at Pete once. Head down, bass up.
After several (okay, 35) ignored texts, Pete goes over the My Chem’s bus. Drags Mikey outside. Fully intending to do something grown-up about their little proposal situation, even if he can’t actually look at Mikey while he does it.
"Are you going to tell them?" Mikey says plaintively. He looks like a lost kitten. Except Pete's not looking at him, so he could look like a tentacle monster for all Pete knows, except Pete knows like he knows which way is up that Mikeway is looking at him like a lost kitten. Which is like, breach of copyright or some shit. Lost Kitten is Pete's schtick to pull over important things like getting his own way.
Or in this case, getting away from the Way he doesn't want to be his own Way in quite that… way.
Pete decides to have something in his ear.
"Pete?"
Mikey you're a fantastic lay and I really like you but I do not want to spend the rest of my life with you.
"Pete?"
Mikey we can still be Sweet Little Dudes but I am not going to marry you. Shit, I'm probably not going to call you after this tour unless I can't sleep.
"Pete?"
"Oh my god, Mikey, SHUT UP."
Mikey's back hits the bus with a satisfying thump, no more words, just a puff of startled air from his lungs across Pete’s lips. Just to be sure, Pete gets his mouth on Mikey's. He can't talk if Pete is kissing him, can't ask for anything Pete doesn't want to give a direct answer to if Pete’s tongue is in his mouth.
Mikey's whole body is tense against his for a minute before Pete feels him relax, give in, kiss back. Hard. Pete will take absolutely anything Mikey has except words right now.
Mikey's hands are on his belt fast and rough and his fingernails scratch over Pete's stomach hard, scrabbling under his shirt and down to his belt.
Mikey apparently can't get into Pete's overly tight jeans fast enough, and Pete makes a frustrated noise at the same time Mikey does, and shoves Mikey's hands out of the way in favour of just plastering them together, lips to hips, and pushing.
It's good for a while, shoving against each other through layers of denim and cotton, spitting wordless noises into each others mouths.
Pete misses Mikey already.
Mikey pulls away first, looking at Pete, and Pete can't actually do that either, it's just as bad at the words, so he ducks his head and falls to his knees.
He's got one hand over Mikey's dick through the denim and lets it slide down to Mikey's inner thigh as he unzips Mikey's jeans.
It's actually just then it occurs to Pete that, oh yeah, they're outside. It's not actually even that dark. He considers caring briefly, looking at Mikey's knees, before he’s totally distracted by Mikey’s stupid girly chicken legs that knock when he does that pigeon toed thing in photoshoots and kickball games. That thing that always makes Pete want to shove them apart and get his head between Mikey's legs, straightening them out and making his toes curl, his heal dig into Pete's back.
He looks up at Mikey and Mikey looks down, his glasses slipped down his nose so far Pete knows all he's seeing is a dark blur. It makes it easier to meet Mikey's eyes, knowing he's basically blind like this.
Pete shoves a hand into his own jeans, top button already popped and belt jingling, getting a hand on the one part of him that is entirely free of conflict, undaunted by the damp look of Mikey's eyes in the dark. Pete's dick says, "I want that," just like usual. (One of Pete's problems in life, he acknowledges, is that he never really stops wanting to fuck his exes. Even the ones he genuinely hates. His cock is entirely too forgiving. His cock is forgiving like Jesus. It’s a problem).
Pete’s other hand reaches for Mikey again, and Mikey helpfully pushes his pants off his hips so they slump down to his ankles under the weight of his studded belt.
Pete goes down fast and hard and good-sloppy as he can. Mikey doesn't bother keeping his hips still, and Pete ends up gagging a little as Mikey’s dick smacks the back of Pete's throat and above him he hears Mikey’s head thump against the bus. He comes pretty fast, pushing into Pete’s mouth, just lets himself go. Pete spits a mouthful of come into the dirt between them, breathing hard and hello, he's seriously in need of breathing right now, hadn't realised how little of that he'd actually been doing.
Mikey leans down and tugs on his arms to pull him up. Pete rights himself with a hand still in his pants and his other palm slapping down on the bus beside Mikey's head because holy fucking headspin Batman.
If Pete's was a "sorry" blowjob, Mikey gives what can only be called a "fuck you" handjob in return. He pulls Pete's hand of his own pants by the wrist so hard Pete actually winces when he can't untangle himself fast enough and thinks he might have punched himself in the balls just a little bit. Mikey jerks him off hard and fast and fucking dry, just the wrong side of a little bit painful, not that Pete is actually going to say anything because he is so close and he comes in the dirt right next to where he'd spat out his mouthful of Mikey.
Pete opens his mouth to say something, when he can, wants to say sorry, but the second he swallows and opens his mouth Mikey twists away and punches the button so the bus door hisses open for him.
"Shut up, Pete," Mikey says without turning around.
Pete shuts up and lets him go.
The fuck of it is, Pete thinks, still leaning one handed against the bus and letting his head hang forward, panting, is that might actually be the best sex they ever had. He is such a fucking dick.
TEN
When you're touring with someone you get kinda easily wound up by their little tics and defects. Bob knows that. He knows this job. So it's not a surprise to find himself ticked off with a couple of traits in his own band after so long on the road:
Like the omnipresent WayFunk of alcohol-laced sweat and the Way family chemical make-up, or mysteriously migrating shoes, or the look of early-morning Ray. Most of all, the spitting is beginning to test his supremely easy-going nature.
Frank's pretty disgusting at times. The peak of those times is when Frank's digging his knees into Bob's armpits, hanging on pretty much by Bob's hair, and they're on a mission, in search of more liquor because the black hole in Gerard's bowels consumed the bus-load while no one was looking, and Frank spits.
And because Frank is drunker than a Republican in a whorehouse he fails spectacularly to clear his projectile from their immediate radius and in fact from his own face; it dribbles over Frank's chin (Bob guesses, he can't actually see), and lands with a horrible wet splut right in the inner edge of Bob's fucking ear.
He's so grossed out that he more or less dumps Frank on his ass and runs off to stick Q-tips in his ear for about an hour. After that the whole spitting thing really starts to show up on his radar more and more.
They're onstage, a break between Vampires Will Never Hurt You and, uh, oh yeah, Cemetery Drive, and Frank takes a mouthful of water and just sprays it joyously over the crowd like a fucking broken hydrant; they're on the bus and Frank hawks one up and gobs it into Gerard's toothbrush mug from a distance of like three feet (Mikey applauds, which Bob doesn't think is particularly fucking helpful); they're greedily dissembling late-night pizza outside the bus, on the steps, and Frank puts Bob off his food possibly forever by shooting a jet of saliva out into the dark before he starts eating.
"Fucking quit it," he tells Frank in the relative privacy of the bus bathroom, once Frank's just fucking spattered come at him from between his teeth the third time. He puts all his Big Scary Bob voice behind it, this command, and looks right down into Frank's pretty, piss-covered face which doesn't carry one iota of contrition. "I mean it," Bob confirms, wiping his own come off his chest with the end of Frank's tie. "Stop."
"No," Frank says. He's not meant to be talking, either, so Bob slaps him. Frank just grins and dribbles out of the side of his mouth.
"Stop spitting," he repeats.
"Nope." Frank peers up at him through wet, ammonia-scented eyelashes and dribbly stage make-up that's streaked with skin-trails from where his eyes have watered. He looks fucking gorgeous apart from the bit where he's saying nope.
"Seriously fucking stop," Bob suggests, untying Frank's tie from around the faucet (why he tied it there, he can't remember. Something to do with trying to avoid pissing on it) and winding it around his hand in a vaguely threatening, boxer-binding-his-hands gesture.
"Nuh-uh." Frank beams at him.
There are too many things he wants to do to Frank, all at once, for him to actually be able to say any goddamn thing else. This calls, Bob thinks, for a change in tactics. "Stay."
He stumbles out of the bathroom, tucking his dick back into his pants, and snatches up the nearest pack of smokes. They're not his, his are hidden because he is not dumb, but he'll pay back whoever he just stole from later - his is a higher purpose. Kinda.
Bob gets his lighter out of his pocket and ducks back in; Frank is where he left him, kneeling in the shower stall looking so fucking hot all dirty and dishevelled that Bob kinda wishes he could piss all over him again. And again. And again. And rub up against him like some sort of animal.
He lights up. Frank watches from the shower tray with silent, jiggly-thighed curiosity. Bob wonders if spiking him with Ritalin would help; probably not. He takes one or two pulls on the cigarette to get it glowing cherry-bright, then holds it up, ember ceilingwards, so's Frank can see just what's up.
"Every time you spit from now on, I am going to stick this into something of yours," Bob says gravely. "Until you quit fucking doing it."
Frank's only response is to hawk a loogie at Bob's foot.
Bob unwinds Frank's tie from his hand. It's a nice tie, or it was until Bob used it to mop up recycled jizz and phlegm off his chest, and wrapped it around his sweating fist. It's about to get a little less nice.
Dangling the tie above Frank's face, Bob swoops his hand in with the cigarette, like some dad trying to shovel veggies into his reluctant toddler, here comes the airplane, only it's here comes the burning pain, and he sizzles the cigarette's cherry against the nylon (okay, it's not that nice of a tie) slowly.
It's not vastly effective because the tie sort of flops away from the cigarette end, but with Frank frowning at him for a good few minutes Bob finally gets a decent burn hole in the end of Frank's tie. When that's accomplished he puts the smoke back in his mouth, drops the tie in Frank's lap, and leaves without another word.
It's not even another couple of days before Bob's just chilling on the grass with sunglasses and a bitch fucking hangover, and Frank comes out of the bus with Bob's shoes in his hands.
There's a moment, a little electric spark in the air and Bob Bryar can goddamn read minds.
Frank holds up the shoes, spits decisively into each of them in turn, grins at Bob, waves with his fingers and bounces back into the bus.
It takes considerable effort to burn a proper hole in the tops of Frank's sneakers but Bob does it, frowning in concentration while Frank watches him with his hands on his head.
"I said, quit it," Bob says.
The next victim is Bob's shirt. He's not wearing it at the time, but he is standing right behind Frank when Frank spits out the side of his mouth like a freaking llama and hits that shirt right on the collar.
The temptation to smack him upside the head is quite strong. Bob refrains. He just sits down calmly on the sofa, Frank's favourite shirt spread across his knees like a grandmother's quilt, and with all the precision of said grandmother fixing slipped stitches he burns Orion into the front of that shirt with his cigarette. The smell of scorched cotton fills the bus.
Frank stares down at him with big sad eyes and legs that won't keep still and looks hurt.
"I was gonna wear that tonight," he complains.
"You're gonna wear it anyway," Bob instructs.
And he does. He honest to fucking gods does.
Frank spits on:
Bob's towel
Bob's pants
Bob's underpants
And
Bob's pizza
Bob takes a lit cigarette to:
Frank's towel (it smells of come, Bob realises, and if they weren't touring he'd have been vaguely grossed out by this, because no matter how sexy-times fresh come is, crusts of old come in something you're meant to clean yourself with is Not Good).
Frank's pants (he makes him take them off first, and stretches the crotch over his hands in the bathroom, still warm with Frank's body-heat, and Bob forces himself to do this first, before anything else, before he lets himself piss, before he lets himself come, before he lets Frank come).
Frank's underpants (these he burns while they're stretched taut half-way down Frank's thighs. It's meant to be a threat, it's meant to mean that Bob's hand could slip at any minute and burn his leg, but Frank just grins from ear to ear and plants a messy kiss on Bob's neck, and that's it, Bob guesses. They really do trust each other a lot).
… after the pizza thing Bob pretty much drags him away by his armpits while everyone else is laughing with a disgusted timbre because dude Frank spat on the slice of pizza Bob was just about to put into his mouth. No one follows them, because they have pizza and Bob has a slice of tomato-soggy cardboard that is covered in Frank-drool, and Bob points into the bathroom like he's tell off a bad dog and Frank gets right the fuck in there with a dazzling smile.
"Clothes off." Bob says, when the door is shut.
Frank's apparently auditioning for some role as a speed-stripper. He's naked in the blink of an eye, calmly - cheerfully - handing his pants and his underpants and his shirt to Bob in a big pile. Bob throws them out of the door. Frank can fucking scrabble for them later.
"Gimme your arm," Bob adds, lighting up. He swears he's getting through more cigarettes now than ever before. "Frank, you're giving me fucking cancer," he says evenly, pulling hard on the end of this latest, and Frank presents his arm, inner-side up.
For a moment Bob just runs his thumb over the soft skin, over Frank's ink, as he sucks down smoke and heats up the ember to a tiny volcano. He looks Frank in the eye and says, "Don't spit on my goddamn fucking food."
He puts the end of the cigarette against Frank's arm, right over where he's already marked with an anatomically correct heart, stabbed with a knife, and holds it over the skin, close enough to blister, closer enough to burn, watching Frank's face for any sign that he's genuinely suffering and wants it to stop, ready to whip the cigarette away at a second's notice and hurl it into the sink (and probably, if he's honest, kiss it better as well).
Frank twitches a little in Bob's grip but he doesn't say squat. He just smiles and says, "Okay."
It's the same fucking day when he spits on Bob, on stage.
They just got done with Headfirst For Haloes. Bob's tapping his foot in preparation for the next song while Gerard gives his little Teenage Suicide Don't Do It speech like they're all in fucking Heathers, and Frank walks over to the drums without so much as a pretext or a skip, stands on the other side of the kit, and smiles at Bob.
Bob frowns.
Frank tips his head back and fires a gob of saliva up in a beautiful, mathematically perfect arc that lands it slap in the middle of Bob's hair, flashes him an eyebrows-raised smile, a What're You Gonna Do Now smile, and walks with the same flair-free determination back to the front of the stage in time for a kiss on the forehead from Gerard.
Bob plays the rest of the set with saliva drying in his hair.
He washes the spit out in the bathroom later, with slow and pointed hand movements while Frank stands naked - shivering a bit but still grinning like a fucking Jack-o-lantern so it's hard to pity him - in the shower tray, his hands tucked up in his armpits. "My fucking hair," Bob laments.
He's got a whole pack, a fresh pack, right there in his hip pocket because he knows Frank's not going to stop this shit no matter how much Bob asks or tells him to. He lights up, clumsy and quick, nearly burning his own fingers. So far no one's got enough of a sense of smell to have complained about the stink of cigarettes and the greater-than-usual stench piss; so far.
Cigarette lit, he says, "Hands behind your back."
And Frank, obedient as he is over everything that doesn't involve not spitting, twists his hands around each other like they're tied there by something more tangible than Bob's say-so.
Bob holds the lit end up for Frank to see. He has to admit he kinda enjoys this bit, the look on Frank's face, the waiting, the inevitability. "Don't spit on me, Frank," he says firmly.
Frank dips his head to gob on Bob's shoe.
Bob thinks about this for a while. He runs his fingers over Frank's chest, over his breast-bone, and Frank watches not his hand but his face, just watches with his tongue running pink and wet and profane over his teeth, over his lips. He twists up briefly in pain, and Bob's two halves of a Bob, one half excited and one half horrified.
The cigarette leaves a brown-red circle dead centre between Frank's nipples, like a third nipple. Bob realises they're gonna have to keep that from Gerard unless they want the drinky fruitloop to decide that Frank's a witch, and try to duck him in the next pond they pass.
He drops the unfinished cigarette in the sink and pats Frank on the shoulder, getting a wide-eyed rabbit look for his trouble.
"I'll put a Band-Aid on it," Bob assures him.
Not that it makes any difference. The next goddamn show, Frank just saunters over and makes like he's going to whisper something to Bob. The day is too fucking hot for Bob to do much and he's kind of in the middle of playing; Frank is too but that doesn't stop the little prick from spitting right … in … Bob's … fucking … EAR.
Bob has no fucking idea how he manages to keep on playing because he's pretty sure he nearly leaps off his stool, nearly lashes out automatically.
Holy shit this must be what it's like to be Patrick Stump -
- he contains himself. He's taller than Patrick, goddamnit, and he only plays drums. They're nothing alike - Bob catches Frank blowing him a kiss as he sashays, guitar slung low, back to the front of the stage - and most importantly of all, Frank is not Pete Wentz. No matter how antagonistic he's trying to be.
Of course Bob's still got to deal with that whole spitting thing. He still has saliva in his ear in the least sexy and least adorable way imaginable. Bob resists the urge to shake his head like a dog with a flea in its ear.
This time he doesn't even bother waiting for them to get back to the bus, just points Frank against the first pretend-wall they come to and says, "What the fuck?"
Frank shrugs. "Need a light?" He's bouncier than one of those little rubber balls you get free in cereal.
"Not here. What the fuck, Frank, that was my ear."
People are giving them curious looks. Travis gives them such a long curious look that he almost slips over on the duckboards that have been laid out over the crunchy summer grass and inexplicable foul-smelling mud that has sprung up despite the dryness. Bob gets a smoke out of the back and taps the end down on the back of his head like a heartbeat, updown.
"What the fuck," he repeats.
"What the fuck, 'what the fuck'?" Frank echoes, confused. It's possible they're going to continue in this vein forever, Bob realises. They're going to be standing here by this pretend wall of big metal sheets when the end of the world comes.
Which is when Frank just whips off his shirt, right there in front of the whole fucking world, and hands it in a crumpled, stage-sweaty mess to Bob. "Need a light?" he repeats.
The unlit cigarette is of course now fucking ruined underneath a shirt which could only be wetter, really, if Bob pissed on it, but that's not the point.
"Seriously, what the," Bob says with all the articulation of a man who has just had the world stood on its head. "Why with the. In my fucking ear, dude."
Frank smiles prettily and says, "Juuuuuuust claiming what's mine. Like, your brains and shit. Do you need a light?"
Bob all but drags him back to the bus, shirtless, and bundles him onto the sofa - no one else seems to be around yet. Which is kinda handy, because the sort of prolonged and intense make-out session he has in mind won't fit in the bathroom, and may just raise a few eyebrows if anyone happens to wander in; Frank already has his fingers hooked over Bob's belt, and the red plastic lighter clenched between his laughing teeth.
ELEVEN
"Frankie, I'm hungry," Gerard is dying of hunger. He actually truly is. The kind of hunger only the truly drunk and stoned can appreciate.
"Gerard, I don't care," Frank says back, mimicking Gerard's deathly ill tone.
"You're heartless, Frankie," Gerard complains, making sure Frank knows damn well what the situation is, "you have no heart. You're like the motherfucking Grinch."
"I don't think the Grinch had a mother," Bob says.
"That's why he always fucked yours," Frank says and pokes his tongue out at Bob.
"The Grinch had a heart, it was just three sizes too small or whatever," Mikey adds, morose and monotone. Worse than usual. Gerard frowns, makes a note to talk to like Pete or someone, but is totally distracted when his stomach rumbles.
"Mikey," he whines, turning his saddest eyes on him, "I'm hungry."
"I don't have anything, Gee," Mikey says. At least he sounds genuinely sorry. Unlike those mean motherfuckers he shares a band with and their cruel, cruel jibes.
"I forgive you, Mikey. Even if I can't feel my legs and will starve to death trapped here and one day a young band will buy this bus and find my skeleton and-"
Frank pinches his thigh, hard. "I can feel your legs," he says, and grins with both rows of teeth.
Gerard yelps, slowly. "Ow, fuck! Motherfucker!" Frank is such a fucking. Frank.
"Frank, don't you have junk stashed somewhere?" Ray pipes up from the studio.
"Frank has a stash he's hiding from us?" Gerard asks. He is outraged.
"It's not junk, it's important shit that I could need at any moment, okay?" Frank snaps, and he actually sounds a little huffy about it.
"What the fuck, Frankie, you're holding out on me?" Gerard is totally, totally outraged.
"It's a... fucking, first aid kit okay," Frank says awkwardly, looking at the ceiling. "I am prepared."
"A first aid kit with lube," Bob supplies and smacks Frank's hands away when they go for his sides.
"Shut the fuck up, Bob," Frank says, but it comes out more like "shut the fk p ob," because Bob's hand is over his mouth.
"Lube? What the fuck?" Ray yells from the studio, "last time I found it there was Oreos."
"I just like to be prepared," Frank says, mouth free but both hands caught by Bob at the wrists. He pokes his tongue out at Bob. Bob pokes his tongue out back, and there are teeth.
"What, do you like, are you like some kind of gay porn Boy Scout Frankie, what the hell?" Gerard asks, because this is like a revelation and shit. Frank has been seriously holding out on him! There shouldn't be secrets in this band, that's like. It's like betrayal. This is the worst news.
"Frank Iero: gay porn Boy Scout," Bob snorts, finally letting Frank's arms go as he goes limp. He puts his hands behind his head.
"You know," Frank says, his voice scarily contemplative.
"No," Bob says. "Just, no." No is like Bob's favourite word. Gerard's noticed this. It's very mean.
All of which has distracted Gerard from his original point, which was: "I'm hungry, you heartless motherfuckers!"
But no one is actually listening, and Ray has switched up the volume on a new mix of something they’ve been working on.
Gerard rights himself (several times before he gets steady on his feet, and one more stumble as he crosses the jumble of legs in front of him like some kind of fucking obstacle course for the drunken rockstar) and stumbles into the bunks. He is going to find Frank's Boy Scout stash and fuck his shit up. It is revenge! Great vengeance for them ignoring the needs of their lead singer. And betraying his band with secrets and lies. And what if he died of starvation?
He has mental images of Frank taking over vocals and turning MCR into some kind of hardcore band, screaming "I'm Not Okay" like it's being covered by Black Flag, oh fuck. Gerard falls over a pile of socks and comics with a thump and a giggle into Frank's bunk and digs around until- of course. Shoved down the side of his mattress is a little metal box with a medic’s red cross on it (it looks like a prop from Ghost of You, which it probably is) and inside… there is no food. There are Band-Aids and tissues and cold and flu tablets and about three full packets of cigarettes and wet wipes and for some reason burn cream, what the hell Frankie is such a hold out.... ing... douche, and at the bottom there are several little sachets that are labelled (most importantly) "strawberry" and, er, "water based non-toxic".
Gerard contemplates the little packets for a second, before thinking fuck it, and opening one with his teeth. Strawberry!
It actually tastes... pretty good.
Not actually of strawberries or even of the chemical shit that's meant to taste of strawberry in strawberry-flavour milkshakes and shit but it tastes pretty cool.
Back on the couch, Gerard plonks himself down between Frank and Bob, rolling his tongue around inside his mouth. "Found your stash," he says, and smiles at Frank.
Frank raises an eyebrow. Gerard throws an empty lube packet at his face, where it sticks damply on his cheek for a second before falling into his lap. There's a little shiny pink stain left just below Frank's eye; Gerard wags his tongue at Frank for a second, and that's gotta be covered in shiny pink too.
"Did you... did you actually," Frank sounds like he's choking, "did you actually eat my fuckinglube?"
"Whatever, man," Gerard says sagely, "the packet said 'strawberry'."
TWELVE
So it's like, early afternoon and Pete's just minding his own business. Well, mostly. He's actually playing this addictive Nintendo DS thing where you have to put rocks in holes and giggling a bit about it because he's treating the Gee-Sea-Aich's cooler as his own now, which means a lot of energy drinks have been coming out of the end of his dick.
But it's a quietish afternoon right now. The Gee-Sea-Aiches are having their sound-check and Pete has reached level fifteen of Putting Rocks In Holes With Catchy Repetitive Music Game, twinkle twinkle, and, yeah. Everything's alrightish, even if he's pretty sure he's going to get annoyed with the lack of attention any minute … now -
Patrick flops down next to him. Awesome. Perfect afternoon. Pete raises a hand without looking for a high-five and a bro-handshake. "Hey."
"So," Patrick says, staring into middle-distance - and fuck, wrong rock in wrong hole. Beep beep beep beeeep.
"Hey," Pete repeats, "what?"
"So," Patrick says, and Pete wonders if they're going to like sit here until their sound-check, just saying so and hey like two fucking parrots.
"Uh-huh," Pete says, trying to recover from bad rock-fall in time to not have to start all over again, his elbows everywhere, Patrick radiating disapproval the way the Ways radiate WayFunk.
"So, Gerard came and talked to me in metaphors about sadness and loneliness and marriage," Patrick says evenly, and Pete pretends he didn't hear him and that his insides did not just make a dive for the floor.
"Uh-huh."
"And I think it might have something to do with … Pete, are you listening?"
"Uh-huh."
"I think it has something to do with Mikeyway, and you, and -"
Pete concentrates very hard on the DS and getting the rocks in the right holes, which kind of stops being so effective when Patrick bats the game out of his hand and sends it flying across the grass of their little chill-out spot. "Hey," Pete protests, about to scramble after it when Patrick's arm blocks his way.
"Pay attention."
"No, you pay - "
Patrick knocks him over. It's not a punch, exactly, more of an exasperated shove-pull that involves a handful of Pete's t-shirt scrunched up in his fist and leaves Patrick straddling him in the most comical and yet slightly threatening pose ever, and Pete starts giggling again.
"Was Gerard talking to me about you and Mikey?" Patrick snaps, holding Pete's t-shirt like some angry old dude picking a fight at a bus station.
"How the fuck would I know that?" Pete grumbles, "You made me lose that level. Get naked or get off."
"Was Gerard talking about you and Mikey?" Patrick repeats, his voice rising in pitch.
"Maybe. Yes. No. I don't know! GET OFF."
Patrick growls and releases the shirt. Awesome, he's going to get off and Pete can go and … hide in the bathroom in case this is the prelude to being talked at by someone else with Serious Things on their mind, probably.
He doesn't get off.
"SORT," Patrick says, accompanying the instruction with an open-handed slap to Pete's face that really fucking stings, - SMACK - "YOURSELF." Which is also punctuated with a hefty slap, this time from the other direction, a back-hander. "OUT."
Smack.
Pete knows better than to say, "HEY!" again at this point, but he does it anyway, because he's Pete, and shouldn't is not a word that rests for long in his vocabulary.
The sermon doesn't appear to be over yet; Patrick gives him another almighty smack in the face and yells, "BECAUSE I NEVER WANT TO SIT THROUGH A DRUNK GERARD LECTURE AGAIN," right in his ear.
There's a moment where Pete knows he could say, "He can tell me himself next time," and a moment where he knows he could say something about Mikey having the balls to just say it, but the weight of the hypocrisy is too fucking huge for even him; so he just squirms about under Patrick, humps his hips skywards, ignoring his aching face, and says, "Oh, screw Mikey, I just wanna fuck you -"
Which is when Patrick lands him a proper punch and knocks his nose bloody.
THIRTEEN
It's so good to finally be sleeping in an actual fucking building that at first the boys have no idea what to do; Mikey's on a borrowed cell talking to Pete in frustrated tones so everyone kinda … avoids him in case something happens, but fortunately for everyone there is a solution to hand in the form of Gerard Way's Magical Jack Daniels Bottle of Magic And Bourbon. Magic because it never seems to get totally empty no matter how much they drink.
The other theory is that there are a lot of replacement bottles, but after several rounds no one actually gives any kind of a shit.
Bob's bladder nags at him after maybe four shots of burning amber. He's kinda freaked to discover that now it's automatic, he doesn't think I need to piss anymore, he thinks it with the suffix, the rider, on Frank. Now. Just how quickly he's become used to, almost addicted to, that act … it's kinda scary.
So he bails on the party, dragging Frank behind him with nothing more than a meaningful look. Now that's power.
"Why are you wearing a neckerchief?" he manages as he begins a quite desperate fight with his room door and key card, more drunk than he realised.
Frank has knotted a skull-patterned bandana which is probably not his into some sort of hick-like neckerchief and he looks stupid. Only, because he is Frank, he also looks hot. And stupid. Stupidly hot.
Bob's bladder makes complaining twinges and he finally gets the door open just as Frank explains, "I'm a boy scout," in the voice of Ralph Wiggum.
"Down," Bob says urgently, "clothes off." He's going to stink up the carpet; he doesn't fucking care. It's only him and Frank who have to sleep in here and it’s only the one night that they have to. Bob doesn't even shut the door properly as Frank wriggles out of his jeans, hurls them across the room (they're really going to have to work on that, only not right now - maybe he'll use the cigarette) and humps his shirt off over his head without undoing it (they're gonna have to work on that, too) without taking off the stupid boy scout scarf thing.
It's not worth commenting on it now; Bob unzips, Frank hits his knees in one go, his dick slapping against his thigh all stage-sweaty and rank. He tips his head back, his throat long and almost bare, the scorpion standing guard over his jugular. Frank's mouth is open like a birdbath, like a fucking urinal - he's started doing that lately. Bob didn't ask for it but fuck it's too hot to chastise him for. Bob aims to miss most times, but there's something in the way that Frank blinks and half-gags when some trickles in by accident that just totally wires up Bob's balls; Frank doesn't like the taste, he doesn't want it in his mouth, but he's doing it anyway because he knows that it'll get Bob hot. Which is, in itself, the sacrifice, fucking hot.
He's almost at the crisis point: Too Hard To Piss, by the time he lets fly, and the relief of emptying his bladder is almost equal to how fucking awesome Frank looks being hit in the face and chest by an almost endless steam of piss. It splashes off Frank's throat and soaks away into the 'kerchief, it runs down over his crunched-up belly and onto his thighs, into his pubes, polishing up his ink like a wax buff job.
For a little while he just stares, wishing he'd been specific enough to get Frank to take the stupid goddamn scarf off, but then Frank rocks forwards on his knees and starts licking the last drops off Bob's dick with this expression of total Buddhist serenity and Bob's so freaking hard he's afraid his head's going to implode from lack of blood.
"Lube," he croaks, because right now all he can think of is getting Frank's dirty-sweaty-marked-stinky-his body closer and burying himself up to the balls in it; marking up his insides with come like he marked up the outsides with piss.
Frank leaps up like a spring-loaded toy and grabs his jeans from the bedside table, going through all the pockets with this incredible efficiency that no one would have expected of him except that it's typically fucking manic.
"I … uh, I'm pretty sure I had a load of sachets, and now they're not there," Frank complains a few seconds later, his hand still stuck in the last pocket. He looks confused; Bob feels pretty fucking confused himself but he guesses it hits Frank the same time it hits him, because a light goes on behind his big beautiful eyes and with an angry howl of "GERARD," Frank Iero bolts out of the door.
Naked but for his makeshift scout scarf, covered in Bob's piss, and his erection bouncing around like crowd-surfer … oh shit.
Bob sticks his head cautiously out the door in time to see Frank streak down the hotel corridor to Gerard's door and bang on it with angry, pissy fists.
"GERARD YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE," Frank explains in calm and rational tones that sound a lot like someone screaming his drunk lungs out, "EAT REAL FOOD, QUIT EATING MY FUCKING LUBE - "
Leaning on the doorframe, half-naked and still horny as fucking hell, Bob decides that this episode in his increasingly weird life is also going down as being Pete's Fault, Do Not Revisit.
There is a moral to this story. There is a moral to all stories. The moral to this one, the moral of this story, is never to follow Pete's lead on anything. Just don't. It ends in pee, if it didn't start there.
END.
Other fics in the peeniverse include: The Frank-is-gross coda and Modern Alchemy (Bob/Frank, Bob/Frank/Jepha/Dan).
EIGHT
Bob’s face is so red by the time he’s halfway through explaining to Frank that he’s fairly sure he is going to spontaneously combust. He hopes they will know to blame his death on Pete, and he hopes when Pete goes to prison for it he will be passed around like a pack of cigarettes and have to do push-ups in drag and all that. Pete pushed and pushed and now Bob has to ask Frank, or risk Pete getting him first. Which. No. Definitely no. So much angry, angry no. More no than he can contain.
"Basically, I just really want to pee on you," Bob finishes, face burning.
"Okay."
"What?"
"I said okay. Just let me get my shirt off."
"You ... said okay."
"Yup."
"What about if I wanted to tie you up?"
"Cool."
"And slap you about a bit?"
"Awesome."
"And ... I can really pee on you?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Frank ... is there anything you're not okay with? Like, is there anything you won't do, seriously ..."
Frank considers this for quite a long time. He'd look more serious if he weren't squirming out of his shirt and trying not to unbutton it as the same time. "Um ..." he flings his red tie in some unpremeditated direction. "... oh, if you gag me with one of Gerard's socks I am never ever speaking to you ever again ever." He gets stuck inside his own shirt. "And that's about it - uh. A little help, please?"
"This is why shirts have buttons."
Frank flails his ridiculous stuck arms around like mentally challenged flags. He looks like a Henson puppet having a seizure, and Bob's not sure whether to help him or do a Kermit impression. Frank stops and breathes harshly for a bit.
The white shirt is sticking here and there where it's sweaty wet and twisted, ink coming though like it's bleeding.
"Hold still," Bob says, and means it. There's an edge in his voice he barely recognizes, when he says it. Snaps it. Orders it.
Frank freezes, arms up in the air and shirt ridden halfway up his torso. He peers out at Bob where the shirt's buttons are gaping, wide eyed.
Well hey. It worked.
Bob keeps his eyes on Frank's and puts his hand flat-palmed against Frank's stomach, fingers touching the inked and, thumb brushing Frank's pink belt. Frank giggles, cracked and high. Which is kinda Frank all over.
Bob would laugh at Frank, still frozen with his arms up and barely able to see a thing, if his tentative fingers weren't anchored on warm skin, but they are, and Bob's fingers are steady as they brush up Frank's torso, skidding on damp skin, pushing Frank's shirt off over his head.
His voice is steady as his warm hands: "Clothes off. On your knees."
They're both externally steady and commanding, and internally giddy with what they can do. 'Hey, if I tell Frank to do something, he actually does it?' Why the fuck didn't he find this out sooner? Bob tries not to think about how this is also Pete's doing, because if he has to think about Pete he's going to throw up.
Frank leaves his clothing in a hasty pile on the bus floor. Bob thinks about telling Frank to pick it all up. Can't. No time. Desperately fucking ready with Frank on his knees, Bob's rapidly approaching too hard to pee straight - because dicks just have to be that fucking badly-designed, don't they? - and fuck if he doesn’t realise right then that they’re in the bus lounge.
The fucking bus lounge where Frank is currently naked and on his knees in front of Bob's completely and utterly obvious even through his jeans hard-on and Gerard or Ray or Mikey or Pete could walk in at any second-- Bob can't actually pee here. That would be bad, his brain supplies. He's not sure he believes it. He can’t think of the why right now.
Carpets, his brain suggests, before taking a little vacation in his balls.
He has to close his eyes against naked, half-hard Frank, with his head tipped up to look at Bob and his neck exposed and fucking asking to be marked. "Bathroom,” Bob snaps.
The bathroom is barely big enough for one Frank sized person, never mind the both of them. Frank has to kneel in the shower stall. Bob's got no room to move, so his hoodie gets shoved in the sink when he pulls it off, getting it caught on his wrist and banging his elbow into the wall with a loud hollow thunk, that’s not particularly painful if you don’t count how completely suave it makes him look.
Frank’s got a hand on his dick and his eyes half-draped. "Are we going to do this or what?”
"Rules," Bob says. "Don't talk unless I tell you. Don't move unless I tell you." And he doesn't really recall telling Frank he could touch himself, either.
"Yeah," Frank says. Pushing. Bob slaps him. Not hard. Frank said he was okay with it, but it's not something Bob wants to fuck up - Frank head jerks to the side more from shock than the force, and the hand he's had kind of casually resting on his dick squeezes and moves. Frank turns his head back slowly, mouth open and smiling just a little.
Okay, the boundaries are somewhere thattaway over the horizon and Bob is definitely going to do that again at some point. A lot. Maybe while someone can see. Frank's cheek is just the faintest bit pink, barely noticeable over their red flush, and his eyes are kind of glazed when he looks back at Bob, all big-big pupils.
"Understand?"
Frank nods his head, silent.
Bob takes a breath that he's sure everyone within a mile can hear, harsh and deep, hadn't even realised he was there yet, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than a minute, half a second ago.
Bob pops the top button on his pants and keeps his eyes on Frank. Frank's hand has slowed on his dick, loose and comfortable and okay, Bob has to look away from inked fingers stroking along the underside of Frank's dick, colourful knuckles and callused fingers, because otherwise he really won't be able to pee.
Bob unzips his jeans, his eyes on Frank's, barely controls his hips from jerking forward as his knuckles brush his trapped cock at the same time Frank tilts his head, just lets his head roll to the side, Adam's apple bobbing slowly as he swallows.
Bob's got his dick in his hand and no chance of this not being messy and his stomach doing cartwheels, arousal and nerves dancing through his insides to a throbbing beat: don't fuck this up.
"Are you -- you sure?" He wants to smack his head back against the bathroom wall (barely a few oh so convenient inches away) at the way that comes out, desperate and not even a little in control.
Frank doesn't giggle (thank fuck), but he does smile when he nods his head. Doesn't speak.
Bob pushes his stubborn dick down, wants this way too much for it to be easy, fuck, this would be so much easier if he could close his eyes, but there is no way in fuck-and he lets go: piss hits Frank, tattoos and skin splash-spattered with Bob's piss, fuck, his his his-- his piss from his bladder from his body all over Frank's in a noisy stinking stream. Frank's eyes are closed and his chin tilted up and he's intensely, perfectly Bob's, perfectly accepting, wanting it-and oh, it's messy -
- And fuck, he misses Frank when his hips jerk forward into his own hand, stutter -stopping and going again, wet everywhere, the walls, then Frank's chest-thighs-throat dick.
Loosening his hand around his dick is fucking impossible, he can't piss any more and Frank's still right there on his knees (on his knees, on his knees, just for Bob, because Bob told him to get on his knees) in the dirty shower stall-all, all (Bob strokes his dick), all Bob wants to do is come on Frank's face, now.
Just wants him dirtier and wetter-just wants to, wants to kiss him filthy. Kiss him wet and ruined and his. Frank shuffles forward, over the edge of the shower stall, and Bob looks down at him uncomprehendingly, until Frank's lips are right there all slick and wet on his dick (his dick still wet with droplets of piss, dribbling leftover piss). Frank's (damp, dirty, wet with him) hand around the base of his dick: Bob fucks forward into Frank's mouth and barely gets an uneven thrust before that's it, he's coming, Frank not letting a drop spill.
Which would be hot enough to make Bob's dick twitch again right now, if he hadn't actually had a plan that had just been sucked out along with his greater motor functions and his ability to form sentences -- he pokes himself in the eye with a knuckle as he wipes sweat off his face, and bangs his fucking elbow again. Fucking bathroom.
His dick is still in Frank's mouth.
"Who the fuck said you could move?" Bob asks, his tone bypassing commanding and coming out fucked out and quiet rough to his own ears. He shakes his head and grabs Frank's hair, pulls his head backwards off Bob's sensitive and wilting dick, a wet line of saliva snapping slowly between them. Frank's lips are all red, shiny in a close-mouthed smirk. Frank's hand is moving on his own cock now, quick and serious, like an engine part.
"Stop," Bob says.
Frank rips his head back, pulling his hair out of Bob's grip, doesn't stop moving his hand.
“Stop,” Bob says again, a warning. The backbone's leaking back into his voice.
Frank rears back and spits Bob's come at him.
He hits Bob's chest dead center. Frank's got good aim. Like a fucking spitting cobra.
"Fuck-- nrrgh-- you," Frank says; his smirk is open-mouthed now, all gritted teeth and attitude. Brattitude.
Bob smirks back and slaps Frank again. Hard, this time. Frank's whole body jerks to the side like a puppet on strings and his hand gradually slows on his dick as he rights himself, mouth open like he's going to speak again, and Bob almost wants to just let him, just so he can make Frank's other cheek glow matching red. Red suits him. It really fucking suits him.
"Hands behind your back," Bob says, before Frank can talk back.
Frank puts his hands behind his back.
Bob wipes a handful of spit and come off his shirt and dangles his fingers over Frank's face. He doesn't wipe; he crouches down in front of Frank, and wraps those fingers (wet and dirty) around Frank's dick. Frank jerks and a noise breaks tide-like in his throat, half startled "fuck", half incoherent groan; his hips push up into Bob's hand, his thighs impossibly tense, arched backwards-- Frank moves a hand from behind his back towards Bob's face, close enough Bob can smell piss-arousal even stronger.
His piss, Frank's hand.
"Behind your back," Bob repeats, squeezes his hand hard around Frank's dick, hard enough Frank stops moving entirely, utterly tensely still. "Behind your back," Bob says again, and Frank does it this time.
Bob leans forward and bites Frank's neck, speeding his hand up as Frank's breathing speeds and cracked little noises spill out of his throat into Bob's ears, Frank coming over his hand.
Bob's mouth tastes like his own piss when Frank kisses him, Frank's cheek is warm against his ear, Bob’s hand his still wet-sticky when he runs it over Frank’s back, cups his neck and pushes his nose against Frank’s hair. Frank smells exactly like he's Bob's.
It’s pretty gross. Bob is so pissed off they haven't been doing this for days now, weeks now, fuck, since they met. He is also so pissed off that it took Pete fucking fucking fucking Wentz being his own peculiar brand of asshole to get them to this. They shoulda already been here.
“You can talk,” Bob says.
“Harder, next time,” Frank says, his mouth so wet it's shining.
Bob flushes red, but he asks: “Which part?”
“All of it,” Frank says and licks Bob’s face, gets up, leaves him sitting on his ass in a wet patch of take-your-pick-of-a-fluid.
“Get me a smoke,” Bob yells over his shoulder at Frank’s naked ass; he considers putting his pants back on.
NINE
So Pete’s kind of pissed about Mikey ignoring him. He doesn’t care what Pete does to his brother, his favourite shirt or to his stage show. Mikey had actually played facing away from the crowd, away from Pete, the entire time he’d been foiling Bryar’s pee-related plans on stage. Hadn’t even looked at Pete once. Head down, bass up.
After several (okay, 35) ignored texts, Pete goes over the My Chem’s bus. Drags Mikey outside. Fully intending to do something grown-up about their little proposal situation, even if he can’t actually look at Mikey while he does it.
"Are you going to tell them?" Mikey says plaintively. He looks like a lost kitten. Except Pete's not looking at him, so he could look like a tentacle monster for all Pete knows, except Pete knows like he knows which way is up that Mikeway is looking at him like a lost kitten. Which is like, breach of copyright or some shit. Lost Kitten is Pete's schtick to pull over important things like getting his own way.
Or in this case, getting away from the Way he doesn't want to be his own Way in quite that… way.
Pete decides to have something in his ear.
"Pete?"
Mikey you're a fantastic lay and I really like you but I do not want to spend the rest of my life with you.
"Pete?"
Mikey we can still be Sweet Little Dudes but I am not going to marry you. Shit, I'm probably not going to call you after this tour unless I can't sleep.
"Pete?"
"Oh my god, Mikey, SHUT UP."
Mikey's back hits the bus with a satisfying thump, no more words, just a puff of startled air from his lungs across Pete’s lips. Just to be sure, Pete gets his mouth on Mikey's. He can't talk if Pete is kissing him, can't ask for anything Pete doesn't want to give a direct answer to if Pete’s tongue is in his mouth.
Mikey's whole body is tense against his for a minute before Pete feels him relax, give in, kiss back. Hard. Pete will take absolutely anything Mikey has except words right now.
Mikey's hands are on his belt fast and rough and his fingernails scratch over Pete's stomach hard, scrabbling under his shirt and down to his belt.
Mikey apparently can't get into Pete's overly tight jeans fast enough, and Pete makes a frustrated noise at the same time Mikey does, and shoves Mikey's hands out of the way in favour of just plastering them together, lips to hips, and pushing.
It's good for a while, shoving against each other through layers of denim and cotton, spitting wordless noises into each others mouths.
Pete misses Mikey already.
Mikey pulls away first, looking at Pete, and Pete can't actually do that either, it's just as bad at the words, so he ducks his head and falls to his knees.
He's got one hand over Mikey's dick through the denim and lets it slide down to Mikey's inner thigh as he unzips Mikey's jeans.
It's actually just then it occurs to Pete that, oh yeah, they're outside. It's not actually even that dark. He considers caring briefly, looking at Mikey's knees, before he’s totally distracted by Mikey’s stupid girly chicken legs that knock when he does that pigeon toed thing in photoshoots and kickball games. That thing that always makes Pete want to shove them apart and get his head between Mikey's legs, straightening them out and making his toes curl, his heal dig into Pete's back.
He looks up at Mikey and Mikey looks down, his glasses slipped down his nose so far Pete knows all he's seeing is a dark blur. It makes it easier to meet Mikey's eyes, knowing he's basically blind like this.
Pete shoves a hand into his own jeans, top button already popped and belt jingling, getting a hand on the one part of him that is entirely free of conflict, undaunted by the damp look of Mikey's eyes in the dark. Pete's dick says, "I want that," just like usual. (One of Pete's problems in life, he acknowledges, is that he never really stops wanting to fuck his exes. Even the ones he genuinely hates. His cock is entirely too forgiving. His cock is forgiving like Jesus. It’s a problem).
Pete’s other hand reaches for Mikey again, and Mikey helpfully pushes his pants off his hips so they slump down to his ankles under the weight of his studded belt.
Pete goes down fast and hard and good-sloppy as he can. Mikey doesn't bother keeping his hips still, and Pete ends up gagging a little as Mikey’s dick smacks the back of Pete's throat and above him he hears Mikey’s head thump against the bus. He comes pretty fast, pushing into Pete’s mouth, just lets himself go. Pete spits a mouthful of come into the dirt between them, breathing hard and hello, he's seriously in need of breathing right now, hadn't realised how little of that he'd actually been doing.
Mikey leans down and tugs on his arms to pull him up. Pete rights himself with a hand still in his pants and his other palm slapping down on the bus beside Mikey's head because holy fucking headspin Batman.
If Pete's was a "sorry" blowjob, Mikey gives what can only be called a "fuck you" handjob in return. He pulls Pete's hand of his own pants by the wrist so hard Pete actually winces when he can't untangle himself fast enough and thinks he might have punched himself in the balls just a little bit. Mikey jerks him off hard and fast and fucking dry, just the wrong side of a little bit painful, not that Pete is actually going to say anything because he is so close and he comes in the dirt right next to where he'd spat out his mouthful of Mikey.
Pete opens his mouth to say something, when he can, wants to say sorry, but the second he swallows and opens his mouth Mikey twists away and punches the button so the bus door hisses open for him.
"Shut up, Pete," Mikey says without turning around.
Pete shuts up and lets him go.
The fuck of it is, Pete thinks, still leaning one handed against the bus and letting his head hang forward, panting, is that might actually be the best sex they ever had. He is such a fucking dick.
TEN
When you're touring with someone you get kinda easily wound up by their little tics and defects. Bob knows that. He knows this job. So it's not a surprise to find himself ticked off with a couple of traits in his own band after so long on the road:
Like the omnipresent WayFunk of alcohol-laced sweat and the Way family chemical make-up, or mysteriously migrating shoes, or the look of early-morning Ray. Most of all, the spitting is beginning to test his supremely easy-going nature.
Frank's pretty disgusting at times. The peak of those times is when Frank's digging his knees into Bob's armpits, hanging on pretty much by Bob's hair, and they're on a mission, in search of more liquor because the black hole in Gerard's bowels consumed the bus-load while no one was looking, and Frank spits.
And because Frank is drunker than a Republican in a whorehouse he fails spectacularly to clear his projectile from their immediate radius and in fact from his own face; it dribbles over Frank's chin (Bob guesses, he can't actually see), and lands with a horrible wet splut right in the inner edge of Bob's fucking ear.
He's so grossed out that he more or less dumps Frank on his ass and runs off to stick Q-tips in his ear for about an hour. After that the whole spitting thing really starts to show up on his radar more and more.
They're onstage, a break between Vampires Will Never Hurt You and, uh, oh yeah, Cemetery Drive, and Frank takes a mouthful of water and just sprays it joyously over the crowd like a fucking broken hydrant; they're on the bus and Frank hawks one up and gobs it into Gerard's toothbrush mug from a distance of like three feet (Mikey applauds, which Bob doesn't think is particularly fucking helpful); they're greedily dissembling late-night pizza outside the bus, on the steps, and Frank puts Bob off his food possibly forever by shooting a jet of saliva out into the dark before he starts eating.
"Fucking quit it," he tells Frank in the relative privacy of the bus bathroom, once Frank's just fucking spattered come at him from between his teeth the third time. He puts all his Big Scary Bob voice behind it, this command, and looks right down into Frank's pretty, piss-covered face which doesn't carry one iota of contrition. "I mean it," Bob confirms, wiping his own come off his chest with the end of Frank's tie. "Stop."
"No," Frank says. He's not meant to be talking, either, so Bob slaps him. Frank just grins and dribbles out of the side of his mouth.
"Stop spitting," he repeats.
"Nope." Frank peers up at him through wet, ammonia-scented eyelashes and dribbly stage make-up that's streaked with skin-trails from where his eyes have watered. He looks fucking gorgeous apart from the bit where he's saying nope.
"Seriously fucking stop," Bob suggests, untying Frank's tie from around the faucet (why he tied it there, he can't remember. Something to do with trying to avoid pissing on it) and winding it around his hand in a vaguely threatening, boxer-binding-his-hands gesture.
"Nuh-uh." Frank beams at him.
There are too many things he wants to do to Frank, all at once, for him to actually be able to say any goddamn thing else. This calls, Bob thinks, for a change in tactics. "Stay."
He stumbles out of the bathroom, tucking his dick back into his pants, and snatches up the nearest pack of smokes. They're not his, his are hidden because he is not dumb, but he'll pay back whoever he just stole from later - his is a higher purpose. Kinda.
Bob gets his lighter out of his pocket and ducks back in; Frank is where he left him, kneeling in the shower stall looking so fucking hot all dirty and dishevelled that Bob kinda wishes he could piss all over him again. And again. And again. And rub up against him like some sort of animal.
He lights up. Frank watches from the shower tray with silent, jiggly-thighed curiosity. Bob wonders if spiking him with Ritalin would help; probably not. He takes one or two pulls on the cigarette to get it glowing cherry-bright, then holds it up, ember ceilingwards, so's Frank can see just what's up.
"Every time you spit from now on, I am going to stick this into something of yours," Bob says gravely. "Until you quit fucking doing it."
Frank's only response is to hawk a loogie at Bob's foot.
Bob unwinds Frank's tie from his hand. It's a nice tie, or it was until Bob used it to mop up recycled jizz and phlegm off his chest, and wrapped it around his sweating fist. It's about to get a little less nice.
Dangling the tie above Frank's face, Bob swoops his hand in with the cigarette, like some dad trying to shovel veggies into his reluctant toddler, here comes the airplane, only it's here comes the burning pain, and he sizzles the cigarette's cherry against the nylon (okay, it's not that nice of a tie) slowly.
It's not vastly effective because the tie sort of flops away from the cigarette end, but with Frank frowning at him for a good few minutes Bob finally gets a decent burn hole in the end of Frank's tie. When that's accomplished he puts the smoke back in his mouth, drops the tie in Frank's lap, and leaves without another word.
It's not even another couple of days before Bob's just chilling on the grass with sunglasses and a bitch fucking hangover, and Frank comes out of the bus with Bob's shoes in his hands.
There's a moment, a little electric spark in the air and Bob Bryar can goddamn read minds.
Frank holds up the shoes, spits decisively into each of them in turn, grins at Bob, waves with his fingers and bounces back into the bus.
It takes considerable effort to burn a proper hole in the tops of Frank's sneakers but Bob does it, frowning in concentration while Frank watches him with his hands on his head.
"I said, quit it," Bob says.
The next victim is Bob's shirt. He's not wearing it at the time, but he is standing right behind Frank when Frank spits out the side of his mouth like a freaking llama and hits that shirt right on the collar.
The temptation to smack him upside the head is quite strong. Bob refrains. He just sits down calmly on the sofa, Frank's favourite shirt spread across his knees like a grandmother's quilt, and with all the precision of said grandmother fixing slipped stitches he burns Orion into the front of that shirt with his cigarette. The smell of scorched cotton fills the bus.
Frank stares down at him with big sad eyes and legs that won't keep still and looks hurt.
"I was gonna wear that tonight," he complains.
"You're gonna wear it anyway," Bob instructs.
And he does. He honest to fucking gods does.
Frank spits on:
Bob's towel
Bob's pants
Bob's underpants
And
Bob's pizza
Bob takes a lit cigarette to:
Frank's towel (it smells of come, Bob realises, and if they weren't touring he'd have been vaguely grossed out by this, because no matter how sexy-times fresh come is, crusts of old come in something you're meant to clean yourself with is Not Good).
Frank's pants (he makes him take them off first, and stretches the crotch over his hands in the bathroom, still warm with Frank's body-heat, and Bob forces himself to do this first, before anything else, before he lets himself piss, before he lets himself come, before he lets Frank come).
Frank's underpants (these he burns while they're stretched taut half-way down Frank's thighs. It's meant to be a threat, it's meant to mean that Bob's hand could slip at any minute and burn his leg, but Frank just grins from ear to ear and plants a messy kiss on Bob's neck, and that's it, Bob guesses. They really do trust each other a lot).
… after the pizza thing Bob pretty much drags him away by his armpits while everyone else is laughing with a disgusted timbre because dude Frank spat on the slice of pizza Bob was just about to put into his mouth. No one follows them, because they have pizza and Bob has a slice of tomato-soggy cardboard that is covered in Frank-drool, and Bob points into the bathroom like he's tell off a bad dog and Frank gets right the fuck in there with a dazzling smile.
"Clothes off." Bob says, when the door is shut.
Frank's apparently auditioning for some role as a speed-stripper. He's naked in the blink of an eye, calmly - cheerfully - handing his pants and his underpants and his shirt to Bob in a big pile. Bob throws them out of the door. Frank can fucking scrabble for them later.
"Gimme your arm," Bob adds, lighting up. He swears he's getting through more cigarettes now than ever before. "Frank, you're giving me fucking cancer," he says evenly, pulling hard on the end of this latest, and Frank presents his arm, inner-side up.
For a moment Bob just runs his thumb over the soft skin, over Frank's ink, as he sucks down smoke and heats up the ember to a tiny volcano. He looks Frank in the eye and says, "Don't spit on my goddamn fucking food."
He puts the end of the cigarette against Frank's arm, right over where he's already marked with an anatomically correct heart, stabbed with a knife, and holds it over the skin, close enough to blister, closer enough to burn, watching Frank's face for any sign that he's genuinely suffering and wants it to stop, ready to whip the cigarette away at a second's notice and hurl it into the sink (and probably, if he's honest, kiss it better as well).
Frank twitches a little in Bob's grip but he doesn't say squat. He just smiles and says, "Okay."
It's the same fucking day when he spits on Bob, on stage.
They just got done with Headfirst For Haloes. Bob's tapping his foot in preparation for the next song while Gerard gives his little Teenage Suicide Don't Do It speech like they're all in fucking Heathers, and Frank walks over to the drums without so much as a pretext or a skip, stands on the other side of the kit, and smiles at Bob.
Bob frowns.
Frank tips his head back and fires a gob of saliva up in a beautiful, mathematically perfect arc that lands it slap in the middle of Bob's hair, flashes him an eyebrows-raised smile, a What're You Gonna Do Now smile, and walks with the same flair-free determination back to the front of the stage in time for a kiss on the forehead from Gerard.
Bob plays the rest of the set with saliva drying in his hair.
He washes the spit out in the bathroom later, with slow and pointed hand movements while Frank stands naked - shivering a bit but still grinning like a fucking Jack-o-lantern so it's hard to pity him - in the shower tray, his hands tucked up in his armpits. "My fucking hair," Bob laments.
He's got a whole pack, a fresh pack, right there in his hip pocket because he knows Frank's not going to stop this shit no matter how much Bob asks or tells him to. He lights up, clumsy and quick, nearly burning his own fingers. So far no one's got enough of a sense of smell to have complained about the stink of cigarettes and the greater-than-usual stench piss; so far.
Cigarette lit, he says, "Hands behind your back."
And Frank, obedient as he is over everything that doesn't involve not spitting, twists his hands around each other like they're tied there by something more tangible than Bob's say-so.
Bob holds the lit end up for Frank to see. He has to admit he kinda enjoys this bit, the look on Frank's face, the waiting, the inevitability. "Don't spit on me, Frank," he says firmly.
Frank dips his head to gob on Bob's shoe.
Bob thinks about this for a while. He runs his fingers over Frank's chest, over his breast-bone, and Frank watches not his hand but his face, just watches with his tongue running pink and wet and profane over his teeth, over his lips. He twists up briefly in pain, and Bob's two halves of a Bob, one half excited and one half horrified.
The cigarette leaves a brown-red circle dead centre between Frank's nipples, like a third nipple. Bob realises they're gonna have to keep that from Gerard unless they want the drinky fruitloop to decide that Frank's a witch, and try to duck him in the next pond they pass.
He drops the unfinished cigarette in the sink and pats Frank on the shoulder, getting a wide-eyed rabbit look for his trouble.
"I'll put a Band-Aid on it," Bob assures him.
Not that it makes any difference. The next goddamn show, Frank just saunters over and makes like he's going to whisper something to Bob. The day is too fucking hot for Bob to do much and he's kind of in the middle of playing; Frank is too but that doesn't stop the little prick from spitting right … in … Bob's … fucking … EAR.
Bob has no fucking idea how he manages to keep on playing because he's pretty sure he nearly leaps off his stool, nearly lashes out automatically.
Holy shit this must be what it's like to be Patrick Stump -
- he contains himself. He's taller than Patrick, goddamnit, and he only plays drums. They're nothing alike - Bob catches Frank blowing him a kiss as he sashays, guitar slung low, back to the front of the stage - and most importantly of all, Frank is not Pete Wentz. No matter how antagonistic he's trying to be.
Of course Bob's still got to deal with that whole spitting thing. He still has saliva in his ear in the least sexy and least adorable way imaginable. Bob resists the urge to shake his head like a dog with a flea in its ear.
This time he doesn't even bother waiting for them to get back to the bus, just points Frank against the first pretend-wall they come to and says, "What the fuck?"
Frank shrugs. "Need a light?" He's bouncier than one of those little rubber balls you get free in cereal.
"Not here. What the fuck, Frank, that was my ear."
People are giving them curious looks. Travis gives them such a long curious look that he almost slips over on the duckboards that have been laid out over the crunchy summer grass and inexplicable foul-smelling mud that has sprung up despite the dryness. Bob gets a smoke out of the back and taps the end down on the back of his head like a heartbeat, updown.
"What the fuck," he repeats.
"What the fuck, 'what the fuck'?" Frank echoes, confused. It's possible they're going to continue in this vein forever, Bob realises. They're going to be standing here by this pretend wall of big metal sheets when the end of the world comes.
Which is when Frank just whips off his shirt, right there in front of the whole fucking world, and hands it in a crumpled, stage-sweaty mess to Bob. "Need a light?" he repeats.
The unlit cigarette is of course now fucking ruined underneath a shirt which could only be wetter, really, if Bob pissed on it, but that's not the point.
"Seriously, what the," Bob says with all the articulation of a man who has just had the world stood on its head. "Why with the. In my fucking ear, dude."
Frank smiles prettily and says, "Juuuuuuust claiming what's mine. Like, your brains and shit. Do you need a light?"
Bob all but drags him back to the bus, shirtless, and bundles him onto the sofa - no one else seems to be around yet. Which is kinda handy, because the sort of prolonged and intense make-out session he has in mind won't fit in the bathroom, and may just raise a few eyebrows if anyone happens to wander in; Frank already has his fingers hooked over Bob's belt, and the red plastic lighter clenched between his laughing teeth.
ELEVEN
"Frankie, I'm hungry," Gerard is dying of hunger. He actually truly is. The kind of hunger only the truly drunk and stoned can appreciate.
"Gerard, I don't care," Frank says back, mimicking Gerard's deathly ill tone.
"You're heartless, Frankie," Gerard complains, making sure Frank knows damn well what the situation is, "you have no heart. You're like the motherfucking Grinch."
"I don't think the Grinch had a mother," Bob says.
"That's why he always fucked yours," Frank says and pokes his tongue out at Bob.
"The Grinch had a heart, it was just three sizes too small or whatever," Mikey adds, morose and monotone. Worse than usual. Gerard frowns, makes a note to talk to like Pete or someone, but is totally distracted when his stomach rumbles.
"Mikey," he whines, turning his saddest eyes on him, "I'm hungry."
"I don't have anything, Gee," Mikey says. At least he sounds genuinely sorry. Unlike those mean motherfuckers he shares a band with and their cruel, cruel jibes.
"I forgive you, Mikey. Even if I can't feel my legs and will starve to death trapped here and one day a young band will buy this bus and find my skeleton and-"
Frank pinches his thigh, hard. "I can feel your legs," he says, and grins with both rows of teeth.
Gerard yelps, slowly. "Ow, fuck! Motherfucker!" Frank is such a fucking. Frank.
"Frank, don't you have junk stashed somewhere?" Ray pipes up from the studio.
"Frank has a stash he's hiding from us?" Gerard asks. He is outraged.
"It's not junk, it's important shit that I could need at any moment, okay?" Frank snaps, and he actually sounds a little huffy about it.
"What the fuck, Frankie, you're holding out on me?" Gerard is totally, totally outraged.
"It's a... fucking, first aid kit okay," Frank says awkwardly, looking at the ceiling. "I am prepared."
"A first aid kit with lube," Bob supplies and smacks Frank's hands away when they go for his sides.
"Shut the fuck up, Bob," Frank says, but it comes out more like "shut the fk p ob," because Bob's hand is over his mouth.
"Lube? What the fuck?" Ray yells from the studio, "last time I found it there was Oreos."
"I just like to be prepared," Frank says, mouth free but both hands caught by Bob at the wrists. He pokes his tongue out at Bob. Bob pokes his tongue out back, and there are teeth.
"What, do you like, are you like some kind of gay porn Boy Scout Frankie, what the hell?" Gerard asks, because this is like a revelation and shit. Frank has been seriously holding out on him! There shouldn't be secrets in this band, that's like. It's like betrayal. This is the worst news.
"Frank Iero: gay porn Boy Scout," Bob snorts, finally letting Frank's arms go as he goes limp. He puts his hands behind his head.
"You know," Frank says, his voice scarily contemplative.
"No," Bob says. "Just, no." No is like Bob's favourite word. Gerard's noticed this. It's very mean.
All of which has distracted Gerard from his original point, which was: "I'm hungry, you heartless motherfuckers!"
But no one is actually listening, and Ray has switched up the volume on a new mix of something they’ve been working on.
Gerard rights himself (several times before he gets steady on his feet, and one more stumble as he crosses the jumble of legs in front of him like some kind of fucking obstacle course for the drunken rockstar) and stumbles into the bunks. He is going to find Frank's Boy Scout stash and fuck his shit up. It is revenge! Great vengeance for them ignoring the needs of their lead singer. And betraying his band with secrets and lies. And what if he died of starvation?
He has mental images of Frank taking over vocals and turning MCR into some kind of hardcore band, screaming "I'm Not Okay" like it's being covered by Black Flag, oh fuck. Gerard falls over a pile of socks and comics with a thump and a giggle into Frank's bunk and digs around until- of course. Shoved down the side of his mattress is a little metal box with a medic’s red cross on it (it looks like a prop from Ghost of You, which it probably is) and inside… there is no food. There are Band-Aids and tissues and cold and flu tablets and about three full packets of cigarettes and wet wipes and for some reason burn cream, what the hell Frankie is such a hold out.... ing... douche, and at the bottom there are several little sachets that are labelled (most importantly) "strawberry" and, er, "water based non-toxic".
Gerard contemplates the little packets for a second, before thinking fuck it, and opening one with his teeth. Strawberry!
It actually tastes... pretty good.
Not actually of strawberries or even of the chemical shit that's meant to taste of strawberry in strawberry-flavour milkshakes and shit but it tastes pretty cool.
Back on the couch, Gerard plonks himself down between Frank and Bob, rolling his tongue around inside his mouth. "Found your stash," he says, and smiles at Frank.
Frank raises an eyebrow. Gerard throws an empty lube packet at his face, where it sticks damply on his cheek for a second before falling into his lap. There's a little shiny pink stain left just below Frank's eye; Gerard wags his tongue at Frank for a second, and that's gotta be covered in shiny pink too.
"Did you... did you actually," Frank sounds like he's choking, "did you actually eat my fuckinglube?"
"Whatever, man," Gerard says sagely, "the packet said 'strawberry'."
TWELVE
So it's like, early afternoon and Pete's just minding his own business. Well, mostly. He's actually playing this addictive Nintendo DS thing where you have to put rocks in holes and giggling a bit about it because he's treating the Gee-Sea-Aich's cooler as his own now, which means a lot of energy drinks have been coming out of the end of his dick.
But it's a quietish afternoon right now. The Gee-Sea-Aiches are having their sound-check and Pete has reached level fifteen of Putting Rocks In Holes With Catchy Repetitive Music Game, twinkle twinkle, and, yeah. Everything's alrightish, even if he's pretty sure he's going to get annoyed with the lack of attention any minute … now -
Patrick flops down next to him. Awesome. Perfect afternoon. Pete raises a hand without looking for a high-five and a bro-handshake. "Hey."
"So," Patrick says, staring into middle-distance - and fuck, wrong rock in wrong hole. Beep beep beep beeeep.
"Hey," Pete repeats, "what?"
"So," Patrick says, and Pete wonders if they're going to like sit here until their sound-check, just saying so and hey like two fucking parrots.
"Uh-huh," Pete says, trying to recover from bad rock-fall in time to not have to start all over again, his elbows everywhere, Patrick radiating disapproval the way the Ways radiate WayFunk.
"So, Gerard came and talked to me in metaphors about sadness and loneliness and marriage," Patrick says evenly, and Pete pretends he didn't hear him and that his insides did not just make a dive for the floor.
"Uh-huh."
"And I think it might have something to do with … Pete, are you listening?"
"Uh-huh."
"I think it has something to do with Mikeyway, and you, and -"
Pete concentrates very hard on the DS and getting the rocks in the right holes, which kind of stops being so effective when Patrick bats the game out of his hand and sends it flying across the grass of their little chill-out spot. "Hey," Pete protests, about to scramble after it when Patrick's arm blocks his way.
"Pay attention."
"No, you pay - "
Patrick knocks him over. It's not a punch, exactly, more of an exasperated shove-pull that involves a handful of Pete's t-shirt scrunched up in his fist and leaves Patrick straddling him in the most comical and yet slightly threatening pose ever, and Pete starts giggling again.
"Was Gerard talking to me about you and Mikey?" Patrick snaps, holding Pete's t-shirt like some angry old dude picking a fight at a bus station.
"How the fuck would I know that?" Pete grumbles, "You made me lose that level. Get naked or get off."
"Was Gerard talking about you and Mikey?" Patrick repeats, his voice rising in pitch.
"Maybe. Yes. No. I don't know! GET OFF."
Patrick growls and releases the shirt. Awesome, he's going to get off and Pete can go and … hide in the bathroom in case this is the prelude to being talked at by someone else with Serious Things on their mind, probably.
He doesn't get off.
"SORT," Patrick says, accompanying the instruction with an open-handed slap to Pete's face that really fucking stings, - SMACK - "YOURSELF." Which is also punctuated with a hefty slap, this time from the other direction, a back-hander. "OUT."
Smack.
Pete knows better than to say, "HEY!" again at this point, but he does it anyway, because he's Pete, and shouldn't is not a word that rests for long in his vocabulary.
The sermon doesn't appear to be over yet; Patrick gives him another almighty smack in the face and yells, "BECAUSE I NEVER WANT TO SIT THROUGH A DRUNK GERARD LECTURE AGAIN," right in his ear.
There's a moment where Pete knows he could say, "He can tell me himself next time," and a moment where he knows he could say something about Mikey having the balls to just say it, but the weight of the hypocrisy is too fucking huge for even him; so he just squirms about under Patrick, humps his hips skywards, ignoring his aching face, and says, "Oh, screw Mikey, I just wanna fuck you -"
Which is when Patrick lands him a proper punch and knocks his nose bloody.
THIRTEEN
It's so good to finally be sleeping in an actual fucking building that at first the boys have no idea what to do; Mikey's on a borrowed cell talking to Pete in frustrated tones so everyone kinda … avoids him in case something happens, but fortunately for everyone there is a solution to hand in the form of Gerard Way's Magical Jack Daniels Bottle of Magic And Bourbon. Magic because it never seems to get totally empty no matter how much they drink.
The other theory is that there are a lot of replacement bottles, but after several rounds no one actually gives any kind of a shit.
Bob's bladder nags at him after maybe four shots of burning amber. He's kinda freaked to discover that now it's automatic, he doesn't think I need to piss anymore, he thinks it with the suffix, the rider, on Frank. Now. Just how quickly he's become used to, almost addicted to, that act … it's kinda scary.
So he bails on the party, dragging Frank behind him with nothing more than a meaningful look. Now that's power.
"Why are you wearing a neckerchief?" he manages as he begins a quite desperate fight with his room door and key card, more drunk than he realised.
Frank has knotted a skull-patterned bandana which is probably not his into some sort of hick-like neckerchief and he looks stupid. Only, because he is Frank, he also looks hot. And stupid. Stupidly hot.
Bob's bladder makes complaining twinges and he finally gets the door open just as Frank explains, "I'm a boy scout," in the voice of Ralph Wiggum.
"Down," Bob says urgently, "clothes off." He's going to stink up the carpet; he doesn't fucking care. It's only him and Frank who have to sleep in here and it’s only the one night that they have to. Bob doesn't even shut the door properly as Frank wriggles out of his jeans, hurls them across the room (they're really going to have to work on that, only not right now - maybe he'll use the cigarette) and humps his shirt off over his head without undoing it (they're gonna have to work on that, too) without taking off the stupid boy scout scarf thing.
It's not worth commenting on it now; Bob unzips, Frank hits his knees in one go, his dick slapping against his thigh all stage-sweaty and rank. He tips his head back, his throat long and almost bare, the scorpion standing guard over his jugular. Frank's mouth is open like a birdbath, like a fucking urinal - he's started doing that lately. Bob didn't ask for it but fuck it's too hot to chastise him for. Bob aims to miss most times, but there's something in the way that Frank blinks and half-gags when some trickles in by accident that just totally wires up Bob's balls; Frank doesn't like the taste, he doesn't want it in his mouth, but he's doing it anyway because he knows that it'll get Bob hot. Which is, in itself, the sacrifice, fucking hot.
He's almost at the crisis point: Too Hard To Piss, by the time he lets fly, and the relief of emptying his bladder is almost equal to how fucking awesome Frank looks being hit in the face and chest by an almost endless steam of piss. It splashes off Frank's throat and soaks away into the 'kerchief, it runs down over his crunched-up belly and onto his thighs, into his pubes, polishing up his ink like a wax buff job.
For a little while he just stares, wishing he'd been specific enough to get Frank to take the stupid goddamn scarf off, but then Frank rocks forwards on his knees and starts licking the last drops off Bob's dick with this expression of total Buddhist serenity and Bob's so freaking hard he's afraid his head's going to implode from lack of blood.
"Lube," he croaks, because right now all he can think of is getting Frank's dirty-sweaty-marked-stinky-his body closer and burying himself up to the balls in it; marking up his insides with come like he marked up the outsides with piss.
Frank leaps up like a spring-loaded toy and grabs his jeans from the bedside table, going through all the pockets with this incredible efficiency that no one would have expected of him except that it's typically fucking manic.
"I … uh, I'm pretty sure I had a load of sachets, and now they're not there," Frank complains a few seconds later, his hand still stuck in the last pocket. He looks confused; Bob feels pretty fucking confused himself but he guesses it hits Frank the same time it hits him, because a light goes on behind his big beautiful eyes and with an angry howl of "GERARD," Frank Iero bolts out of the door.
Naked but for his makeshift scout scarf, covered in Bob's piss, and his erection bouncing around like crowd-surfer … oh shit.
Bob sticks his head cautiously out the door in time to see Frank streak down the hotel corridor to Gerard's door and bang on it with angry, pissy fists.
"GERARD YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE," Frank explains in calm and rational tones that sound a lot like someone screaming his drunk lungs out, "EAT REAL FOOD, QUIT EATING MY FUCKING LUBE - "
Leaning on the doorframe, half-naked and still horny as fucking hell, Bob decides that this episode in his increasingly weird life is also going down as being Pete's Fault, Do Not Revisit.
There is a moral to this story. There is a moral to all stories. The moral to this one, the moral of this story, is never to follow Pete's lead on anything. Just don't. It ends in pee, if it didn't start there.
END.
Other fics in the peeniverse include: The Frank-is-gross coda and Modern Alchemy (Bob/Frank, Bob/Frank/Jepha/Dan).