Yesterday was national kissing day, and I was talking about how it would have been a good excuse for a kiss meme, and how it seemed those kind of themed memes seemed to have died out a little
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A Little Patience, Mikey/Bob,1/2radioachesJuly 7 2011, 15:01:06 UTC
The thing is, Mikey's made out with a lot of people. Make outs don't tend to be a big deal - he'll be at a party or an after party or another band's show and his eyes will settle on someone he wants, and he'll go over to them, a sip of beer here here, a splash of vodka there, and either they'll kiss him after a while or not. If they don't, he just moves on to the next person. (They usually do. Frank says it's his secret talent, the same way Gerard can draw and Ray can play any riff ever written for the guitar and a million he's made up, too.)
Everyone kisses differently, but it's all more or less the same. Mikey doesn't know if it's because most of the time he has a type or because it's always the same sort of situation, but most of his memories of make outs have all blended into one, dark rooms and loud music and the heat of someone else's mouth, split into two sections: the ones that lead to more and the ones that don't.
Bob is -- Bob is different, that's the only way Mikey can find to describe it. He's always known Bob's been someone worth knowing, someone more valuable to keep around than a thousand scene kids and fans. Bob came to Europe with them just because Mikey asked; Bob joined their band when they were on the brink of imploding, no questions asked. Bob means something, which is something Mikey doesn't usually like to think about, and with Bob it takes time. He's not just another girl or guy in a tight shirt and tighter jeans who Mikey can sidle up to and work his silent charm. It takes a long time, in the end, longer than Mikey would ever usually bother waiting, weeks of Mikey thinking about it, images splashing across his eyelids every time he closes his eyes, staring at Bob too much until he can't even shrug it off as absent minded gazing any more. On the bus, wasting time while they go from one venue to another, he spends the stretch of a whole movie just staring at Bob's hands, the way his fingers are wrapped firmly around the mug in his hands.
In the end, Mikey's not even that drunk when it happens, which is kind of a novel experience. He can't clearly remember the last time he was totally sober when he hooked up with someone, but he's only a few drinks in, warmth spreading loosely through him, leaning back against the dirty wall outside the venue, sharing a pre-show cigarette with Bob. They're the only ones out there for once, and Mikey turns to look at Bob and meets his eyes and the thing is, he's fed up of waiting. He's never really been any fucking good at it, even if he can keep quiet about it. The booze is working his favour tonight, spurring him on instead of amplifying the panic that always seems to echo around his head before they play, and so he inhales deeply when Bob hands him the cigarette, looks down at the floor and says as he exhales, “I kind of want to make out with you, you know.” He coughs a little and takes another drag so he doesn't have to look straight back at Bob, then coughs some more.
He can't remember the last time smoking made him cough like he's fourteen again, and he's pretty sure he's never just straight out told someone he's into them like that. But then, it's Bob, so. It feels okay.
Mikey inhales so deeply he almost burns his lips as the cigarette burns down to the filter, and he drops it quickly as Bob says, “Yeah, I know.” Mikey looks at him, and Bob's expression hasn't changed much, but his eyes have a spark of amusement in them, and Mikey realises at once that Bob's not just saying it, that he really does know, and that he's been waiting, winding Mikey up until he finally says something.
“Motherfucker,” Mikey says, but he can feel a smile slowly wrestling its way onto his face.
Everyone kisses differently, but it's all more or less the same. Mikey doesn't know if it's because most of the time he has a type or because it's always the same sort of situation, but most of his memories of make outs have all blended into one, dark rooms and loud music and the heat of someone else's mouth, split into two sections: the ones that lead to more and the ones that don't.
Bob is -- Bob is different, that's the only way Mikey can find to describe it. He's always known Bob's been someone worth knowing, someone more valuable to keep around than a thousand scene kids and fans. Bob came to Europe with them just because Mikey asked; Bob joined their band when they were on the brink of imploding, no questions asked. Bob means something, which is something Mikey doesn't usually like to think about, and with Bob it takes time. He's not just another girl or guy in a tight shirt and tighter jeans who Mikey can sidle up to and work his silent charm. It takes a long time, in the end, longer than Mikey would ever usually bother waiting, weeks of Mikey thinking about it, images splashing across his eyelids every time he closes his eyes, staring at Bob too much until he can't even shrug it off as absent minded gazing any more. On the bus, wasting time while they go from one venue to another, he spends the stretch of a whole movie just staring at Bob's hands, the way his fingers are wrapped firmly around the mug in his hands.
In the end, Mikey's not even that drunk when it happens, which is kind of a novel experience. He can't clearly remember the last time he was totally sober when he hooked up with someone, but he's only a few drinks in, warmth spreading loosely through him, leaning back against the dirty wall outside the venue, sharing a pre-show cigarette with Bob. They're the only ones out there for once, and Mikey turns to look at Bob and meets his eyes and the thing is, he's fed up of waiting. He's never really been any fucking good at it, even if he can keep quiet about it. The booze is working his favour tonight, spurring him on instead of amplifying the panic that always seems to echo around his head before they play, and so he inhales deeply when Bob hands him the cigarette, looks down at the floor and says as he exhales, “I kind of want to make out with you, you know.” He coughs a little and takes another drag so he doesn't have to look straight back at Bob, then coughs some more.
He can't remember the last time smoking made him cough like he's fourteen again, and he's pretty sure he's never just straight out told someone he's into them like that. But then, it's Bob, so. It feels okay.
Mikey inhales so deeply he almost burns his lips as the cigarette burns down to the filter, and he drops it quickly as Bob says, “Yeah, I know.” Mikey looks at him, and Bob's expression hasn't changed much, but his eyes have a spark of amusement in them, and Mikey realises at once that Bob's not just saying it, that he really does know, and that he's been waiting, winding Mikey up until he finally says something.
“Motherfucker,” Mikey says, but he can feel a smile slowly wrestling its way onto his face.
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