Someone Has To
Title: Someone Has To
Pairing: Brian/Bob
Rating: R
Summary: They may not be committed, but they are constant.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I'm not getting paid.
Author's Note: This was written for the mcr4u fic exchange for algernon_mouse, whose prompt was Brian/Bob, pre-MCR.
Bob and Brian have an arrangement.
That's what Brian calls it in his head, at least. Out loud he doesn't call it anything, because he knows Bob about as well as anyone and that means he knows that sometimes the subtleties of words make Bob nervous. It's not that he's stupid, because he's fucking not- he just likes to keep things simple when he can because life gets too complicated anyway, especially on tour.
But Brian calls it an arrangement, because that's how he thinks. He plans and he strategizes and he tries to make things official because someone fucking has to.
Part of the arrangement means that they meet when no one else is likely to be awake. For most people that would mean late at night, but for them it means the part of the morning when everyone has either passed out or moved on to greener, drunker pastures. Brian slips out of his bunk and almost falls over Gerard, who is huddled on the floor with a bottle of Jack. He's not asleep, though; his eyes are moving lazily from ceiling to floor to bunk to ceiling, and he acknowledges Brian's presence with a crooked smile.
"Hey, Bri-an," he says. He's slurring, but only a bit. That's good at least. "You're not asleep."
"I know." Brian goes to step over him, but Gerard tries to move out of his way at the same time and he ends up stepping on his hand. "Sorry."
"S'okay. I drew a picture of you," Gerard informs him, trying to sit up. He wobbles uselessly on his palms for a minute before falling down again. Brian sighs and considers leaving him there, but his arms move without him to drag Gerard off the floor and into his bunk where he sprawls limply, hand dangling over the side. Brian gets him a bucket and a glass of water and leaves, because there's not much else he can do.
He sees the drawing on the table by the door. Gerard has drawn Brian as a werewolf, his sideburns longer and bushier, with pointed ears protruding from a thick head of hair. He's baring his fangs and brandishing his claws at a... thing, a dark shapeless mass with white eyes, grinning unpleasantly. It's kind of funny, but Brian doesn't laugh. He makes a mental note to ask Ray about it later, because Ray will ask Mikey and Mikey always knows what's going on in Gerard's head even when Gerard doesn't.
He trips over a stray pair of shoes on the way out of the bus and makes another mental note to tell Mikey to clean his shit up.
They pick different meeting spots, depending on the tour and the time and the circumstance. Lately it's been one of the single-stall bathrooms in whichever venue they're due to play next. It's early enough that most people who'd recognize Brian are still sleeping it off, and he flashes his pass and nods curtly at security before padding down the corridor. He slips open the door and shuts it quietly behind him, not checking to see if Bob is there before he clicks the lock.
He doesn't check because it would only make Bob nervous. One time he hadn't shown up when they'd agreed to meet and Brian had left five messages on his cell phone before he could stop himself. When Bob finally called him back and he asked "Where were you?" he could hear the whine in his own voice, and the tight-coiled apprehension in Bob's as he replied, "My girlfriend came to see me. I couldn't just blow her off. Calm down, Schechter."
Bob is there, leaning against the sink. His hair isn't combed yet and he's got a bandage on his arm where he burned himself on a wire a few days back. "Hey," he says.
"Hey," Brian replies. He's about to say something else, because he always likes to start things off with conversation, but then Bob's hands pin him to the wall and Bob's tongue is in his mouth and he flicks off the dim bathroom light and Brian is just breathing him in through the occasional scrape of teeth.
He forgets how much he wants this until it happens. He forgets how much he needs it until it's over.
"Bob," he mumbles. Bob's pulling at his belt with one hand, not fumbling like Brian would. "Bob, I need-"
"Schechter," Bob says, and he can almost hear that lopsided grin through the darkness. Brian's already hard- he's pretty sure Bob can feel it, too, fucking embarrassing, not that it matters- but if he hadn't been the way Bob says his name would have done the trick. "You need to stop talking now, because I'm going to suck your cock."
Brian almost says "okay," but then decides it probably goes without saying.
He can hear a muffled thud as Bob drops to his knees. He did it that way the first time they hooked up (three days after they met, against the Used's tourbus, Bert made obscene finger gestures at them both for the next week and a half although that did not necessarily mean he knew what was going on) and it always makes his breath catch. When Bob wants something he doesn't care how much pain he has to go through to get it, and sometimes it's good and sometimes it's terrifying but mostly it's just fucking hot. Bob fumbles with his belt buckle and curses, presses his mouth briefly against the fabric of Brian's boxers before pulling his cock out and running his tongue, sloppy and urgent, along the shaft.
The first time Brian met Bob he noticed his mouth- not exactly in a sexual way, although there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this guy, this solid, silent, capable guy, was going to be trouble somehow. He just... noticed, because although there isn't much about Bob that is pretty or delicate or vulnerable, his mouth looked soft. When they first hooked up Brian wondered if he should kiss him or not, if it was against the rules- he hasn't fucked many guys but there's been a few, and a lot of them have had strict no-kissing policies. After a few minutes Bob had pulled his hand out of Brian's pants and grabbed him by the collar and growled, actually fucking growled, "You gonna kiss me, asshole?" Brian had tried not to look too happy, because for some guys getting too into it was also against the rules, but he couldn't help but make noise when he tasted Bob, just like how he can't help but make noise when Bob tastes him now.
They don't have much time. Sometimes that makes it better, gives the sex that edge of urgency that makes everything clear and sharply focused. Sometimes it makes it worse, and one of them ends up not coming or they get interrupted or they have a close call and things feel ever so slightly off until the next stolen break, the next dirty bathroom, the next few minutes in the dark. Right now it feels like a problem, one he has to solve, and he grinds into Bob's mouth until Bob reaches up and pushes his hips to the wall. He pulls off long enough to mutter, "Calm down, Schechter, we'll get there, we'll get there," and he takes Brian into his mouth again, almost all the way, and Brian nearly fucking dies. Bob definitely does not look like the kind of guy who would be good at deepthroating, but as Brian discovered the fourth time they fucked (spare room, Jepha's house, there was a party and no one noticed when they slipped away), the world is a surprising place. Even when you make plans.
Bob's hands hold him steady, his mouth sliding wet and smooth. They're almost completely still together- Brian's fists clench and unclench and he can feel himself trembling in the dark and maybe it's that, the dark, that makes him say what he says. Or maybe it's the thought of Gerard curled into himself in his bunk, or the way Ray's shoulders tense up when Matt comes into the room, or the way Frank's been coming on the bus with bruised knees and bloody knuckles, or the way Mikey has been talking less and less, or the way they all look at Brian sometimes, almost pleading and almost hurt and mostly just waiting for him to fix it somehow. Or maybe it's just that Bob's tongue is curling up under the head of his cock and he's about to come and people say stupid shit in that condition, but he chokes out, "They want you in the band."
Bob pulls off and Brian can feel his breath against his cock when he says "What?" and somehow that fucking ends him and he can barely stutter a warning before he comes, just missing Bob's face. He leans against the wall, panting, before he remembers that they are still in the dark and flicks on the light. Bob is still kneeling, looking up at him with a wary, almost angry expression that Brian doesn't know how to read. His mouth looks sort of bruised and sort of beautiful and Brian wants nothing more than to kiss him right now, taste himself in someone else's mouth, but knows it's not the time.
"The guys," he pants. He knows he doesn't need to elaborate. 'The guys' means the same five people for both of them, always has. "I was talking to Ray- to Gerard." Before he passed out, anyway, once. "They want Otter gone."
"Why?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question.
And, really, why is not a question Brian has an answer for, because everything was fine right up until it wasn't. He thinks about how soundly Matt sleeps and wonders if he knows. Probably not, he thinks, because outside of this tiny fucked up circle he's part of no one seems to guess how bad it can get.
Bob's part of that circle too. Always has been.
"You know why," he says. "You've seen them. We're fucked right now, Bob. If things don't change everything'll fall apart and they'll just be another amazing band that never was. And that- that'd kill me."
He doesn't really need to say that last part. Bob knows, and Brian knows that he knows.
"Okay. Okay." Bob takes a deep breath, stands up. He is very still and very real, and the only way Brian can tell how freaked out he actually is is by watching his fists clench tighter and tighter. He's not sure if it's anger or fear or just plain wanting, because for Bob those emotions run together a little too often. "Have they- it's not official, is it?"
No. Brian shakes his head. It's definitely not official, and that bugs the shit out of him.
It seems to bug Bob as well, because his face clouds and he says, almost spits, "Why did you fucking tell me, then? You think I can just come in and magically fix everything? Make him stop drinking? Make them all happy? Is that what you want?"
And Brian's not stupid either. He knows how much Bob wants this- to be in a band, to actually make music, be a part of it instead of watching from the sidelines and fiddling with knobs. He also knows how close he's come before, how easily it's slipped through his fingers. He has learned not to trust something that is not guaranteed, and right now all Brian is running on is trust and plans and blind fucking hope.
And when he thinks about it, Bob's got it right. He's tired and worn out and God only knows how much longer he can keep this all together, and maybe if someone else took it all over he'd be able to sleep through the night.
He doesn't say that, though. Doesn't say anything, and after a few minutes Bob's face screws up and he pulls himself together- he makes a little motion with his hands that looks like that, like he's gathering himself in- and says, "Don't fuck with me, Schechter."
"I wasn't-"
"You were." Bob can be kind of intense sometimes, in the same way that the Pope can be kind of Catholic. He's like that now, half-burning. "I can't fix anything for you, Brian. And you can't fucking bribe me into making everything okay for you. 'They want you in the band,' Jesus. You've got to do this yourself." He opens his mouth like he's got more to say, things about plans and strategies and how they can all go wrong the minute they're made official, but then he shakes his head instead and goes to wash his hands. The sound of the water running is too loud, and Brian can feel a headache start to churn sickly behind his temples. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about Bob calling him by his first name, what that could mean.
"Besides," Bob says abruptly after a long moment of silence, "how long do you think this could keep going with four other people on a bus?"
Brian blinks. "I hadn't thought of that," he says, which is a lie- he's thought about it more than he wants to admit, in meetings and on buses and when he's in his bunk with the curtains drawn. He just hadn't thought that Bob had thought about it too.
Bob gives him this look that's probably not meant to be intimidating or withering but ends up that way anyway and dries his hands. "Sure," he says, and for a minute he's almost smiling which means that maybe Brian can smile back and then maybe it'll be alright and they'll meet back here or somewhere like it tomorrow or the next day or the next, but then Bob's mouth straightens out, harder than Brian is used to seeing it, and he tosses the paper towel towards the waste basket, misses and doesn't bother to pick it up again before he's out and down the hall, footsteps heavy and purposeful as always.
Brian leans against the wall, pants still unzipped, and wonders if the world will stop if he asks it nicely enough. Just for a minute.
Then he cleans himself off and straightens himself up and goes to sit in on meetings and call booking agents and pick Mikey's goddamn shoes up off the floor, because someone fucking has to.
Pairing: Brian/Bob
Rating: R
Summary: They may not be committed, but they are constant.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I'm not getting paid.
Author's Note: This was written for the mcr4u fic exchange for algernon_mouse, whose prompt was Brian/Bob, pre-MCR.
Bob and Brian have an arrangement.
That's what Brian calls it in his head, at least. Out loud he doesn't call it anything, because he knows Bob about as well as anyone and that means he knows that sometimes the subtleties of words make Bob nervous. It's not that he's stupid, because he's fucking not- he just likes to keep things simple when he can because life gets too complicated anyway, especially on tour.
But Brian calls it an arrangement, because that's how he thinks. He plans and he strategizes and he tries to make things official because someone fucking has to.
Part of the arrangement means that they meet when no one else is likely to be awake. For most people that would mean late at night, but for them it means the part of the morning when everyone has either passed out or moved on to greener, drunker pastures. Brian slips out of his bunk and almost falls over Gerard, who is huddled on the floor with a bottle of Jack. He's not asleep, though; his eyes are moving lazily from ceiling to floor to bunk to ceiling, and he acknowledges Brian's presence with a crooked smile.
"Hey, Bri-an," he says. He's slurring, but only a bit. That's good at least. "You're not asleep."
"I know." Brian goes to step over him, but Gerard tries to move out of his way at the same time and he ends up stepping on his hand. "Sorry."
"S'okay. I drew a picture of you," Gerard informs him, trying to sit up. He wobbles uselessly on his palms for a minute before falling down again. Brian sighs and considers leaving him there, but his arms move without him to drag Gerard off the floor and into his bunk where he sprawls limply, hand dangling over the side. Brian gets him a bucket and a glass of water and leaves, because there's not much else he can do.
He sees the drawing on the table by the door. Gerard has drawn Brian as a werewolf, his sideburns longer and bushier, with pointed ears protruding from a thick head of hair. He's baring his fangs and brandishing his claws at a... thing, a dark shapeless mass with white eyes, grinning unpleasantly. It's kind of funny, but Brian doesn't laugh. He makes a mental note to ask Ray about it later, because Ray will ask Mikey and Mikey always knows what's going on in Gerard's head even when Gerard doesn't.
He trips over a stray pair of shoes on the way out of the bus and makes another mental note to tell Mikey to clean his shit up.
They pick different meeting spots, depending on the tour and the time and the circumstance. Lately it's been one of the single-stall bathrooms in whichever venue they're due to play next. It's early enough that most people who'd recognize Brian are still sleeping it off, and he flashes his pass and nods curtly at security before padding down the corridor. He slips open the door and shuts it quietly behind him, not checking to see if Bob is there before he clicks the lock.
He doesn't check because it would only make Bob nervous. One time he hadn't shown up when they'd agreed to meet and Brian had left five messages on his cell phone before he could stop himself. When Bob finally called him back and he asked "Where were you?" he could hear the whine in his own voice, and the tight-coiled apprehension in Bob's as he replied, "My girlfriend came to see me. I couldn't just blow her off. Calm down, Schechter."
Bob is there, leaning against the sink. His hair isn't combed yet and he's got a bandage on his arm where he burned himself on a wire a few days back. "Hey," he says.
"Hey," Brian replies. He's about to say something else, because he always likes to start things off with conversation, but then Bob's hands pin him to the wall and Bob's tongue is in his mouth and he flicks off the dim bathroom light and Brian is just breathing him in through the occasional scrape of teeth.
He forgets how much he wants this until it happens. He forgets how much he needs it until it's over.
"Bob," he mumbles. Bob's pulling at his belt with one hand, not fumbling like Brian would. "Bob, I need-"
"Schechter," Bob says, and he can almost hear that lopsided grin through the darkness. Brian's already hard- he's pretty sure Bob can feel it, too, fucking embarrassing, not that it matters- but if he hadn't been the way Bob says his name would have done the trick. "You need to stop talking now, because I'm going to suck your cock."
Brian almost says "okay," but then decides it probably goes without saying.
He can hear a muffled thud as Bob drops to his knees. He did it that way the first time they hooked up (three days after they met, against the Used's tourbus, Bert made obscene finger gestures at them both for the next week and a half although that did not necessarily mean he knew what was going on) and it always makes his breath catch. When Bob wants something he doesn't care how much pain he has to go through to get it, and sometimes it's good and sometimes it's terrifying but mostly it's just fucking hot. Bob fumbles with his belt buckle and curses, presses his mouth briefly against the fabric of Brian's boxers before pulling his cock out and running his tongue, sloppy and urgent, along the shaft.
The first time Brian met Bob he noticed his mouth- not exactly in a sexual way, although there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this guy, this solid, silent, capable guy, was going to be trouble somehow. He just... noticed, because although there isn't much about Bob that is pretty or delicate or vulnerable, his mouth looked soft. When they first hooked up Brian wondered if he should kiss him or not, if it was against the rules- he hasn't fucked many guys but there's been a few, and a lot of them have had strict no-kissing policies. After a few minutes Bob had pulled his hand out of Brian's pants and grabbed him by the collar and growled, actually fucking growled, "You gonna kiss me, asshole?" Brian had tried not to look too happy, because for some guys getting too into it was also against the rules, but he couldn't help but make noise when he tasted Bob, just like how he can't help but make noise when Bob tastes him now.
They don't have much time. Sometimes that makes it better, gives the sex that edge of urgency that makes everything clear and sharply focused. Sometimes it makes it worse, and one of them ends up not coming or they get interrupted or they have a close call and things feel ever so slightly off until the next stolen break, the next dirty bathroom, the next few minutes in the dark. Right now it feels like a problem, one he has to solve, and he grinds into Bob's mouth until Bob reaches up and pushes his hips to the wall. He pulls off long enough to mutter, "Calm down, Schechter, we'll get there, we'll get there," and he takes Brian into his mouth again, almost all the way, and Brian nearly fucking dies. Bob definitely does not look like the kind of guy who would be good at deepthroating, but as Brian discovered the fourth time they fucked (spare room, Jepha's house, there was a party and no one noticed when they slipped away), the world is a surprising place. Even when you make plans.
Bob's hands hold him steady, his mouth sliding wet and smooth. They're almost completely still together- Brian's fists clench and unclench and he can feel himself trembling in the dark and maybe it's that, the dark, that makes him say what he says. Or maybe it's the thought of Gerard curled into himself in his bunk, or the way Ray's shoulders tense up when Matt comes into the room, or the way Frank's been coming on the bus with bruised knees and bloody knuckles, or the way Mikey has been talking less and less, or the way they all look at Brian sometimes, almost pleading and almost hurt and mostly just waiting for him to fix it somehow. Or maybe it's just that Bob's tongue is curling up under the head of his cock and he's about to come and people say stupid shit in that condition, but he chokes out, "They want you in the band."
Bob pulls off and Brian can feel his breath against his cock when he says "What?" and somehow that fucking ends him and he can barely stutter a warning before he comes, just missing Bob's face. He leans against the wall, panting, before he remembers that they are still in the dark and flicks on the light. Bob is still kneeling, looking up at him with a wary, almost angry expression that Brian doesn't know how to read. His mouth looks sort of bruised and sort of beautiful and Brian wants nothing more than to kiss him right now, taste himself in someone else's mouth, but knows it's not the time.
"The guys," he pants. He knows he doesn't need to elaborate. 'The guys' means the same five people for both of them, always has. "I was talking to Ray- to Gerard." Before he passed out, anyway, once. "They want Otter gone."
"Why?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question.
And, really, why is not a question Brian has an answer for, because everything was fine right up until it wasn't. He thinks about how soundly Matt sleeps and wonders if he knows. Probably not, he thinks, because outside of this tiny fucked up circle he's part of no one seems to guess how bad it can get.
Bob's part of that circle too. Always has been.
"You know why," he says. "You've seen them. We're fucked right now, Bob. If things don't change everything'll fall apart and they'll just be another amazing band that never was. And that- that'd kill me."
He doesn't really need to say that last part. Bob knows, and Brian knows that he knows.
"Okay. Okay." Bob takes a deep breath, stands up. He is very still and very real, and the only way Brian can tell how freaked out he actually is is by watching his fists clench tighter and tighter. He's not sure if it's anger or fear or just plain wanting, because for Bob those emotions run together a little too often. "Have they- it's not official, is it?"
No. Brian shakes his head. It's definitely not official, and that bugs the shit out of him.
It seems to bug Bob as well, because his face clouds and he says, almost spits, "Why did you fucking tell me, then? You think I can just come in and magically fix everything? Make him stop drinking? Make them all happy? Is that what you want?"
And Brian's not stupid either. He knows how much Bob wants this- to be in a band, to actually make music, be a part of it instead of watching from the sidelines and fiddling with knobs. He also knows how close he's come before, how easily it's slipped through his fingers. He has learned not to trust something that is not guaranteed, and right now all Brian is running on is trust and plans and blind fucking hope.
And when he thinks about it, Bob's got it right. He's tired and worn out and God only knows how much longer he can keep this all together, and maybe if someone else took it all over he'd be able to sleep through the night.
He doesn't say that, though. Doesn't say anything, and after a few minutes Bob's face screws up and he pulls himself together- he makes a little motion with his hands that looks like that, like he's gathering himself in- and says, "Don't fuck with me, Schechter."
"I wasn't-"
"You were." Bob can be kind of intense sometimes, in the same way that the Pope can be kind of Catholic. He's like that now, half-burning. "I can't fix anything for you, Brian. And you can't fucking bribe me into making everything okay for you. 'They want you in the band,' Jesus. You've got to do this yourself." He opens his mouth like he's got more to say, things about plans and strategies and how they can all go wrong the minute they're made official, but then he shakes his head instead and goes to wash his hands. The sound of the water running is too loud, and Brian can feel a headache start to churn sickly behind his temples. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about Bob calling him by his first name, what that could mean.
"Besides," Bob says abruptly after a long moment of silence, "how long do you think this could keep going with four other people on a bus?"
Brian blinks. "I hadn't thought of that," he says, which is a lie- he's thought about it more than he wants to admit, in meetings and on buses and when he's in his bunk with the curtains drawn. He just hadn't thought that Bob had thought about it too.
Bob gives him this look that's probably not meant to be intimidating or withering but ends up that way anyway and dries his hands. "Sure," he says, and for a minute he's almost smiling which means that maybe Brian can smile back and then maybe it'll be alright and they'll meet back here or somewhere like it tomorrow or the next day or the next, but then Bob's mouth straightens out, harder than Brian is used to seeing it, and he tosses the paper towel towards the waste basket, misses and doesn't bother to pick it up again before he's out and down the hall, footsteps heavy and purposeful as always.
Brian leans against the wall, pants still unzipped, and wonders if the world will stop if he asks it nicely enough. Just for a minute.
Then he cleans himself off and straightens himself up and goes to sit in on meetings and call booking agents and pick Mikey's goddamn shoes up off the floor, because someone fucking has to.