fic: Putting the B Back in Subtle, 1/3
Putting the B Back in Subtle
Authors: algernon_mouse and secrethappiness
Band(s): My Chemical Romance, The Used, slight Fall Out Boy
Pairing(s): Bob/OMC, Bob/Jepha, Bob/Brian
Word Count: 29,137
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Author Notes: Thanks to kickthebeat, belladonnalin and shoshannagold for looking this over at some point or another. We're also thankful to everyone who encouraged this and/or listened to us whine about it. Any and all 'Better Off Dead' jokes are completely intentional.
Summary: In which Bob Bryar gets a real job, grows up a little, puts the drums aside, becomes a touring sound engineer, drinks too much, repeatedly goes against his better judgment, hooks up with Jepha, gets sucked in by the earnestness of My Chem's message, is dumped by Jepha, joins MCR, develops an inconvenient crush on Brian Schechter, nearly dies, and says something he's been meaning to say for awhile.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
Bob takes his other hand out of his pocket and puts it on Brian's hip to steady him. Brian stares off into the distance the way he does when he's about to ask a question that he doesn't really want answered. by keraha
Fanmixes:
Follow the Beat from Beginning to Brian by greenet
Putting the B Back in Subtle
"So, what now?"
Bob shakes his head as he finishes packing his suitcase. Christ, if he hears that question one more time, he's going to punch something.
"I don't know," Bob says as he looks over at his dad, leaning against the door frame.
"Considering how much money we spent on that degree, I hope you're planning on putting it to good use."
"Thanks, Dad." Bob zips up the suitcase and looks around the room, making sure that he's got all his stuff.
His father straightens up and walks over to the bed. "I'm proud of you. You know that, right?" He looks uncomfortable for a moment. "I just don't really know what a degree in sound is going to do for you."
"I know, I know." Bob rubs his hands over his face and sighs. "Look, I've got an interview at House of Blues two days from now. I'm sure if that doesn't work out, I can find something. I know enough people in Chicago."
"All right." His dad holds his hands up in mock surrender. "You ready?"
Bob nods and his dad grabs the suitcase and carries it out of the apartment. As Bob follows him, he takes one last look around, making sure that he's got everything. He’s a little surprised to find he’s going to miss his place, even though he knows he’s not going to miss Florida. By the time Bob makes it out to the car, his dad has already loaded the suitcase in the van and is in the driver's seat. Bob climbs into the passenger seat.
"Ready?" Bob's dad asks as he turns the car on.
Bob nods his head slightly and slaps his thighs with the palms of both hands. "Yeah."
+
The interview at House of Blues goes so well that, at the end of it, they tell him he can start on Saturday night.
For a second, Bob's surprised at how easy it is but he's not about to go looking a gift horse in the mouth. On Saturday, Bob shows up to the club early. He stashes his jacket in the sound booth before he heads over to the bar for a drink. The place is still mostly empty and the house lights are up. They make everything look tired and shabby.
The band shows up a bit later and Bob is watching them from the booth when one of the waitresses pops her head in. "Hey," she says, tossing a long sweep of blond hair out of her face. "I'm Cindy. If you need anything later just let me know." She cracks her gum and Bob nods. "I mean, I'll probably be too fucking busy to get it for you, but it's the thought that counts, right?"
Bob smiles then and Cindy smiles back.
It turns out that she's right though. The place does pick up and by 11:30, just when Bob would kill for a drink, he can't flag her down. Every so often he can see her zigzagging her way through the crowd, the blue strobe lights bouncing off the top of her head. It's slightly maddening. Irrationally, Bob wonders how long it takes for someone to die of dehydration.
During the break in between sets, Bob's torn between either making a break for the bathroom or shoving his way to the bar. Just when he's settled on 'bathroom', Cindy pops her head in the booth. "You want something?"
"Rum and coke," Bob shouts as he squeezes past her. He figures he has five minutes, tops.
When Bob gets back to the booth, his drink is sweating off to the left of his soundboard next to an equally sweaty bottle of water. Bob can't help but grin as he uncaps the bottle of water and drains half of it in one go.
The rest of the night goes quickly. The band's okay, for the most part. They're a little more rockabilly than Bob prefers but it's sound. He's doing actual sound and Bob figures that has to count for something.
He settles into an easy routine after that. He sleeps late and rolls into the club in the early evening with a cigarette pinched between his lips. He doesn't have to ask Cindy for his drink anymore. It just magically appears, and Bob - if Cindy's around to see it - tips the glass in the air at her to say thanks. After the club closes most nights, Bob sticks around. They shift tables together and sit around drinking, smoking and eating thick wedges of garlic bread and cheese from the kitchen.
After four months, Bob's saved enough money for a shitty apartment near an El stop. The wind comes in through the windows and he can hear every step his neighbors take but it's not his parents' basement and that's good enough for Bob. He didn't realize how much he missed his freedom until he gets it back again.
One night after the sound check, but before the club opens, he tells Cindy about the neighbors. She laughs as Bob describes the horror of seeing the new guy's hairy ass.
"Seriously, Cindy," Bob says as he takes a drag on his cigarette. "Fucking disgusting."
"Whatever." Cindy pulls the cigarette from Bob's mouth and takes a puff. She offers it back to him.
Bob blinks and stares at her. "Uh, keep it."
"Thanks." Cindy shrugs. "So, what are you doing later?"
"Probably grab a beer with Ed and then head home." It's getting close to show time and Bob's itching to go over the boards one more time. His instructors always told him that he over-prepared and that it could be a problem, mess with his spontaneity or something but Bob would rather be anal-retentive than have the board explode in the middle of a set.
"Maybe we could hang out?" Cindy asks, hopefully.
Bob always misses this shit, right until it hits him in the fucking face. "Uh," Bob stutters.
The worst part is Bob has yet to figure out how to gently extract himself from these situations. After a few seconds of opening and closing his mouth, Cindy takes pity on him. "Or not. It's cool."
"Really?"
"Well, I might go cry in the supply closet about missing the Bob Bryar Experience, but I think I can put together the pieces of my shattered heart and move on."
Bob laughs and Cindy smiles as she says, "I'll see you during the break."
She leaves the booth and Bob breathes a sigh of relief. He likes Cindy, he really does. She's pretty and smart. She's not the type of girl working at the club just to fuck the bands either. She's just trying to make her way through and Bob can appreciate that. He's just not interested in her.
Bob's radio crackles and Ed comes on, sounding like they're using two tins cans and string. "Bryar, you going to put on a show sometime tonight or flirt with Cindy all night?"
"Fuck you, Ed," Bob replies.
"Nah, I'll leave that up to Cindy."
The backstage tech hops on the system and says, "Hey assholes, let's go."
Ed drops the lights, Bob puts on his headphones and it starts all over again.
Two nights later, on a non-concert night, Bob's playing with the boards a little, checking wires, when he feels someone staring at him. He pushes himself off the ground and looks around. Behind the booth, a tall guy with black hair curling over his collar and a drink in his hand is smiling at Bob.
"Can I help you?" Bob asks, confused.
The guy looks Bob up and down appraisingly. "I think so. Meet me out back in five minutes."
For the first two minutes, Bob’s a little pissed at the nerve of this random guy, thinking he’s just going to stroll outside without asking questions. He tells himself it's not safe and he's better off staying at the boards, but then his dick reminds him it's been months since Bob's been intimate with anything other than his hand. Bob nods and heads toward the back exit. The guy is leaning against the alley wall, smirking again. Or maybe still.
Fuck that. Bob can play that game too.
Bob grabs the guy, spins him around and presses him against the wall. He's taller than Bob, but not by much, and broad too. He's big enough to throw Bob off but he only makes a soft huffing sound as Bob leans in against him. Bob drops his head forward. His breath feels humid against his own nose when he buries his face in the back of the guy's neck.
"How do you like it?" Bob grunts. He's already got one hand on his buckle, working the fastening open.
Bob's dick is hard and there's a hot flutter low in his belly when the guy pushes his ass back against Bob and mutters, "Just fuckin' do it."
"Okay, okay. Fuckin' relax, man." Bob's fingers shake slightly as he works the guy's jeans down just enough to bare his ass. He spits into his hand before he shoves in, but it still feels a little too dry to be comfortable. The guy flinches forward and Bob gasps, "Shit shit shit. Are you okay?"
The guy grunts and pushes back, hard. The slide of his ass feels hot and tight and the skin above Bob's tailbone ripples with goose pimples. Bob bites down on his lip until he can taste blood.
"Jerk me off," he says. Bob moans.
It’s messy. The rhythm is off and Bob’s terrified someone’s going to come out back for a fresh keg at any second but he still comes, quick and dirty.
The other guy comes a few seconds later and Bob can't imagine how it's good for him; he'll probably be sore and raw tomorrow. Bob feels a little guilty, but it's not like he didn't ask for it.
Bob steps back and catches his breath while he tucks himself back in. The guy pulls up his pants and turns around to look at Bob. He gives Bob another once-over and smirks. "Nice."
The guy saunters off and Bob leans against the wall and tries to ignore how scuzzy he feels.
He stops by the bathroom and washes his face before heading back to the floor. Cindy sees him as he's walking back to the booth. "Have fun in the alley, Bob?"
Bob looks at his hands and blushes.
Cindy leans over and smirks. "You should have told me. I wouldn't have felt so silly."
"Sorry." Bob shrugs. He's not really used to talking about his preferences, especially with people he's turned down. He doesn't see Cindy for the rest of the night. The night slows down exponentially, and he can't stop watching the clock, counting down until he can leave. As soon as the manager gives the okay, Bob signs out and heads for the station.
It's early but the bars haven't closed yet, so Bob's able to find an empty car. He watches the lights stay still as the train flies by. Right after he dropped out of high school, when his parents were riding his ass all the time about going back, Bob would hop on the train and ride it all afternoon. Sometimes he'd get off and meet up with some friends or scope out a music store, but usually he just rode and learned the city.
It had been freeing, knowing that he could go anywhere in the city for next to nothing. He didn't have that luxury in Florida.
The muffled voice announces Bob's stop and he sighs as he pulls himself up. Part of him, the part that's still sixteen and pissed-off at the world, wants to ride to the end of the line but another part of him, the part that's twenty and has to pay rent next week, pushes him forward and off the train.
The next night Bob expects a little awkwardness but Cindy brings him his usual drink without bringing it up. Bob takes his cue from her and starts to relax around her again. They're friends, or as close to friends as two people working at the same place and having nothing else in common can be.
He still fucking hates it when she steals his cigarette out of his mouth, though.
A couple of weeks later, there's a benefit at the club with lots of bands and VIPs and Bob and Ed don't stop moving the whole night. As soon as the club closes, Bob collapses into a chair and doesn't move until Cindy nudges him. He looks up at her blearily and Cindy just shakes her head. "Come on, Bryar, lend a hand."
Bob groans and Cindy pouts at him until he stands up and starts stacking the chairs up on the table tops. When they're finished, Cindy pushes a stray bit of hair off her face with the back of her hand and says, "You want to come back to my place for pizza or something?"
Bob freezes and Cindy rolls her eyes. "Asshole. I actually meant pizza. I'm starving."
"Um, yeah. Sure. Okay."
Cindy's place isn't far from the club. Bob tags along beside her with his fists jammed into the pockets of his jackets and his hoodie pulled up over the back of his head. It's a mild night, but there's still a damp chill in the air. Cindy is talking and Bob's only half-listening, going over the show and what he could have done differently.
"This is me." Cindy points to the red door toward the middle of the block. They walk up the steps and Bob looks down the street while Cindy fits her key into the lock and leans into the door to push it open. The hinges groan and Cindy mutters that her landlord is a dipshit incapable of fixing anything.
Inside, Cindy drops her jacket over the back of a kitchen chair as she crosses the room. "Beer?" she asks, her head in the fridge.
“Yeah,” Bob says, looking around. Cindy hands him a bottle when she walks back into the living room and drops down onto the couch.
"So are you bi or, like, strictly an ass man?"
Bob chokes on his beer and a dribble slips over his chin. He wipes at it with the tips of his fingers and focuses on breathing. "Um?"
Cindy grins at him. "I've always wanted to be a fag hag. Or wait! I could be your beard!"
Bob shakes his head, a grin spreading slowly across his face. He scratches at the stubble on his cheek. "I already have a beard."
"Mmmm." Cindy smiles at him agreeably as she takes another long swallow of her beer. "So you have an actual degree in sound, huh?"
Bob nods his head and watches as Cindy leans forward and picks up a take-out menu from the coffee table. "Yeah."
"Deep dish pepperoni okay?" she asks, dialing the phone.
Bob nods again and picks at the label of his beer.
"You know, you're pretty lucky," she says after she's hung up the phone.
Bob frowns, trying to keep up with the rapid topic changes, and Cindy continues. "I have a perfectly useless degree in fashion design. It's cool that you're doing what you want to do." She pushes her feet into Bob's lap and Bob looks down at them, shocked.
"Rub," Cindy mutters, closing her eyes and getting comfortable against the back of the couch.
"Ah?" Bob presses against her instep, smiling a little.
"Oh, God," Cindy moans. "Bryar, you have magical hands." She rocks her foot into the muscle of Bob's thigh as if to prove her point. Bob chuckles and curls his hand over her toes and squeezes.
"Now that's what I'm talking about." Cindy smiles and cracks her eyes open at him. The attention makes Bob blush.
"It wouldn't have worked anyway," Cindy says after a few quiet minutes. Bob glances at her out of the corner of his eye.
"It might have," Bob says slowly. "You're pretty."
Cindy snorts. "No, it really wouldn't have. I'm looking for someone who's going to stick around, but I always fall for the guy who leaves."
"What?" Bob trades one foot for the other and digs his thumb sharply into her arch. "I'm not going anywhere."
Cindy looks at him for a long moment and Bob feels the nervous urge to shift under her gaze creeping up the back of his neck.
"Sure you are. You will. I can tell."
Bob doesn't know how to respond to that so he doesn't say anything. He has a ridiculous urge to argue with her, but her buzzer rings before he can actually think of an argument.
Cindy swings her feet off Bob's lap, and Bob goes into the kitchen to wash his hands. When he comes back out with another two beers, Cindy has the pizza box flipped open and is fighting with the first slice.
Bob shakes his head. "You've got to wait a minute for it to cool," he says. "You're gonna wreck it.”
"I'm not going to wreck it," Cindy says stubbornly.
Bob watches as the cheese slides off her slice of pizza. He cocks his eyebrows at her. "See? I fucking told you that you were gonna wreck it."
Cindy picks up a piece of pepperoni and makes to throw it at him. Bob grabs her wrist and pushes her away. "Don't waste a perfectly good piece of meat."
"From what I've seen, meat doesn't go to waste when you're around, Bryar," she snorts.
They finish the pizza without resorting to food fights and Bob doesn't leave her apartment until early morning. He takes the long way home, walking through the city as he thinks about what Cindy said.
If he's being honest with himself, he'd admit she's probably right. Every band he's seen has been different, all of them asking for their sound a different way. In the beginning it had been challenging, but it doesn't feel like that anymore. In fact, now that Bob's putting his cards on the table, it hasn't felt like that for awhile now. He's getting to the point where he feels like he's sleep walking behind the boards.
It's probably, he realizes, a dangerous rut to climb into.
As he's climbing up the stairs to his place, Bob thinks about Ed and shudders. Ed's been doing lights in clubs for twenty years now. In fact, Bob's pretty sure Ed was doing the lights for the first show at House of Blues, almost ten years ago. Bob doesn't know what he wants to do with his life or how having a degree has made him any more prepared for anything but he does know that he doesn't want to be Ed.
He flicks on the lights in his apartment and sees his drum set in the corner. He hasn't played since he moved into the apartment, his neighbors started complaining after five minutes, and Bob's not entirely sure why he doesn't just move the kit back into his parents' basement. Bob tosses his jacket on to the couch, turns the light off and heads to the bedroom.
+
A few days later, an old friend from high school calls him up. Rick heard from Bob's mom that Bob was back in town and he wants to know if Bob feels like drumming in a new band he's putting together. Five minutes into the first practice, Bob agrees to join.
He asks around at a few clubs after that, looking to see if any of them need someone to do sound for local shows, and he manages to pick up a few extra gigs a week. Between HOB, band practice and the extra gigs, Bob's usually running from club to club. He's having fun, though, and the restlessness he was feeling before is gone.
Somewhere in there, Bob turns 21 and it feels almost anti-climatic. His friends throw him a huge party at one of the clubs that's been serving Bob since he was 17. The next afternoon, after Bob's puked up most of his post-drinking meal and part of his stomach lining, he crawls into the living room and collapses on his couch. There's a stray drumstick on his coffee table and Bob idly twirls it. He needs to be at work in four hours and his head is trying to explode, and while he thinks that’s a perfectly good reason to miss work, Bob suspects his boss wouldn’t agree.
When he walks into House of Blues, only twenty minutes late, Cindy's waiting at the booth with a Bloody Mary in one hand and some Tums in the other. She takes one look at him and shudders. "You were pretty bad when I left last night and I had a feeling you might need some help today."
Bob grabs the Tums, chews them up and washes it all back with the Bloody Mary. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives the glass back to Cindy. "Thanks," he says, trying to muster up some enthusiasm but failing.
She laughs and rolls her eyes.
The next six months fly by and the band breaks up for the same old reason: none of the other guys are willing to tour. Bob can't find anyone else who's interested in starting a band and actually working at it so he stops looking. He tells himself it's okay, the scene's changing and Bob's not sure he really wants to be a part of it anymore.
Bob wakes up one morning, uncomfortably aware it's been eight months since he got laid and he's settling into a rut. Later that week, there's a sign posted in the break room. It's a local tour managing company looking for sound guys. Bob stares at the flier during his break that day and again the next day.
On the third day, Cindy catches him looking at it and says, "Oh my god, seriously. If you don't call these guys, I'm going to do it for you."
She writes the number down on a scrap of paper and shoves it into the back pocket of Bob's pants. He still doesn't call for another two days. When he finally does, a bored-sounding receptionist gives him an address and tells him to come by to fill out an application.
The building is in a dingy part of Chicago and Bob stares at it warily for a few seconds before he heads in. It's not much better inside, either. There's a grey pot in the corner with a dying plastic plant slumping in the middle of it. Bob hadn't even thought that a plastic plant could look like it was dying, but there it is.
On the wall, over a sagging couch, there is a framed photo of a sand dune and two wooden deck chairs on an empty porch. The paper backing looks as though it's warped from moisture and the colors have been bleached out from the sun coming in from the dirty window across the room. Bob looks down at his feet. There's a dark stain in the carpet between his boots that makes it look like he's just pissed his pants. Bob's about to turn around and walk out when someone from behind a desk says, "Can I help you?"
Bob clears his throat and wipes his hands on his jeans. "Uh. I wanted to fill out an application?"
He steps forward then while the woman rummages around on her desk. She hands him a clipboard and a pen and gestures across the room. "You can sit over there to fill it out." Bob twists his neck over his shoulder and looks skeptically at the couch. The woman nods him away with an annoyed look, and Bob crosses the room.
The couch makes a whooshing noise when he drops his weight onto it. It startles him into half standing upright again, and for a second he debates standing before he re-settles his weight onto the edge of the cushion. He scans the form quickly and fills out the basic information first: name, address, phone number. He fucks up the zip code, but then figures it probably doesn't matter anyway. This doesn’t seem like the kind of place to get hung up on small details like accuracy.
After five minutes, Bob slides the pen back into the hinge of the clipboard. The plastic cap has been chewed by someone, which Bob thinks is just fucking gross even though he does it all the time. He turns the application back in at the desk, and is about to leave when the woman holds up one finger. She's on the phone, cracking her gum while she talks. Bob shifts his weight from foot to foot as he looks around trying not to be obvious about listening in on her conversation. It sounds like she's talking to some plumber who was, apparently, supposed to fix the drain in her basement bathroom five days ago.
"It stinks like rabbit piss down there!" she snaps. Bob makes a surprised face and raises both eyebrows.
When she hangs up, she says, "Wait here."
By the time Bob opens his mouth to object, she's already turned and started to disappear into the back office. Bob watches the way her skirt sticks to the back of her nylons as she walks. Her legs are short and chunky and they seem to sprout feet out of nowhere. He wonders if this is what girls mean when they say “thick ankles” and then laugh behind the back of their hands.
Bob stuffs his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and waits. A man comes out from the back after a few minutes. He's tall and burly-looking and walks with a thump. Bob figures him to be a part time bouncer so he almost chokes when the guy - Tim Something - reaches across the desk and introduces himself in the softest, girliest voice Bob's ever heard.
"Bob Bryar," Bob says, shaking his hand. He makes a point of not chewing on his lip nervously.
The interview, and Bob's not even sure you can call it that, only lasts about three minutes. Mostly, Bob talks about graduating and working at House of Blues and a few other clubs. Tim doesn't ask where Bob wants to be in five years, and Bob figures it's probably because he doesn't give a fuck. By the time the phone on his desk rings for the third time, Bob’s on the payroll.
Afterward, Bob walks down the steps out into the fresh air, grinning. That night at the club, he pulls Cindy into the booth and tells her the news.
"I knew you were a leaver," Cindy says, but she's smiling when she pulls him in for a quick hug. "When do you start?"
"They want me to go out right away. So, like, two weeks I guess?"
Bob fidgets with the edge of the soundboard, and Cindy frowns. "Hey," she says. "Aren't you happy about this?"
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, sure. It just hasn't sunk it yet, you know? Wow. Touring."
"Touring," Cindy repeats.
Bob grins again and scrubs his face with his hand. "Fucking awesome, right?"
+
Touring, it turns out, is not actually awesome.
When the guys find out it’s Bob’s first tour, there’s some mild hazing and honestly, he expects it. He puts up with it for two days, but shuts it down as soon they try to hit his underwear stash. If anything’s sacred, he finds himself explaining, it should be a man’s underwear. He doesn’t expect to have to establish himself as a badass, or someone not to be fucked with, but eventually things calm down and he starts to think he’s going to enjoy himself.
While he’s never going to be a fan of ten uninterrupted hours in a packed van and he misses regular showers, Bob likes seeing new places. He’s having a great time running the boards and hanging out with the other guys, teching and talking shop. He even gets to fool around on the drums sometimes. It may not be a non-stop party, but in Bob’s opinion, it’s pretty fucking close.
Really, the only not-awesome thing about touring is the actual band. Bob's seen a lot of bands in his time and he's seen his share of shitty bands. These guys are definitely in the top five of those shitty bands, which is nothing to be proud of. The worst part is Bob can't leave after the show. He has to pack up his stuff after every gig and prepare to do it all over again the next day.
One night, in the middle of a show where listening to the lead singer is actually painful, Bob looks around the club. There are five people in the club and all of them have a look of horror on their face. The only difference between them and him, Bob realizes, is that they paid for this experience while Bob is barely getting paid for it.
Bob's packing up after the show when he sees the band approaching out of the corner of his eye. Before they reach him, Steve, the tour manager, steps up to Bob, pokes his finger in Bob's chest and asks, "Bryar, what the fuck are we paying you for? They sounded awful out there."
The band stops in their tracks and Gary, the lead singer, gets a satisfied look on his face. Bob waits for them to turn around and get out of earshot before he moves.
"Steve," Bob bats his finger away, "maybe you should try telling Gary to stop smoking and drinking all night before you yell at me. I can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit."
Steve snorts. He looks around quickly and says, in a low voice, "Sorry about that. I figured it would be better for everyone, especially Gary, if I did that. They really do suck, don't they?"
Bob nods and they both laugh. After a few seconds, Steve says, "Thank god we only have three more shows. What are you doing after this?"
Bob shrugs. He hasn't really thought that far in advance. He still has his apartment and House of Blues told him that he was always welcome back so he'll probably just go back there. He likes touring, but he's not willing to do it again with these guys.
"Look, man, I'm tour-managing for Thrice. Have you heard of them?"
Bob shakes his head and Steve pulls a CD out of his bag. He passes it to Bob and says, "Give it a listen. I know for a fact that they're still looking for a sound guy."
It's Bob's turn to drive that night and he slips the CD into the stereo, turns it down low, and listens as he navigates the interstate. They definitely don't suck and Bob finds himself keeping time on the steering wheel. By three am, Bob's made his decision.
The vans pull over around six for coffee and gas and Bob tracks Steve down. After a mouthful of coffee, Bob says, "Hey, that CD was pretty good. You think you can put in a good word for me with the tour manager?"
"I'll see what I can do, jackass," Steve laughs. "Seriously, I'll call my guys and have them set you up."
It works out so that Bob gets a few days off between tours. He hangs out at his apartment, sees his parents and does a billion loads of laundry. The whole time, he feels itchy and out of place. He's repacking the last of his laundry when the van pulls up outside of his apartment. There are a few familiar faces in the van, and Bob's restlessness disappears. He stows his stuff in the back and climbs in.
+
This time around, touring is awesome.
It helps that the band is really fucking good. They know how to put on a show and Riley, their drummer, is one of the best drummers Bob's seen in a long time. The only major downside is that there's not as much time to fool around on the drums. Riley's cool about letting Bob mess around between sound check and the show but it seems like there's always something else that needs doing instead.
The other downside is that Bob's still not getting laid much. Last time out, there was a cute merch girl who wasn't into the scene and was always willing to mock the band with Bob. They weren't exactly dating or anything, just hooking up whenever they had time and energy. Bob's pretty sure he could find another girl to date on this tour but he can't bring himself to look.
The problem, and it's more of choice than an actual problem, is that Bob really misses fucking guys. He likes the feel of stubble scratching against skin, and the person underneath him pushing back with as much aggression as Bob dishes out. Girls are nice, soft and pretty, but they don't scratch the itch Bob has under his skin. And while average sex is better than no sex, it still gets to a point where Bob's hand is more satisfying than a girl.
The tour hopscotches all over the country, but Bob's used to waking up and not knowing what city he's in. It's a nice atmosphere, too. Bob fits in well with the other techs and they spend a lot of their downtime pranking each other or playing cards and video games. There's this guy, Kevin, who Bob gets along with the best. He's originally from Philly and used to drum, too. They spend a lot of time talking about their old bands, and one night, when Bob's feeling sleepy and loose, he says, "Do you ever wish you'd stuck it out a little longer?"
Kevin turns his beer between his thighs and doesn't answer at first. The silence isn't uncomfortable though. It's thoughtful and long, and eventually Kevin says, "Yeah. Sometimes."
Bob makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat and finishes the last of his beer. He's got his head tipped back and his eyes closed. It's a warm, suspended sort of drunk and, in hindsight, Bob's not sure how it happens. He doesn't know who makes the first move, but somehow he's got Kevin's pants open. Kevin slides his hands down the back of Bob's jeans and works them down over his ass as Bob lays himself down on top of him.
They make out for a while, slow and easy kissing that gathers speed until Bob pushes his face into Kevin's neck and ruts against him. Their bare cocks slide together and Kevin makes a needy, hissing sound.
"Do you have anything?" Bob asks. Kevin shakes his head and Bob mutters, "Fuck, me neither." He rocks his hips again and feels Kevin shudder underneath him.
"Um, hang on a sec," Kevin pants. He spits on his hand and grabs Bob's dick, slicking it as much as he can, and pushes it between his thighs. He presses them together tightly after that and urges Bob on with a hand on his bare ass. It's not perfect but this time, when Bob thrusts forward, there's friction. The head of his dick bumps against Kevin's balls and Kevin groans. He manages to keep a steady rhythm while mouthing the side of Kevin's neck.
"Fuck, I. You. Oh, God." Bob makes a garbled sound and comes. His dick jerks and pulses and, once he's caught his breath again, he works his hand down between them. It only takes a few hasty strokes and Kevin's coming, too.
Afterward, they both laugh, small sounds that come out shaky in the thin night air. Bob wipes his hand clean on the grass and grimaces. They've rolled onto a different patch of grass in the deeper part of the shadows and Bob strokes his palm idly over Kevin's throat. He can feel Kevin's pulse beating under his thumb when he leans back in to kiss him again.
The thing with the merch girl had always been casual and they never actually worked together. Bob's never fucked anyone consistently that he also has to work with every day. It's easier than he figured it would be.
Mostly, he works alongside Kevin, just like always. They still make the same jokes they always did, and they drink their way through piss-warm cans of beer. The difference is now, sometimes in the afternoons to kill the boredom, they sneak off and find a place to suck each other off. It's usually hurried and quick, in musty-smelling storage closets or between the buses at the back of the lots. Sometimes, they manage to find a quiet place where they can take their time.
One afternoon, when Bob's tucking his dick back into his pants, Kevin asks, "Are you going with Steve on his next tour?"
Bob frowns as he tugs his zipper up. "Yeah, some band called The Used or some shit. Why?"
"Just curious." Kevin shrugs. "We’ll be wrapping up soon, that's all."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I'm going back to Philly. I think I might hook up with some people I know. Start a band, or whatever ..."
Kevin trails off and Bob looks up at him. He looks a little uncertain. Bob steps forward and kisses him. They stand there for a minute, Bob's hand against the back of Kevin's neck, and Kevin steadying Bob's hip. When they break apart, Kevin's lips are red and slightly swollen. Bob runs his thumb over them, and Kevin smirks.
Bob nods. "I think that's a cool idea."
+
Three weeks later, Bob's standing by the curb at the Salt Lake City airport, trying not to be freaked out by all the pod-people around him. It's a swarming mass of people and they're all smiling and polite and it's just really fucking weird. Bob shudders and turns his back on the crowd so he can light his cigarette without feeling like a freak.
When he turns back around, there's a short guy standing in front of him. The guy looks Bob up and down and smiles as he asks, "Bob?"
Bob nods and transfers his cigarette from his hand to his mouth. "Who are you?"
"Brian." Brian rocks up and down on his heels. "I tour manage Vendetta Red, the other band on this tour. Steve got held up dealing with something at the venue so he asked me to pick you up."
"All right." Bob puts his hand out and Brian shakes it.
"Got any bags?"
Bob points at them and Brian grabs one. "Follow me, the car is this way."
On the way to the venue, Brian gives Bob the rundown on the band. "Branden's the drummer; he's got his own tech so you're off the hook there. Jepha does bass, Quinn's on guitar, and Bert is ... Bert."
Bob picked up their CD a week after he signed the new contract so he knows exactly who Bert is even though he’s not totally sure what Brian means. "Got it."
Bob taps his cigarettes against the back of his hand idly while he stares out the window. He's thinking about having another one, but he's not really sure he needs any more nicotine. Before he can decide either way, Brian looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. "You nervous?"
"What?" Bob looks down at his hands and stops. "Oh. No. Just a habit, I guess."
"That's fair. Can I get one? Quinn stole my last one this morning and I was already running late so I didn't have chance to get more."
Bob opens the pack and hands a cigarette over to Brian wordlessly. He also pulls his lighter out of his pocket and passes it over to Brian who lights it while crossing two lanes of traffic. Bob reminds himself that he's from Chicago and he's seen worse even as his hand tightens on the door handle.
Brian exhales. "Thanks."
They make it to the venue quickly. There's almost no traffic on the interstate even though it's rush hour, and Bob cannot wait until they leave this state. He has no idea what the band is going to be like if they're from Utah but he hopes they're cool and not all Children of the Corn like everyone at the airport. Brian seems pretty cool, so Bob will have at least one other person to talk to.
"You're going to be on the Vendetta bus with me and the other techs."
"Cool." Bob grabs his stuff from the car.
Brian points at the two buses down the street. "There's the band bus, and the smaller one is the Vendetta bus. Steve said for you to just head inside and find him so he can give you your badge and you can start setting up for tonight."
"Got it."
"Hey, Bob," Brian says as Bob's walking away. "Do me a favor? When you meet Bert, he's going to ask you to pull his finger. Don't do it unless you want him to hump your leg."
"He's going to have a hard time humping me if I kick him in the nuts," Bob replies.
Brian laughs. "Bryar, you're going to be all right."
Twenty minutes later, Bob's got a badge and a sneaking suspicion, based on the condition of the board, that the night's show is going to be pretty rough. On his way to the Vendetta bus to drop his bags, he walks by The Used's bus and debates whether he should introduce himself and get it over with or wait until Steve does it. Before he can decide either way, a little guy with stringy hair comes skidding around the front of the bus, running like a bat out of hell.
Bob brings his arms up and tries to absorb the impact when they collide. It's a mostly-effective defensive move, but the weight of his bags causes Bob to stagger backwards slightly. The guy grins at him. Bob blinks. Bob lets go of him, shakes his head slightly and scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, then tucks his cigarette back into his mouth. "Bob Bryar," he says around his cigarette. "I'm the sound guy."
"Bob Bryar. Motherfucker! Good to meet you! Bert McCracken. If Quinn asks, I've been with you the whole time." The guy - Bert, Bob corrects himself mentally - sticks his hand out. Bob smiles wryly down at it.
"I've heard about you, I'm not going to pull your finger, dude."
"Good call." The door to the bus has fully opened and Bob looks up at the guy standing on the bottom step. "Jepha," he says. He raises a white mug with a picture of Strawberry Shortcake on the side at Bob and then blows across the surface of it.
Bob gives him a quick once-over, nodding back. Jepha steps down and heads toward the other bus. "I assume you're heading to the other bus to drop off your bags."
Bob hoists his duffel bag over his shoulder and follows Jepha down the sidewalk. Once they step inside the second bus, it takes a second or two for Bob's eyes to adjust to the dimness after being outside.
"Fucking pigsty," Jepha mutters, stepping over an empty bag of chips. Bob steps over the same bag and looks around. The kitchenette is littered with empty cans of beer and alphaghetti.
"Like your bus is any fucking better."
Bob snaps his head around to catch Brian making his way onto the bus. Jepha only hums his acknowledgment and clears a space on the couch to sit. He pulls out a crossword puzzle from under his arm and that's when Bob notices the pen tucked behind Jepha's ear.
"What's a three letter word for biblical evictee?" Jepha is frowning at his puzzle and Brian ignores him, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on the counter.
"C'mon. I'll show you your bunk," Brian says to Bob. Bob follows him through the lounge towards the narrow galleyway that separates the front of the bus from the back.
People might change, but buses always stay the same. Even the stale-smelling air feels familiar. He's been around tours long enough to know the basic layout, but this is Bob's first time getting an actual bunk.
"How often do you jerk off?" Brian asks suddenly, stopping. Bob skids to a halt but he still manages to bump into Brian.
"What?"
"How often do you jerk off? Are you loud?" Brian turns around and eyes him like a hawk. "If you're fucking loud, you can have the bunk over Tom."
"I'm. Dude, the hell? No." Bob makes a disgusted face, shakes his head and starts wondering what the hell he signed up for.
"Look, you can bunk above me, but I'm not listening to you jerk off all the time, okay?"
"Um. Okay?"
Brian takes Bob's duffel bag out of his hand and throws it into the top bunk.
When they walk back up front, Jepha is chewing on his pen. "All settled?" he asks without looking up. He doesn't wait for Bob to reply. Instead he scribbles something in the margin of his puzzle and says, "Just so you know, tomorrow night Bert and Quinn are gonna try and steal the mattress off your bunk and leave it behind at the club. I suggest you be ready for them. That kind of behavior needs to be nipped in the bud."
"Um. Okay?" Bob says again.
True to Jepha's prediction, Bob does catch Bert and Quinn trying to steal his mattress the next night. Bob's checking his gear over one more time before he locks up the trailer when he hears giggling. Bob heads to the bus and, as he comes around the end of it, he says, "You don't wanna do that."
He crosses his arms over his chest, and Bert and Quinn stop in their tracks. The mattress sags between them sadly.
"We're pranking Brian," Bert improvises quickly. He bobs his head up and down and Quinn does the same. "You should give us a hand."
"Yeah," Quinn laughs. "Give us a hand, Bobby."
Bob rolls his eyes. "If I give you a hand, you'll be shitting that mattress out your ass for the next three months. Put it back on my bunk and don't touch my shit anymore. And don't call me Bobby."
"Told you," Jepha says against the back of Bob's ear. Bob jerks in shock when Jepha claps his hand over Bob's ass and squeezes. "Fuckin' kids, I tell you. They both need a goddamn babysitter." He lets go of Bob's ass and heads to the band bus without looking back.
Bob laughs, a small uneasy sound, and follows Bert, Quinn and his mattress back to his bus.
The nicest thing about the Vendetta bus, besides Bob's awesome bunk, is that The Used rarely comes on it so it's considerably mellower. The Used are all great guys and Bob loves their music, but there are days where the urge to tie Bert down and gag him for just five minutes of quiet is almost overpowering. Those are the days that Bob retreats to the back lounge of his bus, where Brian inevitably turns up. Eventually, they work out a routine, meeting in the back lounge every night after the buses pack up and pull out. One of them brings beer and the other brings cigarettes.
Once Brian finds out that Bob's from Chicago, it becomes a game of 'did you ever see so-and so?' They keep trying to find a regional band that one of them hasn't seen before. As far as they can tell, between the two of them, they've seen every shitty band to ever come out of the Great Lakes area in the last ten years.
One night, when they're really drunk, Bob tells Brian about his first tour. Brian starts laughing so hard that he falls off couch. "Holy shit, Bryar! Why did you stay on the road?"
Bob shrugs and takes a puff on his cigarette. The truth, that Bob loves doing what he does and he'd rather run sound for a shitty band than not run sound at all, is too easy. Finally, he replies, "Money's money, Schechter."
Brian pushes himself upright and lets his head drop on the couch seat behind him. He flops his head over to look at Bob and raises an eyebrow before he says, "True enough."
When they swing through Detroit, Brian gets really excited about being back in his hometown. He makes everyone go out with him after the show, even though downtown Detroit is kind of a ghost town. By the time the bars close, it's just Bob and Brian left, and Brian decides he wants to see the river before they head back to the bus. Bob follows along, not really paying attention to anything, just half-watching the bob of Brian's head as they stumble along.
After what feels like forever, they wind up in the middle of some courtyard or plaza with a bunch of freaky-ass sculptures in it. Bob stops and looks at the statues, his head swimming as he tries to focus on the plaques and figure out what the fuck he's looking at.
"Bryar," Brian shouts. "Bryar, come on."
Brian's off the side heading down some ramp, and Bob jogs over to him. The river is inky black and if it weren't for the fact that Bob can hear it moving, he wouldn't know it was there.
"So this is it, hunh?" Bob asks.
Brian runs his hand along the railing and says, "I used to skate down this rail all the time and wipe out. Cops were always hassling me and my friends."
"Yeah?"
Brian nods and they walk a bit further. There's a big white riverboat tied up and Bob reads the lettering on the side as they get closer. "Detroit Princess."
For some reason, this is the funniest thing Bob's seen all night and he starts laughing so hard that he has to sit down on the ground.
"Holy shit," he gasps. "Schechter, I'm going to start calling you Detroit Princess."
Brian kicks him in the side. "Fuck you."
Bob reads the other sign on the boat and asks, "Hey, can I rent you out for a party?"
Brian kicks him even harder and Bob falls on his side. When Bob's finally able to stop laughing, he looks up at Brian. He's trying to look angry but there's a smile playing on the edges of his lips.
"Aw, Princess, don't be mad." Bob reaches out and wraps his hand around Brian's ankle. He pulls until Brian shuffles forward. Bob begs, "Help me up, Princess."
Brian rolls his eyes and ignores him until Bob says his name. Then he leans over and grasps Bob's hands with his own. He pulls Bob into a sitting position and Bob pushes himself back up onto his feet. On the walk back to the bus, Bob can't stop giggling. He calls Brian "Princess" a few more times until Brian finally cracks a smile.
After Bob wakes up the next afternoon and drinks enough coffee to dull his hangover to a quiet roar, he grabs his phone and reprograms Brian's ID to Detroit Princess. When he shows his phone to Brian, Brian says, "Robert, I don't know how or when but mark my words, I will get my revenge."
Part Two
Authors: algernon_mouse and secrethappiness
Band(s): My Chemical Romance, The Used, slight Fall Out Boy
Pairing(s): Bob/OMC, Bob/Jepha, Bob/Brian
Word Count: 29,137
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Author Notes: Thanks to kickthebeat, belladonnalin and shoshannagold for looking this over at some point or another. We're also thankful to everyone who encouraged this and/or listened to us whine about it. Any and all 'Better Off Dead' jokes are completely intentional.
Summary: In which Bob Bryar gets a real job, grows up a little, puts the drums aside, becomes a touring sound engineer, drinks too much, repeatedly goes against his better judgment, hooks up with Jepha, gets sucked in by the earnestness of My Chem's message, is dumped by Jepha, joins MCR, develops an inconvenient crush on Brian Schechter, nearly dies, and says something he's been meaning to say for awhile.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
Bob takes his other hand out of his pocket and puts it on Brian's hip to steady him. Brian stares off into the distance the way he does when he's about to ask a question that he doesn't really want answered. by keraha
Fanmixes:
Follow the Beat from Beginning to Brian by greenet
Putting the B Back in Subtle
"So, what now?"
Bob shakes his head as he finishes packing his suitcase. Christ, if he hears that question one more time, he's going to punch something.
"I don't know," Bob says as he looks over at his dad, leaning against the door frame.
"Considering how much money we spent on that degree, I hope you're planning on putting it to good use."
"Thanks, Dad." Bob zips up the suitcase and looks around the room, making sure that he's got all his stuff.
His father straightens up and walks over to the bed. "I'm proud of you. You know that, right?" He looks uncomfortable for a moment. "I just don't really know what a degree in sound is going to do for you."
"I know, I know." Bob rubs his hands over his face and sighs. "Look, I've got an interview at House of Blues two days from now. I'm sure if that doesn't work out, I can find something. I know enough people in Chicago."
"All right." His dad holds his hands up in mock surrender. "You ready?"
Bob nods and his dad grabs the suitcase and carries it out of the apartment. As Bob follows him, he takes one last look around, making sure that he's got everything. He’s a little surprised to find he’s going to miss his place, even though he knows he’s not going to miss Florida. By the time Bob makes it out to the car, his dad has already loaded the suitcase in the van and is in the driver's seat. Bob climbs into the passenger seat.
"Ready?" Bob's dad asks as he turns the car on.
Bob nods his head slightly and slaps his thighs with the palms of both hands. "Yeah."
+
The interview at House of Blues goes so well that, at the end of it, they tell him he can start on Saturday night.
For a second, Bob's surprised at how easy it is but he's not about to go looking a gift horse in the mouth. On Saturday, Bob shows up to the club early. He stashes his jacket in the sound booth before he heads over to the bar for a drink. The place is still mostly empty and the house lights are up. They make everything look tired and shabby.
The band shows up a bit later and Bob is watching them from the booth when one of the waitresses pops her head in. "Hey," she says, tossing a long sweep of blond hair out of her face. "I'm Cindy. If you need anything later just let me know." She cracks her gum and Bob nods. "I mean, I'll probably be too fucking busy to get it for you, but it's the thought that counts, right?"
Bob smiles then and Cindy smiles back.
It turns out that she's right though. The place does pick up and by 11:30, just when Bob would kill for a drink, he can't flag her down. Every so often he can see her zigzagging her way through the crowd, the blue strobe lights bouncing off the top of her head. It's slightly maddening. Irrationally, Bob wonders how long it takes for someone to die of dehydration.
During the break in between sets, Bob's torn between either making a break for the bathroom or shoving his way to the bar. Just when he's settled on 'bathroom', Cindy pops her head in the booth. "You want something?"
"Rum and coke," Bob shouts as he squeezes past her. He figures he has five minutes, tops.
When Bob gets back to the booth, his drink is sweating off to the left of his soundboard next to an equally sweaty bottle of water. Bob can't help but grin as he uncaps the bottle of water and drains half of it in one go.
The rest of the night goes quickly. The band's okay, for the most part. They're a little more rockabilly than Bob prefers but it's sound. He's doing actual sound and Bob figures that has to count for something.
He settles into an easy routine after that. He sleeps late and rolls into the club in the early evening with a cigarette pinched between his lips. He doesn't have to ask Cindy for his drink anymore. It just magically appears, and Bob - if Cindy's around to see it - tips the glass in the air at her to say thanks. After the club closes most nights, Bob sticks around. They shift tables together and sit around drinking, smoking and eating thick wedges of garlic bread and cheese from the kitchen.
After four months, Bob's saved enough money for a shitty apartment near an El stop. The wind comes in through the windows and he can hear every step his neighbors take but it's not his parents' basement and that's good enough for Bob. He didn't realize how much he missed his freedom until he gets it back again.
One night after the sound check, but before the club opens, he tells Cindy about the neighbors. She laughs as Bob describes the horror of seeing the new guy's hairy ass.
"Seriously, Cindy," Bob says as he takes a drag on his cigarette. "Fucking disgusting."
"Whatever." Cindy pulls the cigarette from Bob's mouth and takes a puff. She offers it back to him.
Bob blinks and stares at her. "Uh, keep it."
"Thanks." Cindy shrugs. "So, what are you doing later?"
"Probably grab a beer with Ed and then head home." It's getting close to show time and Bob's itching to go over the boards one more time. His instructors always told him that he over-prepared and that it could be a problem, mess with his spontaneity or something but Bob would rather be anal-retentive than have the board explode in the middle of a set.
"Maybe we could hang out?" Cindy asks, hopefully.
Bob always misses this shit, right until it hits him in the fucking face. "Uh," Bob stutters.
The worst part is Bob has yet to figure out how to gently extract himself from these situations. After a few seconds of opening and closing his mouth, Cindy takes pity on him. "Or not. It's cool."
"Really?"
"Well, I might go cry in the supply closet about missing the Bob Bryar Experience, but I think I can put together the pieces of my shattered heart and move on."
Bob laughs and Cindy smiles as she says, "I'll see you during the break."
She leaves the booth and Bob breathes a sigh of relief. He likes Cindy, he really does. She's pretty and smart. She's not the type of girl working at the club just to fuck the bands either. She's just trying to make her way through and Bob can appreciate that. He's just not interested in her.
Bob's radio crackles and Ed comes on, sounding like they're using two tins cans and string. "Bryar, you going to put on a show sometime tonight or flirt with Cindy all night?"
"Fuck you, Ed," Bob replies.
"Nah, I'll leave that up to Cindy."
The backstage tech hops on the system and says, "Hey assholes, let's go."
Ed drops the lights, Bob puts on his headphones and it starts all over again.
Two nights later, on a non-concert night, Bob's playing with the boards a little, checking wires, when he feels someone staring at him. He pushes himself off the ground and looks around. Behind the booth, a tall guy with black hair curling over his collar and a drink in his hand is smiling at Bob.
"Can I help you?" Bob asks, confused.
The guy looks Bob up and down appraisingly. "I think so. Meet me out back in five minutes."
For the first two minutes, Bob’s a little pissed at the nerve of this random guy, thinking he’s just going to stroll outside without asking questions. He tells himself it's not safe and he's better off staying at the boards, but then his dick reminds him it's been months since Bob's been intimate with anything other than his hand. Bob nods and heads toward the back exit. The guy is leaning against the alley wall, smirking again. Or maybe still.
Fuck that. Bob can play that game too.
Bob grabs the guy, spins him around and presses him against the wall. He's taller than Bob, but not by much, and broad too. He's big enough to throw Bob off but he only makes a soft huffing sound as Bob leans in against him. Bob drops his head forward. His breath feels humid against his own nose when he buries his face in the back of the guy's neck.
"How do you like it?" Bob grunts. He's already got one hand on his buckle, working the fastening open.
Bob's dick is hard and there's a hot flutter low in his belly when the guy pushes his ass back against Bob and mutters, "Just fuckin' do it."
"Okay, okay. Fuckin' relax, man." Bob's fingers shake slightly as he works the guy's jeans down just enough to bare his ass. He spits into his hand before he shoves in, but it still feels a little too dry to be comfortable. The guy flinches forward and Bob gasps, "Shit shit shit. Are you okay?"
The guy grunts and pushes back, hard. The slide of his ass feels hot and tight and the skin above Bob's tailbone ripples with goose pimples. Bob bites down on his lip until he can taste blood.
"Jerk me off," he says. Bob moans.
It’s messy. The rhythm is off and Bob’s terrified someone’s going to come out back for a fresh keg at any second but he still comes, quick and dirty.
The other guy comes a few seconds later and Bob can't imagine how it's good for him; he'll probably be sore and raw tomorrow. Bob feels a little guilty, but it's not like he didn't ask for it.
Bob steps back and catches his breath while he tucks himself back in. The guy pulls up his pants and turns around to look at Bob. He gives Bob another once-over and smirks. "Nice."
The guy saunters off and Bob leans against the wall and tries to ignore how scuzzy he feels.
He stops by the bathroom and washes his face before heading back to the floor. Cindy sees him as he's walking back to the booth. "Have fun in the alley, Bob?"
Bob looks at his hands and blushes.
Cindy leans over and smirks. "You should have told me. I wouldn't have felt so silly."
"Sorry." Bob shrugs. He's not really used to talking about his preferences, especially with people he's turned down. He doesn't see Cindy for the rest of the night. The night slows down exponentially, and he can't stop watching the clock, counting down until he can leave. As soon as the manager gives the okay, Bob signs out and heads for the station.
It's early but the bars haven't closed yet, so Bob's able to find an empty car. He watches the lights stay still as the train flies by. Right after he dropped out of high school, when his parents were riding his ass all the time about going back, Bob would hop on the train and ride it all afternoon. Sometimes he'd get off and meet up with some friends or scope out a music store, but usually he just rode and learned the city.
It had been freeing, knowing that he could go anywhere in the city for next to nothing. He didn't have that luxury in Florida.
The muffled voice announces Bob's stop and he sighs as he pulls himself up. Part of him, the part that's still sixteen and pissed-off at the world, wants to ride to the end of the line but another part of him, the part that's twenty and has to pay rent next week, pushes him forward and off the train.
The next night Bob expects a little awkwardness but Cindy brings him his usual drink without bringing it up. Bob takes his cue from her and starts to relax around her again. They're friends, or as close to friends as two people working at the same place and having nothing else in common can be.
He still fucking hates it when she steals his cigarette out of his mouth, though.
A couple of weeks later, there's a benefit at the club with lots of bands and VIPs and Bob and Ed don't stop moving the whole night. As soon as the club closes, Bob collapses into a chair and doesn't move until Cindy nudges him. He looks up at her blearily and Cindy just shakes her head. "Come on, Bryar, lend a hand."
Bob groans and Cindy pouts at him until he stands up and starts stacking the chairs up on the table tops. When they're finished, Cindy pushes a stray bit of hair off her face with the back of her hand and says, "You want to come back to my place for pizza or something?"
Bob freezes and Cindy rolls her eyes. "Asshole. I actually meant pizza. I'm starving."
"Um, yeah. Sure. Okay."
Cindy's place isn't far from the club. Bob tags along beside her with his fists jammed into the pockets of his jackets and his hoodie pulled up over the back of his head. It's a mild night, but there's still a damp chill in the air. Cindy is talking and Bob's only half-listening, going over the show and what he could have done differently.
"This is me." Cindy points to the red door toward the middle of the block. They walk up the steps and Bob looks down the street while Cindy fits her key into the lock and leans into the door to push it open. The hinges groan and Cindy mutters that her landlord is a dipshit incapable of fixing anything.
Inside, Cindy drops her jacket over the back of a kitchen chair as she crosses the room. "Beer?" she asks, her head in the fridge.
“Yeah,” Bob says, looking around. Cindy hands him a bottle when she walks back into the living room and drops down onto the couch.
"So are you bi or, like, strictly an ass man?"
Bob chokes on his beer and a dribble slips over his chin. He wipes at it with the tips of his fingers and focuses on breathing. "Um?"
Cindy grins at him. "I've always wanted to be a fag hag. Or wait! I could be your beard!"
Bob shakes his head, a grin spreading slowly across his face. He scratches at the stubble on his cheek. "I already have a beard."
"Mmmm." Cindy smiles at him agreeably as she takes another long swallow of her beer. "So you have an actual degree in sound, huh?"
Bob nods his head and watches as Cindy leans forward and picks up a take-out menu from the coffee table. "Yeah."
"Deep dish pepperoni okay?" she asks, dialing the phone.
Bob nods again and picks at the label of his beer.
"You know, you're pretty lucky," she says after she's hung up the phone.
Bob frowns, trying to keep up with the rapid topic changes, and Cindy continues. "I have a perfectly useless degree in fashion design. It's cool that you're doing what you want to do." She pushes her feet into Bob's lap and Bob looks down at them, shocked.
"Rub," Cindy mutters, closing her eyes and getting comfortable against the back of the couch.
"Ah?" Bob presses against her instep, smiling a little.
"Oh, God," Cindy moans. "Bryar, you have magical hands." She rocks her foot into the muscle of Bob's thigh as if to prove her point. Bob chuckles and curls his hand over her toes and squeezes.
"Now that's what I'm talking about." Cindy smiles and cracks her eyes open at him. The attention makes Bob blush.
"It wouldn't have worked anyway," Cindy says after a few quiet minutes. Bob glances at her out of the corner of his eye.
"It might have," Bob says slowly. "You're pretty."
Cindy snorts. "No, it really wouldn't have. I'm looking for someone who's going to stick around, but I always fall for the guy who leaves."
"What?" Bob trades one foot for the other and digs his thumb sharply into her arch. "I'm not going anywhere."
Cindy looks at him for a long moment and Bob feels the nervous urge to shift under her gaze creeping up the back of his neck.
"Sure you are. You will. I can tell."
Bob doesn't know how to respond to that so he doesn't say anything. He has a ridiculous urge to argue with her, but her buzzer rings before he can actually think of an argument.
Cindy swings her feet off Bob's lap, and Bob goes into the kitchen to wash his hands. When he comes back out with another two beers, Cindy has the pizza box flipped open and is fighting with the first slice.
Bob shakes his head. "You've got to wait a minute for it to cool," he says. "You're gonna wreck it.”
"I'm not going to wreck it," Cindy says stubbornly.
Bob watches as the cheese slides off her slice of pizza. He cocks his eyebrows at her. "See? I fucking told you that you were gonna wreck it."
Cindy picks up a piece of pepperoni and makes to throw it at him. Bob grabs her wrist and pushes her away. "Don't waste a perfectly good piece of meat."
"From what I've seen, meat doesn't go to waste when you're around, Bryar," she snorts.
They finish the pizza without resorting to food fights and Bob doesn't leave her apartment until early morning. He takes the long way home, walking through the city as he thinks about what Cindy said.
If he's being honest with himself, he'd admit she's probably right. Every band he's seen has been different, all of them asking for their sound a different way. In the beginning it had been challenging, but it doesn't feel like that anymore. In fact, now that Bob's putting his cards on the table, it hasn't felt like that for awhile now. He's getting to the point where he feels like he's sleep walking behind the boards.
It's probably, he realizes, a dangerous rut to climb into.
As he's climbing up the stairs to his place, Bob thinks about Ed and shudders. Ed's been doing lights in clubs for twenty years now. In fact, Bob's pretty sure Ed was doing the lights for the first show at House of Blues, almost ten years ago. Bob doesn't know what he wants to do with his life or how having a degree has made him any more prepared for anything but he does know that he doesn't want to be Ed.
He flicks on the lights in his apartment and sees his drum set in the corner. He hasn't played since he moved into the apartment, his neighbors started complaining after five minutes, and Bob's not entirely sure why he doesn't just move the kit back into his parents' basement. Bob tosses his jacket on to the couch, turns the light off and heads to the bedroom.
+
A few days later, an old friend from high school calls him up. Rick heard from Bob's mom that Bob was back in town and he wants to know if Bob feels like drumming in a new band he's putting together. Five minutes into the first practice, Bob agrees to join.
He asks around at a few clubs after that, looking to see if any of them need someone to do sound for local shows, and he manages to pick up a few extra gigs a week. Between HOB, band practice and the extra gigs, Bob's usually running from club to club. He's having fun, though, and the restlessness he was feeling before is gone.
Somewhere in there, Bob turns 21 and it feels almost anti-climatic. His friends throw him a huge party at one of the clubs that's been serving Bob since he was 17. The next afternoon, after Bob's puked up most of his post-drinking meal and part of his stomach lining, he crawls into the living room and collapses on his couch. There's a stray drumstick on his coffee table and Bob idly twirls it. He needs to be at work in four hours and his head is trying to explode, and while he thinks that’s a perfectly good reason to miss work, Bob suspects his boss wouldn’t agree.
When he walks into House of Blues, only twenty minutes late, Cindy's waiting at the booth with a Bloody Mary in one hand and some Tums in the other. She takes one look at him and shudders. "You were pretty bad when I left last night and I had a feeling you might need some help today."
Bob grabs the Tums, chews them up and washes it all back with the Bloody Mary. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives the glass back to Cindy. "Thanks," he says, trying to muster up some enthusiasm but failing.
She laughs and rolls her eyes.
The next six months fly by and the band breaks up for the same old reason: none of the other guys are willing to tour. Bob can't find anyone else who's interested in starting a band and actually working at it so he stops looking. He tells himself it's okay, the scene's changing and Bob's not sure he really wants to be a part of it anymore.
Bob wakes up one morning, uncomfortably aware it's been eight months since he got laid and he's settling into a rut. Later that week, there's a sign posted in the break room. It's a local tour managing company looking for sound guys. Bob stares at the flier during his break that day and again the next day.
On the third day, Cindy catches him looking at it and says, "Oh my god, seriously. If you don't call these guys, I'm going to do it for you."
She writes the number down on a scrap of paper and shoves it into the back pocket of Bob's pants. He still doesn't call for another two days. When he finally does, a bored-sounding receptionist gives him an address and tells him to come by to fill out an application.
The building is in a dingy part of Chicago and Bob stares at it warily for a few seconds before he heads in. It's not much better inside, either. There's a grey pot in the corner with a dying plastic plant slumping in the middle of it. Bob hadn't even thought that a plastic plant could look like it was dying, but there it is.
On the wall, over a sagging couch, there is a framed photo of a sand dune and two wooden deck chairs on an empty porch. The paper backing looks as though it's warped from moisture and the colors have been bleached out from the sun coming in from the dirty window across the room. Bob looks down at his feet. There's a dark stain in the carpet between his boots that makes it look like he's just pissed his pants. Bob's about to turn around and walk out when someone from behind a desk says, "Can I help you?"
Bob clears his throat and wipes his hands on his jeans. "Uh. I wanted to fill out an application?"
He steps forward then while the woman rummages around on her desk. She hands him a clipboard and a pen and gestures across the room. "You can sit over there to fill it out." Bob twists his neck over his shoulder and looks skeptically at the couch. The woman nods him away with an annoyed look, and Bob crosses the room.
The couch makes a whooshing noise when he drops his weight onto it. It startles him into half standing upright again, and for a second he debates standing before he re-settles his weight onto the edge of the cushion. He scans the form quickly and fills out the basic information first: name, address, phone number. He fucks up the zip code, but then figures it probably doesn't matter anyway. This doesn’t seem like the kind of place to get hung up on small details like accuracy.
After five minutes, Bob slides the pen back into the hinge of the clipboard. The plastic cap has been chewed by someone, which Bob thinks is just fucking gross even though he does it all the time. He turns the application back in at the desk, and is about to leave when the woman holds up one finger. She's on the phone, cracking her gum while she talks. Bob shifts his weight from foot to foot as he looks around trying not to be obvious about listening in on her conversation. It sounds like she's talking to some plumber who was, apparently, supposed to fix the drain in her basement bathroom five days ago.
"It stinks like rabbit piss down there!" she snaps. Bob makes a surprised face and raises both eyebrows.
When she hangs up, she says, "Wait here."
By the time Bob opens his mouth to object, she's already turned and started to disappear into the back office. Bob watches the way her skirt sticks to the back of her nylons as she walks. Her legs are short and chunky and they seem to sprout feet out of nowhere. He wonders if this is what girls mean when they say “thick ankles” and then laugh behind the back of their hands.
Bob stuffs his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and waits. A man comes out from the back after a few minutes. He's tall and burly-looking and walks with a thump. Bob figures him to be a part time bouncer so he almost chokes when the guy - Tim Something - reaches across the desk and introduces himself in the softest, girliest voice Bob's ever heard.
"Bob Bryar," Bob says, shaking his hand. He makes a point of not chewing on his lip nervously.
The interview, and Bob's not even sure you can call it that, only lasts about three minutes. Mostly, Bob talks about graduating and working at House of Blues and a few other clubs. Tim doesn't ask where Bob wants to be in five years, and Bob figures it's probably because he doesn't give a fuck. By the time the phone on his desk rings for the third time, Bob’s on the payroll.
Afterward, Bob walks down the steps out into the fresh air, grinning. That night at the club, he pulls Cindy into the booth and tells her the news.
"I knew you were a leaver," Cindy says, but she's smiling when she pulls him in for a quick hug. "When do you start?"
"They want me to go out right away. So, like, two weeks I guess?"
Bob fidgets with the edge of the soundboard, and Cindy frowns. "Hey," she says. "Aren't you happy about this?"
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, sure. It just hasn't sunk it yet, you know? Wow. Touring."
"Touring," Cindy repeats.
Bob grins again and scrubs his face with his hand. "Fucking awesome, right?"
+
Touring, it turns out, is not actually awesome.
When the guys find out it’s Bob’s first tour, there’s some mild hazing and honestly, he expects it. He puts up with it for two days, but shuts it down as soon they try to hit his underwear stash. If anything’s sacred, he finds himself explaining, it should be a man’s underwear. He doesn’t expect to have to establish himself as a badass, or someone not to be fucked with, but eventually things calm down and he starts to think he’s going to enjoy himself.
While he’s never going to be a fan of ten uninterrupted hours in a packed van and he misses regular showers, Bob likes seeing new places. He’s having a great time running the boards and hanging out with the other guys, teching and talking shop. He even gets to fool around on the drums sometimes. It may not be a non-stop party, but in Bob’s opinion, it’s pretty fucking close.
Really, the only not-awesome thing about touring is the actual band. Bob's seen a lot of bands in his time and he's seen his share of shitty bands. These guys are definitely in the top five of those shitty bands, which is nothing to be proud of. The worst part is Bob can't leave after the show. He has to pack up his stuff after every gig and prepare to do it all over again the next day.
One night, in the middle of a show where listening to the lead singer is actually painful, Bob looks around the club. There are five people in the club and all of them have a look of horror on their face. The only difference between them and him, Bob realizes, is that they paid for this experience while Bob is barely getting paid for it.
Bob's packing up after the show when he sees the band approaching out of the corner of his eye. Before they reach him, Steve, the tour manager, steps up to Bob, pokes his finger in Bob's chest and asks, "Bryar, what the fuck are we paying you for? They sounded awful out there."
The band stops in their tracks and Gary, the lead singer, gets a satisfied look on his face. Bob waits for them to turn around and get out of earshot before he moves.
"Steve," Bob bats his finger away, "maybe you should try telling Gary to stop smoking and drinking all night before you yell at me. I can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit."
Steve snorts. He looks around quickly and says, in a low voice, "Sorry about that. I figured it would be better for everyone, especially Gary, if I did that. They really do suck, don't they?"
Bob nods and they both laugh. After a few seconds, Steve says, "Thank god we only have three more shows. What are you doing after this?"
Bob shrugs. He hasn't really thought that far in advance. He still has his apartment and House of Blues told him that he was always welcome back so he'll probably just go back there. He likes touring, but he's not willing to do it again with these guys.
"Look, man, I'm tour-managing for Thrice. Have you heard of them?"
Bob shakes his head and Steve pulls a CD out of his bag. He passes it to Bob and says, "Give it a listen. I know for a fact that they're still looking for a sound guy."
It's Bob's turn to drive that night and he slips the CD into the stereo, turns it down low, and listens as he navigates the interstate. They definitely don't suck and Bob finds himself keeping time on the steering wheel. By three am, Bob's made his decision.
The vans pull over around six for coffee and gas and Bob tracks Steve down. After a mouthful of coffee, Bob says, "Hey, that CD was pretty good. You think you can put in a good word for me with the tour manager?"
"I'll see what I can do, jackass," Steve laughs. "Seriously, I'll call my guys and have them set you up."
It works out so that Bob gets a few days off between tours. He hangs out at his apartment, sees his parents and does a billion loads of laundry. The whole time, he feels itchy and out of place. He's repacking the last of his laundry when the van pulls up outside of his apartment. There are a few familiar faces in the van, and Bob's restlessness disappears. He stows his stuff in the back and climbs in.
+
This time around, touring is awesome.
It helps that the band is really fucking good. They know how to put on a show and Riley, their drummer, is one of the best drummers Bob's seen in a long time. The only major downside is that there's not as much time to fool around on the drums. Riley's cool about letting Bob mess around between sound check and the show but it seems like there's always something else that needs doing instead.
The other downside is that Bob's still not getting laid much. Last time out, there was a cute merch girl who wasn't into the scene and was always willing to mock the band with Bob. They weren't exactly dating or anything, just hooking up whenever they had time and energy. Bob's pretty sure he could find another girl to date on this tour but he can't bring himself to look.
The problem, and it's more of choice than an actual problem, is that Bob really misses fucking guys. He likes the feel of stubble scratching against skin, and the person underneath him pushing back with as much aggression as Bob dishes out. Girls are nice, soft and pretty, but they don't scratch the itch Bob has under his skin. And while average sex is better than no sex, it still gets to a point where Bob's hand is more satisfying than a girl.
The tour hopscotches all over the country, but Bob's used to waking up and not knowing what city he's in. It's a nice atmosphere, too. Bob fits in well with the other techs and they spend a lot of their downtime pranking each other or playing cards and video games. There's this guy, Kevin, who Bob gets along with the best. He's originally from Philly and used to drum, too. They spend a lot of time talking about their old bands, and one night, when Bob's feeling sleepy and loose, he says, "Do you ever wish you'd stuck it out a little longer?"
Kevin turns his beer between his thighs and doesn't answer at first. The silence isn't uncomfortable though. It's thoughtful and long, and eventually Kevin says, "Yeah. Sometimes."
Bob makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat and finishes the last of his beer. He's got his head tipped back and his eyes closed. It's a warm, suspended sort of drunk and, in hindsight, Bob's not sure how it happens. He doesn't know who makes the first move, but somehow he's got Kevin's pants open. Kevin slides his hands down the back of Bob's jeans and works them down over his ass as Bob lays himself down on top of him.
They make out for a while, slow and easy kissing that gathers speed until Bob pushes his face into Kevin's neck and ruts against him. Their bare cocks slide together and Kevin makes a needy, hissing sound.
"Do you have anything?" Bob asks. Kevin shakes his head and Bob mutters, "Fuck, me neither." He rocks his hips again and feels Kevin shudder underneath him.
"Um, hang on a sec," Kevin pants. He spits on his hand and grabs Bob's dick, slicking it as much as he can, and pushes it between his thighs. He presses them together tightly after that and urges Bob on with a hand on his bare ass. It's not perfect but this time, when Bob thrusts forward, there's friction. The head of his dick bumps against Kevin's balls and Kevin groans. He manages to keep a steady rhythm while mouthing the side of Kevin's neck.
"Fuck, I. You. Oh, God." Bob makes a garbled sound and comes. His dick jerks and pulses and, once he's caught his breath again, he works his hand down between them. It only takes a few hasty strokes and Kevin's coming, too.
Afterward, they both laugh, small sounds that come out shaky in the thin night air. Bob wipes his hand clean on the grass and grimaces. They've rolled onto a different patch of grass in the deeper part of the shadows and Bob strokes his palm idly over Kevin's throat. He can feel Kevin's pulse beating under his thumb when he leans back in to kiss him again.
The thing with the merch girl had always been casual and they never actually worked together. Bob's never fucked anyone consistently that he also has to work with every day. It's easier than he figured it would be.
Mostly, he works alongside Kevin, just like always. They still make the same jokes they always did, and they drink their way through piss-warm cans of beer. The difference is now, sometimes in the afternoons to kill the boredom, they sneak off and find a place to suck each other off. It's usually hurried and quick, in musty-smelling storage closets or between the buses at the back of the lots. Sometimes, they manage to find a quiet place where they can take their time.
One afternoon, when Bob's tucking his dick back into his pants, Kevin asks, "Are you going with Steve on his next tour?"
Bob frowns as he tugs his zipper up. "Yeah, some band called The Used or some shit. Why?"
"Just curious." Kevin shrugs. "We’ll be wrapping up soon, that's all."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I'm going back to Philly. I think I might hook up with some people I know. Start a band, or whatever ..."
Kevin trails off and Bob looks up at him. He looks a little uncertain. Bob steps forward and kisses him. They stand there for a minute, Bob's hand against the back of Kevin's neck, and Kevin steadying Bob's hip. When they break apart, Kevin's lips are red and slightly swollen. Bob runs his thumb over them, and Kevin smirks.
Bob nods. "I think that's a cool idea."
+
Three weeks later, Bob's standing by the curb at the Salt Lake City airport, trying not to be freaked out by all the pod-people around him. It's a swarming mass of people and they're all smiling and polite and it's just really fucking weird. Bob shudders and turns his back on the crowd so he can light his cigarette without feeling like a freak.
When he turns back around, there's a short guy standing in front of him. The guy looks Bob up and down and smiles as he asks, "Bob?"
Bob nods and transfers his cigarette from his hand to his mouth. "Who are you?"
"Brian." Brian rocks up and down on his heels. "I tour manage Vendetta Red, the other band on this tour. Steve got held up dealing with something at the venue so he asked me to pick you up."
"All right." Bob puts his hand out and Brian shakes it.
"Got any bags?"
Bob points at them and Brian grabs one. "Follow me, the car is this way."
On the way to the venue, Brian gives Bob the rundown on the band. "Branden's the drummer; he's got his own tech so you're off the hook there. Jepha does bass, Quinn's on guitar, and Bert is ... Bert."
Bob picked up their CD a week after he signed the new contract so he knows exactly who Bert is even though he’s not totally sure what Brian means. "Got it."
Bob taps his cigarettes against the back of his hand idly while he stares out the window. He's thinking about having another one, but he's not really sure he needs any more nicotine. Before he can decide either way, Brian looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. "You nervous?"
"What?" Bob looks down at his hands and stops. "Oh. No. Just a habit, I guess."
"That's fair. Can I get one? Quinn stole my last one this morning and I was already running late so I didn't have chance to get more."
Bob opens the pack and hands a cigarette over to Brian wordlessly. He also pulls his lighter out of his pocket and passes it over to Brian who lights it while crossing two lanes of traffic. Bob reminds himself that he's from Chicago and he's seen worse even as his hand tightens on the door handle.
Brian exhales. "Thanks."
They make it to the venue quickly. There's almost no traffic on the interstate even though it's rush hour, and Bob cannot wait until they leave this state. He has no idea what the band is going to be like if they're from Utah but he hopes they're cool and not all Children of the Corn like everyone at the airport. Brian seems pretty cool, so Bob will have at least one other person to talk to.
"You're going to be on the Vendetta bus with me and the other techs."
"Cool." Bob grabs his stuff from the car.
Brian points at the two buses down the street. "There's the band bus, and the smaller one is the Vendetta bus. Steve said for you to just head inside and find him so he can give you your badge and you can start setting up for tonight."
"Got it."
"Hey, Bob," Brian says as Bob's walking away. "Do me a favor? When you meet Bert, he's going to ask you to pull his finger. Don't do it unless you want him to hump your leg."
"He's going to have a hard time humping me if I kick him in the nuts," Bob replies.
Brian laughs. "Bryar, you're going to be all right."
Twenty minutes later, Bob's got a badge and a sneaking suspicion, based on the condition of the board, that the night's show is going to be pretty rough. On his way to the Vendetta bus to drop his bags, he walks by The Used's bus and debates whether he should introduce himself and get it over with or wait until Steve does it. Before he can decide either way, a little guy with stringy hair comes skidding around the front of the bus, running like a bat out of hell.
Bob brings his arms up and tries to absorb the impact when they collide. It's a mostly-effective defensive move, but the weight of his bags causes Bob to stagger backwards slightly. The guy grins at him. Bob blinks. Bob lets go of him, shakes his head slightly and scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, then tucks his cigarette back into his mouth. "Bob Bryar," he says around his cigarette. "I'm the sound guy."
"Bob Bryar. Motherfucker! Good to meet you! Bert McCracken. If Quinn asks, I've been with you the whole time." The guy - Bert, Bob corrects himself mentally - sticks his hand out. Bob smiles wryly down at it.
"I've heard about you, I'm not going to pull your finger, dude."
"Good call." The door to the bus has fully opened and Bob looks up at the guy standing on the bottom step. "Jepha," he says. He raises a white mug with a picture of Strawberry Shortcake on the side at Bob and then blows across the surface of it.
Bob gives him a quick once-over, nodding back. Jepha steps down and heads toward the other bus. "I assume you're heading to the other bus to drop off your bags."
Bob hoists his duffel bag over his shoulder and follows Jepha down the sidewalk. Once they step inside the second bus, it takes a second or two for Bob's eyes to adjust to the dimness after being outside.
"Fucking pigsty," Jepha mutters, stepping over an empty bag of chips. Bob steps over the same bag and looks around. The kitchenette is littered with empty cans of beer and alphaghetti.
"Like your bus is any fucking better."
Bob snaps his head around to catch Brian making his way onto the bus. Jepha only hums his acknowledgment and clears a space on the couch to sit. He pulls out a crossword puzzle from under his arm and that's when Bob notices the pen tucked behind Jepha's ear.
"What's a three letter word for biblical evictee?" Jepha is frowning at his puzzle and Brian ignores him, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on the counter.
"C'mon. I'll show you your bunk," Brian says to Bob. Bob follows him through the lounge towards the narrow galleyway that separates the front of the bus from the back.
People might change, but buses always stay the same. Even the stale-smelling air feels familiar. He's been around tours long enough to know the basic layout, but this is Bob's first time getting an actual bunk.
"How often do you jerk off?" Brian asks suddenly, stopping. Bob skids to a halt but he still manages to bump into Brian.
"What?"
"How often do you jerk off? Are you loud?" Brian turns around and eyes him like a hawk. "If you're fucking loud, you can have the bunk over Tom."
"I'm. Dude, the hell? No." Bob makes a disgusted face, shakes his head and starts wondering what the hell he signed up for.
"Look, you can bunk above me, but I'm not listening to you jerk off all the time, okay?"
"Um. Okay?"
Brian takes Bob's duffel bag out of his hand and throws it into the top bunk.
When they walk back up front, Jepha is chewing on his pen. "All settled?" he asks without looking up. He doesn't wait for Bob to reply. Instead he scribbles something in the margin of his puzzle and says, "Just so you know, tomorrow night Bert and Quinn are gonna try and steal the mattress off your bunk and leave it behind at the club. I suggest you be ready for them. That kind of behavior needs to be nipped in the bud."
"Um. Okay?" Bob says again.
True to Jepha's prediction, Bob does catch Bert and Quinn trying to steal his mattress the next night. Bob's checking his gear over one more time before he locks up the trailer when he hears giggling. Bob heads to the bus and, as he comes around the end of it, he says, "You don't wanna do that."
He crosses his arms over his chest, and Bert and Quinn stop in their tracks. The mattress sags between them sadly.
"We're pranking Brian," Bert improvises quickly. He bobs his head up and down and Quinn does the same. "You should give us a hand."
"Yeah," Quinn laughs. "Give us a hand, Bobby."
Bob rolls his eyes. "If I give you a hand, you'll be shitting that mattress out your ass for the next three months. Put it back on my bunk and don't touch my shit anymore. And don't call me Bobby."
"Told you," Jepha says against the back of Bob's ear. Bob jerks in shock when Jepha claps his hand over Bob's ass and squeezes. "Fuckin' kids, I tell you. They both need a goddamn babysitter." He lets go of Bob's ass and heads to the band bus without looking back.
Bob laughs, a small uneasy sound, and follows Bert, Quinn and his mattress back to his bus.
The nicest thing about the Vendetta bus, besides Bob's awesome bunk, is that The Used rarely comes on it so it's considerably mellower. The Used are all great guys and Bob loves their music, but there are days where the urge to tie Bert down and gag him for just five minutes of quiet is almost overpowering. Those are the days that Bob retreats to the back lounge of his bus, where Brian inevitably turns up. Eventually, they work out a routine, meeting in the back lounge every night after the buses pack up and pull out. One of them brings beer and the other brings cigarettes.
Once Brian finds out that Bob's from Chicago, it becomes a game of 'did you ever see so-and so?' They keep trying to find a regional band that one of them hasn't seen before. As far as they can tell, between the two of them, they've seen every shitty band to ever come out of the Great Lakes area in the last ten years.
One night, when they're really drunk, Bob tells Brian about his first tour. Brian starts laughing so hard that he falls off couch. "Holy shit, Bryar! Why did you stay on the road?"
Bob shrugs and takes a puff on his cigarette. The truth, that Bob loves doing what he does and he'd rather run sound for a shitty band than not run sound at all, is too easy. Finally, he replies, "Money's money, Schechter."
Brian pushes himself upright and lets his head drop on the couch seat behind him. He flops his head over to look at Bob and raises an eyebrow before he says, "True enough."
When they swing through Detroit, Brian gets really excited about being back in his hometown. He makes everyone go out with him after the show, even though downtown Detroit is kind of a ghost town. By the time the bars close, it's just Bob and Brian left, and Brian decides he wants to see the river before they head back to the bus. Bob follows along, not really paying attention to anything, just half-watching the bob of Brian's head as they stumble along.
After what feels like forever, they wind up in the middle of some courtyard or plaza with a bunch of freaky-ass sculptures in it. Bob stops and looks at the statues, his head swimming as he tries to focus on the plaques and figure out what the fuck he's looking at.
"Bryar," Brian shouts. "Bryar, come on."
Brian's off the side heading down some ramp, and Bob jogs over to him. The river is inky black and if it weren't for the fact that Bob can hear it moving, he wouldn't know it was there.
"So this is it, hunh?" Bob asks.
Brian runs his hand along the railing and says, "I used to skate down this rail all the time and wipe out. Cops were always hassling me and my friends."
"Yeah?"
Brian nods and they walk a bit further. There's a big white riverboat tied up and Bob reads the lettering on the side as they get closer. "Detroit Princess."
For some reason, this is the funniest thing Bob's seen all night and he starts laughing so hard that he has to sit down on the ground.
"Holy shit," he gasps. "Schechter, I'm going to start calling you Detroit Princess."
Brian kicks him in the side. "Fuck you."
Bob reads the other sign on the boat and asks, "Hey, can I rent you out for a party?"
Brian kicks him even harder and Bob falls on his side. When Bob's finally able to stop laughing, he looks up at Brian. He's trying to look angry but there's a smile playing on the edges of his lips.
"Aw, Princess, don't be mad." Bob reaches out and wraps his hand around Brian's ankle. He pulls until Brian shuffles forward. Bob begs, "Help me up, Princess."
Brian rolls his eyes and ignores him until Bob says his name. Then he leans over and grasps Bob's hands with his own. He pulls Bob into a sitting position and Bob pushes himself back up onto his feet. On the walk back to the bus, Bob can't stop giggling. He calls Brian "Princess" a few more times until Brian finally cracks a smile.
After Bob wakes up the next afternoon and drinks enough coffee to dull his hangover to a quiet roar, he grabs his phone and reprograms Brian's ID to Detroit Princess. When he shows his phone to Brian, Brian says, "Robert, I don't know how or when but mark my words, I will get my revenge."
Part Two