Fic: For Lack of a Better Word (1/2) - MCR Frank/Bob/Jamia, NC-17.
For lack of a better word.
My Chemical Romance, Bob/Frank/Jamia, NC-17.
arsenicjade was responsible for getting me into bandom, and discussions of Bob with her prompted me to write this story. It's technically the first thing I wrote in this fandom. I was half-planning on deleting it, but when I posted about my works in progress I listed it and said it needed a beta/cheerleader. ficbyzee responded, saved the story, got me motivated to fill in the last three blank spaces, and gave some seriously excellent suggestions. Superhero material, right there.
[edit: I'd forgotten that (once again) offonmars acted as cheerleader for this, too. Seriously, get yourself an offonmars, if you can. They're invaluable and so awesome.]
[edit2: By the way, there's a small canon mistake, and I'm trying to decide whether I'll fix it or not. Furthermore: the world's largest cross is actually not what Frank and Bob look at out the window (who knows what it is), Gerard is reading Siddartha by Herman Hesse, and the section breaks are from a prose poem that I wrote. If you see errors or issues, PLEASE TELL ME. I am a grad student in real life, I can handle constructive criticism.]
Comments - either kind or critical - are of course welcome.
When he looks back at the stage, Branden's gesturing for Bob to turn him down again. Bob sighs. He always overdoes it on the drums.'>
n. a phone number written on the wrist,
now indecipherable.
"Hey!" Bert shouts. He squints against the glare; his hand makes a triangular shadow over his eyes. He jerks his thumb back at Branden. "Can we have a little less on this loud bastard?" The kids crowded on the floor giggle at that, a splash of sound on the monitor. Bob presses the headphones against his ear with his shoulder and adjusts the sound on the drums. Branden rattles his sticks against the snare and Bert gives a thumbs up.
Someone in the audience shouts out a song title. Bert coos, "Patience, darling. Good things come to little shits who wait," and flicks his sweaty hair back from his face. "This song is called 'Box Full of Sharp Objects.'" The audience roars, and Bert howls gleefully back.
When Bob glances up from the board, there's someone standing next to him. He twitches, startled, and lifts his hands up automatically so they don't jar any of his levels. "Do you need something?" he half-shouts, leaning in so the guy can hear him. The guy has the hood of his sweatshirt up, and he has to tip his head back to make eye contact with Bob. He shakes his head, mouths something that Bob can't understand, and turns back to watching. Bob opens his mouth, hesitates, and shuts it again. He looks familiar.
People come into the booth all the time, but it's mostly other roadies and techs, and they're usually either looking for something or coming to gossip. This guy is just standing there. He nods his head to the music during the chorus, then stops again. Bob rests his hands against the board and shifts his weight, watches Bert fall to his knees and scream into the microphone.
When the song's over, the guy glances up at him again and says, "Sorry, I'm just checking out the mixing."
"Huh," Bob says. "Okay."
"Frank," the guy says, and sticks out his hand. Bob stares at it for a second - HALLO - then wipes his sweaty palm on his jeans and shakes. "From My Chem."
"Bob," he says. "I didn't recognize you. Offstage, I mean." He thinks, hysterically, that he should have had the guitars up higher.
"It's been real, Bob," Frank says, and steps down from the booth.
When he looks back at the stage, Branden's gesturing for Bob to turn him down again. Bob sighs. He always overdoes it on the drums.
---
At the next show, he catches a few free minutes from set-up and uses them to watch MCR's set. Frank plays like a maniac, which Bob knew already. This time, he hurls his mic stand against the drums, then falls to his knees and plays the rest of the song there, hunched over his guitar, his mouth open. He has to retrieve the mic stand and set it back up after the song is over, but he's laughing about it.
Midway through the next song, Frank leans his head against Gerard's shoulder, then tips his face to the side; it's like he can see Bob at the edge of the stage, like they're looking at each other. Bob knows it's only his imagination, but he edges back anyway, and reminds himself that he has to go.
---
Three shows before they're done with the tour, Bob is trying to load one of the amps into the van. He should go and get someone else, but he's managed it on his own before. He reconsiders the wisdom of his decision when the casing starts to slip under his fingers, but at that point he's already got it two feet off of the ground, and it's either try or drop it. Bob grunts and twists his back, trying to heave it up into the van, and the corner bangs off of the bumper. He curses, staggers, and tries to bolster his grip on the amp with his knee.
Bob gives a half shout when the amp is suddenly buoyed up. Matt's head pops over the far side, cigarette jammed in the side of his mouth. "C'mon," he says, and together they manage to get the amp up and into the back of the van. Bob shoves it into place and slams the door. "Thanks," he says.
"Anytime," Matt says. They slap hands, and Matt slopes off.
That's the main memory Bob has when he thinks of Matt. He's a decent guy, from what Bob saw, and a decent enough drummer. If Bob were a good person, he'd feel a little guilty for taking the guy's place in the band.
"Definitely," he says, grinning, and shakes Ray's hand. "Fuck yeah." He doesn't even feel a twinge.
v.t. to obsessively record the weather movements at a perimeter,
but never review the tape.
Two shows after Bob starts with the band, he's walking around the bus corral and sees Frank trying to reach something tucked away on a stack of boxes. "Don't climb that," he says, when Frank looks like he's going to try, and then, "here, let me."
He puts his hands around Frank's waist. Frank looks down at them, and Bob says, "I'll give you a boost. Just put your foot up." Frank grips a box with one hand, Bob's shoulder with the other, and puts his foot up on Bob's bent leg. Bob lifts slightly when Frank starts to move, and Frank gives a little shout of surprise. It's just like getting his friends up over the fence by the football field in high school, except that Frank weighs less and makes more noise.
"Fucking cool," Frank says, and shifts his feet on Bob's leg. His ass is right in Bob's face, the tattoo on his lower back peeking above his sagging waistband. "Okay, okay, let me down." He's got a canister of something when he drops to the ground. They stand there for a moment before Bob remembers to take his hands away.
"That was cool," Frank says, and Bob shrugs. "You're really solid, you know that? You're really strong." He cocks his head and looks at Bob for a second. "You want to play a prank on Gee?"
"Sure," Bob says.
---
When Gerard comes barreling past him later, splattering red dye in his wake, Bob steps to the side and plays confused. "It was Bob!" Frank says, already tattling. "Bob did it!"
"Bob?" Gerard turns around. He looks baffled. Bob tries to stifle his grin. "Bob?"
Bob decides that it's in his best interest to run.
---
Two days later, after Bob has already spent too much time worrying about how it's going to happen, Gerard gets his revenge. He gets Brian to help, which is patently unfair, since Brian is a crazy-ass motherfucker with voodoo powers. Case in point: with Brian's aid, Gerard manages to lock Bob in the bus bathroom with a CD player that's been superglued shut and rigged to repeat track 9 of Bobby Vinton: Greatest Polka Hits of All Time. When Bob finally staggers out an hour later, the guts of the CD player dangling from his hands, Gerard's laying back on the couch. "Do not fuck with the lead singer," he says. "The lead singer is crazier than you."
Bob stares at him for a second, beyond a response. "Polka," he finally manages. "The same polka."
"It's good to be firm with a boy when he first begins to rebel," Gerard says sweetly, and gets up out of his chair. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yeah."
"Repeat after me: 'the lead singer--'"
"The lead singer--"
"'Is crazier than you.'"
"Is a polka-abusing asshole."
Gerard raises his eyebrow, then nods. "Close enough." He strolls out.
---
Bob knows he shouldn't worry about it after that. He knows how bands work, after all, how this band works. He knows that Gerard and he should be fine. But he wonders if maybe it's different for him, since he's new. Once the thought has entered his head, he can't seem to shake it.
He watches a movie with the guys that night, but he feels tense and embarrassed, which only makes him act like an angry fuck. He shoves Mikey's shoulder away from his knees, and glares at Frank when he tries to put his feet up. Frank scrunches back into his corner and looks mildly freaked out.
When Mikey gets a phone call and wanders back to the bunks, Bob takes the opportunity to struggle up off of the couch. "Headache?" Ray asks, looking up. Bob nods, grateful for the excuse.
"Must have listened to too much music," Gerard says. His expression is bland.
"Must have," Bob agrees, and heads back to his bunk. He strips down to his boxers and hauls himself up into his bunk. The dark is soothing. He stretches out his fingers and toes as wide as he can, just to feel the space between them.
He's started to doze off when Frank climbs in, unannounced, jabbing his elbow into Bob's side. "Get the fuck out," Bob says, his voice slurry with sleep. He shoves at Frank's face. Frank just giggles and kicks him, then grabs the edge of the bunk, swings in, and plants his bony hip right in Bob's groin. "Fuck! Ow!" Bob curls protectively around his junk, and Frank takes the opportunity to settle in.
"How is my Bob-arella?"
"Fuck, my balls."
"You ask for the kinkiest shit," Frank says brightly, and Bob has to laugh. "Did Gerard really lock you in the bathroom with polka music?"
"When I'm dancin', give me room," Bob sings, against his will. The song is still running through his head, hoop-dee-dooin' it with all of my might. There hadn't been any fucking drumming in it, either, just accordion.
"Now you know," Frank deadpans, "the price of international stardom is polka." He turns on his side and leans his head on his arm. The little light that comes in the bunk through the curtain glints off of his eyes and his lip ring. "Not a bad prank. He's done it before, though. Yours was better."
"It was yours."
"You were the one who rigged the spray." Frank ducks his head closer, like he's going to tell him a secret. "Anyway, I should have claimed that it was mine. Gerard's totally in love with you now."
"What?" He can feel his face heating up. "I mean-- what?"
"You should have heard him this afternoon." Frank pitches his voice up into a squeaky falsetto and says, too loud, "'maybe we should ask Bob about this section. He's just really in tune with what I want, rhythmically."
Gerard squawks in outrage. "Shut up!"
"Oh, Gerty, don't be mad!" Frank shouts back. He drops out of the bunk in a single, terrifying movement, the curtain flapping in his wake. He starts giggling again a beat later, high and goofy, and there are the unmistakable sharp sounds of a slapfight.
"Guys, keep it down," Ray says, just loud enough for Bob to hear. "Let Mikey self-abuse in peace."
"Oh, fuck you," Mikey snarls, and Bob bursts out laughing with the rest of them.
v.t. to put in mind of a cliché;
to cause to recollect or remember a well-trodden truth.
It's not like Frank doesn't climb on everyone else. It's just that he climbs on Bob more.
Like:
"C'mere, Bob, hey, c'mere," Frank says, waving wildly.
"What's up?" He approaches slowly. He doesn't know the two guys Frank is with, but they're both skinny little indierockers. One of them winks at him, and he jerks his eyes back to Frank's face.
"I want to get that," Frank says, pointing up at the top of the trailer. There's a deflated basketball sitting up there, gray from exposure, sagging a little over the side.
"Why?" he asks. He laces his fingers together, but doesn't bend down.
"I have a plan," Frank insists, looking up at him from under his lashes. "Come on, big boy."
"Whatever," he says, and stoops. Frank grins and puts his foot on Bob's interlocked hands. Bob stands up when he jumps, then tucks his elbows in and holds him while he wiggles the basketball down with the tips of his fingers. He smells like sweat and cigarettes and Old Spice. The ball lands with a sad thwack.
"Victory!" Frank yells, and hops down. Bob's hands fly up from the sudden lack of weight, but he steadies himself in time.
"You're right," one of the boys says, scooping the ball up and handing Frank his prize. "That's badass. How did you hold him up there?" he asks Bob.
Bob shrugs and starts to back away. "Practice, I guess." He turns around and starts walking back the way he came.
"Badass," the guy repeats behind him, and Frank says "yeah, totally, yeah. Hey Bob, wait up!"
...and:
"I wanna see," Frank says, pulling on the back of his t-shirt.
"Whiny bastard." He sighs, though, goes to his knees and looks back, patting his shoulder. "Come on."
"Really?" Frank says, but he's already swung one leg over. "Holy shit, wait, I'm gonna die." He settles his weight on Bob's shoulders, his fingers tentative on Bob's head.
"You're not," Bob says, though he worries for a second when he stands up. Frank screams like a girl, then laughs.
"I am so tall right now," Frank says. "Hey, Mikey, you're going bald! I am tall enough to see your fucking bald spot!"
Mikey's hands fly up to his hair. Bob shakes his head at him minutely, and Mikey gives him a cautious smile, still feeling at his scalp. Frank beats a quick rhythm on Bob's head. "Don't worry, Bob, your hair is still extremely luscious."
"Thanks."
"I'm never getting down. I'm going to smoke a cigarette up here and ash on Mikey's shiny, shiny head."
"Awesome." Bob tries to look put out, but Mikey laughs at him, and he knows he's failed.
...and:
"Hey Bob," a roadie says, and then "um--"
"TEEN GIRL SQUAD!" Bob hears, and the sound of someone running. He stops where he is and bends down. Frank lands perfectly for once, and Bob only staggers a little. He straightens up. Frank wraps his legs around Bob's midsection, and Bob puts his hands under Frank's knees.
"Hey Frank," the roadie - Ben, he remembers now - says, smiling at Frank over Bob's shoulder.
"Worldwide starlets get much boys," Frank says. He gestures in front of Bob's face, nearly hitting his nose. "Performance!"
"That's where I was going," Bob says. He nods to Ben and starts walking. Frank giggles and wraps his arms around Bob's shoulders.
"Aren't I lucky I caught a ride, then?"
"I guess you are."
But:
It isn't that Bob doesn't like it. Frank is a funny guy, and not too heavy. He doesn't get pissed at Bob that often, and he puts up with pranks better than anyone Bob's ever known. He does everything smoothly: smiles at fans and screams onstage and steals Ray's pudding cups and climbs on Bob's back. It's impossible to read anything into any of it; if there were some hidden meaning to all the jungle gym antics, Frank would tell him. He doesn't believe in secrets. Mostly it makes Bob feel calmer to be around Frank, to lift him up and help him, to be useful.
So it doesn't mean anything - or, it does mean something, but - not anything important, nothing important at all.
("Shut up," he hears, and someone giggling, "I'm gonna bite your face if you don't quit that." He doesn't recognize the voice, but he's curious enough to look around the corner, cautiously.
Jamia's head is tilted back, her mouth is curved up at the corners, and her legs are spread open to let Frank press her against the wall. He's standing with his back to where Bob is, and Bob can see his shoulders flex underneath his t-shirt when he moves his arm. "Oh, yes, there," Jamia says, and her fingers are pulling at the collar of Frank's shirt, stretching it out, "please, please-" Frank presses his open mouth against the side of her neck, and she breaks off from pleading into a moan. The muscles in his forearm stand out in relief, and Bob can almost imagine-
Her eyes open and drop down, finding his. Bob flinches away and presses his back against the wall, waiting until he's sure she's not going to say anything. He leaves as quietly as he can. When Frank rejoins them before the show, his collar is stretched to one side. When he bends his head over his guitar, someone who was paying close attention would be able see three faint scratches on the back of his neck.)
n. a small bird, genus Jynx, allied to the woodpeckers:
so-called from its sensitivity to the sound of its own song.
He's used to touring. He wasn't a tech for that long in the grand scheme of things - not like the lifelong roadies, the guys who've been moving from band to band all their lives - but it was long enough for him to get accustomed to the driving, the way the seat cushion gradually molded to his ass, the smell of six people and a million empty potato chip bags trapped in a van together for weeks on end.
The tour bus has better shocks and air conditioning. There's a television and a couch and a kitchen and a (disgusting) shower. Bob doesn't have to take his turn at the wheel. But they still eat at rest stops, the same food - potato chips, soda, candy, sandwiches with pale tomatoes and shredded lettuce, random local foods that someone dares someone else to try - and the same smells. And the scenery is the same. Most of the tour is on familiar stretches of highway, endless flat lines of horizon skimming along outside, the sky going from pink to blue to pink to black and back again.
Bob's even used to the occasional early mornings, more so than the others. He likes the weak light of dawn, the first sip of coffee, the way everyone looks at nothing in particular through their rubbed open, raw eyes. Sometimes he helps unload, but more often he relishes the luxury of standing with the others by the side of the bus, still half-asleep, waiting for direction.
In San Antonio, he leans against the side of the bus, looking at the fencing set up by the stages. Mikey stumbles over after a little while, second cup of coffee clutched in his hand, and smushes his face against Bob's chest. "Five minutes," he mumbles. Bob doesn't say anything, just puts his arm around Mikey's waist.
After the equipment's unloaded, they wait, milling around between the buses. This is the unfamiliar part for Bob, the waiting around with nothing to do. There's a constant low hum somewhere beyond the bus corral, the sound of kids milling around before a concert, Later it will swell into shrieks and thumps and a crashing roar. They have five hours to waste today.
He's not good at wasting time. He helped set up the boards, early on, and even now he'll farm himself out when one of the guys is sick or hung-over or making time with someone in the town they're in. He plays a lot of pranks. He tags along for the bizarre shit that goes on with the other bands. This time he naps for a while with Mikey on the couch, then joins in on the poker game on Avenged's bus. He wanders out after he loses a pair of sticks and twenty bucks to some roadie asshole, and then just mooches around. He never thought he'd have too much time to himself.
Right before their show - today they got late afternoon, near four o'clock - he does calisthenics, dumb bullshit that he did in high school gym classes, then practices with his sticks on a notebook. He puts on his concert outfit twenty minutes ahead of time, and then he watches the rest of them get ready. They're all accustomed to each other's rhythms by now, and they thread neatly around one another in the small strange spaces they're given. It's like a mating dance, he thinks, like cranes, and then resolves to stop watching so much Discovery Channel when he can't sleep.
Someone eventually pounds on the side of the trailer, and they pile out. Backstage the noise is worse, and Bob's heart is pounding hard enough to make the fabric of his shirt quiver a little in time. His sticks slip in his sweaty hands, and he has yet to get onstage without thinking are you sure, do you really mean it, I don't know--
"Ready?" Ray says, coming in for a high-five.
"Like it's my job," Bob says back, and his hand comes up automatically. It is his job, anyway, and it's the best job in the world. When the others go on stage he follows, out to face the roaring crowd, the swell of bodies ready to scream in time with his rhythm.
---
"I feel like death," Ray says, afterwards. He lets his head flop limply against the floor. The underside of his 'fro is damp with sweat, and there's a red mark where his guitar strap rubbed against his skin.
Gerard moans, "I need tea." His voice is soft and thready. He's curled up on a chair, a far cry from the man who groped himself onstage a few minutes ago. The others are just as deflated; Ray's sprawled out on the ground, and Mikey and Frank are both sitting on a ratty couch with their heads tipped back, hands limp and open by their sides, twins in exhaustion. Bob didn't make it much farther than the opening of the tent, and he's only barely outside the flap's path when someone shoves it open.
"Do you guys need anything?" someone says.
"Tea," Gerard croaks out, sounding more pathetic by the minute. "With lots of honey."
"Sandwiches and sodas," Ray says, not lifting his head from the ground.
"Vegan," Frank says, like he's trying to put a whole sentence in the one word.
"Okay," the person says, and lets the tent flap fall. Bob drops his head against the surface of the tent.
"Decent show," Gerard says, and Bob slits his eyes open to see them all nod. They sit in silence until the someone gets back with their sandwiches, which they eat like they're starving, hunched over the paper wrappers. Bob's stomach hurts after he finishes. He winces when he shifts.
"Are we gonna get to take showers?"
Gerard looks up from his tea briefly to whisper "we've got to go to merch. But they have showers here. A shower."
"Dibs," Frank says, and levers another piece of sandwich into his mouth.
"Second!"
"Third!"
Gerard looks at him. "I'm good without one," he whispers.
Bob waves the offer off. "Take fourth."
"Bob likes a cold shower," Mikey comments from the couch.
"I'm gonna get my discman," he says. Gerard nods and dips his face back to his tea. No one else looks up from their food.
---
The air outside is stifling, and he feels slow, the sandwich a lump in his stomach. His shoulders feel like they're barely connected to his neck, and his elbows throb. The sunburned skin on his face is uncomfortably warm. His lower back feels like it's been taken out, liquified, and sloppily siphoned back in. It's better than the first days of touring, but not by a whole lot.
A couple of kids wandering through the parking lot yell "Bob! Hey, Bob!" and he stops after he realizes that they must mean him. "I'm going to be at the tent, later. With the band," he says, weakly, but they press a Sharpie into his hands, and he can't bear to say no. He signs for them, and when he's done with them there are more, kids wandering over on their way through. BB BB BB BB, BB BB BB, BB BB BB BB BB, and it's not that many, he's done more, but his initials look like a curse word before he's through. The last CD he signs looks more like DP, but the woman seems happy enough, gives him a hug even though he's sweaty and gross. "Thanks for everything," she says, wide-eyed and earnest.
"It's awesome that you listen, really," he says, stumbling over the words, still too surprised that she knows who he is to be able to speak with confidence.
When he finally gets on the bus, he can't remember what he was meaning to get. He stands by his bunk for a second, staring absentmindedly at the stuff scattered across his mattress just in case it jogs his memory, but nothing comes. He gives up and goes to sit down on the couch in the lounge.
Ruddy, their bus driver, pokes her head back into the main compartment. "Bob?"
"Yeah?"
"Is it all right if I turn off the bus for a little bit?"
"Sure," he says, confused.
"I just want to go for a smoke," she says, shifting her weight.
"No, no, it's fine, I'm gonna get up soon. You don't need to ask me," he says, as an afterthought, but she's already gone, the door banging in her wake. The bus goes quiet, the air conditioning shutting off with a click. Bob leans his head against the back of the sofa and thinks I can't go to sleep.
---
He wakes up to pain in his ear. "Fuck!" he yelps, and bats at whoever it is.
"We have an interview," Frank says, "and you smell like wet rotten ass." He flicks Bob's ear again. "You were supposed to help us become a clean band, Bob. Bob. Seriously, Bob."
"I will pay you five dollars to never say my name again," Bob says. Frank grins down at him, then swings his leg up and straddles Bob on the couch. This is new: Bob is not lifting him anywhere. He's hovering a few inches above Bob's crotch. Bob thinks about laughing, pushing Frank off, but decides he probably shouldn't. His hands stop midair, then settle on Frank's thighs. The muscles there tense and release under his hands. "Where are-where's everyone?"
"They're waiting for us. I'm waking you up," Frank says.
"Why you?"
"I drew the short straw," Frank says, "and everyone knows I have the best bedside manner."
Bob tries to think of a comeback, but his mind is too fogged with sleep. He scoots forward and stands up instead. He's expecting Frank to slide off, but Frank clings instead, and Bob has a moment of sickening imbalance before he rights himself. Frank's face is very close. Bob hesitates, then puts his hands on Frank's ass and hitches him up a little bit.
"You don't need to get fresh," Frank says, but he's still smiling. Bob starts to smile back, but then Frank is kissing him. It's only a quick brush of lips. Bob blinks at him.
"Hey--"
"C'mon," Frank says, and hops down, stretching a little before he takes his arms from around Bob's neck. "Interview time."
"Jesus," Bob says, but he follows Frank out the door.
n. the stretches traditionally used
to prepare a scholar for an act of translation.
He doesn't get to shower until they're on the bus again, heading off to Las Cruces. It's fucking torture. He washes quickly, but stays under the weak spray after he's done, stretching his shoulders and groaning a little under his breath. The water is sweet when he opens his mouth, already cooler than when he first stepped in.
Bus showers suck. His arms hurt. They have another concert tomorrow. He wants to sleep for three days straight, but he can't. Frank kissed him on the mouth, and Bob doesn't want whatever Frank meant by it to complicate things even more.
Life is hard, he thinks, in his mother's voice. He turns off the water.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Mikey and Gerard are conferring together over the tiny kitchen table. They don't look up. Frank calls his name, a soft questioning sound, and Bob ducks his head into the lounge. "What's up?"
"I think I can see the World's Largest Cross," Frank says, "come see." He's kneeling on the couch, braced against the window. Bob can't see past the dark shapes of his hands against the glass, the smudged fingerprints that light up with the passing cars. He walks closer, anyway, and makes a show of looking.
"Where?"
"Here," Frank says, tugging at the edge of Bob's shirt. "Come stand behind me." Bob rolls his eyes, but does as he's told, leaning over Frank's shoulder, holding himself up with one hand on the back of the couch. Frank taps one of his fingers. "See it?" The words are a short breath against Bob's cheek.
"I think I can." There's a dark spindly shape on the horizon, at least, a blot on the skyline, miles away. "That's got to be huge," he says. Frank turns his head, and they smile at each other. Bob starts to move away, but Frank catches his wrist, tugs him in and presses a kiss against the side of his mouth.
"What was that?" Bob says.
"A kiss, but if you disagree I'll understand," Frank says, lightly.
"Your girlfriend--"
"Wants you to come over sometime," Frank says, squeezes Bob's wrist once, and lets go.
"I can't," Bob says. It's not the right word for the feeling in his chest, the tightness in his lungs, but it's the best he can manage. "I can't--you're--I mean--"
"Hey, whoa," Frank says, and turns. His hand squeaks across the glass. He's even closer like this, breathing up into Bob's mouth, but he gets a grip on Bob's waistband before he can back away. "It's not something I want you to freak out about. It's just a thing."
"It's not the thing that bothers me," Bob says, and shakes his head when Frank laughs. "It's not. It's just-- how's that supposed to work? I'm in your band now."
"I don't know," Frank says after a beat, "I thought you might." Bob hesitates, then pushes back the lock of hair that's dangling in Frank's face. Frank tilts his head up into the touch. "It's not a big deal," he says, even quieter, "just sex."
"Just that."
"If Pete and Mikey can do it, why can't we?" he sing-songs, and Bob can't help but laugh.
"Never follow Pete's example. Even I know that."
"I think we could outclass Pete Wentz, what do you think?" Frank's eyes are dark and serious, a little sad. Bob knows it is a bad idea, but he puts his hand against Frank's jaw and kisses him. Frank licks at his lips, and Bob opens his mouth.
Ray's feet thunk against the floor when he rolls out of his bunk, and Bob stumbles back. Frank turns around and puts his hands back against the window, and looks back out at the rapidly darkening horizon. "We saw a giant cross," he calls out.
"I love giant crosses," Ray says happily. He comes into the lounge to knock his shoulder against Bob's and peer out the window. "Too bad I missed it. Grilled cheese?"
"I want two," Bob says, and steps aside to let Frank go ahead of him. Their eyes don't meet.
v.t. to fully realize the uninformed quality of one's instincts.
Frank nearly puts his foot through the kick drum, three shows later.
Afterwards, in the dusty lot that serves as the backstage, Bob catches Frank's arm. It slips in his hand. Sweat is dripping off of the curled ends of Frank's hair, onto his shoulders and the tops of his ears. "What?" he says, and wipes his face against the soaked shoulder of his t-shirt. Bob stares at the smear of eyeliner across the fabric.
What he was going to say was something funny, something like what did my kick drum ever do to you, but what comes out is, "Look-could you. Stop fucking with my drums."
"What?"
"Stop fucking with my drums," Bob repeats, half wanting to take it back.
"I'll kick what I want to," Frank says, and narrows his eyes. Bob tries to sidle by him, muttering okay whatever jackass, but Frank follows him, dogging his footsteps. "Are you saying you need me to calm down onstage, because--"
"No, it's--"
"Because I don't think you need to start running the stage from the drum kit just yet."
"It's important to the sound-" Bob tries, and then "They're expensive. Hundreds of dollars." Frank just talks over him, short sharp sentences, questions like little popping jabs, and Bob can't keep up, can't follow what he's talking about. Frank steps on the back of one of his shoes, treading too close to his feet, and Bob hunches his shoulder and throws his hand out, catching Frank on his chin and shoving him away.
Frank stumbles back, shocked, then hisses "you fucking asshole" and swings for Bob's face. Bob holds him off, tries to pull his punches and gets bitten for his trouble.
Worm finally comes over and breaks in when he realizes it's a fight and not a wrestling match, dragging Frank off and over to the side of the bus. Bob stands there, for a moment, watching Worm hold Frank, Frank's eyes hidden by Worm's shoulder. He gets on the bus and keeps his eyes down, goes to his bunk.
---
They don't speak for a day. Frank has several very quiet conversations with Gerard. Bob actually fucking throws up before he goes onstage, but no one sees. He wipes his mouth with the inside hem of his t-shirt, high-fives Ray and climbs the stairs.
---
"You could have fucking broken it," Bob finally says, barging into the lounge. "You could have fucking broken my fucking kick drum."
Frank pauses Super Mario and looks up at him.
"And I'm sorry I pushed you," he adds, lamely.
"It's okay," Frank says. His face is serious, and Bob thinks he's going to say something awful, something like we've reconsidered, but he just holds up the other controller and says, "Come be Luigi."
After two levels, Frank pauses the game again. "I'm getting Fritos," he announces, "and I'm sorry for trying to put my foot through your very expensive drum, which is essential to our sound."
Bob jerks his head up. "I- okay."
"Good, okay," Frank says. "Fritos."
"Right," Bob says.
That's really what makes up his mind.
n. the sound of a dog's nails on the hardwood floor
when it walks in repeated circles.
They have a day off after Portland, and even though they're going to be driving to Vancouver the next afternoon, they're all delirious with the knowledge that they won't be sleeping on the road. He changes clothes after their set and bums around by the buses, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from a cooler that someone's dragged out from the tents. He gets into a long conversation with The Rev about why The Rev chooses to use double kick drums ("fuck you, you pansy-assed cocksucking unmetal motherfucker! Two pedals and a kick is bullshit!") and ends up catching a ride back to the hotel on Avenged's bus.
At their hotel there's a party in someone's suite, he doesn't know whose. The bathroom counter is crowded with bottles of juice and cheap liquor. There's a guy in an Aqua t-shirt who claims to be the bartender; he mixes Bob something purple that tastes like an overripe apple. Bob wanders through the connecting door and scores a spot leaning against the bureau. He talks to someone for a while about dog racing, sipping slowly at his drink, and then when that guy leaves Rickie Mazzotta takes his place. He brings up an argument they had at a party in the beginning of the tour about tempo, and Bob has to put his drink down to try to figure out what the hell Rickie's talking about.
"So you're like one two three four-"
"No, it's like one two three, three and a half, four."
"Did you just say three and a half? There is no three and a half."
"That's how I conceptualize the break," Rickie says, and then looks up. "Sorry, do you need Bob for something?"
"Hey Frank." Frank drops onto his lap, ignoring his yelp, and puts his arms around Bob's neck.
"Are you talking shop at a party? Lame."
"Shut up," Bob says. Frank tips his head back and makes a face. "You need to blow your nose."
"Asshole." Frank sits up and holds out his hand. "Bob's got no manners, sorry. I'm Frank."
"Rickie."
"Nice to meet you, Rickie. Do you mind if I talk shop to him instead?"
"No, that's fine," Rickie says, looking bewildered. Bob can sympathize.
He expects Frank to get up and lead him elsewhere, but he just leans back again and whispers in Bob's ear. "You know our thing?"
It takes Bob a second to catch on. He nods stiffly.
"Do you want to?"
Bob nods, too conscious of his hand against Frank's back. Frank's shoes tap gently against his shin, off-tempo.
"Okay, cool," Frank says, and it sounds like he's laughing. "We're in room two-oh-four. Come over about nine." Frank slides off his lap. "Thanks, Rickie."
"Good guy," Rickie says, after Frank leaves. Bob nods again, stupidly. "Your band's pretty close, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess," Bob says. He rubs his hands over his thighs.
"I mean, at this point in the tour I want to kill Aaron."
"Aaron?"
"Lead singer. He's talking about how our next album needs to move away from 'the limitations of percussion.'" Bob just blinks at that, his hands falling still, and Rickie laughs, a short derisive sound. "Yeah." He looks into his cup, and puts it down on the dresser behind him. "Whatever, I don't care if I have to play the tambourine."
"The cowbell is better," he says. They laugh and fall silent. Bob runs his hands over his thighs, thinks what if--what would I do if-- He can't follow it through; he'd probably go back to tech work, but the idea of going back makes his head hurt. He watches three girls who are bouncing on one of the beds instead, the way their torsos bob up over the heads of the people crowded into the room. He finally breaks their silence by saying, "Three and a half?"
Rickie sighs. "Here, give me that piece of paper-"
Rickie eventually takes off, and Bob picks his drink back up. Someone's put a cigarette butt in it. He dumps it out in the bathroom sink before he leaves.
---
Gerard is in the room they're sharing already, laying on one of the beds and reading a thin book with a Buddha on the cover. He waves hello with one socked foot and smiles, lopsided. Bob waggles his foot back, and it turns into a grin.
"I'm gonna shower," he says, and Gerard nods and turns back to his book. His hair is damp and tangled, and the light makes him seem even more milky pale than usual. Why not him? Bob thinks, and oddly enough it's the first time he's thought of the question.
He realizes he's staring only when Gerard looks up again and quirks an eyebrow. "You doing okay?" he asks, at a loss for anything better to say. Gerard's forehead wrinkles, then smoothes out when he nods. He touches his throat with a fingertip, taps it twice.
"Oh," Bob says. "Right. Tell me if you want me to call for tea." Gerard nods, again, and picks up his book. "Sorry, right," Bob says, and actually goes to take the shower this time.
When he steps out, Gerard is there, sitting on the toilet lid. Bob lunges for a towel and wraps it around himself. Gerard smirks at him, waggling his fingers in a dirty hello. "Jerk," Bob says, and Gerard's face slides into a pout. "You are, shut up."
It's weird to put on deodorant and brush his teeth with an audience. He keeps looking over at Gerard, but he just taps his book against his knee and makes faces. Bob grimaces back around his toothbrush, foam dripping over his lip, and Gerard laughs, a short breath.
He spits and wipes his mouth. Gerard gets up and touches his shoulder, then rests his chin on it. Bob holds very still; Gerard is not delicate, but he, like Bob, rarely initiates this kind of stuff when he's sober. They stare at each other in the mirror, and then Gerard makes another face, his eyebrows rising together in the middle.
"I'm fine," Bob says, even if it isn't the right word for it, "I'm even going out tonight. To a party." Gerard tilts his head, considers, and drops the face. Bob hesitates, then touches his hand against Gerard's on his shoulder. "What's up?" Gerard just smiles, squeezes his shoulder and goes back out to the beds. Bob hears him flop down with a sigh.
Bob thinks about staying in the room, laying in the bed across from Gerard and falling asleep to the soft flip of pages. He thinks about what he would do if he had to leave the band, about why they want him. The lighting in the bathroom makes him look strung out and tired. He shrugs his shoulders at his reflection, picks up his shirt where he laid it out on the counter, and puts it on. He already told Gerard he was going.
When Bob opens the door, Gerard raises his foot again to wave goodbye. Bob thinks about saying something, but he's not sure what he should say. He just wags his foot behind him and shuts the door.
[part two here]
My Chemical Romance, Bob/Frank/Jamia, NC-17.
arsenicjade was responsible for getting me into bandom, and discussions of Bob with her prompted me to write this story. It's technically the first thing I wrote in this fandom. I was half-planning on deleting it, but when I posted about my works in progress I listed it and said it needed a beta/cheerleader. ficbyzee responded, saved the story, got me motivated to fill in the last three blank spaces, and gave some seriously excellent suggestions. Superhero material, right there.
[edit: I'd forgotten that (once again) offonmars acted as cheerleader for this, too. Seriously, get yourself an offonmars, if you can. They're invaluable and so awesome.]
[edit2: By the way, there's a small canon mistake, and I'm trying to decide whether I'll fix it or not. Furthermore: the world's largest cross is actually not what Frank and Bob look at out the window (who knows what it is), Gerard is reading Siddartha by Herman Hesse, and the section breaks are from a prose poem that I wrote. If you see errors or issues, PLEASE TELL ME. I am a grad student in real life, I can handle constructive criticism.]
Comments - either kind or critical - are of course welcome.
When he looks back at the stage, Branden's gesturing for Bob to turn him down again. Bob sighs. He always overdoes it on the drums.'>
n. a phone number written on the wrist,
now indecipherable.
"Hey!" Bert shouts. He squints against the glare; his hand makes a triangular shadow over his eyes. He jerks his thumb back at Branden. "Can we have a little less on this loud bastard?" The kids crowded on the floor giggle at that, a splash of sound on the monitor. Bob presses the headphones against his ear with his shoulder and adjusts the sound on the drums. Branden rattles his sticks against the snare and Bert gives a thumbs up.
Someone in the audience shouts out a song title. Bert coos, "Patience, darling. Good things come to little shits who wait," and flicks his sweaty hair back from his face. "This song is called 'Box Full of Sharp Objects.'" The audience roars, and Bert howls gleefully back.
When Bob glances up from the board, there's someone standing next to him. He twitches, startled, and lifts his hands up automatically so they don't jar any of his levels. "Do you need something?" he half-shouts, leaning in so the guy can hear him. The guy has the hood of his sweatshirt up, and he has to tip his head back to make eye contact with Bob. He shakes his head, mouths something that Bob can't understand, and turns back to watching. Bob opens his mouth, hesitates, and shuts it again. He looks familiar.
People come into the booth all the time, but it's mostly other roadies and techs, and they're usually either looking for something or coming to gossip. This guy is just standing there. He nods his head to the music during the chorus, then stops again. Bob rests his hands against the board and shifts his weight, watches Bert fall to his knees and scream into the microphone.
When the song's over, the guy glances up at him again and says, "Sorry, I'm just checking out the mixing."
"Huh," Bob says. "Okay."
"Frank," the guy says, and sticks out his hand. Bob stares at it for a second - HALLO - then wipes his sweaty palm on his jeans and shakes. "From My Chem."
"Bob," he says. "I didn't recognize you. Offstage, I mean." He thinks, hysterically, that he should have had the guitars up higher.
"It's been real, Bob," Frank says, and steps down from the booth.
When he looks back at the stage, Branden's gesturing for Bob to turn him down again. Bob sighs. He always overdoes it on the drums.
---
At the next show, he catches a few free minutes from set-up and uses them to watch MCR's set. Frank plays like a maniac, which Bob knew already. This time, he hurls his mic stand against the drums, then falls to his knees and plays the rest of the song there, hunched over his guitar, his mouth open. He has to retrieve the mic stand and set it back up after the song is over, but he's laughing about it.
Midway through the next song, Frank leans his head against Gerard's shoulder, then tips his face to the side; it's like he can see Bob at the edge of the stage, like they're looking at each other. Bob knows it's only his imagination, but he edges back anyway, and reminds himself that he has to go.
---
Three shows before they're done with the tour, Bob is trying to load one of the amps into the van. He should go and get someone else, but he's managed it on his own before. He reconsiders the wisdom of his decision when the casing starts to slip under his fingers, but at that point he's already got it two feet off of the ground, and it's either try or drop it. Bob grunts and twists his back, trying to heave it up into the van, and the corner bangs off of the bumper. He curses, staggers, and tries to bolster his grip on the amp with his knee.
Bob gives a half shout when the amp is suddenly buoyed up. Matt's head pops over the far side, cigarette jammed in the side of his mouth. "C'mon," he says, and together they manage to get the amp up and into the back of the van. Bob shoves it into place and slams the door. "Thanks," he says.
"Anytime," Matt says. They slap hands, and Matt slopes off.
That's the main memory Bob has when he thinks of Matt. He's a decent guy, from what Bob saw, and a decent enough drummer. If Bob were a good person, he'd feel a little guilty for taking the guy's place in the band.
"Definitely," he says, grinning, and shakes Ray's hand. "Fuck yeah." He doesn't even feel a twinge.
v.t. to obsessively record the weather movements at a perimeter,
but never review the tape.
Two shows after Bob starts with the band, he's walking around the bus corral and sees Frank trying to reach something tucked away on a stack of boxes. "Don't climb that," he says, when Frank looks like he's going to try, and then, "here, let me."
He puts his hands around Frank's waist. Frank looks down at them, and Bob says, "I'll give you a boost. Just put your foot up." Frank grips a box with one hand, Bob's shoulder with the other, and puts his foot up on Bob's bent leg. Bob lifts slightly when Frank starts to move, and Frank gives a little shout of surprise. It's just like getting his friends up over the fence by the football field in high school, except that Frank weighs less and makes more noise.
"Fucking cool," Frank says, and shifts his feet on Bob's leg. His ass is right in Bob's face, the tattoo on his lower back peeking above his sagging waistband. "Okay, okay, let me down." He's got a canister of something when he drops to the ground. They stand there for a moment before Bob remembers to take his hands away.
"That was cool," Frank says, and Bob shrugs. "You're really solid, you know that? You're really strong." He cocks his head and looks at Bob for a second. "You want to play a prank on Gee?"
"Sure," Bob says.
---
When Gerard comes barreling past him later, splattering red dye in his wake, Bob steps to the side and plays confused. "It was Bob!" Frank says, already tattling. "Bob did it!"
"Bob?" Gerard turns around. He looks baffled. Bob tries to stifle his grin. "Bob?"
Bob decides that it's in his best interest to run.
---
Two days later, after Bob has already spent too much time worrying about how it's going to happen, Gerard gets his revenge. He gets Brian to help, which is patently unfair, since Brian is a crazy-ass motherfucker with voodoo powers. Case in point: with Brian's aid, Gerard manages to lock Bob in the bus bathroom with a CD player that's been superglued shut and rigged to repeat track 9 of Bobby Vinton: Greatest Polka Hits of All Time. When Bob finally staggers out an hour later, the guts of the CD player dangling from his hands, Gerard's laying back on the couch. "Do not fuck with the lead singer," he says. "The lead singer is crazier than you."
Bob stares at him for a second, beyond a response. "Polka," he finally manages. "The same polka."
"It's good to be firm with a boy when he first begins to rebel," Gerard says sweetly, and gets up out of his chair. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yeah."
"Repeat after me: 'the lead singer--'"
"The lead singer--"
"'Is crazier than you.'"
"Is a polka-abusing asshole."
Gerard raises his eyebrow, then nods. "Close enough." He strolls out.
---
Bob knows he shouldn't worry about it after that. He knows how bands work, after all, how this band works. He knows that Gerard and he should be fine. But he wonders if maybe it's different for him, since he's new. Once the thought has entered his head, he can't seem to shake it.
He watches a movie with the guys that night, but he feels tense and embarrassed, which only makes him act like an angry fuck. He shoves Mikey's shoulder away from his knees, and glares at Frank when he tries to put his feet up. Frank scrunches back into his corner and looks mildly freaked out.
When Mikey gets a phone call and wanders back to the bunks, Bob takes the opportunity to struggle up off of the couch. "Headache?" Ray asks, looking up. Bob nods, grateful for the excuse.
"Must have listened to too much music," Gerard says. His expression is bland.
"Must have," Bob agrees, and heads back to his bunk. He strips down to his boxers and hauls himself up into his bunk. The dark is soothing. He stretches out his fingers and toes as wide as he can, just to feel the space between them.
He's started to doze off when Frank climbs in, unannounced, jabbing his elbow into Bob's side. "Get the fuck out," Bob says, his voice slurry with sleep. He shoves at Frank's face. Frank just giggles and kicks him, then grabs the edge of the bunk, swings in, and plants his bony hip right in Bob's groin. "Fuck! Ow!" Bob curls protectively around his junk, and Frank takes the opportunity to settle in.
"How is my Bob-arella?"
"Fuck, my balls."
"You ask for the kinkiest shit," Frank says brightly, and Bob has to laugh. "Did Gerard really lock you in the bathroom with polka music?"
"When I'm dancin', give me room," Bob sings, against his will. The song is still running through his head, hoop-dee-dooin' it with all of my might. There hadn't been any fucking drumming in it, either, just accordion.
"Now you know," Frank deadpans, "the price of international stardom is polka." He turns on his side and leans his head on his arm. The little light that comes in the bunk through the curtain glints off of his eyes and his lip ring. "Not a bad prank. He's done it before, though. Yours was better."
"It was yours."
"You were the one who rigged the spray." Frank ducks his head closer, like he's going to tell him a secret. "Anyway, I should have claimed that it was mine. Gerard's totally in love with you now."
"What?" He can feel his face heating up. "I mean-- what?"
"You should have heard him this afternoon." Frank pitches his voice up into a squeaky falsetto and says, too loud, "'maybe we should ask Bob about this section. He's just really in tune with what I want, rhythmically."
Gerard squawks in outrage. "Shut up!"
"Oh, Gerty, don't be mad!" Frank shouts back. He drops out of the bunk in a single, terrifying movement, the curtain flapping in his wake. He starts giggling again a beat later, high and goofy, and there are the unmistakable sharp sounds of a slapfight.
"Guys, keep it down," Ray says, just loud enough for Bob to hear. "Let Mikey self-abuse in peace."
"Oh, fuck you," Mikey snarls, and Bob bursts out laughing with the rest of them.
v.t. to put in mind of a cliché;
to cause to recollect or remember a well-trodden truth.
It's not like Frank doesn't climb on everyone else. It's just that he climbs on Bob more.
Like:
"C'mere, Bob, hey, c'mere," Frank says, waving wildly.
"What's up?" He approaches slowly. He doesn't know the two guys Frank is with, but they're both skinny little indierockers. One of them winks at him, and he jerks his eyes back to Frank's face.
"I want to get that," Frank says, pointing up at the top of the trailer. There's a deflated basketball sitting up there, gray from exposure, sagging a little over the side.
"Why?" he asks. He laces his fingers together, but doesn't bend down.
"I have a plan," Frank insists, looking up at him from under his lashes. "Come on, big boy."
"Whatever," he says, and stoops. Frank grins and puts his foot on Bob's interlocked hands. Bob stands up when he jumps, then tucks his elbows in and holds him while he wiggles the basketball down with the tips of his fingers. He smells like sweat and cigarettes and Old Spice. The ball lands with a sad thwack.
"Victory!" Frank yells, and hops down. Bob's hands fly up from the sudden lack of weight, but he steadies himself in time.
"You're right," one of the boys says, scooping the ball up and handing Frank his prize. "That's badass. How did you hold him up there?" he asks Bob.
Bob shrugs and starts to back away. "Practice, I guess." He turns around and starts walking back the way he came.
"Badass," the guy repeats behind him, and Frank says "yeah, totally, yeah. Hey Bob, wait up!"
...and:
"I wanna see," Frank says, pulling on the back of his t-shirt.
"Whiny bastard." He sighs, though, goes to his knees and looks back, patting his shoulder. "Come on."
"Really?" Frank says, but he's already swung one leg over. "Holy shit, wait, I'm gonna die." He settles his weight on Bob's shoulders, his fingers tentative on Bob's head.
"You're not," Bob says, though he worries for a second when he stands up. Frank screams like a girl, then laughs.
"I am so tall right now," Frank says. "Hey, Mikey, you're going bald! I am tall enough to see your fucking bald spot!"
Mikey's hands fly up to his hair. Bob shakes his head at him minutely, and Mikey gives him a cautious smile, still feeling at his scalp. Frank beats a quick rhythm on Bob's head. "Don't worry, Bob, your hair is still extremely luscious."
"Thanks."
"I'm never getting down. I'm going to smoke a cigarette up here and ash on Mikey's shiny, shiny head."
"Awesome." Bob tries to look put out, but Mikey laughs at him, and he knows he's failed.
...and:
"Hey Bob," a roadie says, and then "um--"
"TEEN GIRL SQUAD!" Bob hears, and the sound of someone running. He stops where he is and bends down. Frank lands perfectly for once, and Bob only staggers a little. He straightens up. Frank wraps his legs around Bob's midsection, and Bob puts his hands under Frank's knees.
"Hey Frank," the roadie - Ben, he remembers now - says, smiling at Frank over Bob's shoulder.
"Worldwide starlets get much boys," Frank says. He gestures in front of Bob's face, nearly hitting his nose. "Performance!"
"That's where I was going," Bob says. He nods to Ben and starts walking. Frank giggles and wraps his arms around Bob's shoulders.
"Aren't I lucky I caught a ride, then?"
"I guess you are."
But:
It isn't that Bob doesn't like it. Frank is a funny guy, and not too heavy. He doesn't get pissed at Bob that often, and he puts up with pranks better than anyone Bob's ever known. He does everything smoothly: smiles at fans and screams onstage and steals Ray's pudding cups and climbs on Bob's back. It's impossible to read anything into any of it; if there were some hidden meaning to all the jungle gym antics, Frank would tell him. He doesn't believe in secrets. Mostly it makes Bob feel calmer to be around Frank, to lift him up and help him, to be useful.
So it doesn't mean anything - or, it does mean something, but - not anything important, nothing important at all.
("Shut up," he hears, and someone giggling, "I'm gonna bite your face if you don't quit that." He doesn't recognize the voice, but he's curious enough to look around the corner, cautiously.
Jamia's head is tilted back, her mouth is curved up at the corners, and her legs are spread open to let Frank press her against the wall. He's standing with his back to where Bob is, and Bob can see his shoulders flex underneath his t-shirt when he moves his arm. "Oh, yes, there," Jamia says, and her fingers are pulling at the collar of Frank's shirt, stretching it out, "please, please-" Frank presses his open mouth against the side of her neck, and she breaks off from pleading into a moan. The muscles in his forearm stand out in relief, and Bob can almost imagine-
Her eyes open and drop down, finding his. Bob flinches away and presses his back against the wall, waiting until he's sure she's not going to say anything. He leaves as quietly as he can. When Frank rejoins them before the show, his collar is stretched to one side. When he bends his head over his guitar, someone who was paying close attention would be able see three faint scratches on the back of his neck.)
n. a small bird, genus Jynx, allied to the woodpeckers:
so-called from its sensitivity to the sound of its own song.
He's used to touring. He wasn't a tech for that long in the grand scheme of things - not like the lifelong roadies, the guys who've been moving from band to band all their lives - but it was long enough for him to get accustomed to the driving, the way the seat cushion gradually molded to his ass, the smell of six people and a million empty potato chip bags trapped in a van together for weeks on end.
The tour bus has better shocks and air conditioning. There's a television and a couch and a kitchen and a (disgusting) shower. Bob doesn't have to take his turn at the wheel. But they still eat at rest stops, the same food - potato chips, soda, candy, sandwiches with pale tomatoes and shredded lettuce, random local foods that someone dares someone else to try - and the same smells. And the scenery is the same. Most of the tour is on familiar stretches of highway, endless flat lines of horizon skimming along outside, the sky going from pink to blue to pink to black and back again.
Bob's even used to the occasional early mornings, more so than the others. He likes the weak light of dawn, the first sip of coffee, the way everyone looks at nothing in particular through their rubbed open, raw eyes. Sometimes he helps unload, but more often he relishes the luxury of standing with the others by the side of the bus, still half-asleep, waiting for direction.
In San Antonio, he leans against the side of the bus, looking at the fencing set up by the stages. Mikey stumbles over after a little while, second cup of coffee clutched in his hand, and smushes his face against Bob's chest. "Five minutes," he mumbles. Bob doesn't say anything, just puts his arm around Mikey's waist.
After the equipment's unloaded, they wait, milling around between the buses. This is the unfamiliar part for Bob, the waiting around with nothing to do. There's a constant low hum somewhere beyond the bus corral, the sound of kids milling around before a concert, Later it will swell into shrieks and thumps and a crashing roar. They have five hours to waste today.
He's not good at wasting time. He helped set up the boards, early on, and even now he'll farm himself out when one of the guys is sick or hung-over or making time with someone in the town they're in. He plays a lot of pranks. He tags along for the bizarre shit that goes on with the other bands. This time he naps for a while with Mikey on the couch, then joins in on the poker game on Avenged's bus. He wanders out after he loses a pair of sticks and twenty bucks to some roadie asshole, and then just mooches around. He never thought he'd have too much time to himself.
Right before their show - today they got late afternoon, near four o'clock - he does calisthenics, dumb bullshit that he did in high school gym classes, then practices with his sticks on a notebook. He puts on his concert outfit twenty minutes ahead of time, and then he watches the rest of them get ready. They're all accustomed to each other's rhythms by now, and they thread neatly around one another in the small strange spaces they're given. It's like a mating dance, he thinks, like cranes, and then resolves to stop watching so much Discovery Channel when he can't sleep.
Someone eventually pounds on the side of the trailer, and they pile out. Backstage the noise is worse, and Bob's heart is pounding hard enough to make the fabric of his shirt quiver a little in time. His sticks slip in his sweaty hands, and he has yet to get onstage without thinking are you sure, do you really mean it, I don't know--
"Ready?" Ray says, coming in for a high-five.
"Like it's my job," Bob says back, and his hand comes up automatically. It is his job, anyway, and it's the best job in the world. When the others go on stage he follows, out to face the roaring crowd, the swell of bodies ready to scream in time with his rhythm.
---
"I feel like death," Ray says, afterwards. He lets his head flop limply against the floor. The underside of his 'fro is damp with sweat, and there's a red mark where his guitar strap rubbed against his skin.
Gerard moans, "I need tea." His voice is soft and thready. He's curled up on a chair, a far cry from the man who groped himself onstage a few minutes ago. The others are just as deflated; Ray's sprawled out on the ground, and Mikey and Frank are both sitting on a ratty couch with their heads tipped back, hands limp and open by their sides, twins in exhaustion. Bob didn't make it much farther than the opening of the tent, and he's only barely outside the flap's path when someone shoves it open.
"Do you guys need anything?" someone says.
"Tea," Gerard croaks out, sounding more pathetic by the minute. "With lots of honey."
"Sandwiches and sodas," Ray says, not lifting his head from the ground.
"Vegan," Frank says, like he's trying to put a whole sentence in the one word.
"Okay," the person says, and lets the tent flap fall. Bob drops his head against the surface of the tent.
"Decent show," Gerard says, and Bob slits his eyes open to see them all nod. They sit in silence until the someone gets back with their sandwiches, which they eat like they're starving, hunched over the paper wrappers. Bob's stomach hurts after he finishes. He winces when he shifts.
"Are we gonna get to take showers?"
Gerard looks up from his tea briefly to whisper "we've got to go to merch. But they have showers here. A shower."
"Dibs," Frank says, and levers another piece of sandwich into his mouth.
"Second!"
"Third!"
Gerard looks at him. "I'm good without one," he whispers.
Bob waves the offer off. "Take fourth."
"Bob likes a cold shower," Mikey comments from the couch.
"I'm gonna get my discman," he says. Gerard nods and dips his face back to his tea. No one else looks up from their food.
---
The air outside is stifling, and he feels slow, the sandwich a lump in his stomach. His shoulders feel like they're barely connected to his neck, and his elbows throb. The sunburned skin on his face is uncomfortably warm. His lower back feels like it's been taken out, liquified, and sloppily siphoned back in. It's better than the first days of touring, but not by a whole lot.
A couple of kids wandering through the parking lot yell "Bob! Hey, Bob!" and he stops after he realizes that they must mean him. "I'm going to be at the tent, later. With the band," he says, weakly, but they press a Sharpie into his hands, and he can't bear to say no. He signs for them, and when he's done with them there are more, kids wandering over on their way through. BB BB BB BB, BB BB BB, BB BB BB BB BB, and it's not that many, he's done more, but his initials look like a curse word before he's through. The last CD he signs looks more like DP, but the woman seems happy enough, gives him a hug even though he's sweaty and gross. "Thanks for everything," she says, wide-eyed and earnest.
"It's awesome that you listen, really," he says, stumbling over the words, still too surprised that she knows who he is to be able to speak with confidence.
When he finally gets on the bus, he can't remember what he was meaning to get. He stands by his bunk for a second, staring absentmindedly at the stuff scattered across his mattress just in case it jogs his memory, but nothing comes. He gives up and goes to sit down on the couch in the lounge.
Ruddy, their bus driver, pokes her head back into the main compartment. "Bob?"
"Yeah?"
"Is it all right if I turn off the bus for a little bit?"
"Sure," he says, confused.
"I just want to go for a smoke," she says, shifting her weight.
"No, no, it's fine, I'm gonna get up soon. You don't need to ask me," he says, as an afterthought, but she's already gone, the door banging in her wake. The bus goes quiet, the air conditioning shutting off with a click. Bob leans his head against the back of the sofa and thinks I can't go to sleep.
---
He wakes up to pain in his ear. "Fuck!" he yelps, and bats at whoever it is.
"We have an interview," Frank says, "and you smell like wet rotten ass." He flicks Bob's ear again. "You were supposed to help us become a clean band, Bob. Bob. Seriously, Bob."
"I will pay you five dollars to never say my name again," Bob says. Frank grins down at him, then swings his leg up and straddles Bob on the couch. This is new: Bob is not lifting him anywhere. He's hovering a few inches above Bob's crotch. Bob thinks about laughing, pushing Frank off, but decides he probably shouldn't. His hands stop midair, then settle on Frank's thighs. The muscles there tense and release under his hands. "Where are-where's everyone?"
"They're waiting for us. I'm waking you up," Frank says.
"Why you?"
"I drew the short straw," Frank says, "and everyone knows I have the best bedside manner."
Bob tries to think of a comeback, but his mind is too fogged with sleep. He scoots forward and stands up instead. He's expecting Frank to slide off, but Frank clings instead, and Bob has a moment of sickening imbalance before he rights himself. Frank's face is very close. Bob hesitates, then puts his hands on Frank's ass and hitches him up a little bit.
"You don't need to get fresh," Frank says, but he's still smiling. Bob starts to smile back, but then Frank is kissing him. It's only a quick brush of lips. Bob blinks at him.
"Hey--"
"C'mon," Frank says, and hops down, stretching a little before he takes his arms from around Bob's neck. "Interview time."
"Jesus," Bob says, but he follows Frank out the door.
n. the stretches traditionally used
to prepare a scholar for an act of translation.
He doesn't get to shower until they're on the bus again, heading off to Las Cruces. It's fucking torture. He washes quickly, but stays under the weak spray after he's done, stretching his shoulders and groaning a little under his breath. The water is sweet when he opens his mouth, already cooler than when he first stepped in.
Bus showers suck. His arms hurt. They have another concert tomorrow. He wants to sleep for three days straight, but he can't. Frank kissed him on the mouth, and Bob doesn't want whatever Frank meant by it to complicate things even more.
Life is hard, he thinks, in his mother's voice. He turns off the water.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Mikey and Gerard are conferring together over the tiny kitchen table. They don't look up. Frank calls his name, a soft questioning sound, and Bob ducks his head into the lounge. "What's up?"
"I think I can see the World's Largest Cross," Frank says, "come see." He's kneeling on the couch, braced against the window. Bob can't see past the dark shapes of his hands against the glass, the smudged fingerprints that light up with the passing cars. He walks closer, anyway, and makes a show of looking.
"Where?"
"Here," Frank says, tugging at the edge of Bob's shirt. "Come stand behind me." Bob rolls his eyes, but does as he's told, leaning over Frank's shoulder, holding himself up with one hand on the back of the couch. Frank taps one of his fingers. "See it?" The words are a short breath against Bob's cheek.
"I think I can." There's a dark spindly shape on the horizon, at least, a blot on the skyline, miles away. "That's got to be huge," he says. Frank turns his head, and they smile at each other. Bob starts to move away, but Frank catches his wrist, tugs him in and presses a kiss against the side of his mouth.
"What was that?" Bob says.
"A kiss, but if you disagree I'll understand," Frank says, lightly.
"Your girlfriend--"
"Wants you to come over sometime," Frank says, squeezes Bob's wrist once, and lets go.
"I can't," Bob says. It's not the right word for the feeling in his chest, the tightness in his lungs, but it's the best he can manage. "I can't--you're--I mean--"
"Hey, whoa," Frank says, and turns. His hand squeaks across the glass. He's even closer like this, breathing up into Bob's mouth, but he gets a grip on Bob's waistband before he can back away. "It's not something I want you to freak out about. It's just a thing."
"It's not the thing that bothers me," Bob says, and shakes his head when Frank laughs. "It's not. It's just-- how's that supposed to work? I'm in your band now."
"I don't know," Frank says after a beat, "I thought you might." Bob hesitates, then pushes back the lock of hair that's dangling in Frank's face. Frank tilts his head up into the touch. "It's not a big deal," he says, even quieter, "just sex."
"Just that."
"If Pete and Mikey can do it, why can't we?" he sing-songs, and Bob can't help but laugh.
"Never follow Pete's example. Even I know that."
"I think we could outclass Pete Wentz, what do you think?" Frank's eyes are dark and serious, a little sad. Bob knows it is a bad idea, but he puts his hand against Frank's jaw and kisses him. Frank licks at his lips, and Bob opens his mouth.
Ray's feet thunk against the floor when he rolls out of his bunk, and Bob stumbles back. Frank turns around and puts his hands back against the window, and looks back out at the rapidly darkening horizon. "We saw a giant cross," he calls out.
"I love giant crosses," Ray says happily. He comes into the lounge to knock his shoulder against Bob's and peer out the window. "Too bad I missed it. Grilled cheese?"
"I want two," Bob says, and steps aside to let Frank go ahead of him. Their eyes don't meet.
v.t. to fully realize the uninformed quality of one's instincts.
Frank nearly puts his foot through the kick drum, three shows later.
Afterwards, in the dusty lot that serves as the backstage, Bob catches Frank's arm. It slips in his hand. Sweat is dripping off of the curled ends of Frank's hair, onto his shoulders and the tops of his ears. "What?" he says, and wipes his face against the soaked shoulder of his t-shirt. Bob stares at the smear of eyeliner across the fabric.
What he was going to say was something funny, something like what did my kick drum ever do to you, but what comes out is, "Look-could you. Stop fucking with my drums."
"What?"
"Stop fucking with my drums," Bob repeats, half wanting to take it back.
"I'll kick what I want to," Frank says, and narrows his eyes. Bob tries to sidle by him, muttering okay whatever jackass, but Frank follows him, dogging his footsteps. "Are you saying you need me to calm down onstage, because--"
"No, it's--"
"Because I don't think you need to start running the stage from the drum kit just yet."
"It's important to the sound-" Bob tries, and then "They're expensive. Hundreds of dollars." Frank just talks over him, short sharp sentences, questions like little popping jabs, and Bob can't keep up, can't follow what he's talking about. Frank steps on the back of one of his shoes, treading too close to his feet, and Bob hunches his shoulder and throws his hand out, catching Frank on his chin and shoving him away.
Frank stumbles back, shocked, then hisses "you fucking asshole" and swings for Bob's face. Bob holds him off, tries to pull his punches and gets bitten for his trouble.
Worm finally comes over and breaks in when he realizes it's a fight and not a wrestling match, dragging Frank off and over to the side of the bus. Bob stands there, for a moment, watching Worm hold Frank, Frank's eyes hidden by Worm's shoulder. He gets on the bus and keeps his eyes down, goes to his bunk.
---
They don't speak for a day. Frank has several very quiet conversations with Gerard. Bob actually fucking throws up before he goes onstage, but no one sees. He wipes his mouth with the inside hem of his t-shirt, high-fives Ray and climbs the stairs.
---
"You could have fucking broken it," Bob finally says, barging into the lounge. "You could have fucking broken my fucking kick drum."
Frank pauses Super Mario and looks up at him.
"And I'm sorry I pushed you," he adds, lamely.
"It's okay," Frank says. His face is serious, and Bob thinks he's going to say something awful, something like we've reconsidered, but he just holds up the other controller and says, "Come be Luigi."
After two levels, Frank pauses the game again. "I'm getting Fritos," he announces, "and I'm sorry for trying to put my foot through your very expensive drum, which is essential to our sound."
Bob jerks his head up. "I- okay."
"Good, okay," Frank says. "Fritos."
"Right," Bob says.
That's really what makes up his mind.
n. the sound of a dog's nails on the hardwood floor
when it walks in repeated circles.
They have a day off after Portland, and even though they're going to be driving to Vancouver the next afternoon, they're all delirious with the knowledge that they won't be sleeping on the road. He changes clothes after their set and bums around by the buses, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from a cooler that someone's dragged out from the tents. He gets into a long conversation with The Rev about why The Rev chooses to use double kick drums ("fuck you, you pansy-assed cocksucking unmetal motherfucker! Two pedals and a kick is bullshit!") and ends up catching a ride back to the hotel on Avenged's bus.
At their hotel there's a party in someone's suite, he doesn't know whose. The bathroom counter is crowded with bottles of juice and cheap liquor. There's a guy in an Aqua t-shirt who claims to be the bartender; he mixes Bob something purple that tastes like an overripe apple. Bob wanders through the connecting door and scores a spot leaning against the bureau. He talks to someone for a while about dog racing, sipping slowly at his drink, and then when that guy leaves Rickie Mazzotta takes his place. He brings up an argument they had at a party in the beginning of the tour about tempo, and Bob has to put his drink down to try to figure out what the hell Rickie's talking about.
"So you're like one two three four-"
"No, it's like one two three, three and a half, four."
"Did you just say three and a half? There is no three and a half."
"That's how I conceptualize the break," Rickie says, and then looks up. "Sorry, do you need Bob for something?"
"Hey Frank." Frank drops onto his lap, ignoring his yelp, and puts his arms around Bob's neck.
"Are you talking shop at a party? Lame."
"Shut up," Bob says. Frank tips his head back and makes a face. "You need to blow your nose."
"Asshole." Frank sits up and holds out his hand. "Bob's got no manners, sorry. I'm Frank."
"Rickie."
"Nice to meet you, Rickie. Do you mind if I talk shop to him instead?"
"No, that's fine," Rickie says, looking bewildered. Bob can sympathize.
He expects Frank to get up and lead him elsewhere, but he just leans back again and whispers in Bob's ear. "You know our thing?"
It takes Bob a second to catch on. He nods stiffly.
"Do you want to?"
Bob nods, too conscious of his hand against Frank's back. Frank's shoes tap gently against his shin, off-tempo.
"Okay, cool," Frank says, and it sounds like he's laughing. "We're in room two-oh-four. Come over about nine." Frank slides off his lap. "Thanks, Rickie."
"Good guy," Rickie says, after Frank leaves. Bob nods again, stupidly. "Your band's pretty close, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess," Bob says. He rubs his hands over his thighs.
"I mean, at this point in the tour I want to kill Aaron."
"Aaron?"
"Lead singer. He's talking about how our next album needs to move away from 'the limitations of percussion.'" Bob just blinks at that, his hands falling still, and Rickie laughs, a short derisive sound. "Yeah." He looks into his cup, and puts it down on the dresser behind him. "Whatever, I don't care if I have to play the tambourine."
"The cowbell is better," he says. They laugh and fall silent. Bob runs his hands over his thighs, thinks what if--what would I do if-- He can't follow it through; he'd probably go back to tech work, but the idea of going back makes his head hurt. He watches three girls who are bouncing on one of the beds instead, the way their torsos bob up over the heads of the people crowded into the room. He finally breaks their silence by saying, "Three and a half?"
Rickie sighs. "Here, give me that piece of paper-"
Rickie eventually takes off, and Bob picks his drink back up. Someone's put a cigarette butt in it. He dumps it out in the bathroom sink before he leaves.
---
Gerard is in the room they're sharing already, laying on one of the beds and reading a thin book with a Buddha on the cover. He waves hello with one socked foot and smiles, lopsided. Bob waggles his foot back, and it turns into a grin.
"I'm gonna shower," he says, and Gerard nods and turns back to his book. His hair is damp and tangled, and the light makes him seem even more milky pale than usual. Why not him? Bob thinks, and oddly enough it's the first time he's thought of the question.
He realizes he's staring only when Gerard looks up again and quirks an eyebrow. "You doing okay?" he asks, at a loss for anything better to say. Gerard's forehead wrinkles, then smoothes out when he nods. He touches his throat with a fingertip, taps it twice.
"Oh," Bob says. "Right. Tell me if you want me to call for tea." Gerard nods, again, and picks up his book. "Sorry, right," Bob says, and actually goes to take the shower this time.
When he steps out, Gerard is there, sitting on the toilet lid. Bob lunges for a towel and wraps it around himself. Gerard smirks at him, waggling his fingers in a dirty hello. "Jerk," Bob says, and Gerard's face slides into a pout. "You are, shut up."
It's weird to put on deodorant and brush his teeth with an audience. He keeps looking over at Gerard, but he just taps his book against his knee and makes faces. Bob grimaces back around his toothbrush, foam dripping over his lip, and Gerard laughs, a short breath.
He spits and wipes his mouth. Gerard gets up and touches his shoulder, then rests his chin on it. Bob holds very still; Gerard is not delicate, but he, like Bob, rarely initiates this kind of stuff when he's sober. They stare at each other in the mirror, and then Gerard makes another face, his eyebrows rising together in the middle.
"I'm fine," Bob says, even if it isn't the right word for it, "I'm even going out tonight. To a party." Gerard tilts his head, considers, and drops the face. Bob hesitates, then touches his hand against Gerard's on his shoulder. "What's up?" Gerard just smiles, squeezes his shoulder and goes back out to the beds. Bob hears him flop down with a sigh.
Bob thinks about staying in the room, laying in the bed across from Gerard and falling asleep to the soft flip of pages. He thinks about what he would do if he had to leave the band, about why they want him. The lighting in the bathroom makes him look strung out and tired. He shrugs his shoulders at his reflection, picks up his shirt where he laid it out on the counter, and puts it on. He already told Gerard he was going.
When Bob opens the door, Gerard raises his foot again to wave goodbye. Bob thinks about saying something, but he's not sure what he should say. He just wags his foot behind him and shuts the door.
[part two here]