part 4
Part 3
Frank shuts the door to Bob’s apartment as quietly as possible. The door squeaks no matter how carefully he closes it, but he’s gotten pretty good at keeping it from shrieking in pain. Not that it matters, he can hear Bob stomping around the bedroom, so it’s not like he’s waking Bob up. He drops his backpack in the kitchen and heads towards the noise.
“Bob. I’m home. Calm down,” he says. He’s exhausted and stressed and he really just wants to take a shower, go to bed, maybe make out a little. He wants Bob to hold him, tell him he was worried, and then let him sleep.
“What the FUCK, Frank!” Bob snaps, whipping his head around so fast Frank’s neck hurts. Clearly there is going to be yelling now. He doesn’t want to deal with this. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was under arrest!” Frank says, pulling his jacket off and throwing it in the corner. “Sorry I didn’t have time to call and let you know I’d be late. Mikeyway called you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. Mikeyway called me. Mikey Fuckin’ Way.” Bob clenches his hands at his sides, unclenches, tries to calm down. He’s been pacing for hours, since he got home from work and Frank wasn’t there. Since Frank didn’t answer his phone. Since he thought Frank left, left him like Cassandra had. “You called Gee’s little brother instead of me!”
Frank pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at Bob. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Bob Bryar. I’m sorry I hurt your goddamn feelings by calling Mikey.” Bob lets the shirt hit him in the chest. “The next time detectives decide to keep me in a fucking interrogation room for thirteen hours, I’ll be sure to call you! Jesus Christ.”
“Why the fuck were you in interrogation for thirteen hours?”
“Because no one fucking believes that I do anything but fuck for money and carry drugs!” Frank snaps. “Some stupid fuck got killed in my building and instead of going after the gangbangers and assaults and fucking rapists the city’s got stashed in that fucking hellhole, they went after the whore.” He starts to head for the bathroom; Bob catches his wrist and tries to stop him. They’re not fucking done.
“Let go of me, Bob.” Frank doesn’t turn to look at Bob as he says it, his voice low and threatening. Bob doesn’t let go of his arm, tries to pull him back. “I mean it. Let. Go.” He wrenches his hand free, stomps to the bathroom and slams the door. Bob follows after him and gets a sneaker thrown at his head, then another, and jeans. Frank even manages to slam the shower curtain in Bob’s face. “Go the fuck away!”
"I don't know what the fuck you're playing at, Frank, but if this is the start of some shit with you and Mikeyway -" Bob has to stop short of saying then you can get the fuck out, the words stick to his gullet like shitty pizza on the rebound because even now in the middle of a white-hot burning betrayal rage, he can't deal with the idea. Frank, gone. For several hours today he thought Frank was out of there and it felt like someone had poured dry ice into his stomach. How the fuck dare he make Bob feel that way?
"What the fuck, Bob?" Frank shrieks, takes a breath, steps back. "What the ever-loving fuck. I was in jail. For murder. They thought I fucking killed someone." He sticks his head under the stream of water for a second, tries to drown out the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.
"... Who the what the ... why?" Bob thumps his hand against the wall, and something in his skin gives. There’s a smear of red on the paintwork. He’s going to have to redecorate the fuck out of this place before the next inspection. "Did you ... did you actually?"
“NO!” Frank yells, grabs the nearest thing that comes to hand and throws it at Bob through the shower curtain. “Jesus Christ, I can’t fucking believe you’d think I could kill someone!” He pounds his fists against the wall in front of him, laughs harshly. “Were you listening, or were you too busy thinking about me fucking around with Mikeyway? No. I didn’t kill anyone. The cops thought a hooker did it. I’m on the books for prostitution in the same building as the dead guy. Who the hell do you think they’re gonna look at? The whore.”
Bob stares at the curtain, bleeding onto his jeans and watching Frank’s hunched outline behind the material. He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything.
“I thought I was done with being behind fucking bars. I’m off parole in two months and I’m done, I’m fucking done with cops and cells and people treating me like a fucking druggy whore.” Frank's voice is obliterated and distorted as he scrubs at his face. “I’m gonna start over and get it right. And I’m not gonna listen to you accuse me of the same fucking shit. So shut. The fuck. Up.”
“Two months and you start over,” Bob repeats dumbly. He knew Frank’s parole was up soon. He hadn’t thought about what that would mean. Start over. Get it right. Like Cassandra. The dry-ice feeling is creeping back, burning in his stomach, behind his eyes. Frank’s going to leave. Leave him. Frank’s got a fucking future, he’s smart, he’s fucking scary-smart sometimes, and beautiful, and he’s not gonna stick around for some fucked-up screw with a shit apartment and a dead-end job. “Two months. Make ‘em count, then?” he says, chokes on please don’t leave me.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Where're you gonna go?" It's odd how the roles reverse. He feels like he's being the creepy stalker asshole he kept accusing Frank of being.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Frank snaps.
Bob makes a gesture that incorporates the bathroom and doesn't involve moving his wrist much. "When you. When you start over, Frank ... ie. When you start over, where are you going to go?"
"I'm not going anywhere!" Frank apparently doesn't get what Bob's problem is. He shoves his head under the stream of the shower to get the shampoo out before it burns his eyes. "Are you being stupid on purpose?" He chucks the bar of soap in at Bob. Throwing shit might take the edge off what even through the shower curtain is definitely a red-hot temper.
Bob dodges the soap through instinct more than design and in so doing bashes his elbow on the sink. "Stop making fun of me."
"Then stop being an idiot! Jesus, first you think I'm fucking Mikey and now you think I'm leaving."
"I never said I thought you were fucking Mikey," Bob mutters, twisting his hands together so hard he can hear as well as feel the bones of his fingers grating.
"It really sounded like it," Frank snaps. "Bob. I'm not going anywhere. Ok, I'll probably get a new apartment somewhere that's not full of cons and murderers. But that's about it." The washing sounds continue, and Bob imagines through the haze of panic that Frank is washing his hair.
His stomach says you could move in here but his mouth just makes a painful line across his face, and he crushes his hands against his temples. Macaulay Culkin. "You're not leaving."
Frank groans. "I'm not leaving. Why would I leave?"
Even in this state of acute distress, Bob knows better than to say, "because everyone leaves". It will sound childish and pathetic and like some fourteen-year-old Goth kid writing on their bedroom wall. But it's true, if by "everyone" you mean "his wife" and "one guy he might possibly have been crushing on, once, but never told".
Frank sticks his head out of the shower and scowls at Bob. "You're doing that thing again," he says. "Stop it. Stop acting like you're some emo kid and no one fucking understands you. Just tell me what the fucking problem is."
Bob is out of the bathroom before the sentence is even finished, into his shoes and coat, cigarettes in coat. If he just walks around a bit he won't end up yelling, he won't punch anything, he won't lose his temper, it'll all be fine. Frank won't be there when he gets back. He tries to tamp down on the thought but it rises again like stomach acid in the back of his throat as he gets to the apartment door. If I leave, he'll leave and he won't come back.
Frank swears violently after him. "Bob, you fucking idiot," he yells, slipping on the tile as he flails out of the shower. He trips over his jeans, doesn't bother with a towel; Bob barely registers the thumps. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Frank snarls, grabbing Bob's sleeve at the door.
Bob shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, which is a better gesture when a dripping-wet ex-con isn't pulling his sleeve half-off his jacket, balls-naked and glaring like a sphinx. "I ... just ... walking. Thinking." His face is red, and even he can't work out if it's anger or embarrassment or because he goes the color of strawberry milkshake when he's trying not to cry and always has done.
"You're leaving." Frank's fingers tighten in Bob's jacket. "You don't get to do this to me!" He pulls on the material in his fist, tries to drag Bob away from the door. "I don't care if you don't fucking talk about your issues, but you're not walking away from me!"
Bob stands in the doorway with one foot in the hall, not-staring at naked Frank but not looking anywhere else either. He feels prickly and like he's wearing a skin that belongs to someone much bigger than him, someone whose insides are made of acid or spines. It's like his stomach is trying to leave him; nothing feels right. He starts wishing he could faint, just put some unconsciousness between himself and the horrible blistering feelings that keep just bubbling up every time they ... fight, every time they ... fuck, every time anything happens to knock him out of complacency.
Right at this minute, Bob thinks there is nothing in the world more awful than being in love with someone.
"Bob. Bob, look at me," Frank says, pleads. "Don't you fucking dare leave." Bob guesses he didn't spend all fucking day in jail, threatened with life behind bars, cuffed, roughed up, to have Bob walk away from him like this. So that's just conjecture. Maybe he did.
"I'm not... I'm ... not..." Bob squeezes his eyes shut and says, "I'm not sure I can take any more of this."
Frank chokes off a harsh noise deep in his throat, an aborted sound of pain, digs his fingers into Bob's wrist. "Don't... Bob. No. Don't say that," he says.
"Not knowing," Bob adds, telling the ceiling because if he looks down, if he looks at Frank the tears that are welling up in his eyes will actually roll down his cheeks and then fuck knows what will happen. "Not knowing what ... when you're going to get ... move ... fuck ... it ..." he bites the inside of his mouth and scowls at the light fittings. "Not. SHITTING FUCK."
"What do you want me to do?" Frank demands, grabbing a fistful of Bob's shirt with his other hand so he can't go anywhere. "What's gonna get it into your stupid fucking head that I'm not leaving?" He steps closer, thumps his head on Bob's chest, buries his face in his shirt. "Tell me, please!"
By now Bob's incapable of speech. If he opens his mouth now he's either going to be sick or have an asthma attack even though he's pretty sure he doesn't have asthma; if he moves he's going to collapse or die or explode or something horrible, possibly shit himself, but most likely throw up. He manages to block the doorway entirely, his fists clenched and his eyes sweeping the ceiling for something that will let him unfreeze, let him get to the point he so desperately wants to be at now; wrapped around Frank on the couch with his mouth against the kid's throat and his hands on his belly and their hips together and why, why can't he get the words out?
"I love you," Frank says, desperate. "Bob, I love you, please, don't leave," he adds, sliding his arms around Bob's waist and clutches at him. "Just don't fucking leave me, please?"
Bob clutches abruptly at the back of Frank's head and buries his nose in wet hair, hanging on for dear life, but doesn't say anything. Frank's skin lies in front of him like a roadmap to safety, and he doesn't say a damn thing because his throat is closed. That's it for now. No more words. He just ... rubs his mouth on the top of Frank's head and marvels at how it feels, and how it smells.
Frank makes a sharp sobbing sound, laughing when Bob's hand gets in his hair. "I love you, you idiot," he says again, sounding choked. He tries to press himself closer to Bob, shivering a little. Wet and cold, and shivering.
He's shivering, Bob realizes, he's shivering and it's his fault. This doesn't do a great deal to undo the colossal knot in the chest but it does make him finally unbend enough to take his jacket off and offer it, tentatively, to Frank. "Sorry," he croaks, and to his utter humiliation there's a choked-off sob somewhere in it, even though his eyes have dried out again.
Frank takes the coat and shrugs it on, leans against Bob again. The jacket’s huge on him and hides his skin away. He feels a flash of regret at giving Frank the coat. “It’s ok,” Frank mutters. “Thanks.” He has his face buried in Bob’s chest still.
"Can we..." Bob clears his throat and tries to find something to do with his hands. He ends up putting them on his head. "Can we pretend this didn't happen?"
Frank reaches up and pulls Bob's hands down, curls his fingers around Bob's wrists. "No," he says quietly. "Cause then it'll happen again." He presses his forehead against Bob's shoulder. "But we can deal with it in the morning."
Bob curls his fingers around the edge of Frank's ear, resting his palm against the back of Frank's neck, and exhales slowly. That pretty much guarantees no sleep tonight. He's pretty much going to call in sick for tomorrow's afternoon shift and mean it, the way his stomach feels now. But maybe if he's awake all night he can figure out what to say to Frank.
I hate not being able to do anything to help you was probably top of the list.
Frank turns his head and kisses Bob's palm, the ball of his thumb. "We'll make it work, Bob," he says lips moving against Bob's skin. "We'll be ok."
And with that, Bob folds up on the spot into a tiny, crouching ball, and says, "Help."
Frank isn’t surprised to wake up to a cold spot next to him where Bob should be. He mutters to himself sleepily and grabs the first pair of pants that come to hand next to the bed. They’re Bob’s, and they’re falling off his hips when he stands up, but he’s not looking for another pair. “Bob, there’d better be coffee,” he says, tripping over the too-long hems. “Bob?”
There’s no answer from anywhere in the apartment. Frank is about to start panicking when he sees the pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table, right where the dogs’ leashes usually are. And there’s coffee on the stove. He’s embarrassed by how relieved he is. Bob’s not gone. He grins and mainlines some of the coffee, gets the stuff together to make breakfast.
By the time Bob gets back from walking the dogs, Frank’s singing Black Flag to himself in the kitchen and the whole place smells like burned toast and tofu sausages. The dogs barrel into the kitchen, skidding on the lino and barking for treats, effectively heralding Bob's return.
“You coulda left me a note or something,” Frank yells from the stove. “I made breakfast, c’mere.” Bob hangs his jacket up slowly, trudges to the kitchen. “I almost had a heart attack when you weren’t here,” Frank adds. It's probably weird, but Frank feels… like he belongs there, in Bob’s kitchen. Even if he does always burn the toast, which, Frank things defensively, is okay. Maybe burnt toast belongs in Bob's kitchen too. After all, it's not like he's a culinary master himself.
“I had to walk the dogs,” Bob mutters, leaning down to pet them awkwardly. “You were asleep.”
“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Frank can feel his smile go a little wonky on him. “Come. Here.” He holds out a mug of coffee for him like a bribe. Bob stumbles forward like a dog-anchored zombie. Frank holds the coffee out of reach, stands on tiptoe to kiss Bob’s cheek before handing it over. “Go. Sit. Stop looking like I’m gonna make you talk about feelings this early in the day.” He turns back to scoop burnt toast, eggs - Bob refuses to eat the vegan egg-substitute shit he uses - and fake sausage onto Bob’s chipped plates. And, okay, he's kind of lying because he is going to make Bob talk about feelings and shit, but after food. When they’re both awake, and caffeinated, and possibly both naked so it’s harder for Bob to run away.
Frank drops the plates on the table in front of Bob, sinks into the chair next to him. “You’re outta coffee again,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the counter where Bob keeps his grind, and starts eating.
“Maybe if you didn’t drink so much of it,” Bob mutters, eyeing up Frank's kickass apron like he's never seen the thing before. Or maybe looking at the bare skin that the apron isn't quite covering. Frank resists the urge to try to strike a sexy-pose for him.
“Maybe if you got shittier coffee I wouldn’t drink so much of it,” Frank says, grinning. Bob gets the cheapest stuff he can get, it’s swill and they both know it. Frank just drinks too much coffee. Bob tries to smile back, gets Frank’s ankle hooked around his under the table in return. “You’re lucky that I like you despite your shitty nastyass coffee.”
Bob mutters some sort of answer into his eggs and makes a fucking production of not watching Frank eat. He shifts in his seat, staring down at his own food, clings to his fork like a lifeline.
“I’m skipping class today,” Frank says around a mouthful of half-chewed toast. Bob grimaces, and Frank grins at him. “Yeah, yeah. Mouth full. Whatever. Can I hang out here? I don’t wanna go back to that place while cops are still crawling all over it.” He pauses, swallows his food. “Actually, I don’t wanna go back at all. Fuck, I need to start looking for another place. Somewhere closer to the campus that’s not overrun with fratboys or rapists.”
Bob looks weird, uncomfortable, not like he's about to tell Frank to stop being gross. He shoves more food in his mouth to choke back whatever it is he's gonna say, grunts at Frank to show he's paying attention and not getting lost in his own head again, Frank guesses.
“Heeey. Bob. So, can I stay?” he asks, bumping Bob’s ankle with his own. Bob looks up and gets a shrug. “There are cops everywhere and it’s an extra douchey cross-section of ‘em.” Bob looks back down at his plate and swallows roughly.
“Yeah. I. Um. I called off work,” he says, reaches over to Frank’s plate to steal one of his sausages.
“Hey hey hey,” Frank protests and catches Bob’s wrist. “That’s mine. There’s more on the fucking stove if you want it, fatass.” Frank pulls the sausage off Bob’s fork and shoves it in his mouth, licks his lips in a way that's calculated to torment Bob. Bob pushes himself up to his feet and goes to the stove, chewing on his. The sausage in the pan probably doesn’t look nearly as appetizing as the stuff on Frank’s plate. Or Frank’s mouth.
* * *
Move in with me, Bob wants to say, can feel Frank staring at him. Move in move in move in. He pokes at the food with a spatula, shifts his weight. Frank’s fork scrapes off the plate, makes a shrill noise that makes Bob jump. “Frankie,” he mutters, directing it at the pan.
“What? Sorry, it happens sometimes,” Frank protests, “Anyway, if you’re gonna be here, you wanna order pizza or something tonight? The game’ll be on.”
Bob doesn’t have any reason to say no. He doesn’t care about baseball, but he sort of admits to liking watching the game with Frank, he gets all excited and handsy when his team’s doing well. He nods slowly. Move in with me. Don’t leave. He drops the spatula on the counter. “Um. SHIT. Frank."
“Fucking what?” Frank asks. Bob hears the chair scrape back, Frank’s feet shuffling on the floor.
“Move in with me,” he blurts at the pan. He waits for Frank to laugh at him, say no, leave.
“Fuck yeah,” Frank says, and there’s a couple stomping footsteps on the tile before he’s got thin arms around his waist squeezing hard enough to knock his breath out. “Hell. Fucking. Yes,” Frank mutters, burying his face in Bob’s back. Bob gets his hands on Frank’s, feeling the thin bones of his wrists and his pulse flying under ink. The words came out dreamlike and easy, like saliva, and the answer was yes. The answer was yes. No flinching, no arguing, nothing but a hug and a yes. Fucking yes. Bob exhales slowly and rests his forehead on the overhead cupboard. He realizes after a minute that the reason his cheeks hurt is because he's smiling.
Frank curls his fingers in Bob's shirt over his heart, kisses his back. "Fuck yeah," he says again, and tugs his hands out of Bob's so he can turn him around, stands on tiptoe to kiss Bob's cheek, his smile. Frank's not done with that, hooks his arms around Bob's neck and nuzzles at his mouth til they're kissing slow and dirty. He taste like coffee and veggie substitute sausage and Bob can't help himself, gets his hands on Frank's waist and pulls him close. He wants more skin under his hands, the apron keeps getting in his way. It takes him a minute to untie the strap so it falls off, and Frank laughs against his mouth when he swears at the knots. When he's finally got full access to Frank's skin (all soft and bare and dark ink under his hands) he shifts them again, pins Frank back against the counter. Frank's not leaving, is gonna move in. Frank's hands are hot on his back through his shirt and he's pushing back against Bob. "Are you gonna fuck me here?" Frank asks when Bob moves to kiss his neck, his ear. His voice is breathy and eager, rolling his hips against Bob's.
Bob hadn't really thought that far ahead, but now the idea's been implanted in his head he can't think of a single reason why he shouldn't. His dick is probably doing the thinking, but that's okay. Plus, Frank looks good in his kitchen, looks like he belongs there. He'll look even better naked and sex-messy. Frank grins against his mouth.
"Get naked," he orders, kisses a trail over Bob's cheek to bite at his ear. Bob doesn't do what Frank says, is too busy trying to get the fly on Frank's pants open. Until he realizes that it's gonna be easier to just shove them down off Frank's hips and lift him up onto the counter to pull them off all the way. Frank laughs, keeps kissing Bob's face. "Fuck, we're gonna have to stash lube everywhere," he says, pulls Bob close so he can kiss him properly again.
Bob can't even bother to be embarrassed about that, not when Frank's tugging on his shirt, pulling it over his head and running his nails down Bob's chest. He's still fascinated by Bob's nipple ring, like a shiny sexy present every time he gets Bob naked. He twists it gently, wants to hear that growly noise he makes. Bob obliges Frank, making this really sexy rumbling noise deep in his chest and biting Frank's cheek. Frank does it again, grinds his hips against Bob's when he does. Bob's hands grab at his ass, pulling him forward so he's just perched on the edge of the counter with his knees around Bob's waist. "Fuck, Frankie," Bob grunts in his ear, pushes his still bepantsed crotch against Frank's so the denim scrapes against his skin.
“Boooob,” Frank whines, satisfyingly needy when Bob grinds on him. “God. Go get lube, seriously,” he adds and pushes Bob away. Bob holds on for another second, kissing Frank roughly, pulls back with a low grunt to get the lube from his… their… room.
When he gets back, Frank's got his hand on his dick, pulling slow and steady with his lower lip caught in his teeth. "Come on, come on," he gasps, as Bob watches him run his thumb over the head of his erection. "Bob, come on." Bob can't resist Frank when he looks like that, legs spread, eager and needy and his eyes this intense green under his lashes. He's back on Frank in a heartbeat, grabbing his skinny legs and plastering their mouths together. Frank’s got his hands in Bob’s hair and his mouth open under Bob’s, all soft heat and slick metal. It doesn’t take him long to get the cap off the lube, they’ve been fucking long enough now that he can get it one handed without looking like a retard, and works his hand between Frank’s legs. He works one slick hand over Frank’s cock, listens to the quick moan Frank breathes out, and slides two fingers into him.
Frank arches up, head back against the cabinet and his back a sharp curve that pushes his chest forward for Bob to bite at. Bob can’t resist, sinks his teeth into Frank’s collar bone, his pecs, the flat pink circle of his nipple. Frank has his fingers in his own mouth, moaning when Bob works another finger into him. Fuck, he never wants to stop touching Frank like this, wants to be inside him forever, hearing the desperate way Frank gasps his name.
Bob keeps going, works his fingers inside Frank until the kid is panting and desperate and demanding more. “Bob, please, hurry up,” he gasps, digging his heels into Bob’s thighs. Bob can’t argue with that, lubes his dick and pushes Frank’s legs open further, pushes into him. “Fffffuck,” Frank moans into Bob’s ear, pulls Bob further in. Bob’s panting, forehead on Frank’s shoulder, clutching at him, running his hands over Frank’s skin like he can’t help himself (he can’t). And then Frank rolls his hips, desperate, and Bob starts fucking him, as hard as he can despite the awkward angle, hearing Frank’s thin whines and pleas.
Her can't hold Frank the way he wants to, can't get his hands under Frank's ass or as deep as he wants. Frank's hands are on his shoulders, gripping and sliding, digging into his muscles. "Shit, Frank," he groans, finally unable to take not having Frank the way he wants. He pull out and gets gouges dragged down his arms in return, but he's pulling Frank down off the counter and pushing his face-first into it. And then he's buried in Frank's ass again, grabbing at his hips with one hand and holding him close, so close against Bob's chest. He buries his face in Frank's neck again, fucking him hard, his eyes shut so he can hear Frank moaning his name.
“You’re like a fucking Viking,” Frank drawls, flopped half over Bob’s chest to bite at his piercing.
“You’re weird,” Bob says, running his fingers through Frank’s sweaty, messy hair. But he’s smiling down at the kid, feeling warm and sort of slidey inside where usually he only feels acid and spikes and terror.
“No, seriously. You’re all blonde and growly and, like, forceful and shit,” Frank explains, waving vaguely in the air. “It’s hot.” He rests his pointy chin on Bob’s sternum, grinning at him. “Bob the Viking.”
Bob pokes at Frank’s cheek. “What, pillage but no rape?” he mutters, grinning when Frank bites his finger.
“You can pillage me any time.” Frank yelps and flails when Bob grabs a pillow and pretends to smother him with it, wrestling around until he ends up on his back with his hands over his head and Bob between his knees again. Bob pulls the pillow off Frank’s face so he doesn’t actually die, and Frank’s grinning at him. “Pillowage, Bob?” he says, laughing, and Bob can’t stop himself from kissing Frank’s stupid-pretty mouth again and again. Frank hooks his arms around Bob’s neck and arches up against him, laughing and muttering about Vikings.
They’re absolutely disgusting, sweaty, sticky, sore muscles and blooming bruises, when the sun is sliding down behind the next apartment building and the bedroom is getting dark. Frank’s face is buried in Bob’s neck, licking slowly at his sweaty skin, and Bob’s running his fingers through Frank’s hair. The room smells like a brothel and the sheets aren’t salvageable. Bob’s never felt this sort of comfort and satisfaction, warm and low in his belly, curling through his chest. Frank’s skin looks like a warzone, bruises and bite marks mixed with his tattoos. He’s marked, with Bob’s hands and teeth and sweat, and he doesn’t try to fight the hot surge of pride he feels at the way Frank stretches and groans quietly.
“Jesus Christ,” Frank mutters, pressing himself closer to Bob’s side, like even the layers of sweat between them are too much. “We do still have to talk, you know,” he adds. He loops one arm around Bob’s waist, doesn’t let him shift away when he tries. “Now that you’ve fucking marked your territory, you brute.” Bob’s warm comfortable feelings are sliding away. He keeps petting Frank’s head, absently, like a puppy’s, but he’s not really enjoying the damp curl of hair between his fingers any more.
“Do we have to?” Bob asks, and hates how petulant he sounds even to his own ears.
"Yeah," Frank say, and presses a kiss to his pulse like an apology. "Sorry, man. You're stuck with me, and that means talking. I just... I don't want to have to wonder if you're going to head for the hills as soon as I slip up and say stupid shit, alright?" He clutches at Bob for a second, then relaxes his grip a little. "I fucking love you," Frank mutters, "And I guess I just don't know what the fuck I've got to do to make you get that."
Bob digs his fingers into Frank’s flesh, makes an aborted attempt to say anything. He manages to choke out a painful “Frankie,” before his throat closes up. He doesn’t know how to make himself say that he’s terrified that Frank will see how pathetic he is, get sick of dealing with Bob’s issues, decide the sex isn’t worth the bullshit any more. And Frank’s afraid Bob’s going to leave him?
He’s horrified by his own reactions to Frank now, these urges that make him want to keep Frank for himself, mark him, follow him if he tries to leave. “Frank… I…” He tries to talk, can’t. He makes a frustrated noise, low and painful in his throat, and pushes Frank onto his back, leans over him. Frank rolls, stares up at him. Bob can see what might be tears on Frank’s lashes and guilt rushes him. He wants to say so many things, but his throat is coated in nails and his tongue is lead.
I hate not being able to do anything to help you. I can’t keep making you so sad. I’m sorry. I want you here forever. You're the best thing that’s happened to me and it scares the shit out of me. I’m going to fuck this up and hurt you. Please don’t leave me, I can’t handle it if you leave me.
I love you. Please don’t leave me. I love you.
He cradles Frank’s head, tries to make him understand without having to say anything. He curls his thumb under Frank’s eye, catches a drop of sweat, rubs it away. Frank’s chewing on his lip, looks so fucking young, fragile in Bob’s hands. He leans in and kisses him so lightly he’s not even sure Frank can feel it. Frank clenches his eyes shut, a quiet noise sliding out of his throat. Bob kisses him again and then again, until he can manage to say Frank’s name again, humiliatingly like a plea against Frank’s cheek.
Frank’s sacked out on the couch when Bob gets home from Arthur Kill. The dogs are curled up and making their whuffly sleep-noises on the floor next to him and the TV is showing some crap sci-fi show in the background. Frank’s been doing his homework on the couch again: he’s got War and Peace open on his stomach.
And there are bandages on his wrist that make Bob’s heart stop and his stomach churn. He comes to the couch, sits next to Frank so he can push his hair off his face. “Frankie. Frank. Wake up,” he mutters, and gets a smack to the face for his trouble. Then Frank opens his eyes.
“Huh? Wha? Jesus Christ, Bob, you scared me,” he says, scrubbing at his face. He smiles at Bob. “Um. Hi. How was work?” Bob doesn’t answer, catches Frank’s wrist carefully.
“What’s this?” he demands, holding the bandaged limb up. “Frank. What. Is. This.”
Frank stares at him stupidly for a second. “You think... oh, god, you think I cut myself!” he says, and laughs. “Jesus, no. I only look like an emo kid.” He pulls his wrist back and peels the bandages off his skin. There’s a fresh tattoo, this fuck-ugly rose with a thorny stem wrapping around his wrist. Bob goggles at him, like he can’t believe Frank would get this. It’s such a girl tattoo. “It’s a briar rose,” Frank says when he offers it back to Bob so he can see it.
“Um. Ok,” Bob mutters. It’s well done, at least, if fucking trite.
“Oh my God, you idiot. It’s a briar rose. BRIAR.” Bob knows that tone. That’s Frank’s Bob Bryar is special and I only put up with it because he’s cute tone. Wait. What?
Oh.
“You… got… um. A. You. Um.” Bob shifts his grip on Frank’s arm so he can hold him without touching the raised skin. “A… a briar rose.” He can feel his face turning red, it feels like he’s about to combust. Frank… Frank got a stupid pun of his name tattooed on his skin. Where people can see it. Frank got himself marked with Bob’s name. Permanently. Bob’s pants go tight, and he thinks he might be salivating. Frank looks pleased with himself, slouched on the couch with his pretentious Russian novel and his too-big hoodie. Bob knocks Dostoyevsky off Frank’s chest and replaces it with himself.
Bob isn’t paying attention to the movie Frank is watching. It’s Troy, which Bob has seen and wasn’t impressed with, but Frank likes it. He says Sean Bean reminds him of Bob. Bob doesn’t get it, but he’s not going to argue with Frank’s logic. There’s no point. So he just tunes it out and sort of drifts off to a comfortable half-sleep, face buried in Frank’s neck and tasting his favorite patch of skin under the kid’s ear. He isn’t paying attention at all, until someone on screen starts shrieking about Cassandra.
He hears the name and can’t stop himself from clutching at Frank. He’s fully awake now, and fully aware that Frank’s gonna want to know.
"Mmmmwhat's up?" Frank says, squirming and rolling over so he can look at Bob. "Something wrong?"
Bob is awkward and don't-wanna-talk-about-it, but he's trying to be better about shit like this. Saying the actual words instead of glaring until questions disappear. "It's. Um. Oh. It's. It was. It's." He passes a hand in front of his face. "It was a long time ago."
Frank sighs. "Ok," he says, kissing Bob's chin lightly.
"No no no, I mean," Bob says, grabbing Frank's bicep. "No no," he adds, ruffling his own hair and making a face. “I mean. Ugh. Look. Shit. Listen." Not that he needs to say that, Frank is looking up at him intently. "She left."
Frank shifts again, pushes himself up so he can kiss Bob. "She did. I'm not gonna," he says, noses at Bob's cheek. "Ok?"
Bob makes a relieved noise and wraps his arms around Frank, squeezing him closer. "She left because I'm an idiot."
"She left because she was an idiot," Frank says loyally.
Bob shakes his head, drums his fingers on Frank's shoulder and mutters into his cheek, "I was a fucking idiot." He begins to feel some of the old, bilious guilt bubbling up inside himself. "I didn't. Um. You know."
"Talk to her?" Frank asks rather dryly.
Bob just groans and tries to kiss Frank on the corner of the mouth. Frank bites at Bob's lipring. "Ok, you are an idiot," he agrees. "But I love you. So I guess that makes me an idiot, too." He drags his hand up Bob's back, cards his fingers through Bob's hair so he can see the tattoo on his wrist. Bob shuts his eyes and kisses Frank's knuckles.
Checking that Bob is still trying to make Ray and Gee stop moving the pile of quarters up and down the edge of the pool table, Frank leans in on the bar to mutter at Quinn. "Whoze Cassandra?" His beer bottle is warm in his hand.
"Whoze who?" Quinn's frown is directionless, wandering about the bar like a lost child.
"Cassandra." Frank glances meaningfully over his shoulder at Bob, who has given up on the impossible task of keeping the quarters in one spot and is trying to explain something to Brian. His hands keep starting these movements and then stopping in embarrassed jerks and darting back to his pockets like frightened mice. Frank realizes he's been staring for too long, and jerks his attention back to Quinn's confused face and nearly-empty beer.
Realization seems to be dawning. "Cassandra, Bob-and-Cassandra, Cassandra?" Quinn points his beer at Frank like a questioning finger.
Frank rolls his eyes, and his beer between his hands. "Yeah, Bob-and-Cassandra Cassandra." It tastes like an ashtray on his tongue, that phrase. He wants to shove Quinn off his stool and say, no, no, no. It's Bob-and-Frank, asshole, it's Bob-and-Frank. "Who fucking else?"
It's meant to be a rhetorical question, but even sober Quinn can no more grasp rhetoric than he can spell it. The sarcasm goes hurtling past his head. "Cassandra ... uhhh... that chick from that show." Quinn screws up one half of his face and elaborates, "That shitty one on Fox. With the guy who does magic."
Be nice, Frank reminds himself. The apparent love of Quinn's life is still in jail and not coming out any time soon.
You catch more flies with jam than you do by being an asshole. Frank pokes Quinn in the upper arm and waves an unsteady hand in his face like Quinn's the one who keeps getting distracted by Bob's conversations. "Quinn."
Quinn stares at him blearily and grabs at the next beer. He's stacking. If Frank weren't already drunk he might be sympathetic; being away from Bert must suck something shitty. "Cassandra," Frank reminds him. Fuck, he hates that name.
"Whatabouther?”
"What ... y'know. What." Frank pokes him in the chest, like that will transmit the question from Frank's brain to Quinn's without him having to articulate anything. Quinn looks at his hand and back up at Frank's face.
"What what?” He looks confused as to why he’s getting poked, and like he's going to smack Frank's hand away in a minute. The eyebrows and the mouth don't line up into the same expression.
"What happened?" Frank takes his hand away, drinks his own beer, chasing the question back down his own throat.
Quinn makes one or two movements in the air in front of him like he's about to launch into an important lecture, belches quietly, and leans on his beer. "She wenaway.”
“I know.” Frank breathes in and chokes on his beer. There's a moment where he suffocates on hops and the barman shakes his head. Quinn thumps him on the back slightly too hard and Frank slaps him away feebly, still choking. He nods once or twice as the coughs slacken off, meaning go on, but he has to punch Quinn in the arm before he gets the hint.
"She wenaway," Quinn repeats, like Frank is somehow hazy on this detail. "Goodbye Bob." He makes running motions with his fingers along the bar, stops, and frowns at his own fingers like he only just saw them. Frank wants to reach out and shake him until he gets to the fucking point, fast, before Bob comes over here. "Screwing some guy called -hic- Matt." Quinn taps the side of his nose, and misses by a couple of inches, resorting to his beer with a sheepish look. "Behind his ..." He takes a swig. "Behind Bob..." He ducks lower over the bar, his elbow in the bar nuts. "Behind his back."
Frank releases the breath he's been holding in a rush of furious air. "Fucking cunt."
"Whatyergottaunderstand -" Quinn begins hastily, motioning for Frank to be quiet.
"She fucking cheated on him -" Frank hisses, because what he gotta understand is that this Cassandra is a fucking whore and he hates her like he hates nothing else in this world right now.
"WHATYERGOTTAUNDERSTAND IS -" Quinn shouts, waving him back into his seat. The guys at the pool table ignore them. Frank guesses they're used to his drunk shouting.
"CHEATING." Quinn smacks a hand over his mouth - it smells of pot and beer and salt, and it's probably for the best but he kind of wants to bite him anyway. What the fuck does he gotta understand? Frank doesn’t really see a lot of ways to get around that. She cheated. On Bob.
"Thought he dinloveranymore," Quinn mumbles, taking his hand off Frank's mouth.
Frank considers this. "S'possible," he acknowledges. Something like a cold stone begins to form in his stomach. When would she have worked that out, before or after the moment when he will? Would he notice at all?
"HE DID." Quinn slams his hand down on the bar so hard everything on it jumps, and the bartender scowls.
"Shh." It's Frank's turn to clap a hand over Quinn's mouth. Quinn licks him until he lets go in disgust.
"WELL HE FUCKIN -" Frank jams his hand over Quinn's mouth again and holds it there over the licking and attempts to peel his fingers off, over Quinn banging his beer impatiently on the bar.
"Fucking cunt," Frank sighs, releasing Quinn at last.
"Women," Quinn says sagely, like he knows anything about the subject. He swigs.
"Oh shut up." Frank drinks half the bottle in the pause that follows. Someone - possibly Ray - calls someone else - possibly Gee - a lousy shot, and there's laughter. He contemplates the information, and the strange flow of cold dread and vicarious, protective fury it generates in his guts, sloshing around with the beer. "So how did he ..."
"On the couch." Such a scandalized expression that if they were talking about anything else, Frank'd be amused.
"What?" He asks, making sure he's got the right idea.
"On the couch they bought together." Quinn seems oddly incensed by this. Frank's seen his apartment. It may just be the idea of someone owning a couch.
"He ... what? Couch?" Frank probes. That's not what he wants, this couch obsession, but it seems to be taking him over as well. Quinn performs a grotesque mime before returning to his beer. Frank is momentarily struck by the desire to smack Quinn upside the head, but it passes. He glances over at Bob again; he's rolling his eyes at Gee-the-cupcake-king failing at pool, because he's too busy making gaga eyes at Ray. Again.
"So he divorced her?" he mutters, turning back to find Quinn stealing the rest of his beer.
"Uh," Quinn puts the beer back down defensively, and puts his hand on Frank's bicep to steady himself. It's almost comical how drunk they're getting, over here. Frank swears he never wants to play a game of pool again, fucking prison, but seriously, it might be better than getting puke-drunk like this. "Thethingabout Bob is. Is. His. Acting. Not." Quinn pats Frank unsteadily on the arm. "Feelsick. Um. Not acting on thinking, the ... oppo...inver...oppoface." He hiccups. "She made him gettadivorce so she could marry thingy. Matt. Matthew." He adopts a squeaky voice. "Someone who knows what women need."
Frank scowls and finishes his own beer. "Cunt." He sorta wants to go hug Bob, and maybe blow him. Or maybe punch the shit out of Cassandra. "She in the city?"
Quinn shakes his head vigorously. "Cali-fornicatia."
"Figures." If you're going to go somewhere to be a fucking cunt, Frank guesses that the land of cunts and assholes is probably the place to do it. Okay, he's never been to California, but it's full of people who can't seem to stop splitting up and acting like jerks. Good luck to them.
Quinn pokes him in the arm, breaking into his thoughts. "Beer." He looks hopeful.
"Buy your own beer." Frank shrugs his arm away. He's tired, now, weirdly drained, and his bladder is whining like a hungry dog.
"Beer for ratting on my buddy," Quinn insists, slamming his empty on the bar and earning himself a warning look from the bartender.
"He's my -" Frank begins, but Quinn cuts him off with a yell.
"BEER, ASSHOLE."
Frank slides off the stool and shakes his head in despair. He needs a pee so badly he's going to get one of those shitty pee-boners, where full bladder sits on prostate and makes everything hell, if he doesn't get to the bathrooms. “I GOTTA PISS, ASSHOLE. Get your own.”
Quinn eyeballs him gravely from his slump, and points the empty at Frank's face. "Beer or I can't pissible be drunk enough to have told you that on my own."
Frank pats him as he leaves to pee, "Oh, you fucking are. Trust me."
When Frank gets back from draining the fucking lizard Bob's by the bar. He stalks the conversation like he used to stalk his parents talking late at night, curiosity getting the better of common sense.
Bob's buying Quinn a beer, it seems. Frank grins into his arm and listens, three feet behind Bob's back and out of Quinn's line of sight. "What was that about?" Bob asks, jerking his head toward the bathroom without looking.
Frank freezes.
Quinn shrugs easily. "He wanted to know how big my dick was."
That asshole. Quinn is grinning to himself, sloppy and ridiculous, waiting for his beer.
But Bob, thankfully, just snorts and sets the beer a little closer to Quinn's childish gimme hands. "I hope you remembered to tell him slightly below average," and for a moment Frank finds his throat is filled with jealous bile, as the look that passes between them tells him Bob knows from experience.
Quinn shrugs again, "Dintwanna steal your boy offa you with promises of all those three extra inches," and promptly falls off his stool, dropping his beer over his lap as he goes.
“Yerra good boyfriend, Bobbybryar,” Frank is slurring against Bob’s cheek. “A good fuckin’ boyfriend.” Bob is half-carrying Frank up the stairs to his apartment, Frank’s head flopped back against his neck and his hands flailing (it’s probably supposed to be expressive but Bob thinks he just looks really fucking drunk). “Immmean it,” Frank says, very very seriously, while Bob props him against the wall to get the door open.
Bob just grunts at him. Frank is Quinn-drunk, the kind of drunk Bob knows from experience. He’s warned him about trying to keep up with Allman, he really has, but Frank is a stubborn little fucker. “C’mon, Frankie, lie down before you puke on the fucking carpet,” he says, guiding Frank over to the sofa. No way in hell is he gonna let Frank puke in the bedroom.
“Bob, iz time for snuggles,” Frank mumbles when Bob leaves him on the sofa to get him water and a bowl. “Boooob.”
“I’m not snuggling with you if you’re gonna be sick,” Bob says, plopping a bucket in front of the sofa for Frank and a glass of water on the table. “Drink up.” He sits next to him, though, and helps Frank sit up to drink his water. He knows how it feels to fail at keeping up with Quinn’s drinking.
“Nnnooo not gonna be sick,” Frank says when he’s finished the water. He tugs Bob down onto the couch next to him, and Bob can’t resist when he’s pouting like that. Frank ends up the little spoon, Bob curling around behind him and petting his hair. “I like your couch,” Frank mumbles. “Izza good couch.” Bob makes some sort of agreement-type noise and kisses Frank’s head. “Good couch for younme, Bobbybryar.”
“Okay, Frankie,” Bob mutters.
“Ezzactly. Is a good couch for younme, jus’ younme. Bob-an-Frankie.” Frank is very serious. “No one else ever.”
“What about the dogs, Frank?” Bob asks. It’s easy to be patient with Frank when he’s drunk.
“Nnooo doggies don’ count.” Frank squirms over and gives Bob a look like he’s the dumbest person he’s ever met. “Don’ wanna have sex with the doggies.” He pouts at Bob. “Bob-an-Frankie. Izzsupposed to be Bob-an-Frankie. No one else.”
“Ok, Frankie.”
Frank smiles blearily at Bob. “Yer my first real boyfrienn, you know?” Bob stares down at Frank. “I mean, there was a coupla kids, but not like you, Bobbybryar.” Frank looks sleepy, and sort of sleepy-happy-drunk. Bob tucks Frank’s head down under his chin so he can’t see his eyes any more. It makes it easier for him. “Yer the first guy I fucked and didn’t get paid for.”
“Ok, Frankie,” Bob mutters against the top of Frank’s head. Frank’s the first guy he’s fucked, drunken handjobs not withstanding.
“I love you, Bobby, you an’ yer couch. Okay?”
“Yeah, Frankie. Okay.”
Next
Frank shuts the door to Bob’s apartment as quietly as possible. The door squeaks no matter how carefully he closes it, but he’s gotten pretty good at keeping it from shrieking in pain. Not that it matters, he can hear Bob stomping around the bedroom, so it’s not like he’s waking Bob up. He drops his backpack in the kitchen and heads towards the noise.
“Bob. I’m home. Calm down,” he says. He’s exhausted and stressed and he really just wants to take a shower, go to bed, maybe make out a little. He wants Bob to hold him, tell him he was worried, and then let him sleep.
“What the FUCK, Frank!” Bob snaps, whipping his head around so fast Frank’s neck hurts. Clearly there is going to be yelling now. He doesn’t want to deal with this. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was under arrest!” Frank says, pulling his jacket off and throwing it in the corner. “Sorry I didn’t have time to call and let you know I’d be late. Mikeyway called you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. Mikeyway called me. Mikey Fuckin’ Way.” Bob clenches his hands at his sides, unclenches, tries to calm down. He’s been pacing for hours, since he got home from work and Frank wasn’t there. Since Frank didn’t answer his phone. Since he thought Frank left, left him like Cassandra had. “You called Gee’s little brother instead of me!”
Frank pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at Bob. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Bob Bryar. I’m sorry I hurt your goddamn feelings by calling Mikey.” Bob lets the shirt hit him in the chest. “The next time detectives decide to keep me in a fucking interrogation room for thirteen hours, I’ll be sure to call you! Jesus Christ.”
“Why the fuck were you in interrogation for thirteen hours?”
“Because no one fucking believes that I do anything but fuck for money and carry drugs!” Frank snaps. “Some stupid fuck got killed in my building and instead of going after the gangbangers and assaults and fucking rapists the city’s got stashed in that fucking hellhole, they went after the whore.” He starts to head for the bathroom; Bob catches his wrist and tries to stop him. They’re not fucking done.
“Let go of me, Bob.” Frank doesn’t turn to look at Bob as he says it, his voice low and threatening. Bob doesn’t let go of his arm, tries to pull him back. “I mean it. Let. Go.” He wrenches his hand free, stomps to the bathroom and slams the door. Bob follows after him and gets a sneaker thrown at his head, then another, and jeans. Frank even manages to slam the shower curtain in Bob’s face. “Go the fuck away!”
"I don't know what the fuck you're playing at, Frank, but if this is the start of some shit with you and Mikeyway -" Bob has to stop short of saying then you can get the fuck out, the words stick to his gullet like shitty pizza on the rebound because even now in the middle of a white-hot burning betrayal rage, he can't deal with the idea. Frank, gone. For several hours today he thought Frank was out of there and it felt like someone had poured dry ice into his stomach. How the fuck dare he make Bob feel that way?
"What the fuck, Bob?" Frank shrieks, takes a breath, steps back. "What the ever-loving fuck. I was in jail. For murder. They thought I fucking killed someone." He sticks his head under the stream of water for a second, tries to drown out the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.
"... Who the what the ... why?" Bob thumps his hand against the wall, and something in his skin gives. There’s a smear of red on the paintwork. He’s going to have to redecorate the fuck out of this place before the next inspection. "Did you ... did you actually?"
“NO!” Frank yells, grabs the nearest thing that comes to hand and throws it at Bob through the shower curtain. “Jesus Christ, I can’t fucking believe you’d think I could kill someone!” He pounds his fists against the wall in front of him, laughs harshly. “Were you listening, or were you too busy thinking about me fucking around with Mikeyway? No. I didn’t kill anyone. The cops thought a hooker did it. I’m on the books for prostitution in the same building as the dead guy. Who the hell do you think they’re gonna look at? The whore.”
Bob stares at the curtain, bleeding onto his jeans and watching Frank’s hunched outline behind the material. He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything.
“I thought I was done with being behind fucking bars. I’m off parole in two months and I’m done, I’m fucking done with cops and cells and people treating me like a fucking druggy whore.” Frank's voice is obliterated and distorted as he scrubs at his face. “I’m gonna start over and get it right. And I’m not gonna listen to you accuse me of the same fucking shit. So shut. The fuck. Up.”
“Two months and you start over,” Bob repeats dumbly. He knew Frank’s parole was up soon. He hadn’t thought about what that would mean. Start over. Get it right. Like Cassandra. The dry-ice feeling is creeping back, burning in his stomach, behind his eyes. Frank’s going to leave. Leave him. Frank’s got a fucking future, he’s smart, he’s fucking scary-smart sometimes, and beautiful, and he’s not gonna stick around for some fucked-up screw with a shit apartment and a dead-end job. “Two months. Make ‘em count, then?” he says, chokes on please don’t leave me.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Where're you gonna go?" It's odd how the roles reverse. He feels like he's being the creepy stalker asshole he kept accusing Frank of being.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Frank snaps.
Bob makes a gesture that incorporates the bathroom and doesn't involve moving his wrist much. "When you. When you start over, Frank ... ie. When you start over, where are you going to go?"
"I'm not going anywhere!" Frank apparently doesn't get what Bob's problem is. He shoves his head under the stream of the shower to get the shampoo out before it burns his eyes. "Are you being stupid on purpose?" He chucks the bar of soap in at Bob. Throwing shit might take the edge off what even through the shower curtain is definitely a red-hot temper.
Bob dodges the soap through instinct more than design and in so doing bashes his elbow on the sink. "Stop making fun of me."
"Then stop being an idiot! Jesus, first you think I'm fucking Mikey and now you think I'm leaving."
"I never said I thought you were fucking Mikey," Bob mutters, twisting his hands together so hard he can hear as well as feel the bones of his fingers grating.
"It really sounded like it," Frank snaps. "Bob. I'm not going anywhere. Ok, I'll probably get a new apartment somewhere that's not full of cons and murderers. But that's about it." The washing sounds continue, and Bob imagines through the haze of panic that Frank is washing his hair.
His stomach says you could move in here but his mouth just makes a painful line across his face, and he crushes his hands against his temples. Macaulay Culkin. "You're not leaving."
Frank groans. "I'm not leaving. Why would I leave?"
Even in this state of acute distress, Bob knows better than to say, "because everyone leaves". It will sound childish and pathetic and like some fourteen-year-old Goth kid writing on their bedroom wall. But it's true, if by "everyone" you mean "his wife" and "one guy he might possibly have been crushing on, once, but never told".
Frank sticks his head out of the shower and scowls at Bob. "You're doing that thing again," he says. "Stop it. Stop acting like you're some emo kid and no one fucking understands you. Just tell me what the fucking problem is."
Bob is out of the bathroom before the sentence is even finished, into his shoes and coat, cigarettes in coat. If he just walks around a bit he won't end up yelling, he won't punch anything, he won't lose his temper, it'll all be fine. Frank won't be there when he gets back. He tries to tamp down on the thought but it rises again like stomach acid in the back of his throat as he gets to the apartment door. If I leave, he'll leave and he won't come back.
Frank swears violently after him. "Bob, you fucking idiot," he yells, slipping on the tile as he flails out of the shower. He trips over his jeans, doesn't bother with a towel; Bob barely registers the thumps. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Frank snarls, grabbing Bob's sleeve at the door.
Bob shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, which is a better gesture when a dripping-wet ex-con isn't pulling his sleeve half-off his jacket, balls-naked and glaring like a sphinx. "I ... just ... walking. Thinking." His face is red, and even he can't work out if it's anger or embarrassment or because he goes the color of strawberry milkshake when he's trying not to cry and always has done.
"You're leaving." Frank's fingers tighten in Bob's jacket. "You don't get to do this to me!" He pulls on the material in his fist, tries to drag Bob away from the door. "I don't care if you don't fucking talk about your issues, but you're not walking away from me!"
Bob stands in the doorway with one foot in the hall, not-staring at naked Frank but not looking anywhere else either. He feels prickly and like he's wearing a skin that belongs to someone much bigger than him, someone whose insides are made of acid or spines. It's like his stomach is trying to leave him; nothing feels right. He starts wishing he could faint, just put some unconsciousness between himself and the horrible blistering feelings that keep just bubbling up every time they ... fight, every time they ... fuck, every time anything happens to knock him out of complacency.
Right at this minute, Bob thinks there is nothing in the world more awful than being in love with someone.
"Bob. Bob, look at me," Frank says, pleads. "Don't you fucking dare leave." Bob guesses he didn't spend all fucking day in jail, threatened with life behind bars, cuffed, roughed up, to have Bob walk away from him like this. So that's just conjecture. Maybe he did.
"I'm not... I'm ... not..." Bob squeezes his eyes shut and says, "I'm not sure I can take any more of this."
Frank chokes off a harsh noise deep in his throat, an aborted sound of pain, digs his fingers into Bob's wrist. "Don't... Bob. No. Don't say that," he says.
"Not knowing," Bob adds, telling the ceiling because if he looks down, if he looks at Frank the tears that are welling up in his eyes will actually roll down his cheeks and then fuck knows what will happen. "Not knowing what ... when you're going to get ... move ... fuck ... it ..." he bites the inside of his mouth and scowls at the light fittings. "Not. SHITTING FUCK."
"What do you want me to do?" Frank demands, grabbing a fistful of Bob's shirt with his other hand so he can't go anywhere. "What's gonna get it into your stupid fucking head that I'm not leaving?" He steps closer, thumps his head on Bob's chest, buries his face in his shirt. "Tell me, please!"
By now Bob's incapable of speech. If he opens his mouth now he's either going to be sick or have an asthma attack even though he's pretty sure he doesn't have asthma; if he moves he's going to collapse or die or explode or something horrible, possibly shit himself, but most likely throw up. He manages to block the doorway entirely, his fists clenched and his eyes sweeping the ceiling for something that will let him unfreeze, let him get to the point he so desperately wants to be at now; wrapped around Frank on the couch with his mouth against the kid's throat and his hands on his belly and their hips together and why, why can't he get the words out?
"I love you," Frank says, desperate. "Bob, I love you, please, don't leave," he adds, sliding his arms around Bob's waist and clutches at him. "Just don't fucking leave me, please?"
Bob clutches abruptly at the back of Frank's head and buries his nose in wet hair, hanging on for dear life, but doesn't say anything. Frank's skin lies in front of him like a roadmap to safety, and he doesn't say a damn thing because his throat is closed. That's it for now. No more words. He just ... rubs his mouth on the top of Frank's head and marvels at how it feels, and how it smells.
Frank makes a sharp sobbing sound, laughing when Bob's hand gets in his hair. "I love you, you idiot," he says again, sounding choked. He tries to press himself closer to Bob, shivering a little. Wet and cold, and shivering.
He's shivering, Bob realizes, he's shivering and it's his fault. This doesn't do a great deal to undo the colossal knot in the chest but it does make him finally unbend enough to take his jacket off and offer it, tentatively, to Frank. "Sorry," he croaks, and to his utter humiliation there's a choked-off sob somewhere in it, even though his eyes have dried out again.
Frank takes the coat and shrugs it on, leans against Bob again. The jacket’s huge on him and hides his skin away. He feels a flash of regret at giving Frank the coat. “It’s ok,” Frank mutters. “Thanks.” He has his face buried in Bob’s chest still.
"Can we..." Bob clears his throat and tries to find something to do with his hands. He ends up putting them on his head. "Can we pretend this didn't happen?"
Frank reaches up and pulls Bob's hands down, curls his fingers around Bob's wrists. "No," he says quietly. "Cause then it'll happen again." He presses his forehead against Bob's shoulder. "But we can deal with it in the morning."
Bob curls his fingers around the edge of Frank's ear, resting his palm against the back of Frank's neck, and exhales slowly. That pretty much guarantees no sleep tonight. He's pretty much going to call in sick for tomorrow's afternoon shift and mean it, the way his stomach feels now. But maybe if he's awake all night he can figure out what to say to Frank.
I hate not being able to do anything to help you was probably top of the list.
Frank turns his head and kisses Bob's palm, the ball of his thumb. "We'll make it work, Bob," he says lips moving against Bob's skin. "We'll be ok."
And with that, Bob folds up on the spot into a tiny, crouching ball, and says, "Help."
Frank isn’t surprised to wake up to a cold spot next to him where Bob should be. He mutters to himself sleepily and grabs the first pair of pants that come to hand next to the bed. They’re Bob’s, and they’re falling off his hips when he stands up, but he’s not looking for another pair. “Bob, there’d better be coffee,” he says, tripping over the too-long hems. “Bob?”
There’s no answer from anywhere in the apartment. Frank is about to start panicking when he sees the pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table, right where the dogs’ leashes usually are. And there’s coffee on the stove. He’s embarrassed by how relieved he is. Bob’s not gone. He grins and mainlines some of the coffee, gets the stuff together to make breakfast.
By the time Bob gets back from walking the dogs, Frank’s singing Black Flag to himself in the kitchen and the whole place smells like burned toast and tofu sausages. The dogs barrel into the kitchen, skidding on the lino and barking for treats, effectively heralding Bob's return.
“You coulda left me a note or something,” Frank yells from the stove. “I made breakfast, c’mere.” Bob hangs his jacket up slowly, trudges to the kitchen. “I almost had a heart attack when you weren’t here,” Frank adds. It's probably weird, but Frank feels… like he belongs there, in Bob’s kitchen. Even if he does always burn the toast, which, Frank things defensively, is okay. Maybe burnt toast belongs in Bob's kitchen too. After all, it's not like he's a culinary master himself.
“I had to walk the dogs,” Bob mutters, leaning down to pet them awkwardly. “You were asleep.”
“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Frank can feel his smile go a little wonky on him. “Come. Here.” He holds out a mug of coffee for him like a bribe. Bob stumbles forward like a dog-anchored zombie. Frank holds the coffee out of reach, stands on tiptoe to kiss Bob’s cheek before handing it over. “Go. Sit. Stop looking like I’m gonna make you talk about feelings this early in the day.” He turns back to scoop burnt toast, eggs - Bob refuses to eat the vegan egg-substitute shit he uses - and fake sausage onto Bob’s chipped plates. And, okay, he's kind of lying because he is going to make Bob talk about feelings and shit, but after food. When they’re both awake, and caffeinated, and possibly both naked so it’s harder for Bob to run away.
Frank drops the plates on the table in front of Bob, sinks into the chair next to him. “You’re outta coffee again,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the counter where Bob keeps his grind, and starts eating.
“Maybe if you didn’t drink so much of it,” Bob mutters, eyeing up Frank's kickass apron like he's never seen the thing before. Or maybe looking at the bare skin that the apron isn't quite covering. Frank resists the urge to try to strike a sexy-pose for him.
“Maybe if you got shittier coffee I wouldn’t drink so much of it,” Frank says, grinning. Bob gets the cheapest stuff he can get, it’s swill and they both know it. Frank just drinks too much coffee. Bob tries to smile back, gets Frank’s ankle hooked around his under the table in return. “You’re lucky that I like you despite your shitty nastyass coffee.”
Bob mutters some sort of answer into his eggs and makes a fucking production of not watching Frank eat. He shifts in his seat, staring down at his own food, clings to his fork like a lifeline.
“I’m skipping class today,” Frank says around a mouthful of half-chewed toast. Bob grimaces, and Frank grins at him. “Yeah, yeah. Mouth full. Whatever. Can I hang out here? I don’t wanna go back to that place while cops are still crawling all over it.” He pauses, swallows his food. “Actually, I don’t wanna go back at all. Fuck, I need to start looking for another place. Somewhere closer to the campus that’s not overrun with fratboys or rapists.”
Bob looks weird, uncomfortable, not like he's about to tell Frank to stop being gross. He shoves more food in his mouth to choke back whatever it is he's gonna say, grunts at Frank to show he's paying attention and not getting lost in his own head again, Frank guesses.
“Heeey. Bob. So, can I stay?” he asks, bumping Bob’s ankle with his own. Bob looks up and gets a shrug. “There are cops everywhere and it’s an extra douchey cross-section of ‘em.” Bob looks back down at his plate and swallows roughly.
“Yeah. I. Um. I called off work,” he says, reaches over to Frank’s plate to steal one of his sausages.
“Hey hey hey,” Frank protests and catches Bob’s wrist. “That’s mine. There’s more on the fucking stove if you want it, fatass.” Frank pulls the sausage off Bob’s fork and shoves it in his mouth, licks his lips in a way that's calculated to torment Bob. Bob pushes himself up to his feet and goes to the stove, chewing on his. The sausage in the pan probably doesn’t look nearly as appetizing as the stuff on Frank’s plate. Or Frank’s mouth.
* * *
Move in with me, Bob wants to say, can feel Frank staring at him. Move in move in move in. He pokes at the food with a spatula, shifts his weight. Frank’s fork scrapes off the plate, makes a shrill noise that makes Bob jump. “Frankie,” he mutters, directing it at the pan.
“What? Sorry, it happens sometimes,” Frank protests, “Anyway, if you’re gonna be here, you wanna order pizza or something tonight? The game’ll be on.”
Bob doesn’t have any reason to say no. He doesn’t care about baseball, but he sort of admits to liking watching the game with Frank, he gets all excited and handsy when his team’s doing well. He nods slowly. Move in with me. Don’t leave. He drops the spatula on the counter. “Um. SHIT. Frank."
“Fucking what?” Frank asks. Bob hears the chair scrape back, Frank’s feet shuffling on the floor.
“Move in with me,” he blurts at the pan. He waits for Frank to laugh at him, say no, leave.
“Fuck yeah,” Frank says, and there’s a couple stomping footsteps on the tile before he’s got thin arms around his waist squeezing hard enough to knock his breath out. “Hell. Fucking. Yes,” Frank mutters, burying his face in Bob’s back. Bob gets his hands on Frank’s, feeling the thin bones of his wrists and his pulse flying under ink. The words came out dreamlike and easy, like saliva, and the answer was yes. The answer was yes. No flinching, no arguing, nothing but a hug and a yes. Fucking yes. Bob exhales slowly and rests his forehead on the overhead cupboard. He realizes after a minute that the reason his cheeks hurt is because he's smiling.
Frank curls his fingers in Bob's shirt over his heart, kisses his back. "Fuck yeah," he says again, and tugs his hands out of Bob's so he can turn him around, stands on tiptoe to kiss Bob's cheek, his smile. Frank's not done with that, hooks his arms around Bob's neck and nuzzles at his mouth til they're kissing slow and dirty. He taste like coffee and veggie substitute sausage and Bob can't help himself, gets his hands on Frank's waist and pulls him close. He wants more skin under his hands, the apron keeps getting in his way. It takes him a minute to untie the strap so it falls off, and Frank laughs against his mouth when he swears at the knots. When he's finally got full access to Frank's skin (all soft and bare and dark ink under his hands) he shifts them again, pins Frank back against the counter. Frank's not leaving, is gonna move in. Frank's hands are hot on his back through his shirt and he's pushing back against Bob. "Are you gonna fuck me here?" Frank asks when Bob moves to kiss his neck, his ear. His voice is breathy and eager, rolling his hips against Bob's.
Bob hadn't really thought that far ahead, but now the idea's been implanted in his head he can't think of a single reason why he shouldn't. His dick is probably doing the thinking, but that's okay. Plus, Frank looks good in his kitchen, looks like he belongs there. He'll look even better naked and sex-messy. Frank grins against his mouth.
"Get naked," he orders, kisses a trail over Bob's cheek to bite at his ear. Bob doesn't do what Frank says, is too busy trying to get the fly on Frank's pants open. Until he realizes that it's gonna be easier to just shove them down off Frank's hips and lift him up onto the counter to pull them off all the way. Frank laughs, keeps kissing Bob's face. "Fuck, we're gonna have to stash lube everywhere," he says, pulls Bob close so he can kiss him properly again.
Bob can't even bother to be embarrassed about that, not when Frank's tugging on his shirt, pulling it over his head and running his nails down Bob's chest. He's still fascinated by Bob's nipple ring, like a shiny sexy present every time he gets Bob naked. He twists it gently, wants to hear that growly noise he makes. Bob obliges Frank, making this really sexy rumbling noise deep in his chest and biting Frank's cheek. Frank does it again, grinds his hips against Bob's when he does. Bob's hands grab at his ass, pulling him forward so he's just perched on the edge of the counter with his knees around Bob's waist. "Fuck, Frankie," Bob grunts in his ear, pushes his still bepantsed crotch against Frank's so the denim scrapes against his skin.
“Boooob,” Frank whines, satisfyingly needy when Bob grinds on him. “God. Go get lube, seriously,” he adds and pushes Bob away. Bob holds on for another second, kissing Frank roughly, pulls back with a low grunt to get the lube from his… their… room.
When he gets back, Frank's got his hand on his dick, pulling slow and steady with his lower lip caught in his teeth. "Come on, come on," he gasps, as Bob watches him run his thumb over the head of his erection. "Bob, come on." Bob can't resist Frank when he looks like that, legs spread, eager and needy and his eyes this intense green under his lashes. He's back on Frank in a heartbeat, grabbing his skinny legs and plastering their mouths together. Frank’s got his hands in Bob’s hair and his mouth open under Bob’s, all soft heat and slick metal. It doesn’t take him long to get the cap off the lube, they’ve been fucking long enough now that he can get it one handed without looking like a retard, and works his hand between Frank’s legs. He works one slick hand over Frank’s cock, listens to the quick moan Frank breathes out, and slides two fingers into him.
Frank arches up, head back against the cabinet and his back a sharp curve that pushes his chest forward for Bob to bite at. Bob can’t resist, sinks his teeth into Frank’s collar bone, his pecs, the flat pink circle of his nipple. Frank has his fingers in his own mouth, moaning when Bob works another finger into him. Fuck, he never wants to stop touching Frank like this, wants to be inside him forever, hearing the desperate way Frank gasps his name.
Bob keeps going, works his fingers inside Frank until the kid is panting and desperate and demanding more. “Bob, please, hurry up,” he gasps, digging his heels into Bob’s thighs. Bob can’t argue with that, lubes his dick and pushes Frank’s legs open further, pushes into him. “Fffffuck,” Frank moans into Bob’s ear, pulls Bob further in. Bob’s panting, forehead on Frank’s shoulder, clutching at him, running his hands over Frank’s skin like he can’t help himself (he can’t). And then Frank rolls his hips, desperate, and Bob starts fucking him, as hard as he can despite the awkward angle, hearing Frank’s thin whines and pleas.
Her can't hold Frank the way he wants to, can't get his hands under Frank's ass or as deep as he wants. Frank's hands are on his shoulders, gripping and sliding, digging into his muscles. "Shit, Frank," he groans, finally unable to take not having Frank the way he wants. He pull out and gets gouges dragged down his arms in return, but he's pulling Frank down off the counter and pushing his face-first into it. And then he's buried in Frank's ass again, grabbing at his hips with one hand and holding him close, so close against Bob's chest. He buries his face in Frank's neck again, fucking him hard, his eyes shut so he can hear Frank moaning his name.
“You’re like a fucking Viking,” Frank drawls, flopped half over Bob’s chest to bite at his piercing.
“You’re weird,” Bob says, running his fingers through Frank’s sweaty, messy hair. But he’s smiling down at the kid, feeling warm and sort of slidey inside where usually he only feels acid and spikes and terror.
“No, seriously. You’re all blonde and growly and, like, forceful and shit,” Frank explains, waving vaguely in the air. “It’s hot.” He rests his pointy chin on Bob’s sternum, grinning at him. “Bob the Viking.”
Bob pokes at Frank’s cheek. “What, pillage but no rape?” he mutters, grinning when Frank bites his finger.
“You can pillage me any time.” Frank yelps and flails when Bob grabs a pillow and pretends to smother him with it, wrestling around until he ends up on his back with his hands over his head and Bob between his knees again. Bob pulls the pillow off Frank’s face so he doesn’t actually die, and Frank’s grinning at him. “Pillowage, Bob?” he says, laughing, and Bob can’t stop himself from kissing Frank’s stupid-pretty mouth again and again. Frank hooks his arms around Bob’s neck and arches up against him, laughing and muttering about Vikings.
They’re absolutely disgusting, sweaty, sticky, sore muscles and blooming bruises, when the sun is sliding down behind the next apartment building and the bedroom is getting dark. Frank’s face is buried in Bob’s neck, licking slowly at his sweaty skin, and Bob’s running his fingers through Frank’s hair. The room smells like a brothel and the sheets aren’t salvageable. Bob’s never felt this sort of comfort and satisfaction, warm and low in his belly, curling through his chest. Frank’s skin looks like a warzone, bruises and bite marks mixed with his tattoos. He’s marked, with Bob’s hands and teeth and sweat, and he doesn’t try to fight the hot surge of pride he feels at the way Frank stretches and groans quietly.
“Jesus Christ,” Frank mutters, pressing himself closer to Bob’s side, like even the layers of sweat between them are too much. “We do still have to talk, you know,” he adds. He loops one arm around Bob’s waist, doesn’t let him shift away when he tries. “Now that you’ve fucking marked your territory, you brute.” Bob’s warm comfortable feelings are sliding away. He keeps petting Frank’s head, absently, like a puppy’s, but he’s not really enjoying the damp curl of hair between his fingers any more.
“Do we have to?” Bob asks, and hates how petulant he sounds even to his own ears.
"Yeah," Frank say, and presses a kiss to his pulse like an apology. "Sorry, man. You're stuck with me, and that means talking. I just... I don't want to have to wonder if you're going to head for the hills as soon as I slip up and say stupid shit, alright?" He clutches at Bob for a second, then relaxes his grip a little. "I fucking love you," Frank mutters, "And I guess I just don't know what the fuck I've got to do to make you get that."
Bob digs his fingers into Frank’s flesh, makes an aborted attempt to say anything. He manages to choke out a painful “Frankie,” before his throat closes up. He doesn’t know how to make himself say that he’s terrified that Frank will see how pathetic he is, get sick of dealing with Bob’s issues, decide the sex isn’t worth the bullshit any more. And Frank’s afraid Bob’s going to leave him?
He’s horrified by his own reactions to Frank now, these urges that make him want to keep Frank for himself, mark him, follow him if he tries to leave. “Frank… I…” He tries to talk, can’t. He makes a frustrated noise, low and painful in his throat, and pushes Frank onto his back, leans over him. Frank rolls, stares up at him. Bob can see what might be tears on Frank’s lashes and guilt rushes him. He wants to say so many things, but his throat is coated in nails and his tongue is lead.
I hate not being able to do anything to help you. I can’t keep making you so sad. I’m sorry. I want you here forever. You're the best thing that’s happened to me and it scares the shit out of me. I’m going to fuck this up and hurt you. Please don’t leave me, I can’t handle it if you leave me.
I love you. Please don’t leave me. I love you.
He cradles Frank’s head, tries to make him understand without having to say anything. He curls his thumb under Frank’s eye, catches a drop of sweat, rubs it away. Frank’s chewing on his lip, looks so fucking young, fragile in Bob’s hands. He leans in and kisses him so lightly he’s not even sure Frank can feel it. Frank clenches his eyes shut, a quiet noise sliding out of his throat. Bob kisses him again and then again, until he can manage to say Frank’s name again, humiliatingly like a plea against Frank’s cheek.
Frank’s sacked out on the couch when Bob gets home from Arthur Kill. The dogs are curled up and making their whuffly sleep-noises on the floor next to him and the TV is showing some crap sci-fi show in the background. Frank’s been doing his homework on the couch again: he’s got War and Peace open on his stomach.
And there are bandages on his wrist that make Bob’s heart stop and his stomach churn. He comes to the couch, sits next to Frank so he can push his hair off his face. “Frankie. Frank. Wake up,” he mutters, and gets a smack to the face for his trouble. Then Frank opens his eyes.
“Huh? Wha? Jesus Christ, Bob, you scared me,” he says, scrubbing at his face. He smiles at Bob. “Um. Hi. How was work?” Bob doesn’t answer, catches Frank’s wrist carefully.
“What’s this?” he demands, holding the bandaged limb up. “Frank. What. Is. This.”
Frank stares at him stupidly for a second. “You think... oh, god, you think I cut myself!” he says, and laughs. “Jesus, no. I only look like an emo kid.” He pulls his wrist back and peels the bandages off his skin. There’s a fresh tattoo, this fuck-ugly rose with a thorny stem wrapping around his wrist. Bob goggles at him, like he can’t believe Frank would get this. It’s such a girl tattoo. “It’s a briar rose,” Frank says when he offers it back to Bob so he can see it.
“Um. Ok,” Bob mutters. It’s well done, at least, if fucking trite.
“Oh my God, you idiot. It’s a briar rose. BRIAR.” Bob knows that tone. That’s Frank’s Bob Bryar is special and I only put up with it because he’s cute tone. Wait. What?
Oh.
“You… got… um. A. You. Um.” Bob shifts his grip on Frank’s arm so he can hold him without touching the raised skin. “A… a briar rose.” He can feel his face turning red, it feels like he’s about to combust. Frank… Frank got a stupid pun of his name tattooed on his skin. Where people can see it. Frank got himself marked with Bob’s name. Permanently. Bob’s pants go tight, and he thinks he might be salivating. Frank looks pleased with himself, slouched on the couch with his pretentious Russian novel and his too-big hoodie. Bob knocks Dostoyevsky off Frank’s chest and replaces it with himself.
Bob isn’t paying attention to the movie Frank is watching. It’s Troy, which Bob has seen and wasn’t impressed with, but Frank likes it. He says Sean Bean reminds him of Bob. Bob doesn’t get it, but he’s not going to argue with Frank’s logic. There’s no point. So he just tunes it out and sort of drifts off to a comfortable half-sleep, face buried in Frank’s neck and tasting his favorite patch of skin under the kid’s ear. He isn’t paying attention at all, until someone on screen starts shrieking about Cassandra.
He hears the name and can’t stop himself from clutching at Frank. He’s fully awake now, and fully aware that Frank’s gonna want to know.
"Mmmmwhat's up?" Frank says, squirming and rolling over so he can look at Bob. "Something wrong?"
Bob is awkward and don't-wanna-talk-about-it, but he's trying to be better about shit like this. Saying the actual words instead of glaring until questions disappear. "It's. Um. Oh. It's. It was. It's." He passes a hand in front of his face. "It was a long time ago."
Frank sighs. "Ok," he says, kissing Bob's chin lightly.
"No no no, I mean," Bob says, grabbing Frank's bicep. "No no," he adds, ruffling his own hair and making a face. “I mean. Ugh. Look. Shit. Listen." Not that he needs to say that, Frank is looking up at him intently. "She left."
Frank shifts again, pushes himself up so he can kiss Bob. "She did. I'm not gonna," he says, noses at Bob's cheek. "Ok?"
Bob makes a relieved noise and wraps his arms around Frank, squeezing him closer. "She left because I'm an idiot."
"She left because she was an idiot," Frank says loyally.
Bob shakes his head, drums his fingers on Frank's shoulder and mutters into his cheek, "I was a fucking idiot." He begins to feel some of the old, bilious guilt bubbling up inside himself. "I didn't. Um. You know."
"Talk to her?" Frank asks rather dryly.
Bob just groans and tries to kiss Frank on the corner of the mouth. Frank bites at Bob's lipring. "Ok, you are an idiot," he agrees. "But I love you. So I guess that makes me an idiot, too." He drags his hand up Bob's back, cards his fingers through Bob's hair so he can see the tattoo on his wrist. Bob shuts his eyes and kisses Frank's knuckles.
Checking that Bob is still trying to make Ray and Gee stop moving the pile of quarters up and down the edge of the pool table, Frank leans in on the bar to mutter at Quinn. "Whoze Cassandra?" His beer bottle is warm in his hand.
"Whoze who?" Quinn's frown is directionless, wandering about the bar like a lost child.
"Cassandra." Frank glances meaningfully over his shoulder at Bob, who has given up on the impossible task of keeping the quarters in one spot and is trying to explain something to Brian. His hands keep starting these movements and then stopping in embarrassed jerks and darting back to his pockets like frightened mice. Frank realizes he's been staring for too long, and jerks his attention back to Quinn's confused face and nearly-empty beer.
Realization seems to be dawning. "Cassandra, Bob-and-Cassandra, Cassandra?" Quinn points his beer at Frank like a questioning finger.
Frank rolls his eyes, and his beer between his hands. "Yeah, Bob-and-Cassandra Cassandra." It tastes like an ashtray on his tongue, that phrase. He wants to shove Quinn off his stool and say, no, no, no. It's Bob-and-Frank, asshole, it's Bob-and-Frank. "Who fucking else?"
It's meant to be a rhetorical question, but even sober Quinn can no more grasp rhetoric than he can spell it. The sarcasm goes hurtling past his head. "Cassandra ... uhhh... that chick from that show." Quinn screws up one half of his face and elaborates, "That shitty one on Fox. With the guy who does magic."
Be nice, Frank reminds himself. The apparent love of Quinn's life is still in jail and not coming out any time soon.
You catch more flies with jam than you do by being an asshole. Frank pokes Quinn in the upper arm and waves an unsteady hand in his face like Quinn's the one who keeps getting distracted by Bob's conversations. "Quinn."
Quinn stares at him blearily and grabs at the next beer. He's stacking. If Frank weren't already drunk he might be sympathetic; being away from Bert must suck something shitty. "Cassandra," Frank reminds him. Fuck, he hates that name.
"Whatabouther?”
"What ... y'know. What." Frank pokes him in the chest, like that will transmit the question from Frank's brain to Quinn's without him having to articulate anything. Quinn looks at his hand and back up at Frank's face.
"What what?” He looks confused as to why he’s getting poked, and like he's going to smack Frank's hand away in a minute. The eyebrows and the mouth don't line up into the same expression.
"What happened?" Frank takes his hand away, drinks his own beer, chasing the question back down his own throat.
Quinn makes one or two movements in the air in front of him like he's about to launch into an important lecture, belches quietly, and leans on his beer. "She wenaway.”
“I know.” Frank breathes in and chokes on his beer. There's a moment where he suffocates on hops and the barman shakes his head. Quinn thumps him on the back slightly too hard and Frank slaps him away feebly, still choking. He nods once or twice as the coughs slacken off, meaning go on, but he has to punch Quinn in the arm before he gets the hint.
"She wenaway," Quinn repeats, like Frank is somehow hazy on this detail. "Goodbye Bob." He makes running motions with his fingers along the bar, stops, and frowns at his own fingers like he only just saw them. Frank wants to reach out and shake him until he gets to the fucking point, fast, before Bob comes over here. "Screwing some guy called -hic- Matt." Quinn taps the side of his nose, and misses by a couple of inches, resorting to his beer with a sheepish look. "Behind his ..." He takes a swig. "Behind Bob..." He ducks lower over the bar, his elbow in the bar nuts. "Behind his back."
Frank releases the breath he's been holding in a rush of furious air. "Fucking cunt."
"Whatyergottaunderstand -" Quinn begins hastily, motioning for Frank to be quiet.
"She fucking cheated on him -" Frank hisses, because what he gotta understand is that this Cassandra is a fucking whore and he hates her like he hates nothing else in this world right now.
"WHATYERGOTTAUNDERSTAND IS -" Quinn shouts, waving him back into his seat. The guys at the pool table ignore them. Frank guesses they're used to his drunk shouting.
"CHEATING." Quinn smacks a hand over his mouth - it smells of pot and beer and salt, and it's probably for the best but he kind of wants to bite him anyway. What the fuck does he gotta understand? Frank doesn’t really see a lot of ways to get around that. She cheated. On Bob.
"Thought he dinloveranymore," Quinn mumbles, taking his hand off Frank's mouth.
Frank considers this. "S'possible," he acknowledges. Something like a cold stone begins to form in his stomach. When would she have worked that out, before or after the moment when he will? Would he notice at all?
"HE DID." Quinn slams his hand down on the bar so hard everything on it jumps, and the bartender scowls.
"Shh." It's Frank's turn to clap a hand over Quinn's mouth. Quinn licks him until he lets go in disgust.
"WELL HE FUCKIN -" Frank jams his hand over Quinn's mouth again and holds it there over the licking and attempts to peel his fingers off, over Quinn banging his beer impatiently on the bar.
"Fucking cunt," Frank sighs, releasing Quinn at last.
"Women," Quinn says sagely, like he knows anything about the subject. He swigs.
"Oh shut up." Frank drinks half the bottle in the pause that follows. Someone - possibly Ray - calls someone else - possibly Gee - a lousy shot, and there's laughter. He contemplates the information, and the strange flow of cold dread and vicarious, protective fury it generates in his guts, sloshing around with the beer. "So how did he ..."
"On the couch." Such a scandalized expression that if they were talking about anything else, Frank'd be amused.
"What?" He asks, making sure he's got the right idea.
"On the couch they bought together." Quinn seems oddly incensed by this. Frank's seen his apartment. It may just be the idea of someone owning a couch.
"He ... what? Couch?" Frank probes. That's not what he wants, this couch obsession, but it seems to be taking him over as well. Quinn performs a grotesque mime before returning to his beer. Frank is momentarily struck by the desire to smack Quinn upside the head, but it passes. He glances over at Bob again; he's rolling his eyes at Gee-the-cupcake-king failing at pool, because he's too busy making gaga eyes at Ray. Again.
"So he divorced her?" he mutters, turning back to find Quinn stealing the rest of his beer.
"Uh," Quinn puts the beer back down defensively, and puts his hand on Frank's bicep to steady himself. It's almost comical how drunk they're getting, over here. Frank swears he never wants to play a game of pool again, fucking prison, but seriously, it might be better than getting puke-drunk like this. "Thethingabout Bob is. Is. His. Acting. Not." Quinn pats Frank unsteadily on the arm. "Feelsick. Um. Not acting on thinking, the ... oppo...inver...oppoface." He hiccups. "She made him gettadivorce so she could marry thingy. Matt. Matthew." He adopts a squeaky voice. "Someone who knows what women need."
Frank scowls and finishes his own beer. "Cunt." He sorta wants to go hug Bob, and maybe blow him. Or maybe punch the shit out of Cassandra. "She in the city?"
Quinn shakes his head vigorously. "Cali-fornicatia."
"Figures." If you're going to go somewhere to be a fucking cunt, Frank guesses that the land of cunts and assholes is probably the place to do it. Okay, he's never been to California, but it's full of people who can't seem to stop splitting up and acting like jerks. Good luck to them.
Quinn pokes him in the arm, breaking into his thoughts. "Beer." He looks hopeful.
"Buy your own beer." Frank shrugs his arm away. He's tired, now, weirdly drained, and his bladder is whining like a hungry dog.
"Beer for ratting on my buddy," Quinn insists, slamming his empty on the bar and earning himself a warning look from the bartender.
"He's my -" Frank begins, but Quinn cuts him off with a yell.
"BEER, ASSHOLE."
Frank slides off the stool and shakes his head in despair. He needs a pee so badly he's going to get one of those shitty pee-boners, where full bladder sits on prostate and makes everything hell, if he doesn't get to the bathrooms. “I GOTTA PISS, ASSHOLE. Get your own.”
Quinn eyeballs him gravely from his slump, and points the empty at Frank's face. "Beer or I can't pissible be drunk enough to have told you that on my own."
Frank pats him as he leaves to pee, "Oh, you fucking are. Trust me."
When Frank gets back from draining the fucking lizard Bob's by the bar. He stalks the conversation like he used to stalk his parents talking late at night, curiosity getting the better of common sense.
Bob's buying Quinn a beer, it seems. Frank grins into his arm and listens, three feet behind Bob's back and out of Quinn's line of sight. "What was that about?" Bob asks, jerking his head toward the bathroom without looking.
Frank freezes.
Quinn shrugs easily. "He wanted to know how big my dick was."
That asshole. Quinn is grinning to himself, sloppy and ridiculous, waiting for his beer.
But Bob, thankfully, just snorts and sets the beer a little closer to Quinn's childish gimme hands. "I hope you remembered to tell him slightly below average," and for a moment Frank finds his throat is filled with jealous bile, as the look that passes between them tells him Bob knows from experience.
Quinn shrugs again, "Dintwanna steal your boy offa you with promises of all those three extra inches," and promptly falls off his stool, dropping his beer over his lap as he goes.
“Yerra good boyfriend, Bobbybryar,” Frank is slurring against Bob’s cheek. “A good fuckin’ boyfriend.” Bob is half-carrying Frank up the stairs to his apartment, Frank’s head flopped back against his neck and his hands flailing (it’s probably supposed to be expressive but Bob thinks he just looks really fucking drunk). “Immmean it,” Frank says, very very seriously, while Bob props him against the wall to get the door open.
Bob just grunts at him. Frank is Quinn-drunk, the kind of drunk Bob knows from experience. He’s warned him about trying to keep up with Allman, he really has, but Frank is a stubborn little fucker. “C’mon, Frankie, lie down before you puke on the fucking carpet,” he says, guiding Frank over to the sofa. No way in hell is he gonna let Frank puke in the bedroom.
“Bob, iz time for snuggles,” Frank mumbles when Bob leaves him on the sofa to get him water and a bowl. “Boooob.”
“I’m not snuggling with you if you’re gonna be sick,” Bob says, plopping a bucket in front of the sofa for Frank and a glass of water on the table. “Drink up.” He sits next to him, though, and helps Frank sit up to drink his water. He knows how it feels to fail at keeping up with Quinn’s drinking.
“Nnnooo not gonna be sick,” Frank says when he’s finished the water. He tugs Bob down onto the couch next to him, and Bob can’t resist when he’s pouting like that. Frank ends up the little spoon, Bob curling around behind him and petting his hair. “I like your couch,” Frank mumbles. “Izza good couch.” Bob makes some sort of agreement-type noise and kisses Frank’s head. “Good couch for younme, Bobbybryar.”
“Okay, Frankie,” Bob mutters.
“Ezzactly. Is a good couch for younme, jus’ younme. Bob-an-Frankie.” Frank is very serious. “No one else ever.”
“What about the dogs, Frank?” Bob asks. It’s easy to be patient with Frank when he’s drunk.
“Nnooo doggies don’ count.” Frank squirms over and gives Bob a look like he’s the dumbest person he’s ever met. “Don’ wanna have sex with the doggies.” He pouts at Bob. “Bob-an-Frankie. Izzsupposed to be Bob-an-Frankie. No one else.”
“Ok, Frankie.”
Frank smiles blearily at Bob. “Yer my first real boyfrienn, you know?” Bob stares down at Frank. “I mean, there was a coupla kids, but not like you, Bobbybryar.” Frank looks sleepy, and sort of sleepy-happy-drunk. Bob tucks Frank’s head down under his chin so he can’t see his eyes any more. It makes it easier for him. “Yer the first guy I fucked and didn’t get paid for.”
“Ok, Frankie,” Bob mutters against the top of Frank’s head. Frank’s the first guy he’s fucked, drunken handjobs not withstanding.
“I love you, Bobby, you an’ yer couch. Okay?”
“Yeah, Frankie. Okay.”
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