Fic: Renouement
Title: Renouement
Author: lovelypoet
Rating: PG
Pairing: Bob/Patrick
Prompt: My Chemical Romance break up. Bob and Frank start a band together. Sex, rock n roll and Patrick Stump. DO WHAT YOU WILL.
Note: I completely failed at porn on this story. I tried. I had three different bunnies of awesome hot sexing. None of them wanted to be written, hence the lateness. This is the only story I was able to make happen
Thanks to clumsygyrl for the read through
It makes sense when they sit down three days before the last show of the tour and - without anyone saying it - know it will be the last show ever. Bob almost can't believe it's true for the two and a half hours they play, throwing themselves into every song they've perfected and a few they probably shouldn't attempt live after all this time, just for the thrill of it. It feels like they could go on forever, just like this. But as it has for every other show on the tour, Gerard's voice falters at moments it used to be strongest, and more often than not, he is nearly drowned out by the crowd screaming the choruses back at them. Half way through the show, subjected to more abuse than he's given them in years, Bob's wrists graduate from a dull ache to screaming pain, and he knows they're doing the right thing.
Gerard stands tall at the edge of the stage, shoulders squared and voice hoarse from use, and offers the crowd a sincere thank you. They don't know it's not just for tonight, but for so many more years than anyone ever could have expected. He says goodnight; he says goodbye. It's done.
They go out on top, and it takes a little while before the rest of the world realizes that's what they've done. When his phone starts ringing, Bob ignores it. No matter who it is, they'll be asking questions he's not in the mood to answer.
For three months it goes like this: He wakes up and feels his fingers twitch for a cigarette. He ignores it, just a reflex left over from before, the last grasping vestige of a habit left behind almost a decade ago now. Breakfast is toast and egg whites, or toast and fake bacon. On days when he's feeling indulgent and risky, it's the number five special at his favorite diner (where absolutely no one knows his name). He calls his mother, because there are some people you can't ignore, or at least you feel like a total shit if you do. He does his wrist exercises, barely having to think about them anymore because he likes being able to pick things up and feel his fingers. Then he reads for a few hours. Whatever he can get his hands on, just because he can, as long as it doesn't have to do with the industry. Lunch, movies, tinkering around at his kit in his studio, futzing with rhythms he never got to record. Dinner, shower, sleep, all exactly as he's done it since he got home. He's not hiding. He's just. Reorienting himself. Figuring things out. All the while avoiding the ringing phone entirely, only selectively thinning out and replying to the emails piling up.
"Oh good. You're not dead. I was afraid I was going to have to come identify the rotting corpse."
"Hi, Frank." Bob's not entirely sure why he picked up the call this time. There was a strange pang when he saw Frank's name on the display, a sudden flash of guilt for avoiding even his former bandmates after so many promises that the end of the band didn't mean the end of being a part of each other.
"My wife said I have to find a hobby," Frank says.
"Oh?" Bob says. Almost finished with the crossword puzzle, one corner is still stubbornly empty and he's struggling to find in a ten letter word for ending (from the French). He's pretty sure the letters he's got to work with can't be right.
"Apparently, I'm driving her crazy," Frank says, and Bob can hear the dull plunking of electric guitar strings being played without amplification. It's the same kind of aimless noodling with aspirations to be something more that Bob has recognized sneaking into his own playing for the last few weeks. The difference is Frank's got Jamia and the kids. There's no one else in Bob's house, no one to drag him out of his own head. Not anymore. "It's fucking weird, you know?"
Bob knows. It's not the longest they've ever been off the road or out of the studio, nothing compared to that two years when there were suddenly babies everywhere he looked. But it's the longest he's gone without seeing them and this time there's no plan, not even the promise of one somewhere in the nebulous future.
"I know," he says.
"You should come visit us." Frank's changed songs, picking out his part from Famous Last Words, and Bob's foot is tapping out the rhythm before he can stop himself. Twenty years since he wrote the part and it's become permanently ingrained in his muscle memory; he'll be able to keep it's beat another twenty years from now.
"Jamia would love that," Bob snorts, but the idea has merit. Chicago has his house, but he's not sure it's home.
"She would. And so would the kids." Frank insists.
"Sure, yeah." Bob shrugs, already thinking about how much he'll have to pack, what it will take to get a flight. The answer to both is not much.
****
"Can Frank come out and play?" Bob asks. His duffle bag, the same one that saw him through the last three tours, is hanging from his shoulder.
"Get in here," Jamia smiles at him, waving him through the door. Bob drops the bag and sweeps her up in a hug. She tugs herself free and kisses his cheek. "You need to do something with him, Bob. I swear, he's going to drive us all crazy. He's moping."
"Point me at him," Bob says, and goes where Jamia gestures. He knows the house well enough to know what's in that direction and to have an idea of which room Frank's hiding him.
He's not wrong.
Frank's lying on the floor of his home theater, spread-eagle in a square of sunlight. There is a headphone cord stretched taught between him and the turntable, and Bob has to admire Frank's continued loyalty to dead media forms. He's thrumming his fingers against his chest to a rhythm that looks vaguely familiar. Bob kicks at the sole of Frank's foot; it takes four times before Frank bothers to open his eyes.
"You're here," he says, smiling up with a face splitting grin that emphasizes the deepening creases of accumulating years around his mouth and eyes.
"You told me to come." Bob says.
"I did," Frank nods. "And you're here. Which is good. Because we need to start writing and practicing."
"We need to what?" Bob quirks an eyebrow.
"Write. Practice. The band." Frank says, finally shoving the headphones off his ears. "If we're going to make it work, we need to do the work."
"Have you had a stroke? Traumatic brain injury?" Bob laughs, though considering everything, it's a reasonable question. "Early on-set Alzheimer's?"
"Fuck off. I'm bored out of my mind, Bob," Frank says, pushing himself up. "I need to play. And you can't tell me you were ready."
"I was ready," Bob says. He's lying. Already just the thought of playing again, really playing again, is making his hands itch.
"Come on, Bryar," Frank pokes at Bob's knee. "Just a few songs. We'll toss them up somewhere, see if they stick. No pressure, nobody breathing down our neck about numbers or the message."
"Just us," Bob says. "You're not talking about the band. You're talking about just us."
"Something like that," Frank says.
"Yeah." Bob swallows and rubs his hands against the soft denim of his jeans. "Yeah, ok."
****
Two weeks in and they've got almost nothing. A few ideas, and some bits and pieces, chords and rhythms, but nothing that sounds like a song yet. It's different on their own. He knew it would be. They're not My Chem anymore. They aren't trying to be. There are pieces of it that feel the same, but so much else that is completely different. They have nothing to prove to anyone.
"I was thinking if you bring the snare in on the two," Frank leans over the board and drags his finger along the touch screen, pulling the cursor back to replay the last three bars. "It feels..."
"Yeah. It does," Bob nods and can already hear the difference Frank's suggestion will make. "We can try it."
It sounds better, not quite right yet, but getting closer.
"We can finish fixing it tomorrow," Frank says, when his phone's alarm beeps a reminder to pick the kids up from school.
"Sure," Bob agrees, tapping his way through one last eight count. There's no rush. Maybe that's the biggest change of all.
"Don't hit on my wife while I'm gone," Frank shoves back from the console and swings a gentle punch at Bob's shoulder as he walks by.
It's an old joke. Bob laughs anyway. "You're just afraid she'll finally give in and run away with me."
"Terrified," Frank agrees, ducking out the door.
Bob fiddles for a while longer, just until his left hand twinges. He knows better than to push when there's no reason.
"That sounded good," Jamia says from the doorway Bob hadn't realized was open.
"Thanks," he says. "It's just. I don't know if it's going to be anything. But it doesn't really have to be, I don't think."
"No, probably not," Jamia agrees, stepping into the room. "It's really done, isn't it?"
"What?" Bob blinks and rolls his wrists, cringing at the crack and pop. His physical therapist would kick his ass if she could see him now.
"It's really not just a break." Jamia's frowning, pulling lines between her eyes.
"No. I don't think so." Bob shakes his head. "Not this time."
"And this?"
"I dunno," Bob says. "It's good to keep busy. It's not like I've got a whole lot else going on. And you said."
"Yeah. I worry about him sometimes." Jamia brushes a hand through her hair, shot through now with a few streaks of gray. Probably well earned, Bob thinks. "He needs this. I don't think he knows what to do with himself if a guitar isn't within arm's reach. It's been more than half his life, and."
Bob nods. He knows. Frank hasn't come out and said anything, not really. But he's been starting a lot of sentences with 'you remember that time...'
"Thanks for coming," Jamia says. She's said it a lot since he got there, never once asking when he's leaving.
"He'll figure it out," Bob says. "It's just a readjustment. A big one. But he'll get there."
"You will, too," Jamia smiles and kisses his forehead, hugs him. Bob doesn't say anything. "Come downstairs. It's your turn to cook."
****
"Well. Fuck," Bob says after Frank reads the first sentence of Gerard's email to him.
"I know, right?" Frank shakes his head.
"There's not really any way to get out of it entirely." Bob's knows that's not the right response.
"Doesn't look like it, no." Frank says, poking at the screen, like it will make the words there change.
"We should be happy about this." Bob says.
"Yeah. We should." Frank leans back. "Can't be surprised they want it. Not with ten nominations."
"That is a lot." Bob feels sick. It's been five months since they walked off stage and now someone wants them back on one. "Has Gerard-"
"No," Frank says. "Not yet. He says he'll go, but he's leaning toward no on the performance. But. He says it's not just up to him."
"Right. Ray and Mikey." Bob doesn't think Mikey's likely to say yes. Ray's a question.
"And us. But I can't, Bob." Frank's voice is tight. "I. We've gotta look forward."
"Right," Bob knew that. There was never a question.
"We're going to lose anyway," Frank says. "I mean. Did you check out the competition?"
"Good?" Bob asks, because he didn't. With few exceptions, he hates most of what he's heard this year and he's barely bothered to register names, there are too many, most crappy. He doesn't care who they're up against. That's what he tells himself. The truth is he didn't get any further than the headline - Disbanded My Chemical Romance Leads Grammy Pack - before the knot tightened in his stomach reminding him that awards or none, it didn't make a difference.
"Stump," Frank says. "He's all the fuck over the place this year. His shit will sweep. Again."
"Good for him," Bob can't work up any real enthusiasm. He's jealous. Of fucking course he is. More than a decade ago Patrick slipped seamlessly from Fall Out Boy's end into solo and production careers that would make almost anyone weep tears of bitter envy.
"Yeah," Frank frowns. "The only reason they're all over us is because we quit."
"Right," Bob nods, ignoring the scattered nominations they'd picked up over the years. It was never anything like this. "A going away present. The Grammys have been bullshit for decades. Thought they'd die out when the RIAA did."
"Right."
If they say it enough, Bob thinks they might just convince themselves.
"Still," Frank slumps, "Jamia always likes a chance to dress up pretty and leave the kids at home. And Ray's nominated for that Peter Jackson film he scored, too. It'd be kind of shitty not to show up at least."
"Yeah. Fine. Can we get back to work?" Bob tries not to sound like he's begging, but they've actually made it to something that resembles something in the last week. No vocals, because it's them. But there's structure, and it's starting to feel like it's something people - other people - might actually listen to.
"Yeah." Frank clicks away from the email, Gerard's familiar scrawl vanishing from the screen and replaced with the wave forms Bob's almost memorized the shape of. Frank readjusts the guitar across his thighs. "That section on the bridge?"
Bob nods and takes over the board controls, counting Frank in.
****
The first song is finished, really finished, three months after they start. The last two weeks are spent on the tiniest adjustments until they have to admit that there is nothing left to fix. Frank nods and they throw it into the abyss. There's nothing to connect it to them, and Bob braces himself for it to be ignored completely - maybe hated, but he'd put more money on ignored. It'll sit in the "new tracks" pool for a day or two, maybe. Then it will just fade without notice. It's just three minutes of guitar and drums, barebones and stripped back more than anything he's heard outside of his own head in at least three years.
"It's good," Frank shrugs. "I mean. I like it."
"Yeah, It's good." Bob can't argue with that. That was never the question.
"We should send it to the guys, let them hear what we've been doing all this time," Frank starts the message before Bob can say anything, and arguing would be stupid anyway.
They know. There wasn't a way to keep it quiet, they've known since a week after Bob got there. No way for him to hide here when they all still exist close enough to be in each other's pockets and space without technology mediating. They know but they haven't heard.
"Sure," Bob says finally, and Frank rolls his eyes in response, the email already sent.
"Back to work?" Frank asks. Bob reaches past him to cue up the second song, done except for the ongoing argument about the chord progression after the bridge, and Frank's still holding strong for a key change that Bob just... doesn't like.
****
Bob doesn't know how often Frank checks their stats and comments. They don't talk about it, just like they don't talk about the fact that Bob's still living in the guestroom. Bob checks once a day. First thing in the morning, page pulled up on his reader while he drinks his coffee. It shouldn't make his stomach flip the way it does, not when there's not much to it. It took the first song nearly two weeks to break a thousand listens, the second got there in a week. It's hard not to make the comparison, to think about the fact that attaching My Chem or either of their names to it would have meant a guaranteed feature spot on the news page and probably had them breaking the hundred thousand mark in less than a day.
A couple thousand listens and a few dozen unsigned comments. Most of them just a few words barely worth reading.
This iz dum. There Izn't ne1 singing.
Bob reminds himself that it's kind of lame to selectively delete comments, even really stupid ones.
**
Nice stuff.
Details would be good, but it's better than nothing, he supposes.
**
I liek this. When r u posting more?
Bob sighs and taps out a response. Thanks. We've got 2 or 3 more we're working on. Couple weeks... probably. Gotta make 'em good.
**
These are pretty good. You guys know what you're doing, and I can see you making something pretty decent. I'm not sold on that progression after the bridge, though. You might want to move through E minor before you jump to G.
Just a thought.
Bob blinks. "Fucking Frank."
"It wasn't me," Frank says from behind him. "The key change right? I swear on my grandpa's grave. It wasn't me."
"Huh," Bob says. "Fine. We'll fix it."
"Nah, we don't have to," Frank says. "Listen. You can go home you know."
"You kicking me out, Iero?" Bob smiles, tries to smile, afraid that Frank's permission is actually a request.
"Nope. But, ok. I was in bed last night, and Jamia was already asleep and I got thinking. And. I'm ok. You know?"
"Yeah, you've always been ok," Bob says.
"You too, man." Frank kicks him under the table. "And if you wanna go back home-"
"I wanna finish the song we've got on the table and then go back and fucking fix that chord progression," Bob says fiercely. "I'm not ready to give it up. The shit is good, Frank. We're good. I need this. I don't-"
"Fuck yeah, we're good. Hey," Frank reaches across the table and pokes at Bob's chest. "I was just saying, we have the technology. If you wanted to maybe visit your house, make sure it hasn't burnt down, we could do this long distance for a little while. You think I'm gonna give up on this just because we're gonna have to work to be listened to? Fuck you, Bryar. I'm not that kind of pussy."
Bob blinks once, twice, a few more times and then he's laughing. Half relief, half the ridiculous look on Frank's face. "Right, no. You're an entirely different kind of pussy."
****
"Did you see the latest comment?" Frank asks, passing his reader across the table when Bob shakes his head. "We got an anonymous 'I told you so.' And I think they've got another good idea."
told you it would work better this way. Looking forward to what you do next. Any plans for live shows? I'd be interested in seeing how good you actually are. Can never tell with computers now.
"I'm still not sure I don't think our anonymous friend is you," Bob says with a snort. He reads the comment twice and looks up at Frank who's biting his lip. "It'd kind of defeat the purpose," he says finally.
"The purpose is to play," Frank says. "Tell me reading comments is what you were looking to get out of this."
"I wasn't looking for anything," Bob says. It's a dirty, rotten lie. And he doesn't tell it very well.
"We've got listeners. Fans," Frank says with a sense of awe. As though they don't have tens of millions of fans, as though Frank's house isn't surrounded by a very serious fence to keep the more dedicated number of them out.
"You know what's going to happen," Bob says.
"It's playing live," Frank says with a kind of reverence that Bob can't bring himself to laugh at.
"Can we just survive the fucking Grammys first?" Bob just doesn't want to admit defeat yet. But he know the feeling of giving in for Frank.
****
"Good to see you, man" Gerard says, clapping Bob on the back like they didn't sit down for dinner at his house two weeks ago. His grin shines over the explosions of camera flashes. He leans closer and whispers, "They're all waiting for us to deck each other."
"We could, if you wanted," Bob gives him a squeeze and feels the laughter against his cheek.
"Nah," Gerard pulls away and faces front, the barrage of flashes intensifies. Eight months they've been away now, and they haven't done any press since the ten sentence blurb that confirmed their 'amicable dissolution.' Now they're back on the red carpet and ten steps ahead of where they are, the inquisition is waiting. "We'll just tell them it was Toro's fault, pompous jackass."
"Sounds good," Bob grins, glancing past Gerard to where Mikey, Ray and Frank are finishing up their 'and spouses,' photos. Lyn's already fucked off to the gift tables to start collecting swag. She claims it's the only reason she ever shows. Bob doesn't doubt that. He's never learned to understand the appeal of Los Angeles either.
They step from photo line to interview line and the questions come fast and furious. They tell the truth, that there was nothing left for them to say. That Gerard's voice and Bob's wrists and Frank and Ray and Mikey's fingers weren't holding up to the kind of strain that touring put on them. That they missed their families. Bob refrains from walking away when that answer turns the questions toward wives and kids (and pets). It's been four years, but he can't keep himself from flinching when one reporter asks if he's been seeing anyone seriously since the break up with Paul.
"No comment," he says flatly, and the guys close ranks, steering the questions back toward what they think their chances of winning are.
"Somewhere between diddly and bupkis," Frank says, grinning. "We've never been award darlings and-"
That's as far as they get before the slavering horde is distracted by someone more exciting.
"Think you've got better chances than you think," a familiar voice says and when Bob turns, he's surprised there aren't a thousand more light's flashing.
"I dunno. I heard something about the competition being pretty stiff this year," Bob says, before he steps forward and gives Patrick a quick, back-pounding hug. Patrick... is Patrick. A little softer around the middle than he was the last time Bob saw him (but aren't they all), hat set tight over what's left of his close cropped hair. He and Bob are running neck and neck on that front.
"Lies. Flattery and lies," Patrick says as though he doesn't have entire rooms packed full of awards and honors, all hard-earned and well-deserved. "This is your year. I've got a fuck ton of money on you guys pulling at least six."
"We'll see," Bob says, giving him one more hug before he passes him off on the rest of the guys. "Catch you after."
Patrick nods and waves, and when he moves toward Gerard, the cameras turn to catch them.
"He's always liked you," Frank says.
"He likes everyone," Bob says. "It's why he's still working."
"You know what I mean." Frank snags a gift bag from the Chanel table and peeks inside. "Ooh, scarf! Birthday gift for Anna's out of the way."
"You're such a fucking cheapskate."
"Yeah, yeah. You just wish you'd called it first," Frank pushes Bob forward. They get through the door and Frank reclaims his wife with a kiss.
Ray wins. Shocked and giggling through his entire speech, he dedicates it to them. When he gets back to his seat he kisses Krista on the mouth and all the rest of them on the cheek, asks, "Does this improve or ruin my shot at the Oscar?"
They win. Seven, not six and the three they lose do go to Patrick. After the third time they are called, Bob finds himself shoved in front of the microphone, all the others out of words. He says, "Thank you. We. Thank you," and has to turn away quickly.
Patrick finds him backstage, after the photos and before the parties. "How're you holding up?"
"I'm fine," Bob says. "We won."
"I meant-"
"I know."
"Okay," Patrick nods. "Just thought. If you wanted to talk. I keep expecting to run into you. I mean, I know Chicago's big, but-"
"I've been in Jersey a lot," Bob shrugs. "Visiting."
"Visiting," Patrick echoes. "Are you-"
"I'm fine, Patrick." Bob says again, a sharp edge sneaking into the words.
"Sure. Sorry," Patrick holds up one hand in surrender. "Just. Give me a call sometime when you're gonna be in town. We should get together."
Bob nods and tucks the gift bag from Apple under his arm. "Yeah. Sure. I should find my... the guys."
"You're kind of an asshole," Frank says, when Bob does find him. "He was being nice."
"I don't need people being fucking nice," Bob growls. He knows how stupid it sounds.
"Right. Of course not."
"Shut up, Iero. Or I might change my mind." Bob grumbles then looks at Frank, waiting for it to set in.
"Yeah?" Frank says. "Fuck yeah!"
****
The scene has changed. A lot.
It takes nearly a month to figure out how to set up a show without revealing themselves. Frank leaning over his shoulder while they go through the venue listings and figure out the best place, the best time. They don't do anything to promote it but post a notice right along side a new song.
"I guess we'll see," Frank closes out the page.
Within two days there are nearly fifty posts from people with variations on 'it's about time.'
It takes two more days before Frank admits to Jamia that they're going to play.
"Don't be angry," He says. She stares at him for fifteen seconds, Bob counts it out and thinks maybe he should leave the room or at least move so he's not between her and the knives.
"Thank Christ," her eyes roll skyward and she tugs Frank into a kiss. "I thought you two would never get off your asses and actually get out of my house. Get over here so I can kiss you too, Bob."
Bob lets her. A wet smacking kiss on the mouth that makes Frank hoot with laughter.
"You'll come." Bob says. It's not a question. Jamia slaps him, still laughing.
"Of course I'll come. Morons. The both of you. Does this mean I can finally listen to what you've been doing?"
Frank shakes his head. It's the same answer he gives every time she asks. She keeps asking even after Bob's let her listen, if only so Frank doesn't figure out that he's been betrayed.
They play back-lit and from behind a scrim and they can see every face in the audience, almost all the way back to the bar. It's a small audience. Smallest Bob's played since that industry party that made them decide they'd never play another industry party.
"They're going to think we're pretentious as fuck," Bob hisses to Frank before they start. The stage is crowded even with just the two of them.
"They came to see us." Frank says.
"Yeah, and they can't." He's not nervous. It would be ridiculous to be nervous.
"You're fucking terrified," Frank smiles. "It's pretty awesome, isn't it."
Bob chokes back a sound, and he's not sure whether to hug Frank or punch him. He does both.
"Count it," Frank says and Bob does.
It's not perfect. They flub a few times, but the crowd is interested if not passionate. By the time they start the last song, Bob wants to do it again. And again. He doesn't know how he's gone so long without. He's missed... everything.
"We're doing that again," Bob says, before the last chord fades. He hits his crash one last time and Frank bows and it's over.
"We're doing that again," Frank says when they get back stage, laughing and sweaty. He plasters himself against Jamia and she shoves him away.
"I said that already." Bob swipes at his face with a towel.
"You're going to have to fix the modulation on the last song." Bob and Frank both turn at the same time. "I keep trying to tell you about that shit. You can't make jumps across three keys like that."
"Fuck," Bob says. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Patrick shrugs. "Like I said, I was interested in seeing what you could do live. Didn't know it was you, though. Not for sure. I thought maybe Pete was shitting me. Why didn't-"
Frank and Bob look at each other, and Frank mouths 'Mikey.'
"It's just a thing," Bob sets his sticks down on the table. "Not a big deal."
"Jesus, you're a stubborn bastard still," Patrick shakes his head.
"Why change what works?" Bob crosses his arms across his chest.
"We were bored," Frank says. "It was just something for us, you know. Not. It's not My Chem 2.0. You know everyone would treat it like that. They'd want-"
"It was never even supposed to get this far," Bob says.
"It's going to go further," Patrick tells him, there's no question in his voice. "You were good, and those kids out there are going to tell their friends. If I know anything about the way this works, you're looking at at least a thousand listens by the time you get home tonight and I'd put money on there already being video up."
Frank bounces on the balls of his feet, smile widening. Bob manages a tight smile.
****
It's not a thousand. It's three thousand. The next time it's five and Patrick's there again and then ten and still Patrick's there. Then theories start popping up. Bob laughs at posts insisting they're holograms. He's not laughing as hard when Frank tells him they're playing Chicago. They fly first class and Bob keeps waiting for the shoe to drop. It doesn't.
"I forgot how awesome my bed is," Bob says through a mouthful of cereal, it's stale. Not that he should be surprised, it's been a year since he was home. He's only surprised it's not sentient.
That night, they give in and step into the light and there's a moment where everything hangs in the air, between one breath and the next. Then it begins. Five minutes after they come off, there are a hundred emails and nearly as many voice messages, more coming in every minute. He smiles and turns his phone and reader off.
"The press isn't going to go away so easy this time. You're going to have to give a quote," Patrick says.
"You're like a rash, Stump. Who let you in?" Bob asks, scruffing a hand through his hair.
"I'm kind of a big, stinky star. I go where I want," Patrick grins. "Plus, Frank put me on the guest list."
"Fucking traitor," Bob sighs.
"Yeah. So. You're in Chicago."
"I am," Bob agrees. There's really no way to argue that.
"I'm taking you out to dinner," Patrick says.
"No you're not." Bob tugs a sweatshirt over his head.
"Ok, fine." Patrick shrugs, stepping closer. "We can skip that part. So. Sex?"
Bob steps back, his thighs hitting painfully against the edge of the table he'd forgotten was there. "I. Huh?"
"Sex." Patrick takes another step and Bob has no where to go. "You and me."
"How much is Frank paying you?" Bob laughs, wiping a hand over his face. "Jesus, I almost thought you were serious."
"I am," Patrick says. "We're both single. We're not getting any younger."
"Patrick, come on." Bob shakes his head, side stepping.
"You know I've never actually dated anyone in the industry."
"Yeah," Bob nods. He knows. Everyone knows. Bob knows better than most. Twenty years on, he still remembers that awkward conversation.
"I'm sick of people who don't get it." Patrick says. "This." He waves toward the stage. "You're going to be major news tomorrow and... and that's not why you did it."
"It's not," Bob agrees. "I didn't. There wasn't. I couldn't."
"I know," Patrick's hand is warm, a little damp when it curls around Bob's neck.
It's not their first kiss. But so long after the last, it's different. Imperfect. Good.
"We'll figure it out," Bob says.
Author: lovelypoet
Rating: PG
Pairing: Bob/Patrick
Prompt: My Chemical Romance break up. Bob and Frank start a band together. Sex, rock n roll and Patrick Stump. DO WHAT YOU WILL.
Note: I completely failed at porn on this story. I tried. I had three different bunnies of awesome hot sexing. None of them wanted to be written, hence the lateness. This is the only story I was able to make happen
Thanks to clumsygyrl for the read through
It makes sense when they sit down three days before the last show of the tour and - without anyone saying it - know it will be the last show ever. Bob almost can't believe it's true for the two and a half hours they play, throwing themselves into every song they've perfected and a few they probably shouldn't attempt live after all this time, just for the thrill of it. It feels like they could go on forever, just like this. But as it has for every other show on the tour, Gerard's voice falters at moments it used to be strongest, and more often than not, he is nearly drowned out by the crowd screaming the choruses back at them. Half way through the show, subjected to more abuse than he's given them in years, Bob's wrists graduate from a dull ache to screaming pain, and he knows they're doing the right thing.
Gerard stands tall at the edge of the stage, shoulders squared and voice hoarse from use, and offers the crowd a sincere thank you. They don't know it's not just for tonight, but for so many more years than anyone ever could have expected. He says goodnight; he says goodbye. It's done.
They go out on top, and it takes a little while before the rest of the world realizes that's what they've done. When his phone starts ringing, Bob ignores it. No matter who it is, they'll be asking questions he's not in the mood to answer.
For three months it goes like this: He wakes up and feels his fingers twitch for a cigarette. He ignores it, just a reflex left over from before, the last grasping vestige of a habit left behind almost a decade ago now. Breakfast is toast and egg whites, or toast and fake bacon. On days when he's feeling indulgent and risky, it's the number five special at his favorite diner (where absolutely no one knows his name). He calls his mother, because there are some people you can't ignore, or at least you feel like a total shit if you do. He does his wrist exercises, barely having to think about them anymore because he likes being able to pick things up and feel his fingers. Then he reads for a few hours. Whatever he can get his hands on, just because he can, as long as it doesn't have to do with the industry. Lunch, movies, tinkering around at his kit in his studio, futzing with rhythms he never got to record. Dinner, shower, sleep, all exactly as he's done it since he got home. He's not hiding. He's just. Reorienting himself. Figuring things out. All the while avoiding the ringing phone entirely, only selectively thinning out and replying to the emails piling up.
"Oh good. You're not dead. I was afraid I was going to have to come identify the rotting corpse."
"Hi, Frank." Bob's not entirely sure why he picked up the call this time. There was a strange pang when he saw Frank's name on the display, a sudden flash of guilt for avoiding even his former bandmates after so many promises that the end of the band didn't mean the end of being a part of each other.
"My wife said I have to find a hobby," Frank says.
"Oh?" Bob says. Almost finished with the crossword puzzle, one corner is still stubbornly empty and he's struggling to find in a ten letter word for ending (from the French). He's pretty sure the letters he's got to work with can't be right.
"Apparently, I'm driving her crazy," Frank says, and Bob can hear the dull plunking of electric guitar strings being played without amplification. It's the same kind of aimless noodling with aspirations to be something more that Bob has recognized sneaking into his own playing for the last few weeks. The difference is Frank's got Jamia and the kids. There's no one else in Bob's house, no one to drag him out of his own head. Not anymore. "It's fucking weird, you know?"
Bob knows. It's not the longest they've ever been off the road or out of the studio, nothing compared to that two years when there were suddenly babies everywhere he looked. But it's the longest he's gone without seeing them and this time there's no plan, not even the promise of one somewhere in the nebulous future.
"I know," he says.
"You should come visit us." Frank's changed songs, picking out his part from Famous Last Words, and Bob's foot is tapping out the rhythm before he can stop himself. Twenty years since he wrote the part and it's become permanently ingrained in his muscle memory; he'll be able to keep it's beat another twenty years from now.
"Jamia would love that," Bob snorts, but the idea has merit. Chicago has his house, but he's not sure it's home.
"She would. And so would the kids." Frank insists.
"Sure, yeah." Bob shrugs, already thinking about how much he'll have to pack, what it will take to get a flight. The answer to both is not much.
****
"Can Frank come out and play?" Bob asks. His duffle bag, the same one that saw him through the last three tours, is hanging from his shoulder.
"Get in here," Jamia smiles at him, waving him through the door. Bob drops the bag and sweeps her up in a hug. She tugs herself free and kisses his cheek. "You need to do something with him, Bob. I swear, he's going to drive us all crazy. He's moping."
"Point me at him," Bob says, and goes where Jamia gestures. He knows the house well enough to know what's in that direction and to have an idea of which room Frank's hiding him.
He's not wrong.
Frank's lying on the floor of his home theater, spread-eagle in a square of sunlight. There is a headphone cord stretched taught between him and the turntable, and Bob has to admire Frank's continued loyalty to dead media forms. He's thrumming his fingers against his chest to a rhythm that looks vaguely familiar. Bob kicks at the sole of Frank's foot; it takes four times before Frank bothers to open his eyes.
"You're here," he says, smiling up with a face splitting grin that emphasizes the deepening creases of accumulating years around his mouth and eyes.
"You told me to come." Bob says.
"I did," Frank nods. "And you're here. Which is good. Because we need to start writing and practicing."
"We need to what?" Bob quirks an eyebrow.
"Write. Practice. The band." Frank says, finally shoving the headphones off his ears. "If we're going to make it work, we need to do the work."
"Have you had a stroke? Traumatic brain injury?" Bob laughs, though considering everything, it's a reasonable question. "Early on-set Alzheimer's?"
"Fuck off. I'm bored out of my mind, Bob," Frank says, pushing himself up. "I need to play. And you can't tell me you were ready."
"I was ready," Bob says. He's lying. Already just the thought of playing again, really playing again, is making his hands itch.
"Come on, Bryar," Frank pokes at Bob's knee. "Just a few songs. We'll toss them up somewhere, see if they stick. No pressure, nobody breathing down our neck about numbers or the message."
"Just us," Bob says. "You're not talking about the band. You're talking about just us."
"Something like that," Frank says.
"Yeah." Bob swallows and rubs his hands against the soft denim of his jeans. "Yeah, ok."
****
Two weeks in and they've got almost nothing. A few ideas, and some bits and pieces, chords and rhythms, but nothing that sounds like a song yet. It's different on their own. He knew it would be. They're not My Chem anymore. They aren't trying to be. There are pieces of it that feel the same, but so much else that is completely different. They have nothing to prove to anyone.
"I was thinking if you bring the snare in on the two," Frank leans over the board and drags his finger along the touch screen, pulling the cursor back to replay the last three bars. "It feels..."
"Yeah. It does," Bob nods and can already hear the difference Frank's suggestion will make. "We can try it."
It sounds better, not quite right yet, but getting closer.
"We can finish fixing it tomorrow," Frank says, when his phone's alarm beeps a reminder to pick the kids up from school.
"Sure," Bob agrees, tapping his way through one last eight count. There's no rush. Maybe that's the biggest change of all.
"Don't hit on my wife while I'm gone," Frank shoves back from the console and swings a gentle punch at Bob's shoulder as he walks by.
It's an old joke. Bob laughs anyway. "You're just afraid she'll finally give in and run away with me."
"Terrified," Frank agrees, ducking out the door.
Bob fiddles for a while longer, just until his left hand twinges. He knows better than to push when there's no reason.
"That sounded good," Jamia says from the doorway Bob hadn't realized was open.
"Thanks," he says. "It's just. I don't know if it's going to be anything. But it doesn't really have to be, I don't think."
"No, probably not," Jamia agrees, stepping into the room. "It's really done, isn't it?"
"What?" Bob blinks and rolls his wrists, cringing at the crack and pop. His physical therapist would kick his ass if she could see him now.
"It's really not just a break." Jamia's frowning, pulling lines between her eyes.
"No. I don't think so." Bob shakes his head. "Not this time."
"And this?"
"I dunno," Bob says. "It's good to keep busy. It's not like I've got a whole lot else going on. And you said."
"Yeah. I worry about him sometimes." Jamia brushes a hand through her hair, shot through now with a few streaks of gray. Probably well earned, Bob thinks. "He needs this. I don't think he knows what to do with himself if a guitar isn't within arm's reach. It's been more than half his life, and."
Bob nods. He knows. Frank hasn't come out and said anything, not really. But he's been starting a lot of sentences with 'you remember that time...'
"Thanks for coming," Jamia says. She's said it a lot since he got there, never once asking when he's leaving.
"He'll figure it out," Bob says. "It's just a readjustment. A big one. But he'll get there."
"You will, too," Jamia smiles and kisses his forehead, hugs him. Bob doesn't say anything. "Come downstairs. It's your turn to cook."
****
"Well. Fuck," Bob says after Frank reads the first sentence of Gerard's email to him.
"I know, right?" Frank shakes his head.
"There's not really any way to get out of it entirely." Bob's knows that's not the right response.
"Doesn't look like it, no." Frank says, poking at the screen, like it will make the words there change.
"We should be happy about this." Bob says.
"Yeah. We should." Frank leans back. "Can't be surprised they want it. Not with ten nominations."
"That is a lot." Bob feels sick. It's been five months since they walked off stage and now someone wants them back on one. "Has Gerard-"
"No," Frank says. "Not yet. He says he'll go, but he's leaning toward no on the performance. But. He says it's not just up to him."
"Right. Ray and Mikey." Bob doesn't think Mikey's likely to say yes. Ray's a question.
"And us. But I can't, Bob." Frank's voice is tight. "I. We've gotta look forward."
"Right," Bob knew that. There was never a question.
"We're going to lose anyway," Frank says. "I mean. Did you check out the competition?"
"Good?" Bob asks, because he didn't. With few exceptions, he hates most of what he's heard this year and he's barely bothered to register names, there are too many, most crappy. He doesn't care who they're up against. That's what he tells himself. The truth is he didn't get any further than the headline - Disbanded My Chemical Romance Leads Grammy Pack - before the knot tightened in his stomach reminding him that awards or none, it didn't make a difference.
"Stump," Frank says. "He's all the fuck over the place this year. His shit will sweep. Again."
"Good for him," Bob can't work up any real enthusiasm. He's jealous. Of fucking course he is. More than a decade ago Patrick slipped seamlessly from Fall Out Boy's end into solo and production careers that would make almost anyone weep tears of bitter envy.
"Yeah," Frank frowns. "The only reason they're all over us is because we quit."
"Right," Bob nods, ignoring the scattered nominations they'd picked up over the years. It was never anything like this. "A going away present. The Grammys have been bullshit for decades. Thought they'd die out when the RIAA did."
"Right."
If they say it enough, Bob thinks they might just convince themselves.
"Still," Frank slumps, "Jamia always likes a chance to dress up pretty and leave the kids at home. And Ray's nominated for that Peter Jackson film he scored, too. It'd be kind of shitty not to show up at least."
"Yeah. Fine. Can we get back to work?" Bob tries not to sound like he's begging, but they've actually made it to something that resembles something in the last week. No vocals, because it's them. But there's structure, and it's starting to feel like it's something people - other people - might actually listen to.
"Yeah." Frank clicks away from the email, Gerard's familiar scrawl vanishing from the screen and replaced with the wave forms Bob's almost memorized the shape of. Frank readjusts the guitar across his thighs. "That section on the bridge?"
Bob nods and takes over the board controls, counting Frank in.
****
The first song is finished, really finished, three months after they start. The last two weeks are spent on the tiniest adjustments until they have to admit that there is nothing left to fix. Frank nods and they throw it into the abyss. There's nothing to connect it to them, and Bob braces himself for it to be ignored completely - maybe hated, but he'd put more money on ignored. It'll sit in the "new tracks" pool for a day or two, maybe. Then it will just fade without notice. It's just three minutes of guitar and drums, barebones and stripped back more than anything he's heard outside of his own head in at least three years.
"It's good," Frank shrugs. "I mean. I like it."
"Yeah, It's good." Bob can't argue with that. That was never the question.
"We should send it to the guys, let them hear what we've been doing all this time," Frank starts the message before Bob can say anything, and arguing would be stupid anyway.
They know. There wasn't a way to keep it quiet, they've known since a week after Bob got there. No way for him to hide here when they all still exist close enough to be in each other's pockets and space without technology mediating. They know but they haven't heard.
"Sure," Bob says finally, and Frank rolls his eyes in response, the email already sent.
"Back to work?" Frank asks. Bob reaches past him to cue up the second song, done except for the ongoing argument about the chord progression after the bridge, and Frank's still holding strong for a key change that Bob just... doesn't like.
****
Bob doesn't know how often Frank checks their stats and comments. They don't talk about it, just like they don't talk about the fact that Bob's still living in the guestroom. Bob checks once a day. First thing in the morning, page pulled up on his reader while he drinks his coffee. It shouldn't make his stomach flip the way it does, not when there's not much to it. It took the first song nearly two weeks to break a thousand listens, the second got there in a week. It's hard not to make the comparison, to think about the fact that attaching My Chem or either of their names to it would have meant a guaranteed feature spot on the news page and probably had them breaking the hundred thousand mark in less than a day.
A couple thousand listens and a few dozen unsigned comments. Most of them just a few words barely worth reading.
This iz dum. There Izn't ne1 singing.
Bob reminds himself that it's kind of lame to selectively delete comments, even really stupid ones.
**
Nice stuff.
Details would be good, but it's better than nothing, he supposes.
**
I liek this. When r u posting more?
Bob sighs and taps out a response. Thanks. We've got 2 or 3 more we're working on. Couple weeks... probably. Gotta make 'em good.
**
These are pretty good. You guys know what you're doing, and I can see you making something pretty decent. I'm not sold on that progression after the bridge, though. You might want to move through E minor before you jump to G.
Just a thought.
Bob blinks. "Fucking Frank."
"It wasn't me," Frank says from behind him. "The key change right? I swear on my grandpa's grave. It wasn't me."
"Huh," Bob says. "Fine. We'll fix it."
"Nah, we don't have to," Frank says. "Listen. You can go home you know."
"You kicking me out, Iero?" Bob smiles, tries to smile, afraid that Frank's permission is actually a request.
"Nope. But, ok. I was in bed last night, and Jamia was already asleep and I got thinking. And. I'm ok. You know?"
"Yeah, you've always been ok," Bob says.
"You too, man." Frank kicks him under the table. "And if you wanna go back home-"
"I wanna finish the song we've got on the table and then go back and fucking fix that chord progression," Bob says fiercely. "I'm not ready to give it up. The shit is good, Frank. We're good. I need this. I don't-"
"Fuck yeah, we're good. Hey," Frank reaches across the table and pokes at Bob's chest. "I was just saying, we have the technology. If you wanted to maybe visit your house, make sure it hasn't burnt down, we could do this long distance for a little while. You think I'm gonna give up on this just because we're gonna have to work to be listened to? Fuck you, Bryar. I'm not that kind of pussy."
Bob blinks once, twice, a few more times and then he's laughing. Half relief, half the ridiculous look on Frank's face. "Right, no. You're an entirely different kind of pussy."
****
"Did you see the latest comment?" Frank asks, passing his reader across the table when Bob shakes his head. "We got an anonymous 'I told you so.' And I think they've got another good idea."
told you it would work better this way. Looking forward to what you do next. Any plans for live shows? I'd be interested in seeing how good you actually are. Can never tell with computers now.
"I'm still not sure I don't think our anonymous friend is you," Bob says with a snort. He reads the comment twice and looks up at Frank who's biting his lip. "It'd kind of defeat the purpose," he says finally.
"The purpose is to play," Frank says. "Tell me reading comments is what you were looking to get out of this."
"I wasn't looking for anything," Bob says. It's a dirty, rotten lie. And he doesn't tell it very well.
"We've got listeners. Fans," Frank says with a sense of awe. As though they don't have tens of millions of fans, as though Frank's house isn't surrounded by a very serious fence to keep the more dedicated number of them out.
"You know what's going to happen," Bob says.
"It's playing live," Frank says with a kind of reverence that Bob can't bring himself to laugh at.
"Can we just survive the fucking Grammys first?" Bob just doesn't want to admit defeat yet. But he know the feeling of giving in for Frank.
****
"Good to see you, man" Gerard says, clapping Bob on the back like they didn't sit down for dinner at his house two weeks ago. His grin shines over the explosions of camera flashes. He leans closer and whispers, "They're all waiting for us to deck each other."
"We could, if you wanted," Bob gives him a squeeze and feels the laughter against his cheek.
"Nah," Gerard pulls away and faces front, the barrage of flashes intensifies. Eight months they've been away now, and they haven't done any press since the ten sentence blurb that confirmed their 'amicable dissolution.' Now they're back on the red carpet and ten steps ahead of where they are, the inquisition is waiting. "We'll just tell them it was Toro's fault, pompous jackass."
"Sounds good," Bob grins, glancing past Gerard to where Mikey, Ray and Frank are finishing up their 'and spouses,' photos. Lyn's already fucked off to the gift tables to start collecting swag. She claims it's the only reason she ever shows. Bob doesn't doubt that. He's never learned to understand the appeal of Los Angeles either.
They step from photo line to interview line and the questions come fast and furious. They tell the truth, that there was nothing left for them to say. That Gerard's voice and Bob's wrists and Frank and Ray and Mikey's fingers weren't holding up to the kind of strain that touring put on them. That they missed their families. Bob refrains from walking away when that answer turns the questions toward wives and kids (and pets). It's been four years, but he can't keep himself from flinching when one reporter asks if he's been seeing anyone seriously since the break up with Paul.
"No comment," he says flatly, and the guys close ranks, steering the questions back toward what they think their chances of winning are.
"Somewhere between diddly and bupkis," Frank says, grinning. "We've never been award darlings and-"
That's as far as they get before the slavering horde is distracted by someone more exciting.
"Think you've got better chances than you think," a familiar voice says and when Bob turns, he's surprised there aren't a thousand more light's flashing.
"I dunno. I heard something about the competition being pretty stiff this year," Bob says, before he steps forward and gives Patrick a quick, back-pounding hug. Patrick... is Patrick. A little softer around the middle than he was the last time Bob saw him (but aren't they all), hat set tight over what's left of his close cropped hair. He and Bob are running neck and neck on that front.
"Lies. Flattery and lies," Patrick says as though he doesn't have entire rooms packed full of awards and honors, all hard-earned and well-deserved. "This is your year. I've got a fuck ton of money on you guys pulling at least six."
"We'll see," Bob says, giving him one more hug before he passes him off on the rest of the guys. "Catch you after."
Patrick nods and waves, and when he moves toward Gerard, the cameras turn to catch them.
"He's always liked you," Frank says.
"He likes everyone," Bob says. "It's why he's still working."
"You know what I mean." Frank snags a gift bag from the Chanel table and peeks inside. "Ooh, scarf! Birthday gift for Anna's out of the way."
"You're such a fucking cheapskate."
"Yeah, yeah. You just wish you'd called it first," Frank pushes Bob forward. They get through the door and Frank reclaims his wife with a kiss.
Ray wins. Shocked and giggling through his entire speech, he dedicates it to them. When he gets back to his seat he kisses Krista on the mouth and all the rest of them on the cheek, asks, "Does this improve or ruin my shot at the Oscar?"
They win. Seven, not six and the three they lose do go to Patrick. After the third time they are called, Bob finds himself shoved in front of the microphone, all the others out of words. He says, "Thank you. We. Thank you," and has to turn away quickly.
Patrick finds him backstage, after the photos and before the parties. "How're you holding up?"
"I'm fine," Bob says. "We won."
"I meant-"
"I know."
"Okay," Patrick nods. "Just thought. If you wanted to talk. I keep expecting to run into you. I mean, I know Chicago's big, but-"
"I've been in Jersey a lot," Bob shrugs. "Visiting."
"Visiting," Patrick echoes. "Are you-"
"I'm fine, Patrick." Bob says again, a sharp edge sneaking into the words.
"Sure. Sorry," Patrick holds up one hand in surrender. "Just. Give me a call sometime when you're gonna be in town. We should get together."
Bob nods and tucks the gift bag from Apple under his arm. "Yeah. Sure. I should find my... the guys."
"You're kind of an asshole," Frank says, when Bob does find him. "He was being nice."
"I don't need people being fucking nice," Bob growls. He knows how stupid it sounds.
"Right. Of course not."
"Shut up, Iero. Or I might change my mind." Bob grumbles then looks at Frank, waiting for it to set in.
"Yeah?" Frank says. "Fuck yeah!"
****
The scene has changed. A lot.
It takes nearly a month to figure out how to set up a show without revealing themselves. Frank leaning over his shoulder while they go through the venue listings and figure out the best place, the best time. They don't do anything to promote it but post a notice right along side a new song.
"I guess we'll see," Frank closes out the page.
Within two days there are nearly fifty posts from people with variations on 'it's about time.'
It takes two more days before Frank admits to Jamia that they're going to play.
"Don't be angry," He says. She stares at him for fifteen seconds, Bob counts it out and thinks maybe he should leave the room or at least move so he's not between her and the knives.
"Thank Christ," her eyes roll skyward and she tugs Frank into a kiss. "I thought you two would never get off your asses and actually get out of my house. Get over here so I can kiss you too, Bob."
Bob lets her. A wet smacking kiss on the mouth that makes Frank hoot with laughter.
"You'll come." Bob says. It's not a question. Jamia slaps him, still laughing.
"Of course I'll come. Morons. The both of you. Does this mean I can finally listen to what you've been doing?"
Frank shakes his head. It's the same answer he gives every time she asks. She keeps asking even after Bob's let her listen, if only so Frank doesn't figure out that he's been betrayed.
They play back-lit and from behind a scrim and they can see every face in the audience, almost all the way back to the bar. It's a small audience. Smallest Bob's played since that industry party that made them decide they'd never play another industry party.
"They're going to think we're pretentious as fuck," Bob hisses to Frank before they start. The stage is crowded even with just the two of them.
"They came to see us." Frank says.
"Yeah, and they can't." He's not nervous. It would be ridiculous to be nervous.
"You're fucking terrified," Frank smiles. "It's pretty awesome, isn't it."
Bob chokes back a sound, and he's not sure whether to hug Frank or punch him. He does both.
"Count it," Frank says and Bob does.
It's not perfect. They flub a few times, but the crowd is interested if not passionate. By the time they start the last song, Bob wants to do it again. And again. He doesn't know how he's gone so long without. He's missed... everything.
"We're doing that again," Bob says, before the last chord fades. He hits his crash one last time and Frank bows and it's over.
"We're doing that again," Frank says when they get back stage, laughing and sweaty. He plasters himself against Jamia and she shoves him away.
"I said that already." Bob swipes at his face with a towel.
"You're going to have to fix the modulation on the last song." Bob and Frank both turn at the same time. "I keep trying to tell you about that shit. You can't make jumps across three keys like that."
"Fuck," Bob says. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Patrick shrugs. "Like I said, I was interested in seeing what you could do live. Didn't know it was you, though. Not for sure. I thought maybe Pete was shitting me. Why didn't-"
Frank and Bob look at each other, and Frank mouths 'Mikey.'
"It's just a thing," Bob sets his sticks down on the table. "Not a big deal."
"Jesus, you're a stubborn bastard still," Patrick shakes his head.
"Why change what works?" Bob crosses his arms across his chest.
"We were bored," Frank says. "It was just something for us, you know. Not. It's not My Chem 2.0. You know everyone would treat it like that. They'd want-"
"It was never even supposed to get this far," Bob says.
"It's going to go further," Patrick tells him, there's no question in his voice. "You were good, and those kids out there are going to tell their friends. If I know anything about the way this works, you're looking at at least a thousand listens by the time you get home tonight and I'd put money on there already being video up."
Frank bounces on the balls of his feet, smile widening. Bob manages a tight smile.
****
It's not a thousand. It's three thousand. The next time it's five and Patrick's there again and then ten and still Patrick's there. Then theories start popping up. Bob laughs at posts insisting they're holograms. He's not laughing as hard when Frank tells him they're playing Chicago. They fly first class and Bob keeps waiting for the shoe to drop. It doesn't.
"I forgot how awesome my bed is," Bob says through a mouthful of cereal, it's stale. Not that he should be surprised, it's been a year since he was home. He's only surprised it's not sentient.
That night, they give in and step into the light and there's a moment where everything hangs in the air, between one breath and the next. Then it begins. Five minutes after they come off, there are a hundred emails and nearly as many voice messages, more coming in every minute. He smiles and turns his phone and reader off.
"The press isn't going to go away so easy this time. You're going to have to give a quote," Patrick says.
"You're like a rash, Stump. Who let you in?" Bob asks, scruffing a hand through his hair.
"I'm kind of a big, stinky star. I go where I want," Patrick grins. "Plus, Frank put me on the guest list."
"Fucking traitor," Bob sighs.
"Yeah. So. You're in Chicago."
"I am," Bob agrees. There's really no way to argue that.
"I'm taking you out to dinner," Patrick says.
"No you're not." Bob tugs a sweatshirt over his head.
"Ok, fine." Patrick shrugs, stepping closer. "We can skip that part. So. Sex?"
Bob steps back, his thighs hitting painfully against the edge of the table he'd forgotten was there. "I. Huh?"
"Sex." Patrick takes another step and Bob has no where to go. "You and me."
"How much is Frank paying you?" Bob laughs, wiping a hand over his face. "Jesus, I almost thought you were serious."
"I am," Patrick says. "We're both single. We're not getting any younger."
"Patrick, come on." Bob shakes his head, side stepping.
"You know I've never actually dated anyone in the industry."
"Yeah," Bob nods. He knows. Everyone knows. Bob knows better than most. Twenty years on, he still remembers that awkward conversation.
"I'm sick of people who don't get it." Patrick says. "This." He waves toward the stage. "You're going to be major news tomorrow and... and that's not why you did it."
"It's not," Bob agrees. "I didn't. There wasn't. I couldn't."
"I know," Patrick's hand is warm, a little damp when it curls around Bob's neck.
It's not their first kiss. But so long after the last, it's different. Imperfect. Good.
"We'll figure it out," Bob says.