bob fic #1: forgiveness
Bob/Gerard, Frank/Gerard
Standalone
R (swearing and themes)
written May 2006
Bob doesn't know what to say. Instead, he sighs and rubs the palm of his hand against his chin before moving to the front of the bus, reaching for the lukewarm pot of coffee Mikey prepared a few hours before. He knows his silence is better -- easier to deal with -- than Gerard's flailing hands, his tremoring voice, his hurried explanations.
He grips the handle tightly as he pours the thick, brownish sludge into the first mug he can find, listening to the argument rage outside. It's not the first argument they've ever had, not by a long shot. It's not even the first time they've fought like this ... standing a hundred yards apart, screaming at each other across a parking lot at 4am.
What's different, Bob realises as he drains his cup, is that this time, they're fighting about him.
When Frank finally gives up and heads back to the bus, throwing his hands in the air and yelling "Fuck you!" as loudly as his bruised vocal chords can muster, Bob closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He's not afraid of Frank, but he might be afraid of the things Frank can say, the things he can do. He might be afraid of the image that appears in front of Frank's eyes whenever he closes them.
And when Frank storms onto the bus and slams his fist on the countertop, making Bob look up, the drummer knows what he's thinking about.
Bedsheets tangled around entwined limbs. Glowing skin. Sweaty smiles and swollen lips.
Frank's green eyes narrow, glittering dangerously below those exquisitely arched brows, and he wants to speak. Bob can see it; he can see the short, dark-haired man open his mouth slightly, only to frown and suck his lower lip into his mouth, biting down on it in frustration.
The silence runs through Bob like a needle, and suddenly he feels deflated. He's the bad guy this time, and he's not used to it. He's never expected it.
Gingerly, he drops his gaze to the counter and places the coffee cup on it. He takes a deep breath. "Is he ... where is he?"
"Why?" Frank spits, his face darkening with anger. "One time not enough for ya?"
"Listen, man -- "
"No, you fucking listen!" He grabs Bob's collar and pulls him closer, close enough to smell the beer on Frank's breath. "We kicked out one fuckin' drummer, we can always do it again. You hear me?"
Bob's eyes widen as he watches Frank's small, vicious mouth form the words. Things are slowly becoming clearer. "Is that why ... ?"
"You're a smart guy, think about it. I got rid of Matt, I got rid of Bert -- and I'll get rid of you too."
Bob shakes his head and pushes him away, laughing softly in an effort to break the tension. "You're fucking wasted, man. Why don't you hit the hay and -- "
"So you can fuck him again? Come on, Bob, I'm not that fuckin' stupid." Frank stumbles over to the sofa, alcohol making his limbs heavy, and drops onto the cushions. "He doesn't love you," he says flatly.
Bob puts his empty coffee cup in the sink. "I know."
"He doesn't love me either."
"Sure he does."
Frank laughs harshly. "Nope ... he doesn't. It's pretty fucked up, isn't it? Like, everybody falls in love with him -- everyone. Guys, girls, it doesn't matter. But the only person he really loves is himself." He pulls a face. "And whoever gets him off when his boyfriend goes out drinking."
Bob winces at that statement. "I'm sorry, Frank," he says gently.
"Yeah, so am I."
The younger man turns his head in Bob's direction and they stare at each other for a moment. Then Frank shrugs, the corner of his mouth turning up in a cynical half-smile, and Bob knows he's forgiven -- even if Gerard isn't.
Even if Bob can never forgive himself.
Standalone
R (swearing and themes)
written May 2006
Bob doesn't know what to say. Instead, he sighs and rubs the palm of his hand against his chin before moving to the front of the bus, reaching for the lukewarm pot of coffee Mikey prepared a few hours before. He knows his silence is better -- easier to deal with -- than Gerard's flailing hands, his tremoring voice, his hurried explanations.
He grips the handle tightly as he pours the thick, brownish sludge into the first mug he can find, listening to the argument rage outside. It's not the first argument they've ever had, not by a long shot. It's not even the first time they've fought like this ... standing a hundred yards apart, screaming at each other across a parking lot at 4am.
What's different, Bob realises as he drains his cup, is that this time, they're fighting about him.
When Frank finally gives up and heads back to the bus, throwing his hands in the air and yelling "Fuck you!" as loudly as his bruised vocal chords can muster, Bob closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He's not afraid of Frank, but he might be afraid of the things Frank can say, the things he can do. He might be afraid of the image that appears in front of Frank's eyes whenever he closes them.
And when Frank storms onto the bus and slams his fist on the countertop, making Bob look up, the drummer knows what he's thinking about.
Bedsheets tangled around entwined limbs. Glowing skin. Sweaty smiles and swollen lips.
Frank's green eyes narrow, glittering dangerously below those exquisitely arched brows, and he wants to speak. Bob can see it; he can see the short, dark-haired man open his mouth slightly, only to frown and suck his lower lip into his mouth, biting down on it in frustration.
The silence runs through Bob like a needle, and suddenly he feels deflated. He's the bad guy this time, and he's not used to it. He's never expected it.
Gingerly, he drops his gaze to the counter and places the coffee cup on it. He takes a deep breath. "Is he ... where is he?"
"Why?" Frank spits, his face darkening with anger. "One time not enough for ya?"
"Listen, man -- "
"No, you fucking listen!" He grabs Bob's collar and pulls him closer, close enough to smell the beer on Frank's breath. "We kicked out one fuckin' drummer, we can always do it again. You hear me?"
Bob's eyes widen as he watches Frank's small, vicious mouth form the words. Things are slowly becoming clearer. "Is that why ... ?"
"You're a smart guy, think about it. I got rid of Matt, I got rid of Bert -- and I'll get rid of you too."
Bob shakes his head and pushes him away, laughing softly in an effort to break the tension. "You're fucking wasted, man. Why don't you hit the hay and -- "
"So you can fuck him again? Come on, Bob, I'm not that fuckin' stupid." Frank stumbles over to the sofa, alcohol making his limbs heavy, and drops onto the cushions. "He doesn't love you," he says flatly.
Bob puts his empty coffee cup in the sink. "I know."
"He doesn't love me either."
"Sure he does."
Frank laughs harshly. "Nope ... he doesn't. It's pretty fucked up, isn't it? Like, everybody falls in love with him -- everyone. Guys, girls, it doesn't matter. But the only person he really loves is himself." He pulls a face. "And whoever gets him off when his boyfriend goes out drinking."
Bob winces at that statement. "I'm sorry, Frank," he says gently.
"Yeah, so am I."
The younger man turns his head in Bob's direction and they stare at each other for a moment. Then Frank shrugs, the corner of his mouth turning up in a cynical half-smile, and Bob knows he's forgiven -- even if Gerard isn't.
Even if Bob can never forgive himself.