the darkest hour -- bobfic
Bob/Frank
Standalone
PG
written June 2006
Notes: For bob_slash prompt Fire/Smoke.
When Bob finally pulls into the driveway, it's past midnight. He turns off the headlights as he removes the keys from the ignition, and is suddenly bathed in blackness. He can't see a thing; the night sky is clouded over and starless, moonless. Blue-black and dense enough to lose yourself in. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, locking it carefully behind him, then stands up tall, hands pressed to his lower back as he stretches. After a moment, he sighs and shakes his head, one hand reaching up to scratch at his cropped blond hair.
The night air is crisp and cool, without a hint of breeze. So still, you'd think there was a storm coming. Bob waits until his eyes have adjusted enough to distinguish large dark shapes from a slightly paler background, and laughs softly. Sight is useless right now, and he's forced to rely on his other senses as he trudges towards the house.
The crunch of gravel beneath his feet lets him know he's still on the driveway; when he feels soft grass, he'll be on the lawn, and when he hears the smooth scrape of concrete, he'll be on the path leading to the house. From there, it'll be easy, he thinks. Three steps up to the front door, key in the lock, and I'm there.
Bob shoves his hands into his pockets and walks slowly, thinking about every step he's taking. In the car, he'd been tired -- looking forward to curling up in bed with a DVD -- but the cool air, the challenge of finding his way in the dark, has invigorated him, and he's fully alert to every sound: cars driving past the house, the odd nocturnal bird call, his own footfall.
If Bob's honest, he likes the cloaked feeling that darkness gives him, the feeling of being hidden, protected. Utter anonymity. No-one knows you -- hell, people can barely see you. Darkness is safety, sanctuary from all the crowds and high-pitched, screaming voices. It sure makes a change, he thinks with a half-smile as he reaches the front door.
Bob wonders whether, if he inhales sharply enough, he can suck the darkness into his lungs and disappear forever. Then he shakes his head and grins again as he pulls his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans.
Because he really wouldn't change anything, if he had the chance. He knows that. It's just that sometimes ... sometimes it's hard to be Bob, to be the quiet one, the sane one, the normal one, the one who picks up the pieces. The newbie, the guy who stands at the back, the guy who's still learning things about his bandmates, even after nearly two years.
The guy who keeps the other four in rhythm.
The house is dark when he finally enters it; he'd expected someone to leave a light on, at least. But there's nothing -- just more blackness, this darkness that's somehow invaded his thoughts. But it's not negative, not really ... or, at least, it doesn't feel that way to Bob. When you've been under the bright lights for years, every flaw visible, the heat making sweat and makeup run down your face in streaky lines, there's something comforting about darkness.
He walks through the hallway, past the bedrooms at the front of the house, past the bathrooms (there are two of them, something Bob sees as a waste of space), and pushes open the living room door.
The room is L-shaped -- another thing Bob doesn't like about the house, but Gerard had told him the place was so you and Mikey had said something about the shape of the room being good feng shui, then Gerard had nodded and said he'd paint something to go over the fireplace, "and it doesn't have to be a corpse, you know. I can, like, do flowers or something", so Bob had bought the fucking place just to shut them up -- and there's a warm, hazy glow coming from the far corner.
After all the darkness, he gravitates towards the light. He walks through the room and turns the corner to see a small figure sitting beside the fireplace, hugging his knees. The roaring fire gives off plenty of light, illuminating one side of the young man's silhouette and throwing the other into darkness. Strong shadows flicker across the unadorned walls.
Frank.
Bob stops for a second and blinks, trying to get used to the sight, before smiling and stepping forward to place a hand on Frank's shoulder. He turns, face breaking into a smile, lip and ear piercings glinting in the firelight. Bob smiles back.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he says, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Frank.
"Nah."
"Waiting up for me?"
Frank laughs and stretches out, lying down to rest his head against Bob's thigh. "What d'you think?"
They both grin and lapse into a comfortable silence, the sound of soft, even breathing punctuated by the crackling fire. Frank closes his eyes, but Bob stares into the flames. Vivid, multicoloured, unpredictable, mesmerising ... even if you don't understand them, you're drawn to them, he thinks. Just like the young man lying in his lap, looking like a perfect punk prince -- hair hanging over his eyes, small mouth curled into a catlike grin.
"Good lookin' fire," Bob murmurs, reaching out to run his fingers along the side of Frank's neck. The skin there is soft, smooth; the narrow strip unroughened by facial hair.
"Mmm," is Frank's drowsy response. "S'warm."
Bob smiles again. He thinks this would be the perfect moment for an "I love you", but he doesn't want to break the silence, to jolt Frank out of his space on the knife-edge of sleep. There are so many things he needs to say, but he doesn't want to say them -- not right now, anyway. What's the point? Bob is wrapped in a perfect cocoon of content, just him and Frank and the garish painting of bloodstained roses that hangs above the fireplace, and he refuses to let his clumsy words damage it.
He's happy just to sit there, back hunched slightly as he looks down at Frank, fingers lightly tracing the lines of his throat, as the shadows flicker over them and the warmth of the fire seeps through to their bones.
Then Frank yawns and rolls onto his back, opening his eyes. "Love you, Bobby. Let's go to bed, huh?"
Standalone
PG
written June 2006
Notes: For bob_slash prompt Fire/Smoke.
When Bob finally pulls into the driveway, it's past midnight. He turns off the headlights as he removes the keys from the ignition, and is suddenly bathed in blackness. He can't see a thing; the night sky is clouded over and starless, moonless. Blue-black and dense enough to lose yourself in. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, locking it carefully behind him, then stands up tall, hands pressed to his lower back as he stretches. After a moment, he sighs and shakes his head, one hand reaching up to scratch at his cropped blond hair.
The night air is crisp and cool, without a hint of breeze. So still, you'd think there was a storm coming. Bob waits until his eyes have adjusted enough to distinguish large dark shapes from a slightly paler background, and laughs softly. Sight is useless right now, and he's forced to rely on his other senses as he trudges towards the house.
The crunch of gravel beneath his feet lets him know he's still on the driveway; when he feels soft grass, he'll be on the lawn, and when he hears the smooth scrape of concrete, he'll be on the path leading to the house. From there, it'll be easy, he thinks. Three steps up to the front door, key in the lock, and I'm there.
Bob shoves his hands into his pockets and walks slowly, thinking about every step he's taking. In the car, he'd been tired -- looking forward to curling up in bed with a DVD -- but the cool air, the challenge of finding his way in the dark, has invigorated him, and he's fully alert to every sound: cars driving past the house, the odd nocturnal bird call, his own footfall.
If Bob's honest, he likes the cloaked feeling that darkness gives him, the feeling of being hidden, protected. Utter anonymity. No-one knows you -- hell, people can barely see you. Darkness is safety, sanctuary from all the crowds and high-pitched, screaming voices. It sure makes a change, he thinks with a half-smile as he reaches the front door.
Bob wonders whether, if he inhales sharply enough, he can suck the darkness into his lungs and disappear forever. Then he shakes his head and grins again as he pulls his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans.
Because he really wouldn't change anything, if he had the chance. He knows that. It's just that sometimes ... sometimes it's hard to be Bob, to be the quiet one, the sane one, the normal one, the one who picks up the pieces. The newbie, the guy who stands at the back, the guy who's still learning things about his bandmates, even after nearly two years.
The guy who keeps the other four in rhythm.
The house is dark when he finally enters it; he'd expected someone to leave a light on, at least. But there's nothing -- just more blackness, this darkness that's somehow invaded his thoughts. But it's not negative, not really ... or, at least, it doesn't feel that way to Bob. When you've been under the bright lights for years, every flaw visible, the heat making sweat and makeup run down your face in streaky lines, there's something comforting about darkness.
He walks through the hallway, past the bedrooms at the front of the house, past the bathrooms (there are two of them, something Bob sees as a waste of space), and pushes open the living room door.
The room is L-shaped -- another thing Bob doesn't like about the house, but Gerard had told him the place was so you and Mikey had said something about the shape of the room being good feng shui, then Gerard had nodded and said he'd paint something to go over the fireplace, "and it doesn't have to be a corpse, you know. I can, like, do flowers or something", so Bob had bought the fucking place just to shut them up -- and there's a warm, hazy glow coming from the far corner.
After all the darkness, he gravitates towards the light. He walks through the room and turns the corner to see a small figure sitting beside the fireplace, hugging his knees. The roaring fire gives off plenty of light, illuminating one side of the young man's silhouette and throwing the other into darkness. Strong shadows flicker across the unadorned walls.
Frank.
Bob stops for a second and blinks, trying to get used to the sight, before smiling and stepping forward to place a hand on Frank's shoulder. He turns, face breaking into a smile, lip and ear piercings glinting in the firelight. Bob smiles back.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he says, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Frank.
"Nah."
"Waiting up for me?"
Frank laughs and stretches out, lying down to rest his head against Bob's thigh. "What d'you think?"
They both grin and lapse into a comfortable silence, the sound of soft, even breathing punctuated by the crackling fire. Frank closes his eyes, but Bob stares into the flames. Vivid, multicoloured, unpredictable, mesmerising ... even if you don't understand them, you're drawn to them, he thinks. Just like the young man lying in his lap, looking like a perfect punk prince -- hair hanging over his eyes, small mouth curled into a catlike grin.
"Good lookin' fire," Bob murmurs, reaching out to run his fingers along the side of Frank's neck. The skin there is soft, smooth; the narrow strip unroughened by facial hair.
"Mmm," is Frank's drowsy response. "S'warm."
Bob smiles again. He thinks this would be the perfect moment for an "I love you", but he doesn't want to break the silence, to jolt Frank out of his space on the knife-edge of sleep. There are so many things he needs to say, but he doesn't want to say them -- not right now, anyway. What's the point? Bob is wrapped in a perfect cocoon of content, just him and Frank and the garish painting of bloodstained roses that hangs above the fireplace, and he refuses to let his clumsy words damage it.
He's happy just to sit there, back hunched slightly as he looks down at Frank, fingers lightly tracing the lines of his throat, as the shadows flicker over them and the warmth of the fire seeps through to their bones.
Then Frank yawns and rolls onto his back, opening his eyes. "Love you, Bobby. Let's go to bed, huh?"