Fic: Cracked and Almost Blind
Title: Cracked and Almost Blind
Recipient: emo_sushi
Prompt: Mikey/Bob h/c-ish around September/early October 2004, when Mikey needs help remembering, that yes, actually, he can breathe again now.
Pairing: Bob/Mikey
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,012
Disclaimer: Not not; never happened; no profit being made
Author's Note: I hope this fulfills the need? I'm still incredibly nervous about this. Bob is very difficult to write.
A big thank you to nova33 for her beta work and to thesamefire for her handholding and general awesomeness.
Bob’s not sure when it starts.
At first, he does things like everybody else, keeping one eye on Gerard as much as he can. He’s too busy watching Gerard - watching Gerard’s face go from milk white to almost human--to notice much else, at least in the first week of tour.
Gerard smiles easier, and Frank and Ray smile easily and squint in the sun. He laughs with them, and it becomes almost easy to pretend that he’s been here the entire time. He learns the beats; he learns the patterns. He sinks into the familiar lull of touring, and everything starts to seem comfortable.
It’s comfortable, except that every morning at 3:00 AM, he wakes up to the smell of coffee. Bob’s a light sleeper; he knows when Gerard goes to bed, to hear him snuffle down into the pillows and kick the wall every time. That happens between 2:15 and 2:45, and the coffee starts at three sharp. It starts on September 15th, and he lets it go for week and a half, until he has to get up to check
It's always just Mikey, huddled tight in a hoodie and too-big sweatpants. He curls and around himself, over a cup coffee, fetal and vulnerable. It's like he expects the coffee to give him something, hands grasping tight for warmth.
The first time, Bob leaves him and goes back into the bunks. He's not sure if it's his place to push this yet, because Mikey isn't his little brother and is only just barely his band mate. He still at the place where he's too new to know what's allowed, even if these guys seem pretty okay with just about anything.
On the second night, he does on the lounge and sits down beside Mikey. They don't talk, and Mikey doesn't offer him any coffee. Bob doesn't get up to his own, just sits close and listens to Mikey breathe. His breathing is shallow, huffing and too loud. He doesn't look at Bob, staring straight ahead at the bus door. The third time it happens, there's a blue mug sitting out for Bob. It's broken without a handle, but it's clean and sometimes that's enough.
Bob doesn't ask why they're out here at 3:00 AM, when even Gerard is asleep. They don't talk, which makes sense considering they're the quietest members of the band, but he wants to ask, wants to know why Mikey still stares ahead at the door.
He almost says something about it, when they're outside of Denver, because Mikey seems paler that night. He's pale every night, in the dull bluish glow of the lamp over the microwave. But that night, Mikey waits in the dark for Bob to come out, cups of coffee already made. Bob stumbles twice to get over to the kitchen table, over a pair of Gerard's boots and a bag of magazines. He can only see Mikey's face in passing street lights, and he's pale enough that he looks like he's glowing. Bob can tell that his fingers are shaking.
"Mikey," he starts but then Mikey looks at him with too big brown eyes. Mikey and Gerard have never been able to conquer the kicked puppy looks like Frank can give just about anybody, but in that moment, Bob can see why everyone treats Mikey like he's five, that he really is everyone's kid brother. Bob reaches over and and rubs the back of the Mikey's neck and Mikey leans into the touch.
Outside Salt Lake, it's the same dark bus kitchen with coffee and cracked mugs that leak on the kitchen table, enough to leave sticky rings and puddles. There's too much sugar in Bob's coffee, even though Mikey usually drinks his black. Something about the hour makes cream and sugar necessary. It was ready and waiting for him when he came out 10 minutes after three. Mikey's breaths are still stuttering in his chest when he looks over that night. He's not wearing his glasses, and Bob can't see if he's squinting. They're both almost-blind in the dark.
Mikey says "Sometimes I think it's never going to be enough, and I wish I didn't."
Bob doesn't know what to say to that, and they sit thigh to thigh with their knees brushing until the entire pot is gone.
***
San Diego is the only time Mikey's breath starts to stutter in front of the rest of the band. Half an hour to the show, after the sound check's over and they're supposed to be bullshitting backstage, they can't find Gerard.
They try to pretend it's nothing.
"He's around here somewhere," Ray says. Bob doesn't miss the way his leg twitches, though, or the way Frank gets up almost too casual. Not being able to find Gerard reminds them all a little too much of Europe and tours where he'd pass out in the bushes.
"I'm gonna go check by the buses," Frank announces, wiping his hands on his legs. He sort of bounces in place for a minute before he's out the door and gone.
Ray pulls his cellphone out and dials a number without looking. He stares straight ahead at the floor and at the stained carpet on the concrete venue floor
Gerard's cell is on the table next to Mikey, and it rings two seconds later. Mikey doesn't answer it, and Ray snaps his phone closed a little more viciously than is probably necessary.
Instead Mikey curls up, elbows on his knees and staring straight ahead. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, and bob can hear him trying not to hyperventilate. It's the same sound from the 3:00 AM coffees, the stuttering that makes his shoulders shake.
"He probably went for coffee," Mikey says in stumbling words. "He said that the coffee here tasted like ass. And there's a 7-11 like 10 feet from the venue." Bob rolls his eyes because MCR is actually started to get big enough that randomly running off to 7-11 is a horrendous idea for any of them, except maybe him because he doesn't look like he belongs here yet, but it's even more ridiculous for the front man.
Not to mention that it is right by the venue, with fans lining up outside and probably running in for Mountain Dew slushies to prep themselves for the pit.
Bob leans against the arm of the couch, and he almost touches Mikey. It seems weird not to be, and then Mikey tips his head back, looking at Bob over the frames of his glasses with solemn eyes. Bob lets his hand drift down to Mikey's shoulder, finger tips skimming the skin just around the collar of his t-shirt. It feels awkward, when they're not in the dark and listening to the rest of the band sleep.
Mikey closes his eyes and tips his head back down, chin tucked in so the back of his neck is exposed. It looks vulnerable. Bob watches Ray look over, eyes narrowing and mouth starting to set into a concerned-dad sort of line. Bob shifts and shakes his head when Ray glances over. Ray lets him take it, and Bob tries not to smile, that Ray already thinks Bob will know what to do, even with Mikey.
Bob taps the opening beat to "Venom" on his leg before he looks over at Ray. "Hey," he says, just loud enough to be heard over Mikey's breathing and the weird trip-hop being piped in through the speakers. "Do you think you could get someone to check the minimart outside?"
Ray jumps a little, blinking at Bob like he'd forgotten that there were other people in the room. "Yeah, I can do that." He's up and on his phone again, leaving Bob and Mikey alone.
Bob slides down next to Mikey and doesn't talk. He sits close enough that their legs press together, his arm tight against Mikey's, and concentrates on keeping his own breathing normal, even exhales and quiet inhales.
Mikey leans against him, just a little more than it actually necessary. Bob doesn't ask questions, and he closes his eyes when Mikey sighs, shoulders drooping. He doesn't sound like he's drowning though, mostly.
"I have Tetris in my bag," Bob says, when Mikey finally looks over at him. They don't move their legs or their arms.
"I like Tetris." Mikey gives him the sort of crooked mouth raise that could be a smile.
Bob smiles back before leaning away from Mikey to grab his bag and passes over his Gameboy. It's the third one he ever bought, the seriously old school version with duct tape over the battery pack and green and darker green graphics.
"Sweet." Mikey takes it and pops the cartridge off, blowing on it. He's still not quite smiling, but he doesn't glare at Gerard when Ray and Frank drag him in fifteen minutes later.
Mikey's calf stays pressed against Bob's while he obliterates Bob's highest score.
***
That night after the show, Bob wants to ask Mikey why. Gerard apologized a few hundred times before they got onstage, and 90% of them were said in Mikey's direction. Bob almost says something when they stop at a rest stop for lukewarm soup and overcooked hotdogs. He doesn't though, because Frank's lurking at Bob's shoulder and Gerard keep sending them concern looks, like they're all 5 seconds from yelling.
And maybe they are, except the blue haired old lady behind the register keeps sending them looks, and they want to get out of there as fast as possible.
Bob's not sure how much he can say in front of the others anyway, and how much is just for 3:00 AM coffee.
He doesn't mention it then, either, and Mikey still playing his Gameboy. Bob is gonna need new batteries. There something calming though in the faux-Arabian music while Mikey obliterates line after line. All the lights are on in the kitchen, and Bob knows that's mostly so Mikey can see the screen.
"Do you think," Bob starts, but he doesn't finish the question. He doesn't know how.
Mikey's feet are tucked under Bob's leg, and he hasn't touched his coffee. It's cold now; Bob fights the urge to get up and throw it in the microwave so it won't be gross.
Mikey doesn't his eyes of the screen. "I just can't get it out of my head, that things are gonna go wrong again."
Bob reaches out and rubs Mikey's calf with just the tips of his fingers. He finished his first cup of coffee and it's up for another. "Do you think he'd do that?" He doesn't know what else to ask.
"No." Mikey shuts off the game boy and slides across the table. He barely makes a face when he takes the sip of his coffee, even though the creamer's starting to separate. "I know he won't. I just..." He tucks his head down, looking suddenly bashful.
"You just what," Bob asks, voice gentle, and he's smiling, just a little. He has his back turned Mikey so Mikey won't see its stupid and childish, and maybe a little grade school, but it feels too soon for Mikey to be able to make him smile soft--not to mention what a monumental Fuck up it could be for everyone.
He can hear Mikey shrug, the slide of t-shirt against vinyl. "I think we're a little crazy from it still. Frank and Ray just handle it better."
Bob nods. He pours Mikey another cup of coffee without being asked and there are more questions, other things he wants to ask or tell Mikey. He doesn't though, because everything he has to say won't make a damn bit of difference. He makes Mikey another cup of coffee, with more creamer that Mikey likes and an extra scoop of sugar, and he pushes it into Mikey's hands.
Mikey smiles, a real smile with the kitchen light reflecting off his glasses. "Just leave the one light on," he says when Bob moves away from the counter to sit back down next to Mikey. He looks like a zombie, with the glow from one light bulb. The hollows under his cheekbones are sharp, but he still giving Bob the real smile, one that shows his crooked teeth. In the faint light, Bob lets Mikey see his own smile.
They don't talk again that night, turning on the television and watching some old Sci Fi movie. They fall asleep like that, twisted around each other so Bob's head is on Mikey's knees with Mikey's socked feet under Bob's thigh.
Recipient: emo_sushi
Prompt: Mikey/Bob h/c-ish around September/early October 2004, when Mikey needs help remembering, that yes, actually, he can breathe again now.
Pairing: Bob/Mikey
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,012
Disclaimer: Not not; never happened; no profit being made
Author's Note: I hope this fulfills the need? I'm still incredibly nervous about this. Bob is very difficult to write.
A big thank you to nova33 for her beta work and to thesamefire for her handholding and general awesomeness.
Bob’s not sure when it starts.
At first, he does things like everybody else, keeping one eye on Gerard as much as he can. He’s too busy watching Gerard - watching Gerard’s face go from milk white to almost human--to notice much else, at least in the first week of tour.
Gerard smiles easier, and Frank and Ray smile easily and squint in the sun. He laughs with them, and it becomes almost easy to pretend that he’s been here the entire time. He learns the beats; he learns the patterns. He sinks into the familiar lull of touring, and everything starts to seem comfortable.
It’s comfortable, except that every morning at 3:00 AM, he wakes up to the smell of coffee. Bob’s a light sleeper; he knows when Gerard goes to bed, to hear him snuffle down into the pillows and kick the wall every time. That happens between 2:15 and 2:45, and the coffee starts at three sharp. It starts on September 15th, and he lets it go for week and a half, until he has to get up to check
It's always just Mikey, huddled tight in a hoodie and too-big sweatpants. He curls and around himself, over a cup coffee, fetal and vulnerable. It's like he expects the coffee to give him something, hands grasping tight for warmth.
The first time, Bob leaves him and goes back into the bunks. He's not sure if it's his place to push this yet, because Mikey isn't his little brother and is only just barely his band mate. He still at the place where he's too new to know what's allowed, even if these guys seem pretty okay with just about anything.
On the second night, he does on the lounge and sits down beside Mikey. They don't talk, and Mikey doesn't offer him any coffee. Bob doesn't get up to his own, just sits close and listens to Mikey breathe. His breathing is shallow, huffing and too loud. He doesn't look at Bob, staring straight ahead at the bus door. The third time it happens, there's a blue mug sitting out for Bob. It's broken without a handle, but it's clean and sometimes that's enough.
Bob doesn't ask why they're out here at 3:00 AM, when even Gerard is asleep. They don't talk, which makes sense considering they're the quietest members of the band, but he wants to ask, wants to know why Mikey still stares ahead at the door.
He almost says something about it, when they're outside of Denver, because Mikey seems paler that night. He's pale every night, in the dull bluish glow of the lamp over the microwave. But that night, Mikey waits in the dark for Bob to come out, cups of coffee already made. Bob stumbles twice to get over to the kitchen table, over a pair of Gerard's boots and a bag of magazines. He can only see Mikey's face in passing street lights, and he's pale enough that he looks like he's glowing. Bob can tell that his fingers are shaking.
"Mikey," he starts but then Mikey looks at him with too big brown eyes. Mikey and Gerard have never been able to conquer the kicked puppy looks like Frank can give just about anybody, but in that moment, Bob can see why everyone treats Mikey like he's five, that he really is everyone's kid brother. Bob reaches over and and rubs the back of the Mikey's neck and Mikey leans into the touch.
Outside Salt Lake, it's the same dark bus kitchen with coffee and cracked mugs that leak on the kitchen table, enough to leave sticky rings and puddles. There's too much sugar in Bob's coffee, even though Mikey usually drinks his black. Something about the hour makes cream and sugar necessary. It was ready and waiting for him when he came out 10 minutes after three. Mikey's breaths are still stuttering in his chest when he looks over that night. He's not wearing his glasses, and Bob can't see if he's squinting. They're both almost-blind in the dark.
Mikey says "Sometimes I think it's never going to be enough, and I wish I didn't."
Bob doesn't know what to say to that, and they sit thigh to thigh with their knees brushing until the entire pot is gone.
***
San Diego is the only time Mikey's breath starts to stutter in front of the rest of the band. Half an hour to the show, after the sound check's over and they're supposed to be bullshitting backstage, they can't find Gerard.
They try to pretend it's nothing.
"He's around here somewhere," Ray says. Bob doesn't miss the way his leg twitches, though, or the way Frank gets up almost too casual. Not being able to find Gerard reminds them all a little too much of Europe and tours where he'd pass out in the bushes.
"I'm gonna go check by the buses," Frank announces, wiping his hands on his legs. He sort of bounces in place for a minute before he's out the door and gone.
Ray pulls his cellphone out and dials a number without looking. He stares straight ahead at the floor and at the stained carpet on the concrete venue floor
Gerard's cell is on the table next to Mikey, and it rings two seconds later. Mikey doesn't answer it, and Ray snaps his phone closed a little more viciously than is probably necessary.
Instead Mikey curls up, elbows on his knees and staring straight ahead. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, and bob can hear him trying not to hyperventilate. It's the same sound from the 3:00 AM coffees, the stuttering that makes his shoulders shake.
"He probably went for coffee," Mikey says in stumbling words. "He said that the coffee here tasted like ass. And there's a 7-11 like 10 feet from the venue." Bob rolls his eyes because MCR is actually started to get big enough that randomly running off to 7-11 is a horrendous idea for any of them, except maybe him because he doesn't look like he belongs here yet, but it's even more ridiculous for the front man.
Not to mention that it is right by the venue, with fans lining up outside and probably running in for Mountain Dew slushies to prep themselves for the pit.
Bob leans against the arm of the couch, and he almost touches Mikey. It seems weird not to be, and then Mikey tips his head back, looking at Bob over the frames of his glasses with solemn eyes. Bob lets his hand drift down to Mikey's shoulder, finger tips skimming the skin just around the collar of his t-shirt. It feels awkward, when they're not in the dark and listening to the rest of the band sleep.
Mikey closes his eyes and tips his head back down, chin tucked in so the back of his neck is exposed. It looks vulnerable. Bob watches Ray look over, eyes narrowing and mouth starting to set into a concerned-dad sort of line. Bob shifts and shakes his head when Ray glances over. Ray lets him take it, and Bob tries not to smile, that Ray already thinks Bob will know what to do, even with Mikey.
Bob taps the opening beat to "Venom" on his leg before he looks over at Ray. "Hey," he says, just loud enough to be heard over Mikey's breathing and the weird trip-hop being piped in through the speakers. "Do you think you could get someone to check the minimart outside?"
Ray jumps a little, blinking at Bob like he'd forgotten that there were other people in the room. "Yeah, I can do that." He's up and on his phone again, leaving Bob and Mikey alone.
Bob slides down next to Mikey and doesn't talk. He sits close enough that their legs press together, his arm tight against Mikey's, and concentrates on keeping his own breathing normal, even exhales and quiet inhales.
Mikey leans against him, just a little more than it actually necessary. Bob doesn't ask questions, and he closes his eyes when Mikey sighs, shoulders drooping. He doesn't sound like he's drowning though, mostly.
"I have Tetris in my bag," Bob says, when Mikey finally looks over at him. They don't move their legs or their arms.
"I like Tetris." Mikey gives him the sort of crooked mouth raise that could be a smile.
Bob smiles back before leaning away from Mikey to grab his bag and passes over his Gameboy. It's the third one he ever bought, the seriously old school version with duct tape over the battery pack and green and darker green graphics.
"Sweet." Mikey takes it and pops the cartridge off, blowing on it. He's still not quite smiling, but he doesn't glare at Gerard when Ray and Frank drag him in fifteen minutes later.
Mikey's calf stays pressed against Bob's while he obliterates Bob's highest score.
***
That night after the show, Bob wants to ask Mikey why. Gerard apologized a few hundred times before they got onstage, and 90% of them were said in Mikey's direction. Bob almost says something when they stop at a rest stop for lukewarm soup and overcooked hotdogs. He doesn't though, because Frank's lurking at Bob's shoulder and Gerard keep sending them concern looks, like they're all 5 seconds from yelling.
And maybe they are, except the blue haired old lady behind the register keeps sending them looks, and they want to get out of there as fast as possible.
Bob's not sure how much he can say in front of the others anyway, and how much is just for 3:00 AM coffee.
He doesn't mention it then, either, and Mikey still playing his Gameboy. Bob is gonna need new batteries. There something calming though in the faux-Arabian music while Mikey obliterates line after line. All the lights are on in the kitchen, and Bob knows that's mostly so Mikey can see the screen.
"Do you think," Bob starts, but he doesn't finish the question. He doesn't know how.
Mikey's feet are tucked under Bob's leg, and he hasn't touched his coffee. It's cold now; Bob fights the urge to get up and throw it in the microwave so it won't be gross.
Mikey doesn't his eyes of the screen. "I just can't get it out of my head, that things are gonna go wrong again."
Bob reaches out and rubs Mikey's calf with just the tips of his fingers. He finished his first cup of coffee and it's up for another. "Do you think he'd do that?" He doesn't know what else to ask.
"No." Mikey shuts off the game boy and slides across the table. He barely makes a face when he takes the sip of his coffee, even though the creamer's starting to separate. "I know he won't. I just..." He tucks his head down, looking suddenly bashful.
"You just what," Bob asks, voice gentle, and he's smiling, just a little. He has his back turned Mikey so Mikey won't see its stupid and childish, and maybe a little grade school, but it feels too soon for Mikey to be able to make him smile soft--not to mention what a monumental Fuck up it could be for everyone.
He can hear Mikey shrug, the slide of t-shirt against vinyl. "I think we're a little crazy from it still. Frank and Ray just handle it better."
Bob nods. He pours Mikey another cup of coffee without being asked and there are more questions, other things he wants to ask or tell Mikey. He doesn't though, because everything he has to say won't make a damn bit of difference. He makes Mikey another cup of coffee, with more creamer that Mikey likes and an extra scoop of sugar, and he pushes it into Mikey's hands.
Mikey smiles, a real smile with the kitchen light reflecting off his glasses. "Just leave the one light on," he says when Bob moves away from the counter to sit back down next to Mikey. He looks like a zombie, with the glow from one light bulb. The hollows under his cheekbones are sharp, but he still giving Bob the real smile, one that shows his crooked teeth. In the faint light, Bob lets Mikey see his own smile.
They don't talk again that night, turning on the television and watching some old Sci Fi movie. They fall asleep like that, twisted around each other so Bob's head is on Mikey's knees with Mikey's socked feet under Bob's thigh.