Fic: "These Facts Between Us" (MCR, Bob/Brian, NC-17)
Title: "These Facts Between Us"
Author: aneli8 and mrsronweasley
Fandom: MCR
Pairing: Bob/Brian (with very shallowly suggested Frank/Gerard in the background, because that is how I roll)
Rating: NC-17
Notes: So, uh. The other night, while sitting on my couch, aneli8 started drunkenly writing lordessrenegade a fic that she would like to see about Bob & Brian. And then she showed it to me, and I was all, AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED? She shrugged at me. So I decided that I had to SEE, and so I wrote the ending.
Mine is more fic, hers is more awesome fic-like not!fic. I love her BRAIN, so all the awesome mostly comes from her. *hands* Also, the awesome comes from brooklinegirl, who betas everything I do without question, and only judges me a little bit for my odd pairing choices. Yay? And the title comes from Richard Siken, via aneli8.
(Also, how is it that I'm writing on THREE epic Frank/Gerard AUs, and all I've been posting in this fandom is - Bob/Brian? (Because I love them a LOT, is the answer to that.)
See, I want the fic where, okay, Brian is the manager and all competent and on top of shit, right? Like, he deals with the three in the morning phone calls, and the hearse breaking down, and all the big and little shit that five grown men in a band apparently can't deal with, like, you know, LAUNDRY and FEEDING THEMSELVES. And that's fine, because he's Brian, that's what he DOES. Only, it's not like he was magically born knowing how to handle all this stuff. He knows how to call people and make stuff happen, but he LEARNED that. He picked it up as he went along, and a lot of it is common sense, but still. Still, when the stuff he has to deal with is Gerard, high as a paper kite and not understanding why he shouldn't kill himself, that's... there's no fucking MANUAL for that. No one gave him a handbook when he started managing My Chem, no one gave him a fucking list of how to talk someone down when they're THAT fucked up, or what to do when the band isn't WORKING, and they need a new drummer, and everything is getting so, so screwed up. Brian has to figure that out. By himself. He holds everyone elses hand, and talks them through their shit, and throws everything he has into keeping everyone together as best he can.
And it's not that anyone takes him for granted, it's just that they assume he has all the solutions. Like he pulls them out of his magic hat or something. And he doesn't resent them for it, god no, it's just... it's hard, sometimes. Is all. He loves his guys with his whole fucking heart, but there are TIMES, okay, there are times when he has to take a deep breath and count to ten before answering their phone calls because GOD, how many pop-tart emergencies can one band HAVE?
Of course, being Brian, it's not like he lets on about any of this. He smokes a lot of cigarettes and drinks maybe more than he should, but it lets him present his "ready and able" face to everyone, and no one really asks any questions.
And then there's Bob.
There's Bob, and the thing is, Bob was around for the worst of it, in the beginning. He wasn't in the band yet, obviously, but he was THERE, and he SAW how bad things got, and he watched Brian trying to juggle the dozens of different problems that just. kept. happening. Bob's not STUPID, and unlike the rest of the band, he wasn't caught up in everything so much, didn't have these blinders on, and he could see how, at the end of the day, Brian would just sit, just slump against the van, or the wall of whatever gas station they were at, and kind of stare into space like he was too tired to even think anymore. Sometimes, Bob would share cigarettes with him, or hand him some coffee, but he never really said anything because... what? What was he going to say? He was the sound guy, it wasn't his band, it wasn't his place to say anything about Gerard's addictions, or Matt's... well, about Matt. And he wasn't even that good with words anyway, so it's not like he could do much beyond offering stupid platitudes to Brian, and that... that would have been worse, almost. Fake and cliche and not even close to enough to make anything better.
And then everything CHANGES. Matt's gone, Gerard's clean, and Bob barely has time to blink before he's sitting behind a drum kit and beating out the rhythm to "I'm Not Okay". It was all kind of this crazy whirlwind of things happening, and for a while, Bob was too busy trying to keep up to pay attention to anything other than drumming, and touring, and having a million cameras flashing in his face all the time. But when he does get a moment to breathe, he notices that now, every time Brian's around him, it's like... he's still BRIAN and everything, but he does the "ready and able" thing all the time now. He doesn't let Bob see him being tired, or frustrated, or whatever, and it takes Bob a stupidly long amount of time to get it. To figure out that, fucking hell, it's because he's IN THE BAND now. That he's not Brian's-friend-the-sound-guy, he's Bob Bryar, drummer for My Chemical Romance, and Brian's doing what he always did with the band, which is to be on top of everyone's problems, all the time.
Which pisses Bob off, okay? Because what the fuck?
"What the actual fuck, Schechter?" is how he puts it when he gets Brian alone behind the buses.
And Brian manages to talk in circles for about two minutes before Bob runs out of patience, makes an angry half-snarl noise, and bodily shoves Brian against the side of the bus. There's this moment where Brian just stares at him, like he's not even sure what just happened, and Bob didn't actually think anything through beyond the fact that he couldn't stand the fucking "I don't know what you're talking about" speech, but now that they're there, now that he's at least managed to catch Brian off guard, he just... he leans in, and presses their foreheads together-- like that's going to make this whole thing somehow less public-- and says, "You're not fucking superman, Schechter. You're pretty damn close, but don't pretend like it's not hard. Not with me."
He half expects Brian to shove him away, or punch him in the face, and the thing is, that would still be better than the I'm Your Manager boundaries Brian's been keeping so carefully in place. But Brian doesn't shove him, or hit him, he just stands there, between Bob and the bus, tense and wound so tight Bob can feel it, feel every taught muscle and the tight grip of Brian's hands where they'd instinctively grabbed at Bob's waist. Brian doesn't say anything, and keeps not saying anything, just leaves the moment hanging there for almost too long.
And then, with absolutely no warning beyond a quick huff of breath, he ducks his head forward and presses his mouth to Bob's.
It's a quick kiss, sharp and sudden, and Bob barely has time to even process the fact that it's happening before Brian pulls back. He pushes Bob away now, not roughly, but firmly enough to put space between them, and with a look that Bob can't even begin to understand, says "It's always been hard with you, Bryar," before walking off into the dark.
* * *
It takes Bob a solid minute to get his brain back, then another to come back to a reality where he had just actually physically pushed Brian up against the wall and received a kiss for his troubles. His lips are tingling, and he has to lick them before his heart can start beating normally again. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can barely remember his own fucking name.
He thinks that it’s ironic that it’s apparently been hard for Brian. It’s been nothing but impossibly confusing and ridiculously frustrating for Bob.
He doesn’t have the balls to do anything but slink back into his bunk for the rest of the night after that, and it takes him another two days to work up the nerve to look Brian in the eye again. When he does, all he finds is exhaustion, with a tinge of sadness. It makes Bob's stomach clench up, and he feels guilty, and he’s not even sure why. It also makes his insides flip in a different way altogether, and he steels himself for another conversation that doesn’t make sense and ends up confusing him even more.
Except when he actually goes to find Brian later on that night, the sweat still pouring off his body after the set, every inch of his skin damp and vibrating, he can’t find him anywhere. He’s pretty much given up by the time he pushes through the backstage bathroom door tucked away in a narrow hallway.
He thought he’d heard some roadies talking about a bathroom with a fucking shower in it, but he didn’t believe them. Now he sees two shower stalls, fucking towels, and three toilet stalls. It’s odd as hell, but he won’t question it, as long as he can fucking clean himself in relative privacy. He’s definitely telling Frankie about this once he’s done, and Frank has extricated himself from Gerard. Bob has noticed by this point that it usually takes a little while for Gerard and Frank to come down from the stage high.
One of the shower stalls is already being used, and Bob easily slips back into high school gym class mode. Keep to yourself, don’t jar anybody else’s jock strap. Bob turns on the free shower, and lets it steam up the stall as he sheds clothing. It takes him a long fucking time to peel off all of his layers and lay them out on top of the sink as neatly as can be managed in the cramped space. His wrists hurt like a bitch, too. They’re tender and throbbing and he can’t even contain the fucking moan when he steps into the shower and gets pounded by blessed hot water. He hopes whoever else is in the other shower doesn’t hear him, and then he stops caring.
It’s the best shower in the world, he thinks, as he soaps himself up with the questionable soap he finds in the stall, and loses himself in the stream of hot water over his shoulders. His entire body is thrumming, and he tries to stop thinking about the goal he’d set for himself tonight, but the harder he tries, the more impossible it becomes, until he realizes that he’s having a conversation with Brian in his head, playing both parts like a fucking high school drama student.
Why has it always been hard with me, Schechter?
Because - here Bob’s brain supplies what it wants to hear, and he doesn’t have the heart to stop - because you’re you and I - Brian is saying, and Bob interrupts him with a -
You fucking what?
I fucking want you, the Brian in his head whispers into Bob’s mouth, and the Bob inside Bob’s head can’t even answer that coherently, losing himself in the image, the very thought that those words could come out of Brian’s mouth, pretty much ever, and Bob is no idiot. He knows he won’t get to have this, not after last night, not now that he’s in the band, and he wouldn’t give that up, wouldn’t give it up for anything; but he wants to be able to. He wants the option. He wants the freedom to know that if he were to give it up, it wouldn’t be for nothing. (He could never give it up, ever. Not anymore.)
He just wants - he wants it all, he wants his fucking cake, and he wants to eat it, too, and the Bob-in-his-head finally answers Brian, and it’s just his name, just that one fucking word, and the image that Bob sees in his mind’s eye is of Brian leaning into him, mouth half-open, eyes half-closed, eyebrows drawn - and that’s all, that’s all he can take before his left hand is braced against the wall, and his right is flying to his dick, squeezing and pumping. His wrists hurt, but even the twinges of pain are not enough to stave it off, and he’s so close, he is so fucking close -
He barely notices Brian’s name escape his mouth, when he hears his own name, spoken in a rough voice, like a question breaking.
He stops all movement. His hand is still attached to his dick, but he can’t even breathe, like his throat has closed up until further notice, sorry, breathe again when it feels like opening -
“Schechter?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he barely has time to take his hand off his dick when the shower curtain parts, and Brian is just - standing in front of him, towel slung low around his hips, hair a damp mess, his eyes unfocused and lost-looking. Feeling like a fish out of water, Bob can’t stop looking at his chest, so much skin and ink and shadows - Bob has no idea just how much trouble he’s truly in until Brian drops the towel and strides right into the stall, naked, pushing Bob up against the wall, the hot water streaming down Bob’s face and shoulders.
It all happens so fast, by the time he’s processed it all - naked wet skin, naked wet Brian, pressing him up against the wall, fuck, Brian’s hard - he’s shorted out. He realizes that he probably looks like the dumbest deer caught in the world’s most obvious headlights, but he can’t help himself. He has absolutely no idea what just happened.
“Jesus, Bryar - just -“ Brian breaks off and then Bob has no warning at all before Brian’s mouth is on his, and the kiss kills off his remaining brain cells. This time, there’s no hesitation on Brian’s part, no anger or frustration. It’s pure heat. It’s heat and lust and tongue and spit and Bob has never been afraid of much, but he’s afraid of this. He’s afraid of the force being unleashed on him by a guy who’s almost half a foot shorter than him; he’s afraid of how hard his insides are clenching; he’s afraid of how tight Brian's grip on is on his wrists, pinning him in place. He responds to the kiss as best as he knows how, hips pushing up against Brian’s belly instinctively, with no signals being sent from his brain at all. It’s gut and want and blind power - he can’t even process everything happening to his body anymore.
He gives up control entirely when Brian bumps against his thigh with his dick, then stutters out a moan, and slides down to his knees in front of Bob.
“Fuck - what -"
But Bob can’t even finish the sentence. Some part of him sneers at himself, because he knows exactly what, and then Brian’s mouth is on Bob’s cock, and that’s all he knows. The suction, the wet heat trapping him in - fuck fuck fuck - Schechter is fucking good at this, using his lips to slide up and down, his tongue to drive Bob further against the wall, crazy with it. Bob can’t help the hard grip he’s got on Brian’s hair, can’t hear anything but the rushing in his ears and the wet slap his ass makes against the tiled wall as he fucks Brian’s mouth. It’s the dirtiest, most fucking amazing blowjob he’s ever gotten, like, ever. Brian is moaning like he’s the one being wrung out through his cock, and the vibrations send sparks of unbearable desire through Bob’s spine. His keeps his eyes closed, because he knows that if he opens them and looks down, it’ll all be over, and some part of him knows that it’s probably his one chance, so he’d better make it last.
But he can’t - he can’t stop himself from opening his eyes and staring when he hears a new sound bubble up under the spray, and he knows what he’ll see once he looks down. Brian is jerking himself off, hand flying over his dick, squeezing and twisting, fast and dirty and so stupidly hot, and Bob's fingers clench around Brian's head before he can do anything else, and he's coming, shooting down Brian's throat and hoping to God Brian doesn’t choke.
He shakes inside him, and it feels like forever.
When he finally stops and begins to come down, he slides along the wall, Brian's hand still clenching his hip, and gets to the ground just in time to watch Brian throw his head back and come, his chest and face flushed, his lips bruised red, mouth open and gasping. Bob grabs him without thinking and drinks in Brian's moans with his mouth, slides his tongue around like he wants to taste the very air of Brian’s orgasm. Brian’s free hand slides up Bob's side and grabs Bob around the neck like it’s the only thing standing between him and oblivion.
Bob desperately wants it to be. He knows, now, like a fucking punch to the gut, that he wants to be the one person that Brian lets go with. He wants to hand him fucking coffee forever, wants to be the one Brian curls up with in the dark and lets massage his shoulders when he’s too tired to move. Bob wants to be the one Brian wakes up seeing in the morning, and it’s all too fucked up and huge to even contemplate.
The water’s turning cold, and Bob can feel Brian shivering quietly against him, clinging to him in a bizarre one-armed hug, and Bob is too afraid to breathe too hard, in case Brian comes to and shoves him away for good.
They stay tangled together until Bob’s knees hurt so much, he feels like he’s been thrown in a grinder. Brian’s fingers tighten against his neck, and then release him entirely. Bob nearly staggers backwards from the shock of being let go.
Brian lifts up his head and avoids looking Bob in the eye until Brian’s pushed and pulled them both up and out of the stall and turned off the water. Bob follows him on instinct, feeling the dread of the afterwards settle heavily in his belly.
He allows Brian to bundle him up in the free towel, and then he just stands there, like an idiot, and almost irrationally pissed because he can fucking - he can take care of himself; he doesn’t want to be treated like just another one of Brian’s guys. He has no idea how to make that happen. His knees and wrists are fucking killing him, persistent aches under his thin skin. He tries to focus on the physicality of it.
“Bryar - Bob -“ Brian finally says, and his voice is so soft, Bob feels like he’s breaking in two. “This is -“
Bob squeezes his eyes shut and just waits, can’t even make his throat work to swallow the bile building up in his mouth.
“- such a bad idea. You know that, don’t you? You have to -” Brian’s voice turns pleading, almost, like he’s talking to a kid who just won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Bob yells at himself to grow some fucking balls, and finally looks up.
“I - no.” He has no idea where that had come from, but as soon as it’s out of his mouth, he knows it’s right. “It’s not - it’s - I want to -“ He can’t finish the sentence, his throat clicks shut. He makes a frustrated noise. Anything his brain supplies sounds either cheesy or stupid or ridiculous. He has no idea how to phrase what his entire being is aching for in five words or less. He doesn’t think he can make his tongue work around more than that. He thinks he might vomit.
Brian looks kind of green himself. He’s still watching Bob with those stupidly beautiful eyes, and Bob focuses on Brian’s lip ring, thinks about how it felt against his own, doesn’t speak.
Finally, Brian drops his gaze and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is just - Bob, don’t you fucking get it?” He’s still not looking at Bob, and Bob has absolutely no idea what it is he’s supposed to know. He knows absolutely nothing, he understands none of what just happened, he only knows himself.
“No,” he finally answers. His own voice sounds empty. “I don’t - what am I supposed to know?”
Brian actually laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that happens when Frank has broken all of his toes in the start of a tour, or Gerard has sprained his ankle, or Cortez has slipped during set-up and cut his face open. It’s the kind of laugh that happens when life is so ridiculously out of control, there’s nothing else you can do. Bob's heard that laugh escape from Brian's lips too many fucking times not to know it.
But when Brian does finally talk, it’s like a torrent breaking all around Bob. “I can’t fucking say no to you, Bryar, don’t you get it? I can’t say no to you anymore. I can’t fucking - I can’t. I can’t be the one to stop this, please, just - just stop it for me, okay, you have to. I - I'm -"
Bob stops listening. A stupid feeling fills his entire chest, a ridiculous - longing, or want, or joy, or all of it combined - and he wraps one hand around Brian’s neck and pulls him in. Brian’s words stutter off against his chest, and he grabs onto Bob, hands coming up around Bob’s shoulder blades, and presses himself to Bob’s entire front. Both their chests are chilled to the bone, but Bob feels himself start to thaw off everywhere Brian is clinging to him. The spots where Brian’s hands rest on Bob’s back feel like heaters. He buries his face in Brian’s hair, and makes himself speak.
“Then don’t. Don’t stop it. It doesn't have to be complicated, it - isn't. I just - don’t shut me out. Okay. Okay?”
He feels Brian tense beneath his touch, then slowly unclench. “I don't - I’ll try. Bob. Bob. I will.” He whispers Bob’s name like it’s got a whole meaning to it, like it isn’t just his name. Bob feels his spine shiver for one long moment.
“Okay,” he answers. “Good.”
And who knows. Maybe it is. He really, really hopes that it is.
He kisses Brian for a long time before he allows them to get dressed and leave the bathroom.
Later on that night, they share a beer in the lounge after everybody else has fallen asleep, and the silence that fills Bob’s ears is quiet and calm and content.
*
Author: aneli8 and mrsronweasley
Fandom: MCR
Pairing: Bob/Brian (with very shallowly suggested Frank/Gerard in the background, because that is how I roll)
Rating: NC-17
Notes: So, uh. The other night, while sitting on my couch, aneli8 started drunkenly writing lordessrenegade a fic that she would like to see about Bob & Brian. And then she showed it to me, and I was all, AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED? She shrugged at me. So I decided that I had to SEE, and so I wrote the ending.
Mine is more fic, hers is more awesome fic-like not!fic. I love her BRAIN, so all the awesome mostly comes from her. *hands* Also, the awesome comes from brooklinegirl, who betas everything I do without question, and only judges me a little bit for my odd pairing choices. Yay? And the title comes from Richard Siken, via aneli8.
(Also, how is it that I'm writing on THREE epic Frank/Gerard AUs, and all I've been posting in this fandom is - Bob/Brian? (Because I love them a LOT, is the answer to that.)
See, I want the fic where, okay, Brian is the manager and all competent and on top of shit, right? Like, he deals with the three in the morning phone calls, and the hearse breaking down, and all the big and little shit that five grown men in a band apparently can't deal with, like, you know, LAUNDRY and FEEDING THEMSELVES. And that's fine, because he's Brian, that's what he DOES. Only, it's not like he was magically born knowing how to handle all this stuff. He knows how to call people and make stuff happen, but he LEARNED that. He picked it up as he went along, and a lot of it is common sense, but still. Still, when the stuff he has to deal with is Gerard, high as a paper kite and not understanding why he shouldn't kill himself, that's... there's no fucking MANUAL for that. No one gave him a handbook when he started managing My Chem, no one gave him a fucking list of how to talk someone down when they're THAT fucked up, or what to do when the band isn't WORKING, and they need a new drummer, and everything is getting so, so screwed up. Brian has to figure that out. By himself. He holds everyone elses hand, and talks them through their shit, and throws everything he has into keeping everyone together as best he can.
And it's not that anyone takes him for granted, it's just that they assume he has all the solutions. Like he pulls them out of his magic hat or something. And he doesn't resent them for it, god no, it's just... it's hard, sometimes. Is all. He loves his guys with his whole fucking heart, but there are TIMES, okay, there are times when he has to take a deep breath and count to ten before answering their phone calls because GOD, how many pop-tart emergencies can one band HAVE?
Of course, being Brian, it's not like he lets on about any of this. He smokes a lot of cigarettes and drinks maybe more than he should, but it lets him present his "ready and able" face to everyone, and no one really asks any questions.
And then there's Bob.
There's Bob, and the thing is, Bob was around for the worst of it, in the beginning. He wasn't in the band yet, obviously, but he was THERE, and he SAW how bad things got, and he watched Brian trying to juggle the dozens of different problems that just. kept. happening. Bob's not STUPID, and unlike the rest of the band, he wasn't caught up in everything so much, didn't have these blinders on, and he could see how, at the end of the day, Brian would just sit, just slump against the van, or the wall of whatever gas station they were at, and kind of stare into space like he was too tired to even think anymore. Sometimes, Bob would share cigarettes with him, or hand him some coffee, but he never really said anything because... what? What was he going to say? He was the sound guy, it wasn't his band, it wasn't his place to say anything about Gerard's addictions, or Matt's... well, about Matt. And he wasn't even that good with words anyway, so it's not like he could do much beyond offering stupid platitudes to Brian, and that... that would have been worse, almost. Fake and cliche and not even close to enough to make anything better.
And then everything CHANGES. Matt's gone, Gerard's clean, and Bob barely has time to blink before he's sitting behind a drum kit and beating out the rhythm to "I'm Not Okay". It was all kind of this crazy whirlwind of things happening, and for a while, Bob was too busy trying to keep up to pay attention to anything other than drumming, and touring, and having a million cameras flashing in his face all the time. But when he does get a moment to breathe, he notices that now, every time Brian's around him, it's like... he's still BRIAN and everything, but he does the "ready and able" thing all the time now. He doesn't let Bob see him being tired, or frustrated, or whatever, and it takes Bob a stupidly long amount of time to get it. To figure out that, fucking hell, it's because he's IN THE BAND now. That he's not Brian's-friend-the-sound-guy, he's Bob Bryar, drummer for My Chemical Romance, and Brian's doing what he always did with the band, which is to be on top of everyone's problems, all the time.
Which pisses Bob off, okay? Because what the fuck?
"What the actual fuck, Schechter?" is how he puts it when he gets Brian alone behind the buses.
And Brian manages to talk in circles for about two minutes before Bob runs out of patience, makes an angry half-snarl noise, and bodily shoves Brian against the side of the bus. There's this moment where Brian just stares at him, like he's not even sure what just happened, and Bob didn't actually think anything through beyond the fact that he couldn't stand the fucking "I don't know what you're talking about" speech, but now that they're there, now that he's at least managed to catch Brian off guard, he just... he leans in, and presses their foreheads together-- like that's going to make this whole thing somehow less public-- and says, "You're not fucking superman, Schechter. You're pretty damn close, but don't pretend like it's not hard. Not with me."
He half expects Brian to shove him away, or punch him in the face, and the thing is, that would still be better than the I'm Your Manager boundaries Brian's been keeping so carefully in place. But Brian doesn't shove him, or hit him, he just stands there, between Bob and the bus, tense and wound so tight Bob can feel it, feel every taught muscle and the tight grip of Brian's hands where they'd instinctively grabbed at Bob's waist. Brian doesn't say anything, and keeps not saying anything, just leaves the moment hanging there for almost too long.
And then, with absolutely no warning beyond a quick huff of breath, he ducks his head forward and presses his mouth to Bob's.
It's a quick kiss, sharp and sudden, and Bob barely has time to even process the fact that it's happening before Brian pulls back. He pushes Bob away now, not roughly, but firmly enough to put space between them, and with a look that Bob can't even begin to understand, says "It's always been hard with you, Bryar," before walking off into the dark.
* * *
It takes Bob a solid minute to get his brain back, then another to come back to a reality where he had just actually physically pushed Brian up against the wall and received a kiss for his troubles. His lips are tingling, and he has to lick them before his heart can start beating normally again. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can barely remember his own fucking name.
He thinks that it’s ironic that it’s apparently been hard for Brian. It’s been nothing but impossibly confusing and ridiculously frustrating for Bob.
He doesn’t have the balls to do anything but slink back into his bunk for the rest of the night after that, and it takes him another two days to work up the nerve to look Brian in the eye again. When he does, all he finds is exhaustion, with a tinge of sadness. It makes Bob's stomach clench up, and he feels guilty, and he’s not even sure why. It also makes his insides flip in a different way altogether, and he steels himself for another conversation that doesn’t make sense and ends up confusing him even more.
Except when he actually goes to find Brian later on that night, the sweat still pouring off his body after the set, every inch of his skin damp and vibrating, he can’t find him anywhere. He’s pretty much given up by the time he pushes through the backstage bathroom door tucked away in a narrow hallway.
He thought he’d heard some roadies talking about a bathroom with a fucking shower in it, but he didn’t believe them. Now he sees two shower stalls, fucking towels, and three toilet stalls. It’s odd as hell, but he won’t question it, as long as he can fucking clean himself in relative privacy. He’s definitely telling Frankie about this once he’s done, and Frank has extricated himself from Gerard. Bob has noticed by this point that it usually takes a little while for Gerard and Frank to come down from the stage high.
One of the shower stalls is already being used, and Bob easily slips back into high school gym class mode. Keep to yourself, don’t jar anybody else’s jock strap. Bob turns on the free shower, and lets it steam up the stall as he sheds clothing. It takes him a long fucking time to peel off all of his layers and lay them out on top of the sink as neatly as can be managed in the cramped space. His wrists hurt like a bitch, too. They’re tender and throbbing and he can’t even contain the fucking moan when he steps into the shower and gets pounded by blessed hot water. He hopes whoever else is in the other shower doesn’t hear him, and then he stops caring.
It’s the best shower in the world, he thinks, as he soaps himself up with the questionable soap he finds in the stall, and loses himself in the stream of hot water over his shoulders. His entire body is thrumming, and he tries to stop thinking about the goal he’d set for himself tonight, but the harder he tries, the more impossible it becomes, until he realizes that he’s having a conversation with Brian in his head, playing both parts like a fucking high school drama student.
Why has it always been hard with me, Schechter?
Because - here Bob’s brain supplies what it wants to hear, and he doesn’t have the heart to stop - because you’re you and I - Brian is saying, and Bob interrupts him with a -
You fucking what?
I fucking want you, the Brian in his head whispers into Bob’s mouth, and the Bob inside Bob’s head can’t even answer that coherently, losing himself in the image, the very thought that those words could come out of Brian’s mouth, pretty much ever, and Bob is no idiot. He knows he won’t get to have this, not after last night, not now that he’s in the band, and he wouldn’t give that up, wouldn’t give it up for anything; but he wants to be able to. He wants the option. He wants the freedom to know that if he were to give it up, it wouldn’t be for nothing. (He could never give it up, ever. Not anymore.)
He just wants - he wants it all, he wants his fucking cake, and he wants to eat it, too, and the Bob-in-his-head finally answers Brian, and it’s just his name, just that one fucking word, and the image that Bob sees in his mind’s eye is of Brian leaning into him, mouth half-open, eyes half-closed, eyebrows drawn - and that’s all, that’s all he can take before his left hand is braced against the wall, and his right is flying to his dick, squeezing and pumping. His wrists hurt, but even the twinges of pain are not enough to stave it off, and he’s so close, he is so fucking close -
He barely notices Brian’s name escape his mouth, when he hears his own name, spoken in a rough voice, like a question breaking.
He stops all movement. His hand is still attached to his dick, but he can’t even breathe, like his throat has closed up until further notice, sorry, breathe again when it feels like opening -
“Schechter?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he barely has time to take his hand off his dick when the shower curtain parts, and Brian is just - standing in front of him, towel slung low around his hips, hair a damp mess, his eyes unfocused and lost-looking. Feeling like a fish out of water, Bob can’t stop looking at his chest, so much skin and ink and shadows - Bob has no idea just how much trouble he’s truly in until Brian drops the towel and strides right into the stall, naked, pushing Bob up against the wall, the hot water streaming down Bob’s face and shoulders.
It all happens so fast, by the time he’s processed it all - naked wet skin, naked wet Brian, pressing him up against the wall, fuck, Brian’s hard - he’s shorted out. He realizes that he probably looks like the dumbest deer caught in the world’s most obvious headlights, but he can’t help himself. He has absolutely no idea what just happened.
“Jesus, Bryar - just -“ Brian breaks off and then Bob has no warning at all before Brian’s mouth is on his, and the kiss kills off his remaining brain cells. This time, there’s no hesitation on Brian’s part, no anger or frustration. It’s pure heat. It’s heat and lust and tongue and spit and Bob has never been afraid of much, but he’s afraid of this. He’s afraid of the force being unleashed on him by a guy who’s almost half a foot shorter than him; he’s afraid of how hard his insides are clenching; he’s afraid of how tight Brian's grip on is on his wrists, pinning him in place. He responds to the kiss as best as he knows how, hips pushing up against Brian’s belly instinctively, with no signals being sent from his brain at all. It’s gut and want and blind power - he can’t even process everything happening to his body anymore.
He gives up control entirely when Brian bumps against his thigh with his dick, then stutters out a moan, and slides down to his knees in front of Bob.
“Fuck - what -"
But Bob can’t even finish the sentence. Some part of him sneers at himself, because he knows exactly what, and then Brian’s mouth is on Bob’s cock, and that’s all he knows. The suction, the wet heat trapping him in - fuck fuck fuck - Schechter is fucking good at this, using his lips to slide up and down, his tongue to drive Bob further against the wall, crazy with it. Bob can’t help the hard grip he’s got on Brian’s hair, can’t hear anything but the rushing in his ears and the wet slap his ass makes against the tiled wall as he fucks Brian’s mouth. It’s the dirtiest, most fucking amazing blowjob he’s ever gotten, like, ever. Brian is moaning like he’s the one being wrung out through his cock, and the vibrations send sparks of unbearable desire through Bob’s spine. His keeps his eyes closed, because he knows that if he opens them and looks down, it’ll all be over, and some part of him knows that it’s probably his one chance, so he’d better make it last.
But he can’t - he can’t stop himself from opening his eyes and staring when he hears a new sound bubble up under the spray, and he knows what he’ll see once he looks down. Brian is jerking himself off, hand flying over his dick, squeezing and twisting, fast and dirty and so stupidly hot, and Bob's fingers clench around Brian's head before he can do anything else, and he's coming, shooting down Brian's throat and hoping to God Brian doesn’t choke.
He shakes inside him, and it feels like forever.
When he finally stops and begins to come down, he slides along the wall, Brian's hand still clenching his hip, and gets to the ground just in time to watch Brian throw his head back and come, his chest and face flushed, his lips bruised red, mouth open and gasping. Bob grabs him without thinking and drinks in Brian's moans with his mouth, slides his tongue around like he wants to taste the very air of Brian’s orgasm. Brian’s free hand slides up Bob's side and grabs Bob around the neck like it’s the only thing standing between him and oblivion.
Bob desperately wants it to be. He knows, now, like a fucking punch to the gut, that he wants to be the one person that Brian lets go with. He wants to hand him fucking coffee forever, wants to be the one Brian curls up with in the dark and lets massage his shoulders when he’s too tired to move. Bob wants to be the one Brian wakes up seeing in the morning, and it’s all too fucked up and huge to even contemplate.
The water’s turning cold, and Bob can feel Brian shivering quietly against him, clinging to him in a bizarre one-armed hug, and Bob is too afraid to breathe too hard, in case Brian comes to and shoves him away for good.
They stay tangled together until Bob’s knees hurt so much, he feels like he’s been thrown in a grinder. Brian’s fingers tighten against his neck, and then release him entirely. Bob nearly staggers backwards from the shock of being let go.
Brian lifts up his head and avoids looking Bob in the eye until Brian’s pushed and pulled them both up and out of the stall and turned off the water. Bob follows him on instinct, feeling the dread of the afterwards settle heavily in his belly.
He allows Brian to bundle him up in the free towel, and then he just stands there, like an idiot, and almost irrationally pissed because he can fucking - he can take care of himself; he doesn’t want to be treated like just another one of Brian’s guys. He has no idea how to make that happen. His knees and wrists are fucking killing him, persistent aches under his thin skin. He tries to focus on the physicality of it.
“Bryar - Bob -“ Brian finally says, and his voice is so soft, Bob feels like he’s breaking in two. “This is -“
Bob squeezes his eyes shut and just waits, can’t even make his throat work to swallow the bile building up in his mouth.
“- such a bad idea. You know that, don’t you? You have to -” Brian’s voice turns pleading, almost, like he’s talking to a kid who just won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Bob yells at himself to grow some fucking balls, and finally looks up.
“I - no.” He has no idea where that had come from, but as soon as it’s out of his mouth, he knows it’s right. “It’s not - it’s - I want to -“ He can’t finish the sentence, his throat clicks shut. He makes a frustrated noise. Anything his brain supplies sounds either cheesy or stupid or ridiculous. He has no idea how to phrase what his entire being is aching for in five words or less. He doesn’t think he can make his tongue work around more than that. He thinks he might vomit.
Brian looks kind of green himself. He’s still watching Bob with those stupidly beautiful eyes, and Bob focuses on Brian’s lip ring, thinks about how it felt against his own, doesn’t speak.
Finally, Brian drops his gaze and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is just - Bob, don’t you fucking get it?” He’s still not looking at Bob, and Bob has absolutely no idea what it is he’s supposed to know. He knows absolutely nothing, he understands none of what just happened, he only knows himself.
“No,” he finally answers. His own voice sounds empty. “I don’t - what am I supposed to know?”
Brian actually laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that happens when Frank has broken all of his toes in the start of a tour, or Gerard has sprained his ankle, or Cortez has slipped during set-up and cut his face open. It’s the kind of laugh that happens when life is so ridiculously out of control, there’s nothing else you can do. Bob's heard that laugh escape from Brian's lips too many fucking times not to know it.
But when Brian does finally talk, it’s like a torrent breaking all around Bob. “I can’t fucking say no to you, Bryar, don’t you get it? I can’t say no to you anymore. I can’t fucking - I can’t. I can’t be the one to stop this, please, just - just stop it for me, okay, you have to. I - I'm -"
Bob stops listening. A stupid feeling fills his entire chest, a ridiculous - longing, or want, or joy, or all of it combined - and he wraps one hand around Brian’s neck and pulls him in. Brian’s words stutter off against his chest, and he grabs onto Bob, hands coming up around Bob’s shoulder blades, and presses himself to Bob’s entire front. Both their chests are chilled to the bone, but Bob feels himself start to thaw off everywhere Brian is clinging to him. The spots where Brian’s hands rest on Bob’s back feel like heaters. He buries his face in Brian’s hair, and makes himself speak.
“Then don’t. Don’t stop it. It doesn't have to be complicated, it - isn't. I just - don’t shut me out. Okay. Okay?”
He feels Brian tense beneath his touch, then slowly unclench. “I don't - I’ll try. Bob. Bob. I will.” He whispers Bob’s name like it’s got a whole meaning to it, like it isn’t just his name. Bob feels his spine shiver for one long moment.
“Okay,” he answers. “Good.”
And who knows. Maybe it is. He really, really hopes that it is.
He kisses Brian for a long time before he allows them to get dressed and leave the bathroom.
Later on that night, they share a beer in the lounge after everybody else has fallen asleep, and the silence that fills Bob’s ears is quiet and calm and content.
*