The Places You Will Be From - Part Two

[jae_w]

Bob and Patrick are back at Joe’s two days later, after a particularly dull day highlighted by an elaborate escape from Suarez (and his paperwork) involving army rolls, climbing through a window and bribing Ryland with donuts to run interference in the hallway. After that, Bob kind of feels like he deserves a beer. And Patrick deserves a… tonic water. Or whatever boring beverage he desires.

The bar is empty, which is pretty predictable for 5pm on a Tuesday. Joe is alone at the counter, which is slightly less usual. Friday and Saturday nights excluded, Bob can’t recall a single time he’s made it to Joe’s after work and Gerard hasn’t been there, puttering around and singing and pouring drinks and chatting to all the regulars.

“No Gee?” Patrick sounds just as surprised as Bob is.

Joe frowns, tilting his head and pointing to the furthermost booth. It’s dark, but Bob can make out some battered old boots hanging over the edge of the seat.

“Shhhh,” Joe says. “I made him lie down.”

It’s not like Bob has never seen a man sleep before, but he’s curious, and he knows Patrick is too, walking over to the booth.

The boots do in fact belong to Gerard, astonishingly enough. He’s lying flat on one of the seats, arm thrown back over his eyes.

“Hey, Gee,” Patrick says softly, and taps him on the thigh.

“Mmm?” Gerard doesn’t move.

“Y’okay?” Patrick asks, and Gerard moves his arm down a little, revealing a pale, sweaty face.

“M’fine,” Gerard mumbles, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Hey Bob.”

“Hey,” Bob says.

Patrick frowns, looking unconvinced. “You’re sick.”

“Just tired,” Gerard mutters, and coughs violently into his hand.

Patrick glances at Bob and shakes his head. “You should go upstairs. Where’s Frank?”

“Upstairs. I hate Frank.” Gerard closes his eyes again.

“Sure you do,” Patrick says, reaching across the table to place his palm on Gerard’s brow. As soon as he’s done, he squeezes Gerard’s arm gently, then stalks back across the bar to Joe.

“Explain.” Patrick orders, and Joe looks startled.

“Gerard is sick?” Joe tries. “Frank gave him death flu, I think.”

“No,” Patrick hisses, grabbing Joe’s hand and dragging him through to the kitchen, where the sound is less likely to travel. “Explain why Gerard is at work, lying on a filthy bench instead of at home in his bed. Which happens to be conveniently located upstairs.”

“You wound me,” Joe says, making a sad face at Patrick. “My benches are pristine! Cracked vinyl polished to perfection. How dare you. Also, you know as well as I do how stubborn Gerard is. It took me ten minutes just to talk him into lying down, and the dude could barely stand.”

Joe shakes his head solemnly, and Patrick cracks a smile.

“Okay. The bench thing was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Joe says, placing a solid hand on Patrick’s shoulder. Bob tries not to laugh.

Patrick glances back at Bob. “You wanna help me drag Gerard upstairs? He’s not big, but he’s a kicker.”

“He won’t go,” Joe interjects. “Believe me, I spent the whole afternoon trying to convince him. Frank always takes over Gee’s room when he’s sick. And Frank likes to snuggle Mr Whiskers. A lot. Gerard’s sick enough without adding allergies into the mix.”

“And your place is even worse,” Patrick fills in. “Alright. Joe, we’re gonna need burgers to go. We’re kidnapping Gerard for a while, kay?”

“Sure,” Joe says. “Frankles is upstairs if you wanna grab some clothes and shit. Except nobody ever remembers to buy laundry detergent, so it might not be so clean.”

“What’s new,” Patrick snorts, and heads up the stairs to the apartments.

By the time Bob adds wings and cheesebread to their food order with Joe and makes it upstairs, Patrick has disappeared into what Bob assumes is the bedroom. He’s been into Joe’s apartment before - which was mostly awkward when all Bob really wanted to do was sneak out and leave Patrick and Joe to themselves - but never Gerard and Frank’s place. For all intents it appears to be a mirror version of Joe’s, separated from it by a wide, sliding door.

“Hey Bob!”

Bob has to search to locate him, but he finds Frank sitting cross-legged in front of the television. He’s almost completely covered in blankets and Mr Whiskers, who is a seriously huge cat. Only his head pokes out of the cushiony mound, and his hands where they clutch a wireless xbox controller.

“Come play,” Frank calls excitedly. Bob looks over after Patrick, but he figures that he’s probably got it covered finding some clothes and a toothbrush or whatever for Gerard. Besides, Bob’d feel kind of funny going into his bedroom. So he sits down on the couch behind Frank and picks up the spare controller.

“You’re awesome,” Frank says, and beams back at him, looking considerably more alive than the last time Bob saw him. “Joe’s the only one who ever plays with me, and he’s working, fucking asshole. And Gerard lurched off like a sneezy zombie, even though he totally sucks at Need for Speed anyway. But. God. I’m so bored up here!”

“Dude, start the game already,” Bob says before Frank can ramble any more. Frank cackles at him.

“All business. I like that.”

Bob brought his gaming systems with him from New York, but he still hasn’t got around to setting any of them up, let alone getting back on xbox live, which is pretty crazy by Bob standards. He’s been so busy he hasn’t even thought about it - and god knows Patrick wouldn’t know a Wii from a PS3 - but playing with Frank reminds him how much he enjoys it.

So much so that he’s startled when Patrick’s hand touches down on his shoulder.

“Whoa,” Patrick says, stepping back out of flail-range. Bob’s foot jostles the massive furball, and it yowls, curling up tighter on Frank’s lap. Frank is unperturbed, taking advantage of Bob’s distracted state to swerve ahead across the finish line.

“Ready to go?” Patrick looks amused, grocery bag full of clothing hanging from one arm.

“Sure,” Bob says. “I want a rematch later, Frank.”

“Hah, sore loser,” Frank replies, sounding positively thrilled. Bob wonders if it’s the cold meds or Frank is always so manic.

“We’re taking Gerard back to our place, since you and Joe are apparently incapable of looking after him,” Patrick tells Frank. “You know, for two guys with such crappy immune systems, you’d think you would be better at taking care of your best friend when he’s the one who’s sick. For all the times he babies you both.”

Frank pouts. “I tried! I made him tea, and cuddled him and shit! I tried forcing him to take Nyquil, but you know how he is. It’s not my fault!”

“Yeah, you only infected him in the first place,” Patrick mutters.

“I hadn’t seen him in three months!” Frank says, getting worked up. “And he was the one hugging me. Who turns down Gerard hugs?”

“Hey, chill, dude,” Patrick says, squatting down to feel Frank’s temperature from the pile of blankets. “We’re just taking him so he can get some Mr Whiskers-less sleep. Maybe if you’re feeling charitable you could vacuum? Or keep the cat out of his bed, at least?”

Frank gives Patrick a considering look. “As long as you promise not to lend Gee any more CDs. Seriously, I don’t want to find any Bing Crosby-Nat King Cole shit on my iPod again, okay?”

“Deal,” Patrick nods. “Get some rest.”

“Pshh,” Frank replies. “Bob Bryar, you better come game with me sometime! Or teach Gerard some skills or something so he doesn’t suck so much.”

“Alright,” Bob agrees. “Bye, Frank.”

They head back downstairs to Joe, who is waiting with paper bags full of glorious food.

“On the house,” Joe declares, pressing the bags into Bob’s chest.

“I think I love you,” Bob says, catching a full whiff of the food.

Joe flaps a hand. “I get that a lot.”

Bob grins, and then heads over to Patrick to help Gerard stand up. They manage to heave him to Bob’s jeep with minimal effort, and Gerard droops down across the backseat as Bob starts the engine. Then it’s a relatively short drive back to the house.

Patrick takes the food and goes ahead to start digging the couch out from under all the clothes. Bob brings Gerard in to the bathroom, finding some stripy pyjama pants in the bag for him to change into. Gerard’s dizzy and mostly out of it, which is only good in that it means he doesn’t notice Bob ogling him like a total creeper as he pulls Gerard’s boots off and tugs his jeans down to his feet. Bob really can’t help it - he’s on his knees and Gerard’s pressed back against the vanity, sweaty and flushed, wearing yellow boxers with tiny little smiling alligators printed on them. Bob can’t help but stare and try not to think too hard about how close he is to Gerard’s dick. He guides Gerard’s feet into the legs of the pants and pulls them up, then stands up quickly, leading Gerard into the living room.

Patrick’s got the couch pulled out flat into a bed, complete with fresh white sheets, and he’s ready with pills and a bottle of water as they return.

“Tylenol,” Patrick says when Gerard opens his eyes enough to start protesting. “Don’t argue, it reduces fever. I’m not gonna make you take anything else, but you’re taking this.”

Bob has learnt how stubborn Gerard can be, but Patrick is infinitely worse. Incapacitated, Gerard has no hope but to swallow the pills and let Patrick tuck him in under strict orders to sleep.

Once that’s taken care of, Patrick smiles at Bob. “Now we eat.”

Wednesday is Bob’s RDO, even though his body still insists on waking up at six in the morning. He lies around for as long as he can stand, and then rolls out of bed. He showers and gets dressed, flicks on the coffee pot, then shakes Patrick awake so he won’t be late for work. Gerard’s still sleeping when Bob checks, and he has a temperature but doesn’t seem to be in any discomfort. Bob leaves him and heads back into the kitchen to check on the food situation.

When Patrick sets off for work, one of the rare opportunities he has to drive his own little car these days, it’s with a stomach full of bacon and eggs. Bob’s good deed for the day is done, so he washes up the pan and slides the dishes into the dishwasher. Gerard is awake when he ducks his head into the living room, so Bob pours some orange juice and finds the Tylenol and walks over to him.

He takes Gerard to the bathroom, gets him settled again and then decides it’s time to tackle the laundry. The clothing littered around the living room is Patrick’s, and it’s clean - or it used to be. Bob scoops up everything he can see in his arms and gives it a hesitant sniff. It smells fresh enough, so he dumps it on Patrick’s bed and then heads out to the laundry room to put a load of work clothes on.

The good thing - possibly the only good thing - about his old job at the hospital was the uniform. Bob got to wear scrubs every day, ones he grabbed from the cupboard in the staff locker room. Which meant he never had to wash anything himself. Granted, the dress code at the clinic is pretty lax; Bob gets away with dark jeans and a button-down shirt most days. But it means he has to iron. Bob hates ironing.

It takes two hours between all the washing and drying and fucking ironing, then hanging everything up in the closet so he doesn’t have to repeat the whole process again until the next time he runs out of clean shirts.

Gerard is sitting up when he returns to the living room.

“Hey,” Bob says. “How’re you feeling?”

“M’okay,” Gerard replies. He sounds congested, but his colour is better than it was, and his eyes aren’t so glazed. “This is a good couch.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Bob grins. “Patrick usually uses this room as his own personal storage area. He kept the television in the kitchen until I moved in and forced him to make space for it.”

“Dude,” Gerard blinks at him with big eyes. “Have you seen him cook yet? He burns more shit than Frank does. Last time I stayed over here, he gave me cereal for dinner.”

“Oh, I know. Why do you think we’re at Joe’s so often.”

Gerard laughs, and it turns into a phlegmy cough. Bob frowns, feeling his forehead.

“I know we’ve got some decongestant cough mixture shit around here somewhere,” Bob says. “Let me get you some.”

Gerard shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No. I’m fine.”

Bob wants to protest, and it must show.

“I just. I’ll be okay without it. I don’t like taking that sorta stuff.”

He pauses, and Bob asks “Why not?” before he can think any better of it.

“Umm. That’s kind of a loaded question,” Gerard says, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know how much Trick’s told you, but… I had some problems.” He shifts across, tilting his head at Bob to take a seat. Bob does, moving down from the armrest to the mattress. He can feel the residual heat from Gerard’s body.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Bob tells him, but Gerard shakes his head.

“No, it’s just. It’s kind of a long story,” Gerard starts, raising his eyebrows like he expects Bob to go running. “Or, not really, I guess. I just. It was alcohol mostly. Some other stuff too, but mostly alcohol. I was just out of bar school, and I got a job at this place. A dirty rock bar, I guess. Things got out of control, I guess. And - well, you don’t wanna hear this stuff anyway.”

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, finding Gerard’s hand in the tangle of sheets, because he looks like he could do with some physical comfort. “Tell me.”

Gerard smiles thinly. “Hah. No, trust me. I don’t remember most of it, and that’s probably a good thing. I was pretty fucked up for a long time. Patrick could tell you. He and Joe and Frank helped me through things. Joe hired me after I quit my job at the bar. Had to get out of that environment, y’know? And I detoxed on this couch, I think. Trick made sure I didn’t die, or whatever, and did all the blood test shit because I’m pretty sure I was never sober enough to make sure the other guy was using a condom.

“Oh,” Bob says, because, wow.

Gerard chuckles weakly. “I know, right. A bartender with a drinking problem. Pretty fucking stupid.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘masochistic’,” Bob replies.

“There is that,” Gerard says, dropping his head down on Bob’s shoulder and yawning. “It’s more like. I have no desire to drink anymore. Most of the time, anyway. And, like. Spending all my time behind a bar, I can’t drink, even if I wanted to. It’s dumb, I guess, but it’s illegal to serve under the influence, so it’s like there’s this law binding me to stay sober.”

“It’s not dumb,” Bob says. “Whatever works for you. So how’d you end up working for Pete?”

“You’re kind,” Gerard mumbles, yawning again. “That’s more recent. Everything else was a few years ago. Pete opened his club, and offered me some work. And I missed mixing drinks more complicated than a gin and tonic, y’know. Joe’s is all about the atmosphere. Doesn’t take much to pour a beer. Angels lets me do the stuff I trained in. And pays ridiculously well.”

“That’s always good.”

“Mmm,” Gerard murmurs, face pressed against Bob’s arm.

When Bob wakes up, he’s slumped in the same, surprisingly comfortable position. Gerard is curled against his chest, his body warm and his arms wrapped around Bob’s torso. And Frank Iero is standing in front of them, laughing like a hyena.

“What the fuck?” Bob says, careful not to dislodge Gerard. “How did you get into my house?”

“The window,” Frank shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Patrick never locks it.”

“Never heard of a doorbell?” Bob asks.

Frank laughs. “Dude, you gotta be sneaky if you want to throw cold water on Patrick while he’s showering, or steal his poptarts. The doorbell is completely unsubtle.”

“You do this often?”

Frank grins an evil grin. “Patrick likes the company. He was lonely when he was living all alone in this big house! And I was gonna use the doorbell today, but I saw you guys through the window, and you were just too cute. I had to take photos!” He holds up his cell phone, and Bob tries not to growl.

“Seriously, though,” Frank adds, his smiling face transforming into a beady glare. “You better not hurt Gerard. I will fuck you up.”

“…okay,” Bob says.

“Well good.” Frank beams again. “Anyway, I came here for a reason!”

“To annoy me?” Bob guesses.

“Hah. No. To game, dude.” Frank pulls a green case from the back of his jeans and takes a step towards the cardboard box of xbox paraphernalia. He tosses one of the wireless controllers to Bob. “Don’t worry bout the noise. Gerard could sleep through an earthquake.”

***

Later, when Patrick has inspected Frank and Gerard’s apartment and declared it suitably free of cat fur for Gerard to go home, Bob asks, “Gerard and Frank. They’re not a couple, right?”

Patrick snorts over his bowl of ramen. “No more than you and me.”

Bob thinks of Gerard’s body, soft and warm, fitted against his. His dirty black hair flopping in his eyes. The way he could be so unbelievably honest with a man he’s only known for two months, sharing such an intimate part of himself without hesitation. “Good,” he says.

Patrick bursts out laughing, and Bob can feel himself flush.

“Dude,” he says, “for somebody who doesn’t go any stronger than root beer, you sure hang out at Joe’s bar a lot.”

“I’ll throw my shoe at you, Bob Bryar,” Patrick threatens.

“Your vintage sneakers, sure thing Stump,” Bob replies. Patrick loves his sneakers almost as much as his sparkly stethoscope. He’s not worried.

And he’s right. Patrick leaves his shoe on, and settles for a scowl instead.

***

When Sunday rolls around, Joe turns up at the house bearing cocoa and wearing a very large, lumpy knitted hat.

Patrick is busy being asleep, so Bob opens the door. And stares.

“Hey Doctor Bob,” Joe says, and passes over a cardboard cup. “You like? Frank made it for me. Said it matched my eyes.”

“…your eyes are blue,” Bob replies after a beat. The hat is mustard-yellow with what are possibly intended to be purple hearts stitched across it.

“I’ve learnt not to argue with Frank.” Joe shrugs, and steps inside. “Trick around?”

“He’s in bed,” Bob says, and watches as Joe walks straight down the hall and into Patrick’s bedroom without even knocking on the door.

Neither one emerges for the hour and a half Bob spends playing Grand Theft Auto, so he finds his coat and his gloves and keys and decides to leave them to it. He stops to pick up a box of donuts and coffee, and heads to Frank and Gerard’s place.

Frank lets him in, and lets him put everything down on the table before he leaps onto Bob’s back, digging his heels into Bob’s stomach and wrapping his arms around his neck.

“Giddy-up!” Frank yells, like they’ve known each other for seven years instead of seven days. If it’s appropriate for Frank to climb him like a beanstalk, then Bob figures it won’t be taken the wrong way when he dumps Frank on his ass on the floor.

Frank just laughs and picks himself up, looking very much like he’s going to jump on Bob again.

“Don’t,” Bob says, and points his finger at Frank. Then he shoves a cup of coffee in his face.

“Dude!” Frank grins, and perches on the edge of the table. “I knew Gerard was right about you.”

“Hmm?” Bob bites into a chocolate donut and raises his eyebrows.

“He said…” Frank clears his throat. “Bob doesn’t take shit from anyone. But in the nicest possible way. And I agree.”

Bob stares at Frank for a second. “Okay then. Is he up?”

Frank scoffs, bending backwards to look at the clock behind him. It’s almost midday. “No way. Pete had some massive function thing at Angels. Gee didn’t get home til six, I think.”

Bob watches as Frank stuffs two cinnamon donuts into his mouth at the same time.

“Go wake him!” Frank says, muffled. His mouth is disgustingly full and Bob has to work hard to make out what he’s saying. “Gerard loves donuts! And coffee!”

Frank doesn’t wait for an answer. He shoves the second cup of coffee into Bob’s hand, spilling donut crumbs everywhere, pushes the box into Bob’s other hand and then steers him down a hallway to a red door at the end. Frank doesn’t even knock, just pushes it open and pushes Bob through.

It’s dark inside, except for the light spilling through from the hallway. Bob trips over something immediately and catches himself to avoid spilling the coffee, cursing Frank under his breath.

“Yo, Gerard!” Frank shouts from behind, then winks at Bob and disappears back down the hall.

Bob hears blankets shift, and then Gerard mumbles, “Frank? Wha’the fuck?”

“Uh. Hey. It’s Bob.”

“Oh.” The bed creaks as Gerard sits up, reaching across to pull back the edge of the curtain. He squints at Bob through one eye. “Hey Bob. What’s up?”

“Uh,” Bob says again. “Frank dragged me in here.”

Gerard snorts, moving to sit up against the headboard. “Frank’s bossy, but he’s puny. He couldn’t drag you if you didn’t want to be dragged.” He stifles a yawn and then smiles. “I’m going to choose to believe that you secretly wanted to visit me.”

Gerard shoves a hand back through wild hair and tugs the curtain across fully, letting daylight into the room, then pats the edge of the mattress. “You wanna sit? Is that coffee in your hand?”

“It is.” Bob hands it over and lowers himself down beside Gerard. “Donuts too.” He feels like it should be far more awkward; sitting on another man’s bed, especially when they’re half-asleep and still in their pyjamas. Except it’s Gerard’s bed, and the pillows are baby pink and the sheets are yellow with blue stars, and Gerard is next to him wearing a shirt that’s probably Frank’s, because it’s tight and too short. Bob can’t find it in himself to feel anything but comfortable, watching Gerard spill powdered sugar all over himself and down coffee like it’s the elixir of life.

“I’m glad you came,” Gerard says, when he’s worked his way through the donut and seems to be slightly more awake. “I could get used to a handsome man bringing me breakfast in bed, I think.”

“Maybe that could be arranged,” Bob replies before he can stop himself.

Gerard laughs. “I should probably get dressed,” he says, mostly to himself, and then kisses Bob on the tip of his nose and slides out of bed, grabbing some clothes from the floor and walking into the bathroom. Bob waits for the door to click shut, then heads back out to the living room.

“You look perplexed,” Frank tells him, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table. “Do I want to know why?”

“Gerard kissed me on the nose,” Bob mutters. Frank cackles, and Bob frowns at him.

“He’s always had bad aim,” Frank explains, and then rolls off the table and onto his hands and knees, crawling over to the couch. Bob joins him as Frank switches on the television.

“Frank, how could you send Bob in to see me when you knew I’d look horrible?” Gerard whines when he reappears a few minutes later, slumping down on the couch next to Bob. “He’s not meant to see me with crazy bedhead!”

Gerard’s hair looks exactly the same, as far as Bob can tell.

“Sorry dude,” Frank replies with convincing sincerity. His lips twitch, giving him away. “I think Bob was distracted by other things anyway.”

“Oh. Okay.” Gerard blinks, and then turns his head to the TV, humming along with the music video playing.

“Like your lips,” Frank continues.

Bob is going to kill Frank. He’s never telling him anything again, that’s for sure.

“What’s that?” Gerard glances back to Frank.

“I think Bob here was hoping you’d aim a little lower next time you kiss him,” Frank grins, and elbows Bob in the ribs.

“Hmmm,” Gerard says, and then leans over and kisses Bob properly. Bob’s too busy blushing to respond properly. He just sits there until Gerard pulls back.

“Hmmm,” Gerard says again, watching Bob closely. “This is usually where they go running. I never really get to find out if it’s me or Frank that scare all the men off.”

Bob is sure his face is roughly the colour of a tomato. “I don’t scare easy,” he manages, and Gerard’s face breaks into a smile, like that was the right answer.

“My work here is done!” Frank announces, as Gerard’s hand finds its way into Bob’s. Frank wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe I’ll go visit Patrick, leave you guys to it.”

“No. Don’t do that,” Bob says quickly, and then realizes how that sounds when Frank starts to frown. “Joe came over this morning,” he explains. “I think he and Patrick…”

“Dude! Hahaha!” Frank cuts in as Bob trails off. “Am I a good matchmaker or what? I told Joe he had to make the first move! Be bold, and then boom chicka bow-wow.”

“Fucking Frank,” Gerard says into Bob’s ear as Frank beams to himself and starts jumping on the couch. “You wanna get out of here? Once he starts, he won’t stop for hours, trust me.”

“Sure,” Bob replies. He gets jostled closer and closer to Gerard with every bounce, until they’re practically on top of each other, and Bob has to stand up. “Where do you want to go?”

He offers a hand to Gerard, pulling him up.

“…I gotta go to the grocery store sometime,” Gerard suggests finally. “Frank gave all the milk to Mr Whiskers.”

“Why not,” Bob says, and starts wrapping his scarf around his neck.

***

As far as dates go, the grocery store is not necessarily Bob’s first choice. That’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy himself. The place is quiet, probably due to the amount of snow on the roads, and Gerard fits perfectly against his side as they wander down each of the aisles, occasionally managing to drop items into their basket.

When they reach the checkout, it’s with three different flavours of gum, a box of microwave popcorn, a carton of milk, three apples and a tree-shaped air freshener.

“Not a bad haul,” Gerard muses, crumpling up the top of the paper bag and pulling his hood over his head. His coat is lined with fake fur and he’s wearing a pink stripy scarf. It’s right on the adorable side of ridiculous, and Bob knows that he’s totally gone for this guy when he’s willing to be seen in public with him dressed like that.

“Hurry up motherfucker!” Gerard shouts from the side of Bob’s jeep, and Bob fumbles the keys out of his pocket, catching up to unlock the car.

They detour through a drive-thru on the way back to Gerard’s place to satisfy Gerard’s sudden need for curly fries. It must be contagious or something, because as soon as Gerard starts talking about them, Bob is immediately hungry as well.

“Isn’t it, like, hypocritical for a doctor to eat this shit when you’re supposed to be encouraging people to be healthy?” Gerard asks with a mouthful of fries as they head back onto the main road.

Technically, Bob isn’t eating anything; he prefers his steering wheel grease-free, especially given the road conditions. “If I believed in that, then I wouldn’t be at Joe’s nearly as much.”

“I could go all Hollywood-cliché here and say I thought you came so much because you liked spending time with me,” Gerard grins, “except I know how good Joe’s food is.”

“The food’s just a bonus,” Bob says. “Mostly I go for the entertainment. I’ve never seen anybody trip over a bar stool sweeping as many times as you manage.”

“You only wish you were half as graceful as me,” Gerard declares, dumping the paper bag of fries on Bob’s lap and turning up the radio before he can say anything else.

Bob flicks him in the ear and keeps driving.

***

Joe is gone when Bob finally makes it home, but Patrick is in his room, tinkering with a guitar on the edge of the bed. His hair looks suitably rumpled.

“Patrick Stump, putting out on a first date,” Bob calls, walking through the doorway. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What the - shut up, Bryar,” Patrick says quickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bob just smirks, and Patrick gets flustered. “We just talked!”

“You left the lube out,” Bob replies, and bites his lip trying not to laugh when Patrick falls over himself turning around. There’s no lube, but Patrick’s face is worth any sort of potential retribution. His reaction is kind of a giveaway as well.

“Is that a hickey?” Patrick asks. Bob’s hand goes to his neck automatically.

“Yes,” he confirms, and leaves the room before Patrick can ask anything else. He can hear him laughing down the length of the hallway.

***

Frank’s band has another tour starting a little after New Years, and Bob discovers that he’s actually grown attached to the little bastard, despite how much delight Frank takes from catching Bob and Gerard in compromising positions. Pete throws another party to them to see them off, coinciding with New Years Eve, and it turns out to be the hottest ticket in town.

Bob wakes up on the day of his birthday with Gerard wrapped around him. He spends the morning in bed with him, and the better part of the day too, until finally it’s time to head to Angels for the night.

Pete has everyone settled upstairs in the VIP area; Frank’s band and everyone from the clinic. It’s crowded up there, but infinitely less so than the open area below, thankfully.

Gerard is working. Pete couldn’t spare his best bartender on the busiest night of the year no matter how much he’d like to, but he stations Gerard at the bar in the VIP section. Bob spends most of his night hanging out there, watching Gerard mix up disturbingly bright cocktails and some very lethal shots.

When midnight approaches, Bob waits until Gerard and the other bartender have enough champagne flutes set out on the bar to cover everyone present, then drags him out from behind the counter and over to the railing.

“Hi,” Gerard says, pushing his hair back behind his ears and grabbing Bob’s hand. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat from rushing around behind the bar, black v-neck shirt hugging tight to his body. Bob wants to lick the white triangle of skin, and he knows it’s not the alcohol; he’s willing to actually consider participating in a public display of affection with Gerard, even if he backs out before he can go through with it.

Gerard smiles like he knows what Bob’s thinking.

“Having a good birthday?” he asks, pressing his chest against Bob’s until the balcony railing digs into Bob’s back.

Bob loops his arms around Gerard’s body, pulling him even closer against him. “It just got better.”

Gerard beams up at him with tiny white teeth, and a strange combination of gratefulness, happiness and lust washes over Bob. Somewhere in the background he can hear the party-goers beginning to count down from ten.

Bob has never been one for tradition, and he’s never been one to wait. By the time the count reaches zero, Bob is already kissing Gerard with all he’s got.