Bandslash fic: Wide Open Spaces (MCR, Frank/Bob, R)
So! Bandslash continues to eat my brain. Apparently. :D
Wide Open Spaces
Bandslash, My Chemical Romance, Frank/Bob
3500 words, R
Summary: Weirdly, it makes Bob think of home and growing up; everything all mixed up, and jumbled up, and nothing that was actually his anymore, just huge piles of theirs.
Much love to audrarose for all the usual reasons. *hugs*
Wide Open Spaces by Sori
Frank shows up at Bob's door, duffel bag in one hand, guitar case in the other.
"Damn, I missed you," Frank says, tackling Bob and sitting on him. "You and your ugly face and your stupid, smelly cigarettes." And Frank kisses him, quick and really annoying like, just a brush of lips on the forehead.
"Buy me dinner, bitch," he says then, hopping up and holding out a hand.
"Okay?" Bob blinks and slowly nods his head. Really, he can't think of anything else to do.
**
The next day, Frank wakes Bob up with a cup of coffee in one hand and his ice cold feet pressing hard into Bob's knee under the covers. "Slide over," he says, sliding under the blankets and nudging Bob over carefully. "It's fucking freezing in here. Have you not heard about that thing they call a heater?"
He hands Bob the cup of coffee and stretches big, back popping and joints cracking loudly. Bob stares at him over the rim of the cup.
"Your bed is awesome," he says, curling down and stealing Bob's pillow. "Awesome. But your couch is pure evil." Frank closes his eyes, half-smile on his face. Bob drinks his coffee and watches him sleep for an hour before poking him in the stomach and kicking him out of bed.
"Out, asshole." Bob says, and okay, even Bob can admit that maybe some of the threat is lost after an hour of almost cuddling, but whatever.
Frank flips him off from where he's lying on the floor. "You're so shopping with me today. Don't even try to get out of it."
He rolls up off the floor and Bob's pretty sure he hears the cackle of laughter from the bathroom.
**
Frank drags them into the local Big 5 that day, and ends up buying an air mattress with a deluxe fabric top. It looks pretty much like a torture device, but Frank seems stupidly happy with the purchase.
"You really need a bed?" He asks Frank finally. He's been wondering that for most of the morning actually. Usually Frank will swing by and stay for a day, maybe two, then he'll take off for parts unknown to bug Gerard or Mikey or sometimes even Ray. He's never complained all that much about Bob's couch before.
Bob's just not sure what he's done to deserve Frank's full on attention but he's a little worried about how long it'll last. Frank's focus is daunting and scary, all consuming, and Bob's pretty sure it could take him over, leaving him nothing but a Frank size imprint.
Frank ignores him, rolling his eyes and tugging Bob along. They stop at Starbucks and Frank buys him something disgustingly sweet with soy milk that Bob drinks only because it cost $4 and you just don't throw away a $4 drink. Ever. Still, it's enough to earn Frank at least another hour, so Bob doesn't bitch too much when Frank leads him into the Barnes and Noble with a hand at the small of his back.
**
At first the whole thing is weird because this is Frank and weird is generally considered Frank's default. He does things differently, his own way, and it's not Bob's way. Bob ends up bitching about the soy milk in the fridge and the weird flavored coffee grounds and his sad, meatless refrigerator, but still, it's Frank and so he can't really be all that pissed.
At night, they watch tv together and Frank's got an opinion about everything. Bob's pretty sure that it's the exact opposite of Bob's opinion on purpose, but he can't prove anything. They spend an hour debating Claire versus Peter and who can kick whose ass, and Frank won't fucking shut up until Bob stomps out of the room, slamming his door shut and barricading himself in, promising himself over and over until 2 am that he will never again watch Heroes with Frank.
At least until next week.
Bob figures that at some point, he probably should ask why Frank's here or, even better, why Frank has apparently decided to move in with him. Because after that first week, Frank suddenly starts buying things: the exceptionally lame poster of Santana that he hangs on the living room wall (Santana? Bob asked. What the fuck? And Frank said, Dude, one of the best guitarists of all fucking time, and that's pretty much the end of the entire debate.), and a crock pot (which Bob still hasn't figured out. What the fuck are either of them going to do with a crock pot?) and something that looks like a shower caddy but with weird bars and little cubby hole things, and a place for batteries that Bob's actually afraid to investigate too closely.
The tiny spare bedroom is packed with Frank's stuff, extra guitar cases and piles of clothes and a bowl of guitar picks and a huge stack of magazines. Bob can't even remember what the color the carpet is; although, to be fair, he's not sure he knew that before Frank destroyed the place.
Frank's taken over, not just the spare room but a good part of the rest of Bob's apartment as well. Weirdly, it makes Bob think of home and growing up; everything all mixed up, and jumbled up, and nothing that was actually his anymore, just huge piles of theirs.
***
Frank comes home with a new PSP3 and says, "Dude, I'm so going to kick your ass," and Bob tosses aside his Spin and says, "Oh, you are so not."
They hook it up on the big screen in Bob's living room and it only takes them one night to figure out that the World War II ace game is way beyond them. The next night, Frank shows up with Zelda, and maybe, maybe, that's more their style. Although, still-not so much.
Turns out, that they both sort of suck at all manner of electronic games. They spend so much time dying that they never actually even get to the point of kicking each others asses. It's depressing really. Instead, they find creative and new ways of dying painfully on screen. Getting eaten by the giant snake is fine, and getting in the way of magical spells is even better, and maybe it's not quite what they'd intended, but it passes the time.
When they sit on the couch, Frank's all over Bob, wiggling underneath his legs and stretching out across Bob's body. He's gotten used to falling asleep with Frank snuffling into his neck. Every night, Bob ends up staying on the couch until he can't keep his eyes open any longer, till his arms are weak and his head is fuzzy, and he's having to stumble up to head to his room. He climbs into his bed and it's big and cold and lonely, too much empty space all around him.
It always takes him forever to fall back asleep.
**
Bob comes home to find a framed picture of him and Frank sitting in the center of mantle. It's from last year, Bob thinks, because he's sort of learned to judge time frames using Frank's tattoos and Gerard's hair. That's pretty much the only way to tell since one venue picture looks a lot like any other. They're standing together, looking at each other and Frank's pulling a face with his lips all twisted and eyes scrunched and he's cracking himself up, Bob can tell that too just with one quick look, and in the picture Bob almost looks happy. Which is almost unrecognizable since that doesn't often happen on film.
But, yeah, there it is.
There's a big halo that's been drawn in black sharpie around Frank's head, and Bob's head is sporting shitty devil horns poking out from his hair. There's even little hearts, fluttering around in the space between them, some with arrows and some with wings and Bob's pretty sure he sees a few with broken cracks down the middle and one with a dagger poking out from the side. It's sort of hard to tell since Gerard is really the only one with any drawing talent.
It's probably the most ridiculous thing he's ever seen.
Bob snatches it up and hides it in the kitchen drawer next to the silverware. He laughs manically when Frank arrives home, eyes going to the empty mantle.
"Fucker," Frank says, but he's mostly smiling. "You'll learn to love it, Bryar."
**
Bob hears Frank whispering furiously into his cell phone. He's in the middle of the living room so it's obviously not a private call; at least that's what Bob tells himself when he stops just before turning the corner from the hallway. He hears familiar, random words, out of place enough that he can't make sense of even the general conversation. It's Gerard on the phone, that much he can tell, just from the tone of Frank's voice: all irritated, and rushed, all his words the kind of cut-off, half-words that make up the conversational world of Frank and Gerard.
"Just. Fuck, no," Bob hears, and it's angry in that Frank kind of angry way. "He's not...Maybe, yeah...let it go, Gee," he says, and Gerard must because Frank laughs, soft and easy then, right before Bob can hear the, "Yeah, later," softly whispered.
He bangs on the wall a couple of times and comes rolling around the doorway, innocent looking, he hopes, but probably not. Frank's sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped, defeat screaming in the slump of his shoulders and the long sad line of his neck tilted back and resting against the back of the couch.
Bob's stomach clenches and he can practically taste the fucking wrongness in that look.
"Everything okay?" he finally asks when he can't stand to stare at the long, depressed slope of Frank's neck anymore.
Frank looks up. "Yeah," he says, "Mostly." He leans against the couch, head tilted all the way back, eyes closed.
Bob slides onto the couch next to him, close enough that he can feel Frank breathing. "Are you-?"
"Yeah. Just some shit, you know? Not much you can do to change it." Frank opens his eyes and turns his head toward Bob.
Bob blinks and says, "Yeah, okay," and moves to stand up. Frank's hand wraps around his arms and tugs him closer, closer, until he's settled back down on the couch, his whole body touching Frank.
"Hey, I didn't mean that like it sounded, yeah?" Frank says, tugging like he could possibly bring Bob even closer. "Stay for a while." And Frank closes his eyes again and leans back, and Bob can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, can hear the soft sigh of the air moving in the silence between them, can almost taste the strangeness in the air.
He can't make himself look at Frank, instead he stares at the picture Bob had hidden in the bathroom cabinet and Frank had found two days ago. Frank's halo and his horns were mocking him from on top of the tv.
Finally, he says, "I can do that," and he stays for a while.
**
"Coffee," Bob says mournfully one morning, standing at the sink, watching the machine slowly drip. "I need coffee."
"Okay," Frank says, coming up behind Bob and resting his forehead on Bob's shoulder blade. "You totally need coffee." Frank doesn't move until Bob shoves him away when the coffee finally drips past the two cup mark on the pot.
Bob gives Frank the first cup of coffee, which, Bob's pretty sure, is saying something. He's just not sure he wants to know what.
**
That night, Frank falls asleep stretched out across Bob's lap with Celebrity Death Match still blaring in the background . Bob's staring at the Lady of Sorrows that's etched into Frank's arm, watching the colors bleed into one another, the daggers and the blood, and it's corny, seriously, but also weirdly awesome. He fingers itch to reach out and scrape across skin, touch the daggers, scratch across the lines, but he doesn't mean to actually touch, not really, but then suddenly, he's got the warm skin beneath his hand and he's rubbing softly, feeling his way past the blacks and the blues and the reds.
The space around them feels tight, tiny, like Frank's filling it all up, or maybe just stealing it away. Bob thinks he should be feeling squished, closed in and pushed tight with Frank's weight across his lap and Frank shoving into all of Bob's empty corners and places. But he doesn't, can't really, because mostly it just feels normal, not anything like on the bus and on tour where there's more of everybody and everything, but -.
Normal. Good. Comfortable.
Bob closes his eyes and breathes, stilling his fingers on Frank's arm. Warmth and heat and, yeah, it's comfortable.
When he opens his eyes, Frank's staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking.
"Hey," Bob whispers.
Frank smiles, just a small turn of his lips. "Hey," he whispers back.
The silence coils between them. "So," Bob starts and Frank leans up, winds his fingers into Bob's hair.
"Gerard says I should just go for it," he says, and then silences Bob with his lips.
It's slow and deep and nothing like Bob thought kissing Frank would be. If he'd admit to imagining this, he'd have pictured frantic, bordering on rough, and it's not, not even close. Frank's licking into his mouth, speaking with his lips and tongue, tracing out words into Bob's mouth, easy and careful. Bob palms Frank's hip, pulling him up and closer, but Frank's whispering, "Bob," like he's begging, pleading, holding Bob's hand against him still, not letting him move, and Bob's moaning into the kiss, not pulling anymore, just pushing up Frank's shirt and letting his thumb trace patterns into Frank's skin.
Frank's body shifts, around and up and over, until he's straddling Bob, legs bracketing Bob's knees, his hands wrapped around Bob's neck, pulling him in, his lips whispering across Bob's cheek and down his neck, saying frantically, quietly, "fuck, Gerard was right. Should have - ," until Frank's words get lost in the bite of Bob's mouth.
"Can we talk about Gerard later?" Bob asks, pulling back just far enough to taste the need between them-sweet and desperate, and Bob can't remember ever wanting this bad.
"Later, yeah. So much later." Frank traces the words into Bob's mouth before he's pulling Bob up, grabbing his hand and heaving him up, saying, "Bedroom, yeah," like it's the most brilliant idea ever.
Bob sort of agrees. He wraps his hands around Frank's hips, slips up close behind him and moves them both around the corner, and down the hall, and into the bedroom. Frank's got his pants off and he's working on Bob's t-shirt before they stumble on to the bed, mouths and bodies wrapped tightly together.
**
They wake up tangled together in bed, the sheets tossed down on the floor, their legs and arms so twisted that Bob's not sure which body parts belong to who. He thinks about bitching, complaining about the bruises he can feel on his hips, the scratch marks he can feel burning hot trails down his back, but he's too warm and too comfortable, all wrapped-up-in-a-Frank, so he shuffles Frank closer and drifts back to sleep.
**
"So," Frank says, walking into the kitchen half-naked and smiling at Bob. "Have any plans for tonight?"
Bob snorts into his coffee cup and pretends that he doesn't feel an awkward weight in the pit of his stomach. He watches as Frank starts pulling open cupboard doors and lifting out pots and opening the refrigerator, taking things out and piling them on the counter.
It's not so surprising to Bob that Frank is probably the shittiest cook ever. He spends hours roaming Bob's kitchen, using ten pots to cook a plate of vegetables. If Bob has to eat another overcooked piece of broccoli he's going to hurl.
"No way, Iero," he says when Frank turns on the stove. "Get your ass away from the stove. I'll cook."
Franks blinks at him. "Wow, romantic morning after. Cool," he says, and hops up onto the counter, swinging his legs back and forth. "I like spaghetti."
Bob nods his head and pulls out a big pan and fills it with water. "You realize it's breakfast, right?" he asks, even though he's already reaching for the bag of pasta.
"It's 1pm, ass," Frank says, sliding off the counter and right into Bob's space. He presses himself against Bob's back, touching everywhere, close enough that Bob can feel everything, the heat from Frank's body, his chest rising and falling, the hardness that's poking Bob right in the ass. "Spaghetti is totally allowed anytime after 10am."
"If you say so," Bob gasps out, staring down and watching Frank's hand rub softly across his stomach. Frank's biting softly across his shoulders, small nips with his teeth that will maybe leave a mark. "You really hungry?" He asks, turning around and reeling Frank in, running his hand down Frank's back and cupping his hand around Frank's hip.
"Not so much, " Frank shrugs, pushing Bob back against the counter, and sliding his hand down Bob's pants. "I think you can probably convince me to wait."
**
Gerard, Mikey and Ray show up for Bob's birthday on a Wednesday. They bring him a lame-ass cake and take him out to a crappy Mexican food place and embarrass him with a sombrero and room full of waiters singing Feliz Cumpleaños. Bob's about to jump from his chair and possibly, definitely, kill both Mikey and Gerard who are fucking crowing in laughter, when he feels Frank wrap his fingers around Bob's knees, pressing down and holding tight, softly circling a thumb around his kneecap.
He settles back in his seat and lets his hand find Frank's under the table.
Bob has his own Frank smile, the smile that Frank gives him and only him and he's pretty sure he'd recognize it anywhere. He watches Frank talk to Gerard and Ray across the table, sees Frank smiling that smile at them, and all Bob can think is, that's mine, like it's even possible to actually own a smile. Then Frank turns just enough that he catches Bob's eye and his lips curve, just a little more up, and it's just a small difference, but the whole smile changes into something else entirely. It's so slight that probably no one else could notice, and, okay, that is actually Bob's smile, close but just different enough.
He moves closer to Frank, twisting their fingers tightly together, and it's probably weird and a little too close because Gerard raises his eyebrows at him, then grins that famously stupid Gerard grin. Bob shrugs his shoulders, lets go of Frank's fingers and instead, lets his hand find a home on Frank's back, high up between his shoulder blades, where Bob can feel his muscles shifting and moving as he laughs at the horrible joke Ray's trying to tell.
"You guys need a place to crash tonight?" Bob asks Gerard.
"Nah, you two can just head home. We got rooms downtown."
Bob nods at Gerard, not even trying to hide his smile.
**
He walks in the front door from a quick fill-in studio session with an old friend and trips over two pair of shoes and a guitar case. It's mostly dark but Bob can see the hallway bathroom light on, door barely cracked open to light up the entry way. He picks his way across the living room, stepping around the stack of comic books and the new pile of dvds that Frank bought last week. He tosses his jacket on the couch, switches off the bathroom light and slips into the bedroom.
There's a pile of blankets on their bed, and there's snuffling, almost a snore, buried somewhere beneath the mound. Bob strips off his clothes and shoves at the pile until Frank shuffles over, leaving just enough space for Bob to slide into bed, to wrap his arms and legs around Frank. The bed's barely big enough for two, a tight, perfect fit even though Frank takes most of the bed and all the blankets, and Bob's usually left with his ass flapping around in the cold.
Frank shifts even closer and winds his fingers through Bob's. "Glad you're home," he mumbles in a sleep roughened voice.
"Yeah," Bob whispers against Frank's neck. "Yeah."
**
Tomorrow, Frank will get up, walk through their living room on the way to the kitchen, and the first thing he'll notice is the new picture sharing space on the mantle. It's a shot of Bob and Frank from a few nights ago on Bob's birthday, standing close together and grinning stupidly at the camera. Huge handlebar mustaches will have been drawn over their mouths in an unsteady, thick black line and there will be little hearts floating together right above their heads.
Frank will laugh and run back into the bedroom, tackling Bob onto the bed and whispering wetly against his neck, "Told you that you'd learn to fucking love -," but Bob will steal the last word away from Frank, sealing their lips together and rolling them over and off their bed. They'll hit the floor laughing, out of breath, both hearing the me echoing softly through the room.
No disrespect intended regarding their video game prowess. :D
Wide Open Spaces
Bandslash, My Chemical Romance, Frank/Bob
3500 words, R
Summary: Weirdly, it makes Bob think of home and growing up; everything all mixed up, and jumbled up, and nothing that was actually his anymore, just huge piles of theirs.
Much love to audrarose for all the usual reasons. *hugs*
Wide Open Spaces by Sori
Frank shows up at Bob's door, duffel bag in one hand, guitar case in the other.
"Damn, I missed you," Frank says, tackling Bob and sitting on him. "You and your ugly face and your stupid, smelly cigarettes." And Frank kisses him, quick and really annoying like, just a brush of lips on the forehead.
"Buy me dinner, bitch," he says then, hopping up and holding out a hand.
"Okay?" Bob blinks and slowly nods his head. Really, he can't think of anything else to do.
**
The next day, Frank wakes Bob up with a cup of coffee in one hand and his ice cold feet pressing hard into Bob's knee under the covers. "Slide over," he says, sliding under the blankets and nudging Bob over carefully. "It's fucking freezing in here. Have you not heard about that thing they call a heater?"
He hands Bob the cup of coffee and stretches big, back popping and joints cracking loudly. Bob stares at him over the rim of the cup.
"Your bed is awesome," he says, curling down and stealing Bob's pillow. "Awesome. But your couch is pure evil." Frank closes his eyes, half-smile on his face. Bob drinks his coffee and watches him sleep for an hour before poking him in the stomach and kicking him out of bed.
"Out, asshole." Bob says, and okay, even Bob can admit that maybe some of the threat is lost after an hour of almost cuddling, but whatever.
Frank flips him off from where he's lying on the floor. "You're so shopping with me today. Don't even try to get out of it."
He rolls up off the floor and Bob's pretty sure he hears the cackle of laughter from the bathroom.
**
Frank drags them into the local Big 5 that day, and ends up buying an air mattress with a deluxe fabric top. It looks pretty much like a torture device, but Frank seems stupidly happy with the purchase.
"You really need a bed?" He asks Frank finally. He's been wondering that for most of the morning actually. Usually Frank will swing by and stay for a day, maybe two, then he'll take off for parts unknown to bug Gerard or Mikey or sometimes even Ray. He's never complained all that much about Bob's couch before.
Bob's just not sure what he's done to deserve Frank's full on attention but he's a little worried about how long it'll last. Frank's focus is daunting and scary, all consuming, and Bob's pretty sure it could take him over, leaving him nothing but a Frank size imprint.
Frank ignores him, rolling his eyes and tugging Bob along. They stop at Starbucks and Frank buys him something disgustingly sweet with soy milk that Bob drinks only because it cost $4 and you just don't throw away a $4 drink. Ever. Still, it's enough to earn Frank at least another hour, so Bob doesn't bitch too much when Frank leads him into the Barnes and Noble with a hand at the small of his back.
**
At first the whole thing is weird because this is Frank and weird is generally considered Frank's default. He does things differently, his own way, and it's not Bob's way. Bob ends up bitching about the soy milk in the fridge and the weird flavored coffee grounds and his sad, meatless refrigerator, but still, it's Frank and so he can't really be all that pissed.
At night, they watch tv together and Frank's got an opinion about everything. Bob's pretty sure that it's the exact opposite of Bob's opinion on purpose, but he can't prove anything. They spend an hour debating Claire versus Peter and who can kick whose ass, and Frank won't fucking shut up until Bob stomps out of the room, slamming his door shut and barricading himself in, promising himself over and over until 2 am that he will never again watch Heroes with Frank.
At least until next week.
Bob figures that at some point, he probably should ask why Frank's here or, even better, why Frank has apparently decided to move in with him. Because after that first week, Frank suddenly starts buying things: the exceptionally lame poster of Santana that he hangs on the living room wall (Santana? Bob asked. What the fuck? And Frank said, Dude, one of the best guitarists of all fucking time, and that's pretty much the end of the entire debate.), and a crock pot (which Bob still hasn't figured out. What the fuck are either of them going to do with a crock pot?) and something that looks like a shower caddy but with weird bars and little cubby hole things, and a place for batteries that Bob's actually afraid to investigate too closely.
The tiny spare bedroom is packed with Frank's stuff, extra guitar cases and piles of clothes and a bowl of guitar picks and a huge stack of magazines. Bob can't even remember what the color the carpet is; although, to be fair, he's not sure he knew that before Frank destroyed the place.
Frank's taken over, not just the spare room but a good part of the rest of Bob's apartment as well. Weirdly, it makes Bob think of home and growing up; everything all mixed up, and jumbled up, and nothing that was actually his anymore, just huge piles of theirs.
***
Frank comes home with a new PSP3 and says, "Dude, I'm so going to kick your ass," and Bob tosses aside his Spin and says, "Oh, you are so not."
They hook it up on the big screen in Bob's living room and it only takes them one night to figure out that the World War II ace game is way beyond them. The next night, Frank shows up with Zelda, and maybe, maybe, that's more their style. Although, still-not so much.
Turns out, that they both sort of suck at all manner of electronic games. They spend so much time dying that they never actually even get to the point of kicking each others asses. It's depressing really. Instead, they find creative and new ways of dying painfully on screen. Getting eaten by the giant snake is fine, and getting in the way of magical spells is even better, and maybe it's not quite what they'd intended, but it passes the time.
When they sit on the couch, Frank's all over Bob, wiggling underneath his legs and stretching out across Bob's body. He's gotten used to falling asleep with Frank snuffling into his neck. Every night, Bob ends up staying on the couch until he can't keep his eyes open any longer, till his arms are weak and his head is fuzzy, and he's having to stumble up to head to his room. He climbs into his bed and it's big and cold and lonely, too much empty space all around him.
It always takes him forever to fall back asleep.
**
Bob comes home to find a framed picture of him and Frank sitting in the center of mantle. It's from last year, Bob thinks, because he's sort of learned to judge time frames using Frank's tattoos and Gerard's hair. That's pretty much the only way to tell since one venue picture looks a lot like any other. They're standing together, looking at each other and Frank's pulling a face with his lips all twisted and eyes scrunched and he's cracking himself up, Bob can tell that too just with one quick look, and in the picture Bob almost looks happy. Which is almost unrecognizable since that doesn't often happen on film.
But, yeah, there it is.
There's a big halo that's been drawn in black sharpie around Frank's head, and Bob's head is sporting shitty devil horns poking out from his hair. There's even little hearts, fluttering around in the space between them, some with arrows and some with wings and Bob's pretty sure he sees a few with broken cracks down the middle and one with a dagger poking out from the side. It's sort of hard to tell since Gerard is really the only one with any drawing talent.
It's probably the most ridiculous thing he's ever seen.
Bob snatches it up and hides it in the kitchen drawer next to the silverware. He laughs manically when Frank arrives home, eyes going to the empty mantle.
"Fucker," Frank says, but he's mostly smiling. "You'll learn to love it, Bryar."
**
Bob hears Frank whispering furiously into his cell phone. He's in the middle of the living room so it's obviously not a private call; at least that's what Bob tells himself when he stops just before turning the corner from the hallway. He hears familiar, random words, out of place enough that he can't make sense of even the general conversation. It's Gerard on the phone, that much he can tell, just from the tone of Frank's voice: all irritated, and rushed, all his words the kind of cut-off, half-words that make up the conversational world of Frank and Gerard.
"Just. Fuck, no," Bob hears, and it's angry in that Frank kind of angry way. "He's not...Maybe, yeah...let it go, Gee," he says, and Gerard must because Frank laughs, soft and easy then, right before Bob can hear the, "Yeah, later," softly whispered.
He bangs on the wall a couple of times and comes rolling around the doorway, innocent looking, he hopes, but probably not. Frank's sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped, defeat screaming in the slump of his shoulders and the long sad line of his neck tilted back and resting against the back of the couch.
Bob's stomach clenches and he can practically taste the fucking wrongness in that look.
"Everything okay?" he finally asks when he can't stand to stare at the long, depressed slope of Frank's neck anymore.
Frank looks up. "Yeah," he says, "Mostly." He leans against the couch, head tilted all the way back, eyes closed.
Bob slides onto the couch next to him, close enough that he can feel Frank breathing. "Are you-?"
"Yeah. Just some shit, you know? Not much you can do to change it." Frank opens his eyes and turns his head toward Bob.
Bob blinks and says, "Yeah, okay," and moves to stand up. Frank's hand wraps around his arms and tugs him closer, closer, until he's settled back down on the couch, his whole body touching Frank.
"Hey, I didn't mean that like it sounded, yeah?" Frank says, tugging like he could possibly bring Bob even closer. "Stay for a while." And Frank closes his eyes again and leans back, and Bob can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, can hear the soft sigh of the air moving in the silence between them, can almost taste the strangeness in the air.
He can't make himself look at Frank, instead he stares at the picture Bob had hidden in the bathroom cabinet and Frank had found two days ago. Frank's halo and his horns were mocking him from on top of the tv.
Finally, he says, "I can do that," and he stays for a while.
**
"Coffee," Bob says mournfully one morning, standing at the sink, watching the machine slowly drip. "I need coffee."
"Okay," Frank says, coming up behind Bob and resting his forehead on Bob's shoulder blade. "You totally need coffee." Frank doesn't move until Bob shoves him away when the coffee finally drips past the two cup mark on the pot.
Bob gives Frank the first cup of coffee, which, Bob's pretty sure, is saying something. He's just not sure he wants to know what.
**
That night, Frank falls asleep stretched out across Bob's lap with Celebrity Death Match still blaring in the background . Bob's staring at the Lady of Sorrows that's etched into Frank's arm, watching the colors bleed into one another, the daggers and the blood, and it's corny, seriously, but also weirdly awesome. He fingers itch to reach out and scrape across skin, touch the daggers, scratch across the lines, but he doesn't mean to actually touch, not really, but then suddenly, he's got the warm skin beneath his hand and he's rubbing softly, feeling his way past the blacks and the blues and the reds.
The space around them feels tight, tiny, like Frank's filling it all up, or maybe just stealing it away. Bob thinks he should be feeling squished, closed in and pushed tight with Frank's weight across his lap and Frank shoving into all of Bob's empty corners and places. But he doesn't, can't really, because mostly it just feels normal, not anything like on the bus and on tour where there's more of everybody and everything, but -.
Normal. Good. Comfortable.
Bob closes his eyes and breathes, stilling his fingers on Frank's arm. Warmth and heat and, yeah, it's comfortable.
When he opens his eyes, Frank's staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking.
"Hey," Bob whispers.
Frank smiles, just a small turn of his lips. "Hey," he whispers back.
The silence coils between them. "So," Bob starts and Frank leans up, winds his fingers into Bob's hair.
"Gerard says I should just go for it," he says, and then silences Bob with his lips.
It's slow and deep and nothing like Bob thought kissing Frank would be. If he'd admit to imagining this, he'd have pictured frantic, bordering on rough, and it's not, not even close. Frank's licking into his mouth, speaking with his lips and tongue, tracing out words into Bob's mouth, easy and careful. Bob palms Frank's hip, pulling him up and closer, but Frank's whispering, "Bob," like he's begging, pleading, holding Bob's hand against him still, not letting him move, and Bob's moaning into the kiss, not pulling anymore, just pushing up Frank's shirt and letting his thumb trace patterns into Frank's skin.
Frank's body shifts, around and up and over, until he's straddling Bob, legs bracketing Bob's knees, his hands wrapped around Bob's neck, pulling him in, his lips whispering across Bob's cheek and down his neck, saying frantically, quietly, "fuck, Gerard was right. Should have - ," until Frank's words get lost in the bite of Bob's mouth.
"Can we talk about Gerard later?" Bob asks, pulling back just far enough to taste the need between them-sweet and desperate, and Bob can't remember ever wanting this bad.
"Later, yeah. So much later." Frank traces the words into Bob's mouth before he's pulling Bob up, grabbing his hand and heaving him up, saying, "Bedroom, yeah," like it's the most brilliant idea ever.
Bob sort of agrees. He wraps his hands around Frank's hips, slips up close behind him and moves them both around the corner, and down the hall, and into the bedroom. Frank's got his pants off and he's working on Bob's t-shirt before they stumble on to the bed, mouths and bodies wrapped tightly together.
**
They wake up tangled together in bed, the sheets tossed down on the floor, their legs and arms so twisted that Bob's not sure which body parts belong to who. He thinks about bitching, complaining about the bruises he can feel on his hips, the scratch marks he can feel burning hot trails down his back, but he's too warm and too comfortable, all wrapped-up-in-a-Frank, so he shuffles Frank closer and drifts back to sleep.
**
"So," Frank says, walking into the kitchen half-naked and smiling at Bob. "Have any plans for tonight?"
Bob snorts into his coffee cup and pretends that he doesn't feel an awkward weight in the pit of his stomach. He watches as Frank starts pulling open cupboard doors and lifting out pots and opening the refrigerator, taking things out and piling them on the counter.
It's not so surprising to Bob that Frank is probably the shittiest cook ever. He spends hours roaming Bob's kitchen, using ten pots to cook a plate of vegetables. If Bob has to eat another overcooked piece of broccoli he's going to hurl.
"No way, Iero," he says when Frank turns on the stove. "Get your ass away from the stove. I'll cook."
Franks blinks at him. "Wow, romantic morning after. Cool," he says, and hops up onto the counter, swinging his legs back and forth. "I like spaghetti."
Bob nods his head and pulls out a big pan and fills it with water. "You realize it's breakfast, right?" he asks, even though he's already reaching for the bag of pasta.
"It's 1pm, ass," Frank says, sliding off the counter and right into Bob's space. He presses himself against Bob's back, touching everywhere, close enough that Bob can feel everything, the heat from Frank's body, his chest rising and falling, the hardness that's poking Bob right in the ass. "Spaghetti is totally allowed anytime after 10am."
"If you say so," Bob gasps out, staring down and watching Frank's hand rub softly across his stomach. Frank's biting softly across his shoulders, small nips with his teeth that will maybe leave a mark. "You really hungry?" He asks, turning around and reeling Frank in, running his hand down Frank's back and cupping his hand around Frank's hip.
"Not so much, " Frank shrugs, pushing Bob back against the counter, and sliding his hand down Bob's pants. "I think you can probably convince me to wait."
**
Gerard, Mikey and Ray show up for Bob's birthday on a Wednesday. They bring him a lame-ass cake and take him out to a crappy Mexican food place and embarrass him with a sombrero and room full of waiters singing Feliz Cumpleaños. Bob's about to jump from his chair and possibly, definitely, kill both Mikey and Gerard who are fucking crowing in laughter, when he feels Frank wrap his fingers around Bob's knees, pressing down and holding tight, softly circling a thumb around his kneecap.
He settles back in his seat and lets his hand find Frank's under the table.
Bob has his own Frank smile, the smile that Frank gives him and only him and he's pretty sure he'd recognize it anywhere. He watches Frank talk to Gerard and Ray across the table, sees Frank smiling that smile at them, and all Bob can think is, that's mine, like it's even possible to actually own a smile. Then Frank turns just enough that he catches Bob's eye and his lips curve, just a little more up, and it's just a small difference, but the whole smile changes into something else entirely. It's so slight that probably no one else could notice, and, okay, that is actually Bob's smile, close but just different enough.
He moves closer to Frank, twisting their fingers tightly together, and it's probably weird and a little too close because Gerard raises his eyebrows at him, then grins that famously stupid Gerard grin. Bob shrugs his shoulders, lets go of Frank's fingers and instead, lets his hand find a home on Frank's back, high up between his shoulder blades, where Bob can feel his muscles shifting and moving as he laughs at the horrible joke Ray's trying to tell.
"You guys need a place to crash tonight?" Bob asks Gerard.
"Nah, you two can just head home. We got rooms downtown."
Bob nods at Gerard, not even trying to hide his smile.
**
He walks in the front door from a quick fill-in studio session with an old friend and trips over two pair of shoes and a guitar case. It's mostly dark but Bob can see the hallway bathroom light on, door barely cracked open to light up the entry way. He picks his way across the living room, stepping around the stack of comic books and the new pile of dvds that Frank bought last week. He tosses his jacket on the couch, switches off the bathroom light and slips into the bedroom.
There's a pile of blankets on their bed, and there's snuffling, almost a snore, buried somewhere beneath the mound. Bob strips off his clothes and shoves at the pile until Frank shuffles over, leaving just enough space for Bob to slide into bed, to wrap his arms and legs around Frank. The bed's barely big enough for two, a tight, perfect fit even though Frank takes most of the bed and all the blankets, and Bob's usually left with his ass flapping around in the cold.
Frank shifts even closer and winds his fingers through Bob's. "Glad you're home," he mumbles in a sleep roughened voice.
"Yeah," Bob whispers against Frank's neck. "Yeah."
**
Tomorrow, Frank will get up, walk through their living room on the way to the kitchen, and the first thing he'll notice is the new picture sharing space on the mantle. It's a shot of Bob and Frank from a few nights ago on Bob's birthday, standing close together and grinning stupidly at the camera. Huge handlebar mustaches will have been drawn over their mouths in an unsteady, thick black line and there will be little hearts floating together right above their heads.
Frank will laugh and run back into the bedroom, tackling Bob onto the bed and whispering wetly against his neck, "Told you that you'd learn to fucking love -," but Bob will steal the last word away from Frank, sealing their lips together and rolling them over and off their bed. They'll hit the floor laughing, out of breath, both hearing the me echoing softly through the room.
No disrespect intended regarding their video game prowess. :D