Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/291409.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, My_Chemical_Romance, Panic_At_The_Disco
  Relationship:
      Bob_Bryar/Brendon_Urie
  Character:
      Mikey_Way, Ryan_Ross, Gerard_Way, Frank_Iero, Ray_Toro, Spencer_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      brothers_watching_porn_together, Homophobia, Disabled_Character,
      Arthritis, Underage_Drinking
  Series:
      Part 1 of JRA_'verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-10 Words: 14408
****** The Commoner And The Scribe ******
by gala_apples
Summary
     Bob thinks that the ability to put up with the friends he has is a
     more unique characteristic of his than his Juvenile Rheumatoid
     Arthritis. Fifty thousand kids in the States have JRA, only a few
     could handle Mikey’s sluttiness, Gerard’s basement creeperiness, and
     Frank’s stupid refusal to admit his crush on Gerard. (Ray is
     surprisingly normal). But while he gets no help dealing with his
     friends, a few accommodations have to be made for his disease.
     Someone copying class notes is one of them, and when it turns out
     that Frank’s writing could be more legible if he did it with his
     feet, Brendon Urie steps in. JRA impedes a lot of things in his life,
     but falling in love isn’t one of them.
Notes
     Written for 2011 Bandom Big Bang Wave Two. Masterpost containing
     links to art and mix is here.
Last year Bob’s educational life was easy. Last year Jepha was in five of his
six classes, and the last was culinary arts. That was lucky on two accounts;
the first being Mrs Christopherson didn’t demand notes, just handed out
recipes, and the second being having a perfectly legit reason as to why he
couldn’t do all the tedious shit like stirring batter.
Mom says -disturbingly frequently, actually- that with every rainstorm comes a
garden. Bob prefers his version; with every mandatory class comes a slacker
loophole. They can be found everywhere. He and Mikey have a deal with math
homework, they each do half then trade. Sometimes webcam photos come into play,
if work has to be shown. Ray gets out of gym class if he ‘forgets’ his change
of clothes because the one sized is forced onto all set has shorts that make
Ray look like he’s in a porno. And before Gerard graduated he pretended to care
about animals, culminating in a crying fit, all in order to get out of
dissecting animals. Bob can understand that too, he’s got bio this semester.
This year though, shit is different. He and Jepha only share one class, and it
wouldn’t matter if they had all six together and Jepha lived in his locker
because there was that whole falling out thing. Bob missed most of it while he
was visiting his grandma in Chicago. But when he got back it was pretty clear
he had to pick a side, and he picked Waybros, with a side of Iero and
Torosaurus. It’s still unknown if it was the right decision from an issue based
standpoint, considering he still doesn’t know what the drama was about. If he
had to guess, he’d say something happened between Gee and Bert. Quinn wouldn’t
have gotten half as furious and insistent on shunning on Dan or Brandon’s
behalf. Of course Mikey was on Gee’s side, being brothers, and Frank needing to
be with Gerard isn’t a surprise either. But he loves his guys, even if those
are words that will never pass his lips, no matter how drunk, stoned, sleep
deprived, or male PMSing he is. So he’s pretty satisfied with the decision,
even if he knows if he ever met Quinn in a dark alley he’d be clubbed to death.
Unspoken love or not, he still wants to take a staplegun to Frank. Sitting in
the back of Ray’s car -now on it’s third Toro son, and you can tell- he glances
at the pages Frank is clipping into his binder. It looks like his pen leaked
all over the lined paper.
“What’s that?”
Mikey swivels in the passenger seat so he can see whatever spectacle he thinks
is occurring. “What’s what?”
Frank snorts. “What do you mean ‘what’s that’? They’re your notes Bryar, what
the fuck do you think they are?” He closes the rings and tosses the binder back
onto Bob’s lap. Bob flips the cover open and attempts to read the ‘notes’.
“You have, like, the worst handwriting in the world.”
Frank doesn’t tell him he’s ungrateful douchebag. Maybe a few years ago he
would have, but Bob tend to be pissy when people tell him to be thankful for
his JRA. There’s a difference between this sucks but let’s try to look at the
shit that sucks less and you’re so lucky you don’t have to play volleyball or
write your own tests, and those that think the latter need to be driven over
with a steamroller.
“Yeah, well you try writing two sets of notes before the end of each class.”
Which, on the whole, is only a slightly less douchy comment, because if Bob
could write his own notes he fucking would with no hesitation. But on the other
hand there has to be a line between calling people out on saying stupid shit
and being overly sensitive and making every comment said about his disease.
Whiners don’t make friends, he learned that in Chicago. At least not ones other
than those that want to coddle you and be your mommy.
“Okay, given for some messiness. But I could do a better job if my OT gave me
one of those headbands quadriplegics get with a pen attached.”
“Suck a dick, Bryar.”
Bob peers closer to the notes. “Dude, are these from Spanish class? How the
fuck am I supposed to know how to pronounce shit when I can only read four
letters from this entire line?”
Mikey snorts. Easy for him, the fucker. He’s taking French, and he doesn’t have
to read Frank’s shitty handwriting while learning what ‘volez vouz chocher avec
moi’ means.
“Seriously, if I fail this class I am putting my boot up your ass.”
“You don’t wear boots.”
Well no shit, shoelaces are hardly his friends. “I’ll put Mikey’s boot up our
ass.” It’s a suitable threat. They’re chunky platform boots, not like he needs
the height.
                                      ***
Bob manages about a week before he can’t take it anymore. He thinks about the
situation for a few minutes on the weekend before deciding Frank won’t be
offended by the ‘thanks but no thanks’. It fact, he’ll probably be relieved.
Frank’s doing this because Bob asked him to, because Bob needed him to. Any of
them would have done it, just like Bob would do whatever for the Ways or Frank
or Ray. Luckily, there are other ways he can problem-solve this. Namely Mrs
Gordon. So once he gets dropped off and is done leaning in the open window and
explaining how to get back home, he goes straight for the guidance counsellor’s
office.
The first session Bob ever had with her was while he was still in eighth grade.
Just like kids in daycare get school readiness lessons, the junior high had its
part in trying to make sure their students wouldn’t fail miserably at high
school life. Part of that was bussing the entire grade to the high schools in
the area to give them the chance to see what would be the best fit. Most of the
kids just looked at curriculum and how new the computers were, and what the caf
served. Bob had other considerations.
The man at Huron High School wore a bow tie and a massive grin. The woman at
Kentucky had a power suit with custom dyed shoes and a gold broach. He hadn’t
had a chance to deconstruct Mrs Gordon’s outfit. The moment he sat down she
started talking and the words were enough to jar him. “You have the right to
call bullshit.”
Bob had experienced two peppy, well written ‘we will accommodate your every
need’ speeches that week. Like the high schools were a freakin’ hotel or
something and all he needed was another towel. Like he could actually believe
or trust such sickening optimism. She was a striking difference.
Between the refreshing attitude, the fact that Mikey was going, and that his
older brother and his few friends were already there it made Jefferson easily
the best choice. There was probably something about academics too, or something
else university application based he used to sell it to his mom, he can’t
remember anymore. And yeah they turned out to be not very accommodating, no
notes prepared for him -apparently powerpoint print-offs don’t happen until
college- and he still has to take gym even though he can’t do about half of it.
But when they tried to put him in Special Ed, he called bullshit and Mrs Gordon
listened. He trusts her, as much as he trusts his OT. He always listens, even
if the best he can give is rolled eyes.
“If Frank is my scribe for one more day I’m going to take a drill to his eyes.”
The words are out of his mouth before he’s even slumping into the chair facing
her. He is not the type to get weepy and pleading around therapists.
“Bob Bryar, you couldn’t hold a drill.” She says placidly, mention of violence
washing over her.
“That’s not a very guidance counsellory thing to say.” She’s supposed to
accentuate what he can do, not focus on what he can’t.
It’s always a bit off-putting to see a woman in her forties roll her eyes. In a
good way, though. “You and I both know you’d resent me if I babied you.”
It’s true, but Bob tends to not let adults know when they happen to be right.
It generally makes them cocky. He settles for a non-committal noise.
“Does he or she need to be in all your classes?”
Bob shrugs. “I guess not? As long as they can finish double copying by the end
of class, or drop them off with you. I don’t want to track down six people a
day.”
She’s not even looking at him anymore, instead facing the computer. It’s an old
thing, the monitor is a massive white cube instead of a flatscreen. “The
question was a bit premature, really. There’s one teen in five of your
classes.”
“Not Jepha or Quinn or Bert.” He’s pretty sure Quinn would rather stab him with
a pen then write for him.
“No. Though don’t think we’re not coming straight back to that question in a
minute.” Bob snorts, he knows better. “He’s actually in four of the same
periods as you, do you recognise Brendon Urie?”
“Uh?”
“That would be a no then. I’ll call him down, and whether it works or not I’ll
find you someone else. Believe it or not, some people are rather fond of Frank
Iero and would like him intact.”
Yeah, and Bob is one of them. Just not when he’s staring at his notes trying to
figure out what the fuck they say.
Five minutes into biology Brendon is called to the office. The boy who stands
is wearing a green and pink striped shirt, and untorn jeans. He practically
skips towards the door. Frank starts snickering, the asshole. Bob can see why,
but he’s not worried yet. Brendon’s not the most flamboyant guy he’s ever seen,
and even if he was, Bob can get along with flamboyant. It’s not like they have
to be best friends.
He comes back a few minutes later, smiling. At the end of the period he dashes
over to Bob’s desk, brandishing papers. “I only had gel pen, I hope you don’t
mind. It helps me distinguish between classes.”
“No separators?” Frank’s not really being a douche, Bob can tell. He’s playing
devil’s advocate because he wants Brendon to talk more.
Brendon shrugs. “I had these awesome Lisa Frank binder folders, but Ryan told
me to stop being a fag. So yeah, gel it’ll be. Unless you wanna lend me a Bic
or something.”
Bob looks at the papers. The writing is entirely legible, despite it being
hunter green. It’s not even dashes for new lines and lists, Brendon’s drawn
bullets. “Looks fine to me.”
“Great. See you next class.” With that Brendon bounds out. Frank starts
snickering again, but Bob thinks it’s hardly fair. Someone that literally
climbs their taller friends doesn’t have the right to rag on others for being
hyper.
                                      ***
Brendon’s not there at roll call. Bob swears under his breath and looks around
the class for another option. It’s not like it never happened with Jepha last
year. Bert’s repeating senior year because Jefferson has a rule that sixteen
plus absences means automatic failure, not because he’s stupid. Skipping is
something you only do by yourself if you’re a high achiever, and you think you
can better utilize your time, which meant that Jepha and Quinn and Dan spent a
few periods a week out of class.
Any other day he’d be fine, he’d just succumb to the torture of reading Frank’s
notes. Unfortunately for him, Frank is absent, ‘sick’. What’s really going on
is Frank is allowed to sleep in on his birthday, whether it’s a school day or
not. Bob expects to first see him at lunch, or fourth period if he begs for
fast food.
He has three options at this point. He could wait until the end of class, and
see if he could come back at the end of the day to borrow the entire reel of
overhead transparency. It’s a fucking bitch to photocopy. It always comes out
blurry and half the time he drops the roll, which is akin to dropping open
paper towels down a flight of stairs. Except slipperier. Option two is raising
his hand, and making himself a pity case. If he points out that his usual note
taker is absent, and he needs someone else to help, he’ll probably only get one
comment of why can’t you do it yourself, to which Bob will pleasantly not reply
because I’m crippled, you fucking asshole, since a lot of people seem offended
by the word. It’s possible he won’t even have to wait for a volunteer, that Mr
Allen will just appoint someone.
Bob goes with the option that has the least amount of personal objection. The
first two are annoying in their own, special ways, the third isn’t as bad. He
just twists on his stool and asks the girl behind him if she can write two sets
of notes. Face to face with a handicapped person asking for help, most people
are horrified at the idea of saying no.
Of course, it all turns out to not matter when Brendon comes in about five
minutes late. It’s hard to stay mad though, knowing what the end of school
brings. Namely, Frank turning seventeen.
There are three distinct layers of supervision to a Frank Iero birthday party.
Bob doesn’t know how things worked when Frank was a kid. By the time Bob met
him they were already a bit old for trick or treating and so it was just a
sleepover. Or whatever the manlier equivalent is, although they paint their
nails and play truth or dare, so the manliness is pretty much lacking.
The first section of the night belongs to Frank’s Grandma and Grandpa. The four
of them follow Frank home after school and Grandma and Grandpa Iero are already
there. It’s not the only time Bob sees them, he comes over and sees them at
least once a month. Most people probably wouldn’t want to hang out with the
elderly, but Bob can’t lie, it’s a great few hours. Frank’s grandma likes to
tell stories about his past. It would suck if it was him, but since it’s Frank
it’s hilarious. Some of them are old, classic, told often. Sometimes they get
something new and enlightening.
“I remember when he only knew you, Mikey. He found out you were going to
Jefferson and he was destined to go to the Catholic private school that our
entire lineage has gone to. But history wasn’t enough for him, o’ course. Frank
doesn’t put much stock in tradition. So the dear boy sent the principal an
email explaining how much properly damage would occur if he attended, possibly
to the point of pipe bombs in abandoned areas. He was grounded the entire
summer.”
Bob has no trouble believing this.
“Yeah, but the principal refused admission, so I still won.” Bob also has no
trouble believing that that’s Frank’s true opinion, that he’s not just acting
big in front of others. Frank would totally consider arrestable threats and
being grounded for two and a half months winning. And it makes sense as to why
he didn’t meet Frank until September, even though Mikey talked about him the
whole summer.
When Bob first starting coming to the Iero’s, Grandpa and Grandma Iero used to
stay for dinner. Now they don’t, speaking of how horrible the tofurkey Frank
demands is. Every month Bob becomes more convinced Frank doesn’t care about the
cows, just needs a safe way to chase them out before they start talking about
potty training.
After they leave it’s Mrs Iero’s domain. She bakes like a fiend. Bob’s mom gets
him a generic cake from the bakery at the grocery store beside her work in
December. Frank gets two different kinds of cake; classic chocolate, and
something unique. This year it’s lemon meringue. There’s also entire platters
of cookies. It’s kind of insane. It’s not like she’s baking them for the trick
or treaters and she has left overs. For one thing, in this day and age no
parent carting around a eight year old would let them take a baked cookie for
fear of razor blades or arsenic. For another, they’re all Frank personalized;
stamped into a doughnut shape with CD titles written in icing.
Best of all, there is always a jack-o-lantern pinata. The first year she had a
broom handle and Bob couldn’t grip it. Mrs Iero apologised about a dozen times,
and bought a baseball bat before Christmas and the tree pinata. He can’t strike
very hard, he’ll never be the one to break it open, but hitting giant tissue
papered things tends to be its own reward.
After presents the evening is theirs, freedom given to them by Mr Iero keeping
Mrs Iero away from the basement. He’s supposed to watch them but he’s really a
co-conspirator. Every year he supplies them with things they’re too young to
get, namely alcohol, porn, cigarettes, and fireworks. They don’t use them in
that order though.
This year they thank him for the fireworks, but don’t bother to go outside.
Considering their gender, they have an impressively low tolerance for booming
noises. Bob’s kind of partial, but the others don’t care, except Frank.
Probably he’ll come over next week some time -maybe on Thursday, that’s when
Mikey and Gerard go to Universe for their Magic tourney- and they’ll set them
off then. Bob doesn’t see the point in trying to beg everyone to go into the
back yard when they have great goings on where they are.
Tonight they’re playing an awesome version of Monopoly where you can choose to
get paid in money or shots. Bob’s the cannon, as he has been since the day he
was born. They take turns moving his piece and putting down his houses, while
Mikey’s officially his money counter, but it’s not a pity thing. It’s barely
even a JRA thing. Sitting around the ottoman it’s hard for anyone to reach the
opposite side, whoever’s closest moves the pieces. Neither is he the only one
with a money aide. Gerard, who somehow has a ton of properties and is drunk
enough to mean they’ve been landed on, can barely count his money so Frank’s
helping him out.
They have Risk in reserve, though Bob doubts they’ll need it. The rules are
simple and meant to get them drunk rapidly; if any men get killed you have to
sip a mixed drink. Bob’s not sad they’re going to skip it, it’s not a great
drunk game anyway. The movement of men requires so much dexterity that even
those that originally have it have trouble.
They’re so gone Ray barely gloats when he wins. Which means it’s time for the
porn. It’s bi porn, mostly two guy threesomes. It works best for them. Ray gets
girls, Bob gets boys, Mikey and Gee blatantly like both, and Frank can lie
about what he likes because he’s a stupid bastard. It’s not Mr Iero’s
magazines, just stuff downloaded and hidden in randomly titled files on the
basement computer. If Bob could say it without offending anyone or making it
weirder, he sort of thinks Mr Iero has weird tastes. If he did like girls, it
wouldn’t be Asians with bleach blond hair and blue iris contacts.
It’s not like Bob goes cross-eyed and suddenly sees Brendon’s face on the guy
getting rimmed. He’s drunk, not obsessed or delusional. But he can’t help but
think that Brendon would be good in bed. In the almost two months since he met
him, Brendon hasn’t given any sign of actually being gay. Still, it would be
awesome if Brendon would suck his cock. Or anyone, really. Bob’s not picky. Sex
with anyone would be fantastic.
                                      ***
Bob is of the opinion that what you like in bed is what you like in bed and
there’s no reason to come down on people for their likes. The obvious exception
being if the activity is actually wrong. Groping sleeping people is not okay,
nor is anything else that messes with consent. Cutting off limbs is equally
bad, sex shouldn’t involve dismemberment. And wanting little kids is straight
up evil. But if it’s just something like DP, or pissing, or whipping, then
whatever. Why not go for it?
In fact, he’s pretty sure everyone’s life would be easier if Gerard took some
kinky initiative and just tied up Frank and didn’t listen to his bullshit.
Which, okay, from the outside might appear kind of rape-like. But two days ago
Grandma Iero asked Frank if he’d been having safe sex because getting diseases
is bad, not that I think you really have something, Gerard. When an eighty year
old notices, it’s pretty fucking clear everyone knows they’re destined. Except
Frank, somehow.
But the point is that while Bob doesn’t give a crap if some people like pain
during sex, he doesn’t. Which, sad to say, is how shit would go down if he
jerked off the way the average guy does. He can’t grip a pen or a baking spoon,
his stupid fingers won’t just randomly decide to be pain free when he wants to
grab his dick. Luckily there are other methods available.
It’s entirely possible his bed is the most comfortable of anyone in the city.
It should be, considering how long he spends each day trying to sleep off the
fatigue that comes with being diseased. Ray’s bed is rock hard, you can feel
the springs in Mikey’s, and at least four days of the week Bert slept on a
inflatable pool mattress at Quinn’s. If Bob was up for shitty metaphors, he’d
say his was like laying on a cloud. The pillow top of the mattress is like half
a foot thick and then there’s the actual pillows; two to rest his head on and a
body pillow resting against the wall.
Presumably the body pillow was bought to keep him from waking up against cold
drywall. When Bob was twelve it got repurposed as a masturbatory aid. It had
been the most awkward conversation he’s ever had with his occupational
therapist. Thankfully Akiro was made out of sterner stuff; she’d just shrugged,
told him it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d learn in sex ed, and ignored his
blush. Bob had been awkwardly but incredibly grateful for it.
 
What Bob does is more humping than jerking off. He pulls the pillow between his
legs and ruts against it. Aside from that, it’s basically the same experience.
He still thinks about fucking someone, usually a thinner brunet. He still has
to muffle his grunts so nothing leaks between the wall, his mom is in the next
room over. And he still comes, staining yet another patch of fabric. At one
point Bob thought he was alone in having trouble cleaning up afterwards. Then
he made the mistake of taking Gerard up on his offer of sharing his bed with
Mikey so Bob could have one to himself during a rare sleepover. Gerard’s sheets
practically flaked when Bob touched them.
Bob mentally flips through a selection of guys before landing on Brendon. He
can’t help but wonder if Mikey’s fucked him. Mikey’s fucked a lot of people.
Not Gene Simmons levels of a lot, but a lot for a high schooler. College will
probably be a great experience for Mikeyway. Hopefully it’ll be good for him
too. Hopefully he’ll find some hot skinny guy that will let Bob fuck him all
the time.
He presses his mouth against the edge of the pillow as he pants. It’s not the
best soundproofing material, but it’s not like Bob can get sound studio foam
egg carton stuff for the walls. His hips buck forward more and more frantically
as he gets closer to coming. Even with his eyes closed it’s not like what he
imagines fucking someone would feel like. It’s too soft. Unless he was fucking
a girl’s boobs, but the thought is enough to make him back down from the edge,
and any prolonged thought will probably make him soft again, so he redirects
his brain as quick as he can. He’s not into orgasm denial either, so rutting
his way to the end only to turn himself off would just be cruel.
                                      ***
When Bob was twelve, his Health and Diversity class teacher liked to use
examples. Each class -once a week, on Wednesdays- she’d have something new. The
first class had opened with everyone having to wear glasses smeared with
Vaseline to make everyone understand the phrase ‘four eyes’ wasn’t kind. Which
was ridiculous because they weren’t eight and that wasn’t a proper diss
anymore, and anyway the entire point of a diss was that it wasn’t kind. After
those first forty five minutes Bob hadn’t had much hope for the rest of the
year.
It wasn’t until the third week that things got personal. She made everyone rank
the class from least gay to most gay to show that people’s perceptions were
different, then asked Ryan -the only out teen in seventh grade- what he
thought. Ryan’s answer of ‘everyone is a little gay, my email is
TravisBarkerRocks at hotmail dot com’ wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted.
For a time Bob thought the worst was taking turns with the sumo suit to
simulate being fat. No one in their junior high was that fat, and even if they
had someone that big, giving teenage boys an excuse to waddle and wrestle
wouldn’t help them. Then Bob came in late to one class, and twenty nine desks
of teenagers had some of their fingers masking taped together because they were
being him. Having just come from OT he wasn’t really in the mood.
Even though it’s not a very accurate example -for one, masking tape doesn’t
provide any pain, and with JRA there’s a lot- Bob would still like to try the
exercise with Brendon. He doesn’t seem to understand that this isn’t a joke for
Bob, that he needs Brendon, that he can’t write his own notes. He could type
them, if he was part of some charity organization that handed out laptops. But
his mom doesn’t get paid much, and Bob judges gas or electricity or his meds
more important than a computer that Frank or once upon a time Bert would have
accidentally broken anyway.
Brendon’s been late to biology every day this week. It would be different if
English was first period, the first fifteen minutes is silent reading. Or even
math, where it’s just practicing and hoping Mikey got his half of the
assignment right. But it’s not. It’s biology, which means definitions and
examples and other things that need to be written out. Bob’s tried tape
recorders in earlier grades, but he retains nothing spoken. Which means he
needs to talk to Brendon about it. He’s not a total narc, he’ll talk to Brendon
before he brings Mrs Gordon in.
He waits until Frank goes up to the front desk for the worm and the pins along
with half the class to sneak up a row to sit beside Brendon. It’s probably for
the best anyway, when they have to dissect together it tends to be a disaster.
Bob can’t really hold the knife, never mind make super-accurate cuts. Frank
gets nauseous cutting into once living creatures, but you need to have a
meeting between Mr Wagner and yourself and parents before Mr Wagner gives
alternate options, and Mrs Iero isn’t accommodating like how Mrs Way was. If
they each have a partner that can do the work, maybe they won’t fail the lab.
“Oh, hey Bob. You wanna be my partner, I guess?”
“Yeah. If it’s cool. Frank is sort of really bad at this kinda thing.”
“I really don’t think MacKensie desperately wants to be my lab buddy. He won’t
even let me call him by his first name. It’s totally fine.” Brendon smiles at
the end, belying the slightly depressing words. He’s got a good smile. Really
good. So Bob maybe wants to come on Brendon’s face, a little. As long as he
doesn’t say it out loud it won’t make things awkward.
Still, lusty thoughts or not, he switched places for a reason. He jokingly asks
“do you not have an alarm clock? You know you can program your cell, right?”
Brendon looks away for a second, only to be startled when Frank slams their
tray and worm in front of Bob. Frank’s scowling, so Bob scowls back. Frank’ll
realise it’s for the best when they make it to the end of the period without
Bob feeling guilty and irritated that he can’t make the cuts because Frank
looks like he’s vomiting into his mouth.
Finally Brendon shrugs. “I can't get from my apartment to school on a bus on
time. I’m either five minutes late, or an hour and a half early. I talked to
the guidance counselor, Wagner can't give me detention for it. Maybe you should
get someone else to do your notes though? I’m good for the others, still.”
Bob’s really not sure what Brendon means by that. He shouldn’t mean his
apartment, they're seventeen. But it really didn’t sound like the kind of my
that means ‘belongs to parents’, like my house, or my car. Bob’s not a gossip
though, and he doesn’t know Brendon well enough to start asking questions. So
he just gestures to the print off diagram Wagner passed out at the beginning of
class and asks what he thinks the first blank space is supposed to be.
Apparently even worms have a ton of organs.
                                      ***
Bob hates being nosy. In theory, people know what they’re supposed to, and
prying only ups the chances for upset. He manages to last a solid week before
breaking down and deciding he needs to know. The best person to go to for
knowledge is Mikey. In order to ask Mikey, he needs to get his attention. So he
angles his body properly and give him a good kick under the caf table.
Mikey’s glare bounces from Ray to Frank before finally landing on Bob. “What.”
“What what?”
“Fuck off!”
He could play this game for a while. Doing something and denying doing it is a
staple of friendship. But he’d rather just know. “Does Brendon Urie have his
own apartment?”
Mikey shrugs. “I dunno if Brendon has a party house. I’ll ask.”
Bob isn’t surprised when Mikey pulls out his phone instead of crossing the
cafeteria. Most people express themselves with words and body language. Mikey
uses words and thumbs. Five minutes and a flurry of texts later Mikey says
“Gabe says that Pete says that Ryan says that Brendon got kicked out.”
So he does have his own apartment. But why? He's sometimes a shit, and his mom
doesn't kick him out. And if unobserved Frank at home is anything like he is
when around his friends, he should totally be kicked out a hundred times over.
Even Bert, who is kicked out on a monthly to weekly basis is always back
overnight. To be out of the house for good Brendon must have done something
horrible, and he really doesn’t seem like a horrible person. “The hell? Why?”
Mikey texts for a minute then holds out his phone. “Here.”
Fuck, he hates talking on the phone. But at least the person on the other end
seems supremely uninterested when he says hello. If the guy was any less
interested in things he'd be in a coma.
“Brendon got kicked out? Why?”
Seriously, it better not get out that it's him that asked. On closer
inspection, it really seems stalkery. Oh well. He’s already asked the question.
Hanging up before an answer wouldn’t make him any less stalkery, it would just
make him clueless.
The guy sighs. “Multiple choice. A, he likes rock music. B, he doesn't believe
in God. C, he jerks off. D, he likes guys. E, he doesn't respect his parents.
Circle whichever one makes you happy. Can you tell Mikey I want my belt back? I
think it's in his car.”
He hangs up before Bob can say anything, leaving him to pass on the message.
Mikey shakes his head. “William’s missing his too. They probably took each
others. Gimme my phone so I can text them.”
Bob often wonders what it would be like to be Mikey, skinny and capable and
painless and sexually really fucking active. But Mikey pops pills at lunch too,
and at least Bob’s aren’t to stop himself from seeing shit or trying to off
himself. He’s probably better off as he is, the grass being full of flesh
eating bugs on the other side.
Fourth period is media and advertising, which Brendon doesn’t take, and fifth
is math with Mikey and Frank, which Brendon has fourth period. But sixth is
ancient civilizations, and even though he puts his bag down on the desk beside
Ray’s, he heads to the front of the room where Brendon’s got two piles of
looseleaf and a few coloured pens.
“Oh, hey. I was just gonna give you both at the end of class, but if you want
math’s examples now- Really, you’d think he could just print it out for you. I
mean really, like-”
Brendon is like Gerard in that sometimes you just have to interrupt, otherwise
you’ll never get your piece said. “You want me to pick you up before school?”
Brendon's hands still in the middle of opening the rings of his binder. “What?”
Bob shrugs. “Well then we both win. I don't fail biology from spotty notes, and
you don't have to take the shitty bus.” It makes sense to him, and Bob would
like to think he’s a good enough guy that he’d offer even if he didn’t have a
pathetic unrequited lust for him.
Brendon hesitates for maybe a half second before breaking into a smile. “That
would be great.”
Bob watches Brendon scribble on a torn piece of paper then wince when he
realises Bob can’t pluck it from his hand. Brendon’s pretty quick on his feet,
he just walks back three rows and puts it in the pocket of his binder. Bob will
have to get his mom to fish it out later, but better than Brendon just telling
him and him forgetting by the morning. “I’ll be there at eight thirty.”
“Ohh, sleeping in. Lovely.” Bob would bet money Brendon’s the only teenager in
the school that would say lovely unsarcastically. Beside Ray Frank is
snickering, but it just makes Bob smile.
                                      ***
Bob never thought he’d say it, but he misses kickball. It’s one of the few
sports he can do, all of his JRA crap being with his fingers and wrists. Last
year they played a lot, a group of ten friends allowed for two small teams.
That’s not possible now.
Aside from being able to please doctors with the whole staying healthy and
physically active thing, kickball was a good stress reliever. Once Gerard
called it ‘the poor or carded man’s version of a bottle of Jack Daniels’, and
Bob never saw much wrong with the assessment. Lou being a bastard? Kickball.
Bert getting kicked out again over religious issues? Kickball. Mikey having to
wait for STI results? Kickball.
Signing on to MSN is nowhere near the same as calling the guys and arranging a
meeting at the community club near Dan’s house if it isn’t baseball season, or
the parking lot near the Ways if it is. At this point though, it’s pretty much
the only option left. He couldn’t stop thinking about Brendon before his nap,
and waking up it’s still on his mind.
A good chunk of his list is online. At least half the people he doesn’t
remember adding, who they are or why he cared. Bob only has a second to start
scrolling before someone pops up in orange.
Seven AM Junkie: hey. sup? good dreams?
Mikey always asks, Bob never has anything interesting to report.
Wristless Superhero: nope
Bob hesitates with his fingers over the keyboard, then sighs and starts typing.
Mikey's the best possible person to talk about this kind of shit with.
Wristless Superhero: on the phone with ryan today, he gave me a bunch of
options for why brendon maybe got kicked out. option d was brendon being gay.
have you had sex with him?
Seven AM Junkie: *snorts* i haven't fucked every gay guy in jersey
Before Bob can point out that that's not no, Mikey starts typing again.
Seven AM Junkie: haven't had sex with him. why do you care
Wristless Superhero: dumbass. why do you think
Seven AM Junkie: you can't just ask if he's gay?
Wristless Superhero: about half the guys in jefferson would try to kick my ass
for insinuating shit
Seven AM Junkie: from what i've seen of brendon urie he couldn't kick a
toddlers ass
Seven AM Junkie: but then frank's tiny and he's scrappy as fuck, so
Wristless Superhero: what if brendon's parents just really really love funk
music and brendon hates it with all his soul?
Wristless Superhero: and they had an epic fight about funk?
Wristless Superhero: (differences in music was another option from ryan)
Seven AM Junkie: you're a idiot
Bob glares at the screen. Mikey's an asshole. He clicks to the buddy list and
checks. Frank's on, but away. Knowing Frank that means he's there but jerking
off. Frank can take three minutes from his busy evening of pretending to not
come to the image of Gee to help him. Bob says hey and waits for an answer
before copy pasting his conversation to Frank.
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: :-P :-P :-P
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: also damn straight i'm scrappy.
Christ. God only knows what he was thinking. Like Frank could ever be helpful.
Wristless Superhero: EMOTICONS ARE NOT HELPFUL ADVICE, FUCKFACE.
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: dont use caps on the internet. it sounds like
your yelling
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: *snickers*
Wristless Superhero: if I was there I would be yelling
Wristless Superhero: AT YOU
Wristless Superhero: hence the caps
Wristless Superhero: warranted
Bob's about to flip back to Mikey when his name flashes orange. He flips over
to see a row of messages.
Seven AM Junkie: hogod
Seven AM Junkie: i think gabe let himself in
Seven AM Junkie: i think he's hitting on g
Seven AM Junkie: fuck
Bob wants to tell him to take pictures because that shit has to be funny, but
he can practically see Mikey sprinting downstairs through his computer screen.
There's no way Mikey would leave Gerard alone with Gabe to be felt up. He flips
back to Frank and starts to type out a question about what Frank thinks he
should do about Brendon. Frank says something first. Bob backspaces his enquiry
away when he reads it.
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: you think gerard’s gonna get a girlfriend when
he goes to college?
Bob doesn’t make a habit of facepalming, but seriously. Frank needs to come to
his goddamn senses already, before he drives all his friends to the brink of
insanity.
Wristless Superhero: why do you care?
Frank’s pretty quick in replying.
I Aint No Goddamn Sonofabitch!: i don’t.
Wristless Superhero: then why’d you ask?
Frank doesn’t reply for long enough that Bob starts a new conversation. Part of
being a good friend is knowing when to bother someone and when to shut the hell
up and lay off.
Wristless Superhero: you ever miss kickball?
                                      ***
It’s one of God’s cosmic jokes that Bob is freakin’ excellent with directions
and areas of town when probably he’ll never be able to drive. Maybe not as
hilarious as having to keep a buzz cut when he’d rather awesome Norse god
viking hair. Something that rivals Ray’s Metallica hair, but with better music
associated. Maybe not as funny as only being able to play Rock Band drums with
his feet and still mostly failing, and other video games going even worse.
Though to be fair the guys are usually pretty decent about putting their shit
away when he comes over. Life is too short to have shitty friends. It’s a true
cliche for everyone, but especially him; his life expectancy is ten years
shorter than the average. But it’s probably still funny to some jerkoff deity.
Transportation is lame for multiple reasons. There’s the not getting to drive
part of the equation, of course. Bob had an intense flare up a few days before
his scheduled attempt at the practical test. He was too busy trying to convince
every cell in his body to not explode from the pure agony to call the license
place, and apparently that means he has an attitude. Realistically, most days
are bad enough for his arms that he probably couldn’t grip the steering wheel
anyway. And his fatigue hits hardest in the morning, so getting rides lets him
rest instead of focus on the road. But every teenager wants to drive, so it
sucks that he can’t.
The part that is more unique to his personal situation instead of JRA as a
whole is that he doesn’t get to chill in the back seat listening to his iPod.
His services are needed in the front seat. At least when he’s with his mom. As
a senior, she’s been driving him to school for going on four years, and she
still occasionally gets lost. Places they’ve only been once or twice might as
well be in China. Bob first took on the job map reading right after his parents
divorced, and after doing it so long he usually doesn’t need the map. She calls
him her personal GPS. As far as nicknames go it’s pretty shit. If Bob was an
electronic you think he could at least be a sound board. He and his friends
have actually had this conversation. Mikey would be an iPod, Ray an amp, and
Gerard a tablet, and if Bob actually listened to the twenty minute monologue
he’d even know what kind.
“Turn left at the next light.”
“Are you sure? This doesn’t look like a neighbourhood your friends should be
in.”
“Mom, come on. He’s either living in a place with a landlord that decided it
was okay to rent to a seventeen possibly sixteen year old, or a place with a
landlord that doesn’t care that some man or woman was setting up an apartment
for a teenager and not coming back. And either way, it’s still a place Brendon
has to pay for with his own paychecks.”
“Bob, are you sure he’s not a drug peddler?”
Bob snorts. “You’ll understand how stupid that question is when you see him.”
He’s fully expecting the smack to the back of the head that comes a moment
later.
He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering. No matter how much he warns her, if
she decides to start she won’t let it go, no matter how much he begs. She’s
like a pitbull. Except she drives and cooks and enjoys reading and television.
So not really like a pet dog at all. But he still hopes she doesn’t decide to
latch on. If she starts to lecture in front of Brendon he’ll probably feel
embarrassed or ashamed or even worse, sad. Bob remembers the look on Brendon’s
face during the worm autopsy, he doesn’t want to see it again.
For a shitty neighbourhood, there are more cars than Bob would have expected.
There are even a few with people sitting inside. Granted they’re probably
dealers or hookers. When Brendon comes out his apartment’s door, his hands are
curled tightly around the straps of his backpack like he thinks someone is
going to try to take it from him. Bob presses the window down button then waves
at him to get his attention.
He can tell the moment Brendon spots him, he starts to smile. Bob can also tell
the moment he realises Bob’s in the passenger seat, Brendon seems little
shocked. He comes to a stop beside the passenger door. “Um. Hi? Is that your
mom?”
“I can't hold the steering wheel, can't drive. Do you hate my mother?”
“Oh my God, what? No!”
“Get in the fucking car then.” It’s possible he’s a bit sensitive about talking
to people who aren’t his friends about not being able to drive.
It wears off soon though. He can see Brendon in the rear view mirror, and he
doesn’t look happy. Bob doesn’t like the idea that he’s the cause of the
awkward silence. He tries to think of something nice and bland to ask. ‘What’s
your favourite band’ could have any of his friends going on for an hour, never
mind the fifteen minute drive.
Instead somehow what pops out is, “look, you don’t have to answer, but why
don’t your friends drive you?” Bob likes Brendon, not just wants to fuck him,
for as much as they’ve talked he seems pretty cool. But he can’t classify
himself a friend. He’s not even an MSN friend.
Brendon shrugs. “Ryan buses, and Spencer gets rides from his mom too. She would
freak out if she knew I was living alone.” In an obvious attempt to change the
subject he asks “doing anything this weekend?” Bob mentally shrugs and goes
with it. If he got kicked out of the house he probably wouldn’t want to talk
about it either.
                                      ***
“I really hope neither of you have fruit allergies.”
From the volume Bob would guess Brendon is shouting from halfway down the
sidewalk. He doesn’t open his eyes to check. Today is going to be a bad fatigue
day. There is at least a fifty percent chance he’ll have to get Mrs Gordon to
call his mom at work to come pick him up early. But he’s going to try. His
absences don’t get counted like the other students at Jefferson, but that’s not
the point. He’s going to be normal as much as he can, and that includes going
to class when he doesn’t feel like it.
“Bob,” his mom hisses. She clearly wants him to answer Brendon. She tends to
not accept JRA based excuses for rudeness.
It takes almost physical effort to raise his voice, and he still doesn’t open
his eyes. “No. Why?”
“I had leftovers at work.” His voice sounds like he’s right against the car,
and when Bob blinks Brendon’s arm is through the rolled down window. He’s
holding two misshapen, oddly coloured popsicles. It’s not really a surprise
they didn’t sell.
“It’s November and I can’t hold that, but thanks.”
Brendon’s face falls. A moment later Mom is smacking the side of his head.
“Don’t be rude!”
“I’m not! I said thanks!” A popsicle stick is just one of many tiny objects he
can’t really hold.
“Bob, sit in the back. Brendon will hold it for you.”
“Mom!” Bob doesn’t know in what universe that is a good idea, but it’s not the
one that exists now.
“Mrs Bryar, it’s really no big deal. It’s not like it’s a waste of money, I
didn’t buy them.”
“Bob.”
Bob knows that tone. As embarrassing as it is, letting Brendon feed him is
probably the best option at this point. Explaining to the guys he got grounded
for not eating a popsicle would be ridiculous. Still, it would be nice if she
didn’t take her irritation at being called Mrs instead of Ms out on him.
The idea of getting out of the front seat and crawling into the back seems
incredibly difficult. He ends up climbing over the cupholder of the van and
half falling into the bench seat. He crashes into his shoulder, but it’s easier
than trying to get the front door open and closed, and the back door sliding.
Hell, half the time Mikey can’t get the sliding door working. Brendon
apologizes close to his ear as he enters the back. Bob grunts. Normally he’d be
excited about Brendon’s face being the closest to his that it’s ever been, but
normally he’s not this fucking tired.
“I work at Smoothie Palace,” Brendon explains, deftly switching the popsicle to
the other hand so he can click closed Bob’s seatbelt. “just like other food
places, employees get the leftovers when customers complain we did something
wrong. I’d rather work at a Pizza Hut, I wouldn’t have to buy as much food. But
smoothies make good breakfasts, or popsicles for dessert. Spencer bought me a
mold.”
Bob’s seen half a dozen movies where some girl sucks on a popsicle and it’s
supposed to be all phallic and a massive turn on. This is not that movie, this
is just fucking lame. Brendon’s not even looking at him, like he’s the one with
the reason or right to be embarrassed. He takes a massive bite, counter to the
slurping sounds from the front seat, just to get the whole thing over with.
It’s a mistake in more than one way; instant brainfreeze and he can’t swallow
fast enough to tell his mom to turn left. Eventually he gets them through the
twisting streets and back on target. He flops against the seat and closes his
eyes. The treat can melt directly onto the upholstery for all he cares. He’s
officially done eating it.
The problem with the bench seat is the back is shorter to allow the driver to
see out the back window. There’s no head support. After a minute of attempting
to rest the base of his skull on the top and staring straight up at the roof
his neck hurts. Bob thinks about it for a second before deciding fuck it and
leaning sideways. Most of the hood of Brendon’s jacket is on his shoulder, it
makes for a good pillow, and his thigh is soft enough to rest his forearm on.
He wakes up for a minute when Brendon starts moving. Brendon delicately sits
him back up straight, balled up jacket propping his head a little better. He
wakes up a second time halfway home. “Mom?”
Entwined in the syllable is where did Brendon go and why am I not at school
assuming that’s where Brendon is and how the hell did you get halfway home
without waking me up. She hears it all, because she’s Mom and she can do that.
“Brendon asked where we lived, he wrote street by street instructions. Not as
good as you, but close. And I’m taking you home. We both know today isn’t gonna
happen.”
Well, it’s not like she’s wrong. Bob closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
                                      ***
When Brendon isn’t waiting at eight thirty Bob frowns. When he doesn’t come out
after five minutes Bob’s mom starts to freak out. Bob would like to reassure
her that no, a crackwhore didn’t stab him to death in his sleep, but in this
neighbourhood he can’t be sure.
“I’m gonna go in and get him.” Technically it should probably be her, it’s not
like he could do CPR. But if there’s blood she’ll probably faint. She doesn’t
like blood.
The building has a buzz code panel with all the occupants last names and first
initials. The door doesn’t have a lock. It seems like an unsafe combination to
Bob. Really, he shouldn’t be complaining though, because that’s what lets him
run up three flights of stairs and kick at Brendon’s door. Bob hears a scraping
sound and part of his panic leeches away. Whatever happened, he’s not
unconscious.
The door opens, Brendon peering out the small crack, hair black with water. Bob
says hi and Brendon smiles weakly before opening the door wide. Bob wipes his
feet on the nasty carpeted hall and steps into the room. That’s what it is, a
room. A mattress is a foot away from the kitchen cabinets, and there’s a
cardboard box of clothes just out of the way of the door. Brendon catches him
looking. “The deadbolt doesn’t catch, but it’s heavy enough to block it.”
A number of things tumble through his head but what comes out is “where’s the
bathroom?”
“Communal. I shower at Ryan’s if his dad’s in a good mood. The sink runs pretty
hot too.” He gestures to his head.
“Do your parents know this is your apartment?”
Bob doesn’t know why it comes out of his mouth. At seventeen years old he’s has
almost two decades to train his mouth to censor his brain. It’s clearly the
wrong thing to say. Brendon’s watered down smile disappears completely. “My
sister visited once, to drop off my clothes. They know.”
Somehow that’s even worse. Apparently it’s the morning for speaking his mind,
because the next thing that bursts out, at almost shouting volume, is “parents
don’t treat kids like this!”
Brendon shrugs. “Some do. Sometimes you're not what they expect.”
Bob swallows the scream vibrating in his throat. “...excuse me a second. I need
to go buy more cigarettes.” He only takes drags when Gee or Frank have one lit,
but Brendon doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t want to go to the gas station a
block over for the taste of nicotine anyway.
Brendon crosses his arms. “I'm not going to light them for you. Okay, that's
kinda mean. I probably will. But you're putting your head out the window so my
mattress doesn't smell.”
Bob agrees. He’d agree to anything for a chance leave the apartment. He needs
to vent, and doing it in front of Brendon would probably only hurt him more.
Brendon starts towelling off his hair as he takes the few steps to cross the
apartment and close the door behind him. At least he has a towel, if Bob saw
him drying off with an old t-shirt he’d probably combust.
He flashes five fingers at his mom for five minutes as he passes the car, but
doesn’t slow down to talk. He either needs to growl or kick things, and a set
of broken toes wouldn’t help his boiling frustration. The homeless guy with a
bible verse written on a square of cardboard is looking at him like he’s the
crazy one. Even if he’d stayed in the apartment it still would have been five
minutes before Brendon was ready. This way Brendon gets ready and Bob doesn’t
have a shouting fit.
                                      ***
Bob is eating lunch with his friends when Ryan Ross comes over. He really
doesn’t look much different than he did in eighth grade. Maybe a bit taller.
He's got a plastic CVS bag swinging in one hand. When he stops at their table
he passes it to Mikey. “I think you left these.”
Mikey undoes the knot and looks the bag. After a second he shakes his head. “I
don't wear underwear. Sorry. If they’re recent, try Alex?”
“Which one?” Bob recognises that voice. It’s the voice from the phone call a
few weeks ago. Which means that Brendon’s Ryan is Ryan Ross. Fuck that’s weird.
Brendon doesn’t seem slutty at all.
“Suarez. Remember, he didn’t want to bottom and suck at the same time? Or last
night Mike Pedicone told me he was busy at your place when I texted him. But
they’re definitely not mine.”
Frank mutters “I don’t know if that’s TMI or hilarious.”
Ryan takes the bag back from Mikey, frowning slightly. The expression deepens
when he turns to Bob. “Spencer's life would really be much better if you fucked
Brendon.”
The reactions around the table are predominantly non-verbal. Frank is totally
cackling, the fucking asshole, and Mikey's got his vaguely interested face on.
Ray’s just confused, and Bob instantly realises he didn’t actually tell Ray or
Gerard. Apparently he’s a shitty, secret keeping friend.
Ryan continues, "Well, I don't care. Brendon only asks me for good porn links.
Or he did before he got kicked out. Stolen wifi is shitty at the apartment, and
he’s only got it when I bring my laptop, and he says that’s ‘weird’. But
Spencer's the one who gets all the love and dating shit. And Brendon thinks you
shit unicorns that vomit rainbows with pots of gold chocolate coins at the end,
and Spencer's getting sick of it.”
It’s no shock that Mikey's texting. Bob’s not sure he wants to know who, but is
hardly surprised that he is. A moment later he says “Gerard says he'll draw
it.”
Frank doesn't say anything until Ryan walks away, heading across the cafeteria
for where Alex Suarez is sitting with Ryland and his other friends. “You think
if I watch him he'll just wander around to all the people he's screwed asking
if it's theirs?”
Mikey smirks. “Why? You gonna be next in line?”
“I’m straight, motherfucker!”
“Yeah, that's why you grope my brother constantly.”
“It's funny as fuck to see him squirm.” Even though half the time Gerard
squeals and or starts hysterically laughing -he’s one of the most ticklish
people Bob’s ever met- it’s a weak excuse. No one calls him on it though.
“You definitely have to come over after school today.” It’s never a matter of
if he wants to, it’s always if he can. You’d think they’d know by now.
“Seriously, even if it’s just for twenty minutes,” Ray adds. “Seriously, I bet
it’s the best sketch this month.”
Bob’s not feeling too bad. Of course it’s only lunch and everything can change
in three hours. Usually by the end of the day he’s in pretty desperate need of
a nap. But he wants to, and if things go for the worse, he can always leave.
“Kay. I dunno how long I’ll last, but-”
“Oh whatever, we’re all a bunch of boring fucks anyway.” Frank gets a gleam in
his eye that Bob is pretty sure will result in at least one of them kicking
him. “Maybe you should invite Brendon.” Oh, his job then.
“That shit’s for real?”
Bob’s going to admit to it. It’s not like he kept it from Ray on purpose. Frank
speaks first. “Yeah. He wants to have awesome sex with him. Or he wants to
listen to funk. Can’t quite remember which.”
Mikey’s smirking again, and Ray looks confused, but Bob’s comment focuses on
Frank. “Suck a dick.”
“I don’t do that shit, that’s you and Mikey.”
“While my brother never needs to have sex that I can sense in any way at all,
everyone knows you’d suck Gerard’s dick.”
“Fuck off.”
“Everyone,” Mikey repeats with added emphasis.
                                      ***
Bob appreciates the way Ray pulls his car to the smoking doors nearest his last
class rather than going to the pick up zone at the front doors, or staying in
the student parking lot. It wouldn’t seem like much to the average person, but
the added walk would pile another layer of fatigue onto his already weighted
shoulders.
Really, his friends are pretty subtly awesome. He gets front seat without
having to call shotgun. No one asks him if he’s sure about going because they
trust him to say if he needs to bail. And he knows without asking that someone
called his mom. He might be fucked for getting picked up later though. It’ll
take explicit instructions in order to get her to the Ways, never mind that
they’ve lived there since he and Mikey were in eighth grade.
Ray stands in front of him as they go down the stairs, Mikey behind. Stairs
aren’t really an issue for him, the joints in his feet are pretty decent. But
on the off chance that he tripped, going down the flight would probably be less
painful than trying to clutch for the railing and putting his whole weight
through his hands. Bob wouldn’t demand that they try to catch him, for as long
as he’s worked with Akiro she’s taught him self-reliance. But it’s nice to know
that they would. And Jepha and the rest probably would if he went down at
school, even if they are supposedly ex-friends. Epic friendship ruining fights
don’t automatically make people shitty and cruel.
What’s waiting on the coffee table is both hilarious and disturbing. Fucking
Gerard. He’s actually painted a t-shirt with a miniature Bob, half a unicorn
out the seat of his pants. The unicorn’s mouth is open with a techicolour spew,
and the end of that arch has a pot of chocolate. It’s ridiculously detailed.
“Did you spend all afternoon making that?”
In the time that it takes him to ask, Frank has darted over, grabbed the hem of
his shirt, and started pulling. He’s got it to mid-chest when Bob finishes
saying that. “Arms up, dollface.”
Bob lets Frank strip him and put the new shirt on. Miraculously it’s even the
right size. He can’t see the design as well looking down, but at least the
paint is dry. Frank informs him cheerfully, “if you try to take it off I will
staple it to you.”
So Bob leaves the shirt on, and by the time he calls his mom to get picked up
he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. His mom of course notices immediately. Before
he’s even in his seat she asks. “What the fuck is on your shirt?”
“It's Gerard symbolism.”
Bob's mom laughs, because she knows Gerard. “Stand for anything specific?”
“Apparently it means some guy thinks I am everything awesome ever.”
“Couldn't it be a piñata of unicorns and chocolate then? Why does it have to be
vomiting and crapping?” Bob shrugs and tells her to keep going straight for the
next three lights. “You like the guy back.”
Bob shrugs. This isn’t his big coming out. That happened somewhere between
telling Akiro he didn’t need instructions on how to get a girl off without
using his hands, but a boy manual would be fine, and idiotically leaving he
first porno he’d ever downloaded titled Liam’s Big Load in a matching folder
rather than renaming it. Still, he doesn’t exactly want to discuss the depth of
his crush. Not when Brendon will be in the car in fifteen hours.
She sees the truth under the shrug. “So you really like the guy back. I guess
you haven't told the guys, because if Frank knew you'd already be dating.”
Her saying that makes Bob feel a little better. Sometimes it feels like she
knows him too well, but at least she doesn't completely understand his friends.
Frank might be a dick, but he's Bob's dick. And okay, that came out wrong, in
his head. But Frank only bothers Bob in ways that he knows are okay to bother
Bob. His mom just sees him bugging about everything ever. Relationships she
can’t understand are part of what makes him his own person.
                                      ***
Math with Mikey is definitely Bob’s least favourite class. There’s just nothing
interesting about the subject matter, and while occasionally a good teacher can
revive a dead subject, Mrs Toronto has made it beyond obvious that she doesn’t
give a flying shit about the subject matter. Thankfully she doesn’t give a shit
about people talking either, as long as it’s not a pop quiz. So at least Bob
has Mikey to help prevent him from lapsing into a coma.
Sometimes there are other excitements. Not frequently, but on occasion. One is
Mr Mann, the non-AP math teacher. At least once every two weeks he comes in and
criticizes her teaching method. Students in his class say she does the same
during her spare. Bob thinks one day they’re going to get out the slapping
gloves and have a duel. Mikey thinks one day they’re going to break the
chalkboard with the force of their wall sex, kind of like that one episode of
Buffy.
Today’s excitement is some guy with a beard coming up to their table once Mrs
Toronto is back at her desk. Hands on his hips, he’s clearly pretty pissed off.
Bob looks at Mikey. It wouldn’t be the first time Mikey hooked up with someone
single, only for that guy’s boyfriend to dispute the relationship status.
“Seriously, could you not be a flirt? It's fucking killing me.”
Impossibly, the words are being directed at him. Bob has never seen this guy in
his life, never mind flirted with him. So he stays quiet, because what else do
you do around a crazy guy? He’d rather not get shanked or something.
“Do you just not know what you're doing? Because Ryan could give you, like,
active instruction on how to suck his cock. Or hell, ask Mikey!” He breaks
position to gesture. “I think between him and Ryan they've got the whole school
covered.”
“I'm not sucking Ryan's cock.” He might not know what this sudden rant is
about, or how long it’s gonna last until Mrs Toronto has to stop pretending to
not notice and send him back to his desk, but he knows he’s not going to get
with Ryan. Ryan is not his type. Ryan wears scarves. Bob has lines, okay.
“Cocktease and dumbass. Brendon picked a fucking winner. Fucking suck Brendon's
dick already, Jesus. I'm so fucking done with this shit.” With that closing
statement he just walks away, leaving Bob stunned and Mikey snickering.
Because Mikey is a douchebag, he practically sprints from math to ancient
civilizations. By the time Bob gets there, Frank and Ray already know. Whomever
said that girls were gossips vastly underestimated half the population’s need
for information. The next forty five minutes is a dating advice call-in program
masqueraded as a class about Eypgt and Aztecs and Vikings. It culminates in Ray
literally pushing him in Brendon’s direction when Bob stands up at the end of
class. Which is freakin’ stupid, considering he already has to go to Brendon to
get his notes.
“You know your friends really want you to get laid.” Bob thinks he’s being
pretty discreet, holding back the with me. It’s barely even implied in the
sentence.
Brendon grins. “Well, Ryan thinks being a virgin is unnatural. And Spencer is
probably sick of me crushing on people. Did one of them say something to you?”
“You're not pissed that they outed you?” Everyone already knows that he’s gay,
Bob’s never seen a need to hide it. But if for some reason he had stayed
closeted, he'd be fucking pissed if Mikey or Frank were the reason others
suddenly knew.
Brendon makes the move Bob has come to think of as the my parents are massive
douchebags but for some reason I won’t call them out shrug. “You can't get much
worse of an outing than with my parents. The worst you can do is not give me a
ride, and then I'll just sabotage your notes. You can't call me disgusting, or
say that I'm a pervert in the eyes of our God, or give me fifteen minutes to
get out of our house.”
Yep, definitely the his parents are douches shrug.
“You bring my mom frozen smoothie popsicle things every morning. I'm pretty
sure if I didn't want to be driven with you she'd pick you up and leave me at
the house.” Bob coughs and shoves his binder at Brendon so he can put the notes
in. Then, because his friends are assholes and if he turned around he knows
he’d see them all staring at him, he continues. “My friends think we should get
together too.”
It’s with a smirk that Brendon replies. “Actually, Ryan and Spencer mostly just
want me to have sex.”
“Trust me, I don’t think Mikey would be opposite. What do you say we bow to
peer pressure?” That was surprisingly difficult to say. If Brendon says no, the
guys are going to have to get over whatever the fuck happened, so they can
invite Bert and Quinn for a kickball game. He’ll need it.
“The sex part or the dating part?”
Thank fuck, it’s not an outright no. Hell, Brendon is still smiling. A straight
guy wouldn’t be smiling at this point, not even one as nice as Brendon. It’s
encouragement enough for Bob. “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to
be romantic and say whatever you want but mostly dude? I’m really hoping for
both.”
“Both sounds good.”
Thank fuck.
“So, I guess. Uh. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” If his own grin is
anything like Brendon’s, his mom will know before he even climbs in the car.
“You have the energy to come inside and you’ll even get a good morning make
out.” Brendon answers. Bob vows that even if he crumples in a heap at the
bottom of the stairs on the way back to the car, he will have the energy to go
up them.
Bob turns to get his backpack. Ray’s holding it for him. Ray, who is about two
feet behind him, along with Frank and Mikey. They’re all grinning. “Jesus
fucking Christ you guys.”
“You didn’t get your first kiss,” Frank answers in a non-sequitor.
“I’m not having my first kiss while my friends and my teacher are watching.” He
shouldn’t have to explain that, except of course he does, because they’re them.
“Hudson’s gone. He always bolts at three thirty.”
“And it’s not like we’re gonna jerk off to you having your tongue down his
throat.”
Before Bob can wish Mikey into eternal hellfire, Brendon bursts out laughing.
“Wow, you’re like Bob’s Ryan. It’s great.” And then he darts forward and
presses a chaste kiss to Bob’s half open mouth. “See you tomorrow.”
Bob watches Brendon leave, mouth still gaping. Ray is snickering, but it’s
Frank that says the inevitable. “Wow, you’re a shitty kisser.”
He could make a comment about kicking him in the nuts, but might as well go for
the jugular. “Why don’t you demonstrate how it’s done on Gerard. Yeah. That’s
what I thought.” Fucking asshole friends.
                                      ***
Bob finds out the news from Mikey first. Frank’s apparently at the Ways,
jumping up and down on Gerard’s shitty bed. He hasn’t called anyone, that duty
left up to Mikey and James and the rest of Frank’s band. Bob is thrilled for
him, but he’s thrilled for himself too. It’s the perfect opportunity.
Since they started going out last week, Bob’s gone upstairs to meet Brendon
each morning. There’s never time for it to turn into sex, not with his mom
waiting in the car. And Brendon works every day after school, and by the time
his shift is done Bob’s constant fatigue has him already passed out. But Bob
doesn’t need a morning handjob to want to be with Brendon. Or blowjobs or
frottage, rather, since those are reciprocal. He’s just happy talking to him
and having quick make-outs.
Besides, Brendon eats lunch with them now, and after what looked like an
intense five minute conversation Ryan and Spencer followed. Watching Frank get
shut down constantly by Spencer is almost as funny as Ryan and Mikey comparing
and contrasting guys and the occasional girl, and trying to remember who had
the nice hands two weeks ago. It’s as good as having Gerard and Brandon and
Jepha and the rest was last year, just in a different way.
“So Frank, you know he’s in a band, right?” Bob starts after pulling away from
the first kiss. Brendon is up and dressed, was before he kicked lightly at the
door, but his mouth is still stale with morning breath. It’s not gross enough
to refuse a second kiss, but if he talks while Brendon brushes his teeth
that’ll be even better.
“Yeah? Kind of hard to miss, he has Leathermouth written on his arm in
Sharpie.”
“Well, they won a spot playing on Friday. I’m going, do you wanna go? I mean
I’d invite you even if we weren’t dating. But it could be a date. Our first
date.”
“Does that mean you’ll treat me and buy me flowers?”
Fuck. He should have asked Mikey protocol. Maybe Brendon’s being a dick because
gay guys don’t do dates. It’s not like he knows. This isn’t just his first with
Brendon, it’s his first completely. But he’s sure Mikey goes on dates. Even
though they end in sex and Mikey only sees the person again weeks later when he
cycles back to them there’s still hanging out or a movie or event of some kind.
Well, when in doubt go with a classic. “Fuck off.”
Brendon at least hears the tone, knows it’s an unhappy fuck off, not a
lighthearted one. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I. Yeah, I want to go with you. I would
like to go on a concert date, Bob Bryar. And I’m not telling you to, but
flowers would add colour. You know I’m not allowed to paint.”
Bob’s not entirely sure why not. It’s not like a coat of paint, even an
obnoxious colour, could make the apartment any shittier than it is. He’s also
not sure what the sudden rudeness was about -all the more unsettling because
he’s never had it from Brendon before-, or what the stammered half sentences
had in them. But he doesn’t really want to talk feelings, and he doubts Brendon
does either. They’re guys. “Hurry up, or my mom will give us crap for having
sex.”
Waiting for it to be Friday sucks for a cornucopia of reasons -thanks, SATs for
cramming a ton of stupid synonyms in his head- ranging from worrying that he
might get sick before then to dealing with how Frank spirals from joy fueled
hyperactivity to petrified fueled irritability once every half hour. The worst
though, is trying to make sure he’s keeping the right promises for each
participant. His mom wants to know he’s going to be safe, Frank wants to make
sure he’s going to be enthusiastic, Mikey wants to make sure he’s supportive
even though the band might actually suck, Brendon wants a nice first date. Bob
thinks he can handle all but his mom’s.
From what Bob’s seen, life choices seem to split into four categories. There
are things you should do that you don’t. For Bob that’s stuff like finishing
all his homework. There are things that you should that you do. In that
category falls the exercises he’s supposed to attempt outside of OT. There are
things you shouldn’t that you don’t. For example, Bob doesn’t smoke crack
cocaine. But then there’s the last category, the reason the world is going to
Hell. People are constantly doing things they’re well aware they shouldn’t.
On the top of Bob’s ‘Don’t, You Moron’ list is standing in the moshpit. He
shouldn’t because of the possibility of agony if anyone crashes into his hands.
He gets ugly glares when he can’t support surfers, like he’s somehow bringing
down the whole crowd. His immune system is fucked, so being smeared with other
people’s bodily fluids is a lot worse for him than for Ray or Mikey. And the
frequent low grade fever means getting overheated and dehydrated in a pit is
bad idea.
Technically there’s no reason he should have to wade in. Just by paying his
ticket and showing up he’s supporting, showing enthusiasm. He can do it just as
well for Leathermouth -or any other band- from the edge of the club. But no
matter what he promises his mom, every time he goes to a concert he ends up in
the thick of people.
It’s the feel of it, really. It’s not like Bob doesn’t enjoy downloaded music.
It sounds good on the computer, and it sounds better when he’s wearing his
massive padded headphones that pick up details his shitty computer speakers
don’t. His iPod is a thing of beauty, a hundred and sixty GB and three quarters
full. Thank fuck for touch sensitive equipment. CDs were a bitch, and he’s a
bit young for it, but cassettes probably would have been worse. Concerts are a-
whole-nother kind of listening. When you’re in the front row, the singer
bellowing into the microphone and you can’t hear a word, and can only tell what
the song is if you like the band and recognise the drum beat or guitar rhythm,
it’s different. Standing back or sitting down is like listening with only one
headphone.
It’s probably not actually a good date. They can’t talk, Bob can’t even hear
himself shouting Frank’s name. There’s nothing to share a laugh about, unless
Frank’s obvious sheer joy counts. And any touching is strictly accidental, and
enforced by people pressing in on them on all sides. But Brendon is smiling,
when the crowds stumbles enough that Bob can catch a glimpse of the teen in
front of him. That makes it good enough.
There’s a lull between Leathermouth finishing and the next band setting up
their stuff. A lot of the crowd wanders away for a drink or a smoke or to take
a piss. Bob stays where he is, with the others, confident that Frank will come
find them.
Sure enough, Frank barrels towards him from seemingly out of nowhere. Bob
barely has the time to plant his feet before Frank headbutts him in the
stomach, then rapidly turns to punching Mikey in the shoulder and tugging on a
lock of Gerard’s hair. He culminates in climbing up Ray, a forced piggyback
ride. “You have to come over to Rob’s. He doesn’t have anyone there except his
brother, the party’s gonna be great!”
The others are down for it, and Bob’s about to agree too. Miraculously, he’s
not entirely spent yet. Even an hour of celebrating Leathermouth’s triumphant
start would make him a good friend. Except there’s Brendon, who has to work
every day to keep food in his stomach and an walls -however shitty- around him.
“What time to do you start tomorrow morning?” It’s already almost eleven, if he
works pre open doors he’ll only have a few hours to sleep if Bob drags him out
with him.
“I close.”
“Wait. You don’t work til four?”
“Five. It’s six hour shift.” Brendon doesn’t look like he’s lying. He’s
smiling, not a shifty bone in his face. There’s not really a reason to lie
about a scheduled shift anyway. If it’s the truth, Bob’s not about to waste the
opportunity.
“Sorry Frank. Me and Brendon need to go back to his apartment.”
Frank smirks, perched high on Ray. “You have a condom? I know you’re a virgin,
but Brendon knows Ryan.”
Bob’s pretty spry, raising his leg lets him kick Frank hard in the hip.
Unfortunately the question still hovers in the air. It’s obvious what he wants,
and he’s pretty sure Brendon wants it too, but when Frank says it out like that
it makes it seem bad. Cold and calculated instead of hot with passion. Bob
doesn’t know what to say to make it better. Thankfully Brendon comes back with
“and you know Mikey. When’d you lose your virginity to him?”
Just like that, everything is fixed. It’s impossible to miss the way Frank
automatically looks at Gerard before looking away, Ray only misses by virtue of
not being able to see Frank on his back. Bob could say something, but he
doesn’t feel like being a dick back, especially when Frank probably didn’t mean
to be a jerk. Instead Bob laughs and slides his lips onto Brendon’s. An
unprompted comment like that deserves a reward.
It takes twenty minutes for the bus to come, and another twenty to get near
Brendon’s apartment. If he’d stayed with the guys he’d probably be swilling
cheap beer by now. Pressing against Brendon, ass slowly going numb in a round
molded metal seat is better. Brendon holds their transfers, and Bob always
thought only tools make out on public transport, but it’s hard to stop himself.
Brendon looks good in the blue light of the LED strips on the roof of the bus,
hair tousled and matted from the pit. In a perfect world Bob would grab him by
it, and hold him in place while they kissed.
Bob toes the door open with a slight shudder. He understands that Brendon can’t
complain to the landlord, but the idea that anyone with a strong shoulder could
push their way in creeps him out. Maybe he can get Mr Iero to install a better
lock. That’s an issue for later though. There are more important things at hand
now.
“Do you. Uh. Do you want to fuck me or be fucked?” In porn it’s topping and
bottoming, but he doesn’t think he can say that.
“I was thinking we could not fuck?”
“Oh.” Well, what the fuck? They have a rare opportunity, and Brendon doesn’t
want to? It just seems wrong. He doesn’t want to pressure him, but maybe if
they start making out and he can get Brendon hard things will roll from there.
“I mean, I don’t mean not doing anything. But just not fucking?” Brendon’s face
flushes but he continues valiantly. “I mean, it’s kind of everything at once
and we haven’t had the little bits, and I-”
Bob can’t let him go on. In a perfect world he’d tackle Brendon to the bed, and
they’d blow each other and come on each other’s faces just like the best porn
downloads he has. In this world if he tackles Brendon his palms will hit the
mattress, half his weight will channel into his arms, and he will vomit from
the pain. Vomit isn’t sexy. Unless you’re watching specialty porn because
you’re into it. But that’s not him and it’s probably not Brendon. So instead he
opens the velcro on his jeans and shakes his hips until they fall down to his
ankles. He keeps his shirt on because it’s easier that way, and because Brendon
is still fully dressed.
He lies on Brendon’s bed, unsurprised he’s yet another guy with a shitty
mattress. This one though, he’ll have to get used to. Hopefully. “I can’t jerk
you off. But if you lie on top of me we can still get each other off.”
It doesn’t make sense that Brendon turns away to slide off his jeans and
underwear off, but Bob’s not complaining about an opportunity to see naked ass.
Brendon’s looks like it comes straight from a porno. When he turns back to face
the bed and he’s hard the comparison only gets stronger.
Brendon climbs on top of him and for a moment it’s awkward trying to figure out
where his limbs should go. But when they get it, when Brendon presses down
lightly, experimentally, it’s brilliant. Pushing up against Brendon is nothing
like his pillow. Brendon’s body is hard, and his dick is hard and making wet
smears against his boxers. At least until Brendon sneaks a hand between them
and tugs them down until they’re skin to skin.
It gets even better then. Bob wants to be kissing Brendon, but all he can
manage is breathing heavily against his cheek. His entire body is heating up,
fire sparking wherever Brendon’s touching him. He’s sweating, he wants to rub
his forehead but can’t imagine for a second moving his arm from Brendon’s back,
carefully angled so the constant movement doesn’t bump him too hard for it to
be bearable. So’s Brendon, hair replastered to his forehead, wet pooling at the
curve of his spine. His shirt’s probably damp for the second time tonight. By
the time he’s ready to go home it’s gonna crunch when he moves.
Brendon comes first. It’s not Bob trying to be gentlemanly and making his
partner go first, Brendon’s hips just stutter before he mashes his mouth
against Bob’s chin. He can feel the indent of his teeth and he wants to laugh,
but then there’s warmth on his stomach where his shirt’s rucked up and
nothing’s funny anymore. Brendon just came on him.
“Holy fuck.” As far as words in bed go, they’re not exactly I Love You. But
Brendon fucking came on him. Bob’s been getting off to comeshots for four
years, he thinks he can be forgiven for not giving a soliloquy.
He bites on his lower lip and grinds up at Brendon a few more times. Bob can
feel him grimacing, probably post orgasm sensitive, but he takes it without
complaining, and it only takes a second or two more before he’s coming between
them. “Fuck.”
Brendon rolls off him. There’s not much room on the twin mattress, he ends up
on the floor. In five minutes Bob will care. Right now he needs to catch his
breath, and not freak out about having sex for the first time.
“I came on your shirt a bit. Sorry.” Brendon offers after a minute.
“Really not something you need to apologise for.” He doesn’t exactly want to
get into his kink list, but maybe if he keeps coming on Brendon he’ll
understand.
“You wanna sleep here, or. Uh. There’s a payphone down the street, I can call
your mom for you?”
Bob shakes his head, but in case Brendon can’t see it he says “Rather stay.
I’ll move over, there’ll probably be room for both of us. You need a post jerk
off nap, or you wanna make out for a bit?” He’s hoping for the second, but
would understand the first. At sleepovers Gerard always falls asleep thirty
seconds after he wipes his hand on the roll of toilet paper.
Brendon doesn’t answer, just rolls onto his side to kiss Bob’s face. He smells
like sweat and spunk. It’s fucking awesome.
The truth of JRA is he’ll end up spending almost all of Saturday in bed. The
next week if he caught something from some lone sneezer in the crowd. But
forcing himself to stay awake now is worth it. Sometimes you have to focus on
the present and ignore the future. And no matter how pained and fatigued he’ll
be tomorrow, in this instant he has Brendon, the boy who loves him.
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