mcr: (not) the boy next door [bob/gerard] 1/2

Thanks go to hnix and birdsflying for handholding throughout all the time it's taken me to write this, veronamay for listening to me whine about my own procrastinatory inclinations, D*A*A*S for the original interpretation of a line of dialogue and natacup82 for running the awesome reel_band challenge in the first place.




(not) the boy next door

Stepping off the bus is like landing in a different world.

It's, actually, Bob's not sure what it is, but it's freaking him the fuck out. It's enough to make him want to turn the hell around and hitch a ride back to Chicago. Back to his friends, his school, back to safety and back to all that is normal and sane.

Sure, having to move his senior year sucks, new schools suck, having to catch the fucking bus sucks like a Hoover, but this is beyond all of that. Seriously. There's singing and dancing. It's bizarre and horrifying -- and that's just the drama club. The moon can't be this fucking weird. From where he's standing it looks like the worst combination of The Breakfast Club and every after school special ever made. The cliques are so obvious that Bob's tempted to pinch himself just to make sure that this isn't some kind of anxiety-induced hallucination.

"Hey, man."

Bob almost smacks away the hand that grabs his sleeve and tugs him off to the side. It's instinctive, but he manages to dial it back. He promised and getting into shit on his first day is not something he's going to do.

"You're Bob, right?" The guy's just one more addition to the universe of weird that Bob now appears to be inhabiting. And he is a guy, for all his punk chick hair, the red in it flaring like a beacon in the morning light. Not what Bob expects from small town America.

"Frank?" Bob's not sure if he's hoping for a yes or a no. Someone he kind of knows -- or has at least heard about -- to hang out with versus, well, it's not like Frank blends into the scenery. Depending on what the assholes in the school are like, it's tantamount to painting a target on his back.

"Yeah." Frank rubs a hand through his hair. "I guess you weren't expecting this, right? Patrick told you? Well, the pink just wasn't coming out and, seriously, that's the last time I get fucking inventive with the hair products because that shit in combination was fucking strong. It still feels crunchy. I do kind of miss the mohawk, though."

Bob blinks, tries to picture it, and it's actually not all that hard, scarily enough. He kind of likes the idea of a pink-haired Frank, there's a certain fuck you, je ne sais quoi to the image that makes Bob smile.

"Thanks for this." He doesn't really know what else to say, so Bob just kind of waves his hand. "Showing me around and shit."

Frank just smacks him on the arm in reply, smiling brightly. "Anything for Patrick's cousin. Buds do that around here, you know. And, man, don't let all this shit fool you. There's more here than there looks. We're not all as freaky-assed as this lot."

He makes a follow me gesture and starts wending his way through the throng. "Some of us are worse."

Bob grins as he follows along behind. He thinks he could come to like this place.

.

"Locker. Locker. Fucking locker." Bob's counting down the row before finally finding the damn thing.

He hates this shit, he really does. He's okay with new, it's just the inconvenience of the whole thing that grates on him. Getting lost, getting confused, not knowing shit -- this is all the stuff that Bob hates. It adds to the fish out of water feeling he's already got, that's been itching under his skin since he parted ways with Frank at the school office, which doesn't help at all and just makes Bob feel cranky.

At least he's managed to avoid most of the jostling and pushing that's going on as the student body heads to class, that's something, but the offset of that appears to be that his locker is a prick.

He read once that anthropomorphising an inanimate object was, well, something. He didn't pay attention to that part so much as the word itself. Bob likes the word, it's a cool word, but it's not something that you can drop in sentences a lot without sounding like an ass.

But his locker? Seems to be doing everything to get in his way and stymie him, because the damn thing won't open. Not to a jiggle, a push, a pull, a yank, nothing.

The fucker.

Bob's seriously considering the idea of finding the nearest fire extinguisher to teach the thing who's boss, when a fist thuds into it just above the lock and the fucker opens up like magic.

"You just have to know where to hit it right. The ones here are sticky."

Bob's thank you gets caught in his throat, coming out as a stutter. Way to be fucking cool, Bryar, he tells himself, but the guy attached to said fist? He's got this smile that just kind of kicks Bob in the teeth.

"You're new here, yeah." It's not so much a question as a statement, thrown out offhand as the guy moves to rummage around in his own locker a couple down from Bob's. "I don't remember seeing you before, though given my fucking shitty memories of last year, you could have been sitting next to me in homeroom or something and I probably still wouldn't remember you."

Bob's a little taken aback by the explanation, the hints of other things, but just rolls with it. Sticking out his hand, he smiles. The guy's hot, what can it hurt? "Nah, I'm new. Bob. Bryar."

"Bob." The guys smiles at him again, juggling his books so he can return the shake. "I'm --"

"Gee!"

"We're going to be late. Come on."

"I gotta go." Gee gives Bob a little wave. "I'll see you around, Bob Bryar."

"I still don't know your name." Bob calls out after him.

And with another one of those smiles, he says, "Gerard," as he's dragged into the classroom by his friends.

.

Bob knows it's becoming a theme for him, but gym sucks and running the track definitely sucks. The coach wants him to try for football, but Bob turns that down flat and isn't going to change his mind. Bad enough being on the field without his snare, but in a sport? It makes him shudder just to think about.

"Hi, Bob! Hi!" And all of a sudden, it's like being surrounded by a bunch of terriers, all fighting for attention. The Terrible Triplets, that's what he's heard they're called, and Bob's seen and been on the receiving end enough in the past week to understand why that's so. They're not triplets in the traditional sense of being born minutes apart to the same parents, more in the sense of joined at the hip, in each others space and finishing off each others sentences. It's a little creepy at times.

"We heard that you know sound --" Brendon's all puppyish bouncing and big smiles. It makes Bob want to smile back, but he's not sure he should be encouraging him.

"Mics and stuff like that," Spencer adds.

"So, you should help us out with the talent show." Ryan always gets in the last word. And the way he says it? Well, let's just say that Bob's prefers Brendon's enthusiasm because it sounds a lot less like a threat.

"Please, Bob. It'll be great and you'd be really helping everyone out." Brendon's got a hold of his arm and is looking at Bob with the biggest brown eyes he's ever seen. How's Bob supposed to resist? Seriously, that shit is lethal and Bob's pretty sure that Brendon knows it.

"All right." Bob knows that he has to pick his battles and with the three of them lined up against him, he hasn't got a chance.

Brendon practically jumps on Bob in his glee, Spencer is more sedate, but Ryan actually smiling is what throws Bob for a loop, as the three of them head off back to the school buildings leaving Bob in their wake. It's like being hit by a fast moving wave, but at least he appears to have survived.

"You're a soft touch, Bryar." The words snap Bob out of his fugue and he shakes it off. Frank's sitting in the bleachers smoking and Bob mutters a half-hearted, "Fuck you," as he snags Frank's cigarette for a drag before handing it back.

"What's up?" Bob asks, stretching out his legs, letting the smoke stream out his nostrils. Fucking track. If his old friends could see him now.

"Fucking chem." Frank snarls, taking another hit of his smoke. "I'm going to go down in flames, I can just feel it. I think chemistry and I are natural enemies."

"You've lost me."

"Too much glass and tubing and shit."

"And that's relevant, how?"

"Accidents happen, Bryar."

"Ah." Bob nods, though he has no idea what the fuck Frank means. It's sure to become clear in time, he's certain. It's just that Frank sometimes takes the roundabout way when actually explaining things. The last week has taught him that. "I can help you, you know."

"If you can get me through it, I'll fuck you on prom night." Frank's looking at him with his hands under his chin like a swoony teenage girl. Of course, the image is ruined by cigarette in his fingers and the smirk on his lips.

"I'm touched, really, but no thanks." Bob shoves him a little. "I've met Jamia, remember."

"She'd probably watch." If anything, Frank's smirk gets broader. "Maybe give pointers."

Bob shakes his head and makes a mental note not to give Frank these kinds of opportunities again. "You can shut up any time now."

"C'mon, Obi-Bob, you're my only hope."

"Why did I say I would help you again?"

"Because you're a friend, a nice guy and a prince among men --"

Bob's pretty sure Frank is still talking,he can hear it, it's just that the words aren't making any kind of sense because Bob's stopped listening.

He knows it's not the smartest thing, to develop a crush during his first week when his plan had been to keep his head down and just get through the year, but Bob just can't seem to stop it. He's not sure how long he's drifted off for, how long he's been watching the play of Gerard's hands as he talks to his friends, but it all comes to an end when Frank smacks him on the arm.

Hard.

"Oh, no." Frank's pointing a finger at him, the ash of his cigarette quivering between his fingers. "No, no, no, no, no. Don't even think about it, Bryar. There are rules in this school. Some that can be broken and some that can't. Going after a Pink is one of the unbreakable ones."

"A what?" Bob rubs his arm. Frank might be little, but he packs a mean punch. Or, he's just mean. Bob's not one hundred percent sure which is the greater truth.

"A Pink." Frank's gesture is expansive, but does include the general area where Gerard is standing. "Are you colourblind or something? Are the jackets not enough of a clue?"

"Shut up, Frank."

"No, not about this. Rules, man. Pinks are Pinks, Birds are Birds, and everyone else is whatever they want to be, but they don't mix. Find someone else, there's a lot of nice girls out there."

Bob mentally shrugs, Frank was Patrick's friend, so it's not like it's going to come as a shock. "The girl bit is kind of a problem."

"Shit, you too? Wait, fuck, Gerard? Jesus, Bryar. Not only a Pink, but the pinkest of the Pinks." Frank's too busy burying his face in his hands to notice Bob's grin. "First Patrick and now this. Did I kick puppies in a past life or something to be this cursed?"

Bob crosses his arms, feeling a little defensive, but trying not to let it bother him. "I don't know. Did you?"

"Fuck off." Frank's given up the head in hands thing and is chewing of his lip. "Bob, c'mon. Someone else, anyone else. Gerard is. Actually, Gerard's a lot of things, but the biggest one, the really fucking huge one, is that he's Bert's ex. And that guy's insane."

Bob wants to ask who Bert is just to fuck with Frank, but he settles for a steady look instead. He already knows who Bert is, he just doesn't see the problem.

"You're going to make me watch you do this, aren't you?" Frank seems to have shifted into resigned now. Bob's not actually sure if that's better or worse. Better to change the subject and move on.

"So, what do the cool kids do on a Friday night around here, Yoda?"

"Same thing that we do every night, Pinky," Frank grins. "Show you, I will. Set your sights on someone else, I hope to hell."

"You can stop doing that any time now." Frank's suddenly gleeful expression is really starting to creep Bob out. "Also, can you stop looking at me like that? It's disturbing."

"What? This?" Frank cranks it up a notch. "And I haven't even offered you candy yet."

"Frank."

"Fine. Spoil my fun." Frank crosses his eyes, making Bob laugh. "We'll pick you up around eight and show you the sights."

.

What kids do on Friday night in the boonies turns out to be pretty much the same thing that kids do on a Friday night in Chicago, only they do it in a converted bowling alley. That's a new one for Bob, but it's not the weirdest place he's every been, and the music pouring out the door reminds him of home.

Frank's bouncing on the balls of his feet, one hand holding Jamia's while the other flexes at his side. Bob's almost certain that if they hooked Frank up to a generator right now, they'd probably be able to syphon off some electricity. "He always like this?"

"Around music. Yeah, pretty much." Jamia has a look of long-suffering acceptance on her face, but Bob can see that she's already tapping her toes to the beat as well.

"You know you love it." Frank shoots back. "C'mon, let's go. Time's a-wasting. Move your ass, Bryar."

Bob huffs a laugh and trails after them. It's not like he can really complain, he's been tapping out an alternate drum line against his thigh since they pulled into the parking lot.

Inside, it's like Bob never left Chicago -- the music, the press of bodies, the smell of stale cigarette smoke -- it makes the knots in his shoulders start to unravel for the first time since he moved. He's nodding along with the band, they're not bad, but they're not great either, when Frank starts yelling something at him. Leaning down, Bob can just make out the words, "Get us some water, okay? I'll be back."

Bob blinks in response, but Frank's off before he can say anything, so Bob just shoots a sideways look at Jamia. She smiles at him and tugs him down so she can shout, "He needs to get it out of his system. Be thankful he's not going to try to dance, I don't think you're ready for that."

Bob laughs in response, his imagination throwing things at him that he's pretty sure, knowing Frank, are nothing on the real thing. "So, water?"

"Please."

"I'll be right back."

"Take your time. " Jamia's grin is accompanied by an offhand gesture. "I'm used to standing here laughing at Frank. It's better than TV most days."

Bob's still chuckling as he makes his way to the bar -- there doesn't look to be any booze back there, but there is a lot of water and soda -- while snatching glimpses of Frank wending his way under arms and around people to get himself into the middle of the fray, and proving Jamia has the right of it. It really is entertaining.

When he loses Frank in the surge of the crowd, Bob uses his time in line to have a look around, and it's not so much a surprise as a sociological experiment. The kids all have the same look of I want to be what I really am, not what my parents want me to be. It's like everyone here has taken a step to the left, becoming just that little bit off-kilter. It's comforting to Bob in a weird way, like he's not the only round peg in a square hole, not the only one that's hiding parts of himself away.

"Hey." There's a kid at his side that looks like a stiff wind would knock him over, eyes bright behind his glasses as he looks at Bob. "You're Bob, right?"

"Yeah." What's it with people coming up and asking him that? It's kind of scary how tight knit this place is.

"I've heard about you. Plus, you're the only new face around here, so the process of elimination? Not that difficult. Also, you're hanging out with Frankie, which if you are related to Patrick, like I heard, makes sense, too." The kid's smile is open and honest and he gives Bob a little wave as he adds, "Oh, I'm Mikey."

Bob's not sure exactly what to respond to first, so he just goes with, "He's my cousin. You know him?"

"Everyone knew Patrick by the end of last year. Frankie didn't tell you? Patrick didn't tell you?" Mikey looks a little flabbergasted. "Wow, talk about coming in uninformed. You do know about Pete, right?"

"Yeah, I know Pete." Bob's not sure he's ever going to be able to scrub the first time he met Pete out of his brain. Not that Pete's a bad guy or anything, hell, Patrick likes him so he can't be, it's just that no one ever expects a naked Pete Wentz. That normally comes after you already know him. Plus, Bob just never wants to know why Pete was taking those pictures in the first place.

"It was a whole thing, Pete and Patrick, but now they're gone and everything's ordinary again." Mikey takes a sip of his drink. "I think everyone misses things being out of the ordinary."

"Sometimes ordinary's better," Bob comments as an aside before asking for his drinks. At least ordinary doesn't get you kicked out of school.

"You sound like my brother. He thinks ordinary is the way to go, too. But he has cause. Do you have cause as well?"

Bob's starting to feel uncomfortable, Mikey's questions coming too close to the bone. "Someone can't just want ordinary?"

"You don't seem like an ordinary kind of guy, Bob Bryar." Mikey's eyes are sharp behind his glasses. "Actually, there's something so not ordinary about you. I wonder. My brother says he wants ordinary, but he doesn't do ordinary."

Bob's not sure what Mikey wants, but whatever he's selling, Bob doesn't want it. "It's been nice and all, but I have no idea what you're talking about, so I think I'm going to get back to my friends now."

Bob gathers up his bottles of water and beats a hasty retreat, but he can feel Mikey's eyes on his back as he heads over to Jamia.

.

When Frank comes bouncing back about twenty minutes later, sheened with sweat and grinning, Bob hands off his water and lights a cigarette instead. Jamia's still giving him that smile that's making his hackles rise. He's not sure why, until she comments to Frank, "Bob was talking to Mikey."

Frank's spit take is one of the better ones that Bob's seen, but it's not until Frank gets his breath back and stops choking that it all starts to come clear.

Wiping away the water he'd spilled on himself, Frank looks from Bob to Jamia and then back to Bob again. "Mikey? Mikey fucking Way?"

Bob blinks, knowing that it should mean something, but not sure what. "If that's his last name, then, yes, I was. He only gave his first, so I'll take your word for it."

"Mikey fucking Way." Frank's shaking his head and Jamia is smiling at him again.

"I'm missing something here, aren't I?" That reaction is starting to annoy Bob. "Care to fill me in?"

"Mikey Way, Bob." Frank has one hand on Bob's arm, shaking him slightly. "Mikey fucking Way."

"Doing that? Is really fucking irritating. Explaining? Is good. Otherwise, I might decide to leave."

"Mikey has an older brother." Frank's still shaking his arm, but at least Jamia seems to be getting the picture.

"He mentioned his brother." Bob's still lost and feeling like he's getting even more lost by the minute.

"Gee, Bob." Frank's gone from shaking to poking.

"Gee, Bob, what?" Bob starts smacking at Frank's hand.

Frank looks at him as if he's grown a third eye or something. "Gerard."

"What? I thought you didn't want to talk about that?" Bob's back to feeling defensive again. Maybe going home would be the best option because --

"Gerard is Mikey's older brother."

Bob does his own version of a spit take except it involves a cigarette, a glancing burn and ash all over his hands. Jamia’s laughing at him, Frank is trying to brush him off and Bob feels like he’s just been punched.

“What?”

“Mikey. Gerard. Brothers.” Frank adds gestures to his explanation, as if Bob's some kind of idiotic stepchild or something. All that does is make Bob want to hit him. He’s having a hard enough time dealing with the revelations to have Frank’s shit added to it.

“Then why the hell was he talking to me?”

“That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?” Frank replies. “What were you two talking about anyway?”

“Gerard.” Bob looks at Jamia in surprise. “What? You mentioned Mikey said something his brother.”

Frank’s eyebrows are reaching for his hairline as he taps his fingers against his lip. “Huh.”

“That’s not helpful.” Bob’s still feeling the urge to smack Frank, but it’s fading under the need to rewind and replay everything that Mikey said to him. “There was something about me not being ordinary and --"

Bob’s train of thought is derailed when a hand comes down on his shoulder and starts to pull him around. He gets flash of Jamia and Frank’s wide eyes as he turns with the hand and then his brain short circuits when Gerard’s lips touch his.

It’s like the movies, you know, when time freezes for that split second, and when everything starts again it’s almost like time has sped up to compensate. The second it takes for Bob to recognise that it’s Gerard, that Gerard is fucking kissing him for some reason, feels like forever, but then it’s over and all Bob can do is watch as Gerard turns away and walks back to where Bert is standing with a disgruntled expression on his face. Bob has no idea what’s being said, what Gerard is telling Bert, but it ends with Bert trying to grab Gerard’s arm and Gerard shrugging off his hand and disappearing into the crowd with Mikey on his heels.

Bob is still trying to process what’s just gone down when he turns back to Frank and Jamia, so it takes a try or two before he can find his voice. “What the fuck just happened?”

.

For the next few days, Bob's still confused.

Who wouldn't be, right? A guy comes up, kisses you and then turns around to mouth off at his ex-boyfriend -- okay, so that bit's not so hard to understand -- it's the why it happened in the first place, how he'd ended up in the middle of things, that has Bob confused.

It's just. Bob doesn't end up in the middle of things unless he wants to and this definitely isn't one of the places he wants to be. So not the plan here, not that there had ever really been a plan to begin with. Kissing Gerard, having Gerard kiss him, yeah, well, Bob's been thinking about that ever since the first time Gerard smiled at him, but getting in the middle of an obviously nasty break up without having a hands on kind of reason?

Not Bob's thing at all and it's starting to get all twisted inside his head. He's never liked game-playing and being pulled into someone else's? Well, it's making him angry. Add that to the confusion and it's all too much and Bob's feels like he's spent weeks thinking about it, brooding on it, so it's almost a relief to have Brendon bound up to him on Monday and drag him off to help with the talent show. Working on the sound setup takes his mind off all the stuff he can't work out.

It's not all that hard, and there's an electrician -- one of the parents, though Bob's not sure whose -- who double checks the wiring to make sure they're not going to accidentally fry someone. She's doing that for the lights, as well, which seems to be more of a worry in Bob's opinion, because he has an idea of what he's doing, but Branden, the lighting guy, seems a little sketchy.

Bob's taping down some cables when he feels someone watching him, that hackles rising, 'Danger, Will Robinson!' feeling. When he looks around, he can't see anyone paying that kind of attention to him -- everyone seems to be doing their own thing -- the triplets are swooning over some guy called Jon, but there could be someone lurking in the back of the hall for all he knows. Which is a really stupid idea, because Bob's life is not a teenage slasher film. Laughing at himself, Bob shakes his head and gets back to work.

Mr Toro is calling out something to the triplets as Bob finishes up with the last of the tape. Bob's found that it pays not to listen because that way leads to snickering (him) and dirty looks (theirs) and Bob knows the better part of valour and keeping his mouth shut. The triplets get a little over-enthusiastic and they're obviously Mr Toro's favourites, so it's all just basic high school survival instinct to Bob -- don't piss off a teacher's pets, you don't piss off the teacher. Besides, Mr Toro's a little scary with all that hair.

A tap on his shoulder knocks Bob on his ass because, well, it scares the shit out of him and his body is not really made in a way that allows twisting around like that. "Ow, shit."

"Oh, sorry." Mikey's expression is apologetic as he offers a hand to help Bob up. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Whatever, man." Bob brushes off his hands on his jeans. Having Mikey talk to him brings back Bob's confusion tenfold -- hello, Gerard's brother -- especially when he's just kind of standing there looking at Bob while Bob spins the roll of duct tape around his fingers. "Um, hi, Mikey?"

Bob can hear the question in his own voice, so he keeps his mouth shut instead of adding the rest of what he wants to say.

"So, you're working on this thing too?" Mikey's got his hands in his pockets now. "How'd they snare you?"

Bob gestures towards were Brendon and Ryan are arguing, while Spencer stands off to the side checking his fingernails. "They asked."

Mikey snorts. "Only if you define asking as being bugged within an inch of your life, where agreeing is the only way to free yourself from the torture."

Bob grins. "Yeah. Something like that."

Mikey's smile is bright until he drops his chin to look away before saying, "I'm sorry about Friday night. About Gerard."

Bob's got nothing, no way to respond to that, so he just blinks. Talk about a segue.

"He's still kind of fucked up, and you seem like a good guy, so it's unfair that you've ended up in the middle of things. And Frankie likes you, that's another thing in your favour, so." Mikey shrugs.

Bob doesn't know what to feel. There's part of him that wants to be insulted by the fact that Gerard seems to have sent Mikey to apologise, but there's another part of him that is grateful for the fact that he's getting some kind of explanation, granted a pretty half-assed one. "Okay."

"I think he's still locked in his room freaking out. I don't think he came out more than a couple of times over the weekend and, even for him, that's weird. That's Gerard for you, he does stuff and then only realises the consequences afterwards. Well, the collateral damage that ends up happening after he does what he needs to do to make his point. He can get a little single-minded when he's trying to make a point."

Mikey's got that exasperated sibling expression that Bob's seen many a time on a number of faces and it's making Bob smile. Well, that and, "You gonna take a breath?"

Mikey huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes at himself. "Sorry, but I don't want you to think that Gerard's a dick. He's not. He's just screwed up and it'll probably take him some time to tell you he's sorry because, well, he's normally kind of shy."

"He walked up to a complete stranger in a club, kissed him, and he's shy?" Bob's trying to merge what he knows about Gerard, what he's seen, and it just doesn't compute.

"Bert pissed him off. He doesn't think too much when that happens, he just acts." Mikey replies. "You'll see what I mean."

"What?" Bob doesn't get an answer because Mr Toro is calling him over and Mikey is backing away with a smile and another of those little waves, taking advantage of the distraction. Fucking Ways, the both of them, making Bob's life even more confusing than it already is.

.

It's not until later that Bob gets a chance to get a second opinion on what happened. Mr Toro -- "Call me, Mr T, everyone else does, Bob." -- wanted to talk to him about placement of some of the mics because a few of the people in the show didn't want to use stands and then there was Brendon wanting to tell him all about how their song was going to be awesome and Bob still needed to clean up all the stuff he'd been using.

"Iero, are the Ways, like, certifiable or something? Do they get a kick out of fucking with people's heads?" Bob's got his phone to his ear, trying to fish in his bag for his keys. He'd dropped them in there earlier because he'd needed his pockets for other things.

"Hold on, what?" Frank's voice is a little tinny, and Bob can hear Jamia in the background asking who it is.

"You know. Mikey. Gerard. Are they mental?"

"They're a little special sometimes, but that's part of their charm." Frank, the little shit, is laughing at him. Bob can hear it. "What happened this time?"

"Mikey." It comes out with a sigh. "I don't get this, man. So I'm kind of crushing on Gerard, I'm man enough to admit it --"

"And, take the teasing for it."

"-- fuck you, Frank. Who wouldn't, though. He's hot. But this dicking around and one of them telling me stuff about the other is weirding me out." Bob waves in response to Mr T's as the teacher heads out through the back door, his smile bright even in the gloom of the back of the hall.

"Whoa, whoa, what? Mikey's been telling you stuff about Gee?" Frank's definitely surprised. "Yeah, Jamia. Mikey's been talking to -- hey! No! Ow, fuck. Give that back."

"Bob, don't listen to him." Jamia sounds breathless, probably from a combination of Frank wrangling and giggles. "If Mikey's telling you stuff, you should listen to him. He loves his brother and he was as much of a wreck last year as Gerard was because of it. He wants Gee to be happy and the fact that he keeps saying something to you could mean that he thinks you might be the guy to do that. Or, you know, he just wants to hang with you or something. Or both."

Bob's really beginning to wonder if he ever really moved, that what's actually happened is that he fallen down the rabbit hole, because this whole thing? Is getting so far beyond him. "Does anyone in this town actually come out and say things straight out? Because this is getting ridiculous. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Bob hears Jamia's, "Bye!" and Frank's, "Bryar, wait!" before thumbing the call disconnect and shaking his head. Just for once, it would be nice if things would run smooth and stop fucking with his head. All this thinking has to be bad for something.

Dropping his phone on the table, Bob uses his knee to pin his bag against the wall and dig with both hands to find his keys because, of course, they've managed to wedge themselves at the bottom under everything else. Flicking them around his fingers, he lets himself out of the sound booth and locks the door behind him.

There's only a couple of the stage lights still on, and it seems like most everyone else has gone home. Mr T was obviously trusting someone else with the hall keys, probably the art guy crouching by the back drop. Bob thinks Mr T would have mentioned it to him otherwise.

Bob thinks about offering to help, but he's really hungry and dinner is looking much more inviting than spending more time hanging around on school property. Plus, when he'd borrowed the car he'd promised to have it back by dinner time, so he just lets himself out the back.

It's only when he's halfway across campus and almost to the car, thinking about texting Frank, which ends up with him patting himself down for his phone and realising that he left it in the booth. Swearing to himself, he makes the trek back and lets himself into the hall and then back into the booth, but his phone's not there. There's an iPod plugged into the sound system though, and as he watches it ticks over into the next song, the hall filling up with music as Bob makes his way down the aisle.

"Hey, do you have my --" Bob has to yell to be heard. He's half way toward the stage when the guy turns around and the last word dies in his mouth when Bob realises that it's Gerard. That Gerard is standing there with a paint brush in hand and is looking at Bob with a blank expression on his face.

There's silence between them for a moment, an eternity, enough to make it awkward, before Gerard mutters, "Um, phone, yeah," and points to the front of the stage where it's sitting by a crumpled backpack.

Bob makes his feet move and grabs up his phone. "Thanks."

He's starting to turn around again when Gerard calls out, "Bob, look --"

It's enough to trigger something in Bob, to tap into the confusion he's feeling about everything and break the lock. Turning back to Gerard, Bob bites out, "You know what? This is bullshit. All of it."

"I --" Gerard's flustered, Bob can see it in the way Gerard is twisting his fingers.

"Why'd you pull me into your little melodrama with your ex?"

"I just kind of." Gerard's biting at his lip. "It wasn't about you. It was about me. And him. And, it got out of hand. I'm really sorry."

It's a sincere apology and it's the first time that Gerard's looked him in the eye since Bob forced the confrontation. It also gives Bob the perfect opportunity to ask the question he's been wanting to ever since it happened. "Why?"

Gerard drops the brush in the tin he has on the floor and walks forward, stopping to crouch at the edge of the stage. "It's complicated, but I wanted to show I was my own person, not one totally bound up by some stupid rules."

"So, you kissed me?"

"Yeah, that." Gerard's picking at the knee of his jeans. "I am really sorry, Bob."

Bob's not sure that there's ever going to be another opportunity to do this, so he decides what the hell. "You know, I'm not a guy who puts out with someone I don't know. You should come out with me, so I don't feel like I've been taken advantage of."

Gerard's laugh is choked and when his expression goes from surprised amusement to apologetic, Bob can feel his stomach starting to sink to his shoes. "Bob, I --"

"Am turning me down flat?" Bob tries to make a joke of it, but he knows it comes out wrong. He can tell from the look in Gerard's eyes.

"It's just," Gerard rubs his palm against his thigh. "I can't."

Bob's not sure what that means, he's still lost in the no part of the answer. "Sure, Gerard. I get it."

"No, I."

"It's fine." Bob tries to smile.

He's already on his way back up the aisle when Gerard calls out behind him. "Bob --"

Bob shrugs it off with an offhand wave, not turning around to look. "I'll see you around, okay?"

When he makes it out of the hall, it still feels like he can't breathe and if he was anyone other than who he is, Bob thinks that he might have found a better coping mechanism. But Bob knows himself and his coping mechanisms suck, so he's left cradling the hand that he just punched into the wall hoping that he hasn't broken anything.

.

It's the next day that the other shoe drops.

Bob's already in a foul mood, mainly because of Gerard, but also because of his mom's, "Oh, Bobby. Not again," on seeing his grazed knuckles when he rocks up to dinner. It's the work of a half hour or more to convince her that he's not fighting again, that it's from Bob versus wall, not anything else. Bob's halfway pissed that she doesn't believe that he'll stay true to his word and halfway accepting of it because he's given her cause not to. At least, she keeps it to sympathetic looks for the most part when she helps him look after his hand.

School is school and it's way too fucking early to suit Bob. He's looking for Frank when one of the Bird guys, Bert's friends, comes up to him with a half smile. Jeff, no, Jepha -- Bob remembers thinking that the guy's parents must have either hated him or been stoned hippies or something to have spelt his name like that when he first heard about it -- just keeps looking at him until Bob scowls and mutters, "Yeah?"

"So, you're Bob."

If Bob wasn't already cranky, this would definitely be pushing him that way. He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes and just settles for rubbing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "You know, I'm getting sick of people saying that to me. Yes, I'm Bob. What do you want?"

"Fair, I guess." Jepha shrugs off Bob's words. "You've kind of made an impression. Pissed Bert off, too."

"And that's another thing that everyone feels like they have to keep telling me. Last time I checked, Gerard kissed me, not the other way around."

"Didn't see you fighting him off with a stick or anything."

Bob settles for not saying anything. There's really not a lot he can say. Everyone who was there Friday night saw it.

Jepha grins at his blank look. "I get that. Gerard's pretty hot."

"Well, if Bert wants to be pissed, let him be pissed at Gerard."

"Oh, he is. It's a whole circle of pissed -- Bert, Gerard, Quinn, you. Me? I'm not pissed, I'm just helpful."

Bob snorts. "Helpful? More like cryptic. Is this something that you guys work on or is it something that just is when you come from around here?"

"I'm --"

"What do you want, Jepha?"

"Hurt and dismayed that you think I want something."

The look of innocence Jepha is sporting almost makes Bob smile with its blatant falseness. "You don't know me. We don't hang out. You're here talking to me, and helpful normally means you want something in return."

"Cynical much, geez." Jepha replies. "Okay, okay, a little birdy told me that you're good at history and I --"

Jepha's explanation is cut off by a shout of his name and Bob sucks in a breath because he has a feeling that his morning is just about to get a hell of a lot more interesting. The look on Jepha's face seems to confirm it, as he steps away from Bob. "Quinn, man. Bert. Where've you been?"

Joy. Oh, joy of joys. Bob thinks he really should have stayed in bed this morning, because that way he could've avoided playing nice when he really doesn't feel up to it. He settles for sighing and reaching for his cigarettes, trying to ignore what's going on around him.

Not much chance of that when Bert walks around him and into his field of vision, Quinn on his heels.

Bob's not sure what he's supposed to do, probably cower or some shit in front of the craziest, most insane guy in school, but it's just not in him to do that. He settles for dipping his head to light his cigarette instead.

"So, you're Bob."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Bob mutters it under his breath with an exhale of smoke, before looking up to meet Bert's, decidedly glassy, eyes.

Quinn's, "What'd you say?", is overridden by Jepha's, "He's Bob, I'm Jepha, you're Bert and he's Quinn. Are we done introducing ourselves now?"

"You should tread carefully." Bert doesn't look at him for long, his gaze drifting off to the side. "There are rules around here."

"Yeah, rules." Quinn echoes, leaning over Bert's shoulder.

"And we're all about following the rules, aren't we?" Jepha's stepped back and has his arms crossed, rolling his eyes at Bob from behind the other two.

"Yeah." Quinn nods in agreement and then looks confused. "What? No."

"Just stay away from Gerard." Bert's eyes are back on Bob's face. "Pinks are for us Birds. You're trespassing."

Bob's sick of all this shit. "You know what? Whatever. Are we done?"

He knows he's tempting fate and Bert's temper, but, frankly, Bob doesn't care. Enough is enough and it's really fucking unfair that he's getting heaped with all this crap when he's done nothing to deserve it. Gerard fucking blew him off.

His escape route comes from an unexpected source when Quinn steps back with narrowed eyes and says, "The fuck, Bert."

And his mom didn't raise an idiot, so he doesn't hang around to find out what happens.

.

Frank's heard about it by the time Bob finally crossed paths with him in chem, second period. The grapevine in this school could put the CIA to shame, and Bob's stuck with Frank prodding him for answers while they work.

"What'd Jepha want?" Frank's spinning the vial of acid for their experiment on the table.

Bob relives him of it before it turns into the accident that's waiting to happen. "Tutoring, apparently."

"What? Seriously? Huh."

Frank looks even more thoughtful than he did when he first arrived. The very fact is frightening to Bob. "Huh, what?"

"Nothing."

"It's something."

"What subject?"

"History."

"Huh."

"See!" Bob points an accusatory finger at Frank. "That's something."

"You're paranoid."

"And you're stalling. Give."

"I didn't think Jepha was bad at history."

"So, what? He's just trying to get me alone so he can beat me up?"

"He's not really that kind of guy. Maybe he just wants a hand with history."

"You know, you're a huge help."

"I try."

"Try harder." Bob can feel a headache coming on and is grateful when the bell rings and Jamia comes over from her own bench. "Please, take him away before I give into the urge to dump him in a trash can or something. I'm not in the mood to deal."

"Honey, how many times have I told you?" Jamia's grab for Frank's ear makes Bob laugh as Frank ducks away, batting at her hand. "Don't bug people this early in the day. It makes them cranky."

.

The rest of the week is more of the same and so is the week after. Bert and Quinn leave him alone -- more because Bob goes out of his way to blend into the scenery to avoid any trouble than anything else -- and he also avoids Gerard where he can. He hangs out with Frank and Jamia and spends a lot of time in the back of the hall watching the rehearsals and doing his homework, just in case Mr T needs him. He might watch Gerard working on the set sometimes, but it's never for long and Bob always makes himself look away.

All in all, school is school, home is home and there are only two things that really stand out all that much in the middle of his gloom.

The first one is Jepha. It's weird as fuck, especially after that conversation with Frank, because Bob's been as confused as hell as to what it's all about, but the guy was actually serious in his offhand comment. Bob's sitting in his spot in the middle of the back row of seats in the auditorium when Jepha finds him one afternoon.

He drops into the seat next to Bob and leans his feet on the row in front, looking over at Bob with a grin. "So."

Bob just raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"I'm crushed. No 'hi, Jepha. How's it going, you sexy beast?' I'm so unappreciated. It's a sad thing." Jepha knuckles the corner of his eye. "I may have to cry a manly tear."

Bob can't help but smile in return, it's kind impossible not to. "God, you're a dick."

"Yep." Jepha grins even wider. "And you, my friend, are going to help me with my history paper because you're the brains of the outfit."

"Why should I?" Bob's not trying to be hostile, he's genuinely curious as to why Jepha's coming to him in the first place.

"Because you like me? I'm very likable, you know." Jepha nods, as if confirming his own words.

"Right." Bob goes for the best blank-faced look he can manage.

"I can see I'm not convincing you, so that leaves me with my other options. I have two. I can pay you. In pizza or in cold, hard cash. I really can't afford to fail history, man, I need it."

Bob's pretty certain that Jepha's laying his cards on the table, and even if he was tempted to be an asshole, he wouldn't have gone through with it after seeing Jepha's face. Frank's right, he's a soft touch when people genuinely need a hand. Like a house of fucking cards. "Okay, I'll help, but I'm not writing it for you. It's all your own work, but I'll help you get it together."

"Thanks." Jepha must have been more nervous about asking than he showed, because Bob can almost see the tension draining out of him with that. It's not what Bob expects, not at all.

"I expect a shitload of pizza. Just so you know."

"Shitload. Check. I'm sure I can rustle something up." Jepha's looking a little sheepish now as he looks at Bob. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, okay, but can we keep this on the down-low? I've got a rep to protect and it wouldn't do me any good to have people find out that I'm actually getting more than a passing grade in things."

Bob shrugs, he doesn't get why it's such an issue. "Whatever. I'm here most afternoons, until the talent show's done, or you can come to my place after."

"Thanks. I know it seems asshole-ish, but, yeah." Jepha drops his feet to the floor and pushes up from his seat. "I'll catch you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure." Jepha's almost to the aisle when Bob remembers something. "What was your other option? You said there were two."

Jepha's grin is back in place when he replies. "Oh, that. I'll tell you another time. Maybe."

"Asshole." Bob calls after him, earning Bob a glare from Ryan on the stage. Bob sinks a little lower in his seat and chuckles.

Bob actually likes hanging with Jepha, even if they do spend most of their time studying. So, that's the first thing.

The second thing is that his parents take pity on him, though in his mom's words it's: You've been good, Bobby. I know it's been hard with the move and all, but you've kept your promise. However you want to classify it, what it means is that Bob gets access to his drum kit again.

And, that? Is pretty much the best thing that's happened in a while.

Bob finally has an outlet for all the stuff that been going round and round inside his head. It's the only one of his coping mechanisms that isn't actually stupid, painful or destructive, and even though his dad yells from the back door to keep it down, Bob feels better than he's felt in a while. There's something about the crash of cymbals, the dense thud of the kick drum, that brings things back into perspective. There's still the nagging itch and scratch of disappointment over Gerard turning him down, but at least Bob feels less like he's going to disappear into it and less like he's losing himself in the "good boy" he's being seen as at school.

With a last roll on the tom, he puts his sticks down and just sits and breathes, absently tracing his fingers around the drum head. Not that he'll admit it to anyone, but Bob totally had to resist the urge to clutch his drum cases to his chest like birthday presents when his parents handed them over, he settled for hugging his mom instead. Still, it's tempting to take his snare back to his room, you know, just in case.

Tossing the tarp over his kit to protect them from the dust in the garage, Bob feels looser, less tense, than he has in a while, the burn in his arms a welcome one. He's also pretty sure that he's not going to be able to stop smiling for a while.

.

During those first few weeks after, Bob wants to let it go, he really does, but there's just something about Gerard that crawls under his skin, hooks in claws and refuses to let go. It's kind of ridiculous -- and not because Bob needs to stop having horror movie marathons with Frank -- it's just so schoolgirlish, Bob can see that when he looks at it all logically, but that doesn't change how he feels. God, if he moons any harder, he's going to be writing Bob + Gerard 4 eva! in his notebook or something. Jesus.

It's desperate enough for a while there that he tries to explain it to Frank and Jamia, but all he ends up with is Frank's singsong of, "Screwed", Jamia's consoling pat on his shoulder and a renewed conviction that the sharing of feelings shit is for the birds.

In the end, he settles for the next best thing -- avoidance.

And it gets easier. Kind of. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. There's even times that Bob manages to convince himself that he's over it, that it's done and he can move on, but then he catches a glimpse of Gerard in class or watches him accidentally wiping a smudge of paint across his cheek while working on the talent show sets and it comes to life again.

But, for all that, it's not so hard any more, maybe because Bob doesn't feel so shitty about Gerard blowing him off. He's even able to smile back the time that he somehow catches Gerard's eye across the classroom. Bob thinks of it as a win, but it also makes him wonder why Gerard is even bothering.

That being said, Bob wishes that he could spontaneously fall down the stairs or, better yet, suddenly lose the ability to speak when he ends up offering to help after he hears Gerard bitching about how he's never going to pass math, that it makes no sense.

Bob's never thought of himself as a masochist, but he's starting to wonder.

Gerard is looking at him with a strange expression on his face, one that Bob's not sure he gets. It's kind of half hopeful, half wary, and a lot surprised. He's wants to explain that he doesn't want anything else, that he just wants to help -- and isn't that just a theme for him at this school -- but this time be manages to stop himself. Just nods when Gerard asks, "Really? You will?"

It's only when he's organised to meet up after school, walked around the corner and found Frank, that Bob finds the nearest flat surface to bang his head against while Frank laughs at him.

part two