The Commoner and The Scribe (1)

[gala_apples]

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.

Part Two

Comments

[dr-jasley.livejournal.com]

I still enjoy the do you hate my mom line. Bob's very BOB humor <3

ALL THE HEARTS BB