Badass
thin, sickly pale legs
The wind whipped by him, but he did not blink. His bright blue eyes were covered with black wraparound shades - the kind your father used to wear in 1985 - and his broad shoulders were covered with real, worn leather. The wallet chain dangling from his left side hit the synthetic leather seat of the motorcycle haphazardly, leaving scuff marks. He stopped at a streetlight, staring impassively forward.
The engine of his motorcycle revved underneath him, vibrating his pelvis in a pleasant way. He shifted and made sure that he didn't smile - he had gone almost two hours without any facial expression, and he wanted to see just how much longer he could go. The vibration deliciously jolted his lower stomach as he came to a slow underneath a stoplight, and the corners of his mouth tried to creep up... and then he thought of his dream the night before and the grin ended before it even began.
It was one of the very few times he could remember every little detail of a dream. He lay in a green tent, his back supported by sand and his feet covered in leather. Cowboy boots, to be exact. He was just laying there, legs spread, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for, just that he was - but he found out real quick when the flap of the tent opened slowly and someone came inside, the moon behind him silhouetting his head.
The figure leaned down, and realized that whoever it may be, they were totally naked - besides for the leather boots, of course. Before Bob could move a muscle or make a sound, the figure had maneuvered itself between his legs and stuck his tongue in Bob's mouth. Bob finally opened his eyes in spite of his growing pleasure and looked right into the face of his visitor, taken aback when he suddenly realized who knelt above him.
He woke up shaking, the sheets sticky with what was not sweat.
It was Gerard Way, Mikey's weird fag brother. Bob had only seen him twice - the first time, Mikey had brought him downstairs and Gerard stood in the middle of his dark room, paintbrush in hand. His hands were covered with either red paint or blood - Bob really couldn’t be sure, and the latter didn't really seem all that far fetched. The second time - the night before the dream - Gerard had come out of his parent's basement and gone drinking with them.
The alcohol changed him, to say the least.
He acted more like the frontman of some badass band than anything - running around and smiling, showing all of his little sharp teeth, singing along loudly with the songs playing on the PA, winking at everyone (including Mikey) and he even rubbed himself up on Frank, who was so drunk himself he probably didn't even notice the friction on his short little leather-clad leg.
Bob couldn't take his eyes off him. But Bob was straight. Bob was straight and when Gerard had plopped himself down in his lap, Bob had pushed him off because he was straight. Bob was so straight that when Gerard had simply looked up at him from his new place on the floor and winked, he looked away and stared at some chick's ass across the dance floor. But as he stared, he would swear to all that was holy that she had a picture of Gerard's crotch taped to her ass because that's all he could see. He would swear before the throne of God that the tingling skin on his neck was because Gerard has given him a skin disease when he touched him, not because he liked it - because by God, Bob Bryar, badass extraordinaire, was straight.
Straight.
---
Bob had gone home, his face finally turning into an expression - an expression one could only describe as a mixture of self-hate, self-disgust, and confusion - and jacked off with all the lights down, the curtains drawn, and the pictures of his mom turned around. As he came, the usual long, golden legs he imagined were replaced by thin, sickly pale legs that ended in cowboy boots.
His mixed expression returned as soon as the satisfied smile faded.
---
Months after the dream faded, Bob was downing a fifth of Jack when Mikey Way called. He answered with his usual greeting - silence.
"Hey, man." Mikey said affectionately, and Bob knew that the next thing he said would be one of these three: Wanna come over and get smashed? or Wanna go out and get smashed? or I almost/totally scored, you should have seen this chick/dude...
Mikey wasn't picky as to what he was putting his dick into, whether it be a boy or a girl or a meat taco, and he was Bob's only real friend. And here, in the badass parts of Chicago, a real friend was hard to come by, even if most of the times you spent together you couldn't remember the next morning.
"Wanna come over and get smashed?" Bob immediately thought of cowboy boots and before his common sense could betray him, his lips did.
"Yeah. Be there soon." He was out the door before Mikey even got the idea to hang up the phone.
---
After an expressionless ride to the Way's little house in the suburbs, Bob took off his sunglasses and rolled his motorcycle up the driveway and into the garage, tucking it away and out of sight. It was snowy and slushy and freezing outside, but it would take more than that to stop Bob Bryar from driving his bike. He made sure his pants were clean and glanced in the window of Mikey's junker to make sure his hair was spiked up ruler straight. He adjusted his lip ring, taking it out and examining it before sliding it back into place. He smoothed his eyebrows and hitched up his pants and every five seconds he glanced at the front door. Finally, he brushed imaginary dust from his shoulders, a voice intervened.
"Are you going to stop stalling anytime soon?"
Gerard, Bob thought quickly. Say something cool. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it at once because the only thing he could think about was cowboy boots. He smiled widely and Gerard furrowed his eyebrows and took a drag of his cigarette.
No, not fucking boots. Say something cool! "I... uh, where's Mikey?"
"Inside? I don't know his exact coordinates, sorry." Another drag. He was holding the cigarette daintily, between his fingers. Like a fucking girl.
"Th-thanks." Bob had to awkwardly jump over him in order to get in the house through the garage door, and all Gerard did was smile and hold his fucking girly cigarette like a fucking girl.
Bob was pretty sure he hated him.
---
Three hours later, Bob was smashed.
"Oh, J-jamie! Watch... watch out! OH JAMIE LEE FUCKING RUN HE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!"
Halloween was in the VCR, and Bob was so scared he had his face buried into Mikey's arm. Mikey was watching the movie rapturously, his glasses askew, and Bob wondered if he had gone into a coma. He considered punching him but discovered he couldn’t muster up the strength. On the screen, Jamie was in the closet, screaming, and Bob turned his head to look away from what he was sure would be splattered Jamie-brains before promptly falling asleep.
When he was jostled awake at four am, his head was in Mikey's crotch, the TV was off, and there was a very familiar figure looming over his head.
"Gerard?" he said, sobering up a few degrees instantly.
"Come with me," Gerard said by way of greeting. "And don't wake up Mikey."
Bob obliged. He sat up and his head felt fuzzy and he fell right back down, umphing a little with the exertion. Gerard, still towering above him, sighed and pulled him up, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of the drunken man's upper arm.
“You better be worth this.”
---
By the time Gerard had pushed and pulled the only slightly conscious Bob into the hall and down to the basement, he himself was panting with the effort it took. Once he finally threw Bob down on his bed in the remote corner of his dark room, he went down right after him, face first.
“Gerard?” Bob’s groggy voice said again, and from the flurry of motion Gerard could tell Bob was looking around for Mikey, apparently still under the impression that no time had elapsed from when he last asked the question.
“I’m here, Bob-o.” Gerard rolled over and faced Bob, who looked scared and was shining white in the moonlight.
“Why am I down here?”
“Use your imagination.” Gerard said flirtatiously, and immediately, a pair of cowboy boots went swimming hazily into the forefront of Bob’s mind.
“I-I don’t want… to.” Bob said, rather lamely.
“Oh, come on. You’re not still in denial, are you?”
“What do you mean… denial? D-denial of what?” Bob could almost feel the alcohol slipping from his veins.
“Denial of the fact that you’re about as gay as a rainbow.”
Bob’s mouth dropped open and Gerard just smirked, his sharp little teeth glowing dimly in the darkness.
“I’m… I’m not… n-not gay, what the -” But Bob’s lame excuses were cut off as Gerard suddenly rolled over again, this time directly on top of Bob, one knee on each side of him, and kissed him.
---
Mikey Way couldn’t figure out why his best friend had all of a sudden gotten so goddamn weird. He was skittish and jumpy, and for the first time Mikey could ever remember, was turning down the advances of the scores of women that blatantly wanted to fuck him.
Bob and Mikey weren’t the kind of friends that… talked. Not about their feelings, anyway. There were certain times when they were both sufficiently plastered and they’d gotten a bit emotional, but other than that, seriousness between the two was rare. But after a week or two of Bob jumping at every small noise and refusing dirty sex, Mikey had had enough.
“Bob,” Mikey ordered, his voice much sharper than usual. “What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?”
Bob, predictably enough, jumped and yipped a little before settling back and furrowing his eyebrows at Mikey. “Nothing. I’m fine. Now let’s go - Ray and Frank are waiting.”
Mikey nimbly leaped across the kitchen island and blocked Bob’s path. “I’ll be fucked if we’re going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Then I guess you’re fucked.” Bob barked roughly, pushing Mikey’s skinny frame out of his way.
---
New Year’s Eve - also Bob’s birthday. Bob, Mikey, Ray, and Frank went to the bar, where they proceeded to scare away everyone in the general vicinity with dirty looks, overpowering clouds of cologne, and the shiny leather covering each of their backs. Quite a typical night, but Mikey had let it slide that Gerard might be coming along later, and suddenly Bob clammed up completely and paid attention to nothing but his drink.
“What the fuck is up with Bob, dude?” Ray asked Mikey over the pulsating lights and music of the club, temporarily losing interest in his drink and looking, puzzled, at the surly figure of Bob, bent over the bar.
“No fucking clue. Dick won’t tell me.”
“Gee coming soon?”
“Should be on his way.”
Ray gazed in Bob’s general direction for a minute before tipping his vodka and coke down his throat and hunting down a bartender for another, issue apparently forgotten for the moment.
Bob, meanwhile, hadn’t had a single sip of his Jack. Last time he drank around Gerard, his let his guard down, he decided. That’s the only reason he let Gerard kiss him and… and…
Just say it, his mind probed. Gerard sucked your dick. Man up.
He cringed a little at the tiny internal voice, the one that kept reminding him of the one thing he wanted to forget more than any other. He wanted to forget Gerard’s eyes as he bent over him dick. He wanted to forget the sharp, sensual pain of Gerard’s nails digging into his back. He wanted to forget the sound of Gerard’s mouth and spit when he finally let go of him, he wanted to forget the intense burst of pleasure, the burst that had actually made him buck his hips, and most of all, he wanted to block out that ever since that night he spent all his waking hours either thinking about stupid fucking Gerard Way or thinking about how he couldn’t stop thinking about stupid fucking Gerard Way. Or even about fucking stupid Gerard Way.
“Hey, Bob-o.” A snarky voice said in his ear, and Bob jumped so violently that he sent his drink flying and almost toppled off his seat.
“Gerard?” Bob choked out, his heart instantly thumping in his throat.
“That’s me.” Gerard said coolly, sipping his beer, his eyes wide and innocent. “Whussup, boyo?”
Bob sputtered a little, both unable to speak and unsure of what to say.
“Bob, Mikey tells me you’ve been acting like a weirdo. If this is because of what happened, what with my mouth and your cock and all, chill the fuck out.” Bob could tell that Gerard had already been drinking for a while - all day, judging by the smoothness of his words and actions. His eyes were drawn to Gerard’s mouth and his hands tightened so hard around his drink his knuckles turned white. Meanwhile, Gerard was still talking.
“You know that Huey Lewis song? Hip to be square? Well, it’s hip to be queer too, remember that. That’s what I live by. Whatever I want to be, it’s hip to be.” And with that, Gerard slid off the bar stool and walked over to Mikey with his drunken grace, oozing all over him.
Bob was left, in a stupor, staring after Gerard with his jaw hanging down. Did he just call him a queer? Should he go punch him?
Was he a queer?
Bob shook the thought out and swiveled around on his seat, jumping off and marching straight to Gerard, sincerely meaning to punch his fucking lights out, mash his nose in, rip his face off, kick his ass… but instead, when he got to him, he grabbed him by the collar and threw him out the emergency exit door next to the bar. Pinning him against the wall with his arm, he got up close. Kissing close.
“Did you just call me a fucking queer in there?” Bob hissed in Gerard’s face, the tip of his nose against the tip of Gerard’s nose.
“I… Bob, I…” Bob’s rough handling of him apparently shocked the suave out of Gerard - even if only for a moment.
“Did you. Call me. A. Queer.” Bob’s lips barely moved, but his grip got tighter.
Gerard’s mouth got the better of him. “I didn’t call you anything, Bob-o,” he whispered, his breath alight with alcohol. “I simply encouraged you to be who you are.”
“And who’s that?” Bob asked, his voice wavering.
“A. Queer.” Gerard said, mimicking Bob’s tone.
Bob’s fist let go of Gerard’s collar. It swung back and hung in the air in perfect form for a right hook, and if he went through with it, it would be a good one - most likely, it would hit Gerard in the chin and maybe catch his nose, breaking it sideways. And if Bob was lucky, Gerard’s face would move so fast with whiplash he might tear open the skin of his forehead against the rough brick of the outside of the bar.
Bob's fist hung in the air, trembling slightly. Gerard stopped cringing and looked at Bob with one eyebrow raised.
“I’m waiting.” he said, but the last syllable was cut off.
Bob threw himself onto Gerard, lips and chest and pelvis and legs and all, his hands grabbing a fistful of oily black hair and tugging. Gerard’s eyes flew open in shock - not because Bob had kissed him, he was expecting that, but because it had happened so fast, so passionately, and because it felt so fucking good.
When Mikey poked his head out the door five minutes later, Bob and Gerard were nowhere to be found. He squinted into the parking lot and saw that Bob’s bike was gone. After a few moments of standing there with a mixed look of disbelief and surprise, he walked back into the bar and slumped onto his stool next to Ray and Frank.
“I think my brother turned Bob into a fag.” he said bluntly, tossing his head back and downing his shot.
“What?” Ray said, staring forward.
“I think Gerard was the reason Bob was acting weird. And now they’re gone. With Bob’s bike.” Mikey’s lips curled back in disgust. “Ew.”
“Why ew?” Frank asked, eyebrows raised. “You fuck dudes too.”
“Yeah, but I’m not… my brother. And I don’t fuck… Bob.” he said, banging his glass down, signaling for another shot.
“Oh yeah.” Frank said, and Ray’s lips curled back in a grimace much like Mikey’s.
The bartender came around, filling the empty glasses of the people left in what used to be Bob Bryar’s birthday party. The three men touched their glasses together.
“To Bob and Gerard, who are probably naked and touching each other… happy new year. And birthday.” Frank said solemnly, giggling a little at the end.
“Ew.” Mikey said, his grimace complementing Ray’s, their grimaces complementing Frank’s giggles.
The engine of his motorcycle revved underneath him, vibrating his pelvis in a pleasant way. He shifted and made sure that he didn't smile - he had gone almost two hours without any facial expression, and he wanted to see just how much longer he could go. The vibration deliciously jolted his lower stomach as he came to a slow underneath a stoplight, and the corners of his mouth tried to creep up... and then he thought of his dream the night before and the grin ended before it even began.
It was one of the very few times he could remember every little detail of a dream. He lay in a green tent, his back supported by sand and his feet covered in leather. Cowboy boots, to be exact. He was just laying there, legs spread, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for, just that he was - but he found out real quick when the flap of the tent opened slowly and someone came inside, the moon behind him silhouetting his head.
The figure leaned down, and realized that whoever it may be, they were totally naked - besides for the leather boots, of course. Before Bob could move a muscle or make a sound, the figure had maneuvered itself between his legs and stuck his tongue in Bob's mouth. Bob finally opened his eyes in spite of his growing pleasure and looked right into the face of his visitor, taken aback when he suddenly realized who knelt above him.
He woke up shaking, the sheets sticky with what was not sweat.
It was Gerard Way, Mikey's weird fag brother. Bob had only seen him twice - the first time, Mikey had brought him downstairs and Gerard stood in the middle of his dark room, paintbrush in hand. His hands were covered with either red paint or blood - Bob really couldn’t be sure, and the latter didn't really seem all that far fetched. The second time - the night before the dream - Gerard had come out of his parent's basement and gone drinking with them.
The alcohol changed him, to say the least.
He acted more like the frontman of some badass band than anything - running around and smiling, showing all of his little sharp teeth, singing along loudly with the songs playing on the PA, winking at everyone (including Mikey) and he even rubbed himself up on Frank, who was so drunk himself he probably didn't even notice the friction on his short little leather-clad leg.
Bob couldn't take his eyes off him. But Bob was straight. Bob was straight and when Gerard had plopped himself down in his lap, Bob had pushed him off because he was straight. Bob was so straight that when Gerard had simply looked up at him from his new place on the floor and winked, he looked away and stared at some chick's ass across the dance floor. But as he stared, he would swear to all that was holy that she had a picture of Gerard's crotch taped to her ass because that's all he could see. He would swear before the throne of God that the tingling skin on his neck was because Gerard has given him a skin disease when he touched him, not because he liked it - because by God, Bob Bryar, badass extraordinaire, was straight.
Straight.
---
Bob had gone home, his face finally turning into an expression - an expression one could only describe as a mixture of self-hate, self-disgust, and confusion - and jacked off with all the lights down, the curtains drawn, and the pictures of his mom turned around. As he came, the usual long, golden legs he imagined were replaced by thin, sickly pale legs that ended in cowboy boots.
His mixed expression returned as soon as the satisfied smile faded.
---
Months after the dream faded, Bob was downing a fifth of Jack when Mikey Way called. He answered with his usual greeting - silence.
"Hey, man." Mikey said affectionately, and Bob knew that the next thing he said would be one of these three: Wanna come over and get smashed? or Wanna go out and get smashed? or I almost/totally scored, you should have seen this chick/dude...
Mikey wasn't picky as to what he was putting his dick into, whether it be a boy or a girl or a meat taco, and he was Bob's only real friend. And here, in the badass parts of Chicago, a real friend was hard to come by, even if most of the times you spent together you couldn't remember the next morning.
"Wanna come over and get smashed?" Bob immediately thought of cowboy boots and before his common sense could betray him, his lips did.
"Yeah. Be there soon." He was out the door before Mikey even got the idea to hang up the phone.
---
After an expressionless ride to the Way's little house in the suburbs, Bob took off his sunglasses and rolled his motorcycle up the driveway and into the garage, tucking it away and out of sight. It was snowy and slushy and freezing outside, but it would take more than that to stop Bob Bryar from driving his bike. He made sure his pants were clean and glanced in the window of Mikey's junker to make sure his hair was spiked up ruler straight. He adjusted his lip ring, taking it out and examining it before sliding it back into place. He smoothed his eyebrows and hitched up his pants and every five seconds he glanced at the front door. Finally, he brushed imaginary dust from his shoulders, a voice intervened.
"Are you going to stop stalling anytime soon?"
Gerard, Bob thought quickly. Say something cool. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it at once because the only thing he could think about was cowboy boots. He smiled widely and Gerard furrowed his eyebrows and took a drag of his cigarette.
No, not fucking boots. Say something cool! "I... uh, where's Mikey?"
"Inside? I don't know his exact coordinates, sorry." Another drag. He was holding the cigarette daintily, between his fingers. Like a fucking girl.
"Th-thanks." Bob had to awkwardly jump over him in order to get in the house through the garage door, and all Gerard did was smile and hold his fucking girly cigarette like a fucking girl.
Bob was pretty sure he hated him.
---
Three hours later, Bob was smashed.
"Oh, J-jamie! Watch... watch out! OH JAMIE LEE FUCKING RUN HE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!"
Halloween was in the VCR, and Bob was so scared he had his face buried into Mikey's arm. Mikey was watching the movie rapturously, his glasses askew, and Bob wondered if he had gone into a coma. He considered punching him but discovered he couldn’t muster up the strength. On the screen, Jamie was in the closet, screaming, and Bob turned his head to look away from what he was sure would be splattered Jamie-brains before promptly falling asleep.
When he was jostled awake at four am, his head was in Mikey's crotch, the TV was off, and there was a very familiar figure looming over his head.
"Gerard?" he said, sobering up a few degrees instantly.
"Come with me," Gerard said by way of greeting. "And don't wake up Mikey."
Bob obliged. He sat up and his head felt fuzzy and he fell right back down, umphing a little with the exertion. Gerard, still towering above him, sighed and pulled him up, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of the drunken man's upper arm.
“You better be worth this.”
---
By the time Gerard had pushed and pulled the only slightly conscious Bob into the hall and down to the basement, he himself was panting with the effort it took. Once he finally threw Bob down on his bed in the remote corner of his dark room, he went down right after him, face first.
“Gerard?” Bob’s groggy voice said again, and from the flurry of motion Gerard could tell Bob was looking around for Mikey, apparently still under the impression that no time had elapsed from when he last asked the question.
“I’m here, Bob-o.” Gerard rolled over and faced Bob, who looked scared and was shining white in the moonlight.
“Why am I down here?”
“Use your imagination.” Gerard said flirtatiously, and immediately, a pair of cowboy boots went swimming hazily into the forefront of Bob’s mind.
“I-I don’t want… to.” Bob said, rather lamely.
“Oh, come on. You’re not still in denial, are you?”
“What do you mean… denial? D-denial of what?” Bob could almost feel the alcohol slipping from his veins.
“Denial of the fact that you’re about as gay as a rainbow.”
Bob’s mouth dropped open and Gerard just smirked, his sharp little teeth glowing dimly in the darkness.
“I’m… I’m not… n-not gay, what the -” But Bob’s lame excuses were cut off as Gerard suddenly rolled over again, this time directly on top of Bob, one knee on each side of him, and kissed him.
---
Mikey Way couldn’t figure out why his best friend had all of a sudden gotten so goddamn weird. He was skittish and jumpy, and for the first time Mikey could ever remember, was turning down the advances of the scores of women that blatantly wanted to fuck him.
Bob and Mikey weren’t the kind of friends that… talked. Not about their feelings, anyway. There were certain times when they were both sufficiently plastered and they’d gotten a bit emotional, but other than that, seriousness between the two was rare. But after a week or two of Bob jumping at every small noise and refusing dirty sex, Mikey had had enough.
“Bob,” Mikey ordered, his voice much sharper than usual. “What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?”
Bob, predictably enough, jumped and yipped a little before settling back and furrowing his eyebrows at Mikey. “Nothing. I’m fine. Now let’s go - Ray and Frank are waiting.”
Mikey nimbly leaped across the kitchen island and blocked Bob’s path. “I’ll be fucked if we’re going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Then I guess you’re fucked.” Bob barked roughly, pushing Mikey’s skinny frame out of his way.
---
New Year’s Eve - also Bob’s birthday. Bob, Mikey, Ray, and Frank went to the bar, where they proceeded to scare away everyone in the general vicinity with dirty looks, overpowering clouds of cologne, and the shiny leather covering each of their backs. Quite a typical night, but Mikey had let it slide that Gerard might be coming along later, and suddenly Bob clammed up completely and paid attention to nothing but his drink.
“What the fuck is up with Bob, dude?” Ray asked Mikey over the pulsating lights and music of the club, temporarily losing interest in his drink and looking, puzzled, at the surly figure of Bob, bent over the bar.
“No fucking clue. Dick won’t tell me.”
“Gee coming soon?”
“Should be on his way.”
Ray gazed in Bob’s general direction for a minute before tipping his vodka and coke down his throat and hunting down a bartender for another, issue apparently forgotten for the moment.
Bob, meanwhile, hadn’t had a single sip of his Jack. Last time he drank around Gerard, his let his guard down, he decided. That’s the only reason he let Gerard kiss him and… and…
Just say it, his mind probed. Gerard sucked your dick. Man up.
He cringed a little at the tiny internal voice, the one that kept reminding him of the one thing he wanted to forget more than any other. He wanted to forget Gerard’s eyes as he bent over him dick. He wanted to forget the sharp, sensual pain of Gerard’s nails digging into his back. He wanted to forget the sound of Gerard’s mouth and spit when he finally let go of him, he wanted to forget the intense burst of pleasure, the burst that had actually made him buck his hips, and most of all, he wanted to block out that ever since that night he spent all his waking hours either thinking about stupid fucking Gerard Way or thinking about how he couldn’t stop thinking about stupid fucking Gerard Way. Or even about fucking stupid Gerard Way.
“Hey, Bob-o.” A snarky voice said in his ear, and Bob jumped so violently that he sent his drink flying and almost toppled off his seat.
“Gerard?” Bob choked out, his heart instantly thumping in his throat.
“That’s me.” Gerard said coolly, sipping his beer, his eyes wide and innocent. “Whussup, boyo?”
Bob sputtered a little, both unable to speak and unsure of what to say.
“Bob, Mikey tells me you’ve been acting like a weirdo. If this is because of what happened, what with my mouth and your cock and all, chill the fuck out.” Bob could tell that Gerard had already been drinking for a while - all day, judging by the smoothness of his words and actions. His eyes were drawn to Gerard’s mouth and his hands tightened so hard around his drink his knuckles turned white. Meanwhile, Gerard was still talking.
“You know that Huey Lewis song? Hip to be square? Well, it’s hip to be queer too, remember that. That’s what I live by. Whatever I want to be, it’s hip to be.” And with that, Gerard slid off the bar stool and walked over to Mikey with his drunken grace, oozing all over him.
Bob was left, in a stupor, staring after Gerard with his jaw hanging down. Did he just call him a queer? Should he go punch him?
Was he a queer?
Bob shook the thought out and swiveled around on his seat, jumping off and marching straight to Gerard, sincerely meaning to punch his fucking lights out, mash his nose in, rip his face off, kick his ass… but instead, when he got to him, he grabbed him by the collar and threw him out the emergency exit door next to the bar. Pinning him against the wall with his arm, he got up close. Kissing close.
“Did you just call me a fucking queer in there?” Bob hissed in Gerard’s face, the tip of his nose against the tip of Gerard’s nose.
“I… Bob, I…” Bob’s rough handling of him apparently shocked the suave out of Gerard - even if only for a moment.
“Did you. Call me. A. Queer.” Bob’s lips barely moved, but his grip got tighter.
Gerard’s mouth got the better of him. “I didn’t call you anything, Bob-o,” he whispered, his breath alight with alcohol. “I simply encouraged you to be who you are.”
“And who’s that?” Bob asked, his voice wavering.
“A. Queer.” Gerard said, mimicking Bob’s tone.
Bob’s fist let go of Gerard’s collar. It swung back and hung in the air in perfect form for a right hook, and if he went through with it, it would be a good one - most likely, it would hit Gerard in the chin and maybe catch his nose, breaking it sideways. And if Bob was lucky, Gerard’s face would move so fast with whiplash he might tear open the skin of his forehead against the rough brick of the outside of the bar.
Bob's fist hung in the air, trembling slightly. Gerard stopped cringing and looked at Bob with one eyebrow raised.
“I’m waiting.” he said, but the last syllable was cut off.
Bob threw himself onto Gerard, lips and chest and pelvis and legs and all, his hands grabbing a fistful of oily black hair and tugging. Gerard’s eyes flew open in shock - not because Bob had kissed him, he was expecting that, but because it had happened so fast, so passionately, and because it felt so fucking good.
When Mikey poked his head out the door five minutes later, Bob and Gerard were nowhere to be found. He squinted into the parking lot and saw that Bob’s bike was gone. After a few moments of standing there with a mixed look of disbelief and surprise, he walked back into the bar and slumped onto his stool next to Ray and Frank.
“I think my brother turned Bob into a fag.” he said bluntly, tossing his head back and downing his shot.
“What?” Ray said, staring forward.
“I think Gerard was the reason Bob was acting weird. And now they’re gone. With Bob’s bike.” Mikey’s lips curled back in disgust. “Ew.”
“Why ew?” Frank asked, eyebrows raised. “You fuck dudes too.”
“Yeah, but I’m not… my brother. And I don’t fuck… Bob.” he said, banging his glass down, signaling for another shot.
“Oh yeah.” Frank said, and Ray’s lips curled back in a grimace much like Mikey’s.
The bartender came around, filling the empty glasses of the people left in what used to be Bob Bryar’s birthday party. The three men touched their glasses together.
“To Bob and Gerard, who are probably naked and touching each other… happy new year. And birthday.” Frank said solemnly, giggling a little at the end.
“Ew.” Mikey said, his grimace complementing Ray’s, their grimaces complementing Frank’s giggles.