Status: ♂♂
Maybe
Maybe
Just a shared ‘hi’ between two buses parked at a venue, baking tar roads and muggy fumes.
Just a, “Spencer.”
(because he's never wanted anything other than that; him.)
And a, “Bob.”
(because Bob likes things that are pretty, pretty like blue eyes and pink cheeks and smiles that don't hide things that hurt.)
--
They never fuck.
“I want you,” Spencer would whisper, lips bruised from kissing, cold from cider (Bob can appreciate the quiet irony of both those things, but still... neither of them are That Thing.) "I need you.”
“You don’t need me,” Bob says firmly, turning his back to Spencer like it doesn't actually ache to.
It can't be that simple.
--
“Stop acting like you know so much better than me!”
“I do know better, you little asshole,” Bob rebukes, because it's true. Because it's absurd to think differently and Bob is so fucking tired of this.
Spencer screams, “You always look at me like that! I’m not a kid! I’m not a fucking kid, Bob!” and his voice cracks and his shoulders shudder with frustration and everything feels wrong.
Because everything he says should be true but isn't... can't be.
But Bob still takes him by the shoulders and shakes him until he can't yell anymore; until he's just a panting, hysterical mess on the verge of stupidly begging for something he can't name.
“You are a kid, Spencer,” Bob hisses fiercely, eyes huge and unblinking.
“You are a fucking kid.”
--
The end of tour. The end of traveling. The end of them (or everything they never were).
“This is never going to be anything, is it?” Spencer asks so bashfully, hopefully, eyes never leaving the stars. His fingertips graze Bob's but he pulls back, unsure if it's allowed. Especially then. Maybe ever again.
Bob shakes his head a little, but stares at the side of Spencer's face like there is more to say than that. Like there is more to say about them than just 'anything' or 'everything' or 'something, just something'.
Spencer clears his throat and turns to Bob. “Just. Maybe?”
Bob sighs, long and breathy, and whispers, “Maybe."
Just a, “Spencer.”
(because he's never wanted anything other than that; him.)
And a, “Bob.”
(because Bob likes things that are pretty, pretty like blue eyes and pink cheeks and smiles that don't hide things that hurt.)
--
They never fuck.
“I want you,” Spencer would whisper, lips bruised from kissing, cold from cider (Bob can appreciate the quiet irony of both those things, but still... neither of them are That Thing.) "I need you.”
“You don’t need me,” Bob says firmly, turning his back to Spencer like it doesn't actually ache to.
It can't be that simple.
--
“Stop acting like you know so much better than me!”
“I do know better, you little asshole,” Bob rebukes, because it's true. Because it's absurd to think differently and Bob is so fucking tired of this.
Spencer screams, “You always look at me like that! I’m not a kid! I’m not a fucking kid, Bob!” and his voice cracks and his shoulders shudder with frustration and everything feels wrong.
Because everything he says should be true but isn't... can't be.
But Bob still takes him by the shoulders and shakes him until he can't yell anymore; until he's just a panting, hysterical mess on the verge of stupidly begging for something he can't name.
“You are a kid, Spencer,” Bob hisses fiercely, eyes huge and unblinking.
“You are a fucking kid.”
--
The end of tour. The end of traveling. The end of them (or everything they never were).
“This is never going to be anything, is it?” Spencer asks so bashfully, hopefully, eyes never leaving the stars. His fingertips graze Bob's but he pulls back, unsure if it's allowed. Especially then. Maybe ever again.
Bob shakes his head a little, but stares at the side of Spencer's face like there is more to say than that. Like there is more to say about them than just 'anything' or 'everything' or 'something, just something'.
Spencer clears his throat and turns to Bob. “Just. Maybe?”
Bob sighs, long and breathy, and whispers, “Maybe."