songs about hips and hearts (Andy/Bob)
Title: songs about hips and hearts
Author: gonnafeelgood
Pairing: Andy Hurley/Bob Bryar
Prompt/Request: A study of their relationship: where they've been; where they're going.
Word Count: ~9000 words (this part). JESUS.
Disclaimer: It’s not real, it didn’t happen. If your name is in this, please do not read.
Notes: Written for the Life Imitating Music challenge. Prompt above with The Academy Is’ “The Phrase That Pays. This is the result. Thanks to secrethappiness and adellyna for the betas, handholding, and ideas. This is part 1 of 2. I am about 1000 words into the 2nd part and am hoping to get it busted out quickly, but needed to stop to write my other challenge fic.


Chicago, 2000
“Bob, where’s Andy?”

Bob turns around at the familiar voice, squinting through a haze of smoke and noise to make sure it is actually someone he knows.

“What?” he says cautiously. He doesn’t know Pete Wentz well, just well enough to nod at, but they’ve met a couple of times. He’d started coming to shows toward the beginning of his junior year, three years ago, when some guys from jazz band told him that punk bands always, ALWAYS needed drummers. It would be hard to not know Pete Wentz, at least peripherally, after three years in and out of the scene–Chicago’s hardcore and straightedge scenes are only so big and really … Wentz is a bit of a legend.

Well, really, Wentz is notorious.

And part of that notoriety is that the boy can talk. Bob sighs a little and hoists the snare he is carrying onto the stage, preparing for an encounter of the Wentz kind.

“Sorry, dude,” Bob continues. “Andy who?”

Wentz shakes his head loosely, the multi-colored hair growing out from a mohawk flapping around his eyes. “Dude, Andy! Hurley! Everyone knows Andy. Drummer, tiny little dude, plays like a demon?”

Bob just shrugs. There are a ton of skinny little dudes who play drums in the hardcore scene. He’s a bit of an aberration in that sense. “Sorry, man.”

Wentz doesn’t let it drop. “Seriously, you don’t know Andy? He plays for ... god, everyone. He plays for Racetraitor sometimes and for killtheslavemaster, 7 Angels 7 Plagues, The Kill Pill, a bunch of others … c’mon, you’ve seen him, right?”

Bob actually thinks about it, since Wentz obviously isn’t going to let this one go, and he would like to actually get his shit loaded into the truck sometime tonight. He tries to think back to the hundreds of shows he must have seen, played in, or even occasionally filled in on a sound board for in the last three years, even before he left for Florida. Bob’s definitely seen a few of these bands and he had played with Kill Whitey for few shows with Racetraitor when Wentz wasn’t playing with them, so he figures he must at least know who this Andy guy by sight.

Then it all kind of clicks. There’s this one drummer he’s seen a bunch of times, always in different bands, who is some kind of musical chameleon. Every show Bob’s seen him in, he’s been amazing, driving, fucking great, but it’s always a different band, a different style, a different sound. “The dude with the chestpiece and the glasses?” he suggests. “Kinda longish hair, really skinny?”

Wentz grins that smile that takes over his whole face. It’s different, Bob notices, than the smile he uses on stage, which is a bit predatory and more than a little sparkle. This smile is different, like he’s proud of something. “Yeah, dude. Andy! Jesus, Andy! So, like, you know where he is?”

Bob laughs a little, shaking his head. “No, haven’t seen him tonight.”

Wentz claps him on the back as he goes to wind through the crowd between the stage and the bar. “It’s all right. At least you know who he is.”

Bob hears Wentz’s weird little giggle floating through the crowd and a faint “… know who Andy is, Jesus.”

Shaking his head a little, Bob picks the drum back up and goes to load up. He was tired before his Pete Wentz Experience, now he’s just exhausted. And he has the opening shift all this week.

*

Bob closes his eyes for second after their 9:30 am rush finishes. He’s the kind of tired that has surpassed exhaustion and just permeates every pore of his body. He hadn’t really planned on picking up shifts at the coffee place when he came back for summer break, but his old boss had damn near begged and Bob can use the money. Although the earnings will be good after he gets his degree, it’s not exactly cheap getting there.

Though his eyes are closed, he can hear everything going on around him in the small coffee shop–the hiss of the milk steamer as Joey makes himself another latte, the low jazz music that their boss insists makes a relaxing environment in the morning but Bob thinks just puts people to fucking sleep, the murmurs of other people’s conversations. Eyes still closed, he scrubs a hand through his bristly hair, glad that he’s grown it out from the almost-skin-level buzz. People kept mistaking him for a skinhead or, almost as bad, for a fucking SHARP*. He could barely make it through a show for a while there without having someone try to start some shit with him and, while he could handle himself in a fight, he’d really rather just avoid it altogether.

A quick tapping of a pen on the counter startles him out of his thoughts. Opening his eyes quickly, he sees a shock of red and black and blonde hair and a toothy grin. “Wentz,” he says, smiling and shaking his head a little. “You scared the shit out of me. I didn’t even hear the bell on the door.”

Wentz raises his eyebrows until they disappear into his ridiculous hair. “Hey, I may be a little dude, but I’m stealthy. I’m like a coffee ninja.”

Bob laughs, a little disbelievingly. The few times he’d talked to Wentz at shows since their weird conversation about that Andy guy, he’d figured Wentz is the way he is because he is drunk. But he also thinks he’s heard some of the guys saying something about Wentz keeping edge, so maybe this is just … him? A scary thought, so early in the morning. “Sure you are, Wentz,” Bob says. “Or I got shit for sleep last night and am easy to take by surprise.”

Wentz hoists himself to sit on the counter, to the visible horror of Bob’s co-worker. “Whatever, man. I’m stealthy. So. Coffee?”

Bob nods and grabs a cup. “That’s my job. What kind?”

Wentz taps his fingers on the counter. “Whatever. As long as it has caffeine, I’m interested.”

Bob is sympathetic, even pulling out his Barista Face (which looks a lot like and is, in fact, modeled off of, his friend Sean’s Bartender Face) as he makes up a Red Eye for Wentz and slides it across the counter. Wentz fumbles in his pocket for some cash, but Bob waves it away. “‘S cool. We get three free drinks a shift and I can’t have mine today. I have to grab a nap after work and before the show tonight.”

Wentz nods the understanding nod of a person who lives life on a split shift. “You going to The Killer show in a couple of weeks?” he asks, sipping his coffee and closing his eyes briefly. “Holy fuck, this is really good.”

Bob nods as he grabs his package of cigarettes and his lighter, motioning to Joey that he’s going on break. “I’m gonna go smoke, you wanna come out and talk with me?”

Wentz trails behind Bob, carrying his coffee with him worshipfully.

Bob lights a cigarette and takes a deep breath. Someday, he’ll probably quit. But not yet. He’s only 20, after all. “Yeah, I’m going to fill with Knockout that night. They called last night–JD is out of town and they gave me a call and I’ve got the night free, so …” he shrugs. “Free show and drinks for the band and no ID-checks, so I figure I might as well.”

Wentz looks up at Bob and grins knowingly as he drinks his coffee. “Right. And it’s not because you just love to play, right? You’re going for the drinks and the show and … what, the drum groupies?”

Bob rolls his eyes behind his exhalation. “Yes, Wentz. I’m all about the scantily-clad drum groupies. Except there are none except other drummers and even those are pretty few and far between.”

“I have it on good authority that Remis is available,” Wentz waggles his eyebrows and snickers. “I’ll let him know you’re interested.”

“Don’t know him well enough to know for sure, but he’s pretty hot. I wouldn’t say ‘no’,” Bob looks sideways at Wentz. The hardcore scene may not be the most accepting of queerness, but he hasn’t been in the closet since he was 15. He’s not gonna start because some skinny scene kids want to narrow their eyes at him. Really, none of them ever bother to throw down with Bob, since this is one of the cases where he WILL take care of himself. Plus, he’s about twice the size of the average scene kid. That helps.

Wentz’s eyebrows rise again, differently from the last time. Bob can’t tell if he’s surprised that Bob hasn’t denied anything or if he hasn’t heard all the rumors. He squints at Wentz, waiting for the reaction that will pretty much shape his entire opinion of the guy.

Wentz grins this evil, evil grin and just says “Really?” meditatively as he sips at his coffee.

“Aw, fuck,” Bob groans as he stubs out the cigarette. This is worse than rejection.

Pete fucking Wentz is going to try fixing him up.

Fuck.

*

Bob steps off the stage, his face gleaming with sweat and his black t-shirt soaked through. Grabbing his backpack, he’s glad he actually remembered a spare shirt and pair of underwear this time. The perks of a free show and drinks that come with this pretty much disappear when you’re sitting in your own stink.

He goes into the bathroom “backstage” (which is actually just a couple of storage closets for dressing rooms and a janitor’s bathroom) and strips off his shirt. He is in the middle of splashing his face with cold water when he hears a creak. His head snaps up as his hands scrabble for his t-shirt. He’s lost a lot of his baby fat (but not all) and he’s not eager to be seen without his shirt on in any circumstance.

A really, really tiny dude who looks vaguely familiar stands in the door, pushing his glasses up his nose and scrunching his face a little. “Sorry, man,” he says, pushing his red hair out of his face. He tugs at his black Metallica shirt, pulling it back down over his hips. “Didn't know anyone would be back here.”

Bob’s heart slows down a little as he pulls his own t-shirt over his head. He shakes his head and smiles a little. “Didn't lock the door. Not a big deal.”

The little guy squints at him a little behind his glasses, his hands now in his pockets and all indications of fidgeting completely gone. Bob gets the feeling that seeing this guy taken off-guard is pretty damn unusual. “You’re Bob. You played with Knockout, right?”

Bob nods as he picks up his bag. The underwear change will clearly have to wait. “Yeah, Bob Bryar. JD couldn’t make it tonight and they didn’t want to cancel, so …” He trails off.

The guy nods. “Yeah, I heard. Nice work. It’s not easy to play other people’s music, to just slot in like you’ve always been there. You were really good.” He smiles the smile of a man who has filled in many bands in his day.

“Um. Thanks.” Bob flushes a little. He’s fucking terrible with compliments.

The other guy puts out his hand, his long-sleeved t-shirt sliding up a bit as he extends his arm. “Hey, I’m …” Bob catches a glance of a riot of color at the wrist, just a little in that little span of skin and he looks up, realizing what is familiar about this guy.

“Andy,” he says, grabbing Andy’s hand. “You’re Pete Wentz’s friend.”

Andy rolls his eyes a bit as he nods and lets go of Bob’s hand. “I’m never sure whether I should claim him. Did he do anything? Paint your face when you were asleep? Shave your head? Introduce you to his parents as his boyfriend? ‘Pants you before going onstage?”

“Nah,” Bob laughs a little. He can see Wentz doing all of those things. “He just bugs me at work sometimes and I think he wants to try fixing me up.”

Andy’s eyes widen a little. “That’s worse. That’s much, much worse. Pete is the world’s worst yenta.”

Bob laughs. “Yeah, he really is.” But Bob thinks back to all of the times that Wentz has tried to get him to meet his friend Andy “the best drummer since you, dude, for real” Hurley. As he goes to leave the bathroom, he nods at Andy and does the nice-to-meet-you thing and looks at Andy’s ridiculous fucking eyes and thinks:

Maybe not the world’s worst yenta.

*

Bob runs into Andy periodically after that. He hadn't realized how many of the same shows they frequented, though it is possible that pushy fucking Pete Wentz had something to do with both of them knowing about and attending the same shows.

Bob also suspects that Pete told Andy where he works, because he’s now looking up from the till at least twice a week and seeing a smiling Andy Hurley asking if they have any soy milk left.

It’s not that Bob doesn’t like hanging out with Andy. He does. They talk about music and bands and Andy hooks Bob up with some guys he knows that are looking for a drummer. Bob’s even half-thinking about not going back to school. It’s not that the reasons are gone, but he’s been playing with a new band and he just … misses this. There’s nothing wrong with doing sound–he’s good at it, he likes knowing what to do with those soundboards he kept getting thrown behind that nobody knows what the hell to do with. But there’s no beat, nothing driving underneath his hands. Sound is all technique. Drumming is … more.

He kind of likes the life he’s living in Chicago, too. He’s got a band, he’s been hanging around with some guys that he didn’t know very well before. He’s been hanging out with Andy and … well, Andy is goofy and smart and loves Metallica unabashedly, which is pretty impressive to maintain after their shitty albums in the late ‘90s. Bob kind of thinks Andy is amazing.

He never says anything because he hasn’t had even an inkling that Andy is into dick. He knows that Andy hooks up pretty often–that drum groupie thing seems to work for drummers that sleep with girls–but Bob also saw Andy jump down Sean Muttagi’s throat when he says something about “fags” and nature. Bob was impressed–he’s never seen Andy really, really pissed and it is a sight to behold. Andy doesn’t shout or threaten. He’s the same person when he’s pissed, but his voice lowers half an octave and his whole body just reflects a deep disappointment in the person. He also hisses.

The hissing is kind of hot.

So Bob never says anything and nothing ever really happens, except that Bob realizes that Andy is not only tiny and pretty, but crazy fucking talented and really kind of brilliant. He knows about all of this shit like whales disappearing and environmental footprints and ecobuilding and he wants to talk about it. Bob is surprised how Andy never makes him feel judged, how he can be this insane environmentalist straight-edge vegan who wants to talk about shit all the time, but who also never looks sideways at Bob when he lights a cigarette or takes a drink of his beer or a bite of a burger.

It’s cool. It’s making Bob consider giving up beef, even. Like, as a start.

Then shit happens. Bob’s band falls apart and then another gets together and falls apart before they even have a show and he’s just … too tired for this shit. He feels old, humping drums and equipment from show to show, living this half-life of minimum-wage drone and way below minimum-wage musician and he just … he can’t keep doing this.

When he decides to go to back Florida after all, he's surprised that he’s nervous to tell Andy.

Andy grins at him, a real grin and says; “I’m glad you’re gonna do that, man. We totally need good techs, ones that really get why it matters.” Bob isn’t sure if that hurts because Andy moved him so quickly from “musician” to “tech” or whether he is hoping for something … else. More.

Stupid. he chastises himself as he finishes his beer and goes in for a single-armed manly-hug-thing with Andy before he leaves the club.

Andy surprises him, as always, and pulls him into a real hug, his body fitting tightly against Bob’s. “We’ll miss you, dude,” he says into Bob’s neck. He lets go, ready to release Bob.

Bob lets go.

*

December 2003

Bob is exhausted, his whole body aching with the aftermath of arguments and noise and sound. He’s good at what he does, he knows he is. And Bert fucking McCracken is probably the hardest working man in music who also happens to be a total and complete asshole.

He rubs at his neck and tries to remember where they are as he waits for his coffee at the Seattle’s Best counter near the venue. Seattle’s Best … good hint that they’re probably (but not necessarily) somewhere in the Northwest, but he has no idea where. Plus there’s that one Seattle’s Best in Pittsburgh. But he’s pretty sure they haven’t traveled that far in a week. Probably.

“Bob Bryar, my MAN!” a boisterous voice yells practically in his ear. Bob sighs in resignation as he turns around. He’s tried running away from Frank Iero before. It never, ever works. Ever. Not even when you hide. The kid is psychic when it comes to irritating the fuck out of people.

“Frank,” he says, his voice husky with bone-deep weariness. “What’s going on?”

Frank is always in motion, his hands skittering across his hips, playing an invisible guitar as he talks. He has ridiculous amounts of energy. Bob would suspect that he’s been getting high, except he knows that’s kind of the personal domain of one Gerard Way. It's an unspoken rule that nobody talks about it, but Bob knows bands better than he knows anything and he knows that there’s only room for one trainwreck in each band. So the energy radiating off of him has to just be unaltered Frank. Scary. “Matt is wondering if you could come listen to some of the balances on his kit before the show. And I know we have our own techs and shit, but … you’re better at this than they are. Matt says that something is off, but he can’t figure out what it is. He says it makes him sound all fucked up.”

Bob tries, valiantly, not to roll his eyes in front of Frank, who he basically likes even when he’s driving Bob batshit insane. Matt’s another story. He’s the kind of guy who finds himself hitting bigger music, bigger venues, a bigger life than he can handle and blames it on the tech instead of practicing more.

Bob hates those guys when they’re singers or bassists or guitarists, but he loathes them when they’re drummers. Drummers are the beat. There is no place to fuck around with mediocrity.

“I can make it in a few, Frank,” he says, his voice a little tighter than he’d like for it to be. Fuck. He really doesn’t want Frank to think he’s irritated at him. His voice softens. “Tell him I’ll be there after the coffee turns me human again.”

Frank nods, his smile bright, but his eyes calculating. Bob’s pretty sure that most people underestimate Frankie, dismiss him as hyper and childlike (which he is), but forgetting that he is also one of the most able people Bob has ever met. Bob strongly suspects that it is Frank and Toro holding My Chem together when Gerard is falling apart and Mikey is falling into himself and Matt is shoving his head in the sand. The look on Frank’s face, the careful assessment of Bob’s tone and face, supports that theory.

“Okay, Bob,” he finally says. “I’ll let him know.”

Bob nods again firmly and turns around to get his coffee. As he does, he bumps into someone much smaller than he is. “Fuck, sorry, I doesn’t mean to …” his voice trails off as the person … guy turns around.

Andy.

“Bob?” Andy says, his voice incredulous. His face breaks into a huge grin and he moves toward Bob, one arm open. Bob shuffles forward, his hand out and they do this weird hug/no hug/shake-hands dance. Bob shakes his head and laughs a little and Andy grins, pulling him into a hug. “Bob, it’s been years. What the hell are you doing in Portland?”

“I’m in Portland?” Bob groans as Andy pulls away, convincing himself that he’s groaning because he’s tired. “Sorry, man, it’s been. A day. A week. A couple of years.”

Andy nods. “You’re still teching with The Used, right? Steve mentioned seeing you behind the board at a show–he’s a huge fan.”

Bob shrugs. “It’s a good gig. I’m pretty good at what I do, too, so I figured I’d tour with someone whose music I more or less liked. But, Andy, shit, what are you doing here?”

Andy holds up a coffee carafe with four drinks loaded in it. “Getting coffee for the guys. We’ve got a show at some bar tonight and Patrick’s about to strangle Pete if I don’t get him caffeine and get Pete decaf. I think Joe’s just coming down and needs to not fall asleep before the show.”

Bob looks at him, bemused. Only one of those names is even remotely familiar. “Wentz? You’re playing with Wentz again?”

“Yeah, you heard that he left Arma, right? He was kind of tired of the bullshit and the politics and the whole scene of the scene and the band just kind of dissolved after that. This kid who was basically Pete’s stalker, Joe, suggested that they start a band, something less scene and just … different. They found this crazy fucking musical prodigy and keep bringing me in to drum because their original drummer was a flake,” Andy takes a drink of what may or may not be his own coffee as he talks. “I’m not playing with them full-time, but Pete keeps offering me blowjobs if I come on for real. I don’t know, they’re pretty good and I’m digging that their scene has less anger, but … I’m still playing with some other guys and I like having some variety,” he finishes.

Bob just looks at him. “Did you just summarize two and half years in five sentences?”

Andy nods. “Yeah, pretty much. I got some new tattoos, too.”

Bob bursts out laughing. Christ, why hadn’t he called Andy since he left Chicago? He’d forgotten about this part, how Andy is hilarious and kind of snarky and just … Andy.

Andy grins then and the force of it hits Bob. Ah, he thinks. That’s right. I’d half-forgotten this part, too.

It’s not like Bob had been carrying a torch or something. He’d hooked up with a couple of guys in Florida, but the muscled gym bunnies aren’t really his type. He’d even had a thing with one of the light techs for the Used, Jason, for a while. It had ended when Jason moved on to the Nine Inch Nails European tour, no drama or heartbreak. Just endings.

But Andy had been a Thing, even if Bob hadn’t been able to admit it at the time. Unlike his hookups, he knew Andy, knew his thoughts on war and organic peaches. And, unlike Jason, leaving hadn’t been easy with Andy, even though they hadn’t been an explicit or outside-of-Bob’s-imagination Thing. Because he doesn’t know if Andy is into guys.

And here he is, standing in the fall of 2000. Again.

Fuck.

“So why don’t we meet up after the show?” Andy is asking.

Bob’s eyes snap up. “Ummm ... yeah. Definitely. I have to see when breakdown ends, but we should absolutely meet up.”

Andy pulls out a pen and scribbles Pete’s cell number on Bob’s hand. “Just ask for me,” he grins. “I’ve managed not to buy one and fill up more landfills with shit I don’t need by mooching off of Pete’s minutes.”

Bob laughed helplessly. Of course he will call. Of course he’ll call and revisit a time in his life when he had awesome friends and a pretty much constant hard-on for a guy who is probably straight. He’ll call …

“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “I have to talk to Wentz?”

*

“BOB BRYAR!” Pete Wentz’s voice booms through the phone.

“Wentz,” Bob puts his head down on the office desk that the venue has lent him. It was way too much to hope that he could just get Andy directly, obviously.

“Bob! My man! You just took off and left Chicago minus another awesome drummer and, like, went to school and shit. How do you explain yourself?”

“Wentz,” Bob answers patiently and immediately. “I only work about 40 hours a week, make great money, and have an actual career.” Huh. Apparently, three years of teching for insane metal bands and six months of hanging out with Frank Iero and Gerard Way has increased his patience exponentially. Who knew?

“Pffft,” Pete snorts. “But you don’t play, right?”

A knot clenches a little in Bob’s stomach. “Not much, no. Look, Wentz, could I talk to Andy?”

*

They meet at an Italian place halfway in between the venue and the place where Andy is staying. The place, Bob quickly finds out, is a Barnes and Noble mall parking lot.

“In a van? With Wentz?” Bob says incredulously as he picks at the cheese on the top of his lasagna. Andy is happily munching on some cheeseless veggie pizza.

Andy waves his hand, unworried. “It’s what we can afford.”

“But …” Bob shudders. “I know Wentz. I remember how he smells.”

Andy laughs, a little bit of red pepper spraying across the table, falling just short of Bob’s plate. “God, you should meet Patrick. Dude’s never met a shower he wouldn’t rather avoid.”

Bob makes a face.

“Yeah,” Andy says. “But he’s only 17, you know? I guess I can remember that.”

“I can’t,” Bob says with feeling. He remembers the glory of a hot shower first thing in the morning, his mom yelling at him about the cost of hot water when he took more than 5 minutes. He doesn’t remember a time when showers weren’t a luxury. He looks down and sees his hands fidgeting with the red pepper and parmesan shakers, little flecks of both now on the table.

Bob flushes and grabs a napkin to wipe his mess up. His mama raised him right.

“Well, I guess that’s the benefit of living the front-of-house tech life, right?” Andy smiles a little, looking up at Bob. “Showers, sleeping in beds occasionally, even eating a meal that doesn’t come from a can, box, or vending machine?”

“Nah,” Bob shakes his head as he wads the napkin up and throws it on top of his plate. “You’d think it would be all parties and hot showers all the time, but it’s pretty much like playing in a band, getting paid a little better, and playing less. Same lifestyle, dude.”

“Right, but The Used are headlining. That has to mean that you get hotels, right?” Andy’s voice sounds hopeful, like he can see the end to sleeping on the road just ahead of him.

“Sometimes. We have them tonight,” Bob takes pity on him. “And the nights on the road are at least in bunks on busses and not in vans. It makes a difference.”

“Busses,” Andy says, his whole face lighting up. “Bunks. That’s almost like a bed.”

Bob quirks at eyebrow at Andy. “How long has it been since you’ve slept in a bed, Andy?”

Andy’s eyes cloud over a little as he thinks, his hands twitching as if he’s counting time. “Three … no, four weeks ago? I think it was in Texas, this girl named Noemi let us sleep on her futon because she wanted Pete to stay. That was pretty awesome. There were, like, real blankets and not just sleeping bags.”

“Dude,” Bob says, his voice a little flat. “That is the saddest fucking thing I have ever heard. And I’ve been hanging out with My Chemical Romance.”

Andy grins as he takes another bite of his pizza, pieces of his hair flying into his face as he chews appreciatively.

Afterwards, Bob could never be sure whether it was the smile, the enthusiastic pizza eating, or the really sad appreciation for a pity futon while Pete Wentz was having sex in the next room that made him lose his mind.

“You want to stay with me tonight? I have a real bed.”

Andy’s eyes light up as he quickly says: “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

*

Bob is not a fidgety guy. He knows a lot of people who fidget, whose handsfeetheads never seem to stop moving: Wentz, Frank, Gerard, Shane Beard. Bob, though, is not a fidgeter. He is calm, he is zen, goddammit.

He isn’t feeling very zen right now, though. Apparently, it isn’t very hard to break Bob’s calm. All it takes is a bathroom, a door, and a (presumably) naked Andy Hurley, moaning a little.

Moaning.

Not in a showy way, not like he’s doing it for an audience, but just like a guy who has gotten so used to being bone-deep dirty that a long, hot shower is a luxury.

Bob sits here, half-hard on the other side of the door, trying not to be a total asshole. He’s starting to think that the only way he can avoid that is by putting a pillow over his head.

This is how he comes to be laying on the bed farthest from the bathroom, face-first on the ugly flowered blanket, with a pillow stuffed over his head when a hand touches his shoulder. Bob starts, half turning over and pulling the pillow from his head, to blink up at Andy–with a towel wrapped around his waist and one around his head, still presumably naked.

Oh. God.

Andy blinks, his face looking different without his glasses shadowing his eyes. His hair is hanging just around his ears in wet tangles and his body is surprisingly muscled. The colors in his sleeves and on his chest piece seem brighter when he’s wet, and Bob catches just a hint of color on his back that he is pretty sure wasn’t there three years ago.

“Bob?” Andy’s voice breaks in, sounding worried. Wait. Worried?

“Yeah?” Bob responds, a little hoarsely.

“Shit, did I take too long? Were you trying to sleep or something? I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a long day.” Andy looks genuinely apologetic–of course he does–and keeps gesturing with his right hand, which is causing his towel to slip dangerously on the left. Bob is in hell. A pretty, pretty, seriously tempting, never-gonna-happen hell.

“No, you’re fine,” he says, still sounding hoarse. Goddammit. “I was just …” thinking about you naked. Bob can’t finish that sentence any other way, so he trails off.

Andy nods, still looking concerned. “Okay, if you’re sure,” Andy motions to the towel and asks. “You have any sweats or something I could borrow? I don’t have any clean clothes with me and I really don’t want to put those back on again.”

Bob laughs a little as he rolls over on his side to grab at his duffle. “You sure they’ll stay on? I might have some sweats that Toro’s last hookup left in a hotel that would work better.”

As Bob is rummaging in his suitcase, he realizes that Andy hasn’t reacted in any way. Turning his head slightly, he sees Andy looking obviously at …

Bob’s pants.

Oh.

Oh god.

Bob will not freak out. He will not. Andy’s a guy, he’s had the random hard-on thing happen before. He knows that it’s not personal (even though it is personal) and even if it is personal, Andy’s not the kind of guy who would freak out about it. This is Andy. Easy-going, homophobia-bashing, vegan-cookie-eating Andy. He won’t freak out.

Bob chances another look to see if he’s right. He can’t tell. Andy isn’t doing anything obvious, like grabbing his clothes and running out the door, but he’s also not saying anything.

Bob’s a quiet guy, but this is too much quiet.

“What?” he finally manages to grit out, his hand still in his bag as he grabs a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that are both going to be way too big for Andy. He proffers the clothes without looking at Andy’s face.

Andy takes the clothes out of Bob’s hand and then moves directly into Bob’s view. He leans down, puts the clothes on the bed and grabs Bob’s chin to push his face up so that Andy can see.

Andy tilts his head to the side, like he’s just seen something surprising, something he needs to study a little more.

Bob has no idea what’s going on. But there’s no screaming or leaving, so that’s a plus. And, you know, a still naked Andy covered only in a towel isn’t the biggest minus of the night, either.

Andy smiles then, almost like he can see Bob thinking but can’t see what it is. It’s a fond smile, familiar in a way, but there’s something else there that Bob hasn’t seen before.

Maybe.

Bob brings his face closer to Andy’s, waiting for Andy’s smile to fade or his body to clench, for … something to tell him to stop.

Nothing.

Fuck it.

Bob leans in and brushes his lips against Andy’s, his eyes closing a little in disbelief. He really half-expects Andy to pull away, to protest, to gently let him down. What he doesn’t expect is to feel Andy’s mouth opening a little and unbelievably small and sharp teeth scrape along his bottom lip.

Bob gasps. Fuck.

“Andy?” Bob says, pulling away a bit. “This is kind of your chance to tell me that I’m fucking up here. ‘Cause … I didn't know you were …”

Andy pulls Bob back to him and puts a hand, confidently, on the back of Bob’s neck, as if he’s trying to keep Bob from leaving. “I’m not anything. I’m just … I just want to be here, okay? That okay?”

“Yeah,” Bob nods, embarrassed by the speed of his response. “Yes. Yes, that’s fine. Yes.”

He pulls Andy’s head back to his and crushes his lips against Andy’s slightly chapped lips.

Andy’s breath stutters out a bit, one hand on Bob’s neck and the other moving to curl around his bicep.

As it turns out, Andy’s a biter.

As it turns out, Bob doesn’t mind that at all.

*

Bob doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing when he feels Andy’s calloused fingers running under the band of his boxers.

Bob blinks.

He’s pretty sure he had pants on at one point. And a shirt. He’s not totally sure what happened to them, but he is positive he had them at one point. He can’t quite bring himself to care, because those are Andy’s hands edging toward his dick and he is totally sure that he is going to die of this.

“Hey,” Andy’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Hey. What’s going on in there?” Andy is laid out completely naked, his thigh slung between Bob’s thighs, all lean muscle and vibrant color and … Jesus.

“I’m …” Bob’s voice sounds raspy, like he’s been screaming for days instead of kissing for … minutes? Hours? “I’m all … it’s just …” Bob can’t pull his gaze away from Andy, his face, his lips, those fucking hips. “Jesus, look at you.”

Andy’s face splits with an almost-feral grin. “Can’t. Busy now,” he says as he presses the pads of his fingers more strongly against Bob’s hips, circling a little wider each time.

Bob is really, seriously going to stop breathing at some point. His hands are shaking a little as he runs one up Andy’s arm, across a shoulder and down his ribs, but he manages.

“Bob,” Andy says, his palms beginning to catch the elastic of Bob’s boxers, inching them further and further down. Bob hums, hoping that is an appropriate response. “Bob,” Andy continues, his voice more insistent.

Bob blinks, looking up at Andy’s face. “What?”

Andy smiles a little. “This okay?” he asks, as his fingers keep circling.

Bob isn’t sure what Andy’s talking about. ‘Cause, um, there is no way that it wouldn’t be awesome to have Andy Hurley’s hands in his pants. Seriously. That’s not even a question. Bob doesn’t really care what Andy’s asking, anyway. He’s sure it’s okay. Everything’s okay right now. “Yeah. Yes. God, please.”

Normally, Bob likes to know what he’s begging for. Hell, he doesn’t normally beg at all. Normally, though, he doesn’t have Andy Hurley naked on his lap.

Apparently, naked Andy Hurley makes him pliant.

“God, please” appears to have been the right answer. Andy wastes no time in pushing Bob’s boxers down and pulling them off. Bob’s head thumps against the bed and his eyes shut involuntarily. He is absolutely certain that if he sees naked Andy while he’s naked and gets even a moment to consider all of that skin, he’s just going to come right now. Bob would be very embarrassed if he came right now.

He would be very satisfied, though. That might be okay.

Bob compromises and allows his eyes to open halfway, just in time to see Andy’s smirk as he drops (gracefully, Jesus) to his knees at the end of the bed.

Ohgod.

“Ohgod,” Bob moans as Andy tips his head. All Bob can see now is a smear of red hair between his thighs. He doesn’t need to see for long–his hips jerk and his breath catches as he feels a long, sure swipe of tongue along his dick.

Bob’s eyes close. He doesn’t need to breathe. He doesn’t care about breathing because he has Andy Hurley going down on him in a hotel room and, seriously, this is the best moment of his life.

Andy does this thing with his tongue that is, like, swirling or something. It sends little shocks down to Bob’s toes.

Then Andy sucks Bob’s dick into his mouth and Bob stops thinking to go with the breathing. “Jesus Christ, Andy,” he breathes out. He might black out.

All he can feel is hotwettight and Andy has one hand at the base of Bob’s cock, jacking him in time with his sucking mouth and Bob is not going to last long. He opens his eyes, and oh yeah, not lasting long, all he can see is Andy, is Andy’s fucking mouth moving over his dick. Andy’s right hand appears to be between his own legs and, yes, Naked Andy has been surpassed in the hotness part of the evening by Sex God Andy. Bob hears himself moan louder and oh god, this is really happening.

Andy’s left hand moves from the base of Bob’s cock to just behind his balls. “Yesssss,” Bob hisses as Andy just presses, just right, and Jesus Fuck, why haven’t they done this earlier? Bob’s hands are fisting the blankets of the bed and it takes every inch of self-control he has to not thrust up, to not be That Guy. All he wants is more, deeper, wetter, fuck. His hand drifts up to Andy’s head and, yeah, that’s not gonna help with the not thrusting, but he can’t help himself.

When Bob’s hand tangles in Andy’s hair, he feels a vibration around his cock and ohgod, Andy’s a little kinky. Andy’s hand between his legs starts moving faster as Bob’s hand tightens just a little in Andy’s hair. Andy’s other hand moves from behind Bob’s balls to encircle Bob’s dick and when his lips bump against his fist, Bob starts to shudder.

He tries to warn Andy off with a “Oh, Jesus, I’m gonna … Andy …”, but Andy doesn’t pull off. His mouth is firmly wrapped around Bob’s cock when Bob comes with a whimpered “Fuck. Fuck,”, Andy’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Bob gasps on the bed for a minute or so, his ragged breaths echoing throughout the room as he just tries to remember how to breathe.

Bob turns his head and growls as he grabs Andy’s arm and pulls him up. He pushes Andy against the bed as his lips press down on Andy’s and he bites and licks his way around Andy’s mouth, panting and gasping. That’s him on Andy’s tongue, that’s his come and the remnants of Andy’s toothpaste and it is maybe the hottest thing Bob has tasted in his entire life.

Andy moans against Bob’s mouth, his hips erratically slamming into Bob’s side, which reminds him. Oh yeah. Hard. Still hard.

Bob pulls away from the kiss, breathing hard. Andy’s pupils are completely blown and he looks like he might bite something if he doesn’t get off soon.

It’s completely hot.

“Hold on, hold on,” Bob mutters. He may not know how the fuck he got here, but he’s willing to take total advantage of it. His hand fumbles in the forgotten duffle bag next to the bed and he pulls out a couple of condoms and a bottle of lube with a cry of triumph.

Andy’s whole body tenses next to him.

“Andy?” Bob says, worried. Maybe this is too far, too fast, maybe Andy doesn’t do that, oh god he totally fucked this up …

Andy’s small, but he’s tough. Bob should know better than to be surprised that Andy can flip his much larger frame without trouble, but he still huffs a little as his back hits the bed. Hands are moving over him, erratically, movingmovingmoving. “Yeah?” he says, looking up into Andy’s eyes. Consent is worth doing well, even when his brain is leaking out of his ears.

“Fuck yes,” Andy hisses as he takes the lube and condoms from Bob’s hand, popping the cap with one hand while the other taps out a rhythm on Bob’s hip. Bob is still a little fucked-out, his orgasm just a few moments in the past, but he can tell that his body is trying to catch up with what’s going on in front of him.

Andy reaches down with a hand that has been clearly lubed, his fingers exploring, preparing Bob. Bob gasps as one of Andy’s fingers pushes into him, the lube leaving a slighsticky feeling behind as Andy pulls out.

Bob grins.

Andy is biting his lip as he opens the condom, his concentration focused enough that Bob suspects he is doing it to keep himself from coming. Bob smiles a little and reaches out to stroke a light hand along the length of Andy’s cock.

“Fuck!” Andy shouts, his whole body jerking. Bob smirks at him as he lies back down on the bed. He’s not the one dying of anticipation here. He’s content to wait for Andy to pull his shit together enough to fuck him.

Mmmmmm. Okay, so content may be understating it. And there’s more than a little anticipation. But the whole “already had an orgasm” thing helps take the edge off.

Andy glares a little through his hair, wrapping his hand around Bob’s wrist and pushing it against the bed. His hand (god, big fucking drummer hands) presses Bob’s wrist to the bed. “Be good,” Andy orders, his voice raspy and hoarse. “If you’re not, this won’t happen at all.”

Bob knows, intellectually, that Andy’s probably talking about it not happening right now. But it kind of sounds like a threat. Which is … huh. Really really hot.

Bob doesn’t let people order him around, in bed or out. Except, apparently, Andy fucking Hurley.

Which Bob is completely, reverently, unequivocally good with. Awesome, even.

He’s even more awesome with it when Andy leans down and bites Bob’s ear after finally (finally) getting the goddamn condom on. Andy’s grin is spreading across his face as he rolls Bob over (again, god), landing with a huff on his back.

Andy is beaming. Bob tugs Andy’s face up until their lips meet. After another couple of minutes of just making out, sliding their bodies against one another, Bob breaks away a little breathlessly. “I,” he says breathlessly. “Am a fucking idiot.”

Andy’s smile lights up his entire face like some kind of cheesy fucking movie. “Yeah, well. I’m apparently not much better.”

Bob bites at Andy’s smile, pressing his entire weight against Andy’s erection. He figures that’s enough of an answer.

They’re both in agreement in that. Andy’s whole body surges up into Bob’s, his back curling into a c-curve that should be physically impossible.

“Fuck,” Andy hisses, his whole body shaking. “Do something or I swear to god …”

Bob grins again, biting at Andy’s bottom lip. As Andy shudders a little, Bob reaches down to line Andy’s dick up. Bob leans over to bite at Andy’s neglected top lip as he starts to slide onto Andy’s dick.

“Oh god,” Andy sighs, his whole body tensing.

Bob’s body isn’t exactly relaxed here, either. He hasn’t done this, not this this in years. He knows this is what he wants (oh god, with Andy’s dick buried in his ass, he knows it), but he also knows that it’s been a while.

A long while.

So Bob slowly warms himself up, using his thighs to help control the depth. He raises himself up and down, again and again, breathing slowly and trying to make it last as long as possible. Andy’s breaths are coming quickly, but his voice has gone strangely silent. His whole face is wide eyes and a brow crumpled in concentration, his body tensed and shaking. Bob leans forward to brush Andy’s hair back from his face and presses down a little and ...

“Fuck,” Bob hisses, lights flashing in front of his eyes and his vision blurring a little.

Andy’s eyes narrow as he pushes his hips up, just a bit, and the lights flash behind Bob’s eyes again. He does it again. And again.

“Bob,” Andy groans. “You have to … I’m gonna …”

Oh god. Andy’s about to … Bob barely has time to get a hand around his dick before he’s coming and coming and he might black out if he comes any more. He slumps down onto Andy’s chest, his breath rasping out in shaky gasps.

“Jesus Christ,” Andy rasps, his hands coming up to stroke at Bob’s back, shoulders, arms.

Bob nods, not able to form sentences or words yet. He relaxes a little into Andy’s touch, floating on orgasms and maybe a little bit of shock.

*

Bob comes to a little later, somehow having moved from on top of Andy to spooning around Andy’s back. Andy is breathing deeply, the muscles in his chest tensing and relaxing as he breathes in and out. It must be close to morning–Bob can see the haze of pre-dawn hours coming in through the curtains that nobody bothered to shut last night.

Last night.

This is where Bob could freak out. He could spend the next few hours going over every fucked-up reaction or scenario that he could imagine. He could run himself in mental circles for hours and he still wouldn’t manage to hit all of the ways that things could possibly be fucked up.

Or he could not borrow trouble and decide to bask in the glow of having had mind-blowing sex with an incredibly hot guy, trace his fingers over tattoos, and go back to sleep.

Bob opts for Door Number Two.

*

It’s only a couple of hours later when the alarm on Bob’s cell phone jerks them both into consciousness. Bob’s a little confused for a moment, not fully remembering why he’s in bed with someone. It comes to him quickly, though, with the smell of Andy’s hair and ache in his ass.

Andy rolls over, his face unreadable and scrunched up in what looks like pain.

“Why,” he growls as he rubs at his face. “Is your fucking phone playing ‘Baby, One More Time’ in the fucking morning?”

Bob grins a little. Andy being an ass in the morning shouldn’t be cute. It shouldn’t.

It so is.

“Jepha got ahold of it, probably,” Bob says as he rolls onto his back and stretches. “Better than last week. He managed to find ‘Bye, Bye, Bye.’”

Andy groans as he rolls over, his back to Bob and his thin shoulders hunched into the blankets. “I’m just gonna stay here,” he says, more or less into the pillow he is burying his head in. “If my band asks, tell them I fucking died.”

Bob shakes his head as he pulls himself out of bed and toward the shower. He can give Andy 15 more minutes.

Bob steps into the room later, a clean pair of boxers already pulled over his hips as he towels his hair. Andy has pulled himself into a sitting position and is staring at his own pile of clothes.

“Those didn’t magically get cleaned in the night, did they?” Andy says, his voice somehow both hopeful and dismayed.

“Doubt it,” Bob shrugs as he pulls a t-shirt over his head.

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” Andy sighs, reaching for his pants. “Mind if I grab another shower before I take off?”

Bob motions at the bathroom. “Help yourself.” He turns his back to Andy and rummages through his other bag, looking for the least dirty pair of jeans he has.

Bob wonders if this is how they’re going to be, if it’s just going to be like before, nothing changed. There are worse options, he supposes. At least Andy’s not freaking out or throwing shit or running away.

His thoughts are interrupted by a hand on his hip and hot breath on his neck. Andy bites Bob’s ear a little and presses a fast kiss to his temple before sliding his hand around to the front of Bob’s boxers and squeezing lightly.

Okay, so not exactly like before.

Before Bob can even turn around or react, Andy has slipped past him into the bathroom. “You better have left me some soap, fucker,” he calls through the door as he starts the water.

*

It’s not a thing. There’s no weirdness between them. The most obvious difference after the night in Portland is that they've started keeping in touch. Sometimes, Bob will think of a joke that nobody else would appreciate and he texts it to Andy’s newly-acquired cell phone. Sometimes Andy will need to vent about his stupid fucking bandmates and their stupid fucking problems and he’ll call Bob.

It’s not a thing. It’s just … whatever. And if there's sometimes phone sex, that’s just fine with Bob.

Bob doesn’t think that anyone sees anything going on. Because nothing is going on. Except that sometimes he’ll catch a strange look from Bert or a small smile from Mikey.

When Bob asks Frank what the hell Mikey is smiling at, Frank just responds: “Mikey’s a romantic.”

The My Chem guys are fucking weird.

And it’s strange, because sometimes Bob sees looks on people’s faces out of the corner of his eyes, something that looks like it could be pity or understanding. But … he doesn’t need the pity and he doubts they understand.

He’s not missing anything.

Bob never asked for anything more than this. Hell, he’d never thought to ask for this. He’d never known that this brilliant, talented, fucking gorgeous guy was an option at all. He doesn’t draw hearts around their names in his notebook and he’s not practicing his signature for Mr. Bob Bryar-Hurley.

Bob’s good with this. He has a career, he really gets paid to make people sound amazing. He even has his friend back and he has orgasms with another person sometimes and when they’re near the same city they usually try to meet up. It’s good. It’s the closest thing to a relationship that guys like them can have. Boys in bands don’t do well running from the stretches of road in front of them and pretend as he might, they’re two men always on the road. Bob bounces from tour to tour, band to band, and Andy’s always on the traveling himself, finally admitting that he’s on full-time with Fall Out Boy.

So it may not be a relationship, nothing conventional, but it works. The next time that Jason joins up with the tour, Bob buys him a beer and shrugs off going off into any dark corners. Wentz mentions something in an e-mail about Andy spending too many nights alone now that his ladyfriends have stopped coming around.

It isn’t a Thing, but maybe it’s a thing. And it’s a pretty good life, all and all, and if Bob’s chest feels tight whenever he catches the patina of energy around Andy while he’s drumming … well, it’s still good enough.

It’s more than enough.

[TBC]


* SHARPS are Shinheads Against Racial Prejudice, a group of anti-racist skinheads who oppose neo-Nazis and racists who identify as skinheads. They recognize the bases of skinhead culture coming from a multi-racial working class culture in the UK in the 1960s and work to distance skinhead identity from racism. Good in theory, but SHARPs are notorious in my old scene and all of those of people I know (including NY/NJ and Chicago scenes) for violence, disorder, misogyny, and general dickheaded behavior.