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harborshore
Title: Wait for the Morning
Rating: R
Pairing: Bob/Brian
Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, none of what happens in this story is true. Except for Bob's opinions on LA drivers.
Summary: Bob kidnaps Brian at too damn early o'clock to go on a stupid "photo quest" for Gerard's artistic vision or something, and Brian's pretty sure there are ulterior motives but Bob is acting weird and he can't quite figure it out.
Warnings: Uh, none.
Word Count: 11,200.
Author's Notes: Beta'd by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
torakowalski, without whom this would not exist and who loves these two as much as I do, and the incomparable thesamefire, who saved me from Fall Out Boy references and made everything sound so much less stupid. This is for them. Title is from Bob Dylan's "If Not For You."
"Come on, Schechter, get up."
Brian wakes up, blinking at the light in his room. Fumbling for his covers to pull them over his head, he blearily double-checks the alarm. He's pretty sure, yep, he has one more hour of sleep, he doesn't need to get up - wait, that was totally - "Bob?"
Bob doesn't look up from where he's stuffing things into a duffle bag. Into Brian's duffle bag.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"We're going on a road trip." Bob's smiling. It's too fucking early to be smiling.
Brian has no idea what's going on, so he tries for patience. Patience is useful for dealing with crazy people who break into your apartment at five in the morning. "No, we're not going on a road trip, what the fuck, you're, you—" he yawns, fighting sleep, "are supposed to be writing an—"
"Album, yeah, that's why you're going on a road trip. It's a photo quest, Brian, it's fucking epic." What the—yeah, there's Gerard behind Bob, looking really, really excitable. That at least explains how they got in: Gerard still hasn't given back the key Brian lent him back when Gerard was living in hotels.
But fucking hell, this early in the morning and practically bouncing, he can't have— "Gerard, we've talked about sleeping, I know we have. Last week, even."
Gerard shrugs, like it's not important at all—Brian will never know why the Way brothers refuse to accept that sleep is good, sleep is awesome, but he really wishes they'd at least let him do it.
"You should try it too," Bob says, zipping up the bag.
"Try what?" Brian still can't manage to sit up.
"Sleeping."
"I was."
Bob raises an eyebrow. "More than three hours a night."
Brian's not awake enough to deal with Bob Bryar, of all people, telling him how to take care of himself. He squirms around so he's actually sitting up and then rubs at his neck, which has had a permanent crick in it for the last two weeks. "Well, if you go away, I could try and get my fourth hour in before I have to deal with the Bled, they're coming in today and—"
Great, now Gerard has his hands on his hips. That never bodes well. "Brian—" he starts.
Brian shakes his head. "No, don't start, what are you even doing here?"
Gerard's jaw tightens and his posture gets even more intense. Brian can definitely recognize the signs of an impending Way lecture on the sanctity of artistic inspiration; fuck it, it's definitely too early in the morning for that.
Bob's mouth is twitching. He hefts the duffle bag. "I'm going to go put this in the car," he says and then leaves.
Brian tries his best to sound like an Understanding Manager. "Why do you need this photo quest? I thought you weren't doing a concept album this time. I was looking forward to not talking about the same fucking story for months and months." He winces internally. Possibly that wasn't what he should have said if he wanted Gerard to back down.
Gerard shifts and relaxes, though, dialing the intensity down a notch. "Well, you know, it's not, I mean, but I still want it to be cohesive, you know? And the album outline, I was thinking, with photos, see?"
Brian does, sort of. He sighs. "I still don't understand why you want me to go."
"Bob shouldn't drive by himself? Like, his wrists are still sore, even if he won't just fucking say so, you know that, and Mikey can't make him take care of them and I need Ray and I can't send Frank because—"
"Fine, say no more." Bob and Frank in a car together, shit, that would end with Bob killing Frank or with the most unholy series of pranks ever to hit California and a lot of videos Brian would have to delete from Youtube. He rubs at his eyes. "Gee, I just really don't have time. Really really don't." He risks a glance at Gerard, who just looks at him, tilting his head.
"Please, Brian? We'll make it up to you, we won't, hmm, we'll record an album without anyone going nuts, how about that?"
Brian snorts. "Who was it supposed to be this time? Frank?"
Gerard rubs at his jaw with his thumb. "I think we decided it was Ray's turn."
Brian looks at him incredulously, he can't help it. "Ray? Really?"
"Oh, we decided he'd have an anxiety attack from the pressure of being the musical core of the band and shit."
"Right. So I'm actually saving your album in two ways here?
Gerard grins and nods. "As always," he says.
Brian sighs. "Fine, but you owe me, asshole. And I can only be gone for a day and a half."
"Man, that's totally fine. This is going to be fucking awesome."
Brian gets up and pulls on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He turns to his nightstand where—
"What happened to my phone?" He looks expectantly at Gerard, who tries for an innocent expression and fails miserably. "Right, that is fucking it."
As Brian leaves his room, he can hear Gerard laughing behind him.
Still groggy from the lack of sleep, he trips over his own feet while he's getting his shoes on and bangs his elbow into the wall. So far today's shaping up to be just fucking great, thanks. Jacket, wallet, right.
Outside, Bob's standing next to his car on the street, tossing Brian's phone into the air and catching it again. Physical therapy really wasn't supposed to give him back all that dexterity so fast, seriously.
"Give me my fucking phone."
Bob looks at the phone. "Nah."
"Why the hell not?"
"If we're doing this, you're taking time off. And you're way too attached to this thing anyway."
Of all the infuriating assholes Brian's ever worked with, Bob might be the worst one. Gritting his teeth, he says slowly, "You do understand that if we go on this thing. I'll need my phone to do my fucking job, which, by the way, includes keeping up with what your band needs for recording the album."
"Yeah, I talked to Jeff. He'll cover for you."
Brian can't think of anything to say. He's got both hands clenched so hard in his jacket he might be tearing it, he has no idea.
Bob looks at him. A little kinder, he says, "Get in the fucking car, Schechter."
So Brian goes. What the hell else is he supposed to do? It's all got a ridiculous sort of inevitability to it, and now that he's more awake he can actually recognize what's going on as a conspiracy; he's just not sure why they're all so intent on him going with Bob.
He sulks for about half an hour, pointedly ignoring Bob driving and Bob picking music (deliberately, he knows) designed to drive him fucking nuts, before the silence starts making his skin crawl.
"Where are we going first?"
Bob checks something on his phone, driving one-handed, and Brian bites down on three comments about how stupid that is, Bryar, and I'm not getting your band another drummer if you kill yourself.
"The Grand Canyon," Bob says.
"The Grand Canyon? Tell me someone taught Gerard about Google Image Search, or you could give me my phone so I can do it myself—"
Bob shakes his head. "Not the Grand Canyon, a trash can next to the Grand Canyon. He says," Bob checks his phone again, "it's a symbol of the way we treat nature."
"Subtle," Brian mutters.
Bob smiles and flicks his eyes up to check the traffic lights. "Well, it's Gerard."
Brian can't say much to that. It's true.
Gerard also has a terrifying way of making everyone go along with his insane ideas and then making them work. For instance, witness Brian Schechter going away from the office where, among many other things, the members of the Bled are getting ready to switch out one of their members again, for fuck's sake. Thinking about that, he almost asks Bob to turn around (the last time the Bled did this, they broke three tables and a window and traumatized Intern Paul), but he remembers the last time he didn't do what Gerard asked. Projekt fucking Revolution happened, that's what, and Brian had been afraid his band would get killed every damned time they went out on that stage. But it had worked; it had been a good statement. He sighs. He can do a day and a half. The Grand Canyon and back.
He's not going to let Bob know he's given in yet, though. "Was it a specific trash can? Or could we, you know, find one along the way and Photoshop it onto a background of the Grand Canyon?"
Bob quirks an eyebrow at him. "Like you know how to do that."
"Fine, no, but I know people who could."
"You don't think Gerard could tell if we gave him a fake picture?"
Brian crosses his arms. "I'm not sure why you think Gerard is more technical than I am."
Bob snorts. "Maybe I'll get him to show you how to use Facebook later."
"Fuck you, I have a fucking Facebook account."
"Yeah, but you don't actually update it yourself."
"...fine, I make Paul do it." Bob's making suspicious movements with his jaw. That asshole is laughing at him. "Just because you can't do anything without twittering about it—fuck you, are you twittering right now?" Brian tries to grab for the phone, and Bob's definitely laughing now. Quietly, like he does, but still. His eyes go all crinkly at the corners.
Bob holds the phone away from Brian. "Cut it the fuck out or we'll crash, and then what'll you tell Gerard?"
"I will tell him," Brian says tightly, halfway out of his seat with one eye on the traffic, which is standing very still, "that you fucking twittered while driving again and he'll understand, I know he will—"
Fending him off with a well-placed elbow to his side, Bob cradles the phone protectively. "You're so violent, didn't your mom ever tell you not to hit other boys?"
Brian rubs a hand over his ribs, which are hurting now. Drummers and their muscles. "She did, but it's possible I didn't listen."
And they go on in quiet for a while. It feels like being back on the road in more ways than one. Brian leans against the window, watching the endless lines of exit signs gleaming in the sunlight, and he falls asleep, like he always does when someone else is driving.
—
He wakes up, mouth tasting like cotton, in the parking lot of a—it looks like a diner? It's hard to tell, Bob's standing in front of him, blocking his view.
"Come on, man," he's saying, poking at Brian, "Come on, wake up, we need food. I need food or I'll eat you, I swear to God."
Brian blinks. "Sounds dirty," he says, then clears his throat to get rid of the sleep-raspiness. Bob gets a strange look on his face, and Brian should probably try and figure out what that's about, but he has more pressing concerns right now. Like the fact that he's really fucking hungry all of a sudden. "Food, you said?" He slides out of the car, brushing past Bob who flicks a finger at the back of his head.
"Your turn to drive, after."
"Oh, so I can turn us back around then?"
"Yeah, you do that, and you get to explain to Gerard how little his artistic vision means to you." Bob's clearly grinning, Brian can hear it in his voice even though he's not looking at him.
Brian rolls his eyes. "Right, it's a fucking picture of a trash can. He's a genius."
Adopting a very serious tone, Bob starts, "It's like, like a monument to the consumerism of the modern world, and, fuck—" He cracks up, completely failing to keep a straight face.
Brian snorts. "A monument to the consumerism of the modern world? If you're not careful, I'll make you do the interviews about Artistic Vision alone next time."
"Try it and I'll kiss Frank on stage."
"Uh-huh, sure. That'd be a better threat if I didn't know you'd never get him to leave your riser again."
"I could learn to love the little monkey."
Brian pushes the door to the diner open for Bob. "Right, or you'd actually kill him this time."
They keep sniping at each other as they get into a corner booth and order hamburgers. Brian really can't remember the last time he was this hungry; the last few weeks have had him eating in between meetings, and it just always ends up being whatever. He'd actually been thinking he didn't find food that interesting anymore. Man, was he wrong. This burger is amazing.
"This burger is amazing," he says between bites, getting crumbs on his shirt. Bob's eating just as fast as he is, and he thinks maybe the waitresses are staring at them. They finish even faster than they used to on tour, and get back on the road.
—
Brian's driving, following Bob's directions, and it's all relatively quiet for a while, until they start arguing about whether to do the whole drive without stopping or to check out some other stuff while they're at it.
"I'm just saying," Bob's leafing through his printouts, "there are some pretty fucking cool older settlements, like Walnut Canyon, they've got—"
"Are they on Gerard's list? Because if they're not, I'm not stopping. I said I'd go on this little trip of yours, but I need to be back in LA tomorrow. I can't just up and leave and stay gone, I have fucking responsibilities, okay?"
Bob's mouth tightens. "I know about your fucking responsibilities, but things aren't gonna fall apart in two days."
Brian sputters. "People depend on me being there and getting my shit done."
"What about you?" Okay, Bob is actually angry now.
"What about me?"
"You don't sleep enough, you don't eat enough, you're not going to be able—" He bites down on something. Brian wants him to finish.
"Not going to what?"
"Not going to be able to do your fucking job if you don't let some of it go."
"Who's supposed to do it if I don't? I can't call in a tech to replace me." Brian hears what he just said and breathes in, "I didn't—"
Bob's lips are white. "Shut up, Schechter."
"I just—"
Not even looking at Brian, Bob repeats, "Shut up."
Brian shuts up. Tries to figure out why he said that and fails. Bob's quiet next to him, eyes distant.
They drive on in increasingly awkward silence until signs for Walnut Canyon come up.
Brian clears his throat. "That it?"
Startled, Bob looks over at him. "Yeah, that's what I—why?"
Brian doesn't respond, just takes the exit, and they spend two hours looking at old settlements, limestone alcoves people built over a thousand years ago. They don't say much, but Bob takes a couple of pictures and sends them to Gerard. He makes fun of Brian for being able to stand upright in the alcoves, and takes a picture of that too, before Brian can stop him.
Pushing away from the rock, Brian grabs for Bob's phone.
"So help me god, if you put that on your website—"
Bob holds the phone away from him easily. "Don't worry about it," he says, "and anyway, I have much worse pictures of you in here."
"What the hell—"
"Don't blame me, you fell asleep in the car. That's fair game."
"You really think you can make a case for tour rules applying on a road trip?"
"Why not? We never said they were only valid on tour."
—
The rest of the drive to Grand Canyon passes quickly while they argue about what exactly does constitute a valid application of tour rules on a road trip. Bob also decides Brian needs driving advice, because, "Seriously, you drive like you've lived in LA your whole life," and he pulls out his phone and starts reading road safety advice from a blog he says he found while getting directions for their trip. The blog is called Drive Safe With Uncle Bob, and it's pretty fucking ridiculous, but Bob seems to like it.
"'Lesson 8'," Bob intones somberly, "'Motorcyclist, Protect Thyself.'" And Brian grins as he drives.
—
Getting into the Grand Canyon area, though, is ridiculous. Brian's reminded of negotiating vans and merch and equipment and band members not in their buses and putting it all together into a working setup for a show, except he doesn't think this show has any kind of tour manager. He's also not sure what all those people are here for. It's February, don't they know it's cold here? Goddamn hikers. Thankfully, Bob knows where they're going, and directs him smoothly (as smoothly as he can) through the chaos, into the park and up to what he says is Yaki Point, where they're supposed to take a trail so they can get that sunset picture.
When they're out of the car, Brian folds his hands together and stretches to crack his spine—driving always makes him feel shorter, and let's be honest here, he doesn't need that. He looks at Bob to find him looking back, weirdly intent again. Fucking strange.
He clears his throat. "So, fearless leader, where to?"
Bob checks his phone. "It's 4:30," he says, "We should get going now, so we get up there by the sunset."
Brian snickers. "Did Gerard really specify a trash can at sunset?"
Grinning, Bob shakes his head. "Nah, but I figure he'll appreciate the extra touch of romantic, you know?"
"Yeah, you're more than right about that." Brian shakes his head and gestures at Bob. "Lead on, I don't have a fucking clue where we're going."
Bob looks up and checks the signs. "That way," he says, and points across to a trail starting on the other side of the road.
Because Bob is ridiculous, he grabs Brian a sweater out of the bag he'd thrown together that morning and won't take an extra one for himself until Brian points out the hypocrisy in that. He gets an eyeroll but Bob unzips his jacket and adds a layer before they take off.
—
As it turns out, the Kaibab trail is kind of difficult, and Brian has to focus on staying on his feet and not tripping over rocks and things. "Admit it," he says, stopping to breathe, "You picked this trail on purpose."
"What are you implying," Bob says dryly, "that I like seeing you sweat?"
Brian looks up from his feet at that, in time to see Bob flush, and responds, "I was thinking you like seeing me suffer, actually."
Bob rolls his eyes. "Come on, I want to get up there before the sun actually sets."
And they keep going, Brian composing irate emails to Gerard in his head the whole way about idiot bands and their art, seriously, they're making a rock album, why is hiking necessary for a rock album?
When they get to a place with a view Bob likes, the sun's already setting. Bob looks around and points at the ground. "Sit here," he says.
"While you do what? Shouldn't we explore or something, isn't that the fucking point of this place?"
"I'm going to find a trash can," Bob says mildly.
"I can help you look. You know I don't like—"
"Nature? Sitting still?"
"Well, yeah."
"Fucking five-year-old sometimes, swear to god," Bob grumbles, then looks at Brian. "Just—sit your ass down and enjoy the fucking view."
So Brian sits down. He listens to Bob move around, taking a couple of pictures, and yeah, he looks at the view. The Grand Canyon, well, it's a tourist trap for a reason, and the sunset kind of hits everything right now. Gold and red and yellow, ridiculous like a postcard, a painted one, colors that shouldn't be real. Looking down, he has a hard time imagining LA, and he'll never tell Bob this because he'd laugh and laugh, but it feels like it's easier to breathe, right here.
Sitting still for too long makes him nervous, though, so after some sunset and some pretty and, all right, fine, it's calm and shit, but can they go back now?
He looks over at Bob, who's frowning at the gorge below them.
"What, did you drop your phone? Because that'd make my day."
"Can it," Bob replies, automatically, and then looks up. "Nah, I just remembered it'll take us an hour to get down too, and, uh, it's possible I didn't bring a flashlight."
"No, seriously."
"I didn't bring a flashlight."
"This is what fucking happens when you don't let me plan these things."
"If I had left it up to you we wouldn't have fucking gone, okay, and I have a flashlight, it's just—"
"In the car," Brian finishes for him.
Bob smiles ruefully. "Yeah, in the car."
"Moron."
"Neurotic asshole."
"Fucking musicians, all talent and no life skills. You used to be a tech, you used to be well-prepared—this is just tragic...you're not listening to me."
Bob really isn't paying attention, he's messing around with his phone, and then, "Yes! Flashlight in my phone, man, awesome."
"You do? I mean, you could give me my phone, maybe I have one too."
"Nice try."
"How long are you holding it hostage?"
Bob's looking more serious all of a sudden. "Until—I don't know, until you can be less of a fucking moron about taking care of yourself." He turns away and starts walking toward the trail again.
Brian kind of just stares after him, because how's he supposed to—what the fuck? Bob Bryar is the fucking poster child for not taking care of himself, okay, where the hell does the guy who kept playing when he was, oh yeah, on fire, get off deciding Brian's overworked?
"Asshole, wait."
Bob turns. "What?"
"You can't just—you can't just decide that shit for me, that's not your job, okay? You're not my mom or my girlfriend or, I don't know, I fucking work for you! I take care of you, that's my job! You don't get to—"
"I don't get to do what? Watch as you work just a little more, just a few more hours, sleep a little less, then a lot less, and I don't fucking recognize you anymore, you can't just—" He breaks off.
"I can't just what?"
"I'm worried about you, okay?" Bob says, quietly and seriously, and the fight goes out of Brian. He scratches at his eyebrow, tries to match Bob's calm.
"You don't have to worry about me, I can take care of—"
Shaking his head, Bob says, "Right, the way you were taking care of yourself before we left." He takes a deep breath. "You know what, let's not do this right now. Let's get off this mountain and get some food and sleep, and we can talk about it again in the morning."
"Fine." Brian pauses, tries to gauge how mad Bob actually is. Maybe—"At least tell me what Gerard's next photo thing is?"
Bob shakes his head, but his mouth is less tight. "He hasn't told me yet."
—
They do eventually make it down the mountain. After tripping at least eight times, Brian decides that the fact that Bob never falls is completely unfair. Brian tells him this after he slips in the gravel and lands on his ass for the fourth time, but Bob just shrugs and says something about physical therapy and regaining drummer coordination and ignores Brian's muttering about him not drumming with his feet to drag him back up. Then, to add insult to injury, he insists on going first all the way down, even though technically (as Brian points out) Bob's by far the more valuable of the two of them, and if anyone should fall over in the dark, it should be Brian.
Back in the parking lot, Brian leans against the car and tries to get his legs to stop shaking. It's possible he should work out more often.
"So, where are we going now?"
"Hotel."
"Excellent. You owe me something really fucking good from room service after making me hike in the dark—"
Bob looks at him resignedly. "You're not going to stop going on about that, are you?"
"Nah. Not before the bruises heal, anyway," Brian grins.
Reaching out as if he's going to tug Brian's shirt up and check for injuries, Bob asks him pointedly, "Tell me, are you just being a pussy, or did you actually get hurt?"
Brian laughs and evades Bob's outstretched hand. "Fuck you, I'm fine. Yeah, I don't think my ass likes you right now, but whatever."
Backing off quickly, Bob pulls his phone out and becomes very intent on checking it. "Right, right, whatever. Uh, the hotel. It's actually really close."
Brian arches an eyebrow at him. "Seriously, you need to stop hanging out with the morons in your band so much, you're forgetting flashlights left and right and your comebacks are terrible. It's sad, that's what it is."
"Oh, get in the car," Bob says and opens the door for him, offering him help up into his seat. Brian slaps his hand away and climbs in; yeah, he's kind of sore. It's going to suck in the morning.
—
They pull into the parking lot of the Red Feather Lodge and unload the car in thirty seconds flat. It's not like they brought a lot, but Brian likes that they can still do that, still work without talking and do it well.
Shouldering the door to the hotel open, he steps aside so Bob can get through and up to the counter. He apparently already has a room booked (no matter how much he's been complaining, Brian's sort of really grateful Bob planned this trip instead of one of the other idiots, because that way it actually is planned) so it's just a matter of minutes to get them checked in and up to the room.
It's nice, nothing special. Two beds and a TV, like every other hotel room in America, but something relaxes in Brian when he gets inside. He can't help it; he spent so many years on the road that everything about these rooms feels like home, right down to the ugly carpet and the beat-up couch.
Bob drops his bag on the bed closest to the window and turns to Brian. "So let's get you that food now, before you become even more of a bitch."
"I don't know where to find food." Brian grimaces at his own tone. Yeah, he should probably eat.
"Uh, room service, maybe? You should take a bath while we wait."
Brian can feel himself staring at Bob. "A bath? Do I smell or something? I thought you were immune to that, or you should be by now."
"No, but, the hiking." Bob's kind of red again and waves his hand at Brian while picking up the phone. "Go get clean and less sore. I'm not dealing with your whining tomorrow."
Brian shakes his head, but grabs a towel and goes into the bathroom. It's not a bad idea, but he doesn't think Bob's ever been this solicitous before. Bob's normally more of an asshole; not that he hasn't been a shithead as usual on this trip, but he keeps doing that, the mother-henning and the concerned glances. And Brian can't stop hearing the way he sounded when he said he was worried. Seriously unhappy, there.
He thinks about it while in the bath. The water's almost hotter than he can stand, but his muscles are unknotting, he can tell, which is good after that long, cold hike down the trail in the dark. He's having a hard time figuring out why Bob is so worried this time, and that irritates him. Brian always works too much, this isn't new. And, you know, where the hell did Bob, who injures himself on a more-than-regular basis, get the idea that he's the one who should save Brian from himself? Condescending asshole.
Gritting his teeth, he gets out and dries off while muttering to himself about drummers who nearly kill themselves multiple times and then think they're equipped to take care of other people. He's about to say so to Bob when he gets out of the bathroom, but he halts at the look in Bob's eyes. It's—sort of really, really blue, and he's, uh, his cheeks are pink, and he's just looking, like Brian is the most fascinating thing in the room.
It makes Brian feel fucking self-conscious, so he walks over to his bed to grab some clothes out of his bag. Normally, he'd just put on boxers and a t-shirt or keep the towel on, the room's warm enough and they won't be going anywhere, and it's not like Bob and him haven't sat around half-naked and watched TV before. It's just that, well, he feels like putting on jeans, that's all. He also kind of thinks he can still feel Bob looking at him, which is ridiculous, obviously. Except then he turns around and Bob is. Brian would really like to know what exactly is going on. Also, why he's reacting the way he is. If he didn't know better, he'd say—and he freezes as he's pulling his jeans out of his bag. He hasn't—hasn't gotten laid in so long, that's all, fuck, he doesn't want Bob, not like that, he just doesn't.
A thought skips around in the back of his mind going, "but his eyes are so blue," and, wow, Brian's really disturbed by how the inside of his head has apparently decided to flutter its metaphorical eyelashes at Bob. It's Bob, for fuck's sake. Brian's oldest friend, knows him better than anyone—
"You're thinking too hard again, Schechter." Right. Better than anyone.
Brian turns, pulling a shirt on. "Nah, just trying to figure out if you ever ordered that food or if I'm going to starve to death in a motel in Arizona."
"Should be here in a couple of minutes."
"You got me a—"
"Give me some fucking credit, I know what you like."
And doesn't that idea sound different now, given what Brian's been thinking about for the past few minutes. He swallows and replies, "Fine, yeah."
—
Bob's right, though—he does know what Brian likes. The sandwich is perfect and Brian spends a few really embarrassing minutes thinking about what else Bob might get right. Then he shakes his head and decides not to get fucking girly tonight (it must be the Grand Canyon, it's totally fucking with his head) and watch the damned movie. Which, what the hell. Why is Bob watching a Kelly Clarkson movie?
"American Idol, Bryar? From Justin to Kelly?"
Bob grins. "I was wondering when you'd notice." He types out a text on his phone.
"What the hell?"
"I was betting with the guys on how long it would take you to notice what we were watching."
Brian snorts. "Who won?"
"I did, obviously." Obviously.
Brian spends the next 45 minutes swearing out loud at Bob and the movie and quietly at himself because he can't stop thinking about it. It's not like he's never fucked around with a guy before, he's always been pretty equal opportunity as far as these things go, but he doesn't know if Bob ever has. Oh, fuck, he shouldn't even be thinking about this, he should be getting the fuck over himself and remember he's a fucking professional, that's what he should do.
The movie ends in some sort of song-and-dance-number that Brian rearranges in his head to include a lot of loud guitars so he doesn't have to hear the singing, and then Bob turns off the TV.
"Bedtime, now. You need it."
"Who says you get to decide what I need?" Wow, that sounded dumb.
Bob's mouth twitches. "Well, maybe sleeping will get you some better comebacks."
Brian just rolls his eyes and gets under the covers. He's actually pretty sure he'll have trouble sleeping now.
—
Wait for the Morning, part 2
Rating: R
Pairing: Bob/Brian
Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, none of what happens in this story is true. Except for Bob's opinions on LA drivers.
Summary: Bob kidnaps Brian at too damn early o'clock to go on a stupid "photo quest" for Gerard's artistic vision or something, and Brian's pretty sure there are ulterior motives but Bob is acting weird and he can't quite figure it out.
Warnings: Uh, none.
Word Count: 11,200.
Author's Notes: Beta'd by
torakowalski, without whom this would not exist and who loves these two as much as I do, and the incomparable thesamefire, who saved me from Fall Out Boy references and made everything sound so much less stupid. This is for them. Title is from Bob Dylan's "If Not For You.""Come on, Schechter, get up."
Brian wakes up, blinking at the light in his room. Fumbling for his covers to pull them over his head, he blearily double-checks the alarm. He's pretty sure, yep, he has one more hour of sleep, he doesn't need to get up - wait, that was totally - "Bob?"
Bob doesn't look up from where he's stuffing things into a duffle bag. Into Brian's duffle bag.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"We're going on a road trip." Bob's smiling. It's too fucking early to be smiling.
Brian has no idea what's going on, so he tries for patience. Patience is useful for dealing with crazy people who break into your apartment at five in the morning. "No, we're not going on a road trip, what the fuck, you're, you—" he yawns, fighting sleep, "are supposed to be writing an—"
"Album, yeah, that's why you're going on a road trip. It's a photo quest, Brian, it's fucking epic." What the—yeah, there's Gerard behind Bob, looking really, really excitable. That at least explains how they got in: Gerard still hasn't given back the key Brian lent him back when Gerard was living in hotels.
But fucking hell, this early in the morning and practically bouncing, he can't have— "Gerard, we've talked about sleeping, I know we have. Last week, even."
Gerard shrugs, like it's not important at all—Brian will never know why the Way brothers refuse to accept that sleep is good, sleep is awesome, but he really wishes they'd at least let him do it.
"You should try it too," Bob says, zipping up the bag.
"Try what?" Brian still can't manage to sit up.
"Sleeping."
"I was."
Bob raises an eyebrow. "More than three hours a night."
Brian's not awake enough to deal with Bob Bryar, of all people, telling him how to take care of himself. He squirms around so he's actually sitting up and then rubs at his neck, which has had a permanent crick in it for the last two weeks. "Well, if you go away, I could try and get my fourth hour in before I have to deal with the Bled, they're coming in today and—"
Great, now Gerard has his hands on his hips. That never bodes well. "Brian—" he starts.
Brian shakes his head. "No, don't start, what are you even doing here?"
Gerard's jaw tightens and his posture gets even more intense. Brian can definitely recognize the signs of an impending Way lecture on the sanctity of artistic inspiration; fuck it, it's definitely too early in the morning for that.
Bob's mouth is twitching. He hefts the duffle bag. "I'm going to go put this in the car," he says and then leaves.
Brian tries his best to sound like an Understanding Manager. "Why do you need this photo quest? I thought you weren't doing a concept album this time. I was looking forward to not talking about the same fucking story for months and months." He winces internally. Possibly that wasn't what he should have said if he wanted Gerard to back down.
Gerard shifts and relaxes, though, dialing the intensity down a notch. "Well, you know, it's not, I mean, but I still want it to be cohesive, you know? And the album outline, I was thinking, with photos, see?"
Brian does, sort of. He sighs. "I still don't understand why you want me to go."
"Bob shouldn't drive by himself? Like, his wrists are still sore, even if he won't just fucking say so, you know that, and Mikey can't make him take care of them and I need Ray and I can't send Frank because—"
"Fine, say no more." Bob and Frank in a car together, shit, that would end with Bob killing Frank or with the most unholy series of pranks ever to hit California and a lot of videos Brian would have to delete from Youtube. He rubs at his eyes. "Gee, I just really don't have time. Really really don't." He risks a glance at Gerard, who just looks at him, tilting his head.
"Please, Brian? We'll make it up to you, we won't, hmm, we'll record an album without anyone going nuts, how about that?"
Brian snorts. "Who was it supposed to be this time? Frank?"
Gerard rubs at his jaw with his thumb. "I think we decided it was Ray's turn."
Brian looks at him incredulously, he can't help it. "Ray? Really?"
"Oh, we decided he'd have an anxiety attack from the pressure of being the musical core of the band and shit."
"Right. So I'm actually saving your album in two ways here?
Gerard grins and nods. "As always," he says.
Brian sighs. "Fine, but you owe me, asshole. And I can only be gone for a day and a half."
"Man, that's totally fine. This is going to be fucking awesome."
Brian gets up and pulls on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He turns to his nightstand where—
"What happened to my phone?" He looks expectantly at Gerard, who tries for an innocent expression and fails miserably. "Right, that is fucking it."
As Brian leaves his room, he can hear Gerard laughing behind him.
Still groggy from the lack of sleep, he trips over his own feet while he's getting his shoes on and bangs his elbow into the wall. So far today's shaping up to be just fucking great, thanks. Jacket, wallet, right.
Outside, Bob's standing next to his car on the street, tossing Brian's phone into the air and catching it again. Physical therapy really wasn't supposed to give him back all that dexterity so fast, seriously.
"Give me my fucking phone."
Bob looks at the phone. "Nah."
"Why the hell not?"
"If we're doing this, you're taking time off. And you're way too attached to this thing anyway."
Of all the infuriating assholes Brian's ever worked with, Bob might be the worst one. Gritting his teeth, he says slowly, "You do understand that if we go on this thing. I'll need my phone to do my fucking job, which, by the way, includes keeping up with what your band needs for recording the album."
"Yeah, I talked to Jeff. He'll cover for you."
Brian can't think of anything to say. He's got both hands clenched so hard in his jacket he might be tearing it, he has no idea.
Bob looks at him. A little kinder, he says, "Get in the fucking car, Schechter."
So Brian goes. What the hell else is he supposed to do? It's all got a ridiculous sort of inevitability to it, and now that he's more awake he can actually recognize what's going on as a conspiracy; he's just not sure why they're all so intent on him going with Bob.
He sulks for about half an hour, pointedly ignoring Bob driving and Bob picking music (deliberately, he knows) designed to drive him fucking nuts, before the silence starts making his skin crawl.
"Where are we going first?"
Bob checks something on his phone, driving one-handed, and Brian bites down on three comments about how stupid that is, Bryar, and I'm not getting your band another drummer if you kill yourself.
"The Grand Canyon," Bob says.
"The Grand Canyon? Tell me someone taught Gerard about Google Image Search, or you could give me my phone so I can do it myself—"
Bob shakes his head. "Not the Grand Canyon, a trash can next to the Grand Canyon. He says," Bob checks his phone again, "it's a symbol of the way we treat nature."
"Subtle," Brian mutters.
Bob smiles and flicks his eyes up to check the traffic lights. "Well, it's Gerard."
Brian can't say much to that. It's true.
Gerard also has a terrifying way of making everyone go along with his insane ideas and then making them work. For instance, witness Brian Schechter going away from the office where, among many other things, the members of the Bled are getting ready to switch out one of their members again, for fuck's sake. Thinking about that, he almost asks Bob to turn around (the last time the Bled did this, they broke three tables and a window and traumatized Intern Paul), but he remembers the last time he didn't do what Gerard asked. Projekt fucking Revolution happened, that's what, and Brian had been afraid his band would get killed every damned time they went out on that stage. But it had worked; it had been a good statement. He sighs. He can do a day and a half. The Grand Canyon and back.
He's not going to let Bob know he's given in yet, though. "Was it a specific trash can? Or could we, you know, find one along the way and Photoshop it onto a background of the Grand Canyon?"
Bob quirks an eyebrow at him. "Like you know how to do that."
"Fine, no, but I know people who could."
"You don't think Gerard could tell if we gave him a fake picture?"
Brian crosses his arms. "I'm not sure why you think Gerard is more technical than I am."
Bob snorts. "Maybe I'll get him to show you how to use Facebook later."
"Fuck you, I have a fucking Facebook account."
"Yeah, but you don't actually update it yourself."
"...fine, I make Paul do it." Bob's making suspicious movements with his jaw. That asshole is laughing at him. "Just because you can't do anything without twittering about it—fuck you, are you twittering right now?" Brian tries to grab for the phone, and Bob's definitely laughing now. Quietly, like he does, but still. His eyes go all crinkly at the corners.
Bob holds the phone away from Brian. "Cut it the fuck out or we'll crash, and then what'll you tell Gerard?"
"I will tell him," Brian says tightly, halfway out of his seat with one eye on the traffic, which is standing very still, "that you fucking twittered while driving again and he'll understand, I know he will—"
Fending him off with a well-placed elbow to his side, Bob cradles the phone protectively. "You're so violent, didn't your mom ever tell you not to hit other boys?"
Brian rubs a hand over his ribs, which are hurting now. Drummers and their muscles. "She did, but it's possible I didn't listen."
And they go on in quiet for a while. It feels like being back on the road in more ways than one. Brian leans against the window, watching the endless lines of exit signs gleaming in the sunlight, and he falls asleep, like he always does when someone else is driving.
—
He wakes up, mouth tasting like cotton, in the parking lot of a—it looks like a diner? It's hard to tell, Bob's standing in front of him, blocking his view.
"Come on, man," he's saying, poking at Brian, "Come on, wake up, we need food. I need food or I'll eat you, I swear to God."
Brian blinks. "Sounds dirty," he says, then clears his throat to get rid of the sleep-raspiness. Bob gets a strange look on his face, and Brian should probably try and figure out what that's about, but he has more pressing concerns right now. Like the fact that he's really fucking hungry all of a sudden. "Food, you said?" He slides out of the car, brushing past Bob who flicks a finger at the back of his head.
"Your turn to drive, after."
"Oh, so I can turn us back around then?"
"Yeah, you do that, and you get to explain to Gerard how little his artistic vision means to you." Bob's clearly grinning, Brian can hear it in his voice even though he's not looking at him.
Brian rolls his eyes. "Right, it's a fucking picture of a trash can. He's a genius."
Adopting a very serious tone, Bob starts, "It's like, like a monument to the consumerism of the modern world, and, fuck—" He cracks up, completely failing to keep a straight face.
Brian snorts. "A monument to the consumerism of the modern world? If you're not careful, I'll make you do the interviews about Artistic Vision alone next time."
"Try it and I'll kiss Frank on stage."
"Uh-huh, sure. That'd be a better threat if I didn't know you'd never get him to leave your riser again."
"I could learn to love the little monkey."
Brian pushes the door to the diner open for Bob. "Right, or you'd actually kill him this time."
They keep sniping at each other as they get into a corner booth and order hamburgers. Brian really can't remember the last time he was this hungry; the last few weeks have had him eating in between meetings, and it just always ends up being whatever. He'd actually been thinking he didn't find food that interesting anymore. Man, was he wrong. This burger is amazing.
"This burger is amazing," he says between bites, getting crumbs on his shirt. Bob's eating just as fast as he is, and he thinks maybe the waitresses are staring at them. They finish even faster than they used to on tour, and get back on the road.
—
Brian's driving, following Bob's directions, and it's all relatively quiet for a while, until they start arguing about whether to do the whole drive without stopping or to check out some other stuff while they're at it.
"I'm just saying," Bob's leafing through his printouts, "there are some pretty fucking cool older settlements, like Walnut Canyon, they've got—"
"Are they on Gerard's list? Because if they're not, I'm not stopping. I said I'd go on this little trip of yours, but I need to be back in LA tomorrow. I can't just up and leave and stay gone, I have fucking responsibilities, okay?"
Bob's mouth tightens. "I know about your fucking responsibilities, but things aren't gonna fall apart in two days."
Brian sputters. "People depend on me being there and getting my shit done."
"What about you?" Okay, Bob is actually angry now.
"What about me?"
"You don't sleep enough, you don't eat enough, you're not going to be able—" He bites down on something. Brian wants him to finish.
"Not going to what?"
"Not going to be able to do your fucking job if you don't let some of it go."
"Who's supposed to do it if I don't? I can't call in a tech to replace me." Brian hears what he just said and breathes in, "I didn't—"
Bob's lips are white. "Shut up, Schechter."
"I just—"
Not even looking at Brian, Bob repeats, "Shut up."
Brian shuts up. Tries to figure out why he said that and fails. Bob's quiet next to him, eyes distant.
They drive on in increasingly awkward silence until signs for Walnut Canyon come up.
Brian clears his throat. "That it?"
Startled, Bob looks over at him. "Yeah, that's what I—why?"
Brian doesn't respond, just takes the exit, and they spend two hours looking at old settlements, limestone alcoves people built over a thousand years ago. They don't say much, but Bob takes a couple of pictures and sends them to Gerard. He makes fun of Brian for being able to stand upright in the alcoves, and takes a picture of that too, before Brian can stop him.
Pushing away from the rock, Brian grabs for Bob's phone.
"So help me god, if you put that on your website—"
Bob holds the phone away from him easily. "Don't worry about it," he says, "and anyway, I have much worse pictures of you in here."
"What the hell—"
"Don't blame me, you fell asleep in the car. That's fair game."
"You really think you can make a case for tour rules applying on a road trip?"
"Why not? We never said they were only valid on tour."
—
The rest of the drive to Grand Canyon passes quickly while they argue about what exactly does constitute a valid application of tour rules on a road trip. Bob also decides Brian needs driving advice, because, "Seriously, you drive like you've lived in LA your whole life," and he pulls out his phone and starts reading road safety advice from a blog he says he found while getting directions for their trip. The blog is called Drive Safe With Uncle Bob, and it's pretty fucking ridiculous, but Bob seems to like it.
"'Lesson 8'," Bob intones somberly, "'Motorcyclist, Protect Thyself.'" And Brian grins as he drives.
—
Getting into the Grand Canyon area, though, is ridiculous. Brian's reminded of negotiating vans and merch and equipment and band members not in their buses and putting it all together into a working setup for a show, except he doesn't think this show has any kind of tour manager. He's also not sure what all those people are here for. It's February, don't they know it's cold here? Goddamn hikers. Thankfully, Bob knows where they're going, and directs him smoothly (as smoothly as he can) through the chaos, into the park and up to what he says is Yaki Point, where they're supposed to take a trail so they can get that sunset picture.
When they're out of the car, Brian folds his hands together and stretches to crack his spine—driving always makes him feel shorter, and let's be honest here, he doesn't need that. He looks at Bob to find him looking back, weirdly intent again. Fucking strange.
He clears his throat. "So, fearless leader, where to?"
Bob checks his phone. "It's 4:30," he says, "We should get going now, so we get up there by the sunset."
Brian snickers. "Did Gerard really specify a trash can at sunset?"
Grinning, Bob shakes his head. "Nah, but I figure he'll appreciate the extra touch of romantic, you know?"
"Yeah, you're more than right about that." Brian shakes his head and gestures at Bob. "Lead on, I don't have a fucking clue where we're going."
Bob looks up and checks the signs. "That way," he says, and points across to a trail starting on the other side of the road.
Because Bob is ridiculous, he grabs Brian a sweater out of the bag he'd thrown together that morning and won't take an extra one for himself until Brian points out the hypocrisy in that. He gets an eyeroll but Bob unzips his jacket and adds a layer before they take off.
—
As it turns out, the Kaibab trail is kind of difficult, and Brian has to focus on staying on his feet and not tripping over rocks and things. "Admit it," he says, stopping to breathe, "You picked this trail on purpose."
"What are you implying," Bob says dryly, "that I like seeing you sweat?"
Brian looks up from his feet at that, in time to see Bob flush, and responds, "I was thinking you like seeing me suffer, actually."
Bob rolls his eyes. "Come on, I want to get up there before the sun actually sets."
And they keep going, Brian composing irate emails to Gerard in his head the whole way about idiot bands and their art, seriously, they're making a rock album, why is hiking necessary for a rock album?
When they get to a place with a view Bob likes, the sun's already setting. Bob looks around and points at the ground. "Sit here," he says.
"While you do what? Shouldn't we explore or something, isn't that the fucking point of this place?"
"I'm going to find a trash can," Bob says mildly.
"I can help you look. You know I don't like—"
"Nature? Sitting still?"
"Well, yeah."
"Fucking five-year-old sometimes, swear to god," Bob grumbles, then looks at Brian. "Just—sit your ass down and enjoy the fucking view."
So Brian sits down. He listens to Bob move around, taking a couple of pictures, and yeah, he looks at the view. The Grand Canyon, well, it's a tourist trap for a reason, and the sunset kind of hits everything right now. Gold and red and yellow, ridiculous like a postcard, a painted one, colors that shouldn't be real. Looking down, he has a hard time imagining LA, and he'll never tell Bob this because he'd laugh and laugh, but it feels like it's easier to breathe, right here.
Sitting still for too long makes him nervous, though, so after some sunset and some pretty and, all right, fine, it's calm and shit, but can they go back now?
He looks over at Bob, who's frowning at the gorge below them.
"What, did you drop your phone? Because that'd make my day."
"Can it," Bob replies, automatically, and then looks up. "Nah, I just remembered it'll take us an hour to get down too, and, uh, it's possible I didn't bring a flashlight."
"No, seriously."
"I didn't bring a flashlight."
"This is what fucking happens when you don't let me plan these things."
"If I had left it up to you we wouldn't have fucking gone, okay, and I have a flashlight, it's just—"
"In the car," Brian finishes for him.
Bob smiles ruefully. "Yeah, in the car."
"Moron."
"Neurotic asshole."
"Fucking musicians, all talent and no life skills. You used to be a tech, you used to be well-prepared—this is just tragic...you're not listening to me."
Bob really isn't paying attention, he's messing around with his phone, and then, "Yes! Flashlight in my phone, man, awesome."
"You do? I mean, you could give me my phone, maybe I have one too."
"Nice try."
"How long are you holding it hostage?"
Bob's looking more serious all of a sudden. "Until—I don't know, until you can be less of a fucking moron about taking care of yourself." He turns away and starts walking toward the trail again.
Brian kind of just stares after him, because how's he supposed to—what the fuck? Bob Bryar is the fucking poster child for not taking care of himself, okay, where the hell does the guy who kept playing when he was, oh yeah, on fire, get off deciding Brian's overworked?
"Asshole, wait."
Bob turns. "What?"
"You can't just—you can't just decide that shit for me, that's not your job, okay? You're not my mom or my girlfriend or, I don't know, I fucking work for you! I take care of you, that's my job! You don't get to—"
"I don't get to do what? Watch as you work just a little more, just a few more hours, sleep a little less, then a lot less, and I don't fucking recognize you anymore, you can't just—" He breaks off.
"I can't just what?"
"I'm worried about you, okay?" Bob says, quietly and seriously, and the fight goes out of Brian. He scratches at his eyebrow, tries to match Bob's calm.
"You don't have to worry about me, I can take care of—"
Shaking his head, Bob says, "Right, the way you were taking care of yourself before we left." He takes a deep breath. "You know what, let's not do this right now. Let's get off this mountain and get some food and sleep, and we can talk about it again in the morning."
"Fine." Brian pauses, tries to gauge how mad Bob actually is. Maybe—"At least tell me what Gerard's next photo thing is?"
Bob shakes his head, but his mouth is less tight. "He hasn't told me yet."
—
They do eventually make it down the mountain. After tripping at least eight times, Brian decides that the fact that Bob never falls is completely unfair. Brian tells him this after he slips in the gravel and lands on his ass for the fourth time, but Bob just shrugs and says something about physical therapy and regaining drummer coordination and ignores Brian's muttering about him not drumming with his feet to drag him back up. Then, to add insult to injury, he insists on going first all the way down, even though technically (as Brian points out) Bob's by far the more valuable of the two of them, and if anyone should fall over in the dark, it should be Brian.
Back in the parking lot, Brian leans against the car and tries to get his legs to stop shaking. It's possible he should work out more often.
"So, where are we going now?"
"Hotel."
"Excellent. You owe me something really fucking good from room service after making me hike in the dark—"
Bob looks at him resignedly. "You're not going to stop going on about that, are you?"
"Nah. Not before the bruises heal, anyway," Brian grins.
Reaching out as if he's going to tug Brian's shirt up and check for injuries, Bob asks him pointedly, "Tell me, are you just being a pussy, or did you actually get hurt?"
Brian laughs and evades Bob's outstretched hand. "Fuck you, I'm fine. Yeah, I don't think my ass likes you right now, but whatever."
Backing off quickly, Bob pulls his phone out and becomes very intent on checking it. "Right, right, whatever. Uh, the hotel. It's actually really close."
Brian arches an eyebrow at him. "Seriously, you need to stop hanging out with the morons in your band so much, you're forgetting flashlights left and right and your comebacks are terrible. It's sad, that's what it is."
"Oh, get in the car," Bob says and opens the door for him, offering him help up into his seat. Brian slaps his hand away and climbs in; yeah, he's kind of sore. It's going to suck in the morning.
—
They pull into the parking lot of the Red Feather Lodge and unload the car in thirty seconds flat. It's not like they brought a lot, but Brian likes that they can still do that, still work without talking and do it well.
Shouldering the door to the hotel open, he steps aside so Bob can get through and up to the counter. He apparently already has a room booked (no matter how much he's been complaining, Brian's sort of really grateful Bob planned this trip instead of one of the other idiots, because that way it actually is planned) so it's just a matter of minutes to get them checked in and up to the room.
It's nice, nothing special. Two beds and a TV, like every other hotel room in America, but something relaxes in Brian when he gets inside. He can't help it; he spent so many years on the road that everything about these rooms feels like home, right down to the ugly carpet and the beat-up couch.
Bob drops his bag on the bed closest to the window and turns to Brian. "So let's get you that food now, before you become even more of a bitch."
"I don't know where to find food." Brian grimaces at his own tone. Yeah, he should probably eat.
"Uh, room service, maybe? You should take a bath while we wait."
Brian can feel himself staring at Bob. "A bath? Do I smell or something? I thought you were immune to that, or you should be by now."
"No, but, the hiking." Bob's kind of red again and waves his hand at Brian while picking up the phone. "Go get clean and less sore. I'm not dealing with your whining tomorrow."
Brian shakes his head, but grabs a towel and goes into the bathroom. It's not a bad idea, but he doesn't think Bob's ever been this solicitous before. Bob's normally more of an asshole; not that he hasn't been a shithead as usual on this trip, but he keeps doing that, the mother-henning and the concerned glances. And Brian can't stop hearing the way he sounded when he said he was worried. Seriously unhappy, there.
He thinks about it while in the bath. The water's almost hotter than he can stand, but his muscles are unknotting, he can tell, which is good after that long, cold hike down the trail in the dark. He's having a hard time figuring out why Bob is so worried this time, and that irritates him. Brian always works too much, this isn't new. And, you know, where the hell did Bob, who injures himself on a more-than-regular basis, get the idea that he's the one who should save Brian from himself? Condescending asshole.
Gritting his teeth, he gets out and dries off while muttering to himself about drummers who nearly kill themselves multiple times and then think they're equipped to take care of other people. He's about to say so to Bob when he gets out of the bathroom, but he halts at the look in Bob's eyes. It's—sort of really, really blue, and he's, uh, his cheeks are pink, and he's just looking, like Brian is the most fascinating thing in the room.
It makes Brian feel fucking self-conscious, so he walks over to his bed to grab some clothes out of his bag. Normally, he'd just put on boxers and a t-shirt or keep the towel on, the room's warm enough and they won't be going anywhere, and it's not like Bob and him haven't sat around half-naked and watched TV before. It's just that, well, he feels like putting on jeans, that's all. He also kind of thinks he can still feel Bob looking at him, which is ridiculous, obviously. Except then he turns around and Bob is. Brian would really like to know what exactly is going on. Also, why he's reacting the way he is. If he didn't know better, he'd say—and he freezes as he's pulling his jeans out of his bag. He hasn't—hasn't gotten laid in so long, that's all, fuck, he doesn't want Bob, not like that, he just doesn't.
A thought skips around in the back of his mind going, "but his eyes are so blue," and, wow, Brian's really disturbed by how the inside of his head has apparently decided to flutter its metaphorical eyelashes at Bob. It's Bob, for fuck's sake. Brian's oldest friend, knows him better than anyone—
"You're thinking too hard again, Schechter." Right. Better than anyone.
Brian turns, pulling a shirt on. "Nah, just trying to figure out if you ever ordered that food or if I'm going to starve to death in a motel in Arizona."
"Should be here in a couple of minutes."
"You got me a—"
"Give me some fucking credit, I know what you like."
And doesn't that idea sound different now, given what Brian's been thinking about for the past few minutes. He swallows and replies, "Fine, yeah."
—
Bob's right, though—he does know what Brian likes. The sandwich is perfect and Brian spends a few really embarrassing minutes thinking about what else Bob might get right. Then he shakes his head and decides not to get fucking girly tonight (it must be the Grand Canyon, it's totally fucking with his head) and watch the damned movie. Which, what the hell. Why is Bob watching a Kelly Clarkson movie?
"American Idol, Bryar? From Justin to Kelly?"
Bob grins. "I was wondering when you'd notice." He types out a text on his phone.
"What the hell?"
"I was betting with the guys on how long it would take you to notice what we were watching."
Brian snorts. "Who won?"
"I did, obviously." Obviously.
Brian spends the next 45 minutes swearing out loud at Bob and the movie and quietly at himself because he can't stop thinking about it. It's not like he's never fucked around with a guy before, he's always been pretty equal opportunity as far as these things go, but he doesn't know if Bob ever has. Oh, fuck, he shouldn't even be thinking about this, he should be getting the fuck over himself and remember he's a fucking professional, that's what he should do.
The movie ends in some sort of song-and-dance-number that Brian rearranges in his head to include a lot of loud guitars so he doesn't have to hear the singing, and then Bob turns off the TV.
"Bedtime, now. You need it."
"Who says you get to decide what I need?" Wow, that sounded dumb.
Bob's mouth twitches. "Well, maybe sleeping will get you some better comebacks."
Brian just rolls his eyes and gets under the covers. He's actually pretty sure he'll have trouble sleeping now.
—
Wait for the Morning, part 2