Mr. Bob

[turps]

Title: Mr. Bob
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bob/Mikey
Word Count: 25k
Summary: Bob is a pre-school teacher who needs nothing and no one. At least that's what he believes.
Notes: Over a year ago I claimed a prompt at bandom_au, one where Bob was a pre-school teacher. Finally I've completed that story. I couldn't have done this without the help, encouragement and advice of romanticalgirl and delphinapterus. Also, huge thanks to sperrywink and themoononastick who went above and beyond with their excellent beta work. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.



Bob hasn't even set down his stuff when Ray comes barreling into the room and says, "You need to come with me; now."

"Hello to you, too. I'm fine, thanks for asking." Bob puts down his stack of files on the desk and sighs when the pile collapses, sending pages slithering to the floor. Ignoring them for now he follows Ray, who's almost running along the corridor toward his own office. He goes inside and Bob increases his pace, expecting burst pipes or someone bleeding or some other imminent disaster. There's nothing. Just Ray perched on the edge of his desk and looking at his computer monitor which shows an electronic flier for an upcoming local gig. Bob stands in the doorway, his heart slowing to a normal pace. "This is your emergency?"

Ray looks over at him. "Who said there was an emergency?"

"You came flying into my room and demanded I follow you. What was I supposed to think?"

Ray pushes his hair behind his ears, looking sheepish. "Sorry. I wanted to show you this. The Rat Catchers are playing next month."

Bob gives Ray an unimpressed look but still moves further into the room, he braces his hands against the desk and peers at the screen. He's read about the band, and is interested enough that he takes a mental note of the time and date of the gig. "You going?"

"Thinking about it." Ray crosses his ankles, one foot over the other. He's wearing polished brogues today, black to match his pants, but his socks are a deep red and decorated with a bright yellow PAC man chasing a ghost. "You should go, get a feel for the place."

Bob remembers watered down beer and frantic kisses, his back pressed against a rough brick wall, one last casual wave at the end of the night. "Been there, done that."

"Yeah?" Ray looks interested, his attention pulled away from the flier to Bob. "You never told me you'd been."

"Nothing to tell." Bob settles into one of the chairs in front of Ray's desk and looks at the brass nameplate that takes pride of place. Principal Ray Toro. Each time he sees it Bob's amazed anew that Ray ended up not only a principal, but a principal of his own private pre-school. It's so different to the plans he remembers Ray making, when Ray was convinced he'd be a rock star one day, dreams that were fuelled by endless amounts of beer and weed. Then again, Bob's plans have changed too. If anyone had told him he'd end up a pre-school teacher in his thirties he'd have laughed in their face.

Ray clicks off the flier, replacing it with the official school logo, and sits back further on his desk, almost knocking over his Jabba the Hutt mug that's jammed full of pens. He gives Bob a searching look. "You've been here all of a few weeks and have already been to Harleys. You'll have stuff to tell."

"Says you." Bob leans back in the chair and looks back at Ray, who seems to think if he stares long enough Bob will tell all. Which isn't going to happen, "I have twelve chairs in my classroom."

"I accepted two late enrolments." Ray doesn't look apologetic exactly, but he does slump slightly, his mouth curled down at the corners. "I know I said ten and this is your first class, but they've nowhere else to go. The nearest open placement is an hour’s drive away and it meant Mrs Gallagher couldn't work and ..."

"Jesus, stop. It's not a big deal." Truth is Bob has always expected more kids, because he knows Ray, who's got a heart so big he'd take in every kid if he could, even if their parents couldn't pay a cent. It's one of the reasons Bob took this job, happy to help out for a semester, while Ray keeps looking for a permanent teacher who doesn't mind the low pay and lack of decent actual benefits. "I take it their files are in that stack you left me?"

Ray nods and slides off the desk. "They're both there. Have a read through, I need to do some actual work."

Bob frowns and pushes himself to his feet. "That's what I was doing until some idiot came running into my classroom like the fucking school was on fire."

Ray clicks his tongue and irritably tugs at his Garfield tie, loosening it a little so he can unfasten the top button of his white shirt. "Language."

"Fuck you," Bob shoots back, flipping Ray off. "I'm going to read through those files and settle in."

"Go for it." Already Ray's behind his desk, forehead creased as he pulls a stack of papers toward him. "If you need anything...."

"I'll work it out myself," Bob says, knowing Ray hasn't heard him, already plunged into the relentless deluge of figures and form filling that takes over the majority of his day. Bob doesn't know how Ray does it, even the amount of paperwork Bob has to do for his kids drives him insane. Which is a thought that has Bob shaking his head, one brief visit and already he's thinking of the kids as his. Sometimes he doesn't know how this is his life.

~*~*~*~

"You know, I'm a guest here, I shouldn't have to work," Mikey says, busy rinsing off plates. He places each one under the stream, warm droplets of water splashing over his hand.

Jamia grins, flicking at his head with the cloth she's using to wipe down the counters. "You eat here, you clean here."

Mikey picks up another plate, grimacing when his thumb slides through a smear of cold sauce. "I'm still a guest. This is slave labor."

Grin widening, Jamia shakes the cloth over the sink and takes the plate from Mikey. "Think of it as payment for all the nights you sleep over and hog the TV. Speaking of which, go keep Frank company while I make dessert."

"Cake?" Mikey asks hopefully, following Jamia and peering over her shoulder as she opens the fridge.

Without looking back, Jamia uses her hip to bump Mikey away. "Chocolate fudge, now go, before I make you clean the stove."

It's not an idle threat, Jamia's got no problems in setting Mikey to work, and truthfully, he doesn't care, even though the last time he ended up cleaning the stove his fingers were wrinkled and gross for days. Really it's a small price to pay for all the time he spends hanging out. Jamia and Frank's home is small, but it's also warm and so full of love that Mikey relaxes every time he walks in the door.

Head tilted slightly to one side, Mikey listens for Frank. There's no tell-tale footsteps or easy laughter and Mikey goes out on the hunt, tracking Frank down. He finds him in the den, shoes off and bare feet curled against the squishy couch cushions that come complete with an extra covering of dog hair. There's also two dogs lying asleep on the ground, and Mikey steps over them before throwing himself down. Kicking off his own shoes he brings up his feet, rubbing his damp socks over the top of Frank's toes.

"Gross fucker." Frank kicks at Mikey's ankle, and within seconds it's on, the foot battle raging until Mikey is left lying jammed in the corner of the couch, one sock hanging off and Frank tying to stuff the other in Mikey's mouth.

Laughing, Mikey presses his hand over his mouth, says from behind his palm, "I give!"

"Too right you do," Frank says, throwing the sock so it impacts against the wall and then slides down. A last triumphant pose and he throws himself back in his place, reaching for the remote. "Ice Road Truckers?"

Mikey yawns and brings up his legs, mirroring Frank's pose. "Think one of them will go through the ice and drown today?"

"Probably not." Finding the right channel, Frank gives the show all of a few minutes attention before looking at Mikey, who's half asleep already. "Not going out tonight?"

Mikey shakes his head, his hair brushing against plush fabric of the couch side. "Figured I'd crash here, as long as it's okay."

"You didn't go out last night either," Frank says, "And you know it's okay, so what's up?"

"About?" Mikey hedges, because Frank's got that look in his eye, the one he gets when there's not a chance he's going to let something go.

Frank rolls his eyes, calling Mikey out without words. "Mikey."

Mikey tries to wait him out, attention on the creaking ice on TV, but Frank's still staring, and eventually Mikey turns back to him and bursts out, "I don't know. Going out every night isn't cutting it anymore."

"Ah," Frank says, steeple-ing his fingers together and Mikey wants to beat him over the head with a cushion for looking so knowing. Because Mikey's got no idea what's going on, just, he's enjoying hanging at Frank and Jamia's as much as he likes going out and while he's still hooking up and dating, it doesn't seem as satisfying as before.

Giving into the impulse, Mikey grabs a cushion, launching it at Frank's head. "What do you mean, ah?"

Without hesitation, Frank grabs the cushion and throws it right back, saying, "I mean, ah, you're getting ready to settle down." He leans forward, expression schooled into something mock serious. "There comes a point in every boy's life when he wants to settle down. You've got the job and the apartment, now you just need the guy, or the girl, or the blow up doll."

"Fuck off," Mikey says. "I don't need a blow up doll, I still hook up."

"Don't I know it," Frank says, his serious expression shattering into amusement. "I thought you were going to eat that guy last week."

Mikey kicks at Frank's foot. "I was saying goodbye, we'd been talking."

"Saying goodbye with your tongue, right," Frank says with a grin. "You don't say goodbye to me like that."

"I didn't know you wanted me to," Mikey says. "Next time I'll slip you some tongue."

Frank gives Mikey a thumbs up and stretches out so his feet are in Mikey's lap. "Awesome, just tell me first, Jamia will want to watch."

"Sure," Mikey says lazily, and turns his attention back to the TV. "Death by drowning or hypothermia?"

Frank snorts, like the question isn't even worth asking. "Hypothermia, always. And Mikey?" Frank pushes himself up on his elbows, all humor gone and utterly serious. "I'm glad you've stopped chasing the past. It can't be duplicated."

"Pete can't be duplicated," Mikey says, something he knows for a fact, because he's tried. Multiple people in multiple situations and even if the resemblance is there, it always falls apart.

Which has to be a sign that it is time to do something different. All Mikey can do is try.


~*~*~*~

By the time Bob has read through the files and readied his classroom it's close to five in the afternoon. He's stocked his desk with the essentials and spent almost an hour sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the sand table as he carefully fixed stickers and names to small plastic trays, one for each kid in his class. The hooks in the coat nook have matching stickers and Bob runs his hand over a picture of a red car, trying to iron out the tiniest of wrinkles. The coat hooks themselves are at his waist height and there's a low bench running along the walls, the slats rainbow coloured [colored] with space underneath for rain-boots and outdoor shoes.

A last critical look at the sticker and he goes back into his classroom, gathering up his bag. Slinging it across his chest he takes a moment to just look around, taking in his room. At the animal alphabet posters he's stuck to one wall and the tiny red chairs pushed neatly under the four small tables -- red, blue, yellow and green -- each one with a container of crayons in the middle. The small touches mean the room is starting to look less bare, and Bob knows that soon the walls will be covered with pictures and enthusiastically crafted projects.

Bob's spent a lot of time planning those projects, pouring over his old text books and searching the Internet for anything new. Often his hands itch to hold drum sticks but he’s learned to ignore that itch and instead he’s copying out plans to make masks out of cereal boxes and feathers, or trying to remember the latest teaching on literacy in pre-school children. Fact is, some of Bob's friends thought he was insane when he gave up teching and playing drums for a mature student teaching course and an uncertain future. And if he's honest, sometimes Bob thinks that they've got a point.

Then he thinks of his training course, the practical lessons where he told stories and painted pictures and ended up with strawberry jelly on his new blue shirt. It's those memories that remind him that while this teaching thing is unexpected, that doesn't mean it's not right.

One final critical look and then Bob forces himself to leave, knowing he's as ready for the next day as it's possible to be. Heading for Ray's office he pulls out his IPod and puts it in his hoodie pocket as he knocks at Ray's open door. It's been hours since he was there but Bob's unsurprised to see Ray's still sitting at his desk, hunched over his keyboard as he deals with last minute issues. Leaning his shoulder against the doorway, Bob says, "I'm done, is there anything you need doing?"

Ray straightens, groaning a little as he stretches his arms in the air. "I'm good, you go home. It'll be a busy day tomorrow."

"Going," Bob says, already putting his ear-buds in his ears. A quick wave and Ray goes back to his computer and Bob heads outside. It's a long walk back to his apartment but he welcomes the chance to stretch his legs. Of course that may change in the winter and if he planned on sticking around Bob would look into buying a car, but he's not and that means walking. Something that's easy when he's got good music blasting in his ears and the late afternoon sunshine turning the world gold.

~*~*~*~

One of his mom's favourite stories is how on his first day of pre-school Bob refused to give her a kiss before stalking into the school. Each time she tells the story she adds some embarrassing detail, like how Bob was wearing yellow shorts and a cookie monster t-shirt and long socks that wouldn't stay up on his chubby legs. Of course Bob can't remember a thing about that day. What he does remember is his mom's face when she tells the story, how each time she smiles wistfully, her memories preserved and kept sharp.

It's why, despite the drizzling rain and cold breeze, he's standing at the main door of the pre-school right now, his shoulders hunched and hands pushed deep in his pockets as he waits for the first parents to arrive. He knows that for them, this is one of the most important days of their lives.

"This is really happening," Ray mutters again. He's been pacing for almost ten minutes now, walking over the grinning red turtle that's been painted on the soft ground. "Where’s Jamia? She should be waiting too, and what if no one turns up? Or they do and the kids hate the school? I should have stayed a relief teacher, I can't run a fucking school."

Bob digs his thumbnail into a stubborn spot of glue on his middle finger, trying to peel it free. "Jamia’s coming, and you hated being a substitute teacher."

"I didn't hate it," Ray says, and finally stops moving, his feet on the tail of the snake as he adds, "Well, I didn't hate most of it. Some of the schools sucked and I hated that bastard of a principal at Morgandale. Can you believe what he said? That my...."

"That your hair was unprofessional and pre-school kids were too young to enjoy music," Bob interrupts, having heard this story before -- several times, and with varying degrees of swearing depending on how drunk Ray was.

Ray looks at his watch and starts to pace again. "Too young for music. No one's too young for music."

"You know I agree with you," Bob says, standing up straight when he sees a car turn into the small parking lot. "Heads up, we're on."

"Fuck," Ray says quietly, but then, like some switch has been thrown he straightens his shoulders and looks over at the now stationary car, already smiling when a woman gets out and peers in their direction.

"Sorry, sorry. Bob steps to the side when the main door opens and Jamia, the teacher of the school’s second class, steps into view, still fastening the buttons on her grey cardigan. It's got a dragon kitted into one side, the scaled tail wrapping around her body and ending up on her hip. "I was coming out five minutes ago but had to get the dog hair off my ass. Is it all gone?"

She turns, lifting up the cardigan at the back and Bob tries to look without appearing like some kind of pervert. "I can't see any."

"Good." Jamia drops the cardigan and they both watch as the woman goes to the back of the car. Mrs Henshaw Bob thinks, she's got a four year old daughter called Emma, who likes princesses but hates peanut butter.

"I'll just...." Still smiling Ray heads across the playground and waits at the wooden gate, his hand resting on the blue-painted crossbar.

"She's one of yours, yeah?" Jamia says, and Bob nods when a tiny dark-haired girl clambers out of the back seat. She's got her hair in pigtails and her pink Cinderella t-shirt looks brand new. She's also clinging to her mom's hand and takes a step back when Ray opens the gate.

Ray crouches so he's at Emma's level. "Emma, hi. It's lovely to see you again." Emma says nothing, just presses against her mom's leg and Ray gives her a reassuring smile before standing and shaking Mrs Henshaw's hand. "A big day for you both, yeah."

Even from across the playground Bob can see the way Mrs Henshaw swallows and he remembers more details from her file. Single mom, needs to go back to work. Emma is an only child. She's got her hand on Emma's shoulder, holding her close and Bob pats his pocket, checking he's still got his packet of tissues.

"We'll look after her, promise," Ray says and looks over at Bob. "You remember Mr. Bob, Emma? He's going to look after you today."

Taking his cue, Bob goes to meet Emma and her mom. He's not a particularly smiley kind of person, not like Ray anyway, but he flashes Mrs. Henshaw a hopefully reassuring look before crouching to see Emma. "Hi, Emma. I like your t-shirt."

Emma peers back at him, her eyes wide. "It's Cindyrealla. She's a princess."

"I can see that," Bob says seriously. "You know where there's a princess? On your coat hook. Do you want to come and see?"

Emma looks up at her mom, who's blinking hard as she bends and brushes a kiss against Emma's forehead. "Go on, kitten, go see the princess with Mr. Bob. I'll be back for you later, just like we talked."

"'Kay."

Bob stands and when Emma holds out her hand, takes it gently in his own as he takes out the tissues and offers the pack. "She'll be fine."

Mrs Henshaw takes a tissue and dabbing at her eyes, says, "I know."

~*~*~

The next half hour is all go. Kids arrive clutching the hands of their parents and Bob goes on autopilot as he greets all his new-comers. Some he leads into the classroom, their tiny hands clutched carefully in his own. Others go in themselves, running toward this new adventure -- Bob organizes them all. He sits Katy next to Emma and extracts Ronan from the plastic play house, relocating him to a table. It's barely controlled chaos as Jed stands at the window and wails for his mom while Lucy manages to spill the container of pens, making them clatter to the floor.

For a moment it seems overwhelming. There's Bob’s diploma kept with his important papers and part of his course involved working in a classroom, but this is the first time he's had a class of his own. It's like he's holding onto twelve live wires, each one behaving in a different way and Bob takes a deep breath before clapping his hands. "Everyone, you need to listen."

Perching on the edge of his desk, Bob pitches his voice over Jed's crying. "I need a helper." Bob glances over at Jed, taking note of the way he's finally looking away from the window. "Who wants to help me take the cover off the sand tray?"

"I can help!" Katy's standing, waving her hands in the air. "Mommy says I'm a big girl who can help!"

"Excellent," Bob says, making no moves from his desk. "One thing first, rule number one in this class. If you want to say something you stay sitting but put up your hand." Demonstrating, Bob raises his own hand. "Can you all do that?"

All the kids put their hands in the air -- even Jed -- and Bob can't help a small smile. "Rule one mastered." Pushing himself away from his desk Bob heads for the sand tray. "Katy, still want to help?"

"Yes." There's a flurry of footsteps and then Katy is standing close to Bob, her hand still held in the air.

Bob looks over his shoulder, and sees his whole class looking his way. He turns, says, "You can all put your hands down, then come over here."

There's an explosion of noise. Chairs being pushed back, feet thudding against the lino and then Bob's surrounded by a crowd of small bodies, kids crowding close to the sand tray. "You all need to take a step back." Gently Bob clears a space until Katy's the only kid standing close. "Ready, Katy?"

Katy nods and grasps hold of the red lid. Bob does the same, making sure he takes most of the weight as they lift, exposing the soft white sand and a variety of plastic toys. "No touching yet," Bob warns, and carefully slides the cover under the sand table. When he's sure it's safely out of the way he pulls a roll of stickers out of his pants pocket and peels off a smiley face, sticking it on Katy’s t-shirt. "Thank you, Katy." Putting the stickers back in his pocket, Bob points to the wall, where he's hung four tiny aprons. They're hand-made by Jamia, the ties slightly too long and one has a faded skull on the inside corner. Bob loves them, even if he did have to launder them twice to get rid of the dog hair.

"If you want to play with the sand you wear an apron," Bob says. He picks one up and hooks it over his own head, the bottom barely reaching his waist. "Same for the water tray and craft areas." Bob takes a few steps forward and his kids follow behind, like he's some kind of momma duck to a line of huge-eyed, shiny-haired ducklings. "We'll do craft work after nap time, so no touching until then," Bob warns, and abruptly changes direction, barely hiding his smile as he takes his line of kids on a zig-zag route through the tables toward the other side of the room. "The bathroom is through that door, if you want to go, tell me. No leaving the room without letting me know."

There's a few verbal replies and a lot of fidgeting, and Bob knows he needs to hurry up his tour. He moves past the play house and pulls back a blind, showing a small exposed courtyard. It's full of colorful toys, ride on cars and a bright yellow slide, a pink ball against the wooden fence. Taking off the apron, Bob folds it over the back of a chair. "Who wants to play outside?"

Twelve arms are held in the air, and as Bob unlocks the door, letting a stream of excited children outside he can't help feeling satisfied -- that despite his fears and uncertainties, he really can do this job.

~*~*~*~

"How's it going?"

Ray's voice is hushed as he peeks into the darkened room, his face illuminated by the moon-shaped night-light that's plugged in close to the door.

"My head's too big for the Viking helmet," Bob says, and looks past Ray to where his class is sleeping, their small bodies curled up and covered by blankets. "And there was an unfortunate collision between a bubble car and my leg."

"Sucks to be you." Glancing at his watch, Ray pulls a chair close to Bob's desk and sits, his knees up so high they're close to his chin. "Seriously, how's it going?"

Bob puts down his pen, marking the page of his book. "It's going okay." He thinks about Denzil and how he's got issues with sharing, how Jodi scraped her knee on the ground, about lunch time when Ali went and sat at the back of the room. "Ali didn't bring any lunch."

Ray frowns and takes out his PDA, scrolling through pages. "His mom didn't sign him for lunches. I think...." Ray hesitates, then, inputs some data. "I'll juggle the figures. He's part of the program from tomorrow."

Bob suspects the only juggling will be from Ray's wallet to the schools expenses and he knows he should say something about profit margins and getting too involved. All he does is reach for his own lunch, taking a foil-wrapped parcel from his bag. Unwrapping it he tears the remaining half sandwich into two. "Here."

Ray takes the quarter sandwich and puts the whole thing in his mouth. He chews, swallows, says, "Thanks."

Bob takes a bite of his own sandwich. It's peanut butter, the only thing left in his kitchen this morning, and he makes a mental note to go grocery shopping on the way home. He needs to pick up balloons anyway, balloons and glittery pens and those stick-on eyes that move when you shake them.

"I need to get going." Ray shoves his PDA back in his pocket and pushes himself to his feet. "Watch out for those bubble cars. I've heard they're vicious."

Bob doesn't verbalize his reply. He doesn't have to; Ray just looks and laughs as he walks away.

~*~*~*~

The kids go home at three fifteen.

Between updating his files, the walk home and a trip to get groceries it's well past six when Bob does the same.

Paper bag balanced on his hip, Bob opens his apartment door, as always it sticks and he kicks it with his foot before going inside. It's warm in there, stuffy with trapped heat and he puts the bag on the counter before forcing open a window. When it's open as wide as it'll go Bob leans against the wall, looking outside to the line of dumpsters that randomly drip and constantly smell of rotten food and piss. The stench seems particularly concentrated tonight and Bob idly watches a rat dart along the alley before pushing himself upright and toward the shower. It doesn't take long, all of five steps before Bob's in his tiny bathroom. Inching in sideways between the toilet and sink he strips off his clothes, throwing them onto the futon in the main room.

He's got projects to put together for his kids, dinner to eat and at some point he needs to call his mom. For now though, he turns on the water and steps into the spray.


~*~*~*~


"I've been talking to Frank," Gerard announces as soon as he walks into Mikey's apartment. He's carrying an armful of brown paper grocery bags and his expression is concerned as he drops them to the ground, groceries scattering in all directions over the wooden floor. A can of soda rolls close and Mikey stops it with his foot, trapping it in place. "He says you want to settle down, have you got any candidates because Stephen the receptionist's single."

"Stephen the receptionist is straight," Mikey says, long practice meaning he doesn't react to Gerard's insane ideas. Picking up the can Mikey sets it back in the bag, and then starts to gather up the apples that have rolled to every corner of the room. "You know that."

Gerard waves his hand and sits, feet resting against the bags. "Everyone's a little bit gay. They just don't admit it."

"In your world maybe." Setting most of the apples on the kitchen table, Mikey keeps one and sits next to Gerard. "Stephen's got a girlfriend. They've been dating for years, she was at the Christmas party, you admired her dress."

For a moment Gerard looks thrown. Then smiles directly at Mikey. "How's he feel about polygamy? I've heard it's the new black."

"He might like it, I think it's more hassle than it's worth," Mikey says, and takes a bite of his apple, juice running down his fingers as he looks at Gerard. "Why the obsession with Stephen?"

"He fits your new profile," Gerard says simply, and Mikey stops chewing, trying to decipher what Gerard's actually saying.

"My new profile? The fuck?"

"Blond and burly," Gerard says, "like Jordik the Norwegian."

Mikey levels a look at Gerard. "I told you he's not Norwegian..." but Gerard takes no notice, cutting over Mikey's words.

"Whatever, I'm just glad you're getting a bit of variety in your life, short and dark was getting old."

Mikey takes another bite of apple. The thing is, Gerard's got a point but it's not like Mikey's going to acknowledge that, but there is one thing he's going to stress. "I'm not dating Stephen."

"Fine." Gerard sighs and leans to the side, his head against Mikey's shoulder. "But you do want to date someone, yeah? Like, serious dating again."

"I think so," Mikey says, and takes comfort in Gerard being so close, groceries at their feet and the only sound their in-stereo breathing.
“Good,” Gerard says, and he snatches the apple from Mikey and takes a bite, chewing noisily in Mikey’s ear, then swallows. “Just, be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
The ‘again’ isn’t said, but Mikey hears the implication, and he wishes he could ease Gerard’s worries; but he can’t, not unless he resigns himself to a life living alone. All Mikey can say is, “I’ll be careful.”
“I know,” Gerard says, and passes the half-eaten apple back to Mikey before sitting and gathering up one of the bags. “I got ice cream; I think it might be soup now.”
“You couldn’t have said that five minutes ago?” Mikey asks, and sits forward, looking through the remaining bag until he finds the carton of ice cream, its sides slick with condensation. Squeezing the cartoon and finding it soft, Mikey stands and heads for the freezer, giving Gerard an unimpressed look on the way.

~*~*~*~

Dropping the stack of books on the table Ray says, "Okay, fudge it, I'm going out tonight."

Bob looks up from where he's lounging in one of the battered easy chairs, his feet on a low coffee table as he tries to pick off glue from the back of his hand. "Fudge it? Really?"

"I'm on school grounds," Ray says primly, and tugs the tie out of his hair. Snapping it around his wrist he sighs and leans against the wall as if even the effort of standing upright is too much. "I've signed at least two hundred letters today, budgeted for the semester and arranged for the toilets to be unblocked, and that was just the last hour. I deserve to go out."

"You should," Jamia says, pitching her voice over the whir of the copy machine. "Frank's going out tonight, seeing some baby band at Harleys."

"Okay, it's settled then." With a groan Ray pushes himself up and looks at his watch. "I need to go make some calls but I'll pick you up at seven."

"Wait. What?" At first Bob thinks Ray's talking to Jamia, but she's busy bundling alphabet sheets and Ray's looking expectantly at Bob. "Who said I'm coming?"

"Me," Ray says simply. "You can't survive on glitter and crazy glue alone."

Bob gives Ray a look, because the man has obviously gone insane. "I don't eat the stuff, and I told you, I go out."

"And you're going out again tonight." Ray looks over his shoulder as he leaves the room. "Seven, be ready."

Jamia laughs and pats Bob's shoulder as she walks past. "Just give in already. You'll have fun."

Which Bob knows is true. It's just that he likes to make these decisions on his own.

Sighing, he says, "Fine."

~*~*~*~

Harleys is a dive complete with a sticky carpet, peeling posters on the wall and a tiny stage set up at the end of a long room, but it's a dive Bob already loves. He's only been here twice before but each time he's enjoyed hanging out and listening to the music, or, if he’s being honest, for more physical of reasons. Bob remembers the woman he met on his first visit, how beautiful she was, tall and dark and with an impressive line in dirty talk as she licked a stripe up his neck. Then his second time, and how he ended the night talking to some guy, Bob’s hands against the guy’s slim hips as they kissed goodbye, oblivious to the people streaming for the exit around them.
Bob enjoyed his time with them both, but he doesn't have their numbers, or their names, and he looks around the club for familiar faces as he follows Ray back to their table. Frank -- who Bob's just officially been introduced to and learnt is Jamia's husband and one of Ray's best friends, and not just some creepy guy who stands watching people make out -- is standing on a chair and when Bob walks past, Frank suddenly jumps onto Bob's back and winds his legs around his body.

"The fuck?!" Bob looks up at Frank, who's clinging onto Bob's shoulders. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I couldn't see," Frank says, and his breath is warm against Bob's ear. "You're good to climb. Very solid."

Bob frowns and considers bucking Frank off. "Are you making a fat joke?"

Frank tightens his grip, says, "No, but I could if you want. Your momma's..."

"I will kill you if you say another word." Threats aren't usually how Bob makes friends but Frank laughs, apparently amused as he wiggles then jumps down to the floor.

"Saying no more." Frank mimes zipping his lips and sits back in a chair next to Ray and says, "He's probably hooked up with someone."

"Probably," Ray agrees and looks toward Bob. "Frank's ex roommate, he's supposed to be here by now."

"The fucker gets more game than anyone I know," Frank says fondly, and takes a long drink of his beer before standing, almost vibrating in place as he looks toward the stage. "They'll be starting soon."

Ray waves his hand. "Go. Cause some hell for me."

Frank grins and launches himself into the crowd.

"I thought you'd be in the thick of it," Bob says, watching as Frank ploughs forward until he's in the midst of the audience. "Not up for the pit tonight?"

Ray shakes his head and smiles. "I'm a respectable principal, I don't do that shit."

"Sure you don't," Bob says, because right now Ray looks nothing like the typical principal as he drains his beer and lounges back in his chair, t-shirt pulled tight across his chest and hair wild as he bobs his head along with the background music. "I suppose that wasn't you who crashed my place stoned and naked when you were in teacher training. Or got left naked at a gas station when we were touring."

"That was a long time ago," Ray says, dignity pulled around him.

"Maybe," Bob concedes. "But you getting wasted on vodka last week wasn't."

"I was celebrating," Ray says, obviously unrepentant as he sits up a little. "The band's coming on."

Bob looks at the stage and sees the all female band walking into view, one of them with a keytar slung around her neck. Recognizing the woman from his hook up, Bob stands and starts watching.

~~~~~~

Ray nudges a fresh drink across the table toward Bob. "I didn't think electro thrash was your scene."

"It's not," Bob says, vodka catching the back of his throat as he swallows the drink in one. "What the fuck's in this? Lighter fluid?"

"Fuck knows." Ray shrugs and drains his own drink and then wipes his watering eyes. "They call it the Harley special, two of these and you'll be on the floor."

Bob gives Ray a considering look. "You putting the moves on me, Toro?"

"Bit late for that." Ray grins, wide and easy, the same grin that Bob's known and enjoyed for years. "Once bitten and all that."

"You saying you didn't have fun?" Bob asks, hiding his own smile. "Because it looked like you did at the time."

Ray's grin widens. "I was young and stupid, I didn't know any better." He stands then, wavering a little until he balances against the back of his chair. "I'm heading off. Hangovers don't look too good to bank managers."

If he were smart Bob would go too. While he's got no meetings with the bank he does have lesson prep to do, including trying out instructions for a paper mache mask. But truthfully, as reluctant as he was to come out at first he doesn't want to leave now. He's enjoying being around actual adults and being able to talk freely without kid proofing his words. Plus, there's the girl on the keytar who kept looking his way during the set. He looks at Ray. "You able to get home alone?"

Ray laughs. "I'm in charge of a pre-school, I think I can get home on my own."

Bob doesn't point out that Ray doesn't look after the school while buzzed, but Ray looks steady as he walks, heading toward the exit. "Tell Frank I've gone, and I'll see you Monday."

Bob nods and watches until he's sure Ray's safely to the door, and then turns, intending to head back stage. As he makes his way through the crowd he sees Frank standing to the side, cell phone held close to his face as he uses his thumbs to type out a message. Giving him a wave, Bob bypasses a group of women wearing angel wings, and bumps straight into the guy he was talking to the week before.

"Hey."

The guy's wearing similar clothes to the time before, pants tight, his t-shirt that little bit too small, his hair messed up and eye liner smudged. Heart beat speeding in remembrance of a hard kiss and his hands in the guy's hair. Bob takes a step back and for a moment it's awkward, Bob doesn't know this guy's name but he does know how his hand feels against Bob's back and the way he sounded as he said a reluctant goodbye, needing to hurry to catch his lift home. After that Bob knows nothing, except he likes the way the guy looks, how his face brightens when he flashes a smile. It's not much, but it's enough that Bob changes his plans and says, "Want a drink?"

The guys brings up his hand and Bob sees he's already holding a half full glass. Drinking the contents the guy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, "Sure."

Actually getting to the bar takes some doing. The place is packed but somehow the guy seems to melt through the crowd, pulling Bob behind him until they're pressed against the wooden counter. Expecting a wait, Bob's surprised when one of the bar staff smiles in their direction and ignores the people demanding her attention as she walks their way. Stopping in front of them she smoothes down her crimson hair and smiles, says, "Hey Mikey, what're you having?"

The guy -- Mikey -- flashes a small smile in return and then indicates Bob. "He's buying."

The girl turns her attention to Bob. "So what'll it be? Beer?"

It's Bob's usual choice, but somehow he finds himself pointing toward a board that pictures a variety of cocktails, amused at the thought of choosing something that's bright pink complete with fruit and a spotted umbrella. "I'll have one of those and a Harleys special."

The girl grins. "One harleys and a slow screw coming up."

"Interesting choice," the guy says, sounding approving.

Elbow resting against the counter, Bob turns slightly to the side. "So, you're Mikey."

"I am," Mikey says. "And you're hot guy I was talking to last week."

"Or Bob to my friends," Bob says, bemused when Mikey punches the air.

"Ha, Bob. I knew it. I told Gerard you'd have a boring name but he was convinced you'd be called Jordik."

There's multiple things Bob wants to say, to protest his name isn't boring, that what the hell kind of name is Jordik, but mostly, who the fuck is Gerard? He settles for, "Jordik? Seriously?" letting the Gerard question drop for now.

"He thought you could be Norwegian," Mikey says easily. "Because of your hair."

Bob takes a moment, trying to make sense of where this conversation is going. "You told him about my hair and he thought I was Norwegian?"

Mikey nods. "Well that or a Viking shape shifter jumping through time, but the Norwegian thing's more likely."

"Of course it is," Bob states levelly, thankful when two glasses are set on the bar. Taking the one that doesn't contain something bright pink, Bob drinks it all in one go before taking out his wallet and paying for both.

Mikey takes his own drink, apparently unconcerned with how it looks. He plucks a strawberry off a stick and puts it in his mouth, chews and says, "Got somewhere to go?"

Which is when Bob makes another sudden decision. "Only if you're coming too."

Mikey drains his own drink and rests his hand on Bob's back. "Let's go."

~~~~~

Though Mikey's hand is long gone Bob can feel the ghost of his touch against his back and he shivers as he kicks at his apartment door, letting them inside.

Inside it's just as he left it, his school clothes draped over the back of the futon and a pizza box sitting on the tiny table that's pushed flush to the wall. Mikey's not even trying to hide that he's looking around, but Bob doesn't care. It's not like this is his home, it's just a place to crash. Somewhere to eat and sleep, and somewhere he can slam the door closed as he says, "I'd offer you something to drink but I've only got water."

Mikey shrugs and takes off his jacket, dropping it to the floor. "I'd have said no anyway."

And like that suddenly Bob's awkward again. This isn't like his hook ups at the club where things happened fast, actions happening before his brain could catch up, and with his whole breakdown and life crisis followed by intense crammed study it's not like Bob's had recent practice chatting people up. Mostly he's wishing Ray had never told him he was going out, when Mikey steps forward and hooks his hand around the back of Bob's head.

"You can either stand there or come here and kiss me."

It's not a difficult choice, especially when Mikey's pressing so close, smelling of alcohol and sweat, his mouth so close to Bob's. Bob closes that last bit of distance and any awkwardness melts away as Mikey kisses back eagerly. Also wet and messy, his tongue pushing against Bob's as they stumble back and collapse back on the futon, landing with a jarring thump. Not that it breaks the kiss, even when their teeth bang together and Mikey twists his body so he's lying fully on top of Bob.

Mikey pushes his hand between their bodies, trying to unfasten Bob's belt one-handed. "I was looking for you tonight."

Bob fumbles to help, his fingers against Mikey's as they unfasten Bob's belt and pants. "Good."
He lifts up his hips, allowing Mikey access as he slides down and settles on Bob's knees, Mikey's gaze intent as he looks directly at Bob then bends forward, lowering his head.

~*~*~*~*~

Bob wakes to darkness and a mouthful of hair, Mikey's arm draped over his back. Grimacing at the chemical taste he pulls back his head then freezes when Mikey sighs in his sleep and shifts even closer. It's not a bad position to be in, he doesn't smell the best but Bob's no bed of roses either, plus Mikey's warm, and there's something relaxing about the rhythmic breathing of having someone so close.

Eyes closing again, Bob goes back to sleep.

The next time he wakes Mikey's sitting up in bed, his eyes screwed shut and fingers pressed against his temples. Overnight his eye make-up has smeared and there's a pillow crease along one cheek. He looks a mixture of deranged and adorable and Bob lies on his back, his eyes half closed as he tries to remember the complexities of waking up with a virtual stranger. It's not something Bob's done often, and his own walks of shame have involved furtive creeping out at the break of day, but Mikey's making no attempt to move, just keeps kneading at his forehead, apparently unconcerned that he's naked.

Bob's tempted to lie still and pretend to keep sleeping, but just because he hasn't done this for a while doesn't mean he's some kind of coward, and this is his bed, his place. Pushing back the covers Bob rolls onto the floor and stands, looking for his pants.

"Oh thank fuck." Mikey's voice cracks and he squints at Bob. "Coffee?"

"Is good?" Bob replies, unable to resist.

Mikey groans and closes his eyes, his lashes dark clumps against the shadows under his eyes. "You have some?"

It's tempting to continue the joke, but Bob takes pity and takes the few steps to a cupboard in his kitchen. "Only instant."

"It'll do." Eyes opened to slits, Mikey edges to the side of the bed and tugs at the cover before wrapping it around his shoulders as he watches Bob fill the kettle and set it to boil. "You know you can buy machines really fucking cheap."

Bob takes out two mugs and gives both a heaped spoonful of coffee. "I'm not planning on sticking around, it would be a waste of money."

"Coffee is never a waste of money," Mikey says, and then, "It explains why this place is a shithole I guess."

The edge of the counter digs against Bob's bare back as he turns and looks at Mikey. "Thanks."

Mikey yawns and pulls up his knees, curling into a small space in the corner of the futon. "I like shitholes. They feel like home."

He seems to believe what he's saying and Bob's torn between stopping this at coffee only or actually asking questions, and hinting at a level of interest that he maybe doesn't want yet. It's a dilemma Bob never expected and one he never gets the chance to decide on because Mikey's leaning over the side arm of the futon, grabbing for the pile of craft supplies stacked against the wall.

"Those could have been private," Bob points out, and picks up the kettle when it begins to boil.

Mikey flops back down, pointedly ignoring Bob's words. He holds up a sheet of cardboard eyes and shakes it, so all the eyes roll in unison. "You have googly eyes."

Bob fills both mugs and carries them over to the futon. Setting them at a safe distance he grabs a hoodie and then sits at the end of the thin mattress, watching as Mikey keeps shaking the eyes. "Coffee."

Attention still on the sheet, Mikey holds out his hand. "What are you doing with them?"

"Making masks," Bob says, because it's not like it's some kind of secret. He pulls on his hoodie and takes a drink of his own coffee, enjoying the way the warmth and caffeine combine against his aching head. "There's a plan there somewhere."

Mikey takes another drink then balances his mug between his knees as he leafs through the sheets of cardboard until he finds the printed out plan for the mask. Brow furrowed, he examines it, says, "Want some help?"

"To make the mask"? Bob clarifies, because as far as he knows this could be some convoluted way for Mikey to offer to suck Bob's dick. Which would be nice, except thoughts of Mikey's cock-sucking mouth and him holding materials for Bob kids do not belong together.

"Masks are awesome," Mikey says, still staring at the plan. "Do we get to decorate them? Can I add blood?"

"Decorating yes, blood no," Bob says, and plucks a sheet of eyes out of the pile. "But you get to add eyes."

Mikey grins, and Bob can't help but smile back in reply.

~~~~

It's a while before they actually start on the mask. Bob needs breakfast, and a shower, and for Mikey to actually wear clothes before making something Bob'll take to school to show his kids.

Now, clean and fed, Bob sits cross-legged on the futon, watching as Mikey cuts out a paper mask. He's doing so slowly, the sleeves of Bob's borrowed hoodie pushed up his arms and surrounding him there's a variety of colored crepe paper and fat markers that have rolled together in the crease of the bed cover. With a last snip, paper curls into Mikey's lap and he holds up the mask toward Bob. "Done."

"Nice job," Bob says teacher seriously. "Now you need to decorate it."

"I'm thinking red hair and purple eyes." Setting down the mask, Mikey picks up some red crepe and starts to tear it into strips. "I used to do this with Gerard, but he was making a devil."

Gerard again, and this time Bob's going to ask, taking shared craft activities to mean they're at a level of friendship that means he can, even if he's not sure he wants to know the answer. "Gerard?"

Mikey shakes his head. "Brother. He's an artist, a fucking good one."

Relief hits, because even if this is casual Bob doesn't want the complications of Mikey being already attached. Cutting out his own mask he glances over at Mikey. "Your brother's an artist who makes devil masks?"

"Not only devil masks." Paper rips as Mikey continues tearing, until he's got a heap of strips lying on his lap. Picking up a glue stick, he rubs it over the edge of the mask and starts to stick on the strips of hair. "He does other shit too, comic books and paintings. He's preparing for his own show." Mikey's concentrating on placement, the tip of his tongue just visible, but his pride is obvious, even before he looks up and says, "He's awesome."

"Most mask makers are," Bob says, a curl of paper falling into his lap. Holding up the oval of the mask he considers if it's big enough to be decorated by little hands, and if the googly eyes are still a better option than cut in eye-holes. "Eye-holes or not?"

Mikey holds up his own half-finished mask close to his face, red crepe paper falling over his hand at one side. "Depends if you're going to wear them or not."

"They're not for me." Bob sets down his own mask and stares at Mikey. "Why the hell would I be wearing paper masks?"

"Why wouldn't you?" Mikey asks, like in his world wearing a mask is an everyday thing. Hell, maybe it is, it's not like Bob actually knows him. "You could use it for LARPing or as a disguise."

Bob raises an eyebrow, says, "A disguise? Really?"

"Sure," Mikey says, and starts to carefully attach another strip of crepe hair. "Put on a mask and rob a bank, that's how it goes."

"Because I won't be unidentifiable at all," Bob says. "I'd be arrested in minutes."

Mikey shrugs one shoulder and one corner of his mouth curls up at the side. "Or you could use the mask for sex. You look like a fetish kind of guy."

At the last Mikey grins and Bob knows he's been played. Amused, he balls up some scrap paper, throwing it at Mikey's forehead. "I'll show you fetish."

Mikey grins even wider, showing off his crooked teeth. "I'm going to hold you to that," then rummages under the blankets at the beep of his phone. It's a sound Bob's became used to over the last few hours, that and the soft sound of buttons as Mikey types out texts in reply to his many received messages, which he does now before sighing and leaning against the pillows piled behind his back. "That's Frank, he's giving me a ride home."

It's no surprise, Mikey had to go sometime and already it's well after lunch. What is a surprise is Bob doesn't actually want him to leave. He's enjoying having someone in his space, there with occasional comments and sarcastic remarks as Bob made coffee and toast and watched TV on his small portable set. It's something Bob hasn't had for a while. Sure, he's got friends, Ray especially has always been there, but no one who's slid into his life so easily and made no demands in return.

"Fuck." At the sound of a horn Mikey looks toward the window, and then takes a large piece of scrap paper. Thumbing the top off a green marker he writes down some numbers and passes the paper to Bob. "My number, call me if you want."

Bob takes the paper, pens and safety scissors getting buried in the blanket when Mikey stands and steps off the futon and then pushes his feet into his boots. Not bothering to lace them up he wedges his phone in his pocket and then heads for the door, waiting as Bob stands and follows, awkwardness causing him to stand out of arms reach. "Thanks. For, you know."

"I know," Mikey says, and he steps forward and presses a quick kiss against Bob's mouth. "Call me."

With that Mikey's gone, the door sticking as usual. Pulling it too, Bob ensures it's locked before heading to the window, where, if he cranes his neck he can just sit a car idling at the curb. Nearly a minute and he also sees Mikey, and then Frank -- Jamia's Frank, Ray's friend Frank -- who hangs out of the driver's window and cat calls when Mikey appears.
Suddenly, Bob gets a flash of Frank grinning at the club, as he says, “he gets more game than anyone I know” and Bob realizes that it was Mikey that Frank was talking about. A brief moment of disappointment and then Bob shakes it off because it’s not like he was interested in Mikey in a serious way, and at least now he knows Mikey isn’t looking for something serious either.

~*~*~*~


Mikey gets in the car and it takes Frank two minutes to ask for details, which is about a minute and a half longer than Mikey expected.

"There's nothing to tell," Mikey says. He's hunched forward, looking through the cassettes that Frank keeps in the glove box, they're all battered, labels written in thick black marker and Mikey's fingers are grimy, stained with purple and red ink.

Steering one handed, Frank takes a turn too fast, making the tree-shaped air freshener sway wildly under the mirror. "Details, Mikey. You went home with Bob, teacher Bob, Bob-fucking-savior-of-Ray's-school, Bob."

"You've an unhealthy obsession with my sex life," Mikey says, and Frank snorts, waving his hand. "And I didn't know he was that Bob at the time."

"You do now, so do your best friend duties and spill already."

Mikey turns so he's looking at Frank. "Do best friend duties mean we get to do each other's hair and have a Twilight marathon?"

"Depends," Frank says, looking far too cheerful. "Are you going to tell me if he fucked you while I braid your hair?"

"I'd look awesome in braids," Mikey says, deadpan, as Frank laughs and flips off a yellow taxi that's getting too close. "And no."

Frank rolls down the window, yells, "Learn to drive, asshole," then turns back to Mikey. "No what? No you're not telling me or no he didn't fuck you?"

It's tempting to tease a little bit longer, especially as they both know Mikey will tell all eventually, but Mikey's feeling at peace with the world, warm and content, and he decides to give Frank what he wants. Giving up on the cassettes for now, Mikey sits back in his seat, running his thumb over the furred edge of the seatbelt. "The second no, we got close but not the whole way."

"And?" Frank prompts, frustration coloring his tone. "Jamia likes the guy, Ray thinks the sun shines out of his ass but all I know is he gives good piggy back rides and looks hot making out. If we're going to be friends I need more."

"I don't think knowing he gives great head is something you should use as a basis of potential friendship," Mikey says through a yawn. "But for the record he's great at it, very thorough."

Frank bounces in his seat and thumps his fist in the air, impacting it against the roof. "I knew it! I told Jamia he'd be good at head, he's got a cock-sucking mouth."

Eyebrow raised, Mikey stares at Frank. "What do you know about cock sucking mouths?"

"I look at yours every day, don't I?" Frank says, rubbing his knuckles against his chest. "And it's not how he gives head that's important, it's how he treats you."

It's the kind of conversation that's classical Frank, insults, sex talk but always that core of having Mikey's best interests at heart. It's why Mikey says, "He's fucking hot, makes good breakfast and shitty coffee. I like him."

Frank smiles, hearing what Mikey's not saying in actual words. "That much?"

Mikey thinks about Bob. How he watched cartoons and scraped black off of the toast, how his hands felt against Mikey's hips, how he's safe, solid, funny. He's everything Mikey expected and a little bit more. It's why he says, "Yeah, that much."


~*~*~*~


"So," Ray says, dragging out the word. He's standing in the doorway of Bob's classroom and looking through a stack of Polaroid pictures of Bob's kids, each one printed with their first name. "You went home with Mikey."

Bob scowls when he sees Ray's all but beaming, like Bob hooking up with Mikey has made his week. Bob takes a picture from Ray, sticking it to the display on his classroom wall. "You know I did."

"And?" Ray holds up one hand, showing off the elastic looped around his wrist. "I've ten minutes before I have to become professional. So tell me details."

"Fucking gossip," Bob says, and adds a picture of Emma to the display. "There's nothing to tell, we went home, we had fun, he helped me make masks."

"Tell me that's not a euphemism," Ray says, then frowns as he looks at Bob. "And if it is I don't want to know, I mean it."

"Well stop asking then." Bob takes another picture, eying up the distance between the other Polaroids before sticking it up. "And I meant we made masks. Like the ones I've got planned for later this week."

Ray grins, says, "You were bonding over craft activities, that's sickeningly adorable."

It's tempting, but Bob doesn't nail Ray in the head with the blue tack, instead he takes another photograph and very deliberately sticks it in place. "There was no bonding."

"But you had fun?" Ray seems genuinely invested in knowing the answer, and Bob's a mixture of frustrated and pleased.

"We had fun. I liked him."

Ray's smile is blinding and he moves his hands as he talks, his own form of happy dancing. "Good, Mikey's a great guy. When are you meeting up again?"

"I've no idea," Bob says, and adjusts one of the Polaroids an inch to the right. "We had a good time but it wasn't a date."

Ray almost seems to deflate, his former happiness draining away. "So you're not going to call him?"

"He gave me his number, so probably," Bob says, and turns and looks directly at Ray, knowing where his thoughts will be going. "But that doesn't mean anything. No dates, no relationships. You know I don't do that shit."

"Because you're an idiot," Ray says, and for an instant he looks nothing like the proper Principal Toro as he rolls his eyes. "Everyone's not Jessica, they're not all about to cheat."

"They're not going to get the chance," Bob says tersely and takes another Polaroid, turning his back on Ray and focusing on the display. "And you forgot about Callum, he left too."

"Callum's a fucking dick," Ray spits out, and even though Bob can't see his expression he knows he'll be scowling, his anger all too apparent. It's his default setting when mentioning Callum and Bob takes comfort in that, focusing on Ray's anger instead of Bob's own bone deep hurt. "You were better off without him."

Bob pushes down the photograph, fixing it in place and then turns back to Ray. "Maybe, but he still left. And Jessica cheated, so I'm done with serious, and Mikey feels the same so there's no point pushing us together."

Ray looks dubious, like he's sure Bob's feeding him some line. "He told you that?"

"He didn't have to," Bob says. "Frank said it for him, remember, that Mikey gets more play than anyone around."

For a moment it's like Ray doesn't know how to reply, then he shakes his head, says, "That doesn't mean he doesn't want serious. He knows a lot of people is all. He's a nice guy, people like him."

Which Bob can understand. Mikey is a nice guy, and if they meet up again and have fun, that's great, but that's it, it'll never be anything more than casual. Taking another picture, Bob adds it to the display. "I'll phone him later this week. I'm not about to date the guy but he gives good head."

Ray turns the pictures so they're pressed against his chest. "Jesus, Bob. I don't want to know that about Mikey. And you won't have to phone him, he's coming here Friday to help paint. Or at least Gerard is, so I'd assume Mikey will be tagging along."

"You know Gerard too?" Bob asks incredulously, because even after knowing Ray for what feels like forever and living in this city for almost a month, sometimes it feels like he's been dropped into a situation where he knows nothing at all. "Mikey's devil making, artist brother?"

"I don't know about devils specifically, but that sounds like him." Ray says, and goes back to looking through the pictures. "We're friends, met him through Mikey and Frank's Mikey's best friend, so...."

"So I know nothing it seems," Bob says, because Ray could have told him this stuff, instead of Bob going in blind. He holds out his hand. "Give me the one of me, I'll put it in the middle."

Ray fans out the remaining pictures. "And for the record, you need to stop being a moron and start to actually live."

Which is easy for Ray to say, he hasn’t had his heart broken so often it feels like there's nothing left to shatter. Bob says simply, "I live."

"You survive," Ray corrects, and then goes back to leafing through the pictures until he finds the one of Bob and hands it over. "You know, you could have taken a picture that included your face."

"No I couldn't," Bob says, and adds the picture to the board. A photo of his chest and lower neck, Mr Bob printed in red letters underneath.

~*~*~*~


It's an hour after the end of school on a Friday and Bob's in the bathroom trying to sponge a painted finger print from his pant’s leg when he hears the buzzer that's attached to the main door. Knowing Ray and Jamia are around he keeps dabbing at the blue paint, bent over and twisted as he tries to see the back of his leg. The buzzer sounds again, and then again, no let up between the two times. Frustrated, Bob throws the wet paper towel in the trash can and leaves the bathroom, the material of his pants sticking unpleasantly to his calf.

"Hold on already," Bob mutters, wanting to swear but not taking the risk, for all he knows it could be a parent at the door or some kind of inspector. It's not, at least Bob doesn't think so. It's some strange guy carrying a sketch pad, a bag over his shoulder, and behind him is Frank, cans of paint in each hand, and then Mikey, who's holding a paint brush. Assuming the stranger has to be the devil making Gerard, Bob buzzes open the door.

"Hi," maybe Gerard says and all but explodes into the foyer. He grins at Bob and holds out the sketch pad. "I redesigned the sketches, it's going to look awesome."

"Okay," Bob says, and looks toward Frank and Mikey. "You're here to paint?"

Frank sets down the cans of paint and then runs outside, coming back with two more. "Gerard's painting, I'm here to see my beautiful wife and Mikey's... Well Mikey's hoping to blow you in a cupboard I think."

Frank sounds serious, he even looks serious and Bob can feel heat creeping into his cheeks, which sucks because even if Mikey would want to give head so easily, Bob's not about to do it here. He swallows, says, "I'll go and find Ray."

Heading off toward Ray's office, Bob doesn't look back, even when he hears a thump and someone giggle. Just keeps walking until he's peering into Ray's office. "Gerard's here, I think."

"You think?" Ray's slumped in his chair, the light from his monitor lighting up his face. Reaching out he minimizes the browser and stands. "You're letting strangers into the school?"

"He's with Mikey and Frank," Bob says, sure that it is actually Gerard. "He says he's redesigned the sketches."

Ray sighs and starts to walk with Bob. "The original ones were amazing but the parents weren't ready for Zombie Bo Peep." Bob isn't sure if he is either, and no matter that he volunteered to stay behind, he's considering remembering something to do elsewhere when Ray slows and looks across at Bob. "He's a nice guy and I know you like Mikey. Stay and make some more friends already."

Bob crosses his arms across his chest, says, "I've got friends."

"You had friends," Ray says gently. "And then you pushed them all away. It's time to make more."

"Why? It's not like I'm staying," Bob says, and quickens his pace, adds without looking at Ray. "A semester and I'm out of here."

"So have friends for a semester." Speeding up too, Ray walks past Bob, touching him on the arm. "They're good people. Give them a chance."

~~~~~

Bob does give them a chance, and quickly finds out that Ray's right, they are good people. Not that he's about to admit that to Ray.

Within minutes of entering the dining hall Gerard's taken charge, standing on a tiny red chair as he orders people to cover the floor with old sheets and take down posters and displays about healthy eating. Even Mikey works eventually, apathetically stacking tables and chairs as Frank, Jamia and Bob set up ladders and start to wash down the walls. It's hard, hot work, but Ray's set up a CD player in the corner of the room and there's something magical about watching Gerard roam the walls of the room, paint brushes in hand as he turns formally plain surfaces into a magical forest complete with animals and glittery fairies and dragons.

He's shading an elf right now, kneeling on the floor, attention solely on getting the perfect shade of green. With Jamia and Frank having gone for more paint, and Ray at the other end of the hall and up on a ladder, carefully sponging clouds, Bob may as well be alone with Mikey, and he carefully sets down a wet brush on top of the tray of paint.

"I didn't really come here to suck your dick," Mikey says unexpectedly, he's been messing with his phone and looks up at Bob from where he's sitting on one of the low tables. "I came to help paint."

Hedging a moment, Bob ensures the brush is going to stay in place, then sits next to Mikey. It's the closest they've been since Mikey left Bob's bed and it's a mixture of awkward and not, like Bob's both cautious and attracted at once. Taking neutral ground he rests his finger over a dried blob of paint on Mikey's t-shirt. "I know you've been painting."

Mikey's looking at Bob's hand, and he's so close Bob can hear him breathing just that little bit faster. "I'm not good like Gee but I like painting sometimes."

"You're good at making masks," Bob says, thinking about the half-finished mask he's got pinned to a wall. "And coloring in."

Mikey laughs, says, "Kindergarten level crafts, obviously my forte," then, more serious. "Why didn't you tell me you worked here?"

"You never asked," Bob replies, and more importantly, there was no reason for him to actually say. He turns slightly, his knee against Mikey's leg. ""You didn't tell me you knew Ray."

"You never asked," Mikey says, parroting Bob's words as he pushes himself up on one hip and puts his phone in his pocket. "Are you going out later?"

"To Harleys?" Bob says, and he knows this is a moment where he can either move this forward or not at all. A semester of no ties fun or time alone, maintaining the lifestyle that he's lived since everything went to hell. Bob reminds himself that spending time with Mikey doesn't mean a commitment, that there's no chance of being hurt. It's why Bob takes a jump, moving his hand and wrapping his fingers around Mikey's arm. "No, I'm going home, you can come if you want."

Mikey simply says, "Yes."

~*~*~*~

It doesn't take Mikey long to make himself at home. Even before Bob's kicked off his shoes Mikey's looking around, taking a moment to look at the half finished mask pinned to the wall before rummaging through the take-out menus Bob keeps stacked on the kitchen counter. Not even looking up when he steps to the side, allowing Bob to get at the kettle and start filling it up.

"I'm thinking Chinese," Mikey says. "Something that's easy to heat up if we have to."

Bob doesn't blush, he's not that kind of guy, but he does busy himself plugging in the kettle, distractions against Mikey's all too casual implication of imminent sex.

Mikey looks up, frowning when clumps of painted blue hair flops forward into his face. "Fucking, Frank."

Bob fixes Mikey with a look. "Your head got in the way of his brush, he told you that."

Mikey pushes his fingers through his matted hair and starts to force the strands apart. "He tells me lots of things, half of them aren't true."

It's something Bob can believe after spending the last five hours listening to Frank talk about his exploits at various gigs, Jamia listening in and laughing at various details, some of which were embellished by Mikey. It's obvious they're good friends and Bob asks, "How long have you known him?"

Mikey pushes himself up on the counter, the heels of his boots against the cupboard door. "Since forever, we went to different schools but he was always around on the scene. We used to meet up on the weekends and then it was every day." Mikey shrugs, mouth curled into a smile. "I can't remember the last day I didn't talk to him somehow."

It's an easy thing for Bob to believe, Mikey and Frank's easy friendship evident even when they were bickering with paintbrushes and screwed up paper towels. "He's a nice guy."

"I love him," Mikey says without a hint of embarrassment, tugging harder at his hair. "Even if he is an annoying fucker."

Bob opens a cupboard taking out two mugs, listening to Mikey's sounds of frustration. Eventually, at a particularly loud yelp of pain, Bob turns, says, "Go and use the shower. There's hair stuff in there, conditioner and shit."

Mikey raises an eyebrow, fingers still stuck in his hair. "It'll just flake out eventually."

Bob points toward the bathroom. "Or you could go wash it out now."

"Fine. Going." Mikey gets down, landing with a thump. "Don't drink all the coffee."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bob says dryly, and Mikey looks satisfied as he makes his way toward the bathroom. Left alone, Bob pulls off his paint splattered hoodie, making a mental note to soak it later, and then goes to rummage through his clothes, looking for something Mikey can wear when he gets out of the shower. Not that there's much to choose from, most of Bob's clothes are the type he wears for school and the casual stuff is guaranteed to be too big. Bob kneels, rummaging through the boxes he uses for storage until he eventually finds a hoodie and sweat pants that may fit. Draping them over his arm he briefly thinks about underwear, but decides that's a step of intimacy too far.

Hearing the sound of the shower, Bob knocks at the door and keeps his head averted as he sets the pile of clothes inside. Already steam is filling the room but as Bob turns to pull the door too he can't help getting a glimpse of Mikey's pale back from where he's bent over, unfastening the buckles of his boots.

"You can wear those," Bob says, turning away, like that's going to remove the temptation to go into the room and see more.

"Thanks," Mikey says, his voice muffled. "You didn't have to."

"I don't want paint on my futon," Bob says, and heads for the take-out menus, picking up the one from the top as he raises his voice and says, "Beef chow mein good for you?"

"Fine," Mikey says in reply, and Bob picks up the phone.

~~~~

"You're telling me Ray wore a furry bear suit? Ray Toro, principal of my school."

Mikey's eyes are wide, and he grins, pointing a chop stick at Bob. "The very same. He put it on and ran around the block. Mom took pictures."

"Tell me she kept them," Bob says, because this is gold, and something he needs to know more about. "And why did you even have a bear suit in your house?"

Grin widening, Mikey shakes the sleeves of the hoodie back up his arms and says, "It belonged to a friend, he'd left it behind. When Ray bet Gee he couldn't fit those marshmallows in his mouth it seemed like a good forfeit."

"Your brother has a big mouth," Bob says.
Mikey laughs, loud and unselfconscious. "He's been told that before."

Bob can imagine, and he carefully stacks up the empty take-out cartons before any remaining sauce drips onto the futon. Deciding against actually taking them to the trash he sets them to one side and leans back, feeling content and full. On a school night he'd be getting ready to sleep about now, but tonight it doesn't matter, and anticipation prickles when Mikey pushes up onto his knees and crawls over to Bob's side of the futon. Pulled out into a bed earlier in the evening, Mikey kneels on the thin mattress, and he's swamped in the hoodie, Bob's pants falling down low on his hips and his face and hair is washed clean. Mikey looks different like this, still the same person but younger and Bob reminds himself that Mikey's not as innocent as he appears.

It's a reminder Bob needs, because he likes being with Mikey, a lot, and Bob knows if he's not careful he could fall for him in a way that'll never work. Because this isn't serious and Bob's got no intention of staying. But that doesn't mean they can't have fun, and when Mikey's grin fades, his expression becoming needy, wanting, as he looks Bob from head to toe before moving in closer, Bob meets him half way.

~*~*~*~


Mikey's bored, the kind of bored that usually ends with him spending hours on You Tube or buying outfits for Frank's dogs, and that's something that never ends well. He wants to see people, talk and have fun and his immediate choices are off on their own, Gerard meeting his mystery woman and Frank having “sexy funtimes” fun -- Mikey's mocked him for that, Frank still hasn't replied. Scrolling through his contacts Mikey tries to decide who to call, but each time comes back to Bob's number, which he'd eventually given the last time they met. Mikey hasn't actually used it to call, he's sent texts of things he thought were funny and Bob has a great line in LOL replies, but nothing more. Which is a hesitation Mikey isn't used to, more familiar with people who telegraph their wants clear and loud.
Mikey's stares at his phone, weighing the lack of actual formed responses against the fact he really likes Bob, who's funny and hot, and as his lack of computer and decent TV suggests, one of those weird people who don't actually live via their phone.
On impulse, Mikey presses call.
"Mikey?"

It's taken a while for Bob to actually answer and when he does he sounds sleepy. Mikey feels guilty, checking his watch. It's only eight but it is a school night, for all he knows Bob may already be in bed. "Did I wake you? Sorry."

There's a soft thump, the sound of footsteps and Bob yawning. "I was watching TV, apparently crappy soap operas put me to sleep."

"Take it as a blessing," Mikey says, because soap operas?, it's good that he did call. "What are you doing?"

"Talking to you," Bob replies, and even through the phone it's easy to imagine his long suffering look. "And now I'm about to nuke pizza. Soap operas have nothing on the excitement of my life."

Mikey settles down on the sofa, picturing Bob wandering around his apartment. "I hope that's not the pizza you re-heated yesterday. It was already going green."

"So I'll pull off the mould," Bob says easily. "The rats can have that part for breakfast."

"Or I can save your life and meet you for dinner," Mikey says, and thinks of all the places to eat close to where Bob lives. "There's a diner two blocks from your place. Smithies..."

"The one with the neon pig outside that only half lights up?" Bob cuts in. "The place looks like a health violation waiting to happen."

It's true, and Mikey's not about to defend the decor, or to admit that the inside always smells overwhelmingly of grease. All that matters is the food, and the fact that it's good. "They do bacon cheeseburgers topped with a fried egg."

There's empty silence, then Bob says, "I don't usually go out on school nights."

"They do chili fries too," Mikey says, hoping he's laying on the right kind of temptation. "You can be back home in a few hours."

"I don't know." Again there's silence, just Bob breathing and then, "The egg is sunny side up, right?"

"Like there's any other way," Mikey says, already getting to his feet.

~~~

Smithies still smells of grease and the booths still suck, the tables too close to the seats. Mikey shifts on the hard surface, trying to find a position where he's not sitting on either a break in the plastic or some kind of dubious stain. Eventually he gives in, resigned to doing both.

"Did they design this place for midgets?" Bob grumbles. He's sitting opposite Mikey, wedged up against the window, elbows on the table and their legs pressed together. "The food better be worth it."

"It is," Mikey says, and snags a menu that's lying on the table. It's been a while since he's been here and he's relieved to see that things are the same, most importantly, unlimited coffee and the bacon cheeseburger complete with the fried egg. "I'm having the egg bacon cheeseburger with chill fries but everything's good."

Bob takes his own menu, but makes no attempt to read, looking at Mikey instead. "It's as good as you say?"

"Better," Mikey promises and puts down his own menu. "We used to come here after going out clubbing, share the chili fries and a burger."

Mikey's talking about a time long before, but the wistful feelings remain and briefly he allows himself to feel a pang of loss, indulging in memories of late nights and conversations that were as much silences as words. Bob's watching all the while, and eventually he says, "We?"

"An ex," Mikey says, leaving the past where it belongs. Seeing the waitress approaching, he adds, "You need to man up and order the same."

Bob looks down at the menu, and then back at Mikey. "I'm not sharing."

They don't, and soon the table's crowded with plates and mugs of coffee. Burger held in two hands, Mikey bites down, yolk dripping out of the bun and over his chin.

"Classy," Bob says through his own mouthful of burger. He's got a smear of sauce over one cheek and behind the over-sized bun his eyes are shining.

"You know it." Mikey puts down his burger and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, then uses a napkin to wipe at his chin. "Told you it was good."

Bob doesn't reply, just keeps eating, relish and yolk dripping over his fingers and onto his plate. Which should be all kinds of gross but Mikey likes the way Bob looks so into what he's doing, his mouth shiny with grease when he puts down his burger and how he sucks at his fingers, obviously unaware of how amazing that looks.

"I'm going to move here," Bob announces when he picks up a fry loaded with chili, looking blissful when he chews. "I'll sleep under the tables, and wash up in the john."

Mikey takes another bite of his burger, swallows and says, "I think Ray would have a problem when you come in stinking of grease."

Bob eats another handful of fries. "I'll bring him here, he'll understand."

"He's your boss," Mikey says, and takes his own opening, asking questions which so far only have half answers. "Isn't that weird? Working for him when you've been friends for so long." Then, at Bob's look adds, "Ray's mentioned you before, and Jamia's told me some stuff."

"Of course she has," Bob says, but there's no heat to the words and he shrugs, wiping his fingers on the napkin. "It's not weird, and we've worked together before."

It's something Ray's alluded to but never actually explained, and Mikey's curious. "He's been your boss before?"

Bob shakes his head. "We just worked together, not even that really. We played in the same band."

"Yeah?" Mikey sits forward in his seat. He knows that Ray plays guitar, and knows he plays it well, something he shows every time he loosens up and plays when they meet up at his home or the occasional nights he jams with some band, but Ray's never mentioned playing with Bob. Knowing that, Mikey slots things into place. "You drum, yeah?"

Bob eats another fry. "Ray told you?"

"Nope." Bob's arms are hidden under his hoodie but Mikey can remember them easily, the sprinkle of freckles on Bob's pale shoulders, and despite the layer of padding, the muscles that remain, hinting at strength. "You look like a drummer."

"Like a former drummer," Bob says, and pulls his sleeves down over the silvery scars at his wrists. "I don't do it now."

Mikey wants to ask multiple questions, but Bob's tense, eating at a rapid rate and looking out of the window. It's why Mikey settles for, "If you played with Ray you must have been good."

"The best," Bob says, and rubs at his wrist before looking directly at Mikey. "But that's in the past, I don't drum now and I don't need it. I don't need anything or anyone."

The message couldn't be plainer, but Mikey likes Bob, a lot, and he needs to make sure before writing him off as someone with the potential for serious. "So you're still planning on moving on after this semester?"

Bob picks up his burger, says, "As soon as vacation hits I'm gone, I'll keep in touch with Ray but I've nothing else to stay for."

Mikey says nothing in reply, there's nothing he can say, the message fully understood.

~*~*~*~
Thursday evening and Bob hasn't heard from or seen Mikey for days.
Not that he misses him as such, it's just, Bob's just got used to his phone beeping and finding some text containing messages or links from Mikey. They're never anything earth-shattering, funny mostly and on occasions, fucking disturbing, but at least they're something other than his mom calling to ask if he's okay or Ray reminding about an early meeting. And okay, if he admits it to himself, maybe Bob misses Mikey's company and the fact that there's someone out there thinking of him, even if it's only to send throwaway texts.
Crumpling up the remains of his sandwich in its wrapper, Bob shoves the paper in the trash and walks to the window, watching the rats run in the early evening shadows. It's still hours until bedtime and Bob's restless, nothing catching his attention. He doesn't want to watch TV or read or take a long shower, though doing that would allow Bob to jerk off, hot water against his back as Bob remembers Mikey sharing his shower, on his knees, his hair soaked and eye lashes spiked as he smiles and looks up at Bob.
"Fuck," Bob spits out, and grabs up his phone. There's still nothing, no texts or missed calls and he scrolls from his short list of contacts, looking for Mikey's number.
~*~*~*~
"Aren't you getting that?" Gerard asks, when Mikey picks up his phone and sets it back down.
"It's Bob," Mikey says in explanation, while reminding himself not to answer. Which is something he really wants to do, not only to find out what Bob wants, but so he can talk to Bob too.
Gerard looks sympathetic, and gives Mikey a small smile. "You really like him, yeah?"
Mikey crosses his arms in front of his chest, itching to answer. "Too much."
"I'm sorry," Gerard says, and Mikey shrugs, because even if he does like Bob, in way where he'd like to get past occasional hook ups to more, it doesn't matter. Mikey heard Bob's message loud and clear, and he knows there's no point in sticking too close. They can meet up, sure, but it'll never be anything but casual friendship, and Mikey needs to back up and accept that.
His phone rings again, and this time Mikey replies.
~*~*~*~
Still wet from the shower, Bob scrubs at his hair, swearing under his breath when he hears the knock at the door. Knowing it's Ray, he wraps a towel around his waist and opens the door, not even saying hello before going back to the bathroom.

"Hello to you too," Ray says, and Bob can hear the creak of the futon as Ray sits down.

"Hello Ray," Bob yells, pulling on clean boxers and pants. They're creased from being in the boxes but Bob can't bring himself to care, as long as his work clothes look decent the rest can be left. Bare footed and with the towel around his neck, Bob goes back into the main room and sees Ray reading a comic book. It's one of the ones Mikey left behind the last time he came over and Ray looks over at Bob. "Since when do you buy comics? I thought they were just more shit to throw away."

"It's not mine," Bob says, and crouches down, looking through his box of shirts. "Mikey left it."

There's the sound of a page turning, then Ray says, "I was talking to Jamia earlier, she said Mikey's been coming over."

"He called in one night," Bob says. "And we went to the movies."
"Yeah?" Ray says, and Bob can almost hear him making unfounded connections.
"It wasn't a date if that's what you're thinking."
"Of course it wasn't," Ray says, sounding caught between frustrated and amused. "Bob Bryar doesn't date."
Bob grabs his favourite shirt and pulls it on. "About time you got that fixed in your head."

Ray puts down the comic book and looks over the back of the futon at Bob. "Like you let me forget, and you're going out in plaid? How do you even get laid?"

"I like plaid." Bob checks the window is locked, the wood frame creaking as he tugs at the handle. "And stop asking about my sex life, fucking gossip."

"Then you should tell us at work," Ray says, and picks up Bob's discarded shirt, folding it up and draping it over the back of the futon. "You listen to Jamia enough."

"Like I've got a choice," Bob grumbles, because he likes Jamia, a lot, but there's a limit to how often he can sit and listen to her tell all about her sex life. Drinking coffee and eating homemade cookies while she talks, like she doesn't realize Bob isn't one of her girlfriends and really doesn't want to know about how often Frank can get it up. "And I don't hear you joining in with the sex talk."

Ray sighs, long and tragic. "That's because I'm getting none. My right hand's stuck in permanent grip mode."

"Sucks to be you," Bob says and stands on alternate feet as he pulls on his socks. He looks over at Ray with a grin. "Though I suppose you're getting none of that either."

Ray flips Bob off. "Fuck off, just because you're getting laid."

Bob's grin widens, and he knows he looks smug. "You know it."

"Sure, rub it in," Ray says, but he doesn't sound upset, more considering. "You've been smiling more lately."

It's a jump in conversation Bob doesn't expect, and he eases his feet into his shoes, using silence to express how stupid he finds the observation.

All Ray does is walk forward until Bob's looking down at Ray's battered sneakers. "I know it's not serious, you've told me enough, but you're happier, anyone can see that."

Bob bends, tying his laces as he thinks about what Ray said. And maybe Bob has been happier, but that's because he can leave soon. It's nothing to do with enjoying watching crappy movies with Mikey, or the way they've planned to eat through the menu at Smithies, or the way Bob wants to smile each time he hears Mikey laugh. Bob's happiness isn't tied to that at all.

~~~~

Friday night means live music at Harleys. It's been a long week and Bob's looking forward to kicking back, a beer in hand and listening, even if it is just some shitty baby band. And if he’s honest with himself, he’s also looking forward to seeing Mikey.

They've agreed to meet inside, Mikey sending a quick text message hours before and Bob's already looking out for him when he goes through the main doors. Entering the club is like walking into a new world for a few hours. One where Bob doesn't have to worry about supplies for his kids or if Abbie's okay when she doesn't come in for a week or even if the nits he caught will ever come back. In Harley's Bob's back to his old self, healthy and care-free with the world at his feet. Slinging an arm around Ray he says in his ear, "Want a beer?"

Ray indicates the back of the room. "I'll go and see if the others are here yet, and yeah."

Bob nods, and makes his way to the bar. As always it's crowded and without Mikey he's forced to wait, tapping his fingers against his thigh to the music and watching the people around him. Despite being so early the place is almost full already, the usual mixture of kids with their hands stamped and older people who drink beer from plastic cups or knock back shots, needing a fast buzz. When Bob finally gets served he buys four beers, using his fingers to grip the cups together as he makes his way back to the tables.

He greets people on the way, flashing smiles at the ones that somehow he's come to know by sight. Bypassing the dance-floor, he eases past a group streaming in from outside, bringing in a burst of fresh air that's soon overpowered by the mixture of people and heat. Ray's already sitting talking to Frank, their heads close together, and Bob sees that Gerard is there too, sitting back in his chair and hand in hand with some girl who smiles a greeting when Bob gets close. Which means Mikey's here already, and Bob sets the cups on the table, looking around.

Gerard takes a sip of his own drink, some yellow and blue concoction that he's drinking through a straw. He sucks, cheeks hollowing and then sets down the glass and grins over at Bob. "Bob, this is Lindsey, we got here early, Mikey's dancing."

"Hey," Bob says, taking the time for a quick hello before looking back toward the dance-floor. He knows Mikey likes to dance but Bob doesn't, so the times they've been out Mikey tends to dance with Frank or Jamia, even Gerard once -- four minutes Bob still can't think about without feeling flush. He cranes his neck, trying to see, but the floor's too crowded, and Ray pokes Bob hard in the side. "Go see him already."

Bob doesn't want to look eager and give Ray ammunition he doesn't need, but it has been a while. He puts down three of the plastic cups, keeping one for himself as he reverses direction.

It takes a while to actually see Mikey. He's right in the middle of the crowd, totally unselfconscious as he dances with some guy -- dances very close to some guy, and Bob catches flashes of their hips pressed together, the way Mikey's smiling slightly, off in his own world as he moves to the music. It's nothing Bob hasn't seen before, it's how Mikey dances, even with his brother. But the guy is pushing for more, has his hand on Mikey's back as he bends, licking at Mikey's neck, making him laugh as he takes the guy's hand and leads him off the dance floor in the direction of the bathrooms and secluded corners.

Plastic crumples under Bob's hand, and he brings up the cup, draining his beer in one. As always it tastes watered down and Bob wishes he had something stronger, whisky or vodka, a whole fucking bottle, and Bob turns on his heels, pushing his way back to the table. Ray's still talking to Frank, Gerard talking in the girl's ear as Bob grabs another beer, drinks it down and announces, "I'm going home."

Gerard stops talking and Ray and Frank look up, Ray jumping to his feet when Bob walks away. "Bob, wait up."

Bob keeps walking, never looking back and muttering apologies as he powers his way outside. It's still light out there, the queue stretching along the outside of the building and all Bob wants to do is get home. He's been stupid, allowing Mikey to get too close. Bob's angry, at Mikey, at Ray, but mostly himself for starting to enjoy something that was never only his to have.

"Bob, wait up already." Ray's running now, slows down when he's a little ahead of Bob. "What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"

"I'm not one of the kids," Bob spits out, and he jerks away when Ray tries to touch his arm.

"What the hell?" Ray's standing in front of Bob now, blocking his way. When Bob tries to get past Ray holds out his hand. "Not until you tell me what's up."

Bob's breathing hard, bitter memories tangled with the here and now and he says, "Mikey, he was practically fucking some guy on the dance floor. Then he led him away, probably to finish the job."

"That's how he dances," Ray says, "You know that."

Bob's getting angry, because it's seems to always be those excuses. It's just how Mikey is, he's friendly, people like him, code words for what's really him sleeping around. Bob pushes past Ray, says, "He's a slut. Like Jessica and Callum, they're all the same."

Ray frowns, falling in next to Bob. "You're over reacting, and no, he's not."

“He’s probably getting fucked in a bathroom stall right now, so yeah, if the shoe fits.”

"You don't even know that." Ray's moving faster, not allowing Bob to get away, so they're almost running down the sidewalk. "And what do you care anyway? You're leaving after a semester, no strings remember. You've told me that plenty of times. You can't have it both ways."

And the thing is, Ray's right. It is what Bob wants, no-strings and no ties, no one who will ever break his already fractured heart. All Bob needs is a warm body next to his, some laughs and conversation. No fuss and no feelings, allowing Bob to walk away when it's time. He turns to Ray, hardening his heart as he says, "You're right, he can fuck who he wants. I don’t give a shit.”

~*~*~*~

Mikey feels clammy, his t-shirt clinging at the small of his back and under his arms. Using the flat of his hand he wipes at his neck as he makes his way back to their table, hoping to see Bob. There's only Frank, and the still weird picture of Gerard sitting holding hands with Lindsey, and Mikey feels a pang of disappointment as he sits and picks up a cup of beer, drinking it down in one go, grimacing when he realizes it's warm.

"Did you see Bob?" Gerard asks. He looks worried, forehead creased as he looks at Mikey. "He went looking for you then came back here and took off, saying he was going home."

Mikey shakes his head and keeps clutching the empty cup. "I took Dan back to his girl, the fucker nearly barfed on my neck. She’s taking him home.”
"Classy," Frank says, looking Mikey up and down as if he's expecting him to be covered in vomit. "Though not surprising, you've so much shit in your hair anyone would barf coming close."

"Yeah?" Mikey says, and runs his hands through his hair so they're coated in gel. "Want a close up?"

Mikey pounces, aiming for Frank's face, and while Frank might be small and quick, when he wants Mikey can move fast too, and they're circling the table, laughing as Gerard holds on to his drink and tries to keep out of the way. Eventually, when Mikey's cracked his knees against the chairs at least three times and Frank's spilled the remaining cups of beer, Gerard holds out his hand, grabbing hold of Mikey's t-shirt and holding him in place.

"Aren't you going to call Bob, see what's up?"

Instantly Mikey feels guilty. He's been having so much fun with Frank he's forgotten about Bob. About to pull out his phone, he stops and wipes his hands on his thighs, then heads for outside where he'll be able to talk and be heard. "Back soon."

It takes a while to get out of the club. Mikey waves greetings to his friends and ends up in four conversations until, finally he's getting his hand stamped and pushing his way outside. Heading away from the queue he leans against the wall and calls Bob's number, listening to it ring out, and eventually go to voice mail. Hanging up, Mikey tries again, and again, but each time no one picks up. Worry gnawing, this time he leaves a message, says, "Hi, Bob. I hope you're okay. Gee said you had to go home."

Hanging up, Mikey stares at his phone, knowing he's missed out the most important part of his message. Writing always easier than actual words, Mikey types a new text, sends Call me?. Then closes his phone and goes back inside.

~*~*~*~

Bob doesn't reply to Mikey's messages, either voice or text.

He's deleted them all before he's even half way home.

~*~*~*~


It's something that happens in an instant. Bob's watching Ronan come down the small slide when Reba comes hurtling toward him. She's laughing, caught up in some kind of kid game, arms wide and head down as she runs and Bob tries to step to the side before he takes another hit to his crotch.

He doesn't see the ball that's rolled close, just feels it under his foot as he throws out his arms, trying for balance. It doesn't work, Bob feels himself falling and all he can do is twist to the side, ensuring he doesn't land on any of his kids.

He hits hard, hands taking all the impact and even if the court yard is covered in a spongy surface, it isn't enough.

~~~~~

"You need to go check those out," Ray says flatly. He's standing over Bob, frowning as he looks at the damp towels Bob's got draped over his wrists. "I can watch your class."

Bob shakes his head. His kids are already unsettled after seeing him fall, disappearing now would make things even worse. Grimacing, he flexes his fingers. "It's not that bad."

"Stubborn bastard," Ray says, and sits down on the chair next to Bob's. From outside there's the clink of cutlery and Bob worries about Jamia having to supervise both classes at lunch, about Reba who he couldn't stop crying, the pain in his wrists nothing compared to the way her face crumpled when she'd realized she'd made Bob fall.

Bob flexes his fingers again, biting back a groan at the pain that flairs up both arms. "They'll be fine. The doctors said they're as good as new after the ops."

It's not an outright lie, more a bending of the truth especially as Bob knows that Ray can't afford to take a hit on his deductible, even if he has managed to get insurance for them all. Ray doesn't look convinced, but eventually pulls in a breath, says, "Stay here until the afternoon session, I'll go get you something to eat."

Ray leaves the staff room, and Bob sits still, eyes squeezes closed and steeling himself for the hours he'll have to endure before he can go home.


~*~*~*~

The knock at the door is unwelcome. Bob's nested on the futon, sheets over his lap and riding the haze of painkillers taken on an empty stomach. He's wearing his braces on each wrist, his hoodie sleeves pulled down low and his fingers throb as he rolls onto his hip and pushes himself up using his elbow.

"Coming," Bob snaps when there's yet another knock. Suspecting Ray, Bob's about to chew him out for mother-henning when he opens the door, his words drying up when he sees Mikey. It's been four days since Bob ran out of the club, and while he's been swapping texts with Mikey's they've been nothing more than banal small talk. Bob is keeping their relationship at the level he needs.

"Hey." Mikey's carrying a brown paper bag cradled against his chest and has another bigger bag looped over his shoulder. He's also wearing the same kind of outfit as usual, tight pants and t-shirt, his hair slicked back in a messy lump on top of his head.

Bob stares, says, "I thought you'd be at work?"

"I left early." Gently, Mikey pushes past Bob and puts the paper bag on the counter and drops the other next to the futon. "Frank said you were sick."

Bob bumps the door closed with his hip and stands watching as Mikey takes over his kitchen. He's unpacking cartons, polystyrene cups and brown paper wrapped parcels and Bob sniffs, recognizing the aroma of some kind of soup. Stomach growling, Bob strengthens his resolve to tell Mikey to go, because Bob's fine, he doesn't need anyone here. "I'm not sick."

"Sick, hurt, whatever," Mikey says easily. "Go sit down, I'll bring these over."

Irritation hits, all Bob wants to do is hide away from the world and lick his wounds, even if it is only for one night. "Look, I appreciate the effort but I'm not hungry, or up for company."

It's a pointed hint but Mikey takes no notice. Just starts to fill up the kettle before turning and looking directly at Bob. "I'm thinking you've taken painkillers on an empty stomach and that's a bad scene. Have some soup at least."

"You're fucking annoying," Bob says, but he's hurting too much to fight and gives in with bad grace, lowering himself back onto his heaped nest of blankets and pillows.

"But I bring good soup." Mikey thumbs off the top of one of the cartons, peering inside. Seemingly satisfied he blows on the top before wandering over to Bob.

Bob frowns, not endeared at all. "Want to spoon feed me it too?"

"If you want me to," Mikey says, impervious to Bob's bad mood. He crouches, holding out the soup. "It's chicken noodle, it's good when you're not feeling so hot."

"I'm feeling fine," Bob all but growls, and he takes the soup with bad grace, holding it gingerly as he takes a cautious sip.

"Told you it was good," Mikey says, not even looking as he heads back to the kitchen. He's busy unwrapping sandwiches and making mugs of instant coffee, and Bob would make some remark about Mikey making himself at home, but the truth is, he doesn't care. The soup tastes good and Mikey's making no attempt at lame small talk and Bob's happy to lie back and drink, the warmth soothing even if it's not helping the actual pain.

"I got Bologna sandwiches." Mikey kicks off his shoes -- his slip-ons today -- and folds himself down opposite Bob. He's got a plate containing two sandwiches in one hand, two mugs of coffee held by the handles in the other. The sandwiches are cut into small pieces and Bob looks, frowning over his soup as he waits for Mikey to make some bullshit excuse, like he likes them that way or else it lessens the mess.

"They're easier for you to eat that way," Mikey says, and sets down the mugs on the floor and puts the plate on his lap. "It can't feel good."

"You don't know the half of it." Bob winces when he curls his fingers further around the cup, the tendons in each wrist protesting the movement.

Mikey picks up a piece of sandwich and takes a bite, eating while he talks. "Frank told me your wrists exploded and you've got robot tendons."

"Something like that," Bob says, it's something they've never talked about, and he thinks about the scars under each splint, silvery now but each one containing the memory of rehab, pain and broken dreams.

Mikey keeps eating, lost in thought, then says, "Robot tendons would be cool, they could burst out of your skin when you needed them, like Wolverine's claws."

Bob doesn't know what to say, because Wolverine's claws? Seriously? He stares at Mikey who's eating like he hasn't been fed for a week. Sauce at the corner of his mouth and eyes shining, like he's really having fun sitting here with Bob and talking about robot tendons. Which Bob doesn't get, because Mikey's not supposed to be here like this, doing nice things and seemingly not wanting a thing in return. What they have is no strings only, good times with no expectations and that doesn't include Mikey actually caring. Before Bob can even think what he's saying he says, "I'm not up for sex tonight."

For a moment Mikey looks hurt, his shoulders stiffening and mouth opening as if he's about to protest. Then he snaps his mouth closed, waits a moment and then says levelly, "It's okay, I wasn't planning on staying anyway. I only stopped by for a few minutes." Cramming a last piece of sandwich in his mouth Mikey stands and puts on his shoes. Hands clenched, he looks around and then picks up his other bag, setting it down next to Bob. "There's DVDs in there, and my laptop, I know you haven't got a player."

More than anything, Bob wants to take back his last words, because even if Mikey is easy, there's no need to throw it in his face. But already Mikey's heading for the door and Bob looks in the bag, seeing a pile of DVDs and a laptop, an assortment of band stickers decorating the top. "I can't keep these."

Mikey shrugs, never looking back "You need something to entertain you when you're staying in, your TV's shit."

Without another word he leaves, and Bob stares from the laptop to the abandoned mugs of coffee, each one still steaming.

~*~*~*~

Gerard is sitting on Mikey's bed, and it's obvious he's not intending to move any time soon. He's pretending to read a comic, but after half an hour of Gerard peering at him from over the top of the page, Mikey throws himself down on the bed and says, "Spill it already."

"I don't get why you're not mad," Gerard says, and his mouth is all twisted as he stares at Mikey. "You took him soup and he implied you only wanted him for sex."

Mikey shrugs. "It was more than an implication."

"That doesn't make it better," Gerard points out, and he sounds so caught between misery and anger that Mikey's regretting telling him at all. "I should punch him in his fucking face."

Mikey thinks about Gerard trying to do that, and for the first time in hours he thinks he could smile. "I think he could take you."

"Maybe," Gerard admits, and bunches his hands into fists, his expression fierce as he adds, "But I'd still do it. No one gets to say you're some kind of slut."

Gerard's protectiveness is welcome and Mikey loves him for his constant support, but in this specific case Mikey thinks it's misguided, and he pushes himself back so he's sitting next to Gerard. "He was in a lot of pain and didn't actually say those words."

"Don't." Gerard's hands are in his hair and he bites at his lip, says, "You're making excuses for him, even if he didn't say those words he hurt your feelings and I don't get why you're letting that go."

Mikey hesitates a moment, because while he's got reasons, explaining will be breaking open wounds that have been scabbed over for years. But Gerard's sitting waiting, expectant. Mikey pulls in a breath, says simply, "If I took offence at everyone lashing out at me I'd have walked away from you back then."

Usually so mobile, it's weird to see Gerard's face so still, frozen as he looks down at his clenched hands. "You're telling me I made you into a doormat?"

That's not what Mikey's saying at all, and he hastens to explain. "I'm telling you that sometimes people lash out and don't mean it."

Gerard doesn't look convinced and he pulls up his legs, resting his arms on his knees. "I get where you're coming from, I do, but the situations are different. I was off my fucking head but I never stopped loving you. Ever. He doesn't even know you well, he doesn't get that out."

"Maybe," Mikey allows, because maybe Gerard is right but the fact is, Mikey likes spending time with Bob. He likes Bob full stop, and that's why Mikey's letting this go, even when logically he knows that he shouldn't.


~*~*~*~


Bob's sitting at his desk, marking off pages of a book to copy when he becomes aware of being watched. His kids are coloring in, the sound of pens against paper a background to their chatter, but in the last few seconds that noise has lessened, and Bob looks up, seeing twelve pairs of eyes looking his way.

It's disconcerting, every one of them watching and Bob looks right back, about to ask what's going on when Emma stands and walks to the front of the class. Her eyes are wet and her fingers stained with various colors, when she gets close she stares at Bob's wrists, and the braces that aren't completely hidden under his shirt sleeves. Confused, Bob asks, "What's up?"

"You fell." Emma takes another step closer and then back to her classmates before suddenly running forward and wrapping her arms around Bob's waist. "You hurted yourself."

"Hurt myself," Bob corrects, and puts his arm over Emma's thin shoulders. He's supposed to be careful about getting too close, but Emma's clinging on, and it seems the rest of the class have similar plans, as they all leave their places and circle Bob, touching him any way that they can.

The only one missing is Jed, who's at the other side of Bob's desk, where he keeps the rolls of stickers. "You need a star."

Bob shakes his head. "No I don't."

"You do," Jed says, and peels a star sticker off the roll. Pushing his way through the crowd, he presses the sticker on top of one of Bob's braces, a patch of bright yellow against the beige. "There, that's 'cos you're a brave soldier."

Bob wants to say that he's not brave at all. He's bitched about his wrists and cursed and hated his body for letting him down, but that's nothing his kids need to know, and he sits frozen, arms outstretched as each one of his kids peel off a sticker and adds them to one of Bob's braces. When they're done both are covered in yellow, a galaxy of shining stars against the evidence of Bob's pain.

~*~*~*~

Gerard's coming to the school after five and while he's unable to help paint, Bob's decided to wait, hanging out with Jamia and Ray. He's got Mikey's laptop and DVDs locked in his classroom cupboard and hopes, like last time, Mikey will tag along so Bob can hand them back. Feet on the low coffee table, Bob relaxes in the sinfully comfortable armchair, listening as Jamia and Ray discuss plans for a potential end of semester celebration.

"You have to do something," Jamia says. "You'll have been open a whole semester, and they said you'd fold after a few weeks."

Bob tilts his head so he can see them both. "I agree, you need to show the fuckers that you've done it, and the school's a success."

"A small one maybe," Ray says, loosening his tie. "We still need more enrolments and I can't find anyone to teach here permanently and we can't afford half the stuff we need."

For a long moment Bob thinks what to say, then drops his feet to the ground and sits up using his elbows as leverage. "Fuck that shit, you know how many kids this place helps. Maybe there isn't enough for everything right now but there will be."

Ray looks over at Bob. "That's your pep talk?"

"Do I look like a cheerleader?" Bob asks.

"And I'm not ruffling any pom poms either," Jamia puts in, she's standing next to the staff room notice board, next to curling print outs about meetings and fliers for bands pinned up next to drawings made by their kids. "We should put on a show. The kids, some instruments and their parents watching. We can celebrate and fund raise."

It's an interesting idea, because even if they're all teachers right now, going to shows is what they all do. Music and performing, and there's no reason it can't be combined with their actual jobs.

Ray takes out his PDA and starts pushing buttons, then looks up, already caught in the idea. It's something Bob's missed, seeing Ray so excited, because while the school is one of his dreams, lately it’s been dimmed by the drudgery of practicalities.

"We can perform the songs I've been teaching them in music hour. Each class getting a solo then we'll do a school song."

"Sounds good to me," Bob says, and Jamia nods her agreement as she notes things down.

The door buzzer sounds then, the same quick fire barrage of buzzes as last time. Jamia goes to answer, stowing her diary in her bag. "I'll go let them in."

"And I need to go make a call," Ray says with a sigh. "Tell Gerard I'll be out in five minutes, and don't let him paint anything but snakes."

"I'll try," Bob says, and heads out of the room.

~~~~

Expecting to see Mikey, Bob's surprised when the only person outside is Gerard. He's standing in the middle of the playground at the back of the school, his eyes hidden by huge sunglasses and hair blowing into his face. When Bob steps into view Gerard looks his way, peering through the strands of hair. He doesn't smile, says coolly, "Bob, hey."

"You going solo?" Bob asks, feeling awkward, like he should be apologizing to Gerard somehow. Sitting on the low wall that runs parallel to the playground, Bob watches Gerard pace the perimeter of the area.

"Frank's gone off with Jamia, I didn't ask why," Gerard says and pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, giving Bob a considered look before walking over to the wall, sitting so there's a large amount of space between them. "Ray says he wants snakes and ladders. Sea serpents are snakes, right?"

"Technically I guess." Bob waits, hoping Gerard will bring up Mikey himself, but all he does is pull a pen from behind his ear and start sketching on the back of his arm. There's some kind of serpent coiling from elbow to wrist before Bob finally asks, "Is Mikey not coming?"

Gerard colors in an oval eye, says, "He's working late today."

Disappointment hits, so hard Bob's shocked, and he needs to cover before he shows too much. "I've got his stuff. Can you take it back to him?"

"I can," Gerard says, and the nib of his pen digs into his arm. "But it would be better if you took them, and apologized at the same time."

Bob hasn't known Gerard long, but in all the times he's met him he's never heard him sound so cold. Knowing he's the cause makes Bob's stomach clench and he feels sick as he remembers past demands for apologies, Callum standing over Bob's hospital bed, furious as he demanded an apology for Bob allowing things to get so bad, Jessica packing up her things, saying Bob needed to say sorry for working so hard that she had to go elsewhere for attention. They're both conversations that are seared in Bob's memory and he protects himself by going on the attack, the way he's learnt is best. "I've nothing to apologize for. We've never had a relationship, he's nothing but a good fuck."

If he was thinking clearly Bob would have expected the punch, as it is he's not, he's tired and in pain and the next thing he's aware of is lying on the ground, cold leeching through his clothes and his jaw thumping as Gerard stands over him and rubs his fist.

"I told Mikey that I wouldn't do that, but fuck you. You don't get to say that about him." Gerard starts to stalk away then turns back, still furious. "He's been willing to take what you'll give him, but fuck that. He's worth more and you'd better keep away from him."

At the last Gerard disappears in the direction of the school. Hearing the door close, Bob thinks about sitting up, but the effort seems too much and he lies still, looking up at sky.

The door opens again and Bob hears running footsteps, then suddenly Ray's in view, peering down at Bob. "Oh fuck, he really did punch you in the face." Ray kneels down, his hand on Bob's chest. "Can you get up?"

"He didn't hit that hard," Bob says, and doesn't admit that mostly he's staying down because he landed awkwardly and his wrist joints feel like fire. Thankfully it seems Ray understands, and he eases his hands behind Bob's shoulders and pulls him up. Steadying until Bob's sitting with his back against the wall. "Thanks."

Ray sits too, his face twisted with worry. "What the hell did you say? Gerard never hits anyone."

Bob would protest the assumption that it's Bob at fault. But this is Ray, who's been there for all the bad times, in person, phone and emails, and right now Bob's too tired for lies, even the kind he tells to himself. "He said I should apologize to Mikey, and it brought back some shit."

"Callum?" Ray asks, and Bob nods, because like so often, it always gets back to Callum in the end. Even finding Jessica in bed with another guy was nothing compared to Callum announcing he was leaving. Bob's kept the details of that last meeting locked away, even from Ray, but now he's pushed to his limit and the words come tumbling out, he just hopes if he does some of the hurt he's carrying will finally fade.

"I told you he said he didn't want to be with me if I couldn't drum in the band. I didn't say he said that when I was still in the hospital." Bob rubs at his wrists, and each breath he takes is tainted with the sense memory of antiseptic and blood, the pain of his wrists wrapped in thick splints, an IV in the crook of his arm and unable to dry his own tears. "He'd talked to my doctor, said if I couldn't drum he wasn't sticking around, that he was only there for the fame that came with the band."

"I fucking hate that bastard," Ray all but snarls. "If I ever meet him...."

"You won't," Bob says, knowing Callum is long gone. Bob just wishes the memories would go so easily. "He knew before I did, that the operation had failed. He was down as my partner so the doctor told him before I came around. It gave him a chance to make plans. I found out he'd taken his stuff from our place by the next day."

"You should have told me," Ray says, and even though normally they're not one for hugging, Ray puts his arm around Bob, holding him close. "I would have helped."

Which Bob doesn't understand, because Ray did help, he has for every part of Bob's life. He leans against Ray, allowing himself this comfort. "You did help, and I didn't know how to say my wrists were fucked, my career was over and my long term boyfriend blamed me for ruining the band."

Ray rubs his fingers over Bob's shoulder, says, "You've told me now, and I'm going to tell you that Callum's a vindictive, spineless, limp-dicked, moronic bastard who's not worthy to lick your shoes, and you need to let him go."

Bob doesn't try to pretend he doesn't understand. "I don't know if I can."

"Yeah you can," Ray says, "because you're Bob fucking Bryar, and you've already turned your life around, now you just need to finish the job. Starting with going inside so Gerard can see he didn't actually kill you."

"Not even close." Gently, Bob touches his face, poking at the sore spot where Gerard's fist grazed his chin. "But he meant to hit hard, and I deserved it."

"Probably, he's protective of Mikey," Ray says, and with a last squeeze of Bob's shoulder he gets to his feet, and, without being asked, tucks his hand under Bob's elbow, helping him upright. "But you can make it right."

Bob glances over at the school door. "That's if he'll talk to me."

Ray laughs and urges Bob forward. "He'll be in there pacing, torn between wanting to hit you again and making sure you're okay."

It turns out that Ray knows Gerard perfectly. Inside Frank and Jamia are watching as Gerard paces the corridor, and when Bob walks into view Gerard’s face lights up, before he scowls, as if he's remembering he's supposed to be angry. "I meant that, and if you ever say anything like that about Mikey again you'll get another punch. But I hope you're okay."

Bob thinks about brushing off the punch and saying it doesn't hurt at all. But Gerard looks fierce, and Bob's glad Mikey's got someone so loyal on his side. Instead he says simply, "I'll live, and I'm sorry, for making you do that and saying what I said."

"It's okay," Gerard says, and while he's not as touchy feely as usual there's a definite thawing of his attitude. "But you really need to tell Mikey that, not me."

Bob knows, he does, but saying sorry to Gerard is one thing, Mikey is another, especially when all Bob can think of is the way Mikey's face crumpled in the seconds before his barriers crashed down. Still, it is a needed apology and Bob hooks his watch out of his pocket, looking at the time. "I'll call and arrange to meet him after work."

Gerard smiles. "Good, he really likes you, you know."

There's part of Bob that tells himself that Gerard's lying, that while they have been having fun it's never been serious, that all the time Mikey's been out with other men. There's also the part where he can tell Gerard believes what he's saying, and how both Jamia and Frank are nodding.

"He does," Frank says, and he glances at Jamia as if checking he should say anything at all. "He has from the start, but then you wanted no-strings and he went along with that. You're lucky he does like you so much, especially after what you said the other night."

"I wasn't thinking straight." It's not an excuse, Bob meant what he said at the time, but now, he's thinking he was wrong. He groans, says, "I've been stupid."

"You're telling me." Frank takes a step forward and Bob's seen him laugh and joke and be serious as he talks about the things he believes. Now he just looks dangerous. "Hurt him again like that and I'll be the one to punch you, and I'm not Gerard, I don't do regrets."

"Frank." Ray steps between Bob and Frank, as if expecting them to start fighting. "This isn't helping."

Bob waves him away and looks directly at Frank. "I like Mikey and I'm sorry I hurt his feelings, it's not up to me to judge if he wants to sleep around."

"The hell?" Bob takes a step back when Gerard crowds close. "Sleep around? Who says he sleeps around?"
"I saw him," Bob says, the memory of Mikey on the dance-floor all too clear in his mind. "He was practically making out with some guy on the dance-floor."
"And you think that means he sleeps around? Gerard asks, sounding incredulous. "That's how he dances, and if you mean Dan he was trying not to puke on Mikey's neck."
"How the hell am I supposed to know if it's Dan?" Bob asks. "I just saw Mikey getting down and dirty with some stranger."
"So you decided he slept around," Frank says, "That's fucking lame."

"It wasn't just that, you said it too," Bob all but yells, because this is getting ridiculous. He gets that they're protective of Mikey, but Bob's not stupid, he heard what Frank had said. "The first time we met you said Mikey got more play than anyone."

"I was joking!" Frank is yelling, and looks around them all. "I always joke about that shit, it's just what I do. He hooks up, sure, but he's not some kind of slut. How could you even think I meant that?"

"I'd known you all of ten minutes," Bob snaps back. "How was I supposed to know it was some kind of in-joke?"
"Well it was, it is," Frank says, looking stricken. "Tell me it's not my fault you've been keeping Mikey at arms length."

It's temping to say yes. If he does it means Bob can heap all blame on Frank, but that wouldn't be fair, because as much as the misunderstanding is a part, it's not the whole cause, not by a long way. Bob cradles his arms against his chest and shakes his head. "Some of it was you, but most not. I'm plenty messed up in my head on my own."
It's an admission that feels wrong as soon as Bob says it out loud, admitting things that normally he keeps hidden. All he wants to do is get away, and to find and talk to Mikey. "I'm going, I'll see you all later," and gets all of a few steps when Gerard stands in front of Bob.
"Just tell him the truth and give him a chance to decide if you’re worth the hassle,” Gerard says, looking stern. “And don’t fuck it up this time."

"I'll try," Bob says, and that's the best he can do.

~*~*~*~

Getting a text to meet Bob at the cinema was unexpected, and Mikey's standing close to the entrance, waiting for Bob to turn up. He's already ten minutes late and Mikey's thinking about leaving, when he sees Bob hurry along the street, his earbuds in and hands held protectively in front of his body.

"Sorry I'm late." Bob pulls out the earbuds and carefully folds the wire before putting them into his pocket. "I needed to think so went for a walk, then got lost."

Mikey shrugs and checks his watch. "We've still got time to see the movie, the previews last forever. But you're buying the popcorn and candy."

"Deal," Bob says, and they start to walk inside when Bob suddenly stops in place, the entering crowd parting around him.

Concerned, Mikey touches Bob's arm. "You okay?"

"Not really," Bob says, and then, quieter. "I don't really want to see a movie, come for a coffee with me instead? We need to talk."

It's the first time Bob's admitted that things aren't okay, even when it was obvious he was lying. There's not a chance Mikey will say no. "Sure, there's a place around the corner."

They don't talk on the way and Mikey's thinking of what Bob wants to say. The only thing he can think of is he's leaving early, his job, his apartment, Mikey, and this is goodbye. Even if their relationship is only no-ties, Mikey likes Bob a lot, and the thought of him leaving hurts.

"I'll get them," Mikey says, as soon as they're inside. He's expecting Bob to protest and say he can manage, but instead he nods and makes his way to an empty table at the far corner of the room. One that's away from any other customers, and now Mikey's sure, this is it, and Bob's about to say he's leaving.

He wants to drag out the coffee buying process so he's got an excuse to stand and watch Bob, taking in for the last time how his hair curls at his neck and the way he huddles inside his hoodie, like he's hiding from the world. Mikey wants to tell him to stop hiding, that he's hot and fantastic and needs to stay. But that's not Mikey's place, and all he can do is pay for the two coffees and slowly walk to their table.

"Thanks," Bob says, and grips the mug in both hands. He takes a drink, and puts down the mug, says, "I'm sorry."

"I didn't want to see the movie that badly," Mikey says, watching Bob's reaction. "But if you're saying sorry for the other night, that's okay too."

Bob touches his chin with his fingertips, over the slightest hint of a bruise. "No it's not. I got my wires crossed and I said something I shouldn't have, because I'm stupid and scared." It's a halting admission and Bob's playing with his mug, turning it around his hands. "Before, I used to live with someone. He was the singer in our band."

Well used to listening to jumping topics, no matter how unexpected, Mikey takes a drink of his coffee, remaining silent as Bob talks.

"I told you I played with Ray sometimes, this was after that. We formed a band together, me and Callum, and we were good, better than. We had offers of a contract, then my wrists fucked up for good." Voice cracking, Bob takes a drink of his coffee, and glances at Mikey before looking back down. "They tried to operate but it failed, and Callum left me. He said he'd signed on for fame not a cripple. He cleaned out our apartment and left the next day."

"Tell me you kicked his cowardly ass," Mikey says, so angry he wants he wants to punch something - hard.

Bob laughs, bitter and grating. "I came home, took some clothes and moved back with my parents, and didn't leave my room for the next four months. If anyone was a coward it was me."

"That's bullshit." It's something Mikey knows for sure, because he knows cowards, and Bob isn't one of them. "You're not in your room now."

"No, I'm living out of boxes in a shit hole of an apartment in a job I trained for because it meant less chance of attachment." Bob pushes his mug away, and this time looks directly at Mikey. "I chose to train as a pre-school teacher because the kids always leave. Tell me I'm not a coward now."

"You're not a coward," Mikey says, immediately. "I've heard you talk about your kids and maybe you initially trained for the wrong reasons but it doesn't make you less of a teacher or care any less." And there's something else, something Mikey will always admire. "And you started over, that shit's hard, but you did it. That makes you fucking brave."

"At least you think so," Bob says, and he rubs at his left splint, over the scar concealed underneath. "There's something else."

Mikey knows this is it, time's up, and he reminds himself that he knew this was coming. If he has fallen for Bob it's no one's fault but his own. "I'm going to miss you."

"I don't want no strings, not really," Bob says at the same time, then stops talking, staring at Mikey. "You're going somewhere?"

"You're not quitting the school and going home early?" Mikey asks, and for the first time he feels hopeful. "You're staying here?"

"Yeah," Bob says, and then more sure. "Yeah. For the semester at least. I owe you some real dates for a start."

"Damn right you do," and despite the other customers and staff, Mikey reaches across the table and carefully links his fingers with Bob's. "How about starting here? Coffee and cake and some actual talk?"

Bob says, "Sounds like a good first date."

Mikey smiles in reply.

~*~*~*~

Bob sits on the edge of his desk and claps his hands, the lack of resulting pain remaining a novelty right now. "Hey guys, listen up. Remember that song we've been practicing? We're going to have a show, and sing it for everyone."

Denzil puts his hand in the air, waving it around. "Mr. Bob! What's a show?"

"Night Garden is a show, silly." Emma's got her hand in the air but makes no attempt to wait before talking. "And Jersey Store, mommy says they make a show of themselves every week."

Bob doesn't laugh, barely. "It's Jersey Shore and don't call Denzil silly, we don't do that in this class." He waits a moment for Emma's muttered sorry, then finishes his talk to the class. "We're not doing a TV show, ours is going to be outside on the big playground. We're going to perform our songs, the one we've been doing in class and the ones you've been practicing with Mr. Ray and Miss. Jamia's class. People can come and watch so I have letters for you all to take home."

There's an explosion of chatter, Bob didn't expect anything less and he waits it out, enjoying watching his kids look so happy, excited about something new.

"Mr. Bob! Mr. Bob!" Katy's standing and waving her hand, and Bob claps again, getting attention.

"Settle down, Katy wants to talk."

Attention solely on her, Katy drops her hand, looking bashful as she says, "Can we use the issyruments?"

"That's the plan." Bob looks at the giant clock on the wall and stands. "Okay, tidy up time, because remember, a clean workspace is a...."

"Safe workspace," his class chorus back.

"You know it," Bob says, and holds out his hand for the daily hi-five, tiny hands smacking against his as each kid starts their duties before home.

~*~*~*~

Mikey's sitting at one of the small tables in Bob's classroom, knees close to his chest and hunched over, fingers jammed into plastic safety scissors as he cuts strips of bright paper. A last snip and a strip flutters on the pile as Mikey says, "Remind me, does this count toward the dates you owe me?"

"Depends," Bob says, from where he's sticking potato print pictures to the wall. "Is making paper chains your definition of a good time?"

Truthfully Mikey could say that anything he does with Bob is a good time, but he's not in the habit of casting aside potential leverage and he pulls the scissors from his fingers. "I have grooves in my fingers."

Bob pushes down a last corner and turns, looking amused. "If your brother wasn't close by I'd kiss them better."

Mikey holds out his hand. "He's spent the last week making out with Lindsey. Kiss away."

"Pushy," Bob says, and takes hold of Mikey's hand, pressing a kiss over the faint red marks. He doesn't make it anything more, Mikey doesn't expect him to, this is still Bob's classroom but Mikey can't resist reaching up with his free hand and hooking it behind Bob's head, pulling him down for a kiss. It doesn't last long, more a brush of lips, Mikey slipping his tongue briefly against Bob's, but for now it's enough.

"There," Mikey says, taking a moment to run his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Bob's neck. "Now it's a date."

Bob grins and nips at Mikey's fingers, grazing them with his teeth before stepping away. "I'll have to remember gum paper turns you on."

Mikey picks up the scissors, and another sheet of paper from the very big pile that remains. "You know you can buy streamers."

Bob moves to his desk, ticking something off the list he's got weighed down with a lump of clay. "I know, but the kids like to stick them together. And they'll look good."

Which they will, Mikey knows that, the paper chains fitting in with Gerard's whole design aesthetic. If he listens Mikey can hear Gerard now, him and the softer sound of Lindsey talking as they paint banners in the dining hall. It's a comforting sound, especially in combination with the sound of Bob moving around the room, checking details and straightening displays before he ends up standing close to Mikey.

"Funny thing," Bob says, and sits on one of the tiny seats around the table. "A reporter got in touch with Ray earlier, asking what time they needed to come to report the show."

Mikey's heart jumps and he concentrates on cutting a perfect strip, says, "That's what they tend to do."

Bob goes on talking, as if Mikey hasn't said anything at all. "He also asked how it felt to have a show sponsored by local businesses. A show that's all of three songs long."

Mikey stops cutting, scissors held open, suddenly worried that he's overstepped the line in some way. "What did Ray say?"

"He said he was grateful and that their support is welcome."

It feels like Mikey can breathe again, and he goes back to cutting. "I had them in my contacts, I figured it couldn't hurt to tell them about this place."

"You figured right," Bob says, and stretches out his legs so his feet are pressed against Mikey's. "You're one of the good ones, Mikey Way."

And Mikey would feel pleased, except being a good guy means nothing when Bob's still planning to leave.

~*~*~*~

Bob starts the day in his best ironed shirt, his hair tucked behind his ears and pants clean. By the afternoon he's got chalk residue on his butt, an ink splot on his sleeve and somehow, ketchup in his hair. Not that he cares, he's too busy herding his kids outside, trying to keep them together as they wave and yell out greetings when they see the chairs set out in the playground. Each chair is full, and there's even people standing, parents and guardians waving to their kids and smiling as Bob and Jamia give each other a supportive look before marching their classes to the area set out as a stage.

It's an easy enough area to see, Gerard and Lindsey's backdrop of a giant sun and flowers held up by two posts. It's a beautiful painting, one full of sunshine and happy faces, and if there's a few zombie plants in there, well, no one's complained. In front of that are the instruments, mini guitars propped up against benches, triangles and recorders set on top, and, Bob's pride and joy, the drums at the back. They're home made, washing up bowls and pans set together, a set of Bob's old sticks on the top.

"Okay kids, just like we said," Bob says, and stands watch, making sure his kids sit in the right places. When they're down, he steps to the side, looking around, taking in the paper chains that flutter from the sides of the school, the stall where Frank's in charge of selling refreshments, home made cookies he brought in himself and jugs full of juice. Seeing Bob watching, Frank gives a thumbs up and then points to the side. Where Bob sees Mikey. Which is unexpected, as Mikey should be at work, the same way Gerard should, and Lindsey, and even Frank too, but they're all there, supporting with time and effort.

"You okay?" Jamia asks, moving to stand close.

Bob tries to reply, but the words aren't there, pushed aside by a sudden, blinding knowledge he's standing at the crossroads of his own future. A job he already loves, friends who care and won't walk away, and a relationship that can only strengthen, set against the chance to run away like always, to never settle down and risk being hurt again. It's one of the scariest decisions Bob's ever faced, and all he wants to do is hide from it, but Ray's walking onto the stage, stepping over the duct taped lines as he stands and addresses the audience.

"Good afternoon children, good afternoon staff, good afternoon guests." Ray waits, smiling as everyone gathered returns the greeting. "Welcome to our first show. I'm not going to talk long because the children are eager to show you their songs. Just know we're thankful for your support."

A last smile at the kids and Ray sits in his chair, set in pride of place in the first row.

"Okay, here goes nothing," Jamia says, and ushers her class onto the stage for their song. Which goes well, even if one of the girls ends up bursting into tears and another takes a triangle hit to the head. Bob's class solo song goes well too. It's the joint effort that goes wrong.

Relieved and thinking the worst is over he's standing at the side of the stage, ready to give the signal to begin. When Emma begins to wail. She's playing the drums for this song, and stands at the back, snot running down her face and face red, her princess t-shirt already damp with tears. In the audience her mom looks worried, and Bob hurries onto the stage and steps over the drums so he can crouch next to Emma. "What's up?"

"I can't do it!" Emma cries, and she buries her head against Bob's chest. "I can't!"

"Yeah you can," Bob says. "We've practiced, remember?"

"Noooooo," Emma's shoulders are shaking, and Bob can barely hear her say, "I'm not gooded enough."

"All you have to do is try your best." Bob runs his hand over Emma's hair, aware everyone is watching. He feels put on the spot, like he's been judged for being a bad teacher somehow. There's only one thing he can think to do. "How about I play with you? We'll be a team."

Emma hiccups and wipes her face against Bob’s T shirt, says, "You and me?"

It's been years since Bob's held a drumstick for real, there was no point with his ability to drum diminished. It's why at first it feels wrong now, when he takes one stick from Emma, and wraps his hand around it. "You and me."

It takes a moment, but eventually Emma nods, and approaches the bowls and pans, waiting as Bob kneels beside her. He looks over at Jamia, who smiles then says, "For our last song we're singing a favourite of our classes. You'll all know the words, so please join in as we sing If You're Happy and You Know It.

Jamia begins to sing, and the kids join in. Out of tune and in some cases yelling. None of the instruments keep pace, and in fact are more noise than actual tune, but Denzil's grinning as he twirls with his mini guitar and Katy is waving her recorder in the air while Emma is bashing her stick and hand against the pans and bowls in a rhythm that makes no sense at all, except that it's making her happy, all tears gone as she creates her own music to a backdrop of Bob tapping his drumstick against a battered metal pan as he looks out over his kids to the people beyond.

Ray beaming as he sings along. Frank, Lindsey and Gerard, each one singing and dancing, and then Mikey He's not singing, or in fact, moving at all, but he is watching Bob, and when Bob sings, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands." Mikey holds his hands in the air and claps.

~~~~~

Bob knocks on Ray's office door and goes inside.

"I've got requests for new students next semester," Ray says, and looks up at Bob with a smile. "And with the money from the sponsorship deals and the refreshments we've money to spend on non essentials. I was thinking a trip out in the summer, or more instruments. Or I suppose I could use it to bump up the wages of the new teacher. We might get one then."

Ray's grin fades, and Bob sits in the chair opposite Ray's. He knows what he wants to say, but actually saying it out loud is harder than Bob expected. "About that. What would you say if I asked to stay on?"

"What would I say?" Ray asks, utterly serious and Bob's worried he's too late, that no other candidates or not Ray's already mentally moved Bob on. "I'd say about fucking time, you moron." Ray jumps to his feet and runs around the desk, hugging Bob hard before stepping back. "Jesus, Bob, way to keep me waiting. I thought you'd never change your mind.

It's a gratifying reaction, but Bob still gives Ray a narrow-eyed look. "Who said I would change my mind?"

"No one," Ray says, busy turning off his computer. "But have you seen yourself lately? You keep smiling, it's damn scary sometimes."

Bob stands, getting in a complaint to distract from the fact he's sure he's blushing. "You're bitching about that?"

"Hell no," Ray says cheerfully. "You being actually happy has been a long time coming, I could kiss Mikey for causing that."

"You'd better not," Bob snaps, and scowls when Ray laughs. "At least I'm getting some."

"Yeah, yeah," Ray says, and pushes Bob out of the door. "Go and get your hot boyfriend already and let me lock up. It's time to celebrate."

It's something Bob's happy to do. Footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, he passes the display of Polaroids outside of his classroom, and finds Mikey inside. He's standing close to Bob's desk, and when he hears Bob come inside Mikey turns and comes close, and presses a shiny gold star on Bob's chest.

"For being brave."

Bob knows Mikey means Bob drumming, even in such a small way, but there's more he needs to tell. Stuff that still leaves Bob afraid. He touches the star on his chest. "Do I get another star for asking Ray if I can keep my job?"

"It depends," Mikey says, reaction buried in the way he does best. "Is the job a package deal that comes with a better apartment and a steady boyfriend?"

It feels like Bob's standing on the edge of a cliff, and at the bottom is everything he's ever wanted. But first he has to throw himself off the edge, risking he'll be hurt when he lands. Gathering courage, he jumps. "If that boyfriend wants him. Yes."

"No star, sorry," Mikey says, and then springs forward, gathering Bob in a tight hug. "But you get me."

"Then I win everything," Bob says, and holds on.
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