(no subject)

[turps]

Happy birthday wishes go out to ariadnem. Sorry I missed the actual day, honey ♥

dancinbutterfly has created bandomkinkmeme and I think you should all go and join. You know you all want to post anonymous prompts about cages and ropes and pegging and all sorts of delicious stuff.

crowgirl13 was having a bad day yesterday and I offered a distraction in terms of a ficbit, either in any of my existing stories or something new. She asked for Mikey and Bob in the Sound Tracking universe.



It's late when Bob wakes. Kicking aside blankets he pushes his hair out of his face and turns on his side, looking across the room toward where Frank is sitting on the edge of his bed. He's leaning forward, almost bent double, his movements clumsy as he tries to fasten his shoe, and even in this dim light it's possible to see how his eyes are shadowed, smudged deep-violet against the pale of his skin.

Despite the medication, the herbal teas that Andy brews, the hours that Gerard spends by his bed, each night Mikey ends up screaming. It's always Frank that wakes him, there with soothing words and strong arms as Mikey whimpers and fights to emerge from the nightmares that won't leave. It's Frank who peels off sodden night clothes and changes sweat-soaked sheets for the dryer-warm blankets that Pete hands over. It's Frank that whispers words of comfort, his voice a constant warmth in the dark.

It's Frank that's beyond exhausted; and Mikey knows that. It's why he's taken to slipping out of bed and wandering the house for hours. Talking to Pete or sitting reading the sub-space blogs, data pad in one hand and coffee in the other, evading sleep as a way to protect Frank. It's a plan that's already failing and Bob's head aches, the beat surrounding his crew out of sync. Still right but there are notes that feel wrong. Mikey, jagged screeches of sound when he should be solid steady bass. Frank becoming muted, slowing, slowing, slowing down.

Worried, Bob stands, pads across the room and kneels by Frank and Mikey's bed. The sheets are dry tonight and the data pad they're been reading is lying abandoned on the floor, the screen a dim glow in the dark. Bob sets it to one side and rests his hand on Frank's knee, stopping him moving. "Stay here."

Frank blinks, once, twice, trying to focus. "I need to find Mikey."

"You need to sleep," Bob corrects, pushing back when Frank tries to stand. "I'll find him and make sure he's okay."

"No." Frank shakes his head and the movement makes him sway, listing to one side. Hand braced against the bed he says, "I'm fine. I'll go get him and come back and sleep."

"Don't you trust me?" It's an underhand thing to ask, Bob knows that, the same way he knows Frank's staying upright by force of will alone. "I'll look after him, promise."

For a long time Frank doesn't reply, and Bob's beginning to think he'll have to resort to more physical measures to get him to stay, then Frank sighs, says, "I can't sleep here without him."

"You don't have to."

It's no surprise to hear Gerard's awake, or that when Bob turns he sees Ray's already pulling apart the beds, throwing the gel mattresses to the middle of the room. Adding armfuls of pillows and blankets, Gerard builds a cosy nest, and all the time he's frowning, his head tilted to the side.

"He's okay," Bob says softly.

Gerard looks up, a pillow gripped to his chest. "I know. It's just... Fuck."

Bob listens, notes of overwhelming frustration prickling against his skin, but it's frustration backed by love. Strong and solid and Bob takes a moment to just feel, letting the beat wash around him. The bond between Mikey and Gerard, deep and true, a steady thrum of two lives forever bound. Mikey, Frank and more distantly, Pete, their sound complicated and entwined in ways Bob hasn't begun to understand. Gerard and Ray. Ray and Bob, multiple combinations that tie together and make them crew.

Frank leans to the side, his head against Bob's shoulder. "We love you, too."

"Eavesdropper," Bob says fondly and helps Frank to his feet, steering him to the make-shift bed, then waits, watching as he settles down between Gerard and Ray.

"Tell Mikey he needs to be here," Frank says drowsily, blankets pulled up to his chin and already mostly asleep.

"Promise," Bob replies, seeing how Ray's hand is against Frank's back, how Gerard's curled in close -- keeping Frank grounded, keeping him safe.

As soon as Frank's asleep Bob leaves the room, following Mikey's beat, which by now is as familiar as Bob's own. It takes seconds to locate Mikey's position, and also Pete, as always remaining close in case he's needed. Taking a moment Bob slips into the kitchen, where Pete's sitting at the counter, an empty coffee mug at his side and at least five data pads stacked in a pile. There's also one activated and showing an old picture of Pete smiling wide, a shocking contrast to the Pete of now, who's carrying the weight of the universe on his shoulders.

"Mikey's outside," Pete says, and looks up briefly before going back to updating his blog.

Bob steps further into the room. "You should go to bed."

Pete keeps typing. "What do you think of, stars sing and boys dance, darkness fights back against suffocated hearts?"

"I think you're going to get a record number of comments asking if you're alright," Bob says, watching as Pete hits send.

Pete stretches, his shirt hitching up to show the patterns he's got inked into his skin. "I've a raid to organise." He slips from the stool and gathers the data pads. "If you need anything..."

"I know where you are," Bob says, and then makes his way outside, where Mikey's lying on the grass, looking through the bubble to the stars that shine bright.

"Mikey." Bob eases to the ground and then onto his back, the grass tickling his neck and arms. He doesn't ask if Mikey's alright, that answer is obvious, but he does point at a distant star, one made distinctive by its reddish tinge. "Hixnech. I travelled there once, Bert paid for dinner and ended up ordering exploding shackel slurps. Jepha didn't talk to him for days."

Mikey looks where Bob's pointing, says, "He didn't like them?"

Bob grins, remembering Jepha's shrieks of rage. "He liked them too much. He ate so many he burnt holes through the seats of five pairs of pants. I was applying cream to his ass for a week."

Mikey keeps looking up, his hair ruffling in the soft artificial breeze. "You don't talk about them much."

"I don't need to," Bob says, turning and resting on one elbow so he can look fully at Mikey. "I've got their memories, those don't fade."

"I wish mine would," Mikey says tonelessly, his words hushed. "I close my eyes and they're there. I remember everything, the sounds, the smells, the feels of their hands and tongues."

It's not the first time Bob's heard this, but it's always been second-hand, overheard conversations in the dead of night. This is different and Mikey's beat is layered with guilt and self-loathing, hidden under the sharp top notes of fear. Bob wants to tell Mikey it wasn't his fault, that he survived and that makes him strong, but that's not what Mikey needs. Not right now. Reaching out, Bob takes Mikey's hand in his own, holding on as he rests their hands against his own chest, says, "Listen."

Giving himself to the beat, Bob picks up the rhythm, the sound of life that surrounds them. He pictures the ribbons of sound that hurtle skywards and into space. Routes for crafts that travel the universe, for home-comings and escapes. It's Bob's world, one of sound and feel and guiding lights, and right now Mikey's beside him. Safe by Bob's side as they both listen.