Mr. Bob 2/3

[turps]

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.”

~*~*~*~

Part 3