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an itch you can't scratch (frank/bob)
An Itch You Can't Scratch
by Pearl-o
My Chemical Romance. Frank/Bob. 1000 words, PG.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ficbyzee. Thank you to etben for reading it over.
*****
When Bob got back to Chicago and emptied his bag out onto his bed, a piece of scrunched-up paper fell out along with all his dirty clothes and fell out onto the floor. He picked it up with his good hand. His name was written in big bubble letters, shaded in with the soft part of a pencil. He shook the paper open. On the inside it said, Look both ways before crossing the street. Love, Frank.
******
When he got his mail the next day, there was a card for him. He wasn't sure exactly when Frank must have sent it, for it to get here almost as soon as Bob did. The card was pink; not just pink, but a bunch of different shades of pink. There were a lot of flowers and ribbons on it. The font was all in cursive, telling him to GET WELL SOON and following it up with a poem. It was the sort of thing kids send to their seventy-year-old grandmothers in the hospital.
Everybody in the band signed on the inside, smiley faces and "Bob, we miss you." At the bottom in small capital letters Frank had written Don't run with scissors and ended with a small heart.
******
Bob's cast was white and clean and undefiled. It made him a little edgy. He thought about how when he saw everybody again, Ray and Mikey would write their names on it in Sharpie. Gerard would get a box of markers -- not his good ones, but new ones, probably, ones just for casts -- and draw a whole scene for him. Frank would draw a dick, but on the underside, where no one could see it. Probably. The balls might overlap onto the top, but Gerard could probably fake them into bushes or something.
******
Dear Bob,
Here are some things that suck about Europe. NUMBER ONE is, too much history. NUMBER TWO, too much culture. Blah blah blah. NUMBER THREE, it's cold. NUMBER FOUR, it's not Jersey. NUMBER FIVE, no Bob on the tour.
It sucks out here without you, man. Don't make me come back out there and get you.
I got you presents. They're extra cool because they're European.
The letter came with airport candy necklace and a box of cigarettes. If any of the candy was missing from the necklace, Bob couldn't tell.
******
Watching the shows sucked when all he wanted to do was be playing with them, but it was better than being in Chicago doing his stupid physical therapy and not even having that much. At least this way he had his guys. And he was still part of it, this way.
He got a hug from Gerard, then from Ray, then Mikey, and then another one from Gerard, longer this time. Frank climbed up his back like a monkey and then said, "Oh, hey, Bob, is it harder to balance with just one hand? Are you going to fall over if I do this?" He wriggled back and forth a little.
Bob said, "I still have a hand. My wrist's just in a cast. They didn't amputate."
"Right, but that means you can't knock me down, right?" said Frank, giggling. He twisted himself around to smack his lips against Bob's cheek, loud and wet.
******
Frank asked, "Hey, Bob, do you think you could sell your cast for a lot of money like Stephen Colbert did? You're famous. We could sell it on eBay, complete with Bob Bryar original aroma."
(Frank signed on to eBay and got distracted immediately by band memorabilia.)
Frank asked, "Hey, Bob, how do you jerk off now? Is it hard? Heh, hard. I mean -- it is difficult? Do you have to do it differently? Do you need help? I bet Gerard could help."
(Gerard yelled from the other room, "I'm a married man now, Frankie!"
Frank rolled his eyes.)
Frank asked, "Hey, Bob, what do you do when it itches? Does it itch a lot? Do you want to just stick your fingers underneath the cast and scratch and scratch? How do you get to the itch on the your wrist?"
(Bob said, "It didn't itch at all until you started talking about it. Now it's all I can think about. Thanks, asshole."
Frank laughed.)
******
They snuck a cigarette together outside, while it rained in some European country or another. Frank was talking away a mile a minute about comics and music and food and friends of theirs. Bob couldn't do anything but smile a lot, laugh once in a while, say a word or two when Frank stopped for breath again, nod and shake his head in all the right spots.
Frank was in the middle of a sentence and halfway to laughing when his phone rang. Even as he answered it, Bob could see his face change. Not like Frank wasn't happy before, but it was a different smile, a different kind of comfort. It was the way people looked when they were in love.
"Hi, baby," Frank said. "Yeah, it's okay. What? Oh, yeah?" He glanced over at Bob and mouthed, "Jamia", as if Bob hadn't figured it out yet. He didn't turn away for privacy or anything, just stood there beaming, his smile breaking his face, listening to his fiance.
Bob turned away instead, to give them some space. It was getting cold out here; he shrugged to let his coat fall over his shoulders again, and stamped his feet twice. His cigarette was almost done. He thought he'd head inside.
Frank said, "Okay. Love you. Bye!" and clicked his phone shut. He hopped forward to Bob's side and wrapped his arms around him, as far as he could reach. "Bob," he said, rubbing his head against Bob's shoulder. "You love me, right?"
"I guess," said Bob.
"Will you love me when I'm old and feeble and gross?"
"I guess."
"Do you love me enough to buy me a giant pretzel?" Frank turned his face up towards Bob's, batting his eyelashes at him.
There was something about being around Frank that made Bob feel stupid and charmed, at the same time, and made his chest ache in a weird way. "I guess," he said again.
"You're my favorite, dude," Frank said, and he ran ahead to the door.
by Pearl-o
My Chemical Romance. Frank/Bob. 1000 words, PG.
For
ficbyzee. Thank you to etben for reading it over.*****
When Bob got back to Chicago and emptied his bag out onto his bed, a piece of scrunched-up paper fell out along with all his dirty clothes and fell out onto the floor. He picked it up with his good hand. His name was written in big bubble letters, shaded in with the soft part of a pencil. He shook the paper open. On the inside it said, Look both ways before crossing the street. Love, Frank.
******
When he got his mail the next day, there was a card for him. He wasn't sure exactly when Frank must have sent it, for it to get here almost as soon as Bob did. The card was pink; not just pink, but a bunch of different shades of pink. There were a lot of flowers and ribbons on it. The font was all in cursive, telling him to GET WELL SOON and following it up with a poem. It was the sort of thing kids send to their seventy-year-old grandmothers in the hospital.
Everybody in the band signed on the inside, smiley faces and "Bob, we miss you." At the bottom in small capital letters Frank had written Don't run with scissors and ended with a small heart.
******
Bob's cast was white and clean and undefiled. It made him a little edgy. He thought about how when he saw everybody again, Ray and Mikey would write their names on it in Sharpie. Gerard would get a box of markers -- not his good ones, but new ones, probably, ones just for casts -- and draw a whole scene for him. Frank would draw a dick, but on the underside, where no one could see it. Probably. The balls might overlap onto the top, but Gerard could probably fake them into bushes or something.
******
Dear Bob,
Here are some things that suck about Europe. NUMBER ONE is, too much history. NUMBER TWO, too much culture. Blah blah blah. NUMBER THREE, it's cold. NUMBER FOUR, it's not Jersey. NUMBER FIVE, no Bob on the tour.
It sucks out here without you, man. Don't make me come back out there and get you.
I got you presents. They're extra cool because they're European.
The letter came with airport candy necklace and a box of cigarettes. If any of the candy was missing from the necklace, Bob couldn't tell.
******
Watching the shows sucked when all he wanted to do was be playing with them, but it was better than being in Chicago doing his stupid physical therapy and not even having that much. At least this way he had his guys. And he was still part of it, this way.
He got a hug from Gerard, then from Ray, then Mikey, and then another one from Gerard, longer this time. Frank climbed up his back like a monkey and then said, "Oh, hey, Bob, is it harder to balance with just one hand? Are you going to fall over if I do this?" He wriggled back and forth a little.
Bob said, "I still have a hand. My wrist's just in a cast. They didn't amputate."
"Right, but that means you can't knock me down, right?" said Frank, giggling. He twisted himself around to smack his lips against Bob's cheek, loud and wet.
******
Frank asked, "Hey, Bob, do you think you could sell your cast for a lot of money like Stephen Colbert did? You're famous. We could sell it on eBay, complete with Bob Bryar original aroma."
(Frank signed on to eBay and got distracted immediately by band memorabilia.)
Frank asked, "Hey, Bob, how do you jerk off now? Is it hard? Heh, hard. I mean -- it is difficult? Do you have to do it differently? Do you need help? I bet Gerard could help."
(Gerard yelled from the other room, "I'm a married man now, Frankie!"
Frank rolled his eyes.)
Frank asked, "Hey, Bob, what do you do when it itches? Does it itch a lot? Do you want to just stick your fingers underneath the cast and scratch and scratch? How do you get to the itch on the your wrist?"
(Bob said, "It didn't itch at all until you started talking about it. Now it's all I can think about. Thanks, asshole."
Frank laughed.)
******
They snuck a cigarette together outside, while it rained in some European country or another. Frank was talking away a mile a minute about comics and music and food and friends of theirs. Bob couldn't do anything but smile a lot, laugh once in a while, say a word or two when Frank stopped for breath again, nod and shake his head in all the right spots.
Frank was in the middle of a sentence and halfway to laughing when his phone rang. Even as he answered it, Bob could see his face change. Not like Frank wasn't happy before, but it was a different smile, a different kind of comfort. It was the way people looked when they were in love.
"Hi, baby," Frank said. "Yeah, it's okay. What? Oh, yeah?" He glanced over at Bob and mouthed, "Jamia", as if Bob hadn't figured it out yet. He didn't turn away for privacy or anything, just stood there beaming, his smile breaking his face, listening to his fiance.
Bob turned away instead, to give them some space. It was getting cold out here; he shrugged to let his coat fall over his shoulders again, and stamped his feet twice. His cigarette was almost done. He thought he'd head inside.
Frank said, "Okay. Love you. Bye!" and clicked his phone shut. He hopped forward to Bob's side and wrapped his arms around him, as far as he could reach. "Bob," he said, rubbing his head against Bob's shoulder. "You love me, right?"
"I guess," said Bob.
"Will you love me when I'm old and feeble and gross?"
"I guess."
"Do you love me enough to buy me a giant pretzel?" Frank turned his face up towards Bob's, batting his eyelashes at him.
There was something about being around Frank that made Bob feel stupid and charmed, at the same time, and made his chest ache in a weird way. "I guess," he said again.
"You're my favorite, dude," Frank said, and he ran ahead to the door.
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