You'd think that throwing a party for a bunch of straightedge kids and recovering alcoholics would be low-key, but then you never would have met Bob's friends.
You definitely wouldn't have experienced Bob's friends with Patrick's friends and a handful of seventeen year olds that Pete may be either signing or fucking (Bob doesn't care).
Bob shuts himself in his room to wash the ketchup out of his hair (FUCKING Mikey and Alicia, they're made of EVIL) and just take five minutes the away from the insanity that has become his life in the last couple of years.
At least the insanity comes with inflatable cacti. That part kind of rules. Plus, you know, playing music that rules with guys who really are pretty awesome when they're not coming up with creative uses for condiments that are just meant to go on FOOD.
After he's scrubbed his hair down, he is rubbing a towel across his head as he opens his desk drawer and pulls out a small cigar box. It's kind of funny that he still hides his weed like he's fifteen years old, but it's really more habit than anything else now.
Bob is in the process of licking the rolling paper when his door opens slowly and a tangled, disheveled head peeks around the corner.
"Trohman," he acknowledges with his voice almost a growl. "If you have mustard behind your back, I swear to god that I will kill you with my MIND."
Joe's eyes widen a little and he hastily puts something down. "Totally not, dude. No way."
Bob rolls his eyes a little and laughs. "In or out, Trohman."
Joe's eyebrows pull together in confusion before he catches a look at the join that Bob is just holding up to his mouth. "Oh! Sweet. So in, man."
Joe shuts the door and bounds over to Bob, flopping next to him on the bed. Bob takes another deep hit and hands the joint over to Joe, their fingers brushing as Joe takes it and expertly pulls his own hits.
They pass back and forth in silence, Bob eventually laying on the bed next to Joe as they listen to the sounds of their lives. Gerard and Andy are now discussing the relative merits of Dark Horse's new series, Patrick is earnestly explaining his preference for atonal chord structures to a (presumably) interested Ray, and Jeanae's is sharply calling: "Frankie, NO YOU ARE NOT PUTTING VANILLA ICE ON THAT FUCKING STERO. I will stop fucking you for YEARS if I even hear strains of that shit."
Bob's either more high than he'd thought he was or he's getting softer with old age, but he feels a slow, small grin spreading across his face like molasses.
He's content.
"Hey, Bob," Joe says, his voice a little scratchy and soft.
Bob turns his head a little to the left, the comforter scratching along his beard as he looks at Joe.
Joe is propped up on one elbow, leaning toward Bob. Their lips touch before Bob realizes what's happening. A soft brush of tongue across his top lip makes his hands shake a little and a nip next to his lip ring makes them shake more.
Joe pulls back, smile blurred and slurred in the slight haze of smoke left.
Haze
You definitely wouldn't have experienced Bob's friends with Patrick's friends and a handful of seventeen year olds that Pete may be either signing or fucking (Bob doesn't care).
Bob shuts himself in his room to wash the ketchup out of his hair (FUCKING Mikey and Alicia, they're made of EVIL) and just take five minutes the away from the insanity that has become his life in the last couple of years.
At least the insanity comes with inflatable cacti. That part kind of rules. Plus, you know, playing music that rules with guys who really are pretty awesome when they're not coming up with creative uses for condiments that are just meant to go on FOOD.
After he's scrubbed his hair down, he is rubbing a towel across his head as he opens his desk drawer and pulls out a small cigar box. It's kind of funny that he still hides his weed like he's fifteen years old, but it's really more habit than anything else now.
Bob is in the process of licking the rolling paper when his door opens slowly and a tangled, disheveled head peeks around the corner.
"Trohman," he acknowledges with his voice almost a growl. "If you have mustard behind your back, I swear to god that I will kill you with my MIND."
Joe's eyes widen a little and he hastily puts something down. "Totally not, dude. No way."
Bob rolls his eyes a little and laughs. "In or out, Trohman."
Joe's eyebrows pull together in confusion before he catches a look at the join that Bob is just holding up to his mouth. "Oh! Sweet. So in, man."
Joe shuts the door and bounds over to Bob, flopping next to him on the bed. Bob takes another deep hit and hands the joint over to Joe, their fingers brushing as Joe takes it and expertly pulls his own hits.
They pass back and forth in silence, Bob eventually laying on the bed next to Joe as they listen to the sounds of their lives. Gerard and Andy are now discussing the relative merits of Dark Horse's new series, Patrick is earnestly explaining his preference for atonal chord structures to a (presumably) interested Ray, and Jeanae's is sharply calling: "Frankie, NO YOU ARE NOT PUTTING VANILLA ICE ON THAT FUCKING STERO. I will stop fucking you for YEARS if I even hear strains of that shit."
Bob's either more high than he'd thought he was or he's getting softer with old age, but he feels a slow, small grin spreading across his face like molasses.
He's content.
"Hey, Bob," Joe says, his voice a little scratchy and soft.
Bob turns his head a little to the left, the comforter scratching along his beard as he looks at Joe.
Joe is propped up on one elbow, leaning toward Bob. Their lips touch before Bob realizes what's happening. A soft brush of tongue across his top lip makes his hands shake a little and a nip next to his lip ring makes them shake more.
Joe pulls back, smile blurred and slurred in the slight haze of smoke left.
"Nice party."