Work Text:
“Gotta kiss the blarney stone!“
“Get stuffed, Percy—“
“Stuff me yourself, big guy!”
It was a funny little thing, really. Before shows, Robert would take hold of the junction between Bonzo’s bicep and forearm, duck in, and press a quick smacker to the edge of his mouth. John would ruffle up like a frustrated chicken and glare, wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t push him away.
But it was simply the fact he was still doing it, now. They weren’t kids anymore— okay, they were twenty, and still just growing out of their down feathers and puppy scruff— but here Robert was backstage at the bloody Whisky trying to back him into the corner for a kiss.
Jimmy was meant to be the superstitious one, not Robert.
“Come here, Bonzo! It’s for good luck—“
“Good luck my arse!” John grunted, pushing Robert as far away as he could manage, feeling his whole body go hot. “Christ, just ‘cause the birds won’t give it up doesn’t mean I have to!”
The singer giggled and lifted up onto the tips of his toes, pushing down on Bonzo’s arm. He ducked in and landed a wet kiss to his lips, earning a loud noise of disgust in return.
Robert laughed hard and smacked him on the arm, before disappearing back off into the sea of strangers backstage. John grunts and looks up to see Jimmy, meeting the stare of those gray-green snakish eyes. But the man doesn’t say anything, just narrows his gaze a bit further and turns and walks away. Maybe things would be better if the bastard ran back to his corner and huddled up and shook like a freshly born fawn.
Bonzo makes the decision that he’s a man now. Not a boy. No more childish games. If either of them want any respect, they’re going to need to start acting like it. And no more kisses either.
They have eighteen fucking days to record this album, and Bonzo thinks Robert looks more dead than a doornail. He’s wheelchair bound, and when he can stand he’s limping about, and someone has to help him walk. And his voice sounds utterly brilliant, as always, but it seems as though he’s ripping everything out from the bottom of the barrel.
It hurts. He knows how tired they all are. Would help, though, if Jimmy would lay off the fucking H and try to focus.
Well, maybe he’s a hypocrite.
He was on his fourth beer of the day when the group split for lunch. Early lunch. The energy with this one was gone. Robert smiled a strained little thing and waved everyone off when they asked if he wanted to join them— since when was Robert one to put off food?
No bother. John wasn’t particularly hungry either. When the crew scarpered off, Jimmy and Jonesy on their tails, he made his way over and propped a hand on the back of his Robert’s wheelchair, like resting on his shoulder.
“I sound like shit.”
Bonzo felt a laugh forced from his chest. No polite greeting, straight to the meat. “You do fucking not.”
“I do.” Robert grit out, hands clenched in his lap. “It’s different, singing like this. I can’t—“
“Not like I’d know.” John blurted. He really hadn’t meant for it to sound so blunt, so rude. “I mean— you’re the one who does all the singin’. You know how shite I am. Plus, you— you still sound great, you know. Chair or not, can hardly tell the difference…”
Ah, the booze is making him all jumbled this time as opposed to bitter. Robert takes clear notice of it, frowns a bit like he’s disappointed. So it’s only noon and he’s half gone already, at least he’s not as bad as Jimmy.
“You’re just—“ John starts, quickly cut off.
“I just can’t feel it. I want to. More than anything, I do. I’m trying so damn hard— anything to distract myself from all this bullshit—“ Robert gestured flippantly, head rolling back and eyes squeezing shut. His jaw is tight and tense, and the slope of his neck is nice and warm and tan. Whoever’s been caring for him has gotten him out in the sun, at least.
He continued, voice aching with a slight tremble. “And how is it that I’m the lucky one, John? Because I wasn’t even the one that got the worst of it. How am I meant to feel like anything good when I can hardly write, can hardly sing—“
Bonzo doesn’t know what it is that takes a hold of him, but he shifts over, ducks in and kisses him firmly. Maybe to shut him up. Maybe because every time he’s caught a glimpse of the man these past few years, there’s a simmering ache in his chest. Maybe because he’s scared, too.
When he pulls away, he’s not trembling like he thought he’d be. In fact, kissing Robert feels like the easiest thing he’d done in years. And when he looks down at him, he doesn’t even look angry. Just… mildly surprised.
He wonders how many times Jimmy’s done this to him. If he’s done this to him. He hopes he’s the only one— the only man. The only real friend.
“What was that for?” Robert mumbled, lifting a hand to his mouth. A finger touches his lip, then pulls away, and John feels as giddy as he did his first few Christmases.
“…For good luck. All that bollocks.”
Robert smirks slightly, and it’s the first genuine expression of something akin to happiness he’s seen in weeks. He wants to run and shout from the hills that he did it.
“…And maybe I’m drunk.” He added, just for posterity. That earned a chuckle.
“I reckon we need all the good luck we can get.”
A hand inches its way up John’s arm, stops at the base of his neck, scoops him in firmly but reassuringly. And they’re connected again.
The angle is awkward. Uncomfortable, maybe. But this certainly makes up for it. Bonzo tips his head and lifts a hand, placing it against Robert’s warm cheek. Fingers brush the base of his head, scratching lightly at his scalp like petting a dog, and he can’t help but melt into it.
They’ve got plenty of time to spare. And slowly, slowly he can feel Robert’s worries ebbing like water down a drain. And he kisses him again, and again, and again. And it’ll never be enough to make up for the times he didn’t, was foolish enough to push Robert away. And he doesn’t want to ever stop.