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A Hands-On Approach	By : twitchy Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > The Tragically Hip Views: 832 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know The Tragically Hip. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Hands-On Approach
- 1
Title A Hands-On Approach
Band The Tragically Hip
Pairing Rob Baker/Paul Langlois, or more aptly, Bobby/Paul.
Disclaimer The only real elements of this story are the members of The Tragically Hip. Bobby Baker, Paul Langlois, Gordon Downie, Gord Sinclair and Johnny Fay – all very much real people – but the story is just that, a story, fictional, not real.

My sincerest apologies to any readers, if there are any. I'll be very shocked, but ultimately joyous, if there are any Hip fans around here. But back to the apology: there really is no fitting place to split this story into chapters, so all 8,400 words of the story are in one chapter.

*

The roads all looked the same, cracked asphalt under spinning tires, leading them from rundown hotels, cramped clubs, cities and towns, and all-night drives. Crisscrossing through Canada and the U.S., they led the men like mice in an experiment, but in this maze there were no dead-ends; instead they had dirty diners, waking them up with a cheap meal before sending them on their merry way once again.

Somewhere between here and there, the cheers of last night’s crowd still ringing in their ears, and the prospect of a bed, however hard or lumpy it may be, some twelve-odd hours away, they sat down for what passed by as breakfast at the first diner they found. However dubious the eggs looked, and the near solid coffee, the toast was actually what it claimed to be, and the sausage and bacon also rather believable. Hunger doing well to blanket exhaustion and judgement, they dug in eagerly.

The food was nearly gone by the time that stomachs were full. The urgency of that situation abated, conversation started. Johnny rolled his shoulders back, getting a crack for his efforts, and leaned across the table. “How long do you think it will be until we make it to Houston?”

“It should be another couple of hours,” Gordon said, shoving one book aside in favour of another. He scanned over scribbled words, narrowing his eyes to figure out what he had hastily written during one of several important phone calls. “But we can’t check into the hotel until one o’clock, after a radio interview at noon.”

“That still gives us a few hours to relax – and a bed to sleep in.” Pleased smiles and content sighs swept over the table at Bobby’s reminder.

“As opposed to sleeping on one another,” Gord remarked, his smile skewing a little. “Speaking of, didn’t anyone wake up Paul?”

“He said – well, mumbled, five more minutes, as though I was his alarm clock,” Gordon explained, shrugging his shoulders with a tight smirk. “If he would rather sleep than eat, that’s his choice.”

“He’s had enough beauty sleep. I’m going to wake him up,” Johnny decided, rubbing his hands with anticipation and mischief.

Johnny was already out of the booth, leaving Gord to rush after him. “I want to help with this.”

“Wait up!” Bobby called, quickly heaping money onto the table, on top of the bill that their waitress had left, before following the others. “I have to see this.”

There were a few vehicles that weren’t trucks in the parking lot, parked in tight amidst pick-ups and big-rigs, but with all the vehicles, all considerably big, they threw the van into shadows. Moving carefully, keeping their voices low, they eased the side door open. Paul had gotten far enough to undo his seatbelt, as though he had planned on joining them for breakfast, but the lure of an empty bench seat was too strong to resist. With him fast asleep across its width, sock-covered feet curled around one another, it didn’t take long for any one of them to figure out just how to wake him up.

Gordon and Bobby took several steps back while Gord and Johnny stepped closer, whispering to one another. One false move and Paul could wake up, ruining the prank, a spark of excitement in the tedium of roads and tires and sleep-walking.

It was the moment of yanking hard, hands and fingers biting into Paul’s ankles, that they realised the prank might not be the best of ideas. The thought was confirmed by a yelp that started in the van and ended in mid-air of the parking lot, accompanied by a twisting body and several cracks as Paul came into contact with the van and pavement. A few short seconds later his head struck the ground, neck jarring.

Curses weren’t necessary, their expressions were more than efficient, watching Paul blinking blearily up at them. “Shit, are you okay?” Gord asked, wide-eyed.

Gordon pulled him up by his arm, fast and without warning. Paul scrambled for anything to compensate for the sudden imbalance, searching blindly for the door frame with his free hand, finding Johnny’s arm instead. “I will be,” Paul said, shock and a rush of blood to his head quieting his voice.

“Look at the time! We’re going to be late if we keep stalling.” Ignoring the fact that no one had watches on, Gordon pushed Paul against the van, searching for a distraction rather than truly rush back to their travels. Everyone but Paul looked just as eager to forget, hurrying around to the other side of the van. “Let’s get going.”

Pulling himself up with his left hand, Paul looked around bemusedly, only turning around fully when three doors shut soundly. Everyone was inside, seated and buckled, except for Johnny, who had the clip an inch away from the lock, but hadn’t secured it, instead looking down at him worriedly. “Do you need any help?”

“No, I can do this.” Shaking his head, Paul pulled himself inside. He had just swung himself into the seat to find four expectant gazes on him. “We’re going to be late if you keep staring at me.”

Unblinking Gordon turned forwards, twisting the keys to start the engine. Without any further words, the van turned out of the parking lot, and back onto the highway.

*

They made it into the city in good time, even with the rush-hour traffic they encountered. They took a few minutes to drive past the club they’d be performing at later before making their way to the radio station. Navigating the streets had been easy enough, finding a parking spot a little bit harder. Gordon, Johnny and Gord entered the building first, Gordon eager to meet the host, Johnny and Gord anxious to put Paul out of sight, hoping it would take him off their minds. Bobby stayed behind, acting on a hunch that he should wait for Paul, a feeling that turned out to be right.

“Shit doesn’t even begin to describe this,” Paul muttered into his hand.

Bobby diverted his gaze from the downturned face, only to look at the one shoe Paul had managed to get on, its laces abandoned on the van floor. Beside it was another shoelace, the shoe that it belonged to having been tossed backwards in a fit of exasperation, landing somewhere amongst luggage, instruments and equipment.

Like a good driver should, Gordon had watched the road, while Johnny and Gord wrote a set-list during the remainder of their morning drive. Johnny and Gord had asked him for input, but for the most part Bobby had been undisturbed in keeping an eye on Paul. Carefully timed backward glances found Paul shifting in his seat, head hanging listlessly. His eyelids would slowly shutter to a close, but he would blink them open, dark eyes trying to focus on anything but sleep. Contrary to what Paul insisted, he wasn’t fine, but Bobby wasn’t easily swayed like everyone else. Paul could barely hold up his head, let alone put on his shoes properly; that wasn’t so much the fault of his ineptness, but the fact that his feet and ankles had become swollen, strong drummer and bassist’s hands and Paul’s instinctive reaction to twist away in resistance the reason for twisting them.

Bobby slowly prised Paul’s arm away, lowering Paul’s hand so he couldn’t hide his face. “You don’t have to do the interview, you can just stay in the van,” Bobby assured him.

The guilty expression that looked back at him wasn’t all that different from the expressions that Gord and Johnny wore as they left the van. “This is supposed to be a group interview, so they should have all five of us in there.” Gritting his teeth, Paul lowered himself from the seat, sitting on the floor and waiting out the dizziness that Bobby could see rocking his gaze side to side. “It will just take me a while to get in there.”

Biting back the doubts he was about to voice, Bobby took a step forward, anticipating an answer before he even asked the question. “Can you stand up?”

Smiling reluctantly, an upward glance seeming to confirm what Bobby already suspected, Paul pulled himself to his feet, left hand gripping the door for all of three seconds before he collapsed. “Don’t you dare leave me behind in the van; I already missed out on breakfast, I’m not missing this.”

Swallowing down a laugh, he shook his head. “No sore feelings at all, hmm?”

“I had just fallen asleep an hour ago.” Sighing then laughing, Paul smirked. “Feel free to throw this in my face as much as you want. It’s your only chance, because next time I’ll choose food over sleep.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds.” He appraised all the injuries he faced in the younger man, trying to decide how to help him the best. “Which foot hurts the most?”

“The right.” Bobby pressed up against his side, wrapping his arm across his shoulders; he cast a sideways glance to Paul as he hissed, shrugging his shoulder forward so his arm wasn’t flush against his side. Paul tried to be stoic, but couldn’t completely swallow down the whine of a curse, catching in his throat instead. “God-” Another hiss as Paul stepped forward with his left foot. “Damn.”

He could hear and feel the hitched intakes of breath, coinciding with every step. The pain that he had been partly responsible for, not stopping Gord and Johnny, tore strips off of him, leaving behind the raw burn of guilt. Bobby ducked his head, tightening his arm, trying to bear more of Paul without outright carrying him. “You can’t perform like this.”

“I’ll be fine-” Another tight inhale, Paul tensing against him, contradicted Paul’s words. “Once I get off my feet. I just need to rest.”

“Walking around with only one shoe on is fine?” Bobby asked to the ground, looking back to Paul out of the corner of his eye.

Paul was already looking at him, smug smile on pained face. “If I can’t get my other shoe on, I’ll wear your shoes.”

Bobby wanted to get him into a chair as soon as possible, not wanting to mess up Paul’s feet any further, but faced with a flight of stairs inside the building, and realising that the sound of music and voices were coming from above, Bobby pursed his lips tight while Paul’s chin sunk to his chest. The challenge was made slightly easier by a railing running up the wall, but even with Paul pulling himself up the stairs, it was still a struggle. Their slow, uneven steps, and little moans that Paul couldn’t hold back any longer, must have caught the others’ attention, because the talking stopped two steps before they reached the second floor.

The radio host’s smile dropped in shock. “What happened?”

“Problem in the parking lot,” Bobby replied, getting a better grip on Paul’s shoulder now that they didn’t have the railing to rely on.

“Two hours ago, different parking lot!” Paul rushed to add, stopping the man’s expression before it changed to anger.

Johnny’s eyes were riveted on Paul’s feet, looking up as Bobby and Paul hobbled past. “Are you aware you’re missing a shoe?”

Focussed on trying not to let onto the amount of pain he was in, holding his breath to keep it from hitching and trying to keep as relaxed as possible, hiding white clenched fingers in Bobby’s shirt between their bodies, Paul pushed out a single word. “No.”

Dreading the return of guilt, even though Johnny and Gord did deserve it, Bobby glanced back to them, reassuring them as best as he could with his gaze and smile. “His ankles are swollen, but they should be fine by tonight. He just needs to rest them.”

Someone rolled a chair towards them from within the studio. Paul nearly threw himself into the chair, closing his eyes in near bliss as the floor no longer bore his weight. “Thank you so much,” he near-crooned.

“Are you sure it’s just his ankles?” Gord quietly asked.

Bobby opened his mouth, only to stop the truth when he realised that Gord and Johnny were looking between him and Gordon, who was pushing chair and Paul towards the microphones on the other side of the table where the radio host shared his voice and music to the city. They deserved to be reprimanded, but by the looks of it they were already doing it to themselves, Paul’s suffering paining them almost as badly.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine in a few hours.” Bobby would save the truth for himself and Paul. It was everyone else’s choice whether they wanted to see through his lie.

The interview went really well, no doubt helped by Gordon and the radio host hitting it off as soon as they met. Gordon did most of the talking, Johnny and Gord getting in a couple of quips each. Bobby added a few details where the others forgot. He would have even answered a question directly posed at him, but drawing a blank, it was Paul who quickly answered in his stead.

Gordon grinned while Gord and Johnny snickered, but he didn’t pay much attention to them, instead watching the corner of Paul’s mouth curl up. Everything was still as it was; no prank gone awry would ever change them.

Except Gordon wasn’t quite ready to let it go; interview finished, the microphones turned off, he threw an arm around Paul’s shoulders, squeezing playfully. “How’s our little invalid doing?” Gordon asked, still grinning.

“He’s trying to pry your arm off of him.” Making a face, Paul tried to shove Gordon’s hand away, but didn’t expect him to grab his hand instead. “Come on, let go.”

They stayed seated around the table as the station went back to live music. A set of commercials and several more songs later they were getting to their feet, promises of good luck and after show conversations being made. Gordon continued to hang onto Paul, helping him to his feet, forgetting at first why Paul nearly fell on top the table but quickly remembered, switching to Paul’s right side. Pressed tight and pulling up Paul’s right arm so Gordon could support him best, Bobby realised why Paul had been favouring that arm. “Gordon stop-”

Gordon paused, glancing Bobby’s way, not noticing how Paul was biting his lip, trying not to make a sound to give away the pain his arm – or was it his shoulder – was giving him, now that it was angled up to rest on the taller man’s shoulder. “What?” Gordon asked, tightening his grip on Paul’s wrist, thinking that his hand was slipping, and not that Paul was trying to pull his arm away.

Telling Gordon that he was hurting his friend didn’t sound like a particularly good idea; biting his tongue yet again, Bobby racked his mind for anything else, to make it seem like he wasn’t condoning him. “Stop before you head down the stairs, you’re going to need help.”

“I am not a princess who needs princes to carry her everywhere,” Paul moped into his shoulder several seconds later, the trio taking the first step down.

“Yes my Lady,” Gordon solemnly spoke, trying not to smile.

The prospect of not having to spend another night in the van meant that they got to the hotel in little time, or at least it didn’t feel that way, none of them staring down the clock. “It’s a good thing you won’t be using my shoulder for a pillow again,” Johnny remarked to Gord, shooting him a pointed look. “Lucky for you my drumsticks were packed up, because I would have been using you as a snare drum.”

Bobby read the map, directing Gordon as needed, but was listening to enough of the conversation to interject. “Gord’s head keeps good rhythm?”

“Gord gives good head,” Johnny quietly agreed, but audible enough for Gordon to burst out laughing. Bobby smiled down at the map, shaking his head faintly. He could just make out Paul leaning his head against the window, small smile on weary face.

Gord rolled his eyes. “You’re such an idiot.”

Johnny and Gord continued to rib each other for the rest of the ride, and even out into the hotel behind Gordon. Paul was trying to find his second shoe with no success. Bobby was about to offer to help him, having already spent five minutes watching Paul wiggle further into the back, but the others returned at that moment.

“Two rooms!” Gordon called, two keys dangling from different fingers of the same hand. “One has three beds, the other two. I don’t think anyone’s going to complain about that. A bed is a bed, and not a one-room bunk on four wheels.”

“I know I’m celebrating.” Johnny grinned as he opened the doors to the back of the van. The luggage had been the last to be stowed away, making it easy to pull out. He grabbed his bag, but not without making a puzzled sound. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he picked up Paul’s missing shoe with his free hand. “What is this doing here?”

“I lost it.” Stretching further, balancing on the back of the chair with questionable stability, Paul tried to reach his shoe. “Since you found it, you can give it back now.”

“I don’t think so Cinderella.” Gord took the shoe before Paul’s fingers could slide over the heel, pulling it out of reach.

“I’m not a princess!”

Grabbing one of the keys, Gord hurried off with bag and shoe, Johnny falling into step beside him. The hotel door slammed shut behind bassist and drummer, muting their laughter from the outside world. Inside the van came a sigh, amused but still very much annoyed. Bobby knew the feeling, and so lowered his voice. “I think it would be best if Paul and I had the room with the two beds.”

Gordon started back to him, having been watching Paul slide and twist around so he was seated facing the side door. “What?”

“I don’t think leaving him alone with Gord or Johnny would be a good idea, and I don’t particularly trust myself with them either.” Bobby explained.

Narrowed gaze studied Bobby, key dangling out of reach of his waiting palm. “And you think I’m better off with them?”

“It will only be for tonight. None of us have slept in a bed for five days, and we’re all in different moods because of it, annoying one another. Everyone will be in a better mood by the morning.” Bobby tried to grab the key, but Gordon curled his arm behind his back.

“Why don’t we just give Johnny and Gord the other room then?” Gordon suggested.

“Because they’re acting like brats.” Carefully tempered frustration started chipping at the walls he built. “Johnny isn’t the only one being an idiot, they both are.” Bobby levelled him with a look. “Someone needs to keep an eye on them.”

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose, the gesture along with his bowed head showing he was far from thrilled. “I have no gratitude for this nomination.”

“Remember, it’s only one night.” Bobby would have given him a reassuring smile, but Gordon probably wouldn’t have seen it. Instead Bobby grabbed his bag along with Paul’s. He dropped Paul’s bag outside the door, waiting for Paul to inch off his seat, landing with a muffled groan on his left foot. “What room number do we have?” Bobby asked Gordon.

His terse voice called out from amongst the luggage. “209.”

“You’ll have to hobble up more stairs, but once you’ve done that, you won’t have to move for several hours.” Bobby shifted the strap onto his shoulder and wrapped an arm around Paul, giving him time to get his arm comfortable before they started towards the hotel. “And you’ll be able to stretch out on a bed. That will make you feel better.”

“One can only hope,” Paul remarked after several limps.

If Paul had been able to run towards either one of the beds in the small room, he would have done exactly that; as it was, once Bobby had unlocked the door, Paul shuffled towards the closest bed, Bobby helping him along, and collapsed gratefully. The bedsprings squeaked as he moaned into the pillow, the moan ebbing into a relieved sigh.

“I don’t care that the bed feels like it’s made out of concrete, this is good enough for me,” Paul mumbled.

“This one doesn’t feel all that better either.” The mattress barely gave at all as he sat down. Paul twisted his face towards him, too tired to give him more than a half-hearted smirk, bringing a smile to Bobby’s face. “Do you need the shower? If not, I’m going to be a few minutes.”

Paul shook his head, pressed his cheek back to the pillow. “Take as long you need, you deserve it for taking care of me.” He closed his eyes, twisting his chin slightly. “Why you do it, I don’t know.”

It wound up being ten minutes until he stepped out of the shower. The stench of a hot, cramped van took a while to rinse away, the heat initially cooking the smell so that it was made even worse. The scent eventually carried away over the curtain rod, leaving him to get clean. The water flowed down his body, carrying suds to the drain, but he didn’t turn off the faucet yet, relaxing under the heat until the temperature began to dip. Dried off, towel wrapped around his waist, he entered back into the hotel room, a cloud of steam pouring out through the doorway.

Dressed in clean clothes, he turned to Paul, waiting for him to make some kind of movement. There had been enough nights, in Kingston and on the road, to know that even in the depths of sleep Paul would continue moving, searching for the most comfortable position for that moment. The fact that Paul didn’t budge at all had to mean that Paul was so exhausted that comfort wasn’t an issue, or so Bobby tried to convince himself.

Finger-combing his damp hair back, he softly padded to Paul’s bed, leaning near enough to hear shallow, irregular breaths. An edge of worry returning, he pressed his hand to Paul’s shoulder. “Paul.” Bobby squeezed a little when he didn’t get a response. “Paul?” He still didn’t move. “Paul? Paul!”

Spending the next three minutes calling his name and shaking Paul, Bobby pleaded him to wake, no, come back to. He nearly jumped when he felt the shoulder shift, trying to shrug away his hand. “If you’re trying to give me a back massage, that’s not how you do it.”

Bobby tightened his grip in relief, stopping when Paul sleepily protested. “I was trying to wake you up.”

“You could have done that without giving me another bruise,” Paul mumbled, rolling his head limply.

“I couldn’t wake you up, you were unconscious.” Panicking made Bobby forget to be gentle, pushing Paul to roll over and sit up. Paul battled weakly with his hands, slumping against the pillows until he was mostly lying down. “I don’t even know how long you were out for!” Bobby snapped.

Paul breathed out through his lips, a rasp to his deep exhale. “Three minutes?”

“I was in the shower for ten minutes, and you were ‘sleeping’ when I came out here. That was five minutes ago.” He pressed his fingers to Paul’s neck, finding a weak pulse after a few tries. “I should be taking you to a doctor.”

“No!” Paul struggled to sit up straight. Bobby’s hand slid to cup his neck, fingertips disappearing into his hair. “You’re saying it was fifteen minutes, but it could easily be less.”

Bobby’s fingers and palm tensed, iron like his resolve. “You were unconscious, for at least five minutes. That cannot be contended, you weren’t responding to me at all.”

“But I’m alright now.” Bobby found that hard to believe, Paul looking paler than usual against the navy blue bedspread. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“When you don’t tell me that you hurt your shoulder when Gordon pulled you up this morning, it’s very easy to have my doubts,” Bobby pointed out. Against his will, Gord’s words resurfaced to his memory. “Is it only your shoulder and ankles that are bothering you?”

Paul bowed his head, raising a guilty gaze a few seconds later. He reluctantly released his bottom lip from between his teeth. “I’ve had a headache the whole day, my back is aching, and now I’m nauseous.”

Pushing out a noise of disbelief, Bobby angled Paul’s face up so he could look him straight in the eyes; he tried to stay passive while reading Paul’s face, but couldn’t mask the disappointment and fear that Paul caused him. “I ought to carry you to a doctor right now.”

“Why are you and Gordon trying to be my heroes?” Paul blinked at him from under heavy eyelids. “I never asked for help.”

“Can’t a person just be nice? We all know that you aren’t fine, so stop being stubborn and let us help you,” Bobby insisted.

An amused snicker interrupted the serious scene. “You’re calling me stubborn?”

“I’m not nearly as bad as you are,” Bobby assured him, smiling faintly.

Paul arched an eyebrow. “Then what do you call hanging yourself all over me?”

“It’s called helping your ass.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Uncertain how he was the one answering questions all of a sudden, Bobby cocked his head to the side. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Paul’s lips curved faintly, a smile for what, he didn’t know, but he was determined to learn the truth of it. He leaned in closer, as though it would make the answer come faster. Rather than words, a knock filled in the silence. He ignored it, preferring to watch Paul and his smile expectantly, but Bobby snapped as the knocking grew steadily faster, until it was a steady drone with no pauses. “Who is it?”

Gordon’s voice was irritating like his hammering had been. “It’s me!”

“You don’t look too happy to hear from him,” Paul commented, calm but amusedly.

Paul and Gordon were wearing on his nerves, but still Bobby stood, making his way to the front door to let in the singer. “Are you implying something?”

“Yes.” He glanced back in time to find Paul smirking at him, but his impatience cut the smile down. That knowing look faded to hesitation, accented with regret. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Considering I’m waiting for you to explain what you mean, yes.” Bobby started to the door again, shaking his head in exasperation. He was in no mood for riddles and had no wish for uninvited strangers, but both were standing on the threshold, harassing him and not looking like they were going to stop anytime soon.

“I guess I was wrong.”

The sheer sadness of those words made him twist around completely. Paul remained lying down, head propped up on the pillow, but he wasn’t looking at him anymore, looking sightlessly to the window. Bobby didn’t want to resume the conversation, but one word refused to be caged. “How?”

The corner of Paul’s mouth twitched, a parry of amusement and bitterness duelling on his face. “It doesn’t really matter. You’re not thinking about the same thing I am, so I’m not going to force it on you. It’s unimportant.”

Bobby rubbed his fingers against his cheek, taking small steps back towards the bed. “If you wanted to tell me, it must be important to you.”

Lifting his head back, Paul watched him, silently debating, before shaking his head carefully. “Important, maybe; if it means anything at all, it’s just me reading too deeply into things that aren’t meant to be.” For all his roundabout phrases, leading him one direction then another, Bobby was curious, and sat down at the foot of the bed, pressing him to continue with an emphatic nod of his head. A little smile pulled at Paul’s face, making Bobby smile in turn and shuffle up beside his legs.

A heavy knock sounded at the door, followed by a second. “Are you going to let me in?”

Bobby shot a glare to the door, missing the sight of Paul’s expression falling, matching his irritation. He didn’t really want Gordon around, not wanting any more interruptions to keep Paul from what he was trying to say. At least it wasn’t Johnny and Gord at the door. Thankful for that small blessing, Bobby opened the door, only to scowl at the back of an infinitely pleased Gordon as he strolled in to settle down in his spot on Paul’s bed.

*

The afternoon dragged by, forced civility making the five hours feel like a jail sentence. Bobby nearly wished that Johnny and Gord were there, at least to break up the awkward silences that fell between conversations. Where there were no words, they merely looked at one another. Gordon had sympathetic and doting gazes for Paul that Bobby tried not to watch without success. When Gordon gave Paul a couple of aspirin that he found in his suitcase – Bobby was convinced that he bought the container just so he had a reason to visit, running to the nearest store at full speed during the half hour they were apart – Bobby decided that devising various plots to trick Gordon out of the room was a much more efficient way to spend his time. He didn`t get a chance to enact the plan he decided was the best. Gordon announced that they had to find Johnny and Gord, so that they could get to the club, and perhaps get something to eat for dinner.

Gordon stood up, stretching his neck side to side, conveniently taking enough time for Paul to glance to Bobby, silently entreating. Bouncing up from his bed, Bobby was at his side just in time for Paul to slide his feet to the ground and tentatively stand. All it took was a flinch; Bobby had his arm around him, Paul half-falling, half-leaning into him. “Still bad?” Bobby asked.

“I’m going to need a stool to sit on.” A guilty flush dusted over his cheeks. “Do you still plan on carrying me to the doctors?”

Hearing conversation starting anew, Gordon cut in without pause, leading them out into the hallway. They were halfway to the stairs when Johnny and Gord’s heads appeared, rising with each step up they took. They bristled with energy, but no longer was it directed at their band mates, instead projected to the approaching show. The enthusiasm was contagious, itching underneath their skin. All the bad feelings he had against Gordon, Johnny and Gord became insignificant; getting to the club was now his priority, to do his best and make sure that Paul would shine alongside all of them, despite everything the forces of nature pitted against him. Even the nausea turned toilet clutching; Johnny helped Paul to his feet while Bobby gave Gordon a look that did more scolding than words could ever do.

“Does the word nauseous mean anything to you?” Gord asked from behind Bobby and Gordon’s shoulders.

Sheepishly Gordon shoved his chin to his chest, lowered his gaze to the floor. “He hadn’t eaten anything since last night.”

“And now I don’t plan on eating for twelve more hours.” Heaving painfully, forearms pressed tight to his stomach, Paul fixed red-rimmed eyes on Gordon. “By then, this twenty-four hour curse will be gone – I hope.”

All things considered, the concert went by really well. To make things appear less obvious, they brought three stools onto the stage. Paul didn’t move more than a couple of paces away from his stool, but Gordon used his stool to loom even taller over the crowd and created any and all imagined prop pieces as the song deemed necessary. At one point he sat down on his stool, using it as a throne as he introduced himself and Paul as King and Queen respectively. After that proclamation, Bobby and Gord stayed as far away as possible from the one that stood between them. Bobby drifted around the small stage as best as he could, but wherever he went, he lingered the longest by Paul.

All of their equipment was returned to the van quickly enough, Gord and Johnny putting Paul’s things into the back after he had packed it all up himself, and with a similar speed they found themselves within the crowd they had been performing to. Bobby had only a couple of minutes with Paul, helping him out from the back-hall and onto the dance floor. At first it had been two people who had approached them, starting on the merits of pedals and pick-ups, but soon Bobby was surrounded from all sides and with no Paul to his left. For a few fleeting seconds he spotted a curly-haired head bobbing as though it was limping, but it was similarly at the centre of another crowd. A leather-clad arm swung around what would have been shoulders, brushing against the bottom of those curls, and Bobby didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. Paul kept insisting he didn’t need a hero, but by the looks of it, he had just found a third.

An hour later Gordon came circling around with his own little entourage; drawing a following was effortless to him, so it took only a few minutes until everyone was listening to his stories, or sharing their stories with him. Bobby listened on, but once he had finished his beer, his second by then, Bobby realised that Gordon was repeating stories that he had heard a dozen times already. Setting his empty bottle down, he stood and waved his fingers at the singer. Gordon was too occupied to take notice of him, and Bobby decided that was just fine with him. It had been a long day after all. Gordon had been wearing him down, and most likely he had been wearing Gordon down too. Leaving Gordon to the adoring masses was probably for the best. Bobby stopped for a few greetings, but was outside the club in less than ten minutes. Hailing a taxi was easy, trying to navigate the streets in the middle of the night difficult, but the driver knew exactly how to get to the hotel.

He didn’t see Paul lying face down on his bed until after turning on the light. Bobby almost slapped the switch back off, but stilled his hand, realising just how still Paul was. Fearing a repeat of the afternoon, he warily approached the bed, crouched down to peer at his face. Paul’s lips were parted, shallow breath puffing out in a mostly even rhythm. Bobby released the breath he didn’t even know he was holding in, smiling and reaching out for warm skin. His hand reacquainted itself with Paul’s neck, palm feeling pulse and fingers combing through curls. Paul hummed in his sleep, pursing lips together, before stirring and wincing. Bobby waited for his eyes to open before talking, not wanting to startle him into injuring himself. One bad wake-up call was enough for a day. “How are you feeling?”

“My ribs hurt, but I don’t feel like I’m going to be sick anymore.” Paul pressed his hand down, trying to push himself up to sit, but didn’t make it far, groaning as he forgot to use his left arm. “Everything hurts – holding a guitar for over an hour isn’t a remedy for a bad shoulder and back.”

“Does your head feel any better?” Bobby took notice of his thumb rubbing circles into Paul’s neck, and would have lectured it for being disobedient, but Paul didn’t seem to mind, so he didn’t stop.

Paul watched him from under heavy eyelids. “No, but it’s not like I’m carrying anything on it.”

“Aside from a bruise.” His fingers stretched up, ghosting over Paul’s scalp. They hadn’t travelled far when they found a large swollen space of flesh. Paul was instantly awake, eyes widening from the sudden flare of agony. Bobby bit his lip, retracting his hand. “I think Gordon left that aspirin here. Do you want another one?”

“I took one before lying down.” Bobby sat down as Paul struggled to roll over, pointedly remembering to use his left arm. Paul landed on his back only to squirm in new found pain. “Shit, just when we get beds to have a good night’s sleep. I can’t sleep on my back, can’t sleep on my right side, can’t sleep on my front -”

“What’s wrong with your front?” Bobby looked him over from chest to foot, then back up.

“I keep catching my feet in awkward positions. I’d almost be better off sleeping in the van again.” Twisting his lips together indignantly, Paul pushed his head deeper into his pillow, recoiling when he hit his bruise firmly.

He ran a finger down one of Paul’s sock covered feet, swollen and tender despite the attempts made to rest them. “And you planned on sleeping on top of your blankets?”

The wince slowly relaxed from Paul’s face, but lines of frustration showed up in their place. “I can’t even take off my own shirt. I can’t lift my arm, so what’s the point in sleeping conventionally?”

“Humour me.” Not bothering to ask, Bobby pulled at the thin piece of cotton, pushed it up past stomach to chest. Paul sat up enough to slide his arm out of the left sleeve and let Bobby ease the collar up past his head. Getting it off his right arm was easy, now that most of the fabric was lying on top of him. “Was that so hard?” Bobby batted the back of his hand to Paul’s side, catching him in the ribs and causing him to hiss. In apologies Bobby rubbed slow circles up from his waist. “Where does it hurt the most?”

Paul’s hand flicked out to the side, as though to push his hand away, but Bobby caught his hand. “The more appropriate question would be where doesn’t it hurt,” Paul corrected.

Their fingers were curled together, but his thumb refused to rest. Watching it smooth across Paul’s knuckles, an idea slowly seeped into the edges of Bobby’s mind. “Roll over.”

“What for?” As resistant the words could have been, Paul was curious, and carefully eased back onto his stomach.

A jagged cut lined down a couple of inches away from his spine between shoulder blades, harmless despite the bruise that framed it, a backdrop of blue-purple against the slightly inflamed skin. A few other bruises were scattered over Paul’s back, varying shades of blue or purple. Doing his best to avoid the sores, Bobby pressed fingertips to the skin, pushing harder despite Paul choking on an inhale. A few seconds later he relaxed with a sigh. “Okay?” Bobby asked.

Paul murmured some kind of an answer, moved just enough so his mouth wasn’t pressed against his pillow, but the fact that Paul didn’t move away had to be a good sign. Not stopping, Bobby dragged his hands over skin, palms weighing down after his fingers. For the first few minutes Paul was tense under the massage, but his body slowly absorbed the relief, pain forgotten to the touch. Bobby smiled to the pale skin, folding his legs around until his knees were planted on either side of Paul’s thighs, a comfortable position for tending to him. Slowly and methodically working from neck all the way down, Bobby rose, leaning in closer as he focused his efforts on his shoulder, fingers tentative at first, assessing the damage. He felt assured that there was no last damaging, nothing that time and rest wouldn’t heal, and began kneading firmly, unaware that his hair was tickling Paul’s skin.

Paul squirmed underneath him, pressing back against him briefly, before resettling. He eased his head around, gaze lazy but scrutinising. Bobby’s eyes flickered briefly to his mouth, two sharp indents in his bottom lip. “Do you know what you’re doing?” Paul asked, voice oddly hoarse.

“Making you feel better.” In the back of his mind, an unspoken answer whispered, suggesting that he what he really wanted to do was make Paul arch back against him. Agreeing with the idea, he dug his fingers in harder, unheeding the bruise that he came into contact.

A whimper sounded from below, Paul twisting backwards before laughing breathlessly. “Have you ever made Gordon feel better with a massage?”

The mention of the singer sent hot blood into a boil. “Why would I do that?”

Paul closed his eyes, but he could tell that he was pleased, smiling contentedly. “Good.”

Wanting that gaze to be back on him, Bobby squeezed Paul’s ribs. A pretty groan pierced the smile and eyes flashed open; Paul pushed back, or at least tried to. He didn’t get far, not with Bobby seated on his thighs, nearly against his ass, pinning him down. Bobby had no recollection of sitting on his friend, his mind and body moving in a daze, not knowing how much time had passed as he had caressed Paul, leaning over his prostrate trusting form. A thrill rushed up from his gut, tangling with confusion and eager want in his chest. Trembling he lowered himself, wrapping one arm around Paul’s waist and pressing his forehead to the back of Paul’s neck; he didn’t know if it was his skin that was hot and damp, or if it was Paul’s. In that same stupor, he brushed his lips against the nape, beads of sweat a contrast to his dry mouth. “What are you doing to me?” Bobby begged into his hair, tightening his arm.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Paul murmured. He hated how certain Paul sounded while he remained confused, but it was oddly comforting. He didn’t want to let go of that reassurance, and so continued to cling to Paul even as he turned onto his side. It had been safer pressed up against him, Paul lying under him, but looking straight at one another, only a few inches separating their faces, it was disconcerting and yet too much space. “I haven’t done anything outright, aside from accepting the things that you’re doing for me. The problem is you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Bobby ignored the ache in his chest and the whispers in his head. “The only thing I’m doing is helping you.”

Paul shook his head. “On the surface, yes, but there’s more to this than that; I could be wrong, but I hope I’m not.” Lifting his hand, he tentatively grazed his fingers across his shoulder, until the fabric ended and Bobby felt the drag of Paul’s skin on his neck.

It was familiar words from the afternoon, coming back to pit riddles against him. The warm smooth of fingers felt wonderful, but he wouldn’t let them distract him completely. “You’re reading into things that aren’t meant to be,” Bobby recalled. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on his thoughts, but unable to block out Paul entirely, the man who he had wanted to spend the whole day with. At Paul’s nod, Bobby realised that he was onto something. “Today, you’ve been reading me the whole day. What have I done that’s been giving you doubts?”

“I didn’t realise it at first, but almost everything.” His face blanked in confusion, causing the corner of Paul’s mouth to curl up, not quite a smirk because there was affection underlying it, along with something else. “It’s just a matter of whether you meant to do it. I can find out, if you let me do one little thing.”

“Go ahead.” Paul’s hand flattened and pulled away. Bobby parted his lips, about to protest, but couldn’t with Paul kissing him. The invisible grip on his chest lessened, skin ran hot, and his hands clutched the air, before squeezing Paul’s shoulder. There had been an undercurrent, it being blatantly obvious now, and Bobby refused to let it burn out, now or later down the road. Paul groaned in pain, his body lurching backwards, but Bobby pulled him until they were pressed chest to chest, taking advantage of his slack mouth to deepen the kiss. “Yeah, you were right.”

“Was that so hard to admit?” Paul teased.

The bitter flavour of cigarettes rolled over his tongue, not quite as strong as the need to taste more of his friend. Shifting his hand from shoulder to neck, Bobby claimed his mouth. In all the women he had kissed before, they passively followed, but kissing Paul was different, and not because of the obvious reason. Paul let him take charge, at least for the moment, but Paul engaged with equal force, no doubt in that he wanted this. Greedy mouth and hands, he gave up all that Bobby demanded, silent but for the hungry noises he made, stringing him hard throughout his whole body. Bobby squeezed him back, back and ribs and hips, sweaty skin and jeans making for delicious friction.

Paul struggled to pull off his shirt, flushed skin paling with every jerk of his shoulder. Bobby half sat up, shedding it hurriedly, before dragging Paul flush to him, rolling and falling to the bed, bringing Paul half on top of him and making up for the time their mouths were apart. If he had known what Paul had been going on about during the afternoon, knew how damn good it was to have him hot and heavy against him, eager mouth on him, he would have done this sooner. Not that he had room to complain, Paul sucking wetly at his neck, biting and soothing his shoulder. Bobby tangled his fingers in Paul’s hair, pulling hard enough to curl his back, wincing and rubbing their hips together. It wasn’t perfect, in a clumsy teenage, rutting kind of way, but there was something in the way that Paul moved that spoke of experience.

Rough fingertips pressing hard against his chest, inching down to his stomach, squeezing and dipping in places he never realised that would make his body react in the ways it did, Bobby threw his head back, getting a bite to his Adam’s apple for his efforts. Teeth and lips nibbled a line straight down, hands a fraction faster than mouth, popping the button to his jeans open. His head jerked up so fast, his neck tense and eyes wide, Bobby stared down Paul as he grinned, further relieving the pressure that held down his erection. There were only a few explanations for what Paul was doing, and taking into consideration the amazing events preceding this, that narrowed it down to two possibilities. Hips jumping, whether to assist Paul or an act of shock, Bobby couldn’t quite tell, but suspected it was both. “Paul,” he groaned, getting in a final squeeze to his shoulder before it slipped out of reach.

Lips sunk over his length, firm enough to sensitise the flesh. Paul was trying to hold himself up with his good arm, so holding his hips in place was out of the question. Bobby tried not to hump his mouth, but it was a challenge he lost, Paul licking him up and down, mouth hot and tight around him. Just like the teenaged analogy of a few minutes ago, Bobby knew this wasn’t going to take long. Tangling his hand in Paul’s hair, knuckles grazing his bruise again, Paul gasped, pressing deep in one full motion; that sudden rush, mouth seizing tighter that it was pain and ecstasy in one, Bobby came fast with a sharp cry.

Lapping at his lips, a tiny glimpse of tongue that would have been innocent hadn’t Bobby known exactly what Paul was tasting, Paul smiled, slowly stretching up beside him. He rested his head against his palm, sweaty and musky smelling, but Bobby wouldn’t let him rest. Lunging in for a kiss, he dragged their hips together, startling when he felt the scrape of denim against his flesh. Bobby paused for only a second, smirking as he undid Paul’s jeans. Paul unashamedly swung his hips, brushing them against his pelvis. If Paul ever did that on stage, he was going to be in trouble, whoever one of them that second ‘he’ referred to. Pushing clothing out of the way, Bobby wrapped his hand around Paul’s cock at the same time he bit into his shoulder.

“So good.” Hissing in Bobby’s ear, it was a breathless groan that he heard and felt, Paul leaning against him, chest hitching against him. Ringing his fingers tight, pulling and twisting, Paul trembled, gripping the back of his neck. Fresh bruises were starting to decorate Paul’s shoulders, but he didn’t seem to mind it, in fact encouraged it by angling his shoulder up. It was another nip, paired with a flick of his wrist and a squeeze, that Bobby felt the first spurt shoot into his hand.

He waited until the last trickle abated, flesh limp in his palm, before trying to find his shirt to clean up with. He hadn’t looked far when Paul took his hand, lifting it to lick the mess up. The insinuating curl of tongue, mouth sucking in his fingers, Bobby’s breath caught in his chest. That mouth would be his undoing, but for the time kissing it would suffice, not trusting his body to react with the endurance he supposedly had. They kissed for several more minutes, nestled up against one another, but with both of their eyes drooping, they knew this was over, or at least for the night. There was still tomorrow, and the day after. “Will you sleep under the blankets now?” Bobby asked, placing two fingers on Paul’s lips.

Paul licked the tips, keeping a straight face. “I will, if you tuck me in.”

Bobby pulled Paul’s jeans and pants off the rest of the way, tossing them and the socks that followed backwards to the unused bed. He grabbed the pillow from his own bed, turning back around to Paul to lift quilt and bed-sheet back. Bobby crawled in, Paul not slipping underneath the sheets until he had settled in; climbing over Bobby, Paul grinned, tucking his shoulder against Bobby’s. Smiling back at him, Bobby wrapped his arm around him, kissing him on the forehead as they both closed their eyes.

Too bad Gordon couldn’t walk in on them now.
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A Hands-On Approach