Title: Parting is Such Sweet Author: Kelandris the Mad Fandom: View Askewniverse (pre-Clerks) Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob Rating: Songfic. R for language, R for adult themes, fantasy action, some male-male...um...bonding. :> Status: New Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note... Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net Series/Sequels: Oddly, this is a mirrored version of the story "Out of the Rain". Different Bob, same Jay (kind of). Never done this before with Jay and Bob--should be interesting. Disclaimers: All parts of my fannish being are enriched by the presence of Kevin Smith, Jason Mewes, Jason Lee, Ben Affleck, and all the merry characters at View Askew Productions (including their current master, Miramax,) save for that pesky financial part of my being, which receives no compensation whatsoever for these tawdry little tales. Notes: Just trying to clear some space on my desktop. I have, like, thirty songfics in progress now and it's scaring me. Oh, and the ballroom mention here--that's a real-life happening. One of my friends did rent a ballroom in a hotel, along with one of their sturdy painting ladders, and he and his girlfriend climbed into the chandelier and spent the night there. And, yeah, the Emily Dickinson oddity. It works. Summary: How Bob and Jay meet, version 687. Warnings: Male-male fantasy action, homosexual implications, some brief erotic activity. Dedication: To Scott Small, the boy in the chandelier, who was anything but. "Parting is Such Sweet" by Kelandris *every finger in the room is pointing at me I wanna spit in their faces then I get afraid of what that could bring I got a bowling ball in my stomach I got a desert in my mouth figures that my courage would choose to sell out now* **Come on baby,** thought the boy on the street corner. **Poppa needs a little. Poppa needs a fix, and some food, and some fuckin' cash... Come on, yeah, come over here...** But for the third time that week, the man went with some other piece of streetmeat, the guy smirking over his shoulder at Jay. **Shit.** He looked down at his clothes, at himself. Okay, his hair hadn't been washed in a few days, the lank strands starting to look dusty. And that was making him twitch, sure, he liked being cleaner than this. And maybe he was a little on the pale side; staying up too late, sleeping in when he could, avoiding the sun that right now hurt his eyes--but what the fuck? He had the long hair, he had the fuckin' moves, never stopped him before... Somehow his height made him look younger than he was; he had never figured that out. And he couldn't seem to stay still right now. Not that that stopped him from suckin' guys good and strong, come *on*, now. And he was pretty. He knew he was pretty. His fuckin' dad must've said that three times a night, and when he died, the series of know-nothing bozos his mom had moved in had said the same fucking thing. Usually right before any of `em would... **Breathe,** he told himself sternly. Right. Didn't need to think about that shit. Too many thoughts right now. Shit, he needed a fix. Wipe all the thinking away, reduce the screaming to a distant dream, just ride the liquid high, yeah. *and I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets looking for a savior underneath these dirty sheets I've been raising up my hands to drive another nail in just what God needs one more victim* He shook his head, looking around. Red Bank was shit for the game, he thought. Maybe he should just give up and get a nine-to-five gig, some place that *don't* drug-test their drones. **Yeah, and the first time I freaked `cos I need a dose I'd be out the fucking door. Get fucking real, Jay-boy.** He sighed, leaning against the wall. His hands tapped odd patterns on his chest and arms. He continually twitched or jerked or shuffled around, his eyes never able to stop moving from fire escape to street to guys across the road to bar to cars passing by to alley. Unbeknownst to him, he looked like a junkie now--too thin, too tall, too gaunt, eyes staring out, haunted in his head. Tricks weren't even walking over at this point, let alone stopping on his side of the street. **Fuck this,** he thought, glaring. He checked his cash. Couple bucks, some change. Maybe a cuppa joe, maybe a comic. What the hell, right? He was sleeping in the alley anyway; spending the cash he had wouldn't change that. He set off for the higher-traffic areas, figuring the first one he came to would decide him. *why do we crucify ourselves every day I crucify myself nothing I do is good enough for you crucify myself every day I crucify myself* The man called Silent Bob stood by the racks outside the bookstore. They were running a special on 20th century poets, and he was torn between a book by Whitman and one by Dickinson. Walt Whitman was more relevant to his life, but on the other hand, everything Emily Dickinson wrote could be sung to the tune of "Yellow Rose of Texas". That had to count for something, right? Someone stepped up behind him. He stiffened, starting to turn around, and that someone leaned forward, licking the back of his ear. Suddenly, he was stiffening in an entirely unexpected way. "C'mon, baby," the guy breathed on the back of his neck. A fingertip caress and he shuddered, his eyes flicking around to see who observed. "Little time, little in*vest*ment, I guarantee you'll see Heaven..." Shuddering, he turned, stepping back, and his eyes widened. The sudden sense of familiarity was striking. He knew the guy. He looked close. No, he didn't know him, but he knew the face. What the hell? And shit, this boy needed help. Five square meals to start with, a long shower, and...his eyes flicked to his arms...Shit, needle tracks. Not fresh, and staggered well down the arm, but still. Astonishingly, the boy caught all this by the time Bob's eyes flicked up to his face again. "Oh," the boy said. He laughed carelessly, cocking a hip. "Fuck, dude, thought you were someone else." Shit, he might be, the way he'd reacted to a little neck action. It hadn't been *that* long since his last date, and she *had* been female. Of course, there'd been that boy in high school...who, he suddenly realized, had looked a *lot* like this kid, here. He shook his head to clear it, and came closer. "Who are you?" The boy pursed his lips, then he smiled brilliantly. His teeth were clean, at least. But there were faint lines of grime around his bony wrists. Homeless? Probably. But there were shelters in Red Bank, why didn't he go? "I can be anyone you want, baby. You just tell me what you want." Bob narrowed his eyes, and the boy stepped back. "Hey, sorry. Didn't mean ta bother you an' shit. You just looked like you might enjoy a good time, s'all. Seeya." And he turned away, fully prepared to fade into the crowd. "You want something to eat?" It was the first thing he could think of. Other parts of him were loudly clamoring for things other than food, and he was trying to ignore them. It would do this kid no good to be used again, as much as his brain was burning the image into him--this kid, screaming his name, kneeling on silk and thrusting back against him as hard as he was thrusting into him, yes, Bob's hands on his hips bringing him close, fucking him hard as he dared.. **Think about something else. Anything else. Gdost's theory on inter-dimensional relationship spaces...something...*anything*, please!** Surprisingly, the kid sneered at him. "I ain't a fuckin' charity case, Sister." Bob shrugged. His eyebrows lifted. **Never said you were,** his expression said. "Huh." The kid looked around, shoulders lifting. "You buyin'?" Bob nodded. "'kay." He looked around again, throwing his pale hair over his shoulder. "You wanna hit Mooby's?" Bob was horrified, but nodded. He paid for the Whitman volume, and walked with the kid to the nearest Mooby's, three blocks down. **Shit, no wonder he's hungry if that's what he considers good food!** *and my heart is sick of being in chains I said my heart is sick of being in these chains* Somethin' about this one, somethin' more than a burger and a bone. Something was up, here, and that always unnerved him. He survived by knowing cops on sight, no matter how deep undercover they'd gone. Social workers? He was a wisp, not even a breath, turn the corner and he'd never been there. This guy... No, Jay-boy, this guy's no cop, but he's *somethin'*. He's somethin' you know. That scared him a little, and then he flashed back to feeling the guy shiver under his touch, just a little fingertip action on the back of the neck, yeah... 'S funny--only one guy he'd ever known had a neck that sensitive'd been-- His head shot up. The other man looked at him, quirked an eyebrow, looked around. "This was where you wanted, right?" Jay looked around. Mooby's, sweet Mooby's. "Yeah," he said, but his heart was no longer in it. *I got a kick for a dog beggin' for love I gotta have my suffering so that I can have my cross I know a cat named Easter he says will you ever learn you're just an empty cage, girl, if you kill the bird* About the time he'd really started checking out the bone structure on the lanky blond at his side, they arrived at Mooby's. He'd noticed several peripheral glances cast his way, as well--and why not? Boy didn't know him, after all. Shit, he could be a cop, or some missionary out crusading, or, well--anything. Anything at all. Red Bank wasn't New York, but it had its share of mean streets. They stepped inside, and Bob dropped his gaze to the floor after scanning the menu. Mega-Mooby-Muffin. Dear God. What had he got himself into? Suddenly the boy at his side stiffened, his head shooting up, and for one single moment, a piercing note of fear sang in his eyes. Then the high screech of panic died down, leaving the glittering blues emptier by far. Huh. What the hell had *that* been? "This was where you wanted, right?" The boy looked around, finally nodding. He still looked as if one good push would drop him over, and he wouldn't have the strength to get up. And the way he's twitching...shit, he must be jonesing *hard*. What was he going to do? *I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets I've been raising up my hands drive another nail in got enough guilt to start my own religion* They ate quickly, neither man wanting to linger over the fare. Jay kept watching the man, wondering, adding odd pieces together and throwing away the results. Couldn't be that guy. That guy was fuckin' high school, man. *And* he was fuckin' brilliant. He wouldn't've stayed in fucking Red Bank. He'd be gone to New York, or Chicago, or Stanford or some shit. He wouldn't be here. Still... Jay paused with a fry halfway to his mouth, looking at the man across the table. He was cute enough for five, easy. That dark beard, that dark hair...Shoulder-length, even. He imagined briefly what it would look like, brushing his bare shoulders. Big barrel chest, on the hefty side, looked like strong, sturdy, powerful legs, though. Wonder if he's as big some other areas? Shivering, Jay finished the fry when the man looked over at him, and smiled as calmly as he could. But his mind was racing now, tossing him image after image of him kneeling at this man's feet, sliding his zipper down with practiced grace; bending over in some anonymous hotel room, as the man fucked him brutal, fucked him hard from behind, holding his hair and crying out his name; this man, this man naked, this man all his for the hour or so it would take... Sweating, Jay twitched in his seat, wondering what else he could think about to distract himself. Last thing he needed was to start drooling at the prospect. Shit, he needed a fix. He got even forty from this guy, he could go see this friend, he'd sell him half a dose of some pretty pure stuff-- "How long?" "What?" Those deep brown eyes fixed him in place, stopping his breathing for one long moment. "How long," the man said patiently, "since your last fix?" Oh, shit. He's a fucking narc. *why do we crucify ourselves every day I crucify myself nothing I do is good enough for you crucify myself every day I crucify myself* Suddenly the blond's entire demeanor changed, and he pushed away from the table. "Hey, listen, really, appreciate the meal and all, and hey, I'll catch you around, okay? I gotta--" Bob put a hand on his arm, the fingers closing easily around the stick-thin wrist. What the hell had happened? Frozen, the boy trembled in place, and Bob sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was threaten him. Swallowing, he released him and stood. "Go if you want," he said softly. "But I'm not a cop. I'm just-- worried." And, unbelievably, he was. He had no idea why, but this young idiot's plight concerned him. He wanted to take him home and protect him and watch over him, and he didn't do this for people, not for anyone, not for close friends. Not for family. Who the hell *was* this kid? "You're--" The kid swallowed, and his eyes narrowed. "If you are, and you say you're not, you can't use any of this in court. You got nothin' on me." "Believe me, I'm not." With his family, how could he be? He could see the kid didn't believe it, though. Stepping back up to the counter, he ordered two more things, an iced tea for him, wishing for something stronger, and a milkshake for the kid. The kid sneered, but took it, and Bob watched him carefully. He took a sip, smiling naturally for the first time since they'd met, and then looked suspiciously over at Bob. "How'd you know I like strawberry?" he whispered. "Just a guess," Bob said, and tossed his head towards the door. The kid looked around, then shrugged and followed. They walked towards the bus stop, the kid casting glances towards him again. *And my heart is sick of being I said my heart is sick of being In these chains* Fuck, he could still be a narc. Guy knew he used and knew his favorite ice cream, and okay, so it's wasn't fucking conclusive, but it was still kind of scary. When they finally reached the bus stop, the man looked both ways, sighing, then turned to face him. Please, man. Some kind of a break, he thought. Anything. He swallowed, waiting, something still nagging at him. He was nearly too distracted to pin it down, but it was something about his mom's house. Something about the boy he'd known in high school, and the back yard. What was it...He and the boy, sitting in the back yard� must have been the week before he left. And he'd been sitting behind the kid, his arms wrapped around him, holding him close. They'd been� up in a tree, watching the stars, or at least the really bright ones they could see through the haze. He remembered now. He'd had a treehouse, sort of, just some old planks he'd found at a construction site nailed into a fork of the tree. It wasn't stellar construction, but it did the job, and later he'd added some walls, though he'd never gotten around to adding more than two, and he'd never put a roof on the place. But up in the tree, his slut of a mom and his shit of a dad couldn't see them, and that was good, that was really good, because he and the kid up in the tree, they could sit up there and talk, and hang out, and...and kiss...and... What was his name? Somethin', he almost had it. Billy. Benji. Something like that. He realized the man was talking, and he smiled vacantly, twirling a length of his hair around his finger, not really paying attention. Something with a B sound. What was it? Ben. Bran. Brian, maybe. No. Bob. It was Bob. Unthinking, he said it aloud. "Bob." "What?" he heard the man say.. *Please be Save me I cry* He checked his watch, realizing there was about ten minutes before the bus came. Shit, this could so easily be a pity case, and he didn't understand at *all* this upwelling of emotion inside him. He dug in his wallet for a twenty, trying to explain to the boy that he had to go, and he hoped he'd go to a shelter, get some more meat on his bones, and here, this was what he could spare. And the kid wasn't listening. He wore this odd little concentrating look on his face that was more than vaguely irritating. Finally, even Bob's calm snapped. "Are you even listening to me?" he growled softly. "Bob," the kid said. "What?" Shaking his head, he seemed to come out of whatever white-haired trance he'd been in, and smiled, blinking rapidly. "Sorry, dude. I was just remembering someone." "You said my name." "What?" And now it was the kid's turn to look stupefied. *looking for a savior in these dirty streets looking for a savior underneath these dirty sheets I've been raising up my hands drive another nail in where are those angels when you need them?* "You said my name," the man said, and Jay completely locked up. Suddenly his memories of the kid in the treehouse and the man standing before him all mixed up, and he couldn't tell who he was dealing with, and the wind got loud in his ears. And when the spell passed, he was in the man's arms, and for a moment, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. "Ooh," he said faintly, dropping an arm over the man's shoulders. "Didn't know we were back to that, baby." "We're not," the man--Bob?--said sternly. "You were going to fall down." "I was?" Bob nodded. Jay shook his head vigorously, trying to clear it. Damn, but he needed a fix. "Your name's really Bob?" he asked. The dark-haired man nodded, stepping away from him, still eyeing him with concern. "You...ever been in a treehouse?" Now it was the man's turn to look poleaxed. *why do we crucify ourselves every day I crucify myself nothing I do is good enough for you crucify myself every day I crucify myself* Okay, now he knew street people had access to some really odd substances. Either that, or this was the boy's version of a come-on, twisted as it was. For a moment, he was tempted to shrug it off-- after all, a friend he knew at the college had once booked a ballroom for the express story of having sex in the chandelier with his girlfriend--but a treehouse motif? How bizarre was that? And then it struck him. And he remembered that evening, with photographic clarity. The blond boy in the tree, sitting behind him, arms around his shoulders. They were close enough that they both could look up when they wanted to, watch the stars overhead, but the boy was too occupied with blowing warm air over the back of Bob's neck, watching him shudder with reaction. And Bob was too occupied with not breaking down, because Jay had just told him he was leaving. "...Jay?" he asked, his voice nearly inaudible. *And my heart is sick of being I said my heart is sick of being In these chains* "Holy fuck..." Jay breathed. "It's you. It's really fucking you." He nearly smiled, his eyes lighting up from the emotion anyway, and then everything went dark. "Why the fuck are you still here?" "What?" Jay shrugged, feeling unaccountably betrayed for some reason. "You were gonna leave. You were gonna go to college in New York. You were--" "I went to college here," Bob said softly. "Why?" And the man fell silent, looking away from him, looking up the road. When he finally spoke, he spoke so quietly that the grinding gears of the approaching bus nearly drowned him out. "My family wanted me in New York. I wanted to stay out of it." Then he looked up sharply, stepping close to Jay. "Come home with me." Jay stared at him, stared over his shoulder at the bus. He shrugged, wary and hurt and angry all at once, and he didn't know why. "More charity?" Insults crowded against the roof of his mouth; he fought to hold them in. "No," Bob said shortly. He swallowed, tossing his head towards the bus. "Come on." Then his voice softened, and his eyes warmed, and he half-smiled, looking at Jay. "Couple days on a couch, couple days of eating more than something you can buy with a handful of change. What can it hurt?" And Jay looked around him, realizing that everything he'd needed, really needed, was getting on that bus, and everything he could stand to leave behind was out on the sidewalk, out in some back alley, waiting for spare change. **Come on, Jay-boy. What's it gonna be?** Bob held out a hand, and he grabbed it like a lifeline, pulling onto the bus with its aid. But still, as the bus pulled away from his turf, he looked around, saddened and dismayed. It was shit out here, but it had been home for nearly a handful of years, all in all. And parting was such sweet, and all that. Shit. Now he was going to have to learn the rules all over again. *never going back again to crucify myself again never going back again to crucify myself again every day* END (Song is excerpted from "Crucify" by Tori Amos) ***** Kelandris the Mad are you drowning or waving?