build a new silhouette in the skylines up ahead
@weneedglitter Parenting!
ok so i wasn’t gonna write a new thing and then @sunsetcurvecuddles and @oldsmobile-hotdogs convinced me to write a new thing, sooooo. Read on ao3 here!
Post-Orpheum. Ray/Rose plus Bobby, can be read as romantic or platonic, whatever you want (though my wip document for this was called Parenting so do with that what you will). Featuring a lot of Puerto Rican terms of endearment cause I could.
--
Rose isn’t quite sure what wakes her. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads just after 2am. The night is dark and quiet outside her bedroom window. Next to her, Ray sleeps soundly on his stomach, snoring with his face buried in his pillow. But Rose is used to that, reaches over almost without thinking to bury a hand in his hair and gently tug his head sideways so he can breathe. It could be any night, calm and familiar, since they moved in together. It still doesn’t explain what dragged her from her dreamless sleep six hours before her alarm, or why she’s got this odd tingling feeling in the back of her mind—the kind of feeling her abuela would call her “maternal instincts” and set Rose off on a feminist rant about the oppressive expectations of motherhood on women under the age of 30–telling her that something’s wrong.
It takes her another few minutes of breathing into the silence, glancing around her room like she’s waiting for some monster to pop out of the shadows, and then something catches her ear from outside: a distant clanging sound, like metal against metal.
Her eyes widen, and Rose scrambles out of bed with a muttered curse, hurrying to the window to make sure she’s come to the right conclusion. Luckily, her bedroom overlooks the driveway connected to their little townhouse, so she barely has to flick the curtains aside to glimpse Ray’s junk-bucket van and, just visible from this distance two floors up, the legs sticking out from underneath it.
Rose sighs, one hand on the windowsill, and considers just throwing it open and shouting down for her insomniatic roommate to go the fuck to sleep. But she knows he won’t listen, and that it’ll only make him feel more guilty for inconveniencing her than he already does, so instead she turns back to the bed and crouches down to place a gentle hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder, leaning in close to murmur in his ear. “Ray? Can you wake up for me?” He groans, and a smile plays at Rose’s lips. “I know, papi chulo, but I need you to wake up, just for a minute.”
Ray grunts, but obediently rubs at his face and pushes himself up. “What’s wrong, is everything okay?” he murmurs, his voice a groggy rasp, still clearly half-asleep and yet alert with concern.
Rose’s heart tugs with so much gratitude for him. “He’s tinkering again,” is all she says.
Ray nods, rubs his hands down his face one more time, and then blinks owlishly, his gaze settling on Rose. “I’ll get the coffee, meet you out there?”
“You’re the best.”
She darts forward to kiss him and then they both reluctantly get to their feet, moving in sync, Ray tousling his already-mussed-up hair as he heads straight for the kitchen while Rose throws on a bathrobe over her pajamas and slides her feet into slippers. She pauses only to grab her keys, a bottle of water, and the bottle of Imitrex from the kitchen cabinet, kisses Ray once more on the cheek where he stands scooping Café Bustelo into the cafetiera, and hurries out the door and down the stairs into the night.
Ray’s bright orange 70s van sits up on blocks in the driveway. It broke down yesterday for about the sixth time this month when Ray was coming home from work; he had to push it the last two and a half blocks. Really, they should’ve seen this coming.
As Rose gets closer, she gets a better glimpse of the legs sticking out from under the van, loose black sweatpants and grubby sneakers, feet tapping the concrete to the beat of music Rose can just barely hear, muffled but pounding like it’s blasting through headphones. She sits on the curb and gently nudges the tapping foot with one of her own. It freezes, the music abruptly stops, there’s the unmistakable clanging of tools being tossed back into their toolbox, and then Bobby rolls out from under the car on his makeshift dolly, tugging off the headphones connected to the Walkman hooked to his waistband. He’s shirtless and almost ghostly pale in the dim streetlights, the dark circles under his eyes standing out in stark contrast as he sits up and braces his hands on the ground behind him, blinking widely up at her.
“I woke you up,” he says, voice hoarse and crackly like he’s been sick. Or crying. “I was trying to be quiet.”
This is something Rose has learned about Bobby in the last few weeks. He gives reasons, never excuses. And he never apologizes, not directly, not with words. She can’t help but wonder if this has always been true of him, or if it’s a tendency he’s only developed since that terrible night at the Orpheum.
She shakes her head, forgiving him, and holds out the water and pills she brought. He makes a face but takes them and comes over to sit next to her. “I’m fine,” he says unconvincingly, even as he cracks the water bottle open and takes a sip with a pained wince.
Rose waits until he’s popped two of the pills and drunk half the water before she lets herself relax, scooting closer with a feigned shiver (even though it’s a warm August night and she’s wearing more clothes than he is) so that she can get away with pressing into his side, offering comfort he didn’t ask for under the guise of seeking some extra warmth. “Ray’s making coffee.”
“Shit,” Bobby whispers, rubbing at his forehead. “I woke him up, too.” He doesn’t apologize, but she can tell he means to in the tightness of his jaw, the shadows on his face.
“Actually, I did.” Rose bumps her shoulder against his, making him blush and duck his head away from her gaze. “I thought you could use some company.”
Bobby shakes his head, drinks some more water, winces with every swallow. For a long time, he says nothing, and Rose doesn’t push him, just sits there next to him, ready and waiting to listen when he can find the right words to say. He frowns into the middle distance for another minute or so, then shakes his head again like he’s refusing some unwelcome thought and says, “I just couldn’t sleep. My head hurt.”
She slowly reaches a hand up, telegraphing every inch of movement, ready to stop if Bobby so much as flinches, and strokes his hair back out of his face. He tenses up at the touch and then sinks into it, a shudder running through him. He drops his head onto Rose’s shoulder and she abandons all pretense, carding her fingers through the silky strands of his hair, gently rubbing some of the tension lines out of his forehead. “Your head hurts because you don’t sleep, muñeco,” she murmurs.
Bobby raises his head just enough to shoot her an annoyed glare—he claims not to like the Spanish terms of endearment she and Ray throw around, claims he doesn’t know what they mean and therefore thinks they’re making fun of him—but there’s no real heat to it, and he returns his head to her shoulder a moment later, nuzzling in closer as she strokes his hair. “I can’t,” he says after another long silence, so quietly Rose almost doesn’t hear him. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I just can’t stop seeing them.”
Rose tugs him closer into her side, presses a kiss to the top of his head, smiles into his hair when he makes a disgruntled noise but doesn’t actively protest.
This is something else she’s learned about him. Bobby wants so badly to be touched, so badly to be cared for, so badly to be loved. But it must be given freely to him. Because he’ll never ask.
Behind them, the front door creaks open, and Rose turns her head to give Ray a tired but grateful smile as he joins them in his ratty pajamas and socked feet, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. He hands one to Rose and keeps the other for himself, then settles down on the curb on Bobby’s other side, pressing in close as he sips his coffee. Bobby sits up and frowns at him, mock-offended. “Hey, where’s mine?”
Ray shakes his head, doesn’t even look at him. “Mm-mm. You don’t get coffee until you sleep through the night. House rules, cariño.”
Bobby makes a face and turns to Rose for help. She just laughs into her own mug, shrugging unapologetically, and Bobby pouts.
“How can there be house rules when you don’t even own a house?” he grumbles, but shuffles closer, leaving Rose’s gentle hold to press his face into Ray’s shoulder. “God, I’m exhausted.”
Rose drinks her coffee and rubs soothing circles into Bobby’s back, feeling the too-thin, too-cold planes of his shoulder blades. A shudder runs through him that might be from the cold, the touch, or something else entirely. Rose meets Ray’s gaze over the boy’s head, sad and sympathetic and more worried than either of them has any right to be at 21 and 23. They may be older than Bobby, but they’re practically still kids themselves, and yet somehow in the last month they’ve taken this frail, broken boy under their wing, and sometimes they don’t know how to help him, don’t know if they can, but other times, like this, just being there for him is enough.
“They would’ve liked you,” Bobby says into Ray’s shirt sleeve, tensing under Rose’s hand. He doesn’t specify whom he means, and he doesn’t have to. Rose will never forget their names, even if she only heard them once, couldn’t even bear to read the article about them after that damn reporter tried to track Bobby down for a comment. Luke. Reggie. Alex. Bobby’s band. Bobby’s boys.
“If they loved you, nene, then I’m sure we would’ve liked them, too,” Ray says softly. This is what Rose loves most about him, these moments when she doesn’t know what to say, how to soothe, but he does, always. She’s so grateful for him, her sweet Ray who never met Sunset Curve, never knew Bobby before he was broken, not even for the hour that Rose did, and welcomed him into their lives anyway, didn’t question or complain for a second when Rose said, Meet me at the hospital. He can’t go back there. Please, mi corazón, can’t we help him?
Bobby shudders again, and Rose thinks he might be crying, but he makes no sound as he slumps forward, arms around Ray’s waist, face buried in Ray’s chest. Ray startles just the slightest amount, lifting his coffee cup out of the way so that it won’t spill, and then slowly lowers his arms to cautiously wrap around the boy. Rose reaches over and takes his mug for him, places them both on the curb next to her, and leans in to join the hug, pressing her lips to Bobby’s bare shoulder and whispering senseless reassurances into his skin.
Later, Ray carries a sleeping Bobby back into the house and lays him down in Ray and Rose’s bed, and they climb in on either side of him and hold him close as he gets his first full night’s sleep since the 22nd of July.
In the morning, Bobby shuffles into the kitchen bleary-eyed and squinty, moving slowly like he always does when he’s coming down from a migraine and doesn’t want to risk making it flare up again. Rose nudges him until he agrees to eat some breakfast, and Ray places a mug of fresh Cuban coffee in front of him with a kiss to his forehead and a whispered, “You earned it, bonbón.” Bobby doesn’t thank them, but he doesn’t need to.
“I’ll finish fixing the van today, Ray,” he promises once he’s finished eating. “And Rose, I noticed some of your guitars need re-stringing, if you want me to take a look.”
Rose exchanges a sort of fondly exasperated look with Ray across the table and strokes Bobby’s hair out of his face. “We already told you, Bobby. You don’t need to earn your keep. You just focus on getting better, and let us take care of you, okay?”
He blushes, ducks his head, but nods and mutters, “Yeah, sure, okay.”
Ray reaches a hand out across the table, palm up, pointer finger extended. Rose grins and links her finger with his, then nudges Bobby’s shoulder. He looks up, confused, and then his face relaxes in understanding and he manages something almost approaching a smile as he reaches out and taps his index finger against theirs, not quite joining Ray’s little handshake but not refusing it either. It’s good enough.
As they sit there, the three of them, Ray and Rose forcing water and painkillers on Bobby and giving him judgmental looks when he pours a second cup of coffee, Rose wonders if this is what parenting will feel like, when someday (in the very distant future, Abuela) she and Ray are ready to have kids (because there is no doubt in her mind that she will marry this man). They’re not Bobby’s parents—not even close—but she thinks he might be good practice for them anyway. In late nights and little sleep. In how to work their lives around someone else’s wants and needs. In caring for someone with so much of your heart you hurt when they do.
She thinks they’re doing a pretty damn good job at it, too.
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