bob can’t remember if anyone won that time, because they were both panting when mikey leaned his shoulder into bob’s side, one knee balanced on the ground beside them. it was just the way mikey lets his hair fall in his face, the way bob keeps his fingers wrapped around mikey’s arm so they don’t start rolling around again. mikey’s had his hips right against bob’s when he tries to grab the controller, but that’s not when bob’s thinking about them. he’s huddled on the balcony of his apartment right now, shoulders raised against the rain. cheap cigarettes in hand, he kind of looks out over the street and everything feels cold. the sleeves on his sweater are soaked through, but he’s still out there pretending to smoke because that’s what he does. three minutes from now the alarm on his cell phone’s going to go off and he’s going to go hang out with the guys and not think about mikey. it’s not like he tries, but bob thinks about it sometimes when mikey turns his way on stage, when bob hits that point where he can look up, for just a second, and it’s all about hips from there. sometimes, when it’s late and night and bob can hear someone typing next to his face, or the vibration of a phone through the curtains on his bunk, bob catches himself thinking about fingers or collarbones, but it’s usually not. it’s mikey in general, and bob kind of wishes it wasn’t raining so his cigarette wasn’t wet.