Work Text:
Bobby wears suits. Not jeans or sweats or tank tops. Always suits, pressed and cleaned. Smart shoes on his feet, hair pulled back into a tight knot. He wears trunks in the ring and shorts when he works out. Muted colours that don't draw attention, like his favourite grey t-shirt and unremarkable sneakers. He fades into the background again and again, unnoticed next to other guys with bigger muscles or brighter clothes. Neat and tidy and easily lost in the crowd.
It's something James doesn't quite understand. Like a puzzle he can't work out. James doesn't wear suits. He's got jeans so worn that they're mostly made of holes, though. He's got sweaters and sweatshirts, t-shirts covered with oil and dirt that he still wears because he can't see any reason not to. He's got boots in three different colours, all worn and wonderfully comfortable. He's got a whole wall full of cowboy hats and he really doesn't care what his hair looks like, so long as it's not in his face. James stands out.
Bobby is quiet too. Every word measured so he doesn't fumble over his own tongue. He rarely talks just for the joy of hearing his own voice. He doesn't waste his words and he only ever shouts when he's in front of the camera. James, though, James talks and talks. He fills the silence with a voice that's roughened by too many beers and too much smoke and maybe more bar fights than he should ever have had. James shouts and bellows because he likes people to know he's there.
When they're travelling in daylight, James plays Willy Nelson as obnoxiously loud as he plays Metallica. Iron Maiden acts as a whiskey chaser to Creedence Clearwater Revival. Metal and country mix together in the strangest of ways, and James wails loudly with each track, hands banging off the steering wheel, leg bouncing to the rhythm. He smiles and lets his whole body flow to the music.
When they're travelling at night, Bobby plays blues. Robert Johnson bleeds into Tabby Thomas. Junior Wells shifts into Katie Webster. Voices and rhythms change; slow to upbeat, dark to light, melancholy to relaxing, and through it all, Bobby sings. Soft voice never intruding on a song, never drowning out an artist, only there as an accompaniment. His hands stay still, and he only moves when he changes gear.
When they rest, James sleeps likes he lives. There's movement and noise, half muttered conversations and breathless laughs fall from his mouth as he dreams. The blankets twist around him when he shifts, the pillows get dragged and beaten as he moves from back to side to belly. He snores loudly and doesn't care.
Bobby sleeps like he lives, too, quiet and still. He doesn't move, doesn't snore. He wakes up in the same position that he fell asleep in, and he climbs out of bed when his alarm goes off. James always hits the snooze button.
At work, Bobby memorises his promos almost as soon as he gets them. He knows when he's supposed to shout, when he should smile, when he should scowl. Bobby works at his promos as much as he works at his matches. Things are catalogued and sorted into manageable chunks before they're repackaged into a whole that Bobby can enjoy.
James mostly thinks of his promos as guidelines. Vague ones at that. He gets the gist down, between insults and gay jokes and beer and his own amusement. He wrestles like he's having fun, one short breath away from laughing until his ribs ache.
Bobby tries to go unnoticed outside of the ring, he avoids fan-heavy places. He has drinks in small, quiet bars - just a few people to talk with, unobtrusive music in the background - while James goes to the loudest bar with the most people. James draws a crowd easily, people shouting and laughing, vying for his attention. He dances and drinks and becomes the only person in the room worth knowing.
When they're alone, Bobby kisses James soft and slow. He languishes. Not because he's overtly romantic, but because he likes to feel. Lips and skin and hands. The thud of a heartbeat, his or James', it doesn't matter.
But James kisses Bobby like he's been starved. Raw passion ripping and tearing at him, trying to overflow into the warm body in his arms. He pulls and grasps and nips like he's trying to crawl inside Bobby's skin.
Bobby fucks like it'll last forever. Long slow strokes that make James shout and curse. He mouths James' skin, butterfly kisses leaving trails of goosebumps, hands on James' hips or wrists or legs. He ignores the whines and keen of faster, harder coming from underneath him, keeping the same steady pace until James forgets his own name and only remembers Bobby's.
James fucks like it's all he's got. Sharp snaps of his hips, thrusting deeper and harder, fingers gripping tight enough to leave bruises. He grabs handfuls of Bobby's hair, pulling until Bobby's neck is exposed so he can bite at the vulnerable flesh. He sucks at Bobby's skin until it's dotted with hickeys. James doesn't care if Bobby forgets his own name, he'll remember James' when he looks in the mirror.
Neither of them say I love you, because the ebb and flow of their incompatibility doesn't matter. It never has.