Work Text:
The neon hum of *Galaga* drowns out everything—Bart’s third soda going flat, the sticky floor under his scuffed work boots, even the twinge in his right shoulder from yesterday’s controlled implosion. His thumbs ache against the joystick. Twenty-seven years old and he’s still chasing that fuckin’ high score like it’s 1989.
Then—cool fingers curl around his wrist, pulling his hand from the controls with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor lifting a skull.
“Robert, what the hell—”
Bob doesn’t answer. He turns Bart’s hand over, pressing his lips to the scarred knuckles first, slow as a pardon. Bart’s breath snags. Bob’s mouth is warm, deliberate, trailing up to the tender dip between his fingers while the arcade’s pixelated explosions paint them both in candy-colored light.
“Agony,” Bob murmurs against Bart’s palm, "watching you waste your brilliance on this urine-soaked grease trap." His teeth graze Bart’s pulse point.
Bart’s knees nearly give. The joystick clatters between them, forgotten.