–

Frank is going to do this shit. Listening to Tommy lay out the game plan, it sounds easy. Like the falling off a fucking bridge kind of easy. Everything except the part where he finally puts his tongue in Gerard’s mouth.

“Trust me,” Tommy says, slapping a hand down on Frank’s leg to make it quit jiggling. They’re sitting on the edge of Frank’s bed, waiting for Adam to get out of the bathroom. Adam, Tommy’s boyfriend. The boyfriend who actually blew Tommy right here yesterday, on this bed, in front of Frank’s face, the same one who let Tommy make out with Frank, the one who seemed to really fucking like it. So much that Adam came all over the both of them. If that wasn’t his one-hundred percent endorsement of the Frank-and-Tommy makeout session, Frank doesn’t have a fucking clue what is.

“Holy fuck,” Frank says, freezing. “We had sex.”

“If you’re only getting that now, probably it could’ve been better,” Tommy says, mouth twisted wryly.

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank says reflexively. He spends enough time defending Gerard from that sort of self-depreciating shit. “You know it was fucking awesome.”

Tommy shrugs. His hand is warm on Frank’s thigh, making the skin beneath tingle. “I’ve only done stuff with Adam. Maybe he’s got some weird kinky preferences that I don’t know are weird kinky preferences, and the way I fuck would freak anybody else out.”

“Well, maybe I’m freaky too,” Frank says, puffing his chest out. Because he could be, how the fuck is he supposed to know? There’s got to be something freaky in him for wanting to crawl all over Gerard three days post-shower, when Gee smells like hair and booze and sweat. He likes the smell of Gerard’s sweat, warm and musky-thick. But there was that one time Gerard started leaning more towards the sour kind of stinky, when Frank pointedly shoved a towel in his face and he dutifully trudged off to get clean, so maybe Frank’s not all that freaky. Semi-freaky. Freak-lite.

Tommy, though. Tommy is definitely freaky. Tommy’s got a steady guy more than willing to roll around doing dirty shit to him, and he still wanted to get all up in Frank’s deal. Wants to, even, present tense, if the way he’s looking at Frank right now is anything to go by. Frank flicks a glance at the closed door. Tommy shrugs, the crook of his mouth slanting into an invitation.

“Fucking seriously?” Frank asks, nervously wetting his lips. Macking on Tommy while Adam’s fucking shaving or shitting or whatever can’t be kosher. There’s putting on a show for your guy, and then there’s this.

Tommy says, “Practice makes perfect,” and hauls one leg up onto the bed, turned so he’s facing Frank. “Gotta make sure you can keep up.”

“I can fucking keep up.” Probably. Frank’s got a lifetime of getting absolutely zero action behind him. What he’s lacking in finesse and technique, he’s definitely got to make up in pure desperation. “You wanna fucking throw down, right here?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, tauntingly, maybe kinda hopeful. “Yeah, fuck, bring it, Jersey boy.”

Frank fucking brings it. He brings it so hard and fast Tommy goes tumbling down backwards, teeth banging off Frank’s, scoring his lip, and Tommy’s hands fly up, tangling in Frank’s hair. Which, yeah, okay, Frank really kinda likes. And anyway, Tommy better fucking hold on, because this shit is about to get real. Real like Frank’s tongue in his trash-talking mouth, oh yeah.

“Mmph,” Tommy says, half-giggle, half-moan. Like Frank said, the power of pure fucking desperation. The inside of Tommy’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes a little like Coke and a little like the veggie sandwich he bitched about eating for lunch but totally loved. He’s also trying to, like, take over Frank’s deal here, pushing at Frank’s head and twisting to change the angle. Frank totally paid attention to all the making out that happened yesterday, though, and he knows that shit’s not on. The second time Tommy messes up the really deliberate lick Frank’s trying to give the inside of his bottom lip, Frank slides a hand up, fitting it carefully to Tommy’s throat. Tommy sucks in a startled breath, mouth going nicely wide, and Frank hums and wiggles happily, diving back in. Who knew kissing was so fucking good?

“You couldn’t wait five minutes,” Adam says from the doorway.

Frank’s head flies up. He’s pinning Tommy down, his mouth wet with Tommy’s spit, and boom, all avenging angel like, there is the dude’s fucking boyfriend. Except all the paintings of avenging angels Frank’s seen are total rage-filled apocalyptic deals. Adam just looks wry. And kinda turned on, maybe, a little.

“Sorry,” Frank says, wiping the back of his hand across his face. “I, uh. Shit.”

“Not you,” Adam says. “Him.”

“I so waited five minutes,” Tommy says, still holding onto Frank’s hips, which, wow. When did his hands get all the way down there? “I waited, like, fifteen, princess. Why’d you do your hair when Gerard’s gonna mess it all up again?”

Somehow, Frank’s traitorous brain bypasses the logical conclusion to that statement–the part where Gee’s gonna dye Adam’s hair black for him–and skips right on over to Gerard messing Adam up. Like, hands in Adam’s hair, eating his face off starting with his mouth kind of messing up. And he’s so not talking Zombie Gerard here, even though Zombie Gerard is the coolest fucking shit ever. Maybe Frank’s not so freak-lite after all, since his best friend turning up undead wouldn’t kill the boner Frank’s got for him.

“I haven’t met Gerard yet!” Adam says, fussing with an unruly spike. It kinda all looks like unruly spikes to Frank, but then, Frank is an au natural kinda guy, product-free. Probably helps that his hair looks damn fine doing its own thing.

“You’re totally hot,” Frank says, because once you’ve seen a guy’s dick, and made out with his boyfriend, it kinda seems like the right thing to do. “And you’re into Ziggy, Gee’s gonna love you.”

Adam beams, like the idea of Gerard Way being into him is the best thing that’s happened to him all week. Frank tries to smile back as he clambers off Tommy and the bed. There’s a chance, a chance way bigger than he wants to think about, that this is not going to go as awesomely as planned. Gerard isn’t really great with new people, even new people with awesome taste in music, and here Frank is, about to launch an ambush in his basement sanctuary. Gerard’s never gotten mad at him before, not even that time he was being a stupid shit and stepped on Gerard’s fucking pristine The Roaring Silence vinyl, snapping it clean in two. Gerard was upset, yeah, disappointed, but not mad, and even said it was okay when Frank sat down on the floor cradling the jagged pieces and fucking cried for ten straight minutes.

Maybe Frank should call to give Gee some warning. But then he’ll say no, Frank’s sure of it. Not an outright no, but he’d rather not and maybe some other time and excuses, excuses, excuses. So Frank’s not gonna call him, and if Gerard gets mad, then, like. Frank doesn’t know, but Tommy’ll back him up somehow, and Adam’s totally got Tommy’s back, and yeah. It’ll be fucking fine.

The cramped drugstore on the corner doesn’t carry much, but it’s got black hair dye and smokes, so it’s like Gerard’s favourite place on the entire planet, aside from his basement. Walking in there, the bell tinkling merrily, makes Frank think of him every single time. To be fair, most shit around town reminds Frank of Gerard–the alley behind the Stop & Shop, where Frank totally faceplanted straight off his bike last summer, bashing his head so hard Gerard actually had to pick him up ’cause his legs wouldn’t move; the corner where Mikey waits every morning for Gerard to duck into the cafe and get two extra-extra large coffees to go, so Mikey can keep texting whoever the fuck he’s always texting; the set of lights a block north where Gerard waits for Frank in the afternoon after school, because Gee and Mikey are lucky shits who go to public, but Frank’s life fucking sucks and he’s stuck up on the hill in Catholic hell.

“Wow,” Tommy says, watching Frank clutch a box of L’Oreal Black like a total freakazoid. “You got it bad.”

Frank hangs his head. “I know,” he says to the dirty linoleum. No point lying about it. He probably has it even worse than Tommy thinks. Sometimes Gerard’s right there next to him doing, like, fucking nothing, and he’s so turned on he can’t even fucking talk when Gerard asks him the most random questions. He jerks off thinking about Gerard’s fucking fingernails, okay? Gerard’s got these long fingers, fucking artist’s hands, and the nails are always chewed to the quick and painted in flaky black polish and Frank thinks about licking them, giving them a little nibble of his own, and he comes in three second flat every fucking time. The days when Gerard draws on him, mapping out the sweet tats Frank’s so going to get as soon as he’s got the cash–and a permission slip from his dad–are the best worst days of Frank’s life, because Gerard’s hands are all fucking over him.

Except, like, not all over him. If they were all over him, Frank wouldn’t be here right now, with a crazy bleach-blond Cali boy hanging off him plotting the world’s clumsiest seduction.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Frank mumbles, handing the box of hair dye off to Adam so they can pay for this shit and get out of here.

Tommy says, “You’re pretty,” like it’s a real zinger.

“I’m not the one wearing pink lipstick,” Frank points out. Which, like, in fucking Jersey, man. Frank’s a known scrapper, despite never winning a fight in his whole fucking life, and Adam’s big enough most guys probably wouldn’t wanna really tangle with him, but Frank’s seriously doubting their chances of making it the five and a half blocks to Gerard’s place without some shit going down.

Tommy’s gaze slides down to fix on Frank’s mouth. “You’re not,” he agrees, and before Frank can blink, or like, breathe, darts in to smear his lips over Frank’s, turning them slick and bubblegum-pink.

“What the fuck,” Frank slurs, the inside of his lip stinging where Tommy mashed it earlier, and his whole body buzzing all of a sudden, like it thinks the middle of aisle three is a totally appropriate place to pop wood. Frank’s licking his lips without making the conscious decision to go for it. “Jesus, even tastes like fucking candy.”

“Me or the lipgloss?” Tommy asks, eyebrow arched, actually for real pouting at him. Sexy pouting, even, and how the fuck does that even work? Like, his lips aren’t all pouched out the way Frank’s seen Beverley Winters try when Mikey’s within scenting distance, and it doesn’t even look like Tommy’s really doing anything with his face, except it’s like, out of nowhere there are twenty-three invisible neon signs pointing at Tommy’s mouth, sort of a fucked up dog whistle thing, only tuned to Frank’s dick.

And yeah, Tommy totally just kissed him in the middle of the fucking drugstore. Where they could get their asses fucking pummelled.

“You are a fucking tease,” Frank says, all hot under the collar, and fucking hot and bothered, too. Gerard’s kinda girly sometimes, sassy, and Tommy’s kinda like that, only kinda really seriously not. Gee wouldn’t stand there with a hip cocked out fucking sexy pouting at him while holding his hand.

Frank blinks. Wow, he really wishes Gerard would.

“C’mon, stud,” Tommy says, shoving a shoulder into Frank’s to get him moving. “You know I’ll put out.”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re fucking easy,” Frank says, and glances around, trying to figure out where the fuck Adam’s disappeared to. Adam totally wasn’t lying when he said Tommy needs wrangling. Sometimes Frank’s pretty sure Gerard says the same thing about him–hopefully all fond and exasperated like Adam said it–but he’s just a menace to general health and safety. Tommy’s the pervert miming jerking off Frank’s fingers, probably giving Mrs. Henderson by the dairy cooler hives.

Not that Frank’s gonna make him stop any time soon. Frank gives her a wink and a wave of his free hand as they stroll out the door.

“Really?” Adam says, his gaze on Frank’s mouth as they step out into the bright sunlight.

“Practice makes perfect,” Tommy says lazily, still holding Frank’s hand hostage.

Introducing Gerard to Adam and Tommy goes slightly better than Frank had dared to hope. The fifth of bourbon Gee clutched to his chest the entire time is probably more to thank for that than the please sex me up please please vibes Frank’s beaming at him, since those vibes haven’t been getting Frank any action for weeks now. Or maybe Tommy’s onto something with the lipgloss/eyeliner combo. Gerard likes eyeliner.

As they trudge up the stairs from Gerard’s room on their way to the bathroom, Gerard leading the way with the rest of them a bizarre trail of punk ducklings tagging along behind, Tommy’s smug satisfaction radiates against Frank’s back. Frank ignores it, and ignores it, and finally, when Gerard and Adam take the corner down the long hall leading to the bathroom, he turns around and whispers, “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything,” Tommy says easily. He totally doesn’t have to. The giant grin plastered across his face says it all, and a little extra.

“I’m just saying,” Frank says voice tight and low, because the bathroom seriously isn’t that far away, “don’t fucking say it.”

Tommy’s eyebrows go up. “This would be a whole lot easier if you fucking would already.”

Grabbing onto Tommy’s shoulder, Frank gives him a little shake and yanks him in close to hiss, “Gee spooks.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says slowly, “the idea of making out with you is terrifying. I totally get why he’d rabbit.”

Frank mutters, “Asshole,” and gnaws furiously on his lip, the cut’s sharp sting not clearing his head at all. He’s so nervous, he’s actually jittering. He can feel it, all the way down to his toes, every last nerve he’s got doing a fancy little samba and screwing up his stomach. Gerard’s used to a lot of gross shit, but no way is puking on the guy sexy. Though Frank’s pretty sure he’s tossed his drunk-ass cookies around Gerard before, especially with the type of vile cheap booze Gerard gets his hands on, but not in his like, his fucking lap. Which Frank is seriously this fucking close to doing.

Getting a good look at Frank’s face, Tommy says, “Fuck.” And then he invents the greatest fucking cure for an anxiety-induced nausea ever by sticking his tongue in Frank’s mouth.

Frank tries to say, “Motherfucker,” to get his feelings about this rapid change of events across, and to totally one-up Tommy’s piddly little cuss, but it comes out as a garbled moan. No wonder Adam’s so fucking happy all the time, dating a dude prone to sexing him up every five seconds. Tommy’s been in Frank’s life for all of two days and he’s got the urge to run down the road clicking his heels together bestowing nickels upon poor starving street urchins. Except for how then he’d have to get Tommy to stop sucking on his tongue, and that’s a travesty he’s not gonna commit.

And like, Tommy is sucking on his tongue. How the fuck was Frank supposed to know that’s something people actually do? Fingers and dicks and tits and clits–yeah, Frank’s seen lots of porn–but tongue. It’s fucking amazing. He’s got to get better quality skinflicks, holy shit.

Frank makes a noise that’s way, way too loud for a hall less than fifteen feet away from where Mrs. Way is watching soaps and painting her nails and smoking her way through a pack of Marlboros. Three seconds later, Tommy makes one that’s even louder. Jesus Christ, Gerard is gonna poke his head around the corner any second now to figure out what the fuck they’re doing out here and then Gerard’s gonna, like, fuck.

“He’s gonna want in on it,” Tommy says, damp lips brushing Frank’s. “Get all up in your business so fast you’ll nut your shorts again.”

Frank grates, “Rather nut on him,” as Tommy shifts against him, sharp hip pressed snugly against his dick. He gets hit with this bright, unreal image of Gerard trapped between him and the wall like this, how Gee’s taller so it’d be his thigh Frank ended up riding. Letting out a ragged groan, Frank lets his forehead rest on Tommy’s collarbone, his hands gripping Tommy’s waist so tight his shirt is all twisted up sideways. There’s a sliver of bare skin right there Frank wants to lick. “Shit. Shit.”

“Quit worrying,” Tommy says, and gives the back of his neck a quick, comforting squeeze.

“M’not fucking worried,” Frank lies. “I’m horny.”

“Gonna do something about that soon, too.” Nudging Frank back a step, Tommy tugs his shirt down and fluffs up his hair, combing it out of his eyes so it can tumble right back over them again. Frank stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing two fistfuls of it like he wants to so fucking bad, but that makes him think about grabbing Gerard’s hair, and if Gerard would maybe be into it like Tommy is, and then he ends up groaning and slumping dejectedly against Tommy because he’s got two dudes totally willing to sex him up but his life is still a fucking wasteland of unrequited horniness.

“Seriously,” Tommy says, shoving him off again. He stumbles dramatically, but Tommy’s a douche who only grins at him when he thumps into the opposite wall. Gerard totally would’ve caught him. “Quit fucking worrying. But keep doing that tongue thing, that was awesome.”

Frank’s head snaps up. He did a tongue thing? “What?”

“Awesome,” Tommy repeats, and gives Frank a pat on the shoulder as he walks away, like Frank’s looking for moral support here when he needs fucking logistics.

Frank pushes off the wall, tripping over his laces as he whisper-shouts, “What tongue thing? Tommy? Shit.”

While Gerard fusses with getting the hair dye ready for Adam, who’s sitting on the edge of the tub beaming his head off, Frank hops up on the counter beside Tommy. Adam’s smile gets wider, kinda slanted, sending heat crawling up the back of Frank’s neck. He twists around quickly to check that he got rid of all of Tommy’s smeared lipgloss.

Tommy scrunches his eyebrows together and says, “Aw,” under his breath, watching Frank scrub at his mouth with the back of one wrist.

Levelling a finger at him, Frank says, “Shut up.”

“So, uh,” Gerard says, flinging Frank a weird look before he turns back to Adam, “you know you could’ve just said.” He fusses some more with towels and gloves and shit that Frank never pays attention to, because Frank’s never dyed his own hair since he’s got Gerard around to do it for him, and Gerard won’t let Frank near him with anything more permanent than a child-safe Crayola marker. “That you needed a make-out spot, I mean.”

Behind Gerard’s back, Tommy widens his eyes at Adam and nods furiously. Frank’s still bitter about the whole tongue thing out in the hallway, where Tommy didn’t give him some fucking direction and cuts in, saying, “They don’t need a make-out spot,” totally, like, shooting himself in the foot here, because he needs a make-out spot.

Tommy elbows him viciously in the side, and dude’s got seriously pointy elbows, shit. With a grunt, Frank collapses over his ribs so Tommy can’t damage a fucking organ, and grins the biggest, most obnoxious shit-eating grin he’s got in his arsenal. It’s pretty impressive.

Gerard flings another one of those weird looks Frank’s way, shoulders hunched and creeping up to his ears. Frank realises he’s being a total shit friend here, siccing new dudes on him and then, like, giving him no fucking backup at all. Switching his grin over to something less psycho, Frank gives him a thumbs-up.

Gerard smiles, this tiny, shyly grateful thing, and Frank’s insides flutter. It’s just, Gerard’s got these eyes, okay? Kinda big and round and total windows to the soul type deal, and fuck, Frank is in total love with Gerard’s soul. And his tiny crooked smiles and his even tinier crooked teeth and his stupid lanky hair.

And Gerard, stupid, stupid Gerard, is totally oblivious. He turns that awesome shy smile on Adam, who probably totally appreciates it, ’cause it’s a great smile, but no way does anybody appreciate it as much as Frank does, okay, and asks, “Ready?”

“Ready!” Adam says, spine snapping straight, his hand on Gerard’s thigh like he thinks he’s got to keep the guy from bolting. Which, actually, is a really smart move on Adam’s part. Gee’s totally a rabbiter. The first time Frank followed him and Mikey home from school–casually, just like, Hey, I’m walking in the same direction, cool, not, Hey, I’m totally stalking you (Frank was totally stalking him)–Frank thought he was gonna have a freaking heart attack right there in the middle of the street. “So ready, you have no idea.”

“You’re bouncing,” Tommy says, slumping sideways against the mirror so he’s got to conspicuously prop an arm on Frank’s thigh to keep from sliding into the sink. “I think he’s got an idea.”

Gerard lets out a huff, which to anybody else would sound like a sigh but Frank knows that huff, that’s totally a grudging I’m-having-fun sound, and says, “Stay still, please,” before he buckles down all seriously, concentrating on rubbing dye through Adam’s hair like it’s the Mona Lisa he’s trying to recreate. Frank’s totally caught up in watching Gee gnaw on the inside of his lip, so he doesn’t notice Tommy nudging him until it gets really insistent. And by like, insistent, Frank means Tommy is poking his junk.

“The fuck,” Frank breeathes dumbly, staring down at Tommy’s elbow in his lap. Tommy cocks an eyebrow and gives him a little rub, then jerks his chin in Gerard’s direction. Frank’s forehead scrunches, all, What?

Tommy jerks his chin harder and roll his eyes when Frank still doesn’t get it. He sits up a bit, moving his forearm away from Frank’s dick, and totally mimes grabbing Gerard’s ass. But not a totally sleazy grab–though okay, Gerard’s back being turned makes it sleazy automatically–but like Tommy’s suggesting it would be really, really nice to put your hands right there while you’re making out with the guy. Frank isn’t sure at all how he got all that out of a few hand gestures and a waggled eyebrow, but there it is.

Gaze stuck on Gerard’s ass, Frank nods slowly. Dude’s got a point. That would be really nice.

Grinning, Tommy slumps back down, his arm hooked not at all innocently over Frank’s leg. If this shit keeps up, Frank’s gonna develop an elbow fetish, and then, if he fucking ever gets his hands on Gerard for real, he’s gonna have to figure out a way to explain to Gee that a handjob would be so much better if it involved, literally, more elbow grease. Christ.

“I’m so blowing you after this,” Tommy says, out of fucking nowhere. Frank stares down at his fluffy hair, wide-eyed. Because fuck yeah, blowjobs. But that wasn’t in the plan. Frank’s willing to work on the fly here, but he also sorta thought the whole point was to get Gerard on his dick, or him on Gerard’s dick, or best case scenario, both, and everything else is gravy.

Gerard makes a weird noise, high-pitched and choked off, but keeps combing dye through Adam’s hair like he’s completely unaware he just fucking squeaked. Frank’s stare hops from the sliver of Tommy’s face he can see through bits of blond to Adam, then to Adam’s hand on Gerard’s thigh. His thigh.

“He played Dracula at school once, it was so fucking hot,” Tommy says casually, like he’s not watching his boyfriend ninja grope somebody, and like he’s not doing the same fucking thing, Jesus Christ, his fingers are skimming up Frank’s inseam to brush his balls while he’s talking about blowing his boyfriend but that was totally suggesting he’d like to blow Frank too, and oh my fucking god. “They sprayed his hair black and gave him fangs.”

Sounding like somebody took a grater to his throat, Frank asks, “Did you get to keep them?”

Adam says, “Yeah,” his eyes closed, and swaying a bit as Gerard goes for a full-on scalp massage, like if Gerard puts all his focus into making sure every single strand of hair on Adam’s head is dyed, then nobody’ll notice that he’s staring down at Adam gripping his leg.

Still completely casual, Tommy says, “He likes to bite me with them,” and flips his hand over, palm curved tight and hot over Frank’s junk.

Frank’s whole body seizes up. Tommy gives him a grin and a squeeze, sending blood rushing south. He goes from half-hard to full-on boner so fast his zipper pinches. “Dude,” he wheezes. Tommy’s hand is on his dick. On his motherfucking dick. Maybe yesterday he was totally grinding it against Tommy’s ass, which was the most awesome thing to happen to him since Tommy fucking kissed him right there on his own bed, but this is, like, halfway to a handjob, squeezing and stroking and the fucker is totally going to make him nut his shorts again.

“Stop trying to traumatise them with our sex life, Tommy,” Adam says firmly, his gaze on Frank’s lap. Oh, shit, he’s totally watching his boyfriend semi jerk Frank off. Frank is going to die.

Not caring one bit about how Frank’s heart is trying to break through his ribs, but apparently totally into how his dick is trying to bust out of his jeans, Tommy says, “Frank likes it.”

Frank chokes on his tongue a little. “Frank is, like, Zero Action Man,” he says, sneakily trying to spread his legs a bit more without anybody noticing, especially Tommy, because if there ever was a dude who needed no encouragement, it’s him. “He’ll take what he can get.”

“That’s a terrible superpower,” Gerard grumbles.

Adam says, “Unless you’re a Republican,” his thumb tracing tiny circles above Gee’s kneecap.

“Man.” Frank slumps back heavily against the mirror, making all the shit strewn across the countertop clatter. How the fuck is Gerard not noticing what’s going on here? No wonder they haven’t progressed to sexing it up yet, Gerard is so oblivious it hurts. “The Republican. There’s a fucking terrifying supervillian.”

“He’d boycott tights,” Tommy says, scraping his nail over Frank’s fly, making Frank’s legs jerk. His heel bangs off the cupboard. Gerard potters on, still fucking oblivious.

“Badly-tailored, decade-out-of-style power suits all the way,” Adam agrees.

Scooting up, Tommy moves his hand back down Frank’s thigh. Frank blinks, stunned. That shit was getting good, what the fuck. Then there’s this thing that happens next, with Adam’s hair twisted up into a cupcake swirl (Frank totally didn’t think Gerard would go for it, even with both him and Tommy egging him on, but either Gerard really likes Adam or he figures there are too many witnesses for Adam to bother trying to murder him–like Adam could murder anything aside from Frank’s mom’s tub of French Silk ice cream). And then there’s a bit where Gerard gropes around looking for a toothbrush to dye Adam’s eyebrows with, which Frank helpfully scoops up off the counter to offer up, but he’s gonna be honest here. He’s so not paying attention. His mouth is moving, and words are coming out of it, but all he’s really thinking about is Tommy’s hand resting heavy and hot on his thigh, whole inches away from his dick, and how he wants it back where it was, and how there must be a way to get it there short of picking it up and putting it where he wants it.

Tipping his head back, Tommy gives Frank the fucking sauciest grin Franks’ ever seen. Totally unrepentant, and lewd, holy shit, and then Tommy’s miming a blowjob, complete with his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. Which is corny, and stupid, and so nails Frank right in the dick.

“I’d get it all over my face,” Frank says viciously, watching Gerard carefully comb dye into Adam’s brows and hoping that look on Tommy’s face means he just got a visceral punch to the nuts too, the fucker. “Gee’s an artist, though.”

“Yeah, lotsa practice, right?” Tommy says, eager and fucking evil. “You showed us the tattoos he designed for you. Dude, that is gonna be so cool.”

“Fuck,” Frank spits. Fucking tattoos. Gerard’s fucking hands, drawing. On Frank. Even if tats are the absolute shit, that is so not what he wants to be talking about right now. Or doing. Or like, anything that isn’t mauling the fuck out of the cockteasing shithead slumped against him. There is no way he’s gonna be able to keep from launching himself at Gerard and clinging like a horny burr if he doesn’t get the hell out of here. He jumps off the counter, almost almost knocking the toothbrush out of Gerard’s hand. Gerard’s used to him flailing around like a total moron, though, and compensates pretty smoothly. “I was gonna show you that comic! Gee, can I show Tommy your shit?”

“Sure,” Gerard says, obliviously.

Frank scrambles out of the bathroom and bangs his shoulder off the doorframe. In the hall, at the distinct lack of footsteps behind him, he stops abruptly. What the fucking fuck. That was totally code. Like, Tommy’s sorta in the middle of teaching him this whole kissing thing, in the interests of bagging Gerard–and getting off, that too–and of course he needs to practice blowing Gerard as well as sticking his tongue down his throat. No way is Gerard gonna be able to turn him down if he’s good with his mouth everywhere.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Tommy says happily, finally making an appearance.

“Me?” Frank grunts. He gestures emphatically at his really fucking hard dick, thank you very fucking much. “You!”

Tommy’s eyes go dark, heavy. Wow. That right there is sex face. Sex is about to happen. “Yeah,” he says, and fucking grabs onto Frank’s crotch to tug him towards the stairs, “me.”

“Okay,” Frank says, turning around at the base of the stairs to face Tommy as he trots down the last few. Gerard’s room is nicely familiar, which sorta makes what’s about to happen in it even more exciting, because, okay, Gerard. Even when the guy’s upstairs getting seduced by somebody else’s boyfriend, Frank is so into him. But Tommy and him, right here, right now, they’re gonna do this. Frank’s got a lot of shit to learn. Fancy shit. Gerard’ll totally appreciate his room being hijacked for such lofty goals.

Grinning like a fiend, an actual demonic fiend, Tommy moves in close, his hands tugging at Frank’s belt. “Step one,” he says, and gives a rough yank. “Take off your fucking clothes.”

Stomach swooping like he’s in free-fall, Frank grabs onto Tommy’s shoulders for balance and pushes back a bit so he can see where Tommy’s hand is shoving into his open fly. “Shit,” he gasps, breath sucked in as knuckles brush his belly. “Shit, shit, fuck.”

Biting at the corner of his lip through that wicked grin and looking up through his lashes, Tommy wraps his hand firmly around Frank’s dick. Frank’s dick is no stranger to a hand or two. In fact, Frank would have to say his dick is downright intimate with both Mr Right and Mr Left, but holy fuck, when it’s somebody else’s hand he’s getting cosy with, it is really fucking different. Tommy gently thumbs at the ridge, still watching him, and Frank’s fucking knees buckle. “Maybe you oughta sit down for this,” he suggests.

Frank croaks, “Yeah, okay,” and lets his legs go out from under him like they want to. One of the unfortunate side-effects is that now Tommy’s no longer touching his dick, but bonus, Frank can breathe. Even better, Tommy’s following him down, kicking his legs apart to kneel between them.

“Crap everywhere,” Tommy mutters, shoving an old hoodie with a pizza stain on the front out of his way. He braces one hand on Frank’s thigh, the other on a crinkling pile of sketchbook paper. “I hope your dick’s as pretty as your face.”

Frank’s eyes slide shut as Tommy’s hands dip inside his jeans, shoving and wriggling, trying to get some space to work. Then they pop right back open again, because Tommy is about to go to work on him and he’s got to fucking pay attention.

“S’right,” Tommy says, scooting down, his tee shirt riding up in the back to bare the sharp curve of his spine, his jeans barely clinging to his ass. A slap to Frank’s thigh gets his hips hiking up so Tommy can haul his jeans and his shorts all the way down to his freaking knees, and then Tommy goes and kneels on them, pinning his legs down.

“Uh,” Frank says, blood pounding hot in his head, in his dick, as Tommy stares and stares at him. The look on Tommy’s face says Frank’s dick ain’t half bad at all. Frank’s lungs go tight as his cock swells thicker, like it’s fucking showing off.

“You’re a kicker,” Tommy says, all conversationally like he’s some big shot sex guru. “Adam’s got a bruise on his leg from you.”

More heat billows up the back of Frank’s neck and across his face. “Shit,” he says, and it comes out raspy, a little broken. “Sorry, I guess? How the hell was I ‘sposed to know?”

“Not sorry,” Tommy says, skimming his hands up the insides of Frank’s thighs, his hips, fucking teasing him because okay, Frank’s dick is right there waving hello and Tommy’s a shit welcome committee. “Gave me something else to play with while I sucked him off.”

Frank slaps a hand over his face. He can’t handle this. He’s seen Adam’s dick and he’s way beyond acquainted with Tommy’s mouth by now, so he doesn’t even have to work for the double-page spread that pops into his head, Tommy going down on Adam while he’s fucking poking at bruises Frank put on his boyfriend, giving Adam that same look that Tommy’s giving him now, all lowered lashes and slanted, bedroom smile. Except for how if Tommy had his mouth full, he wouldn’t be able to smile with it. Frank’s sure he’d manage somehow, put it in his eyes or the tilt of his head, because that’s the kind of shit Tommy knows how to do.

Warm breath and soft strands of hair brush the back of Frank’s hand. Choking back a whimper, he parts his fingers and finds Tommy hovering right above his face, smirking. “You should totally watch this,” Tommy says, once he’s sure he’s got Frank’s attention.

“Yeah, if you’re actually gonna fucking do something this time,” is the best comeback Frank’s got, which is totally lame and not his fault. Tommy’s, like, he doesn’t even fucking know. He wants to punch the guy and jerk off on him and maybe suck his dick a couple times in between. Going with his gut, he grabs up a rough handful of Tommy’s hair and starts dragging him down, aiming for the prize. “Like, right now. Okay? Please?”

Tommy’s eyelashes flutter a couple times, and he says, “Do it harder,” so quietly Frank’s not sure at all that’s actually what he said. He might be projecting here, because that is so fucking hot. A small tug gets a hot huff of breath on the head of Frank’s dick. Fuck, that’s so good enough for him. Tightening his grip, he gives a rough yank to the side, making Tommy slump against his thighs and grab his dick and they both moan way too loudly with the fucking basement door still open.

Not above begging for this kind of mind-blowing shit, Frank opens his mouth, but all that comes out is another stuttering moan. Tommy’s nuzzling at him. Fucking nuzzling his dick, and his balls, open mouth hot and wet, whole face shoved right in his crotch. Spit slicks Tommy’s lips, more glistening wetness high on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose from where Frank’s leaking all over him. “Jesus, fuck, Christ,” Frank grates.

Tommy’s either so into it he doesn’t hear, or he hears but there’s no way he’s stopping, ’cause it’s not like Frank choking on curses needs any kind of input from him. At least nothing beyond the eager, sloppy lick he gives straight up the seam of Frank’s balls to the tip of his dick, chasing after it with his tongue out. It takes a couple tries for Tommy to get his mouth on the head since he’s not even fucking using his hands here, both palms pressed down firmly onto Frank’s hips to keep him from squirming his way into the pile of laundry he’s slumped on.

Pulling off, Tommy replaces his mouth with his hand, jacking slowly while he waits for Frank to get with the program and really look at him, meet his gaze head on. Once Frank manages, his eyes snap shut and his hips snap up. There’s a seriously hot dude bent over his lap, holding onto his fucking dick, and the dude’s mouth is really red and wet and open in this really obvious way. Desperate not to blow it too soon, Frank reaches down and tugs on his balls, his wrist brushing Tommy’s sticky fingers.

“Hot,” Tommy says, flicking his tongue out, catching one of Frank’s knuckles, then licking along the curve between Frank’s thumb and finger. His heavy breaths are shivery hot on Frank’s damp skin. “Fuck, yeah, I so get what Adam’s talkin’ about now.”

“What?” Frank asks, rough and dazed. They fucking talked about him? Christ, maybe they talked about him while they fooled around. Like he’s a fucking porn star or something. His cock jerks in Tommy’s hand.

Tommy grins kinda evilly, says, “Said you’d be squirmy, like me,” and gives Frank’s dick another slow, feathery lick, the tip of his tongue finding at least seven different places that make Frank’s toes curl and legs cramp. “I totally get why that’s so fucking sexy.”

“I am totally sexy,” Frank says, kinda half-truth. He never really gave sexy much thought in relation to himself. More like, the way Gerard chews on his lip sometimes, or how he stretches out totally uncaring around Frank, tee shirt riding up and jeans slipping off his narrow hips, the shape of his body pretty clear when he’s not slouching around in a lumpy hoodie. Gerard’s so different from him and Mikey, and even Tommy, the three of them all skin and bone and sinewy bits. Gerard’s got shape, an ass that fills out his jeans, thighs that Frank wants to crawl between and grab onto, slight curves and dips and hollows on his chest and belly that Frank wants to bite. Kinda like Frank wants to bite Gerard’s stupid, sexy crooked mouth. And Tommy’s mouth, too, with its pink lipgloss smears over lips rubbed red. He gets both hands in Tommy’s hair, strands sticking to the spit and the precome on his fingers, and yanks. “Fuck, fuck, c’mere.”

Tommy lurches up, off-centre. “C’mere where?” he says, like an asshole, because he totally knows where this is heading.

“Jerk off on your face,” Frank grunts, and tries latching onto Tommy’s mouth.

“S’not your dick,” Tommy slurs, nose squishing Frank’s, his bottom lip barely caught in Frank’s teeth. Frank twists and tugs on Tommy’s hair, trying to get some tongue involved, and Tommy fucking laughs at him, this muffled snorty giggle, right against his mouth.

Frank whines. He fucking whines, this shit is not fair, “Tommy, fuck, come on.” He’s so hard it hurts. Even the tickle of cool air on his spit-slick dick feels good, fucking amazing. If Tommy gets his mouth or hand or anything back on him, he’s done, and he wants to be done. Fuck, does he want to be done.

Grinning through a sloppy kiss, Tommy shoves up. He plants one hand firmly on Frank’s chest, long fingers spread out so Frank can see the wet glisten on his skin where he was going to town on Frank’s cock, and tugs his fly open. Frank doesn’t make the decision to grab onto Tommy’s hips and try to fuck up against him, but he’s doing it anyway, choked whimper caught in his throat as Tommy pulls his dick out and shoves his jeans down, then goes for Frank’s shirt. “Off,” Tommy says, completely unnecessarily. Unlike some fucking people, Frank can take a hint. He twists and grunts and paws at his shirt, flinging it carelessly aside as Tommy scoots forward, his cock and balls dragging over Frank’s bare chest.

“Oh motherfucker,” Frank breathes, gaping like a douche, seriously fucking floored. Why hadn’t he thought of that shit before? Forget getting his hands and his mouth on Tommy’s junk–though, yes, fine, that too, eventually–he wants Tommy to rub it all fucking over him. Apparently dicks feel good pressed up against him anywhere.

“Yeah?” Tommy asks, biting at his lip again, eyes shadowed and glittering, like he doesn’t fucking know how hot this shit is. He palms his dick lazily, circling his fingers around it nice and slow for a couple strokes. Holding off, maybe, like he’s actually waiting for an answer.

Frank croaks, “Fuck yeah,” and thinks about stretching his arms out, giving Tommy a nice, big blank canvas to work with, but he can’t get his deathgrip on Tommy’s thighs to loosen. It’d probably be a good idea to look at Tommy’s face at some point, too, make some genuine eye contact again so he knows Frank’s serious about this shit (Gerard’s all about the eye-contact; nobody’s more fucking sincere than Gerard when he’s staring you, unblinking, straight in the eye) but Frank can’t stop staring at Tommy’s hand on his cock. It’s just, Tommy’s dick is right there, right in front of Frank’s face, flushed dark and so hard the skin’s barely shifting when he jacks it, the head bare and wet and Tommy keeps twisting his wrist, thumbing the tiny scar beneath the ridge the exact same way Frank does. Frank’s stomach clenches and his dick twitches, throbbing with his pulse. Sliding his hands down and around, he tries to pull Tommy closer by the backs of his thighs, moaning his fucking head off as Tommy shuffles up, bracing his hand beside Frank’s head and hunching over, bumping his dick against Frank’s neck, his jaw, his mouth when Frank chases after it.

Tommy shudders, his steady rhythm faltering then picking up again way too fast, like a needle jumping a groove, whole minutes skipped. He’s gonna come. Right in Frank’s face, he’s gonna come, and Frank barely even knows what his dick tastes like.

“Fuck, fuck, hang on.” Grabbing for Tommy’s hips, Frank tries scooting up to get his mouth on Tommy’s cock, then craning his neck ridiculously with his tongue stuck out trying for a lick when that doesn’t work. He doesn’t even fucking care what he looks like. He’s got to at least fucking kiss Tommy’s junk before the guy blows. “Seriously, I gotta– I really fucking gotta–”

Tommy rasps, “Jesus,” like it’s torn out of him, sandpaper-dry, and after one last, hard tug, curls his hand securely around the base to hold his dick steady. He’s practically vibrating in Frank’s hold, so ready, right on the edge, and Frank gives a grateful moan, not even thinking about what he’s going to do once he gets Tommy’s dick in his mouth, just wanting it there, needing it in this gut-punch visceral way.

The sharp taste of salt explodes on Frank’s tongue, then something weirdly mellow, thick, nothing really like the musky smell of sex hanging heavy in Gerard’s room, but that’s what it is. That’s what sex tastes like. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drags a harsh breath in through his nose. Everything smells like Tommy. There’s a hand tangled in his hair, not tugging but holding, and Frank thinks about how he’d do the same to Gerard, needing something to keep them both grounded, because yeah, maybe it’s just somebody’s dick in somebody’s mouth, but it’s close, intimate beyond the obvious, and it’s a big fucking deal. It’s Frank pressing his tongue hard against Tommy’s slit, searching for more of that taste; it’s Tommy above him, trembling, teeth clenched trying to hold on because Frank asked him to; it’s Frank sucking hard, harder, fighting to keep his eyes open so he can see when Tommy loses it, feel the hot surge of blood against his lips and the warm spill of come in his mouth, bitter-sharp and unreal.

Tommy pulls away too soon, cussing worse than Gerard when Gerard’s actually honestly pissed, like that time Frank was fucking around with the box cutter Gerard uses for collages and shadow boxes or what the fuck ever and almost lost a finger. Not really thinking it through, Frank keeps his mouth open, maybe hoping Tommy’s getting ready to fuck it. Not, like, stuff it in, but just a little, just so Frank knows what it’s like. So Frank’s prepared, ’cause that’s mostly but sorta not really what this is all about.

“Fuck you,” Tommy grates, “fuck you, that is so fucking hot,” hand flying over his dick, wet and slick-sounding. More come spills over Frank’s chin, drips warm down over his throat, tickling. Frank shivers, digging his fingers into Tommy’s sides. If he wasn’t so laser-focused on what Tommy’s doing, fucking coming on his face, he’s pretty sure he’d be losing it right along with him.

Then Tommy’s voice cuts out entirely. He slumps down on one elbow, his mouth slack and open, hot, panting breaths stirring Frank’s sweaty hair. His hand, still curled loosely around his dick and trapped between them, twitches weakly, and he mumbles something that doesn’t really sound like any language Frank’s ever heard.

“Dude,” Frank says, voice totally shot. His heart’s pounding and his dick’s throbbing, but it’s like he’s in shock, everything muffled in a cottony haze. “What?”

“Jerk off on me,” Tommy repeats, scooting clumsily back, shoving harder at his jeans stuck halfway down his thighs. His ass bumps into Frank’s dick and Frank’s bucks up, the brief brush of skin on skin more than enough to send his mind reeling. Tommy’s spine arches, this deep, unbelievable curve as he tries settling down, his tight jeans still getting in the way. “S’fuckin’ good enough, c’mon, do it.”

Frank’s about to say don’t have to tell me twice except for how Tommy obviously does. It’s not his fault this shit is too hot for his brain to handle. Before Adam moved in next door, the most action Frank ever got beyond some pretty memorable jerk-off sessions was literally in his dreams. But even his fevered, porn-fuelled imagination, and days and days and weeks of curling up next to Gerard, watching his hands and his mouth and crawling over him, learning the shape of his body in sneaky bits and pieces, couldn’t come up with something like this. Not Tommy, with his too-pretty face and messy rockstar hair and soft, spunk-covered dick against Frank’s belly. Definitely not Tommy reaching back to press Frank’s dick against his ass, shifting so it rides along the cleft, and Frank can feel what that looks like, soft, delicate skin slicked with Tommy’s sweat, his precome, Tommy’s fingers slim and pale next to his blood-thick cock.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, bent double, his mouth smearing kisses and come over Frank’s, “yeah, like that, like– like you’re gonna fuck me, put it in me and make me ride it,” and Frank doesn’t know if Tommy’s running his mouth, ’cause he’s so that kinda guy, or if it’s something him and Adam actually fucking do, like, fuck, for real, Adam’s dick up Tommy’s ass. Frank imagines it, Tommy pinned beneath Adam, shaking and moaning; pictures Gerard underneath him like that, clawing at his back, him under Gerard, Gerard’s tangled hair hanging in his face and Gerard’s thighs under his, body wedged between his legs, holding him open for it. Gerard staring down at him the same as Tommy, dazed and gorgeous and turned on because of him.

Stupidly, Frank tries grunting a warning, like Tommy isn’t up there waiting for Frank to jizz all over him. It comes out as this wheezy groan seconds late; he’s arched up off the cluttered, messy floor, Tommy’s shirt all twisted up in his fists, Frank’s balls drawn up so tight he can feel the pulse start right in the pit of his stomach and push up through them and out through his dick. His eyes are open but he’s not really seeing anything, same as his mouth is hanging wide but he’s not breathing. Everything’s stuck on the loose curl of Tommy’s hand holding his dick in place, on the slippery-wet slide of come over bare skin, on Tommy breathlessly telling him to keep going, keep fucking, make sure it’s all over them.

“You are so fuckin’ dirty,” Frank gasps, pawing at Tommy’s face, “fucking crazy.” He tastes salt on Tommy’s lips, the bitter tang of come. Then pure, wet heat as Tommy shoves into his mouth, weirdly blank until Frank figures out it’s because there’s nothing but spit left, that Tommy’s sucked the taste of himself off Frank’s tongue, swallowed every last bit of it down. He moans, open-mouthed and ragged and really fucking loud, and Tommy gives him one right back, both hands fisted in his hair holding him down like there’s actually a sliver of a chance he wants to be anywhere than right where he is.

Which makes Tommy the first to pull back, and means Frank tries to follow him up, wincing when his hair gets yanked. “Just, hang on,” Tommy says, breathing hard. His eyes are dark. Like, really fucking dark, midnight black. “That was good, right? Like, when you said you wanted to, yesterday, on his face? Like that.”

Frank’s known Tommy for two days. Two days, and it feels like yesterday was last fucking year. It’s not that he’s used to a half-naked dude sitting on him. So fucking far from it. But where Gerard makes Frank nervous and excited and fumbly and fucking stupid, Tommy makes him think maybe he could do this shit. Like, maybe he’s hot like Gerard’s hot–or not exactly, because Gerard’s kinda borderline goth hot and Frank’s more like a punk kid on speed–but like, hot. Sexy. Somebody you wanna get naked with and roll around on top of and like, get all up in his business.

Tommy’s totally looking at him like he’s worth sexing up more than a time or two. And that’s right around when it clicks in his brain that he’s seen Gerard fucking looking at him that way. Not so blatant as Tommy, ’cause Tommy’s subtle like a brick to the head, but it’s totally the same thing.

“Holy motherfucking Christ,” Frank says.

Tommy grins. Tommy gets it. No words, but Tommy’s there. Leaving one hand touching Frank’s arm, doing that grounding thing again, he stretches all the way out to fumble at Gee’s blankets, dislodging the bottle of booze jammed between the mattress and the wall. It clunks to the floor. Tommy grunts, annoyed. “Fucking disaster area,” he says, and wriggles away to fish it out, bare ass stuck up in the air like he seriously doesn’t give a shit. Frank can’t help but touch. Those streaks of wet on Tommy’s skin, glistening in the light, that’s his come.

Tommy glances back, still grinning, knowing what Frank’s up to and fucking liking it, then says, “Ha, fucker,” and emerges triumphantly with Gerard’s half-empty forty of bourbon. He twits off the cap with a smart flick and helps himself to a healthy swig. Maybe he should look dumb like that, sitting back on his heels with his jeans down around his ankles, his soft cock a little plump and bunched up slightly on his thigh, but mostly, he’s gorgeous.

Reaching for his side, Frank says. “C’mere, okay?”

“Yeah?” Tommy asks, not really a question when he’s already shuffling awkwardly over. He puts the bottle in Frank’s other hand and scoots down, hooking his knee over Frank’s thigh, curling close to Frank’s side, cheek pillowed on Frank’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting tacky spunk in his hair. “You wanna cuddle?”

“Shut up,” Frank says, and squeezes him in even tighter. It’s an adventure trying to drink lying down. Good thing Frank’s an adventurous guy. If he wasn’t, there’s no way he’d know what it’s like to have another guy’s junk pressed against him, hard and hot and thrilling and now really fucking intimate gone soft and sticky, crowded up with Tommy’s balls loose and heavy. He shifts a bit, really getting a feel for it, and Tommy laughs, snuggling closer, letting Frank do it.

“Gonna have to check on him eventually,” Tommy says, but not like he plans on letting Frank up any time soon. “Adam’s probably trying to convince him to curl his hair or something.”

“Gee put it up in pigtails once,” Frank says.

There’s a beat before Tommy shifts to peer at him with actually getting up. “No way.”

“Yeah.” Frank goes for an aborted hit off the bottle and wrinkles his nose, giggling. “I did it for him. He kept getting paint in his hair.”

“Awesome,” Tommy says, in that way where he means it really is. Like playing with a dude’s hair is totally normal. Like none of this, Tommy’s boyfriend upstairs with the guy Frank desperately wants to get with in all fucking ways, while they’re down here cuddling half fucking naked, isn’t something you wouldn’t just do.

Tommy takes the bottle back for a few swallows, idly shifting his leg against Frank’s, rough and soft all at once. Frank can’t do anything for a long minute except stare at his mouth. Tommy lets him do that, too. Tommy likes it.

“We should get him to draw a tattoo on you,” Frank says when Tommy passes the bottle back. “In like, Sharpie. Test drive.”

“Think he would?” Tommy asks, mellow like he doesn’t care either way, but Frank can so see through that shit now.

Frank thinks about Gerard’s face when they told him Tommy and Adam were together, for real together, the surprise and longing and weird pride in his eyes. “Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, he’d be fucking happy to.”

–

End

–

Gerard’s finally done it. The massive heap of blankets on his bed has at last caved to his will and become the perfect lair. With the help of three pillows propping everything up, and some creative folding, there’s more than enough space for him to curl up with a stack of comics, a flashlight, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon. There’s even a tiny tunnel burrowed to the outside world for ventilation. It’s perfect. Genius.

Which is naturally when Frank stampedes down the basement stairs, his split-second pause at the doorway not nearly long enough for Gerard to battle his way free of his 200-thread count palace to bellow a warning before Frank launches himself onto the bed.

“Ow, fuck!” Frank says, over Gerard’s wheezed, “Motherfucker.” Hands start patting at the blankets, searching for Gerard’s lifeless body. “Sorry,” Frank chirrups through a giggle, groping dangerously close to places that ought not to be groped. “Didn’t see you there, man.”

“I’m okay!” Gerard flops around clutching the bottle close to his chest. His head finally pops out over the edge of the bedding as Frank yanks at the heavy, coverless duvet. “Thanks, Frankie.”

Frank grins delightedly. “For kneeing you in the balls?”

“Jesusfuck,” somebody not Frank, and definitely not Gerard, says. A pained grunt echoes down the staircase. “What the fuck died down here?”

“Don’t ask me,” someone else–two unknown someones!–chokes back. “Frank promised he wasn’t a serial killer.”

“Dude, you got lied to.”

Gerard turns wide, accusatory eyes on Frank. Frank scratches at the back of his neck. “You know that guy I told you about? The one, um, who moved in next door for the summer? Adam?”

“Yes,” Gerard says. Frank spent an entire hour enthusing about the possibility of being neighbours with someone not completely lame. When the Bowie posters showed up (Frank had obviously taken to spying through his neighbour’s windows to discover their douchebag quotient), Frank decided they were going to be friends. Once Frank decides to befriend you, you really don’t have a choice in the matter. Gerard should know.

“Mom kicked us out for being too loud. But your mom’s cool, I knew she wouldn’t mind if I bought the guys over.”

Gerard resists the urge to burrow back under the false security of his blanket lair. Frank would only haul him out again. “Guys?” he prompts cautiously.

There’s a scramble on the stairs, some hurried whispering and suspicious thumps, and a freckled, redheaded giant stumbles into the room. “Tommy!” he yells, trying to sound pissed but laughing too hard.

“Had to be done,” says the guy moseying down the stairs, pausing on the last to take a glance around. He’s tiny, almost Frank-tiny, with hair bleached blond and buzzed close on one side. “Wow. Bog of Eternal Stench.” He grins up at the redhead, who must be Adam. Unless Frank’s made more friends. “You stepped in it, you’re gonna stink for life now.”

Gerard warily scoots out from underneath his blankets. Just to be safe, he stuffs the capped bourbon bottle between the mattress and the wall. The small one, Tommy, is sufficiently Frank-like that some of the tension holding Gerard’s shoulders tight eases. He’s debating the safety of Adam–Bob’s kind of huge, but he’s good people, though Gerard suspects this is because Bob is the one who broke the mould–up until Tommy edges in close, as if he’s honestly worried something on the floor might bite him, and Adam drops an arm around his shoulders, nuzzles at the shaved side of his head.

“See?” Frank says, beaming. Fuck, can Frank beam. Gerard feels like he got shot in the face with a raygun of joy. “I knew you’d like them.”

“I didn’t say that,” Gerard says.

“Oh my god,” Adam gasps, then bursts out in another laugh. He looks like he does a lot of smiling and laughing. The good kind. “You’re not a blanket.”

“No,” Gerard says evenly, “I’m not. I’m Gerard. You’re in my room.”

“Hi!” Abandoning Tommy, who doesn’t seem one bit fazed by suddenly being cast adrift in the detritus of the Bog, Adam strides over to the bed. His nose wrinkles slightly, as if he got a fresh whiff of something he doesn’t like, and Gerard surreptitiously checks the floor. Invaders deserve to step in two-day-old pizza. When Gerard glances up, Adam’s right in front of his face, hand held out. “I’m Adam. Thanks for having us over. Are we doing it down here?”

Hand tentatively holding Adam’s, Gerard blinks and says, “Doing what?”

Adam holds up a plastic bag. “Dyeing my hair! Frank said you do yours all the time.” Leaning close, Adam peers critically at his roots. “You can use the leftovers for a touch up if you want. Frank picked out the same colour for me.”

Gerard doesn’t even have to look at Frank to know he’s scrunching down in a shame-faced ball. Adam backs off slightly, glancing uncertainly at Tommy. Tommy shrugs.

“He, um,” Adam says, biting at the corner of his lip. Even his lips have freckles. “Frank, did you forget to ask if we could come over?”

“I didn’t, like, forget,” Frank says. He scoots closer to the foot of the bed. “I mean, if I’d asked, he would’ve said no.”

Adam deflates. Literally. His shoulders slump, his eyes lose their bright blue sparkle, two inches of height just vanish into thin air. It’s actually kind of cool. And heart-wrenching. “Oh.”

“That’s not really cool, man,” Tommy says from the doorway.

“I know!” Frank says, gesturing wildly. “But sometimes you’ve got to con him into shit for his own good!” He looks up imploringly at Adam. “You know what I mean?”

Adam flings another glance at Tommy, which says surprisingly loudly how much he knows exactly what Frank means. Tommy gives him the finger. “Well, okay,” Adam says, crouching down on the balls of his feet, arms folded on the bed and the bag slumped dejectedly on the floor. “Gerard?”

Gerard startles. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry we barged in.”

Gerard shrugs. He’s sorry they barged in, too, and that Adam looks like somebody stuck his puppy on a rotisserie for dinner. He scoots back a bit, making sure he’s not blowing bourbon-breath into Adam’s face.

“But since we’re here, do you think you could dye my hair for me anyway? Tommy’s got pizza money. And I promise I’ll do your roots for you.”

Frank pokes Gerard’s thigh. “C’mon, Gee. Tommy’s only out for a week, they need a place to, um. Hang.”

From Frank’s ramblings, Gerard knows Adam’s stuck in Jersey instead of LA for the summer because of his parents’ divorce. Frank hasn’t even mentioned the other one. “You’re from LA?” he asks Tommy.

“Burbank.”

“So how come you’re here?”

Ten zillion glances go flying across the room. It’s like laser tag without the lasers. Finally, Adam says, “He’s. He’s with me.”

Gerard’s mouth drops open. He takes in Adam’s shy, hopeful smile, Tommy’s defiant, just-fucking-say-something glare, Frank’s wide, earnest eyes. Oh. “Oh.”

“Gee,” Frank starts.

Shoving the blankets off the bed, Gerard clambers up. “I’ve got a shirt around here somewhere you can borrow. Ziggy’s too cool to get dye on.”

“You know you could’ve just said,” Gerard says, puttering about his cramped bathroom–even more cramped now, with Tommy and Frank perched on the counter, and Adam sitting on the edge of the tub facing the mirror. Adam’s legs are five fucking miles long, and Gerard keeps bumping into his knees. He doesn’t seem to mind. Even weirder, he smiles every time. “That you needed a make-out spot, I mean.”

“They don’t need a make-out spot,” Frank says sourly, and Adam says, “My parents know.”

“Mine don’t,” Tommy says, before Gerard can ask. “Catholic.”

Gerard winces. Frank looks glum. “But, uh, yours are okay with it?” Gerard asks Adam, holding out a stained towel for Adam to wrap around his neck. Gerard’s borrowed shirt barely fits across Adam’s shoulders. It rides up in the back when Adam leans forward, head bowed for Gerard to tuck the towel in the collar himself. Even Adam’s hips are covered in freckles. Gerard’s never drawn freckles before.

“Okay with it,” Adam says, slightly muffled, “but pretending we’re celibate.”

Obviously meaning they’re not. God. Gerard’s got so many questions. Most of which you don’t ask people you’ve known for ten minutes. Or people you’ve known for ten years. He hopes Frank’s proud of him right now for biting his tongue.

Like Frank can read minds, he gives Gerard a thumbs-up.

Since Adam practically beat a promise out of Gerard to let Adam do his brownish roots–with an earnest, hopeful voice he’s only ever had Frank use on him, and the backup of two sets of wide brown eyes peering over his shoulder, which is old school Mortal Kombat overkill–Gerard only hauls on one crinkly glove. Giving the dye bottle another shake to make sure it’s all mixed up, he turns to Adam. He’s never done this for somebody who isn’t immediate family. Or Frank. “Ready?”

Adam beams up at him. Gerard’s heart flutters. “Ready! So ready, you have no idea.”

“You’re bouncing,” Tommy says dryly. “I think he’s got an idea.”

Puffing out a breath, and a quiet, “Stay still, please,” Gerard reaches out cautiously to comb his fingers through Adam’s hair. It’s thick and warm through the thin glove, a little dirty. Good for the dye, not so good for Gerard, because now he knows what Adam’s hair smells like. Not shampoo or soap, but Adam. He’s gotten away with sniffing Frank before, since Frank stays the night and crawls all over him all the time, but it’s probably not a good idea to stick his nose in the crook of Adam’s neck five minutes after meeting him. Though Adam’s eyes are closed, a tiny smile on his lips, so maybe he wouldn’t notice.

No. Bad idea. Resolutely, Gerard skims the applicator tip through Adam’s hair, parting it, and squeezes.

Adam shivers. “Sorry. Cold.”

“It’ll warm up in a bit,” Gerard says absently, concentrating on keeping drips from running down over Adam’s forehead, even if it would look cool like blood trails. Adam’s smile grows wider, showing teeth. His fingertips skim Gerard’s kneecap.

“I’m so blowing you after this,” Tommy says out of fucking nowhere, and Gerard jumps. Adam’s hand slides further up, palm pressed to Gerard’s thigh, as if he’s calming a skittish animal. It doesn’t really work. “He played Dracula at school once, it was so fucking hot. They sprayed his hair black and gave him fangs.”

“Did you get to keep them?” Frank asks.

“Yeah,” Adam says, sounding slightly far-away-ish, and Tommy says, “He likes to bite me with them.”

“Dude,” Frank breathes. Technically, Gerard thinks this is the kind of information Frank would give him a Look over, if he tried to pry it out of them himself, but since they’re voluntarily sharing, possibly this makes it okay. Gerard sticks his tongue in his cheek and bites on it anyway. You can never really tell.

“Stop trying to traumatise them with our sex life, Tommy,” Adam says very firmly.

“Frank likes it!”

“Frank is, like, Zero Action Man,” Frank agrees. “He’ll take what he can get.”

“That’s a terrible superpower,” Gerard mumbles. Since it’s actually his superpower, he thinks he’s entitled to an opinion.

Adam says, “Unless you’re a Republican,” his hand still on Gerard’s thigh.

“Man.” Frank slumps back heavily against the mirror, bottles clattering in his wake. “The Republican. There’s a fucking terrifying supervillian.”

“He’d boycott tights,” Tommy says.

“Badly-tailored, decade-out-of-style power suits all the way,” Adam agrees.

“Are you gonna do his eyebrows, too, Gee?”

Sunk in a three-page spread of The Republican facing off against Equal Rights Boy, Gerard blinks. Adam’s hair is done. For the last minute or so, Gerard’s been massaging the dye in, swirling Adam’s hair around in little patterns like icing. When he glances up, Tommy’s frantically waving one hand, circling a finger above his own head. Gerard starts to shake his head no, but Frank leans in dangerously close to Tommy, almost falling into his lap, nodding furiously.

Gerard glances down, biting at the inside of his lip. Adam’s drifted off into scalp-massage bliss. He doesn’t seem like the type to get upset. Besides, it would be pretty cute. Gathering up all of Adam’s hair, Gerard swirls it into a peak at the crown of his head, then steps to the side so Frank and Tommy can see.

“Hey, cupcake,” Tommy says, his grin a perfect match to Frank’s, “hair’s done.”

Not really with it yet, Adam says, “I love my hair played with,” and blinks his eyes slowly open. His gaze falls on the mirror first thing. Gerard tries to edge away, just in case. He’s the helpless victim of peer-pressure in this scenario.

But instead of getting upset that they’re making fun of him, or even rolling his eyes in disgust, Adam tilts his chin down, checking out his cupcake swirl, and laughs. “It’s like the Jetsons!” He looks up at Gerard, beaming. “But you can’t leave me with ginger eyebrows, that’s just mean.”

“Um, yeah,” Gerard says, groping for the toothbrush he stuck on the counter. Frank helpfully holds it out. “I mean, no. I wouldn’t. Leave you with them, not do them.” He tugs roughly on a stringy lock of hair fallen into his face. The very careful words he’s got laid out in his head refuse to reach his tongue. “Close your eyes?”

Face tilted up, Adam immediately shuts his eyes. Carefully, Gerard daubs some dye onto the toothbrush’s bristles, then paints it gently across Adam’s brows.

“I’d get it all over my face,” Frank says, adding in a splot sound-effect. “Gee’s an artist, though.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says eagerly, “you showed us the tattoos he designed for you. Dude, that is gonna be so cool.”

Gerard’s face and belly heat. He ducks his chin, concentrating on following the perfect shape of Adam’s eyebrows.

“Oh!” Frank catapults off the counter, almost banging Gerard’s elbow. Used to dealing with Frank’s random flailing while he’s working, Gerard deftly avoids giving Adam a third eye. Though that would probably be pretty cool. He’ll have to draw one on Frank later. “I was gonna show you that comic! Gee, can I show Tommy your shit?”

“Sure,” Gerard says, nudging Adam’s chin with his wrist to make sure he stays in the light.

Frank scrambles out, but before Tommy leaves, he presses a hand to the centre of Gerard’s back, a warning for when he leans in to peck Adam on the mouth. “See you in a few, hot stuff,” Tommy says, and saunters casually after Frank.

When Gerard turns back, the five points of Tommy’s fingers burning brightly on his skin, Adam’s smiling up at him. “You’re really nice.”

Gerard intelligently says, “Uh.”

“No, you are. You’re doing this for me, and letting Tommy hang out, and you don’t care that we’re dating.” Adam touches Gerard’s thigh again. “I thought anyone that Frank wants to be really close with had to be cool, but it’s nice to know I was right.”

Forgetting about the dye-covered glove, Gerard scratches his fingers through his hair. Oh well. Adam’ll be dying it for him in a few minutes anyway. Which is strange and bizarre to think about. Frankie’s offered to do it for him, especially after the very first time when he missed a giant patch on the back of his head, but he doesn’t really trust Frank to quit fidgeting long enough to follow through.

“Thanks,” Gerard finally says, letting loose the shy, crooked smile tickling at his lips. “You too.”

Adam smiles big and broad and bright. Gerard feels dizzy. Does every-fucking-body need to have these high-beam smiles, and do they really need to keep aiming them at him? Not that it doesn’t feel good to be on the receiving end of that sort of happiness. One of these days, though, he’s gonna go blind. That would suck so much. Retinas burned out by the same joy he’ll never get to see again.

Adam’s smile dims, forehead crinkling. “Hey, are you okay?”

Gerard shakes his head to throw out the whole literal blinded-by-happiness thing. When Adam’s eyes go wide in alarm, and he starts to stand up, reaching out, Gerard blurts, “No, no. I’m okay. Weird random thought.”

Settling back down, Adam says, “Okay,” as if he’s not quite buying it. Then he stands up again abruptly. Gerard sincerely hopes Adam’s done growing, because he’s really tall enough as he is. Those extra inches could totally be put to better use on someone else. “We should do your roots before you need to rinse me.”

Before Gerard can agree, Adam’s manoeuvring him around to sit on the closed toilet lid. In one deft move, Adam tugs on the leftover plastic glove and scoops the dye bottle out of Gerard’s lax grip. “Don’t worry,” Adam says, a few fingers light on Gerard’s jaw to tilt his head up, then sliding back into the hair at Gerard’s nape. Adam’s smile is back in full force. “I’ve done this a lot for some of my girl friends. And their makeup. I could do some for you later.”

Gerard’s gaze jumps guiltily to the few stubs of cheap black eyeliner scattered on the counter. He’s got some mascara somewhere, probably dried up and flaky. “Eyeliner’s not so hard to put on.”

“I’m magic, though,” Adam says, combing his fingers gently through Gerard’s tangled hair. “Let me try, you’ll see.”

With one shiver after another tripping down Gerard’s spine, there’s not much he can say except, “Yeah, okay,” as he quickly closes his eyes before another smile slaps him in the face. The force of Adam’s grin ekes through anyway, sinking into Gerard’s skin in a warm, buzzing glow, a lot like the hum of a good drunk gearing up, or whenever Frank’s pressed close in his bed at night.

It doesn’t take long for Adam to smear what’s left of the dye into Gerard’s roots. He’s really thorough about it, combing and parting and combing and parting and rubbing way more than he needs to. Gerard should probably say something, but then Adam would stop, and he hasn’t figured out if he wants that to happen yet.

Eventually, it has to, and Gerard’s wondering if that was reluctance on Adam’s part, or if he’d gotten his fingers snarled up in Gerard’s messy hair. More likely the latter. It hasn’t seen a brush in a couple days. He cracks open one eye cautiously, just in case Adam’s up there waiting with another retina-frying smile. When all he finds is a small, pleasant quirk, he opens up the other. “You should wash your face first,” he says, and tugs some toilet paper off the roll, using it to gesture at his own eyebrows vaguely. “The dye.”

Adam glances in the mirror, surprised. “I completely forgot.” Taking the toilet paper, he carefully wipes the excess dye off, then ducks his head down to splash some water on his face and rinse his glove. He scrubs hard at his eyebrows, reddening the skin. Water dripping off his chin, he asks, “Got it?”

Helpfully, Gerard leans forward to peer at his eyebrows. There are even freckles hidden beneath the tiny, freshly-dyed hairs. It’s really, really cool. “Yep.” He hands over a towel that’s mostly clean. It doesn’t smell mouldy, anyway.

Maybe it’s not clean enough, though, because instead of patting his face dry, Adam drops it on the floor and kneels on it. Thankfully, he’s facing the tub, so he can’t see the way Gerard’s mouth falls open. Even if Gerard isn’t getting any, he has a laptop, and internet access. Watching somebody go to their knees has pretty much a hardwired response that totally bypasses his brain and goes straight to his dick at this point.

Adam’s elbows thump dully down on the tub. His head’s bowed, waiting, his shoulder blades standing out in sharp relief in the too-tight tee, his back stretched out in a long, smooth curve. “Ready,” he says.

Yeah. So’s Gerard. Just not in any way that’s at all appropriate. “Maybe I should, um,” he tries.

“Before it drips into my eyes, yes, please,” Adam says.

“Oh. Shit.” Fumbling at the taps, Gerard accidentally turns the hot on blast, almost scalding his pinky in the backsplash. He sticks his arm in front of Adam’s face to protect it and scrabbles at the cold, successfully reducing the chances of unfortunate maiming. Tommy seems like a really laid-back kind of guy, but Gerard’s not so sure that extends to the bodily injury of his boyfriend.

Which might actually be a moot point, considering how Gerard’s straddling Adam’s calves, and has a hand braced in the centre of his back to lean in over him while he’s fiddling with the water. Being around Frank so often is messing with Gerard’s judgement of personal space. Even if he doesn’t really need any, he’s usually better at remembering other people do. Other people not Frank. Mikey doesn’t count.

“Sorry,” Gerard says, mostly an embarrassing squeak.

“No, it’s okay,” Adam says, and fuck if his hand isn’t on Gerard’s fucking leg again, holding him in close. “You’re not heavy. Tommy’s on me all the time. He’s more solid than he looks.”

There’s a reminder Gerard really doesn’t need. Deciding the temperature’s okay, he nudges Adam closer to the taps. He goes to put a hand over Adam’s eyes to shield them from the water streaming down and bumps into Adam’s fingers already there. “Sorry.”

“God,” Adam says, on a weirdly happy-sounding huff. “You’re so sweet. Stop apologising for it.”

Gerard opens his mouth automatically on an apology for apologising, then snaps it shut so hard his teeth clack. Face burning, he gets busy pushing the water through Adam’s hair, squeezing out the dye and watching it swirl down the drain. Something about washing someone else’s hair, even with the weird angle making Gerard’s lower back twinge uncomfortably, is soothing. Showering’s generally a pain in the ass that gets in the way of all the other things he’d rather be doing. Possibly the trick is luring someone into the bathroom with you, so you’ve got something to keep yourself occupied. Other than your actual self, that is.

It takes Adam pushing against Gerard’s legs for him to realise the water’s running clear. He backs up quickly as Adam straightens, using the towel around his neck to pat at his hair, Gerard stuck staring like an utter idiot as Adam finger-combs it back into a mild Elvis-like wave. “Look good?” Adam asks, gazing up like he honestly wants Gerard’s opinion.

“Really good,” Gerard says, nodding fast. “Tommy’ll love it.”

“Tommy’s easy.” Rocking up onto his feet, Adam plucks at the front of his shirt where it’s gotten wet. It slaps back against his chest, clinging. He makes a face. “I guess it’ll dry. Anyway, you should grab a shower. We’ll order the pizza. Frank knows what you like, right?”

“I, um. What?”

“Clean canvas,” Adam says, touching Gerard’s face again, thumb smoothing close to the birthmark high on Gerard’s cheek. “I’m pretty sure your eyes are gorgeous, but I need to see them without the old liner before I put on the new.”

“I can just-”

“Shower,” Adam insists, pointing imperiously at the tub.

Gerard scowls. He doesn’t need to shower. But Adam’s standing there like a fucking monolith, a demanding one, and also hot. Fine. There. Gerard’s admitted it. Frank’s new friends are hot. And apparently almost as touchy-feely as Frank is, seeing as how Adam still hasn’t let go of Gerard’s face. It makes it difficult to say no. Not impossible. Gerard could still present at least four different arguments to prove that he doesn’t need to shower for Adam to put makeup on him.

Except for the glaring fact that Adam seems to believe this shower is necessary.

“Fine,” he says, flapping a hand. “I’ll be, like, five minutes.”

Adam frowns. “Ten.”

“Okay, ten.” Really, this is excessive. They’ve only just met. And yet that warm, contented tingle comes roaring back when Adam smiles, and Gerard thinks about how Frank cuddles close all the time anyway. It’s not like he deliberately skips showers. Most of the time. There’s just so much else to do.

Seemingly content, Adam turns around to face the mirror, picking up one of the black pencils and eyeing it critically. “Do you have a sharpener for this? Oh, wait, I see it.”

Gerard stares at the back of Adam’s head.

“Do you mind if I dry my hair?” Adam’s rooting around through the cupboards, reading the labels on Mikey’s collection of mousses and gels and who knows what else. “I want to show Tommy.”

“I, uh-”

“Oh, right!” Adam turns around with a sheepish laugh. He strides to the door, eyeliner and hair dryer abandoned, and the tight knot in Gerard’s belly loosens. Of course Adam wasn’t going to-

Instead of the the knob, Adam reaches for the towels hanging on the cracked plastic hook stuck on the wall behind the door. Unsure, Gerard takes it from Adam’s grip. It’s obviously Mikey’s towel, still damp. Gerard never remembers to hang his up, if he bothers with one at all.

“I won’t look,” Adam says, nudging the door with his hip. The catch snicks, such a tiny sound to be so decisively final. “Even when I’d nearly rubbed myself raw imagining it, I never peeked at Tommy in the shower. Promise.”

Squinting at Adam’s face, searching for a telltale twitch, Gerard thinks maybe this is okay. It isn’t like somebody’s needed to see proof of his total lack of anything even resembling muscle definition to rag on him about it before, and besides that, Adam doesn’t seem the type. If Adam was only using him for his hair-dying prowess, then there’s no reason for Adam to still be there. And here he is, gazing at Gerard hopefully, as if it’s really, really important Gerard trust him.

Gerard frowns hard and clutches at the hem of his hoodie. Taking this as a cue, Adam whips around, his eyes firmly closed as he squirts some mousse stuff into his palms. Gerard keeps a wary eye on Adam’s reflection as he starts tugging off his clothes, ready to beat the crap out of him with the hair dryer or stab him with eyeliner or at least scream like a little girl if Adam gives any sign at all of looking.

Massaging bubbly foam into his hair, Adam says, “Tell me when you’re in,” and Gerard jumps, diving into the tub and yanking hard at the curtain, metal rings screeching. The water isn’t even on yet.

“In,” Gerard says calmly, as if he hadn’t totally spazzed out. He fusses with the water, holding a hand under the tap to monitor the temperature while he stares holes through the curtain at Adam’s broad back. Something’s going on here. At times he’s oblivious, he realises this, but there is definitely something happening right now that has nothing to do with dye jobs and makeup and pizza. He transfers his scowl to the shampoo bottle. Snatching it up, he dumps way too much onto his hair, stubbornly scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing, and it isn’t until grey suds start dripping down his arms that he remembers the dye. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, what?” Adam asks.

“Forgot about the fucking dye. Ugh.”

Adam’s laugh is a warm and pleasant thrum all up and down Gerard’s spine. “It’ll wash off. I can’t wait to do your makeup.” The dryer switches on.

Hands buried in his soapy hair, Gerard blinks down at his dick. He’s used to it having loud, insistent opinions on a lot of things, like Tank Girl, lazy Saturday mornings, and stiff breezes. And Frank. It is incredibly vocal about Frank. But not generally the unknown, even if the unknown is remarkably kind and attractive, and especially not when unknown’s boyfriend is hanging out in Gerard’s basement. He scrubs harder at his hair, possibly hard enough to make his scalp bleed for real. His dick needs to learn some manners.

The shadow of a hand flails wildly across the curtain. Gerard freezes. “You should use this,” Adam says, jabbing a bottle vaguely in his direction.

“That’s Ma’s,” Gerard says.

“Oh come on.” Adam shoves the bottle pointedly closer. Out of pure self-defence, Gerard grabs it, leaving murky soapsuds clinging to Adam’s fingers. “I met your mom twenty minutes ago, she won’t mind at all if you use her makeup remover. In fact, I bet she’ll give me cookies for getting you into the shower.”

Not if Adam phrases it exactly like that, she won’t. Then again, maybe she would. She’s always been pretty gung-ho about her boys experiencing life. He tries to picture Adam’s cookie-expectant face, and the reaction when Ma hands over condoms instead. A full Technicolour version of Adam’s bright grin wallops him upside the head. His cock weirdly seems to like Adam’s smile.

“Can’t hear you over the dryer!” Adam calls. “It’s okay, though. You’re an artist. I talk to myself all the time, too.”

“Yeah,” Gerard mumbles, watching his possessed hand skid down over his belly and curl around his cock. He bites his lip so hard it splits, but he manages to not jack it, leaning forward to brace his other hand on the wall and stick his head in the spray. Grey water swirls down the drain. For a minute–only a minute, or maybe two–he wonders how bad it would really be if he rubbed out a quickie. “Probably pretty bad.”

“Don’t forget conditioner,” Adam says.

Gerard’s shoulders slump. This is going to take all fucking day.

In reality, it only takes about another ten minutes. Adam’s out there humming away fussing with his hair, and it’s nice. Almost like having Mikey out there, which doesn’t happen all that often considering Gerard’s shower schedule, but when Adam breaks out into lyrics, he’s so on-key it almost hurts. Gerard ends up absently soaping his arms over and over, listening to Adam sing snatches of songs he’s only ever heard Bowie nail.

“You’re really good,” Frank says, and Gerard almost cracks his skull open on the tile.

“Frank?” Gerard asks, wondering when the fuck he got back. “Did you-”

“Chill, Gee, s’cool. Tommy’s totally drinking all your, uh, Pepsi, though. I’m helping.”

“Oh no,” Adam says, in an actual dire, end-of-the-world moan. “If he, you know-”

“You chill, too,” Frank says breezily. “Both of you stay in here and do your thing. I got Ratliff handled. And these are for Gee.”

“What’s for me?” Gerard asks, risking poking his head out around the curtain. “And what if Tommy does what?”

But Frank’s already gone, a cool breeze left in his wake. “You’ve got soap on your nose,” Adam says. Gerard swipes absently at his face, busy trying to peer around Adam’s bulk to see what Frankie dropped off. Maybe some morals. Or a sense of decency, one of those would come in handy right about now.

Mouth quirking, Adam reaches out and wipes off Gerard’s nose. “I’m not peeking,” he says, “but you’re almost out of curtain.”

“Shit,” Gerard hisses, and ducks quickly back inside. Water slaps him in the face, pouring into his open mouth, and he splutters, choking.

Adam’s by the tub in an instant. “Baby, you okay?”

“Fine,” Gerard croaks, while his brain’s going, Baby? What? Baby? “Water contains oxygen, but it is not for inhaling.”

A soft laugh floats over the patter of water on the curtain. “An important life lesson.”

Gerard firmly turns off the taps. No one he’s heard of has ever drowned standing up in the shower but he’s not about to take any chances. He sticks a hand outside the curtain and gropes around the hook looking for his towel. He’s about to ask Adam to toe it closer when damp cotton brushes his fingers. “Thanks,” he says, because even if certain parts of his anatomy are out to lunch on manners, the rest of him can manage just fine.

“You’re welcome,” Adam says happily. “Frank brought you some clothes. Do you want me to pass them in?”

Gerard chews on his lip, debating. “No,” he says, deciding it’s much safer if he can haul everything on really fast instead of risking an errant breeze stirring the curtain (or other things) while his underwear are somewhere completely unhelpful. “It’s okay, I’ll-”

“Eyes are closed,” Adam says, his shadow shrinking as he steps back. “Say when.”

Like ripping off a bandaid, Gerard shoves the curtain back. He snatches up a wrinkled t-shirt, which Frankie dug up out of an exceptionally clean corner of the basement going by how it smells like carpet dust, and hauls it quickly on, then goes after his socks, because his feet always get cold first. On underwear, he comes up empty-handed. Considering it’s Frank who picked out his clothes, and he’s always ragging on him for going commando, that’s a little weird, but touching in the way where Frank’s caving to his preferences. There are other preferences he would much rather Frank cave on, but he’s okay with starting small.

Adam shifts impatiently. “Better zip up before Tommy gets impatient. I’m a man of my word, but he believes all is fair in love and sex, and that includes shower-stalking.”

Gerard’s brain absolutely intends to send the message to his fingers. It maybe even does, but gets a busy signal. Adam’s lounging against the counter, arms loosely crossed, his eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks. Chunks of his hair are feathered across his forehead, longer bits framing his face, all of it swept slightly to the side and spiked up in the back so it looks complicated and amazing and really very hot. A strangled noise echoes low in Gerard’s throat.

Which Adam bizarrely takes to mean he’s all zipped up and ready to go, because Adam’s eyes open. He starts to smile, lips frozen in a half-curve as his gaze drops and he realises Gerard’s jeans are only partway up his ass, and the fly’s wide open. He stares for the long count of seven panicked heartbeats before his eyes snap shut, colour flaring brightly high on his cheeks. “Sorry! I’m sorry!”

Knocked out of his daze, Gerard tugs up his jeans and zips. “I’ll just, um.”

“No, no,” Adam says, flailing at him. “I saw belly. And, uh, that you’re a brunet. But I knew that second one already, and I’m sure I was aware that between your chest and your legs you have a stomach. Please sit down?”

When Frank trots out the desperate, imploring gaze, he looks like somebody not only killed every single puppy in the world, but did so in the most heinous, repellant way possible, and it involved spiders. Adam’s isn’t quite as impressive, but it’s close enough that Gerard wants to hug him so hard and tell him it’s okay, it was only a nightmare, all the puppies are safe and sound curled up in happy spider-free piles of adorableness. Gerard settles for plopping his ass down on the toilet lid and roughly combing wet hair back from his upturned face.

“I’ll be really careful,” Adam promises, tucking a missed chunk of Gerard’s hair behind his ear. “Close your eyes?”

Deathly afraid he’ll be treated to another shot of the doomsday pout, Gerard squeezes his eyes shut. He eases up a moment later, remembering that Adam probably wants to be able to find his lashline. It takes forever before fingers touch his chin, steadying him, and forever again for Adam’s hand to rest lightly against his cheek. Gerard breathes out slowly in anticipation and manages to keep from jerking when the pencil tip feathers along his lashes, quick, sure strokes easing the tension in his back but ramping up the fluttering in his belly. Pressing a hand against his stomach doesn’t do much to calm the brewing storm.

“Okay?” Adam asks, his voice sounding a hell of a lot closer than expected.

“I’m not drunk,” Gerard says. He hadn’t had a chance for more than a few mouthfuls. “But it feels like it? Spinning in circles sitting down.”

“Maybe the water was too hot.” Adam’s thumb drags over his eyelid. “Look up for me.”

There’s a water stain on the ceiling in the shape of an astronaut giraffe–the big blob that should be the giraffe’s head isn’t very giraffe-like, but it’s got the ears and the horns, and the rest of it is definitely nothing else but a giraffe. Even Mikey’s forced to agree with Gerard on this one. Gerard thinks about sun-browned savannahs and if they look like freckles from space.

“You fixate on things, don’t you,” Adam says softly, the alternating strokes of the pencil and his fingers soothing in the steamy heat. Gerard’s done a fair amount of smudging in his time. Adam’s taking it to an art form. Which, he supposes, makeup is. Painting faces without the canvas.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, minutes too late.

Adam’s thumb rubs one last time beneath his eye. “All done. No, wait.” Burying both hands in his hair, Adam fluffs it up, then combs it back again, then fluffs again, and it all seems sort of pointless but Adam’s smiling a soft, happy smile, and his eyes, blue-and-smoky black, shine like the midnight sky caught in time-lapse. “There. Beautiful.”

Not sure what to do with that, or the ‘baby’ still rattling around the back of his skull, Gerard stands up to look in the mirror. It doesn’t seem like Adam’s done anything more than Gerard usually does, except for the extra fussing with his hair. Everything’s the same, but different. His whole face is different. Pinpointing exactly how escapes him until he sizes it up the way he’d analyse charcoal portraits. His eyes are bigger, soulful, the tumble of his hair accenting the black that lies thick against his lashes and fades out to grey on his eyelids. He looks up at Adam’s reflection. “Thanks.”

Grinning, Adam grabs his hand and squeezes. “C’mon. I can’t wait for them to see you.”

“Tommy’ll want to see your hair,” Gerard says, letting Adam tug him out into the hall and down to the basement. He’s used to Frank dragging him everywhere like a sack of sleep-deprived potatoes. “I pretty much look like me.”

Adam nods quickly. “You do. But more you.”

“That makes so much sense,” Gerard says, completely sincere. He really should’ve thought of that.

Somehow, Gerard ends up on the stairs in front of Adam, their hands still clasped. Gerard is perfectly aware that it’s strange. Holding hands with Mikey is a given. Frank’s been thoroughly indoctrinated into the ways of the Ways over the years, so holding hands with him is also a given, even if it results in unimaginative insults and threats of bodily harm. Maybe Adam’s cool with it because it’s a Californian thing. Or because he’s gotten so used to holding Tommy’s hand, it doesn’t feel right if he’s free-ranging. Gerard can understand that. Sometimes, a guy needs an anchor.

Taking in the scene happening on his bed right this very second, Gerard’s very appreciative of Adam keeping him firmly rooted to the ground. Tommy’s flat on his back, one hand loosely holding onto the bourbon, and the other loosely holding onto Frank, who’s curled up tight against Tommy’s side, head on Tommy’s chest, reading loudly from the first issue of Byrne’s Doom Patrol reboot. Not the best in the series by far, but a really good starting point for the argument that comics, despite their reputation for being able to get away with things mainstream media can’t touch, aren’t immune to societal mores, and-

“Fuck, Gee,” Frank says, the comic listing.

Gerard gestures vaguely, ta-da. “Here’s my face.”

Frank scrambles up, tripping on the edge of the blankets trailing across the floor and careening through the mess, somehow mostly upright. Gerard says, “Oh fuck, brace me,” and miraculously, Adam’s hands come up to plant firmly against his shoulders the second Frank’s feet leave the floor in a flying leap. Frank slams into them both, rocking them back on their heels, Frank’s arms and legs flung around Gerard to hold on, and Gerard clumsily grabbing at him, trying to get a grip.

“You’re hot, Gee,” Frank says, yanking his hand free from the tangle of Gerard’s hair to paw at his face. “We drank all your shitty booze and you’re really hot.”

“That’s not shitty booze,” Gerard says, his only concession to Frank’s uncoordinated fumbling to close one eye when Frank almost pokes it. “Fuck, you’re heavy.”

“Am not. I’m the littlest shit ever.” Leaning back way too far, so far Gerard’s in danger of dropping him–wouldn’t be the first time–Frank points at the messy bed, and Tommy lounging on it, eyebrow cocked. “Put me over there.”

Calmly, Gerard says, “I’m going to drop you.”

Frank wiggles and kicks and grunts, treating Gerard like a particularly stubborn pack mule. “On the bed!”

Game to try, Gerard takes a shuffling step forward. Frank hits the floor flat on his ass two seconds later. “I told you.”

“Ow, fuck,” Frank says, rolling around dramatically. “Crippled for fucking life, man.”

“There’s rum in my closet.”

Grabbing onto Gerard’s jeans, Frank climbs him like a tree. In danger of losing his pants, Gerard takes hold of his arm and hauls him the rest of the way up, stumbling back into Adam. Adam barely budges, Bob-solid. It’s impressive. Frank’s a squirmy little fucker.

“Tommy,” Adam explains with a shrug. They share a silent moment of fond commiseration. Gerard loves silent moments.

“Hey,” Frank says, peering over Gerard’s shoulder. “Hey, you got hotter, too. You’re both, like, emo porn.”

“You gonna c’mere and let me see or what?” Tommy asks.

Shooting Gerard a quick smile, Adam sidesteps around them to navigate his way far more carefully across the room than Frank’s ever bothered. He stops at the foot of the bed, staring down at Tommy while Tommy stares up at him. Frank starts humming Jeopardy music under his breath.

“Holy fuck,” Tommy blurts, shoving off the crooked mound of pillows to roll smoothly to his knees, “shit, like, fuck,” and Adam drops to one knee on the bed to meet him halfway, Adam’s hands in Tommy’s hair and Tommy’s mouth open, a brief flash of pink tongue before Adam’s on him. It’s messy and dirty and wet-looking, and Gerard can’t help staring. Watching porn’s one thing. Watching live-action tongue-sucking happening seven feet away on his bed is something else entirely. Watching it while Frank’s clinging to him, also watching, is possibly the best worst thing that’s ever happened to Gerard, because he’s getting hard. Normally, that doesn’t bother him–they watch porn, they get hard, it’s completely natural. Getting hard over Frank’s friends, that’s a little more iffy.

“Wow,” Frank breathes when Adam pushes at Tommy’s shoulder and Tommy starts sinking back, knees up and spread for Adam to crawl between them. “Fuckin’ wow.”

Gerard flaps a hand at him and hisses. This is not the time to interrupt. He can deal with his conscience later.

Frank, of course, bursts out laughing, and Adam freezes, deer-in-headlights, before joining in. “Sorry,” Adam says, scratching at the back of his neck and ignoring Tommy’s impatient glare. “Sometimes I get carried away.”

“It’s okay,” Gerard hurries to say, in what he hopes is a completely normal, non-creepy-voyeur tone. “If you want to borrow my room, I mean. That’s okay.”

“We’re not kicking you out of your own house,” Adam says, firmly shoving Tommy further up on the bed. “Frank promised movies.”

“He said borrow,” Tommy mutters, but gamely scoots up, back propped against the wall, to make space for another body and a half on the bed, exactly the right amount for Gerard and Frank. Gerard hangs back, poking through his DVD collection, while Frank clambers up to wriggle his bony ass between them. Gerard frowns. He’s about to point out how mean it is to get between boyfriends that probably don’t have a lot of opportunity to do much of anything fun when Tommy slumps down to cuddle against Frank’s side, and Adam loops his arm around Frank’s shoulders, fingers in Tommy’s hair.

Frank beams. “Movie, Gee,” he says, snapping his fingers.

“Right,” Gerard says, fumbling at the movies. What really isn’t fair is how nice Frank looks snuggled between them. Adam and Tommy look warm and cosy, champion cuddlers, and Frank is Frank, and Gerard doesn’t know who’s making him more jealous here. Torn between Highlander and the first Halloween, he holds them both up for a vote.

“There can be only one,” Tommy intones. Inexplicably, Gerard’s heart sinks.

“Total load of bullshit,” Frank says. “There’s like, three hundred of the fuckers. Bitches gotta learn to share.”

“Exactly!” Adam jumps in. Tommy gives him a withering glare. “Well, I agree. You can’t stop me from agreeing.”

“But there’s only supposed to be one,” Tommy insists. Adam shrugs. Tommy turns his pleading gaze on Gerard. “Right, Gee? Only one, because that’s the way it is.”

“Destined to be alone,” Gerard agrees morosely.

“Ha,” Tommy triumphantly says to Adam, then to Gerard, “Put the movie in and get your fucking ass up here.”

Jamming the DVD into the player, Gerard grabs up the remote. Halfway to the bed, he says, “Wait,” and veers for his closet, which is actually a stack of milk crates with a few poles stuck between them for the things his mom insists have to be hung up, like his suit. Digging through the pile of shirts that didn’t make it into one of the crates the last time Frank attempted to tidy up for fear of spider nests, he unearths the rum. “I don’t have mixer. Or glasses.”

“Mixers are for pussies,” Tommy says, at the same time Frank says, “Only pussies need glasses,” and they stop, noses wrinkling as they giggle at one another. Even if Gerard’s already told Frank a hundred times not to use sexist language, it’s still so fucking adorable his heart aches.

Adam scoots a few inches away from Frank and gives the sliver of uncovered bed an inviting pat.

“I’m not Frank-sized,” Gerard points out.

“Fuck you,” Frank says, and practically crawls into Tommy’s lap to free up another inch of space. “This is your spot.”

The arctic chill taking up residence in Gerard’s belly thaws a fraction. He takes a few quick gulps of rum to hurry it along on his way over to the bed. Tommy holds out a hand, so Gerard puts the bottle in it, then blinks at Adam’s hand outstretched, too. “I gave it to him,” Gerard says, pointing at Tommy.

“I mean you.” Adam’s hand waggles impatiently.

“Oh,” Gerard says. Shrugging, he climbs up, muttering apologies as he gets Frank with an elbow and Adam with a knee. He tries unsuccessfully to squish himself into the teeny tiny space they made and ends up slumping against Frank with his legs stuck awkwardly over Adam’s lap. “This really isn’t working.”

“Shut up,” Frank says, and Adam hums his agreement, shifting around until Gerard’s sprawl isn’t quite so awkward. It isn’t exactly comfortable, though, his shoulders tight and thighs trembling with the effort of not resting too heavily against Adam.

Tommy gives him a look and silently hands over the rum. “Oh thank you,” Gerard says, clutching at it. As he drinks, he tries not to think about how Tommy’s mouth was on the rim seconds ago, and how Adam’s mouth was on Tommy’s only a couple minutes before that. Disappointingly, he can’t taste anything but alcohol. He’s very thorough about making sure, though. Several gulps sure.

Adam’s mouth touches Gerard’s ear. “Share,” he says, quietly, and Gerard swallows hard, offering the bottle.

Most of the movie passes in a blur. The bit of sunlight eking through the window he doesn’t remember opening gradually fades to twilight, leaving the room lit by the flickering television. Gerard’s warm all over, inside and out, his head heavy and his limbs thrumming weirdly. For the past five minutes, he’s been staring down at Adam’s hand on his thigh, and the occasional stroke of Adam’s thumb along the inside seam of his jeans. It doesn’t seem like something Adam’s doing on purpose. There’s no reason for it. Unlike the weird, phantom echo of Adam and Tommy’s kiss Gerard can’t stop hearing. He didn’t even hear it when it happened, not really, but he’s imagining the wet noise, their soft breaths, the rustle of cotton, over and over and over. An active, vivid imagination can be such a cross to bear. He heaves a sigh, sinking against Frank’s back.

Two minutes later, still tortured by imagined kisses, Gerard thinks, Frank’s back? and twists around. Frank isn’t watching the movie. In fact, Gerard would be shocked to learn that Frank is even aware there is a movie, or of where he is, or anything beyond the glaring fact of Tommy’s tongue in his mouth. Gerard stares, and stares, and tries to figure out how this could possibly come about, and why Frank would ever think it’s a good idea to stick his tongue in somebody’s mouth when that somebody’s boyfriend is close enough to murder them all in a jealous rage. “Shit,” Gerard says, whipping around, “shit, fuck, fuck,” because of course Adam’s noticed now, Gerard practically jumped up and down waving his arms to get Adam’s attention.

Adam makes a soft shushing noise, resting his hand lightly over Gerard’s mouth. Gerard’s eyes bug out. He paws frantically at Adam’s hand; he doesn’t want to be suffocated in his own fucking bed because Frank couldn’t keep his fucking cute little mouth all to his fucking self, for fuck’s sake.

“You don’t like it?” Adam asks, whisper-quiet, and Gerard rolls his eyes. Of course he doesn’t like not breathing. “You liked me kissing Tommy. Is it because now it’s Frank?”

Gerard’s lungs seize. That’s not it at all. He doesn’t have a claim on Frank. Or, he’d like to, sort of, but Frank seems like he’s enjoying himself, and Gerard is all for a happy Frank, but Adam’s got a claim on Tommy, and Adam’s hand is sliding off Gerard’s mouth, thank fuck, so he can say all of this and more, because he’s got a lot to say about alcohol and lowered inhibitions and the general stupidity of teenagers, a group to which they all currently belong (as long as no one dies within the next three minutes), and-

And Adam’s tongue is somehow in Gerard’s mouth. Gerard lets out a muffled squeak and flails, his forehead scrunching. He tries asking what the fuck, because, what the fuck, but it comes out as a garbled mess.

“Kiss me back,” Adam says, their lips touching, his fingers sliding into the hair still damp and heavy on the back of Gerard’s neck, “please, kiss me back.” He doesn’t wait for permission, or even agreement, before pushing in again, licking at the inside of Gerard’s mouth. Kissing apparently feels nothing at all like the way it looks. Not even close. It’s better and worse and amazing, and Gerard might not have a lot of experience in the field–to date, none–but he’s willing to make the assumption that Adam is really, really good at it.

Gerard’s not really following through on Adam’s request. If Adam’s disappointed, he can’t tell, because Adam isn’t stopping, and Gerard’s burning up, melting, he’s going to fucking explode.

“Fuck,” Frank rasps, “fuck, you guys, fuck.”

Adam breaks away with a dark laugh completely at odds with Gerard’s mental image of him as a summer-bright Californian coastline, happy and light and free. “What?” Gerard asks, but there are too many questions all tumbling over each other, scrambled and chaotic and, “What? What?”

“You’re so fucking hot,” Frank says, slumped against Tommy, his kiss-red mouth noticeable even in the dim glow of the television, and Tommy’s fucking hand is on his dick through his jeans. “Even when you’re fucking clueless, so fucking hot, god, Adam, kiss him some more.”

Certain he’s fallen asleep and this is some bizarre dream, Gerard blinks up at Adam. He doesn’t have dreams like these. He dreams about vampires and funerals and talking churches, not gorgeous West Coast boys making out with him while Frank watches. But that’s exactly what the fuck is going on here, Adam starting at Gerard’s jaw this time, working his way up to Gerard’s open, panting mouth, kissing his lips, tongue sliding between them, coaxing Gerard into clumsily trying to kiss back. He mustn’t do too badly; he gets a moan for his trouble and he tries harder, mimicking what Adam’s doing, twisting his hand in Adam’s t-shirt to drag him closer.

A hand pushes up the inside of Gerard’s thigh. His eyes fly open. Adam’s hands are still in his hair and on his face, holding him exactly how Adam wants as Adam kisses him deeper, and he can’t figure out who the fuck is working their way up to groping his crotch before Frank groans. Oh shit, Frank. But that’s not Frank’s hand. Gerard knows Frank’s hands, which means Tommy’s the one squeezing his dick. And Frank’s dick. While kissing Frank. While Adam’s kissing him.

It’s obviously too much for Gerard’s brain to handle. He completely blanks for at least ten seconds, only dimly aware of the shuffling going on around him, hands pushing at him. Hitting the bed flat on his back jolts him back to himself, a lot like he imagines it feels like to come back from the dead, nothing-nothing-nothing then bam.

Adam’s kneeling above him, somehow between his legs. Frank’s halfway on top of him on one side, leaning over his chest to get at Tommy on his other side, to get at Tommy’s mouth, and Tommy’s hand is on Gerard’s bare belly, fingertips snuck beneath his waistband. “Is this okay?” Adam asks, keeping Tommy’s hand from sliding further down. “You don’t have to.”

“Fuck, he wants to,” Tommy says, trying to twist his wrist out of Adam’s grip. “He’s so fucking hard, he wants it.”

Frank nods furiously. “You do, right, Gee? You want it. It’s cool. It’s gonna be so fucking good.”

Bizarrely steady, Gerard says, “We’re all really drunk.”

Frank hunkers down to bump his nose against Gerard’s. He nods again, his breath rum-heavy. “So drunk. But not, like, not too drunk. I’ve been trying to get you to, like, fuck, for weeks, man, fucking weeks. Shoulda just grabbed you and did it. Shoulda just fucking done it.”

“What, Frankie?” Talking hurts, Gerard’s chest too tight, his heartbeat thudding in his head and his fucking dick, but he’s got to know. “What’d you want to do?”

“Fucking kiss him,” Tommy says, his hand on the back of Frank’s head guiding him in for it. “Fucking kiss him.”

“Tommy,” Adam says reproachfully, which is fucking hilarious considering Adam’s holding Gerard’s legs spread, and then Frank’s kissing him and none of this is one bit hilarious at all. It’s nothing at all like kissing Adam. Adam is soft and firm at the same time, gently taking, Frankie’s fucking ravenous, snatching up the kiss like he’s afraid this is a dream, too, and one wrong move is going to make is disappear in a puff.

Gerard loses track of everything that isn’t Frank’s mouth. There are hands, and they’re doing stuff, but he’s not really sure what the fuck’s going on until Frank slips away, time enough for one miserable groan before Tommy takes Frank’s place. Tommy kisses a lot like Frank does, and Gerard wonders if that’s something Frank picked up from him, or if they really are that alike, and then it hits him that he’s gone from never-been-kissed to making out with three guys all at the same time. Obviously, this is a historical moment for virginal basement-dwellers everywhere. He’s got one hand buried in Frank’s wavy hair and the other in Tommy’s, thinking about the logistics of switching off, when Frank murmurs, “Quit analysing,” and Tommy says, “Go with it,” and Gerard gives up, letting whoever wants a shot at his mouth take it. Long before they’re done, his mouth is sore, lips hot and swollen, and he wants more. He arches up for it, makes noise for it, and Tommy grins, pinning him to the pillow by his hair. The jolt goes straight down Gerard’s spine like an electric shock to the dick.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Tommy says, eyes dark behind the fall of his hair. “It’s good, right?” He fists his hand tighter, tugging. “Like you’re gonna fucking explode.”

Biting at his stinging lip, Gerard gives Tommy’s hair an experimental tug. Tommy says, “Yeah, c’mon,” and Gerard pulls harder, breath caught in his throat when Tommy’s eyes flutter shut and he groans loudly, way too loud but good, so fucking good Gerard’s got to do it again. And again, hauling Tommy down onto the bed by his hair, and Tommy’s scrabbling desperately at Gerard’s fly, moaning his name, “Gee, fuck, Gee,” over and over as he tries to fumble open the buttons. He gives up before he’s even got one undone, palming Gerard’s cock through his jeans.

“It’s hot, yeah?” Frank says, mouthing kisses along Gerard’s jaw. “Like, getting him so fucking primed for it, like you got me ready to fucking go, c’mon, say yes.”

“I can’t believe I’m party to so much peer-pressure,” Adam says roughly.

“Sorry,” Gerard gasps, no hands free to reach for Adam, so he nudges Adam’s calf with his foot instead, trying to get his message across. “I didn’t mean to, to monopolise, fuck.”

Frank rubs harder at Gerard’s balls, his hand half-hidden by Tommy’s. “Shut up and let us suck you off.”

Gerard squeezes his eyes shut, breathing fast and shallow through his mouth. “I can’t,” he starts, and then his voice goes entirely, and Tommy rasps, “Oh fuck,” and Frank says, “Fuck, fuck, he’s coming,” and Gerard’s dimly aware of more pressure on his dick, Adam’s hand over Tommy’s and Frank’s to feel his cock pulse, the warm seep of heat through his jeans.

“That wasn’t exactly a yes,” Adam says as Gerard slumps down, gasping.

“Sure as fuck wasn’t a no,” Tommy points out, and Gerard grunts. Tommy’s pushy, but he’s not wrong.

“Fuck,” Frank adds, “I wanted you to show me how to blow him.”

“Oh god.” Gerard shudders, his cock twitching. “I’m not a fucking sex toy-”

“That’s right!” Adam declares.

“-you got to give me a minute to catch my breath,” Gerard finishes weakly.

Frank shoves Adam with an elbow. “See. Fucking told you.”

“I’m not opposed to any of this,” Adam says, his hand sliding up to touch the bare skin of Gerard’s side where his shirt’s rucked up. “I’m perfectly happy to watch you both crawl all over him until he’s wrung dry, but don’t you think we should ask what he wants?”

“As if you didn’t spend the hour you two were in the bathroom fucking, fuckin’ seducing him,” Tommy says. He looks down at Gerard. “That’s what he does. He’s gorgeous and kind and wonderful until one day he smiles at you and your fucking pants fly off.”

“I don’t do it on purpose,” Adam protests.

Gerard gapes. That’s fucking exactly what Adam had been doing up there! It’s so deviously brilliant, Gerard has no choice but to be impressed.

“Well,” Adam says, flushing, “I admit I’m a little nicer to the cute ones. But not specifically to get in your pants! You’re just.” He waves a hand. “You’re cute.”

“Thanks,” Gerard says, only slightly out of breath.

“Besides,” Adam goes on, “it’s not like you weren’t down here with your hand in Frank’s pants, Tommy Joe.”

Tommy shrugs. “You said I could.”

“Wait,” Gerard says, flapping both hands at everybody. “Wait, wait. Frankie, did you- Did he-”

“Maybe,” Frank drawls, his eyes lit up in a way that says they were absolutely down here fucking around while Gerard was in the shower. “You want to stick your hand in there too?”

“Oh god yes please,” Gerard says, and his face goes red-hot. “If you want me to. I’m with Adam on the peer-pressure issue, it’s not cool.”

“If I’d waited for Adam to make a move, I’d be dead,” Tommy says conversationally.

Adam says, “Hey!”

“Glacial,” Tommy says. “Slow like a fucking glacier.”

“Maybe he didn’t know you wanted him to make a move?” Gerard cuts a sideways glance Frank’s way. Weeks, Frank said. Gerard had no fucking idea.

Tommy snorts. “Because I’m real subtle.”

“He’s got you there, man,” Frank says to Adam.

“I’m a romantic,” Adam says, crossing his arms. “I didn’t want to just-”

“Stick your hand down my pants?”

Gerard is all for open communication. Mass media has instilled in him a keen understanding of the shit that can go down if people aren’t clear, honest, and real. That isn’t an issue here. “We can do stuff,” he says, getting everyone’s attention at once. “I liked kissing. But I’ve already come in my pants once, so, whoever wants to go next, I guess?” He hopes they don’t want him to choose. It’s like picking favourites. He doesn’t have favourites.

“Blowjobs,” Frank says decisively. “Somebody put a dick in my mouth.”

“Jesus,” Tommy says, scrambling up faster than Gerard’s seen him move all day, “I’ll suck you off so hard, no fucking problem,” grunting a curse when Adam catches him easily with one arm, holding him back. “Lemme go, he asked.”

“You’re such a slut sometimes,” Adam says fondly, giving Tommy’s hair a tug. Tommy whines– whines, Gerard never would’ve thought Tommy able to make a sound like that, let alone do it willingly–and slumps into Adam’s grip. “Stay up there and keep Gerard company. I’ve got Frank.”

“Fine,” Tommy grumbles, flopping back down, his head landing on the pillows next to Gerard’s. He looks at Gerard for a long, long time, the sour twist to his mouth evening out into a smile. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“You’re pretty,” Gerard says, which isn’t what he meant to, but oh well, it’s out there now. Buoyed by a post-orgasmic haze, he skims his fingertips over the sharp angle of Tommy’s cheekbone, sucking in a breath when Tommy turns to nuzzle at his palm. Tommy grins and nips at the base of his thumb. It’s exactly like getting kicked in the balls, except good. So very fucking good.

“Adam’s gonna suck you,” Tommy says, grin turning wolfish when Gerard closes his eyes on a groan. “He’s gonna get your dick wet, and then he’s gonna show Frankie how it’s done. You gonna cream it again before they got a chance?”

“Maybe,” Gerard admits. He can’t stop chewing on his lip as hands tug at his belt. If he looks down, sees two sets of hands anywhere even near his cock with intent, he really will blow it. Resisting the urge to come is not one of Gerard’s strong points.

Tommy scoots in closer, breath hot on Gerard’s mouth. “Adam’s really, really good, too. Like he fucking loves his mouth stuffed.”

“Stop trying to make him come,” Adam says, nudging Gerard’s hips up so they can haul down his jeans. He goes along with it, not thinking until cool air hits the come sticky on his belly. He instinctively tries to curl up, Tommy’s arm thumping heavily to his chest holding him down. They’re all still dressed, nobody else even has a fly open, and Gerard’s practically naked.

“Can’t help it,” Tommy says, playing at kissing Gerard’s mouth, tiny bumps of their lips that make Gerard arch up wanting more. “He looks good when he loses it.”

“Gee, you do,” Frank says, and Gerard’s heart gives a hard lurch. Frank watched him come. Frank wants to make him do it again. With his mouth. Gerard’s cock gives a hard twitch, precome beading hot at the tip, so much it starts to drip down the shaft.

“I’m dreaming,” Gerard says to the pebbly ceiling. “This is a really, really good dream.”

“I’ve only ever done this for Tommy,” Adam says, settling down on his side between Gerard’s legs, leaving space for Frank to worm in beside him. And holy fuck, Gerard should not have looked, no he should not, because they’re between his legs for fuck’s sake, spreading his thighs wide about to go down on him. “So you should tell me if there’s something you don’t like. Or something you really like.”

“It’s your mouth on his dick,” Frank points out, “what’s he not gonna like?”

Adam shrugs. “Tommy likes a bit of teeth every now and then. I’d rather tongue.”

“Oh god.” Gerard squeezes his eyes shut again, turning to hide his face in Tommy’s chest. “Please stop talking or this isn’t ever going to happen.”

“Teeth, man,” Frank says in an awed voice. “You’re so hardcore.”

“Too much talking,” Tommy says, “not enough cocksucking.”

“Bitch, bitch,” Adam says, then, “Hang onto Tommy if you feel like you’re gonna come too soon. He doesn’t mind bruises,” and he takes hold of Gerard’s dick, nice and firm at the base, and sucks the head straight into his mouth.

Gerard clenches his teeth down so hard against a shout his jaw creaks. Whatever the fuck he was expecting, it wasn’t the sudden rush of hot-wet-pressure, the endless tug pulling at him, and he can’t help twisting, not sure if he wants to get away or get closer or fucking die.

“Oh fuck, Gerard,” Frank says, mouth moving against the inside of Gerard’s bare thigh, and Gerard bucks up again, babbling apologies because he at least knows you’re not supposed to try to choke the guy going down on you.

“Here, here,” Tommy’s saying, urging Gerard’s chin up, “gimme your mouth, kissing’ll make it even better,” and Gerard squeaks in alarm, convinced he really will die if that’s true. There’s just so much happening, hands and mouths and wet, eager noises, Tommy sucking on his tongue while Adam sucks on his dick, the weight of Frank leaning against his leg trying to get in there too, and god, god, he’s going to come so fucking hard.

Instead of the rush of heat spooling out from his belly, cool air floods in as Adam pulls off. Gerard’s whine is muffled by Tommy’s mouth as he gropes for Frank, Adam, someone to finish him. It takes him a few seconds to remember that he’s been doing this on his own for years, but the second he reaches for his cock, Adam’s pinning his hands.

Tommy huffs a laugh. “And you fucking thought I was the pushy one, right?”

“Dying,” Gerard croaks. “Please, fuck, I gotta come, it fucking- Frankie, please.”

“Give him a minute,” Adam says, his thumbs gently stroking the inside of Gerard’s wrists. Even that feels like too much and still not enough. Gerard shudders, tugging roughly at Adam’s hold. There’s too many of them, though, holding him down, and not enough of him.

“But I want,” Frank starts, and Adam cuts in, “Kiss me if you want to know what he tastes like.”

Gerard’s eyes fly open. It might kill him, but he can’t not watch this. Tommy looked so small next to Adam when they were kissing, Frank’s even tinier, brash and loud but short and compact and fucking Jesus, Gerard really should’ve paid closer attention to his favourites on xHamster.

“Fuck.” Frank levers up, rubbing his mouth dry on the back of his arm. “Fuck, I haven’t, like, dude, I was totally going to suck dick with you and I never even kissed you yet, fucking crazy.”

Adam pushes up to meet him, mouth glistening wet with spit and precome in the low light. “Crazy gets around,” Adam says, almost there, and Frank shivers, shoves forward to make it happen. Adam’s hand comes up right away to cup his face, and Gerard wants to watch, he really fucking does, but it’s so easy to twist closer to Tommy now, scrabbling at Tommy’s fly because if he’s not getting blown, then god fucking damn it, he’s gonna blow somebody.

Shock chases eager lust across Tommy’s face. He wrenches open his jeans, shoving them down so Gerard can get a trembling hand in, pull his cock out. Now that he’s got it right in front of his face, it’s bigger and more intimidating than he thought. Trying to work back up to that giddy need, he jacks it a bit, stunned when Tommy groans and lists forward, like it’s actually really good. “Please, c’mon,” Tommy says, rubbing his hand over Gerard’s chest, his face, up into his hair, touching like he can’t not do it, like he’s getting off on it almost as much as Gerard fumbling with his dick.

Sort of mostly forgetting about Frank and Adam stuck between his legs, Gerard rolls clumsily over, pushing up on his knees and one elbow to shove his face into Tommy’s crotch. The whole room is soaked in the smell of sex, but here it’s even stronger, thick and heavy and Tommy’s skin is so fucking soft against his lips, delicate almost, thin and hot and he opens up to take Tommy in, wanting the taste of his dick, the feel of it trapped in his mouth. Tommy surges up, giving him more than he thinks he can handle, but it slides in smoothly, stretching his lips and filling him up. It sounds like everybody fucking groans at once, his muffled and low, and there are more wet noises, kisses, hands on his back pushing his chest down, hands on his thighs spreading them wide. He whines and sucks harder, not sure what to do with his tongue, and moving in any sort of rhythm is totally out of the question; he’s all over the place, probably not making it very good, but Tommy’s petting at his hair and his face, breaths sharp and hissing, and he’s willing to admit it’s probably not terrible either.

He almost chokes when Frank drops heavily against his back. There’s only skin between them, and that’s Frankie’s fucking dick pressed against him. A shot of panic straight to his belly turns to a terrified thrill. Frank’s mouthing at his shoulders, stroking his stomach, grabbing onto his hip to give a shaky, rolling thrust that gets Frank’s dick sliding wetly over his ass, wedging into the crack.

Gerard tears himself off Tommy’s cock, pressing his face into Tommy’s stomach, moaning, “Oh fuck, Frankie, what, what’re you- Your fucking dick.” All he gets from Frank is a ragged groan and short, sharp snaps of his hips, riding his ass, and it shouldn’t feel so good, it isn’t even really doing anything, but every single nerve ending Gerard’s got lights up like nothing else he’s ever felt before. How the fuck do people know their bodies can do this shit? Why didn’t anybody fucking tell him it felt like this? “I, I want-”

“It’s okay,” Adam says, mouth skimming close to Gerard’s ear, hair caught on his lips as he bends down to kiss him, barely managing a touch before Frank shoves so hard Gerard tumbles against Tommy. Clutching at the sheets, he tries to scramble back up, but Adam says, “Baby, it’s okay, just take it,” kissing his throat, guiding him back with a hand in his hair so Adam can get at Tommy’s dick, nuzzle it up against Tommy’s belly.

Teeth clenched, Gerard shakes his head. Adam doesn’t get it. He wants more. Too much isn’t enough anymore, he needs Tommy back in his mouth, their hands on him, he wants to feel Frank push inside him. If he could fucking slow down for a minute, he’d ask for it, but he hates the thought of stopping for even a second. Frank’s gonna come, he can fucking feel it. And Adam’s right in front of Gerard’s face sucking Tommy off, so Tommy’s gonna come soon too. He doesn’t know what Adam’s doing, if he’s got a hand on his dick at all, and the next thing Gerard knows he’s groping for it, finding layers of denim in the way, twisting and tugging at them until he figures out Adam’s fly is open, he just needs to reach inside, wrap his fingers around Adam’s cock and let Adam fuck his fist.

Frank loses it with a ragged shout, so loud Gerard would be worried his parents can hear it but Frank’s always down here making a racket anyway, jumping and yelling and being a total fucking hoodlum, and besides all that crap, he doesn’t give a shit. Frank is plastered to his back humping the fuck out of him, coming on him, and it’s not gross, disgusting or wrong at all, it’s fucking perfect, human and gorgeous and real. Leaving his hand wrapped loosely around Adam’s dick, he shoves his face closer to Tommy’s, trying to get in there to help Adam get Tommy off, and probably making a complete mess of it. Tommy comes anyway, Adam’s mouth on his cock, Gerard’s on his balls, and Gerard can feel when his nuts draw tight, when the thick pulse goes through him and he spills over Adam’s tongue. Tommy’s not even finished before Gerard slumps against him, breathing hard as he tries to get the right angle to jerk Adam off. Adam doesn’t go as easy or as fast as the other two, like he’s used to holding back, or maybe Gerard’s not doing it right. It’s a fucking dick, though, it’s hard to do it wrong. Gerard’s overthinking things again instead of going for it. Yanking his hand free, he spits on his palm, shoves it back inside and resists the urge to go for long, smooth strokes, instead concentrating around the head the way he likes when all he wants to do is get off.

“Fuck,” Adam spits, shuddering, “wait, Gee, wait,” but Tommy says, “Don’t listen to him, keep going, make him lose it, fucker’s always the last to blow,” and Adam drops flat to the sheets, clutching at Gerard’s hair, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed up at them.

“S’fucking right,” Tommy says, bending down to licks at Adam’s mouth between words, “fuck you and your fucking gentlemanly shit, you’re gonna come for him right the fuck now, gonna lose it ’cause he wants you to, gonna let us all see you give it up.”

Adam hisses, “Shit,” his back arching, head digging into the lumpy mattress, all the pillows knocked to the floor or jammed up against the wall. A shudder goes through him, and that’s it, Gerard knows Adam’s given in even before Adam plants his feet on the bed to fuck up into Gerard’s hand, his fingers squeezing tight on Gerard’s wrist, not trying to slow him down or speed him up anymore, letting it happen the same way he told Gerard to take it. Gerard wants to kiss him, and suck him, just do more to him, but it feels like Gerard’s cemented to the bed, unable to even fucking twitch as Adam bucks up desperately. Tommy’s hand clamps over Gerard’s, firming his grip and keeping up the rhythm, and then Adam’s coming all over their fingers, his belly, his face pressed against Tommy’s thigh to muffle the noises he’s making.

Gerard rubs his forehead against the sheets, breathing hard. The thick smell of spunk is everywhere. There’s actual spunk everywhere, sticky on Gerard’s back, his hand, some smeared on his face from he doesn’t even fucking know who. He hasn’t come a second time yet, or maybe all that mess on his thighs isn’t precome and he’s hard again, he doesn’t even fucking know, like his brain and his body both have thrown up the white flag, too much to handle.

“Roll over,” Frank’s saying, shoving at him, “roll him the fuck over, Jesus, fucking help,” and Gerard tries, he really does, before he figures out Frankie’s not really asking him. Between one blink and the next he’s on his back, head in Tommy’s lap, Tommy’s long fingers tracing over his lips as Adam leans in to kiss him. “Yeah,” Frank says, breath hot on Gerard’s belly, “fucking yeah, gonna, gonna-” and this time when hot, wet heat surrounded Gerard’s dick, it’s so good he screams. It comes out thin and high, muffled by Adam’s mouth, and he barely has time to register what the fuck’s going on before he comes so hard his vision whites out at the corners. By the time it fades to black again and the world comes creeping back in bits and pieces, the brush of the covers, the looping of the DVD’s title menu, Gerard’s too wrung out to even consider opening his eyes.

Tommy’s talking again, a low, wordless thrum in Gerard’s head barely noticeable over the pounding of his heart. Not having a clue what the fuck he’s saying doesn’t make it any less hot, especially with the weight of someone lying against his legs, and someone else’s fingers in his hair, and he’s pretty sure his head’s still in Tommy’s lap.

The first words that actually make sense come from Frank. “You guys are fucking crazy.”

Adam laughs, pleased and somehow shy-sounding. “It’s not like we do this a lot.”

“My fucking ass we don’t,” Tommy says. There’s a weighty pause, then, “Shut up, I meant me and you.”

Frank giggles. “No, no, I get it, it’s cool. We’re totally special and shit.”

“You know,” Adam says, and there’s a squeak and a shuffle like he’s poked Tommy somewhere ticklish, “when I said I didn’t mind if you made out with Frank, I didn’t expect you to turn it into an orgy.”

“Me! Fucking- Dude. Dude. You took one look at Sleeping Beauty here and wanted all up in his business so fucking fast fucking NASA saw your boner from fucking space.”

“He’s cute,” Adam says, a frown in his voice.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Tommy mutters.

Gerard drags in a couple deep breaths, and on the third he manages to slur, “M’not asleep.”

“Gee,” Frank says, pressing close. “Fuck, Gee, man.” He giggles nervously. “Thought maybe we fucking broke you.”

“M’not broke.” Possibly not all in one fully-functioning piece, but not broken. Or at least not in any way that isn’t fucking amazing and instilling in him a very deep desire to never be fixed.

A warm hand idly rubs at Gerard’s stomach. Weirdly, it’s easy to recognise as Adam’s even before Adam speaks. “We should clean up.”

“Twice in one day?” Frank snorts. “Keep dreaming.”

Prying his eyes open seems like way too much work to be worth it, but once Gerard’s done it, and he’s managed to blink the room back into focus, it’s absolutely worth twice the effort. Frank’s sprawled mostly-naked between his legs, cheek resting on his hip, and Adam’s curled up beside them, still weirdly fully dressed, though his jeans are open and he’s not tucked away yet. Craning his head back, Gerard finds Tommy shirtless, jeans and shorts down around his knees.

“Hey,” Adam says, and Tommy grins, his hand stroking Gerard shoulder sliding in to curl lightly against his throat.

“Is this, uh.” The vicious flutter in Gerard’s belly steals his voice. He swallows hard, takes another few deep breaths, and decides that it’s really silly to be nervous around these guys now. Mutual orgasms should take care of all sort of social awkwardness. “Is this a one-time thing? Because that’s okay. I’m okay with that.”

Adam and Tommy share a look. Frank shuffles around, looking down at Gerard’s kneecap. Nobody says anything for a long minute, then Frank says, “Fuck this shit. Gee, you’re so fucking, augh.” He bangs his forehead against Gerard’s leg. “Augh.”

Gerard blinks. He’s not so sure that’s a good thing. But Frank had said-

“I’m pretty sure you and Frank need to talk,” Adam says, and backhands Tommy’s thigh when Tommy rolls his eyes. “Talking is healthy!”

“They’re really fucking hot for each other, Adam, Jesus, they don’t need to talk about it, they need to fuck.”

“Obviously they do need to talk, or they would’ve been doing that already!”

“Maybe both,” Gerard ventures. “Frankie?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, looking relieved and nervous and excited and like he’s going to get up and start breaking stuff again, like he does when he’s feeling too much for his tiny body to contain. “Yeah, Gee, I- Yeah.”

Gerard beams. Zero relationship experience or not, he can so do this. Maybe. “Okay,” he says, levering up. He doesn’t get very far, but he’s got a plan now. Life is always so much easier to tackle when he’s got direction. “We should order some fucking food before Frank starts trying to eat the wood paneling again, and I think Mikey’s got tequila stashed in here somewhere.”

“Are you sure?” Adam asks. “Gerard, you don’t owe us anything.”

Halfway off the bed, Gerard pauses. “I know. I do, I know that. But I really like you. This is something you do with people you really like.”

“Aw,” Tommy says, ruffling Gerard’s messy hair. “You’ve got a crush on my boyfriend.”

Gerard’s stomach goes cold. “I don’t, I mean, it’s not-”

“Don’t freak out,” Tommy says, darting forward to give Gerard a quick kiss. “It’s cute. Adam’s totally worth a good crush.”

“Besides, Tommy J’s got a crush on me,” Frank says, stretching lazily like a self-satisfied cat. “Dude’s not a hypocrite, just Californian.”

“Asshole,” Tommy says, grinning. “You totally eat wood.”

Giving him the finger, Frank grins back. “You know it.”

“God,” Adam groans, groping for a pillow to shove over his face. “Gerard, you have no idea how happy I am you’re here. These two have been fucking killing me.”

Searching for the phone, Gerard absently reaches out to give Adam’s calf a comforting pat. If Tommy’s as much like Frank as Gerard thinks he is, as soon as there’s food, they’ll be too busy stuffing their faces to drive Adam crazy. And then maybe he can get Adam to show him how he did his eyeliner, and they can talk about Bowie, since Adam’s obviously a fan, and later, if everybody’s into it, they could maybe try out some more stuff. He’s got questions, still. Lots of them.

Surfacing with the phone and hitting speed dial, Gerard glances over his shoulder. Frank’s crawled up the bed to sprawl between Adam and Tommy, back to talking about Doom Patrol and X-Men, and how there’s this endless debate about which came first. Adam looks up, a small, happy smile on his face, then flicks a glance down at Frank, all, check him out, he’s so fucking delighted, Gerard smiles back, thinks that yeah, yeah, this is good.

–

End

–

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Mikey says reasonably. That’s warning sign number one.

Frank hunkers down, out of the line of fire, even though he’s already lurking at the edges of the conversation. He’s sprawled on Gerard’s messy bed, pretending he’s reading the latest issue of Ultimate Spider-Man. If anyone were paying a scrap of attention to him, there’s their clue that Frank isn’t seeing a single fucking panel. Peter Parker, even the Ultimates version, is a whiny douchebag.

“I know you want to go. You should go. You don’t have to worry about me all the time.” Gerard’s got his super earnest face on. His eyes are guileless and wide, so wide, like he’s trying to beam ‘it’s okay, trust me’ vibes directly into Mikey’s brain.

If Frank had a knife, he could carve the tension like a big fat turkey at Thanksgiving. Not that he’s ever carved a turkey. His dad used to do all those stereotypical manly things before the divorce, and shortly after it, Frank went vegetarian, so his mom mostly did too, claiming it was easier on her to just cook one meal. What Frank’s saying, though, is that there’s tension. A metric fucking ton of tension.

“It’s only a few nights,” Gerard adds.

Mikey says, “Three,” all death-sentence dire. Not for him. All he’s gonna do is go north for a couple days and chase rockstars around. And not for Gee, either. Not really. Gerard’s pretty much invincible, as long as he stays away from white picket fences and doesn’t take up sunbathing. But, like, bad shit could happen. Bad shit, as far as Frank knows, has never happened, because Mikey knows how to handle Gee like Frank knows how to handle a six-string. It’s the potential that’s putting the strained note in Mikey’s mellow voice.

“I’ll eat before you go,” Gerard says, wheedling. “And as soon as you get back.”

Mikey says, “You’ll go feral by Friday,” his face the Grand fucking Canyon of frowns.

Gerard’s hands flap around. “I’ve gone more than four days before!”

“Yeah,” Mikey snaps, “when you were fucking-”

“Whoa,” Frank says. Mikey Way, cussing out his brother, for real. Talk about bad shit. “I could help.”

Two sets of eyes turn on Frank, one hopeful, one severely doubtful. He resists the urge to hike his shoulders up around his ears. So what if he’s a kid or whatever compared to them. Gerard doesn’t get out much. Like, at all. He appreciates the company. And it isn’t like Mikey’s ever said anything about it being weird how much Frank likes hanging around a dark, dirty hole in the ground while Gerard does his crazy awesome art thing.

“I could,” Frank says. “Y’know, if you wanted. All you gotta do is stuff a couple baggies in the fridge, right?”

“He doesn’t like it stale,” Mikey says, at the same time Gerard says, “See? Easy! You should go, Mikes.”

Blood goes stale? Frank swallows hard. There’s something he didn’t really need to know, ever. “I could get it fresh?” he offers, and ignores the uneasy roil of his stomach. He’s okay with what Gerard is. Frank’s got a special diet, partly by choice and partly because his body is fucked beyond all belief, so it’s easier to not antagonise it with things like cheese and milk and the flesh of living beings. Gerard doesn’t have a choice. Even if Frank doesn’t want to think about the specifics of where Gerard’s lunch comes from, the alternative is no Gerard. He deals. “From, like, the butcher?”

“Frankie,” Gerard says, eyes going soft, voice like goose down, so warm you could sink straight into it forever. Both brothers claim Gerard doesn’t have any kind of cool creature of night powers. Frank’s not sure he buys it. Gerard could ask for almost anything in that voice and he’d do it. He’s volunteering to go to a butcher, for fuck’s sake. “You don’t have to do that for me. It’ll be okay in the fridge upstairs.”

Mikey’s frown doesn’t budge, but he’s wavering. With Mikey, it’s all in the set of his shoulders and where he puts his hands. Hands in pockets is good. “One bag,” he says. “Half on Friday, half on Saturday. I’ll bring back another on Sunday.”

The entire time Mikey talks, Gerard nods intently. “Got it,” he says, as if he isn’t the oldest dude in the room.

“Okay.” Mikey breathes out slowly, his shoulders easing out of their linebacker hunch. A hint of something other than a frown or a flat-out stare flirts with his face. “This’ll work.”

“Frank’ll watch me,” Gerard says, poking around his desk for a crumpled pack of Player’s. “He won’t need to, because I’m going to fucking, fucking,” and he trails off, rooting under a teetering stack of sketchbooks. It takes him a minute, but he eventually emerges with a lighter. “Fucking watch myself,” he finishes, lighting and brandishing his smoke triumphantly.

“Sure, Gee,” Mikey says, allowing Gerard to fold him into a sideways hug. Mikey tolerates it with a huff and a slant to his mouth that’s as close to a smile as he ever gets when Gerard’s being all Gerard, and Frank watches ashes dust the stained carpet. Gerard makes his oh, oops face and shrugs, still hanging onto Mikey.

Frank shakes his head and grins. It’ll totally work. All he’s gotta do is make sure Gerard doesn’t go hungry. Totally easy.

Frank’s got classes the next day, and the day after that is Thursday. Technically he’s got classes on Thursday, too, but he figures nobody’s gonna call him out on skipping Chemistry. He kinda took it for a filler, anyway. And so he could cackle over a bubbling beaker, all crazy mad scientist, at least once a week. So what if his grade’s not the best.

Junior year of high school, Frank’s guidance counsellor told his mom his problem was being smart. He coasted, and got lazy. Frank never bothered to correct the guy that applying his fingers to a power chord is a hell of a lot more fun than to the pages of a textbook.

The Ways’ house is pretty far from Frank’s school: a train, two busses, then a walk uphill. By the time he gets to the front stoop, his tee shirt’s plastered to his back and there are gross wet spots around the neck and at his pits. Fucking summer. He can’t wait to get down into the sweet cool relief of Gerard’s basement.

Opening the door without knocking–they’re not in the best neighbourhood out here, but he seriously pities the moron that tries to rip this place off–he dumps his knapsack in the hall and trudges through the kitchen to the basement stairs. This door he knocks on, good and loud, and waits for Gerard to holler a greeting before carefully cracking it open a sliver and sidling through. He asked, only once, what would happen if Gerard stuck, like, a hand in the sun. If it’d go up in flames like in the movies, whoosh, bonfire. Gerard laughed his weird, high-pitched cartoon laugh and said no, it’d be more like roasting a chicken, but in fast forward. And then he apologised for bringing up roast chicken again, because Frank had gone green, and Frank hadn’t wanted to risk opening mouth to say it wasn’t the chicken thing. From the way Gerard talked, it was way too easy to imagine he’d tested it out. Imagine Gerard literally baking in the sun.

“Is it hot out?” Gerard calls up as Frank trudges down the stairs, willing his stomach to uncramp at the memory. He’s got total train-wreck syndrome some days. The last thing in the world he wants to think about is slow-roasted Gee. “You smell like it’s hot.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, rounding the weird 360 degree corner at the bottom of the stairs into Gerard’s room. It’s almost pitch-black down here and cool as a morgue. Goosebumps prickle along Frank’s arms and the back of his neck. “You’re lucky you’re down here, seriously. Thought I was gonna evaporate.”

Gerard’s in one corner of the room with three paintbrushes in one hand and no canvas in sight. That doesn’t mean there’s no paint involved, though. Once, Frank caught him painting the ceiling right above the bed in a fucked up collage of exploding sunsets and stars with teeth. It’s pretty epic. “I guess you don’t want coffee,” he says, the shadow of his shoulders slumping defeatedly.

Gerard always fucking wants coffee. He says he can’t taste it, but he’ll cart a mug of it around for hours like it’s a baby blankie. Mostly he likes the smell. And when someone else is drinking it, because according to him, people smell like whatever they eat the most. This one time, when he was maybe high (Frank’s not too sure if Gerard can get high, but he’ll toke up with Frank when Frank’s in the mood), he said Frank smells like green growing things, coffee, and spunk. And then he looked at Frank with wide, wondering eyes, like he thought Frank ate a lot of jizz, and Frank was like, “Dude, what the fuck, I jerked off!” Gerard said, “Oh, yeah, that’ll do it,” and nodded, and took another hit.

Frank went home that night still buzzed, and jerked of thinking about Gerard thinking about him jerking off. Like, twice. Which totally didn’t make things awkward the next day at all. Frank remembers walking down the stairs wondering if Gerard would smell it on him again, if Gerard could sniff out when he thought about it and got a little turned on, and what the fuck else Gerard smelled on him day after day.

“Frank?” Gerard asks, shuffling his way through the debris littering the floor.

“Iced coffee?” Frank squeaks, then shrugs, playing it off. So what if he squeaked. “I mean, like, watch out, man, I’m kinda rank.”

Flashing a smile, Gerard says, “You smell fine,” and Frank determinedly doesn’t squint through the dark trying to see his teeth. Gerard’s pretty self-conscious about them, when he stops to think about it. Most of the time he’s off in another world doesn’t notice Frank staring at the double sets of fangs set against his small, even teeth. They’re not at all like snake fangs. More like cat’s teeth, sharp, pointy canines meant for piercing and tearing, four on top and four on bottom. Perfect for ripping into somebody’s throat.

Gerard’s giving Frank a weirdly steady look.

“I’m gonna put a pot on,” Frank says, backing up. He’s gotta stop thinking about this shit when Gerard’s right there, fuck. “Mikey head out yet?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, following Frank to the bottom of the stairs. “Can you put lots of sugar in your coffee?”

Frank makes a face but says, “Sure,” Gerard’s strange little giggle chasing him up to the kitchen. Maybe Gerard’s lacking on the mind-bending powers, but he can sure as hell see in the dark just fine. “Stand back, okay? I’m gonna leave the door open a crack.”

“I’m safe,” Gerard calls up. “And milk, too, okay? Um, make it a latte?”

The kitchen is ten billion degrees hotter than the surface of the sun. Frank grabs the carafe off the burner and sticks it under the tap, digging through the cupboards for a clean filter while it fills. “I’m not making fucking espresso!”

From downstairs comes a disgruntled silence.

“I’m not!” Smacking the tap off, Frank hefts the coffee pot and seriously considers dumping it over his head. “It’s fucking boiling up here.”

“Okay,” Gerard grumbles.

“Go paint or something,” Frank says, pressing close to the basement door. “I’m gonna rinse off in the bathroom.”

“There’s a bathroom down here.”

“Yeah, but–”

Another one of those silences creeps up the stairs. “You smell like sunshine,” Gerard says, right as Frank moves to close the door, figuring that Gerard’s gotten distracted. “Don’t wash it off?”

And fuck, what choice has Frank got left there? The dude hasn’t seen the sun for years. “Yeah,” Frank says again, clearing the slight rasp out of his throat. “Yeah, okay. Coffee’ll be done in a minute.”

Gerard doesn’t say anything, but the quiet downstairs takes on a vibe of contentment. Like fuck Frank’s making a fucking latte, though. Gerard’ll have to deal with the ghetto version.

Naturally, the coffee takes for fucking ever to percolate. Frank paces the small kitchen, socks catching repeatedly on the torn linoleum until he gets frustrated enough to yank them off. He’s never been alone with Gerard before, not like this. Even if Mikey wasn’t home when Frank got here, or went out, he could be back at any time. Now he’s gone for four whole days. And Gerard’s counting on him. They both are.

“Fuck,” Frank says, an hauls open the fridge. Beside the carton of milk that’s out tomorrow–Frank’ll have to pick up more, since he knows Gee’s gonna want coffee again before Mikey gets back–are two bags of donor blood. Frank quickly tightens his hold on the milk. Fuck. No way Mikey forgot to feed Gerard before he left. No fucking way.

Shoving the carton onto the counter, Frank snatches up one of the bags and runs for the basement. “Comin’ down!” he shouts, hesitating barely a beat before he yanks the door open and pounds blindly down the stairs. “Gee, fuck, look, I found– Did you forget already? Are you okay?”

“Forget?” Gerard echoes, his voice gone hazy.

Frank’s heart thuds into his ribs. “Fuck, you did, didn’t you? Fuck. Fuck. One day and we’re messing up. You didn’t eat.”

“Oh,” Gerard says, and laughs, his voice coming back stronger. “No, sorry, I was painting. I didn’t forget. I told Mikey I’d eat when you got here. Is that okay?”

Something weird squirms through Frank’s belly. He thought he’d have another day to get used to the idea of feeding Gerard fucking human blood. “Yeah, no, oh. Okay. I just– Yeah. That’s okay. Do you, uh, warm it up?”

“Yes, please,” Gerard says. A brush clinks against a glass. “Don’t worry so much, Frankie. We’ll be fine.”

“Right,” Frank says, not so sure. “Fine.” It’s not like there’s a handy rulebook for babysitting vague artsy type vampires. His eyes haven’t had a chance to really adjust yet, but he can tell Gerard’s smiling. He ends up smiling back.

Gerard says, “Coffee,” his cheap 1960s diner stool creaking as he gets back to work.

“Fucker,” Frank tosses back, and happily tromps back up the stairs, blood bag in hand. It’s weird. Thirty seconds ago he was totally wigging out. There’s no way that’s not some freaky vampire power, like, infecting him with Gerard’s good mood. As abilities go, it’s pretty swank. Frank’s been on the verge before of punching douchebags in their douchebag faces, and Gerard’s calmed him down in minutes. That’s some awesome anger management technique right there.

The coffee’s almost done when he gets back to the kitchen. Rooting through the cupboard again, he hauls out two mugs, spacing them out evenly on the counter and placing the blood between them. He stares at the bag for a minute, then picks it back up again, poking at the seals. Mikey could’ve left some fucking instructions. How the hell is he supposed to get this thing open without blood spurting everywhere?

Mining the kitchen turns up a roll of medical tubing. Sizing up the bag one more time, he figures he can poke that into one of the spout-type things, pour some blood into the mug, and call it a day. Resealing it’s gonna be a bitch, but it’s not like he’s saving it for a transfusion. It’ll probably be okay if it’s not exactly sterile.

He manages to get the mug full and into the microwave with minimal fuss, and without tossing his cookies. The sight of blood doesn’t exactly bother him–he’s banged himself up worse walking down the fucking street than most people who come out of fender benders–and it isn’t like he has to whip up a slab of poor, helpless cow to feed Gerard. It’s just, Gerard eats people. And even if it’s Gerard, vague, flaily Gerard, who shoos spiders outside for Frank instead of murdering the disgusting little bastards like they deserve, it’s kinda creepy.

“Ugh,” Frank says, under his breath, and turns away from the microwave to butcher his perfectly good cup of coffee with a pound of sugar and half a carton of milk. When the microwave beeps, he sucks his spoon clean to give the blood a quick stir. Then he pokes it with his finger to make sure it’s warm all the way through, and not, like, boiling. It’s a lot thinner than movie blood. He gives it a sniff, but it doesn’t have that same metallic tang like his does. Probably whatever is put in it to keep it from clotting.

“Soup’s up!” Frank calls, rinsing his finger in the sink and grabbing up both mugs. “You back from the door?”

“All good,” Gerard calls, sounding way more present than he had ten minutes ago. Frank gets like that too, when he’s really fucking starving. Zoned out to the max, but mention food, and he is on.

Bumping open the door with his foot, Frank says, “Watch it, okay, I don’t wanna spill,” and Gerard says, “Okay, Frankie,” kinda eager and excited. Frank grins. It’s almost, almost, like he got to cook for Gerard, and Gerard’s all pumped up to try it. Sure, it’s nuked blood, but whatever. All the grossness is totally worth it.

Setting the coffee down on the top stair, Frank makes sure the door is latched tight. Paranoid like he never is when Mikey’s around, he flips the lock for good measure, just in case a stray breeze pops it open. There will be no Baked Gerard on his watch. Unless there’s some pot lying around, that’s okay, but no literal baking.

Gerard’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, eyes glittering brightly in the lamp’s soft glow. He’s got his hands clasped behind his back, fidgeting.

“Ta-da,” Frank says, proffering the blood mug. “Lunch.”

Reaching reverently for the mug, Gerard says, “Thanks, Frankie,” and cradles it in his hands, breathing deep. He takes a slow, controlled sip. Dude must’ve been totally starving, if he’s worried about pacing himself like that. “Your coffee smells great.”

“Tastes like Willy Wonka barfed in it, but whatever.” Shuffling through the mess on the floor (Frank learned long ago the best way to tackle Gerard’s room was to slough through it, not mince daintily) Frank makes his way to the bed. He plops down and scoots back, resting against the wall. “There’s only like a quarter bag in that mug, man. Drink up. It’ll get cold.”

Gerard peers into his mug. “I will,” he says, and takes another teeny sip.

Frank rolls his eyes. On the way down, they catch on the painting Gerard had been working on. Now that there’s some light down here, he can see that it’s a total homage to horror movie posters from the 70s, but instead of random characters, it’s them. Like, Mikey is looming in the background, larger than life, his flat stare downright fucking terrifying with his eyes whited out by his glasses and his face framed by stylised blood spatters. Gerard and him are the foreground, dead centre, Gerard sprawled dramatically at Frank’s feet, his upturned face desperate and longing through the blood he’s absolutely fucking covered in, like he’s wrapped up in a blanket of gore.

“Wow,” Frank says, shuffling off the bed to get a closer look. Gerard’s painted him taller than he is, broader, stronger, and it’s kinda weird even while it’s kinda cool. In the painting, his face is blank, blanker than Mikey’s, even, and he’s holding a hand out to Gerard. Unlike the other two, there isn’t a spot of blood on him anywhere. Totally pristine, almost fucking glowing in the middle of all that red. “That is pretty fucking awesome.”

Through a mouthful of blood, Gerard says, “Thanks,” and smiles, pleased. There’s some red smeared on his teeth that Frank determinedly ignores. Once upon a time, Gerard used to duck his head shyly at a compliment about his work, almost like he didn’t quite believe it, or he thought Frank was only being nice. Frank’s glad he got over that shit. “It started out as those guys from the comic I was telling you about yesterday, right? But I got bored with their designs. I gotta reimagine them or I’m never gonna wanna draw it. Anyway, yeah, I figured, why not?”

“It’s really fucking cool.” The Frank in the painting even has tiny details on his arms and neck mirroring Frank’s tats. There are a couple more besides, one on the hand that Frank doesn’t have yet but was thinking about getting. He points at it. “Can you make me a bigger sketch of that one?”

“Sure,” Gerard says, and downs what’s left of his lunch in one long gulp while he digs around one-handed for a sketchbook.

Frank’s stomach swoops. “I didn’t mean right now. You’re busy, man.” He gestures at the unfinished canvas.

“Nah, now’s good. It’s fresh in my head, y’know?” Absently handing Frank his empty mug, Gerard grabs some pencils and plunks his ass straight down on the floor. “You should get some more coffee, Frankie,” he says, opening the sketchbook over his knees. “And there’s some things in the fridge for you to eat.”

“You got Mikey to shop for me?” Frank swirls the over-sweetened sludge at the bottom of his mug. Bracing for the rush, he tips it up and swallows as much of it as he can without letting it hit his taste buds.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, the light, sweeping scratch of his pencil already started up. “Of course. You’re staying over, you gotta have food.”

Frank chokes on a lump of sugar. Thumping a fist against his chest, he waves off Gerard’s concerned glance. “Yeah,” he says. Of course, yeah, he’s staying over. Except nobody fucking mentioned it. “Right, yeah. I’ll go, uh, grab us some eats.”

Tossing Frank a quick smile, Gerard gets back to sketching, juggling five different pencils while he smudges and shades.

When Frank steps out of the basement this time, a shot of sunlight nails him right in the face. Panicking for no good reason, he slams the door shut and throws his back against it, braced like the sun’s jonesing for a fight. This is fucking crazy. He never fucking worried this much before. Tomorrow Frank’s gonna have to nab some supplies from his dorm, because his original plan of swinging by for lunch with Gerard on his break is so toasted. There’s no way he’s gonna be able to go to class while Gerard’s home here, alone and vulnerable all damn day. He’s sick all the fucking time, anyway. If he calls up Dr. Bost and says he needs a note for today and Friday, he’ll get one, no problem.

Satisfied with his shiny new course of action, Frank goes to the sink to rinse their mugs, then sets about making a couple of sandwiches for himself and warming up some more blood for Gerard.

Things are cool until a little after sunset. Frank spent the afternoon flopped on Gerard’s bed again, watching Monty Python, while Gerard did something with glueing shards of glass to a canvas in a really neat arcane pattern between sipping on his third helping of Soylent Green. It takes Frank about an hour to notice that Gerard abandoning the half-finished canvas to go back to the painting, then leaving that to switch to sketching, then turning his attention for all of five minutes to something else, isn’t really Gerard’s style. Gerard’s got focus when it comes to art.

“Hey,” Frank says, muting the television. “You still hungry?”

“No,” Gerard says, too fast. “Well, maybe.” He starts patting down his pockets distractedly.

“Want a smoke?” Frank tries. “It’s late, we could go outside?”

“Yes, yeah, can we?” Gerard says in a rush.

Slowly, Frank says, “Sure,” and rolls off the bed. Gerard’s kind of a twitchy guy, but it’s usually a mellow sort of twitchy, where he’ll fidget and fuss and gnaw on his fingers, but it’s all in slow motion. Definitely not this fluttering, distracted thing he’s doing. Scooping Gerard’s pack of cigarettes off the desk, along with a lighter, Frank grabs up a hoodie from the mess on the floor. Sometimes it gets pretty cool at night. “C’mon.”

Frank takes point heading up the stairs, as if there’s a sliver of leftover sunlight waiting to ambush unguarded vampires. He eases open the door, double checking that it really is as late as the clock says it is, and the sun’s long since dipped beneath the horizon. Finding the kitchen dark except for the light he left on above the stove, Frank lets the door swing wide. “Coast is–oof.”

“I can still smell it,” Gerard says, crowding close against Frank’s back. “It smells like you up here, warm and bright.”

“Yeah, uh, I had the windows open.” They’re all closed now, though, blinds firmly shut. Frank’s not sure what Mikey’s usual habit is, but Frank knows people talk, even in a neighbourhood like this one. The idea of random nosy strangers peering in through the windows to get a look at the weird hermit brother who only comes out at night pisses him off.

“Awesome,” Gerard says happily. He squeezes by Frank to head through the house to the unkempt backyard, screen door banging behind him before he catches and holds it open. “Come with me.”

Frank’s mouth is weirdly dry. He scrubs his palms casually against the legs of his jeans.”Yeah, ‘course.”

Outside is still mostly warm, the heat of the day built up in the ground, but the breeze has some bite. Frank pulls on the hoodie and tugs the hood up, stuffing his hands in the front pocket as he trudges down the rickety step after Gerard. Way in the back, butted up against the iron fence and the back alley of the squat strip mall on the other side of the block, sits an old wooden swing half-hidden by overgrown weeds. Not concerned with its creaking, Gerard clambers on up. He pats the opposite seat. “C’mon.”

Carefully, wincing at the squeak of rusty bolts, Frank climbs on. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’, geez. Mikey never let you out or what?”

Gerard just grins and pats the seat harder, waiting for Frank to gingerly sit down before snatching up the smokes and the Zippo. He lights up one for Frank first, offering it with a flourish, then one for himself, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs and holding it there way, way longer than somebody who’s got to breathe. He lets it out in a long, thin stream, hand hovering near his face with his wrist cocked, his hair dark shadows framing pale skin and glittering eyes, glamourous as an old movie.

“You only think you’re cool,” Frank says, and blows smoke in his face.

Gerard honks his weirdo laugh, startling and loud, shattering the illusion, but not taking the strange, itchy feeling between Frank’s shoulders with it. He rolls his shoulders and shifts, sprawling back in the seat to hide behind his cigarette. With the busy street out front and bustling late-night businesses behind them, a convenience store and a laundromat and one place Frank’s pretty sure does peep shows, it’s not quiet. The noises seem miles and miles away anyway. Nights like these crawl beneath Frank’s skin and nest there, prickling. Like there’s something in the air, in the dark, waiting.

Something like Gerard, he thinks.

“Frankie?” Gerard asks, one side of his mouth crooked in an uncertain smile. Frank’s gaze hooks on a sliver of fang. His fangs aren’t shockingly white like in books and movies. They’re dense-looking, the off-white colour of exposed bone. The rest of Gerard’s teeth look even tinier next to them. Sometimes Frank will catch himself running his tongue along the blunt edges of his own teeth, trying to gauge the difference in thickness. “If it’s cold, you should go in.”

“Nah,” Frank says through a lungful of smoke. “S’not cold.”

The slight hitch of Gerard’s smile fades. “You’re shivering.”

Frank rolls his eyes. One shiver, maybe, and it didn’t have anything to do with the chill. As if he’s gonna fucking tell Gerard what the hell’s going on in his head right now, Jesus. “Hey, man, if you’re hungry, there’s shit in the fridge. Ain’t your gopher.”

“Aw,” Gerard says, and sucks back the last of his smoke. He grinds the butt out on the swing before flicking it carelessly into the wild grass. “Mikey picked up Rob Zombie’s latest cinematic massacre. Wanna?”

“Hell yeah.” Frank catapults off the seat, stumbling only slightly when the swing rocks out from underneath his foot. Like he planned it, he swoops around and grins. “You do the movie, I’m gonna grab some beer.”

Flashing a quick, toothy smile, Gerard says, “Okay,” and slides smoothly off the swing. The grass barely rustles beneath his socked feet as he heads for the house, eerily passing Frank by, a slice of night peeled off and made only vaguely human. Frank shivers again and jams his hands deeper into the hoodie’s pocket. It’s not the same at all without Mikey around.

Frank’s lost count of how many times he’s curled up on Gerard’s bed with cheap booze and a good ol’ classic slasher. He’s even lost count of how many times Gerard’s been tucked against his back in the light of the flickering television, arm slung over his waist. Three piss-water beers in, he’s not drunk. But his skin’s buzzing, his head’s fuzzy, and his insides are all quivery like he is. Gerard’s cool breath on his neck has his heart pounding so loud he’s sure Gerard can hear it. Maybe even feel it thudding through Frank’s back into his chest like the heartbeat he doesn’t have anymore.

Something happens in the movie with a lot of screaming and a whole lot of blood. Frank isn’t really paying much attention to what’s going on except for the occasional twitch of Gerard’s fingers against his belly. His tee shirt’s been riding steadily up for the last ten minutes or something, so now there’s this tiny, tiny sliver of skin bared, just enough for him to really feel the weird not-heat of Gerard’s fingers hovering there. Goosebumps prickle all along his arms and legs as he stifles another shiver. He’s not cold. He’s so not cold.

Abruptly, the screaming stops. Frank’s not sure what movie they’re watching–the camera doing a loving slow-pan over the carnage and the overly-artistic arterial spray doesn’t strike him as Zombie’s style. He’s not even sure he’s seen whatever this is before. Gerard’s gone still behind him, breathing fast and shallow. That’s not really news–gallons of spilled blood, vampire, shit happens. Like watching porn, that kinda shit. Frank does not judge. But he does sorta try out a ninja shuffle, like he’s fucking compelled to see if Gerard’s really getting excited back there.

Gerard’s hand goes tight on his hip. “Sorry,” Gerard mumbles, scooting back, hunching in on himself like he’s trying to shield Frank from his inappropriate blood-boner.

“Nah, no, c’mon,” Frank says, tongue tripping over itself. He squirms around, half on his back, to shoot Gerard a lopsided, slightly guilty smile. “I wasn’t, that wasn’t like a hint, man. My leg’s falling asleep.”

There’s this long, drawn-out moment where Gerard doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even move. Then his eyes dart from Frank’s face to his throat, and a rush of pure, molten heat spills out from Frank’s belly. Gerard is checking him out, vampire-style. Like, if Frank had a rack, this is Gerard blatantly ogling it. Resisting the total, idiotic urge to fucking stretch his neck out, Frank concentrates on keeping his smile easy, his body loose, like he’s not five seconds away from popping the most massive, sicko boner ever.

Gerard sits up so fast the bed rocks. “I need, uh, upstairs,” he says, clambering over the mess of blankets and comics and random art shit they kicked to the foot so they could crash.

“Wait, wait.” Foot tangled in a rouge sheet, Frank gives a hard kick and rolls off the bed, barely getting his feet beneath him in time. No wonder Gerard’s acting weird, if he’s hungry and there’s all this fake blood all over the fucking place. It’s natural. Or, like, unnatural, but whatever. It’s instinct, not Frank and his, like, smooth virgin neck. “I’ll get it.”

Eyes wild and frantic, Gerard flaps a hand. “No, no, it’s okay, I–”

“I said I’ll motherfucking get it,” Frank snaps. Gerard goes abruptly still and silent, corpse-quiet. It’s creepy and strange and not at all like Gerard. “It’s my fucking responsibility while Mikey’s gone, okay? So I’ll get it.”

For a minute, Frank’s sure Gerard’s going to argue. But then the tension holding his shoulders too square and high eases, and just like that he’s Gerard again, bad posture and stringy hair and mouth held in a crooked, uncertain line, hiding his teeth.

“Okay,” Frank says, and pretends he doesn’t see the flinch in Gerard’s eyes when he gives the guy a reassuring pat on the chest as he trudges over to the stairs. “Seriously, okay?” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s cool. I got it.”

“Okay,” Gerard echoes, his voice way too close, right at the foot of the stairs. Frank hadn’t even heard him move. “Thanks, Frankie.”

Upstairs, his stomach jittering, Frank digs out the last quarter of open blood and sticks it in the microwave, watching the mug turn. His brain’s going round and round with it. It’s not him. It’s the blood. There’s no way the single bag left in the fridge is gonna keep Gerard going until Mikey gets back.

Blindly watching the timer tick down, Frank thinks about heading to the butcher’s on the corner by Maple on his way back from the dorms tomorrow. Then he jolts, hissing, “Shit,” as he lunges for the microwave, slamming the button to pop the door. Fuck. Fuck. The blood’s bubbling. He frantically waves a hand over it and blows hard to cool it down.

“Frank?” comes Gerard’s voice, silky-soft and disconnected. Frank hisses another curse as a shadow detaches itself from the basement door and slowly resolves into Gerard’s pale, concerned face.

“S’okay,” Frank says, thumping his chest with a fist to make sure his heart’s still going. He makes a face and hefts the mug. “Or I hope it is. I let it get too hot.”

Gerard sniffs the air, pushing away from the door to cross the half dozen feet between them. It’s seriously like watching a movie, his steps sure and quiet and way too smooth, like he doesn’t even have bones anymore. “It smells okay,” he says, gaze flickering everywhere–the mug, the crooked blinds on the window, the blinking timer on the microwave–anywhere but Frank’s face. Or Frank’s neck. He reaches out to carefully take the mug from Frank’s hand, not letting their fingers touch. “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” Frank mumbles. Up here is bright, almost cheery with the light reflecting off the mid-80s sunshine yellow walls. But the longer Frank looks at the scuffed tile, the less normal it feels. Like Gerard’s brought a slice of weird up from the basement with him, and the light goes from just right to too bright, unreal, so stark his eyes water.

When Frank manages to lift his gaze from the not-so-fascinating crack in the baseboard beside the fridge, blinking back strange, half-formed tears, it sticks on Gerard’s lowered eyelashes black and thick against his pale cheeks. Then, like Frank isn’t driving at all, his gaze slides down the bridge of Gerard’s nose, falls off the slight upturn at the tip and lands square on his mouth half-hidden behind the mug.

The mug slips out of view. Gerard’s mouth is red and wet, for real. Frank thinks about how disgusting it would be to kiss, and how he’d kinda do it anyway. Maybe he’d be able to feel Gerard’s fangs through it. If he stuck his tongue in Gerard’s mouth, for sure he would.

“Frankie,” Gerard says. In a daze, Frank watches Gerard’s hand come out, fingers catching on the hem of his shirt. “Come downstairs, Frankie.”

Said the fucking spider to the fly. Frank goes.

Whatever Frank thinks is going to happen, he doesn’t even fucking know. His head’s spinning so fast, winding him so tight he’s pretty sure he’s going to snap. He trips twice on his way down the stairs, again as he blindly follows Gerard through the minefield that’s his room to the bed, and a fourth fucking time when Gerard somehow ends up behind him and gives him a nudge, urging him to lie down. He crawls across the creaky mattress and settles down on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head and the other flopped on his belly in attempt to look like he’s not having a total freak out. Gerard probably knows. Probably would no matter what Frank did. Able to, like, see it on his face or hear it in his thundering pulse or fucking smell it in his sweat, fuck.

Gerard sits on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked underneath him, mug balanced on his knee. He reaches a hand out really, really slowly, painfully slow, like he thinks Frank’s gonna bolt, and lays it square on Frank’s chest. There’s a dark shadow by his knuckles that could be paint, or blood. He doesn’t look up when he says, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Jesus,” Frank says, and moves to sit up. But Gerard’s holding him down like Gerard doesn’t even fucking know how heavy his hand is. “I know that, fuck. Don’t be stupid.”

“Frankie,” Gerard says, like he’s testing out the word, tasting it along with the blood clinging to his teeth. “I know you know. But I wanted to make sure, okay? Because I’m kind of messed up. I’m messed up, and maybe it’s messing you up, and–”

“You don’t wanna mess me up, okay, I get it.” Gerard needs to shut up. Gerard needs to stop fucking moving his mouth. His stupid, stupid mouth that Frank’s still thinking about kissing, because maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be hurt a little by Gerard. Gerard’s still kind of holding him down, and it’s making his heart beat faster, and starting a party in his pants he thinks might freak Gerard out more than he already is. Isn’t that fucking rich. Frank’s so fucking freaky he’s potentially wigging out a fucking vampire.

A vampire who also happens to be bizarrely shy and earnest and so fucking sweet it actually does hurt. Christ, Frank wants Gerard to kiss him. Bam, just like that, he wants. Then maybe Gerard wouldn’t be so nervous, or jittery, and would quit fucking staring at Frank like Frank’s got the fucking key to all the secrets in the world.

Frank does a weird, slow-motion flail that ends with his hand on Gerard’s tense thigh. “Gotta rewind the movie,” he says, dumbly.

Gerard looks at the television like he’d forgotten it was there, or that televisions existed at all. “Right,” he says, and starts rooting around jerkily for the remote. Finding it jammed halfway under Frank’s lower back, he gingerly fishes it out, then points it at the screen while he scoots back, mug held high like that’ll keep him from spilling, to settle against the wall by Frank’s knees.

When the screaming starts up again, Frank still doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.

Frank wakes to pure darkness and a heavy weight on his chest. He’s got enough time to think What the fuck? and then it snuffles, burrowing closer, and his brain goes like a lightning bolt, Gerard. Gerard is sprawled out on top of him, face tucked into the crook of his neck, one leg slung over both of his, pinning him down. His heartbeat goes from a slightly concerned pitter-pat to an all-out adrenaline-fuelled thud-thud-thud in half a second flat.

With a weirdly kittenish noise–kittenish, what the fuck–Gerard noses in under Frank’s chin, his breaths deep and slow. He’s shivering–no, no, he’s fucking trembling, and he’s so heavy on Frank’s chest at the same time as he feels like nothing at all beneath Frank’s hand on his back, like he’s only skin stretched over bones, wasted away, starved to a shell. He makes that noise again, way down low in his throat. Small and sad and hungry.

“Gerard,” Frank says on a sharp, indrawn breath, garbled so bad it’s barely a sound. His hand somehow ends up in Gerard’s hair, awkwardly petting at the tangled mess, trying to soothe the worried pitch to Gerard’s voice. “Gee, Gee, c’mon. Wake up. Wake up, I’ll take care of you, I promise. Come on, Gee, please.”

Frank can tell the second Gerard comes back to himself. He goes from this crazy mix of pliant and needy to board-stiff, his breathing cut off entirely. Before he freaks out, Frank wraps both arms around him as tightly as he can, holding on with everything he’s got. He wants to say it’s okay. Gerard didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. But his voice is stuck in his throat so all he can do is hug the shit out of Gerard and hope it’s enough.

“Frank,” Gerard rasps, “Frankie, fuck, I’m sorry, sorry,” and he tries to push up, away. Frank holds on even harder, kicking his leg free of Gerard’s to clamp on like he’s a freaking octopus. The harder he clings, the more Gerard struggles, until Frank remembers it’s a fucking vampire he’s wrestling with, a panicked one, and if they’re not careful, somebody’s gonna get hurt.

“Gerard, stop.”

Gerard goes still with a quiet gasp.

“Okay,” Frank says, but doesn’t let up yet. He can handle this. He’s gonna handle it. “I’m gonna let you go, and then I’m gonna go get you some breakfast.” He has no idea if it’s even close to dawn. They could’ve slept all through the morning into afternoon for all he knows. Time doesn’t really exist in any normal way down here. “Don’t freak out.”

Hair brushes Frank’s chin as Gerard silently nods. Not good enough, Frank thinks, and squeezes, like if he pushes hard enough he can make Gerard believe down to the bone that they’re okay. He shivers in the cool rush as Gerard sucks in a lungful of air. “I won’t freak out,” Gerard says, carefully measured.

Right. That’ll have to do. It takes an extra few seconds for the message to get from his brain to his arms, and when they finally loosen, Gerard doesn’t move. “Stay right here, okay?” Frank says, waiting for Gerard’s slow nod. “But not like, right on top of me, dude, I can’t get up.”

“Sorry,” Gerard repeats breathlessly, and rolls off.

“Right here, though.” Frank points at the bed. Gerard gives him another uncertain nod. Keeping an eye on him, Frank starts backing toward the stairs, shuffling shit out of the way with his heels as he goes. “Right there.”

“Okay, Frankie,” Gerard says, cowed like Frank fucking yelled at him.

At the top of the stairs, Frank checks for the sun’s evil deathrays–or in his case, rays of stabbing blindness–and nudges open the door. The kitchen’s almost as dark as downstairs. The timer on the microwave is still blinking, but the stove’s clock says it’s half past three. He has no idea when they conked out, but it for sure feels longer than the couple of hours it must’ve been.

Fishing the second donor bag out of the fridge is an adventure. Frank stumbles around with spots in his eyes getting a mug ready, standing by the microwave squinting at the countdown this time to make sure it doesn’t overheat. When the timer goes off, he gives the mug a swirl and swishes his finger around in it to make sure it’s warmed through. The blood doesn’t even bother him this time. Funny how quick you can get used to shit.

On his way downstairs, he holds the mug carefully against his chest. There’s only about two-thirds of the bag left. “Gerard?” he calls from the second-to-last step. “I think we gotta– holy shit.”

One pale hand catches Frank’s elbow, the other closing securely around the mug. The blood sloshes alarmingly but doesn’t spill. “Fuck,” Frank says, hanging awkwardly in Gerard’s hold, half on the stairs and half off. “You scared the fuck outta me, what the fuck.”

“Sorry.” Carefully, Gerard pulls the mug from Frank’s grip, easing him down the last stair like he’s somebody’s grandpa. “I was worried. I thought you might– Because of the blood, I know you don’t like it, and I didn’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not gonna fucking leave,” Frank snaps. Then he takes a deep, steadying breath. Yelling at the guy isn’t going to help. “I mean it,” he says, managing to tone it down. They had this stupid conversation months ago, Gerard talking in unsure, halting words, all fidgety and twitchy with Mikey looming over Frank ready to beat his ass to a pulp if he so much as dared hurt Gerard’s feelings about it. Like Frank fucking cared. He’d been friends with Mikey for years; what shocked him the most was how Mikey had a fucking brother he never even fucking knew existed.

In retrospect, barging into the basement demanding to see Mikey’s big dark secret hadn’t been the smartest thing he’d ever done, but no way does he regret it. No way will he ever.

“I’m not going to leave,” Frank repeats, like if he says it often enough, Gerard’ll finally get it. “Drink your dinner, Lugosi, s’fucking late. I got class tomorrow.”

Gerard flicks a glance at the bed. “You should go to sleep. I can watch a movie in Mikey’s room.”

“Like fuck no.” Though Gerard’s got maybe five inches and twenty pounds on Frank–not to mention the whole strength of the undead thing–Frank plants himself squarely in front of the stairs. Dawn’s only a few hours away. “I’ve slept through worse than you puttering around at your painting shit.”

The corners of Gerard’s frown dig in deep. “But–”

“No,” Frank says, forcibly turning Gerard around and frog-marching him through the clutter. “Draw shit. Or fucking cuddle me while you eat, I don’t care, but you’re not going upstairs.”

When they get near the bed, Gerard’s face is screwed up like he’s gonna keep arguing. Frank says, “Augh,” like, he actually fucking says it, and shoves Gerard down, barely noticing the blood that sloshes over the mug’s rim to patter onto the sheets. Before Gerard can budge his stubborn ass, Frank sits on it. Or more like he scrambles onto the bed and flops over Gerard’s lap, head pillowed on a thigh and one arm tucked awkwardly around Gerard’s waist, the other looped around his knees, but whatever. Gerard’s not going anywhere.

“I’m going to sleep,” Franks announces, and closes his eyes with an air of finality.

Gerard hovers kinda twitchily, like he’s busy trying to work shit out. As far as Frank’s concerned, shit’s already worked out. He makes an exaggerated sleepy noise just in case Gerard’s thinking about lifting him off and sneaking upstairs. Apparently Gerard’s never been a big sleeper, even before the whole vampire thing way back when. Frank figures that’s what makes him so reverent and careful around other people when they’re out for the count.

Frank doesn’t actually fall asleep for a long time, his pulse tripping as Gerard combs gentle fingers through his hair in the dark. There’s no noise at all down here, not Gerard’s absent humming like when he’s working, or even a restless shuffle of him getting comfy. Gerard doesn’t breathe, and doesn’t move, and the weight of his gaze doesn’t lift.

“I’ll be okay,” Gerard insists for the billionth time. They’re down to a quarter bag of blood and it’s only Friday afternoon. Mikey’s not gonna be back until Sunday. Could be late Sunday night, even.

“You totally will,” Frank agrees, because lack of confidence in your vampire is not the way he wants to go with this. “But you don’t have to, like, suffer it out, ’cause here I am.” He shoves on his other shoe. “Goin’ out to get m’boy some eats. And like, a clean shirt because man, this shit stinks.”

“Borrow Mikey’s,” Gerard says, voice thin and edging high. He’s clinging to the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs, pushed back by the thin lines of sunlight pressing against the basement door.

“Good idea.” Frank stands up and hitches his jeans up over his ass, shrugging when they slip down again. Like he cares if his shorts are showing. “I’ll grab one on my way out. Gonna look weird enough going to the butcher’s for a bucket of blood, don’t need to be a total slob.”

“The butcher?” Gerard echoes. Frank has no idea where the fuck, or even how, Mikey comes up with enough human blood to keep Gerard fed. For awhile there, Frank thought Mikey drew it himself, or like, family helped out, but it’s just him and Gerard. There’s no way Mikey could keep Gerard going on his own. Which means Mikey probably steals it. Frank’s not even going to attempt that shit. “What are you gonna tell them?”

Frank shrugs. “Vampire bat.”

Gerard says, “Huh,” like he thinks that might actually fly. Like hell Frank’s telling anybody anything, unless some dick refuses to give him the goods without a damn good explanation. Since Gerard’s not vetoing the whole animal thing, cow blood or human blood must not make a difference to him. The whole thing’s maybe making Frank’s skin crawl, but the idea of Gerard wasting away to a blood-starved, lifeless corpse is way worse. He’s already starting to look a little grey around the eyes, and his lips look thin, brittle against the sharp points of his teeth.

“I’m gonna warm up what’s left in the fridge for you before I go,” Frank says. He’s never seen Gerard like this. He’d also never seen Gerard so fucking creepy like he’d gotten last night, but then, it was sorta cool, too. Like it was the most alive Gerard’s felt in months. “Back up, okay?”

Gerard gives a quick nod and vanishes from the doorway. There’s even more shit on the floor today than there had been last night, but Frank can’t hear a thing. “Safe,” Gerard calls, from what sounds like the furthest side of the room.

“Freaky,” Frank mutters, and turns around to trudge up the stairs. He calls out a second warning right before he opens the door, just in case, and squeezes quickly through.

The kitchen’s kind of a disaster. Maybe Frank didn’t have to get Gerard a fresh mug every time. But feeding the guy out of an old one coated with cool, weirdly-congealing blood is just gross. It’s bad enough the stuff’s probably days old and treated with who knows what the fuck to keep it from clotting before he zaps it with radiation.

“Ugh,” Frank says, and fishes out the last clean mug in the place, getting it ready in between loading up the dishwasher. He totally feels way better about his decision to get some fresh stuff. It’ll be like a treat. Frank is so Gerard’s favourite.

That thought buoys Frank back down the stairs, hop-hop-hop the whole way. “Gerard,” he singsongs, pushing aside thoughts of exactly where the blood he’s gonna bring home comes from and instead focusing on how delighted Gerard’s gonna be when he tastes some pure, untreated stuff, like the difference between diet soda and the kind made with real sugarcane. “Come ‘n get it.”

With no warning at all, Gerard is right fucking there. Frank could’ve sworn two seconds ago he was puttering at that painting of the three of them, but there he is, big, round eyes right in Frank’s face, his cool fingers cupped around Frank’s on the lukewarm mug. He’s usually pretty pale, but up close like this, he’s fucking pallid.

“Dude,” Frank says, a little wheezy.

Gerard nods like he’s suddenly a mind reader. Which would be really awesome, because then at least one of them would know what the fuck Frank’s thinking. “It’s really hot out, Frankie,” Gerard says, way out of left field, as he presses closer. The mug’s handle digs into Frank’s sternum. Gerard’s hand catches on the doorframe and slides up, his arm blocking the slivers of light creeping down from the kitchen. “You smell hot already. Did you open another window?”

“Uh, no?” Frank starts, and forgets what the fuck he was gonna say when Gerard drags in a slow, deep breath and shudders all the way from his toes to the tips of his fucking fingers. Gerard’s mouth is slack, open, not even trying to hide his teeth. The height difference doesn’t usually really register with Frank–everybody’s fucking taller than him, whatever–but Gerard’s fangs are staring him right in the face. And Gerard’s fucking plastered against him, breathing slow and heavy and really, really deliberately.

Frank says, “Shit,” and Gerard says, “Please,” and yeah, okay, Frank’s not really sure what Gerard’s asking him, but it’s not like Frank really even cares. He says, “Okay,” hardly more than a whisper, then repeats it again, louder, maybe too loud, because Gerard jerks against him, surprised. “You, uh, you said please,” Frank reminds him, kinda like a tool. “And I said okay, so, um, okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gerard replies, maybe an answer, or like, confirmation. His fingers briefly touch the hinge of Frank’s jaw, tilting his face up, and Frank thinks fuck fuck fuck fuck, just like that, right up until Gerard leans down and fits their mouths chastely together.

Frank makes some sort of weird, totally unsexy noise right against Gerard’s mouth. Gerard either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care or maybe actually likes it, because he makes one back–totally sexy, though, kinda stuck between a whimper and a moan, and oh fuck yeah, Frank is the reason he’s making that noise–and nudges Frank’s mouth open. Frank goes with it, too stunned to do anything but follow Gerard’s lead, standing there like an idiot clutching a mug full of cooling blood and letting Gerard lick inside his mouth. Then Gerard tilts his head a little, like he means to go deeper, and fangs scrape Frank’s lip. Not enough to cut, or even to really sting, but wham, there they are. Frank is totally macking on a vampire.

“Fuck,” Frank gurgles, super intelligently. With Gerard’s tongue stuck in his mouth, it comes out more like, “Fnrgh,” which hey, does a pretty good job summing up Frank’s feelings on the matter. He surges up and shoves his tongue in Gerard’s mouth without a single scrap of style. Gerard’s surprised grunt feels weird caught between them but Frank presses forward, seeking out the hard, raised ridges of Gerard’s fangs digging into his lips. It’s so fucking messed up and unreal, and Gerard tastes really, really strange, a metallic tang to this weird sort of cool blankness, like making out with the midnight sky. It’s awesome.

Gerard gets kind of hesitant then, like it’s been so long since he last kissed somebody that he’s forgotten what happens after that first sweet rush. Frank does his best to like, fucking man-up or whatever and remind him. Frank might not have a whole lot of experience but he’s sure as fuck not virginal, and he knows that not quite dead but not quite alive, Gerard can still get it up. Which, oh fuck, totally reminds him that Gerard can get it up. Frank grabs onto Gerard’s ass one-handed, this great big huge handful of it, and hauls him in tight. Gerard’s hard. Really spectacularly packing heat, not just hey, we’re making out, kinda interested. Frank has no idea how that even fucking works and he does not care. Like, at all.

The same as if Frank hit the go button, Gerard grabs onto his head with both hands and comes at him like it’s a mission. Frank is oh so fucking good with that. He’s still in it, totally present, but with Gerard calling the shots he’s free to let his thoughts catch on Gerard’s fangs, so sharp and so, so there. There’s no mistaking those for anything other than what they are, and it’s turning Frank’s crank like nobody’s fucking business.

A weird, grind-shift thing against Frank’s chest makes absolutely zero sense until he remembers the mug he was supposed to be holding onto since Gerard isn’t anymore. It lists sideways, spilling all down the front of Frank’s shirt. He makes a clumsy grab for it, rescuing maybe half. “Shit, shit,” he says. “Shit, I got it.”

“Frank,” Gerard moans, ridiculously, because Frank’s name isn’t the kind that sounds hot or sexy or even halfway decent in a long, drawn-out moan like that. But the unsexability of his own name is way down there on the list of important things to think about when Gerard’s grabbing him by the shoulders to pin him against the wall and shove his face into Frank’s bloody chest. Gerard nuzzles in, his nose all squished up and red smearing all over his cheeks and his chin. Like a slow-motion buildup Frank watches his mouth open and lips peel back, baring his fangs. All fucking eight of ‘em. Gerard’s wearing an old stretched out tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans and his hair’s dirty, stringy, hanging in his blood-smeared face, and for the first time ever, he actually looks like a fucking monster.

“Fuck,” Frank says, his eyes wide, so wide it feels like they’re gonna pop out of his head. “Gerard, shit, are you– What’re you–”

Gerard bites. Really, really gently, barely even catching skin, Gerard bites down on a mouthful of Frank’s ruined shirt. Frank can feel the push of Gerard’s breath as he sucks, the drag as Gerard skims up, his tongue flat and cool through damp cotton. “I won’t,” Gerard mumbles, clutching at Frank’s sides, “I wouldn’t, I won’t, Frank, Frank.”

“Here,” Frank says, his voice shot, raspy like a whole pack of cigarettes on top a forty of whiskey. He pushes at Gerard with an elbow, and when that doesn’t even budge him, seizes a rough handful of Gerard’s hair and yanks. Gerard comes up with a gasp, his teeth stained red and his eyes shocked, hurt. “No, no, here,” Frank says, hurriedly pushing the mug up to Gerard’s mouth, “I just want you to drink this. I’m sorry I spilled it. Drink it all, okay?”

Gerard’s eyes are still wide and startled over the rim. “All of it,” Frank repeats, tilting the mug up maybe too fast but holding it there, tightening his grip on Gerard’s hair to drag his head back, make sure he gets every drop. The noise as Gerard’s forced to gulp it down or choke is loud and obscene. Frank tips the mug higher.

“Fuck,” Gerard snarls, tearing away. Twin rivulets of red spill from the corners of his mouth. “Fuck, Frank, fuck.”

“I’ll get more.” Frank drops the mug, both hands shoved into Gerard’s tangled hair to keep him from bolting the way it looks like he’s gonna. “I’ll get you the rest before I leave. You’re okay, right?” He bumps his forehead against Gerard’s. “Man, tell me you’re okay.”

Gerard croaks a noise that could be positive, Frank’s not sure. He’s a fucking mess. With an unsteady hand, Frank thumbs away the spilled blood, smearing it over Gerard’s face with the rest. Frank is fucking this up so bad. But it’s too late now, that ship has fucking sailed. If it’s gonna be this way, then that’s what it is. Steeling himself, he gives Gerard a soft, closed-mouth peck, doing his best not to notice the sticky texture of blood against his lips.

“You’re not gonna come back,” Gerard says, empty and certain, as he stares down at the stained mug on the floor.

“Fuck you.” Frank gives him another kiss, slower than the first, somehow even softer. Because he gets to do this now. So what if he’s not ready to taste someone else’s blood mixed in with it. “And take a fucking shower.”

One side of Gerard’s mouth hitches up in a sour smile.

“Because you stink,” Frank says, though it’s not strictly true. Gerard doesn’t smell like Frank would if Frank went a week without showering. Gerard’s kind of got this musty odour thing going on. Like a room closed up too long, or sorta like a musk, something weirdly reptilian. Maybe it’s a cold-blooded thing. It doesn’t stink at all. “If I’m gonna come back here and kiss you some more, you better smell like fucking roses.”

“Roses,” Gerard says, wrinkling his nose. “I hate roses.”

“Then, like, pomegranate, I don’t fucking care.”

“Fruit’s good,” says Gerard, sorta tentatively but mostly not. “Apples, Frankie. Fresh summer apples.”

“Yeah.” Giving the back of Gerard’s neck a comforting squeeze, Frank scoops up the empty mug and toes at the bloodstain on the carpet. Wouldn’t be the first one down here. “And don’t insult me again, fucker. M’not gonna kiss and run.”

Gerard smiles, like he’s glad to have Frank cussing at him. He shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Bet your ass you are.” Before Frank can get distracted by stuff like, you know, Gerard’s ass, he leans in for one more kiss. One for the road type deal. Gerard gives it to him, loud and smacking and ridiculous, like he’s trying to play it off as totally okay if Frank comes back here and never touches him again. Sometimes, Gee’s really, really dumb. But Frank’s gonna let him get away with it for now, and then show him what’s what later. Way later. Once Gerard’s full and happy and thrumming again, like he was last night.

If Frank has his way, he’s gonna keep Gerard like that forever.

Frank takes his time trudging up the hill on the way back. His knapsack weighs a ton, and the bag of apples he picked up from the market bangs around his knees. He already ate two on the bus. He wants another, but he’s actually dying of thirst and more sugar, natural or no, is not gonna help.

So, his plan at the butcher’s didn’t really pan out, in the way where they didn’t actually have the blood to give him, not that he was some sick fuck hellbent on carrying out satanic rituals with it.

(“But, but what about blood pudding?” Frank tried. He knew that shit actually existed. Ray Toro came back one Christmas from visiting his family in New Hampshire and told him all about every disgusting detail.

“Sorry, kid,” said the dude with the meat cleaver, and went back to hacking through a rack of ribs almost twice the size of Frank. Frank got the fuck out of there before he violated a health code.)

But that’s okay. He’s got a backup plan. And Mikey’s got a seriously creepy array of medical supplies at the house. Frank did some snooping after he hopped out the shower, because while Gerard might appreciate his smell au natural, the rest of the world would probably take exception to him waving his BO everywhere, and then there was the whole looking like the victim in a horror movie thing with blood spilled all over him. Frank hadn’t exactly packed for this weekend. He stole Mikey’s deodorant, and his underwear, and pretty much everything else Frank’s wearing, except for his kicks, and while he was poking around Mikey’s closet, he found the solution to all their problems. Originally, he was gonna warm Gerard up with the stuff from the butcher’s, ease him into the idea, just in case. But with that out the window, looks like now he’s just gonna have to go for it.

Besides, if Mikey’s got the equipment, then it must be something they at least occasionally do. Could be why Mikey was so reluctant to leave in the first place. How was he supposed to know Frank would be perfectly willing to open a vein for Gerard? It’s not like they ever asked.

Frank is way more happy to open one of his veins than the carotid artery of some innocent, unsuspecting piglet. Poor little piglet.

At the front stoop, Frank calls out, “I’m home!” even though Gerard probably heard him stomping up the rocky drive. There’s an eager thrill knocking around his ribcage as he dumps the homework he’s so not going to touch until Sunday just inside the door. “Be down in a minute!”

An echo that sounds like, “‘Kay, Frankie!” floats upstairs. Frank grins so wide his cheeks hurt. This is even better than bringing home untreated blood for Gerard.

Giving his hands a good wash in the sink with the antibacterial soap tucked in the cupboard, Frank digs out a clean dishtowel and dries off on his way to Mikey’s room. He took all the stuff out of the closet and spread it out on another towel on the bed before he left. Looking at it now, it seems like a fairly simple set up. Bonus, he won’t even have to try setting it all up on his own. Frank bites back an insane-sounding giggle. Walking Happy Meal; some assembly required.

Wrapping everything securely in the towel, Frank hollers a warning that he’s coming down. Navigating the stairs after being out in the bright, bright sunlight takes some work, but he makes it alright. By the time he gets to the bottom, his eyes have pretty much adjusted.

Gerard’s hovering right around the corner, waiting. His eyebrows scrunch together in confusion when he sees the bundle in Frank’s arms.

“Chill,” Frank says, shuffling over to dump it on the bed. “I got this.”

“But I don’t smell any blood,” Gerard says, as if that isn’t the freakiest thing Frank’s heard all day. “You smell good, though, Frankie,” he adds, smiling a tiny, dreamy smile.

“Better than roses,” Frank agrees. Even he can smell the fresh air and sunshine and warm, clean sweat clinging to his skin.

Gerard sniffs delicately. “Like apples.”

“I got this guy, right,” Frank says, grinning stupidly at the little zing that goes through him as he says it. “Right, like, this guy. He says he likes apples. So maybe I had a couple for lunch.”

Gerard gapes at him for like, two point five seconds, then says, “Oh, motherfucker,” all breathy and sweet, and next thing Frank knows, Gerard’s twisted up two handfuls of his borrowed shirt and yanked him up and in to kiss the shit out of him. Frank’s cracking up through most of it, his toes barely touching the ground, but fuck, fuck, it’s still so good. Gerard smells like something fruity, like, a cocktail, fruit salad, whatever, and his hair’s still wet, wrapping in damp tendrils around Frank’s fingers when he grabs at it. It’s so freaking cool that they can just do this. Gerard is a basement-dwelling, blood-sucking fiend, and it doesn’t even fucking matter. He’s Gerard.

Stopping is kinda the last thing Frank wants to do, but, his plan. He wriggles free of Gerard’s grip and goes up on his toes, bouncing a couple times trying to work some of the excitement out. “Okay. Okay. So. You’re gonna love this.” He holds up both hands, palm out, and pauses dramatically. Gerard always appreciates some quality drama. “You’re gonna eat me.”

Gerard’s mouth falls open. Frank nods really fast. Then Gerard’s face screws up, like he’s not sure he heard Frank right, and he tugs distractedly at his hair. “What the fuck.”

“No, no, c’mon.” Frank pulls Gerard’s hand free of wet snarls, and then, since he’s already holding it and all, decides he should keep doing that. “Don’t front, okay, I know Mikey does this for you sometimes. He’s gotta. And I’m cool with it. I’m cool with all of it. Just, well, maybe not exactly the same way Mikey does it for you. If Mikey sticks his hand down your pants after he’s fed you, dude, that is some shit I don’t wanna know. And you should never, ever tell me.”

“What?” Gerard tugs his hand free and starts flapping it around. “Back the fuck up. What?”

Frank tries three times to catch Gerard’s flailing hands. After he misses on the third, he says, “Fuck it,” and drapes his arms around Gerard’s neck, stepping in close like they’re slow dancing in middle school. Gerard freezes, arms stuck out all crazily. “I’m kinda planning on doing some really dirty shit with you, so I figure, least I can do is make sure you got the energy to keep up.”

Gerard’s face twitches like he’s gonna giggle, but it dies somewhere in his throat. His hands slowly come to rest on Frank’s hips, light, like he’s afraid to hold on too hard. “You’re not fucking around,” he says, wonderingly.

“Nope,” Frank says, and waggles his eyebrows. “Chow time, big boy.”

With a groan that sounds like it’s pulled up from the very pit of Gerard’s stomach, Gerard pushes his face against Frank’s neck. He mouths gently at the skin there, barely letting Frank feel his teeth at all. Frank shivers. Maybe one of these days, he’ll be able to talk Gerard into doing it just like that. Straight from the source, still hot. The whole bit where Gerard drinks blood isn’t so gross when it’s Frank’s they’re talking about. He’s not some stranger, or some unfortunate dead thing. He– Yeah. There it is. He loves Gerard. That makes all the fucking difference in the world.

“Okay,” Gerard says, and kisses Frank’s throat, his jaw. It’s hardly anything, barely the touch of lips to skin, but fuck, it feels so good. “Okay, if you’re sure. You gotta be really, really sure, Frank. I can’t do it if you’re not sure.”

“Motherfucker, I’m sure.” Frank grabs onto the back of Gerard shirt and gives him a small shake. “I’m so fucking sure. And I’m sure that I’m gonna suck your dick after, how about that.”

“Aw, shit,” Gerard groans, muffled in the crook of Frank’s neck. Frank giggles that same, insane giggle, mostly because it tickles but also because Gerard’s kind of a flake. Frank is talking sex here. Full on, wham, bam, sex, and Gerard’s gone all weird and bashful on him.

Frank nudges Gerard up with his shoulder. “C’mon, c’mon. Let’s do it. I got supplies and everything. Even pumped up my blood sugar for you.”

Gerard goes still. He breathes, “Fuck, Frankie, you’re gonna taste like apples,” and shudders, clutching hard at Frank’s back. His lips drag wetly over Frank’s skin, come back for a slow, smooth slide, and then it’s Gerard’s teeth, Gerard’s fangs, curved and pointy and razor-fucking-sharp, sinking in.

“Fuck!” Frank barks, more shock than pain. His spine snaps straight, his hands curling into fists so tight his knuckles crack. For a second, he doesn’t get it. Like, he can process that Gerard’s bit him, is in the fucking process of biting him, for real, but it doesn’t compute. He brought supplies. Needles wrapped up in crinkly, sterile packaging, and tape and tubing and cotton swabs and all that shit, so they could be safe about it, and monitor Frank’s blood pressure, and all the things he thought he’d have to trot out to convince Gerard it was perfectly fine to drink his blood.

Except Gerard doesn’t need convincing, or excuses, or even a reason. All Gerard needed was an invitation.

Frank says, “Holy shit,” in this thready, creaky kinda voice, and shivers as Gerard’s tongue prods at shallow wounds. At least, they feel shallow. He hopes they’re shallow. Stitches are not his most favourite thing ever, despite how many times in his life he’s ended up with them.

Gerard hums agreeably, his hands coming up to grip Frank’s arms a little below the shoulder, fingers digging in. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick, wet-sounding. Frank’s blood is in his throat, making him sound like that. “Yeah, just– Sit down, Frankie? Sit down for me.”

Groping for a grip on the bed, or like, fucking reality, Frank sits on the very edge of the mattress. He wants to touch his throat, make sure he’s not bleeding out or something crazy, but Gerard’s face is still there, and Gerard’s still kissing him, gentle, soft little sucks right over the wound. He scoots back when Gerard urges, his brain offline, body on autopilot. Gerard bit him.

“I shouldn’t,” Gerard says, fingers curling in the hem of Frank’s shirt, lifting it up high, as he steps in between Frank’s spread knees. “You shouldn’t let me, but you said I could. Frank.” Gerard presses his face against Frank’s bare belly and sucks in a shuddering breath. “Frank, Frankie, lie down. Stretch out. Let me.”

“Oh man,” Frank says, rusty as an old iron gate. He lets Gerard tug his shirt off, then, when Gerard’s pale, pale hands spread out over his chest, lets Gerard push him down. There’s blood, his blood, smeared around Gerard’s mouth. He watches in some kind of fucked up daze as Gerard crawls on top of him, fucking prowls, sinuous and slow and fucking punch-in-the-face hot. Shoving up on his elbows, Frank scrambles further back, giving Gerard more space.

Something uncertain flickers through Gerard’s eyes. He stops, hovering above Frank on his knees.

“S’not enough,” Frank says, fingers twitching as blood trickles down his neck. It tickles and he wants to wipe it away, but Gerard needs it. Swallowing hard, he turns his head to the side. Maybe it’s not what he had in mind, but fuck it, it’ll do the trick. “Go again, c’mon.”

Gerard says, “Frank,” like a prayer and drops over him, wet tongue dragging up the side of his neck. Then, “Frank,” again, softer, still so reverent, when he slides down, kissing the slant of Frank’s collarbone, leaving a red smear in his wake as his teeth scrape past Frank’s nipple to the meatier rise beside it. He mouths at it slowly, eyes glittering beneath the tangled fall of his hair, giving Frank time to say no this time as he bares his fangs, gets ready to bite.

“Fuck me,” Frank grunts, strangled, and grabs at Gerard’s hand. Strong fingers, deceptively long and slender and delicate-looking, lace tight with his. He arches his back, shoving up against Gerard’s mouth, not really an invitation anymore. Now he’s fucking asking for it.

This time when Gerard bites down, he’s ready for it. Still doesn’t fucking matter. The shock shoots straight through him, pain, because yeah, okay, that hurts, but something else, too. Like the rush when Frank’s under the needle, the bright spark of a piercing coupled with the slow-burn build of getting inked, both of that hitting him at once. Jesus, if he’d only fucking known.

“Shit,” Frank gasps, squirming away from the pull as Gerard sucks at his chest. “Shit, shit, lemme breathe, holy fuck.”

Gerard flicks him a glance, the smile half-hidden against Frank’s stomach glittering in his eyes. “Breathe,” he says, kissing Frank’s side, drawing Frank’s arm up as he goes from rib to rib with small, nipping kisses, all the way up to the fleshy curve of Frank’s underarm. “Are you breathing yet, Frankie?”

“No,” Frank wheezes, twisting his free hand up in the sheets, then thinking better of it and getting a handful of Gerard’s hair instead. Gerard’s eyelashes flutter, his moan humming against Frank’s skin. “But keep going anyway?”

“Yeah,” Gerard whispers, and bites him again, right there where it’s so fucking tender Frank shouts, and again, all the way down on his side where his ribs end, taken over by the softness of his belly. Gerard’s there so quick and gone again, biting below Frank’s belly button where his jeans have slid down. They’re shallow bites, barely bleeding once Gerard stops sucking, but they all pulse hot in his wake, peppered all over Frank like stars, like Gerard’s mapping out constellations in fang and flesh.

A sharp tug on Frank’s fly brings him swimming back up through the haze. “Oh fuck,” he says, staring at the fuzzy black shadows of the mural above Gerard’s bed. He feels exactly like one of those exploding suns. He’s pretty sure he is going to explode when Gerard’s hair brushes his belly, Gerard’s hands pushing into his jeans, curving around to touch his bare ass. He hikes his hips up, shivering when Gerard laughs this delighted, wicked laugh.

Frank flips him off, making him laugh harder.

“Frankie,” Gerard says, for like, the billionth time, like he’s never going to get tired of saying it, ever, no matter how many different ways he tries. “You’re so fucking hot. And you don’t even give a shit, it’s amazing. You taste so good.”

“Haven’t even gotten to the best part yet,” Frank says, wiggling his hips again to get Gerard back with the program. Though maybe in Gerard’s case they started with the best part.

Gerard glances down and grins, all his red bloody teeth on display. Frank’s heart gives one hard kick. “Wait,” Frank says, grabbing for Gerard’s hair again and missing; fucker’s god damn fast when he wants to be. “Don’t bite my dick. Do not bite my dick. Gerard, not my dick!”

“Trust me,” Gerard says, nosing at Frank’s balls. He tugs at Frank’s jeans and underwear until they catch on his Chucks, and then Gerard bares his teeth in a snarl and yanks the whole works off in one go, probably taking a few layers of skin off Frank’s ankles with it. And maybe a few years off Frank’s life, because Gerard’s teeth are sharp and scary and deadly and they are way, way, way too close to Frank’s junk.

“I absolutely trust you,” Frank says, trying to sneak a hand down to protect the merchandise. “But I get that it’d be tempting, right? With all that, uh, blood.” Because, wow, fangs right there or not, Frank is impressively hard. Which he knew, okay, he can fucking feel it, throbbing in time to his pulse, but he’s so hard his skin’s shiny-taut beneath the precome leaking from his slit, and he’s flushed dark, so dark, really fucking startlingly dark beside Gerard’s pale face.

Gerard says, “I’d be careful,” as he slinks up, “so careful, Frankie,” as he licks at the tip, his tongue warmer now, like Frank’s blood is heating him up from the inside out. “I’ll never hurt you.” He bites his lip, fangs denting flesh, and quickly ducks his head, saying, “Not any way you don’t want,” with his teeth grazing the inside of Frank’s thigh.

Without any sort of input from Frank, his legs fall wide open and his hips come up, pushing into the lukewarm heat of Gerard’s mouth. Gerard laughs again, satisfied–of course he’s fucking satisfied, Jesus Christ, Frank is being a total slut here–and nips at skin, catching it between his teeth not quite hard enough to pierce. Frank goes really, really still, breath caught in his throat.

When all Gerard does is lick between the points of his teeth, Frank ekes out, “There?”

Gerard’s got total bedroom eyes going on. “Mm,” he says, not letting go.

“Oh man.” Frank covers his face with both hands. He sets his shoulders and tries to steel the molten mess that’s his spine. Every single bite Gerard’s left on him throbs. He has no fucking idea what to expect here. “Okay, like, for real, there?”

Both of Gerard’s hands skim up Frank’s legs, pushing them even further apart. The strain travels up his hips straight to his dick, making it jerk against his belly, spill out more wet warmth. Gerard releases the thin layer of skin he’d caught and opens his mouth wide, sucking hard to make flesh mound in his mouth, pressed tight against the edges of his teeth. He’s still watching Frank’s face with super-crazy focus. Like, if Gerard were a laser beam, Frank would be toast. Frank is toast.

“Oh god,” Frank says, “oh shit, fuck, okay,” and grits his teeth because Gerard’s are sinking in. It’s like fucking pop rocks going off inside Frank’s belly, this hard, jittering thrill, which makes no fucking sense at all. And then, when Frank maybe thinks he’s got it figured out, or at least a handle on it, Gerard’s hand ends up on his cock. Tight, stuttering, but it’s Gerard’s hand on his cock and it feels so good Frank’s palms slam down on the bed and his entire body from shoulders to knees arches up off it. He thinks he shouts something, probably Gerard’s name or a whole lot of cursing or hey, probably both, because Gerard’s jacking him firm and fast, concentrating close to the head like he wants Frank to come fucking yesterday, and sucking hard on the wound he opened up on Frank’s thigh. Everything’s these long, steady pulls, on his dick and his blood, and Gerard’s moaning, low and guttural and animalistic, fucking feeding on him. Frank gets one blurry look at Gerard’s face, like he’s a camera with a busted flash so all he gets is the vague imprint of hollowed cheeks and dark, dark eyelashes on white skin, a smear of red and the tangle of black hair, and that’s what’s burned into the blackness behind his eyelids as he squeezes his eyes shut and comes.

“Fuck, Frank,” Gerard says, or maybe has been saying for awhile. He’s stopped sucking on Frank’s thigh and is just licking at it, almost daintily, rubbing his fingers over the sharp juts of Frank’s hipbones and up over his belly, smearing away the come dripping down Frank’s side before it can reach one of his bites.

“Aim’s off,” Frank croaks, grinning, because fuck yeah, he sounds as wrecked as he feels. “Gonna get your face next time.”

“Okay,” Gerard says, just like that, happily, and like he fucking means it. He slides up, his mouth a gruesome mess of red, and Frank thinks, yeah, yeah, okay, I’d kiss that, before he cranes his neck up, putting the offer out there. Gerard’s mouth falls open and he absently tongues the point of a fang, all his attention on his hand splayed on Frank’s chest, grazing a sluggish trickle of blood.

Frank arches an eyebrow. “Still hungry?”

“Always,” Gerard admits, straddling Frank’s hips. He keeps one hand on Frank’s chest as he thumbs open his jeans. “I can’t remember ever being not hungry. It’s constant. This nagging ache, always, in the pit of my stomach.” He sinks down lower, his head falling forward, voice hitching as he reaches inside his open fly. “You make it better, Frankie. It’s still there, but it feels good now.” He glances up, briefly, tongue skimming along his bloodied lip in a quick, darting flick he probably doesn’t even realise happened. “Like something I want.”

Frank grips Gerard’s thighs, squeezing hard. His heart’s thudding so loud in his ears he can barely hear what Gerard’s saying, but fuck, it’s like he can feel the words all the way down to his bones. He gets it. As much as he’s ever gonna get it, he does. “Come on,” he says, fingers stroking restlessly along Gerard’s inseam, up to tug at his fly. “Let me see, lemme see.”

Sucking in a breath, more muscle memory than need, Gerard pulls his dick out. It’s strangely pale, like the rest of him, barely flushed at all, but he’s hard. And leaking, glistening slick. He rubs his thumb through the precome beaded at the tip, mixing it with Frank’s come already spilled over his fingers. He goes at it hard and fast, same as he’d jacked Frank, cockhead slipping through the tight tunnel of his fist. Frank gets a hand over his, over the shift of tendon and bone, then rubs his palm over the slick head, wanting to really feel him.

“Shit,” Gerard hisses, abruptly letting go, “do it, Frankie, do it for me, please, please, just like that,” and Frank grips tight, the first few strokes a little clumsy, and then it’s better, faster, exactly what Gerard wants. Gerard hunches over him, these short, choppy noises escaping him, his arms shaking and his voice breaking in the seconds before he loses it. Frank stops dead, floored–fuck, that was fast, and god, Gerard really is gorgeous, like, monstrously gorgeous, so fucking crazy–and Gerard moans, fucking into Frank’s loose fist, still coming.

“Sorry, sorry, fuck,” Frank says, tightening his grip again, pumping Gerard through it. This time he doesn’t stop until Gerard collapses against him, panting like mad, which makes no sense, it doesn’t, the guy doesn’t fucking breathe.

“Can I kiss you,” Gerard slurs, laying a shaking hand against Frank’s cheek, “Frank, can I?”

“Fucker,” Frank says, because that’s a stupid fucking thing to ask, and turns his head for the clumsiest, most lopsided, probably most perfect kiss of his fucking life. He doesn’t care that it tastes like his blood. Gerard needs that blood. Gerard wants it.

Worming his hand free from the crush of their bellies, Frank hugs Gerard close. All the useless air flows out of Gerard’s lungs in a warm rush, cooling the sweat on Frank’s face. So Gerard’s kind of an unconventional guy. Whatever. Frank can do unconventional.

Frank is gonna do it in fucking spades.

“Shit,” Gerard says, peeling off another long strip of medical tape and ripping through it with his fangs. “Shit, shit, Mikey’s gonna be here any minute.”

“Chill,” Frank mumbles around the gauze caught in his teeth. He’s holding the other end steady against the inside of his elbow so Gerard can tape it down. Gerard didn’t wake up starving this morning, just frisky. Frank grins stupidly. Really frisky. And like, eager. And enthusiastic. He didn’t even go for a bite until Frank was a boneless lump of fucked-out jelly, and then it was only these tiny little nips along Frank’s forearm, like maybe he thought he had to warm Frank up to the idea.

Five hours later, Frank’s got three new bites–the one on his elbow, one on the back of his thigh where leg meets ass (which is actually a total pain, now that he’s got it, but getting it had been a hell of a good time), and one on his groin, about an inch and a half above his dick. That one was crazy. Crazy.

Gerard keeps patting the tape down kinda neurotically, staring hard at it like he can will it to stick, and Frank slumps sideways on the bathroom counter, sweaty back skidding over the mirror. He is so trashed. “M’trashed,” he tells Gerard, smiling goofily when Gerard’s worried face pops back into view. “So worth it.”

“You look trashed,” Gerard says softly, concerned, yeah, but also kinda proud. Or smug, maybe, as he helps Frank down off the counter, cradling him close. Like it appeals to his innate creature-of-the-nightness to have trashed a willing victim. Frank snorts a laugh. He is absolutely willing. He’s also willing to make Gerard carry him to fucking bed.

“Oof,” Gerard says, swaying. He hitches Frank’s legs up higher around his waist, holding tight to Frank’s ass. “‘Kay, okay. I got you.”

“I got you, babe,” Frank singsongs into Gerard’s neck, making Gerard giggle and say, “You did not,” but Frank can feel the waves of happy satisfaction rolling right off him. It’s more than the blood. Sure, that’s a big part of it, because fuck if Frank’s ever seen this big, permanent smile plastered to Gerard’s face before, or the almost rosy glow to his cheeks. Seriously. Gerard’s still one cold, pale motherfucker, but it’s different now.

“Aw, we’re gonna cuddle,” Frank says when Gerard lays him out on the bed. His stomach swoops ridiculously. Hell yeah he wants a cuddle. He sticks his arms straight up in the air until Gerard giggles again and clambers over him, settling down with his head pillowed on Frank’s chest. His hair smells like cigarette smoke, some of it clumped together with dried bits of Frank’s blood and probably come. Frank idly picks at a snarl.

Gerard carefully touches the edges of one of the bites on Frank’s chest. “You’re amazing, Frankie,” he says in this awed voice generally reserved for mint, limited edition, still-in-the box shit, the kind that’s so rare it’s like not only spotting a fucking unicorn but having one walk straight up to you and ask if you’d maybe like to pet it for awhile, and then it goes and says that hey, nothing would make it happier than if you could please climb on its back for a ride.

Frank grins so hard his lips sting. He thinks maybe he might’ve nicked them on Gerard’s fangs. “I would so take you for a ride.”

Gerard gives him a one-armed squeeze and says, “Anytime,” kinda dirty but mostly kinda sweet.

“Man,” Frank says, his voice hazy and distant in his ears. “Man, I love you,” and it’s easy, so easy, because it just is. And probably because he passes right out three seconds later, grinning at Gerard’s shocked face.

“Frank!” somebody shouts, like, right in Frank’s fucking ear. He grunts a curse that comes out more like a wheeze and seriously tries opening his eyes, but it’s like he’s drugged. Sex drugged, maybe. Or like, it could be blood loss, which, whatever. He’ll eat more fucking spinach or something. Like Popeye. Arr.

“Frank, fuck, Frank. Frank. Gerard.”

“Mikey?” comes Gerard confused voice.

There’s a big ol’ stomping racket and some more confused shouting. He’d get up, but a) sex drugged and b) Gerard’s flaked out on top of him. Not only does the combination make it almost impossible for him to move, it doesn’t really make him inclined to. He ignores all the noise and lets delicious sleep drag him back under.

Until Gerard indignantly squawks, “I wouldn’t cuddle his corpse!” and okay, that’s interesting enough that Frank sluggishly opens his eyes.

“You’re not dead,” Mikey says, staring down at him.

“Only mostly dead,” Frank slurs around a giggle.

“Gerard, what did you do.”

“Nothing!” Gerard yelps, and clings harder to Frank like he thinks Mikey’s gonna try to wrestle him off or something. Frank gives Gerard’s ass a comforting pat. He’s going nowhere. Except possibly the bathroom, once he can get around to it. “He’s fine. I’ve been listening to his heartbeat, Mikey, he’s okay.”

“Gee,” Mikey says, stern and gentle with that crazy frantic undertone like he’s in the middle of a bonafide freakout. “Gee, let him go. Let me make sure.”

“He’s fine,” Gerard says, only not as sure this time. Mikey’s totally unnecessary worry is infecting him.

“Frank is a-okay,” Frank says, aiming for Mikey’s shoulder but ending up awkwardly patting the side of his face when Mikey leans down to listen, his thumb knocking Mikey’s glasses askew. “Frank is like, post-coital, Mikeyway.”

“What, ew,” Mikey says on reflex. Then he seems to remember he was in the middle of something and demands, “Somebody tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“Gerard got hungry,” Frank says when it looks like all Gerard’s gonna do is cling and hide. Honestly, Frank’s kinda digging it. It makes him feel all big and protective and important. Like he really could be the way Gerard painted him. “I took care of it.”

Mikey stumbles back from the bed. He’s not looking very Mikey-like right now, with his eyes huge behind his lenses and his mouth hanging open but no sound coming out. Frank’s never seen Mikey genuinely freaked the fuck out before. Struggling up, and keeping a sure hand on the back of Gerard’s neck so Gerard doesn’t start freaking out and turning this into a total Way-brothers freak-out fest, Frank says, “Dude, breathe. We’re like, fully-consenting self-aware adults here. Everybody’s okay.”

“He’s addicted to blood,” Mikey states in his usual monotone, which is just the fucking freakiest shit ever coupled with the way his eyes are bugging out. “Addicted to it, Frank. You’re a walking, talking crackpipe.”

Huh, Frank thinks. That’s one way of looking at it, he guesses. The way that makes his chest hurt and his stomach churn and his skin go cold and clammy like he’s got the night sweats.

“What the fuck,” Gerard says, teeth bared. At Mikey. “You take that back. Frank is not a fucking crackpipe.”

“You ate him,” Mikey says flatly.

“He offered!” Gerard’s fingernails are digging tiny, hot crescents into Frank’s chest. “He kissed me, Mikey.” Frank must make a sound, because ow, nails, and Gerard’s voice instantly softens. “Sorry,” he says automatically, loosening up. Then, “He kissed me,” all quiet and wondering.

“And jerked you off,” Frank adds. If Mikey’s gonna be a dick, then so is Frank. “Next time I’m gonna suck you off, ha.” Take that, Mikeyway.

“Frank,” Mikey says, too seriously. Frank’s in trouble if sex talk about his older brother isn’t grossing Mikey out to the point of distraction. “Frank, Gerard’s a vampire.”

“No shit,” Frank grumbles. This is not the happy homecoming he’d imagined. They did good, him and Gerard. They are good. “You keep on stating the fucking obvious, Way.”

“Wait, no,” Gerard says, staring down at the blankets. “Quit it, Frank, he’s right. I shouldn’t've– Even if you– Well, I shouldn’t have.”

Frank scrubs both hands over his face really rough and fast. “Are you two fuckers seriously trying to tell me it’s better if you keep fucking stealing bad blood for him, even though I know it’s gotta taste like shit and it isn’t good for him and what the fuck, okay?” He kinda loses steam there, when the thought of Gerard becoming vague and distant and not really himself anymore hits. Because there’s no way Frank’s blood turned Gerard into something he’s not. It just let him be who he already is.

“Both of you shut up,” Frank says. Gerard shuts up so fast his fangs click. Mikey just goes all silent and like, foreboding. Looming. Dude, did Gerard get that one right in his painting. “Whatever the fuck you think is gonna happen, ain’t gonna happen. At all, like, ever.”

“Again,” Gerard says, still talking to the rumpled sheets. “It won’t happen again.”

Cold sweat prickles at the base of Frank’s spine. He doesn’t want to know. Possibly he doesn’t even need to know. “Um,” he says.

“He bit me once,” Mikey says, miraculously sounding bored and so over it, even though he’s really obviously not. “The first time he tried detoxing.”

“He means, I, uh, I used to drink a lot more,” Gerard says, scratching worriedly at his scalp. “Blood, I used to drink a lot more blood. Maybe too much? And we ran out, and I, I guess I panicked, and I didn’t ask.” He tugs at his hair, snarling it around his fingers, his gaze on the floor. “I stopped when I realised what I was doing, but. I attacked him, Frankie.”

“You can’t fucking detox off food,” is the first thing Frank blurts. It’s the only part he can fucking process. Gerard, so scared and hungry, that he attacked Mikey. What the fucking fuck. “That’s just, that’s stupid. That’s so fucking stupid.”

“Blood isn’t food,” Gerard says, biting at his own lip hard enough skin splits.

Frank opens and closes his mouth a couple times. He’s like, fucking raging inside. He shoves off the bed and stomps his way through the crap on Gerard’s floor, probably crushing all kinds of important shit but he’s gotta get this energy out somewhere or he’s seriously gonna start throwing punches. “What the fuck is the matter with you two? No, no, shut the fuck up,” he snaps, pointing a finger at Mikey. “You need blood to survive, right? Gerard?”

Gerard’s gaze hops around the room, avoiding eye contact. “Yes. I think so. I mean, yes. I do.”

“Okay. So that makes it food.”

“I-”

“Shut up,” Frank hisses through clenched teeth. “Okay, so, if it’s food, and you stopped fucking eating for I don’t know how long–”

“A week,” Gerard says, because it’s impossible for him to actually shut up for longer than five seconds.

“A week,” Frank echoes, “of course you– Wow. That was so dumb I can’t fucking even. I thought you guys were smart.”

Gerard’s the one who says, “It was really scary. Like I wasn’t even me anymore.”

Maybe Frank’s not taking this as seriously as he should be. Maybe he’s never going to understand, because he wasn’t there. But then again, maybe it’s ’cause he wasn’t that he can see all the shit so clearly. “Are you hungry right now?” Frank asks Gerard. “Like, do I look like a three-course meal to you?”

“Well,” Gerard says, poking at the blankets. “Kinda? But more in the way where I’d like to, uh, have it later?”

Okay, not as good as Frank had been hoping, but he’ll work with it. “There,” he says to Mikey. “No worries. I’m a keeper.”

“But I could,” Gerard says, not helping at all. “And, actually, um. The more you talk about it, the more I kinda really want to?”

“Are you gonna?” Frank asks, point-blank. Might as fucking well.

“No,” Gerard says, and Mikey says, “But he could.”

“I could totally punch you in the face right now, too, Mikeyway, but I’m not gonna.”

“Not really the same thing, Frank,” Mikey says, but it’s easy to tell his heart’s not in the argument anymore. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are in his pockets and he’s got this really suspicious twitch going on at the corner of his mouth. And that’s when Frank figures out he doesn’t want to be right. That maybe Mikey’s been hoping for something like this to come along. Probably not the whole gay-best-friend-boning-his-brother part of the equation, but something that works for Gerard, something that’s good for him. Someone.

Frank grins. He totally won. His logic is fucking impeccable like that. “Okay!” he says, and claps his hands together really loudly. “All settled. Awesome. Mikey, go away. Or no, wait. Make me a salad.”

Mikey stares at him blankly. Gerard looks around wildly, blurts, “I’ll get it!” and slides off the bed really super smoothly, halfway to the door before Frank can get through the sudden shot of panic driving his heart up into his throat to tackle him.

“It’s daylight,” Mikey says, still in that same flat voice.

“Oh,” Gerard says, stopping short. “Fuck.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I really wanted to.”

Frank can’t help it. There’s this giddy, oh god so good feeling bubbling up in his chest, drowning out the apparently not-entirely-illogical fear of Gerard being distracted enough to stumble into the fucking sun. When it reaches his throat, he says, “You love me,” like a total tool. But he’s okay with that. Gerard wants to make him a salad.

Gerard smiles really widely, not caring at all that he’s showing his fangs all the way to the gums. “I do love you, Frankie,” he says, ridiculously calmly, like he’s telling Frank about the weather.

“Oh man, oh man.” Frank stumbles over a pile of laundry as he shoves at Mikey’s boney shoulders. “Mikey, dude, you gotta go. Or fuck, I don’t care, you can stay, but I’m gonna stick my hand down your brother’s pants and probably put his dick in my mouth and maybe you might not wanna be around to see that shit.”

“I do not want to be around to see that shit,” Mikey echoes, plodding ahead of Frank toward the stairs. At the bottom, he pauses. “Somebody text me in a half hour though, okay?”

“Okay, Mikey!” Gerard calls from behind them. “I love you too, bye!”

“Oh god, you guys,” Mikey says, and thumps up the stairs as Frank gets his hands on Gerard’s fly.

–

End

–

Gerard’s only had three beers, half a joint, but his skin’s buzzing worse than the streetlight throwing his spastic shadow past the narrow mouth of the alleyway. It’s late, the kind of late most people call early. He’s got classes in a few hours, a meeting with his advisor at lunch, the half-finished canvas sitting abandoned on an easel crammed into the corner of his room due tomorrow, then more classes and an internship and a career and paying off a mountain of debt and he really shouldn’t have stopped at beer number three.

He shouldn’t be strolling through dark Jersey alleys at ass o’clock in the morning, either. But Frank only comes out when he’s alone.

Tapping the second-to-last cigarette free of the crumpled pack, Gerard lights up and steps into the alley. Deeper shadows swallow his. Stains on the pockmarked bricks, rust oozing through crumbling mortar, catch his eye, draw it down to all the dark places clinging to the edge of flickering light. That’s where Frank always is. Never all the way in, lost in the darkness, but in that last cool sliver before the light gives up and the black takes over. That’s what Frank is, gathered together in vague human form, given fangs and claws and a voice like the rasp of steel on steel.

About a dozen paces in, the streetlight gives up the ghost for good, almost taking Gerard’s heart out along with it. He stops short, breathing hard, eyes wide and blind. “Frank?” comes out a rusty croak. Plunging him into the dark without warning is exactly something Frank would do. “Frank, come on.”

There’s no hissing laugh in reply, no rasp of claws to prompt the shiver that ripples down his spine. He takes a slow, deep drag, watching the cherry flare. The glow of the city barely penetrates the black, the buildings high and close, hunched together like they need one another to stay upright, as crooked and broken as the asphalt threatening to trip him as he starts walking again. He shrugs a shoulder, takes another drag. He wets his lips and stares at the dark instead of watching where he’s going. He says, “It’s not really scary when I know you’re there.”

The cool whisper on the back of his neck doesn’t believe him. He flinches and swears and lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re a fucking asshole, Frank.”

Frank doesn’t say anything. It’s too warm for the denim jacket Gerard’s been wearing all night but he hitches it closer around his neck anyway. There’s the scratch of something in the dark, maybe a stray cat nosing through the overflowing dumpsters, probably not. He imagines the look on Frank’s face if he stopped right now, went looking for whatever was making that noise like the first night he stumbled over Frank in the dark, the way his yellow eyes slit open, a bright, wicked glow, all his teeth on display in a slanted smile. The way he’d set his claws one by one to Gerard’s throat, cold hard edges not digging in but the promise there, lurking in Frank’s eyes the same as Frank lurks in the shadows. Like all Gerard has to do is ask.

“Fucker,” Gerard says to the nothing all around him. He’s almost through the alley. “Stop playing with me.”

Before he steps out onto the empty sidewalk, he hesitates, half-swallowed by the dark. He waits for a slice of it to peel off, for claws to slide around his arms, his chest, drag him back into the black and wrap him tight in Frank’s chill. To keep him there like Frank’s threatened, rasped with his mouth pressed to close, Since you like it so much, Gee.

Frank’s not going to do it. Frank’s never going to do it, but sometimes he looks like he wants to, and that fills Gerard with the kind of fear he knows he shouldn’t crave.

Gerard counts to sixty in his head, slow and measured. When Frank stays hidden, he sighs and steps into the light.

By the time Gerard trudges around the back of the house to the damp cement stairs leading to his basement, he’s exhausted. He jiggles the key in the lock and sets his shoulder to the door, giving it the hard shove it needs to unstick from the warped jamb. Every shadow he passed on his way home gave him a shot of twisted hope and a chaser of bitter disappointment. Frank’s never missed a chance to fuck with him. Gerard’s been serving him up chances on silver fucking platters for weeks and Frank knows it, but he still hasn’t passed one by.

Inside is darker than the alleyway. Gerard kicks the door shut, not bothering to lock it behind him, and gropes along the wall until he makes it to the bedroom. There’s a lamp left burning on his desk, the weak twenty-watt bulb hardly doing anything more than throwing some shadows around. He toes off his boots, drops his jacket and falls on the bed, hanging over the side to dig around in the debris on the floor and unearth half a forty of cheap tequila. A week ago he couldn’t get the canvas in the corner out of his head. It burned through him like the booze he knocks back straight from the bottle, hot and fierce, a need he couldn’t deny. Now it sits in the corner like a hangover, ugly, sick, nagging.

“I didn’t fucking mean it,” he says to the ripple at the very edges of his vision. It refuses to resolve into the familiar lines of Frank’s gorgeous face. “I’m not trying to change you. I just.” He knocks back another mouthful, searing the words in his throat. He just wanted more. He wanted to see.

Grunting, he rolls over and fumbles for the remote, turning on the television to let whatever DVD is already in there play. It throws more shadows around the room, and Gerard watches those instead of the screen. He imagines the scratch of razor-sharp claws on his ankle where his foot’s hanging off the bed. He imagines them pushing through his hair, baring his ear to Frank’s hissing whispers, his throat to Frank’s teeth. He groans and swallows dryly, wets his throat with tequila and palms the front of his jeans and thinks about putting on a show, hauling his dick out to dig his own fingernails into delicate skin so Frank’ll know how much he wants this.

“You didn’t have to fucking go,” Gerard says, anger showing through in the rough squeeze he gives his cock, his hips bucking up into his hand. Just the thought of Frank watching this has him so hard he’s leaking. And he’s pissed off that he can’t see Frank’s face, Frank’s real face, not the stupid sketch he played around with for class, when he knows Frank’s here. Frank has to be here. Frank might melt from firm and solid beneath him to formless shadow, cool wisps trailing over bare skin like goodnight kisses, but he never really leaves. Frank said he needed him. Frank fucking promised.

Gerard drops the bottle and yanks at the zip on his hoodie, hauling it and the threadbare shirt underneath off over his head. Shoving a hand in his hair to keep it out of his face, to let Frank see how fucking serious he is about this shit, he starts rubbing at his dick through his jeans again. The sensation’s muted and not enough, but that’s his apology, the bait to get Frank to come slinking out of the shadows. So much warm skin on display, unmarked and pale, but more hidden, the hottest part of him cupped in his hand. Pretty soon the bed will dip between Gerard’s spread legs, claws will pluck at his jeans, catch and tear so Frank can nuzzle in close, teeth bared in a warning for Gerard to lift his knees, spread them wider, let Frank taste his skin, mark it, make him tremble with how much he wants Frank to really bite him, how afraid he is that Frank’s going to do it.

“Please,” Gerard says, staring wide-eyed at the flickering shadows, desperate for a flash of yellow, “fucker, come on, you fucking promised. I’m not gonna wait all night.” To prove it, he pops the button on his fly, shoves his hand in so fast the zip grates halfway open. His fingers touch slick precome first, and he rubs that in, reaches deeper to stroke and squeeze himself wetter knowing Frank can smell it. “Come on, come on,” he says, rolling his hips harder, fucking his fist, his fingers too soft and warm but getting him there anyway, so close to coming he couldn’t stop now if he wanted. He wrenches his jeans wider with his wrist, sharp metal teeth catching skin shocking a high moan out of him, arching him up off the bed. It’s not Frank, not even close to Frank, but it’s good, the best he’s had since Frank turned on him with a vicious snarl, claws melting to smoky tendrils that covered Gerard’s face, completely blinding him to the world before they pushed past him like a breeze, vanishing into shadow, Frank gone like he’d never been.

The memory of Frank turning on him like that, burying him in shadows, is enough to shove him over the edge even as he chokes out that he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry. He wants to feel that again, Frank formless and heavy on top of him, covering his skin, suffocating him in shadow. He needs to have Frank solidify under his hands like he’s moulding Frank out of clay, the slope of his back, his hips, the long, sharp curve of claws like razor-edged needles, the slant of cheek and jaw, the wet chill of Frank’s mouth opening under his fingers.

He works his dick through each pulse, his own come spilling too warm over the back of his hand, his mouth slack waiting for Frank’s biting kisses. Kisses that he doesn’t get, not even when the high’s leaving him cold and more alone than ever, sprawled out on his messy sheets with his hand down his pants. Yanking it free, he rolls over, shoves his face into his damp pillow and says, “Frank,” says, “Frank, I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry, please,” until the alcohol and the exhaustion and the guilt finally drags him down into a darkness that isn’t the one he wants.

Gerard wakes with a scream in his throat. He can’t move and he can’t see and he can’t fucking breathe. For a second, he thinks, Dead, fucking finally, and then he thinks, Frank, and his heart gives a hard kick. The pressure against his mouth turns sharp, pricking. He sucks in a ragged breath and pushes against the weight on his back. A raspy chuckle freezes him halfway up on his elbows.

“You wanted me here so bad, now you’re trying to get rid of me again?” Frank noses in close to his ear, breathing deep, scenting, his voice low and grating. “Jesus, man, make up your mind.”

“Oh fuck,” Gerard says, slurred as Frank hums and pricks delicately at his lips with the tip of one claw. “Fuck, Frank, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, don’t go.”

“You’re so fucking drunk, too.” Frank slithers down so he’s lying full-length on top of Gerard, pinning him. “Stinks like jizz in here.”

Claws push gently through Gerard’s tangled hair. A few strands get caught, sliced, ghosting down to tickle his nose. He turns his head to feel the tips scratch at his scalp and sucks in a shuddery breath at the shiver that starts up way down at the base of his spine. It snakes out like the tendrils of smoke Frank sometimes touches him with, curls through his belly to his dick, arousal thrumming like a drug in his veins. “You were here,” he says tightly, rocking against his open zipper digging into his balls. “You fucking watched.”

Frank makes that humming noise again, raspy-thick low in his chest. His hips shift, pressing Gerard’s harder into the mattress. There’s no heat snug against Gerard’s ass, nothing for him to grind on, but he shoves back anyway and Frank groans like he’s got a dick between his legs instead of the smooth, blank nothing that drives Gerard crazy. He wants to roll over and rub his naked cock against it, turn Frank’s matte-black skin slick and glistening, push between Frank’s thighs and fuck him like that. Frank’s not shy about how smooth his body is, featureless, only a vague suggestion of the human form. His arms don’t feel right when Gerard grabs onto one, pure muscle like a snake, not tendons and ligaments and bones. Frank laughed the first time Gerard pushed his legs wide and licked between them, laughed and laughed until his voice caught. And then he moaned, writhed, draped his legs over Gerard’s shoulders and begged him to lick harder, suck more, right there, right there, like it didn’t matter if the crack of his ass was smooth and blank, nowhere for Gerard to push into him, he wanted Gerard to fucking try.

“Shit,” Gerard hisses, grinding against the rumpled, untucked sheets, against Frank’s weight. “Shit, fuck, let me up. Frank, let me up, I want you to touch me.”

Rolling partway onto his side, Frank shoves a knee behind Gerard’s, opens him up to push a hand between his legs. His jeans are still between them, hardly any protection at all from Frank’s claws but enough of a barrier to what he wants. He wriggles and bucks and curses and Frank laughs at him, a contented purr rough as grating stone. Frank’s teeth scrape the nape of his neck, needle-sharp points framing the peak of his spine, a warning to stay down. Fear blossoms metallic in the back of his throat. He bucks harder, trying to get the space to kick the rest of his clothes off.

“Fuck,” Frank snarls, tearing his mouth away. He slaps a hand to the back of Gerard’s neck and shoves down, climbing up to his knees. It hurts where the edges of his claws dig in, stinging sharp like a paper cut. Gerard’s not bleeding yet, but if he isn’t careful, he will be. It wouldn’t be the first time Frank’s drawn blood. Frank’s not careful with him. Not cruel, but not careful.

Frank’s grip tightens, triggering a whine that Gerard holds in his chest like he’s taken the sweetest hit. “Stay down.”

The only thing that keeps Gerard on his belly is the push of cold claws down the back of his jeans. He swallows another noise at the rough tear of denim, the drag of it down his legs, the bare brush of Frank’s unnatural skin against his. He kicks to get them off faster, keeping his head down like Frank told him but struggling up on his knees.

Frank laughs again, guttural and pleased. “Aw, baby, you’re so easy.”

“I fucking missed you,” Gerard says, pushing his forehead hard into the pillow. He tangles a hand in his hair again, pulling it away from the back of his neck and arching his spine in a long, smooth curve. “I said I was sorry. You didn’t have to be a dick.”

“Yeah, except for how you liked it.” Frank sets his claws to the nape of Gerard’s neck again, tips barely touching skin as he draws them slowly all the way down his back, over his ass, the backs of his thighs. He groans at the press of Frank’s palm on his sac, claws held at a deliberate distance. “You got off on the waiting. Thinking about what I’d do.”

Not as fucking hard as Gerard’s getting off on having him right here, pressed close, and Gerard plans on telling him exactly that, word for word, so Frank never leaves again, but Frank’s pressing a chill wet kiss to the crease of his thigh. He sharpens the curve of his spine, spreads his knees wider, pushes his ass back against Frank’s face asking for his tongue. He’s shivering, sweat-damp, eager. Frank loves him when he’s strung out on anticipation.

But Frank loves him strung out on other things, too. Sex-drunk, overloaded with sensation. Frank loves him when his breath catches, when he goes still and quiet because Frank’s tracing a clawtip along seam of his balls down to his dick hanging thick and wet between his legs. Frank loves him when he’s trembling because it feels like a needle pressed to thin, delicate foreskin, to the flare at the crown, to his fucking slit. “So warm,” Frank hisses, because it is, Gerard’s still leaking, precome squeezing out of him on every thud his heart gives, staining Frank’s claws. Air whistles between his teeth as Frank’s other hand comes up to hold his cock steady, as Frank crooks the claw at Gerard’s slit, digging in so, so gently.

Frank flexes his claws and asks, “Scared I’m gonna do it?” Their sharp edges are hardly even touching Gerard’s dick, more like a loose cage around it, but they’re cold and hard and it’s like they’re leaching heat from him without ever really absorbing it. Like no matter how much warmth Gerard gives him, Frank’s always going to be this way. Like Gerard could give him everything, and Gerard’s the one who’ll change.

More scared you’re not, Gerard thinks, but he’s not talking about the claws, or how Frank could hurt him and bleed him and make him so afraid he’s shrinking from the shadows instead of reaching for them so greedy and desperate. He says, “Kiss me,” because he wants Frank’s weird blank taste in his mouth, because he wants to see Frank’s face, because he wants Frank’s weight on him again.

“Fuck yeah,” Frank says. He scratches skin as he drags his hands away, hot red lines of fire framing Gerard’s groin, searing out along his thighs. “Roll over.”

The second Frank lifts up, Gerard flips over, already reaching for him. He’s grinning, his teeth glinting in the dark, his eyes glowing bright than the scrap of light thrown off by the lamp on the desk. Goosebumps break out all along Gerard’s arms as he gets them around Frank, dragging him in to lick the smile off his face. Frank lets out that grating purr again, opening his mouth, letting Gerard lick inside it, chase after his tongue as he pushes both hands up Gerard’s legs, makes sure they’re spread so he can settle between them. He laughs into the kiss when Gerard’s knees come up to grip his sides, laughs and frames Gerard’s face with his claws to take over, catching Gerard’s tongue between sharp teeth. Gerard groans and digs his blunt fingernails hard into Frank’s shoulders, really trying to gouge in to make him bite harder, or suck on it, or do anything other than keep him caught like a tease.

Releasing him to draw back, Frank grins down at him. “You did miss me.”

“Asshole,” Gerard gasps, rutting hard against Frank’s belly. He tilts his head back in another blatant invitation, like walking through a dark alley at four in the morning, and this time Frank takes it. Frank kisses and bites and when Gerard can’t stop moaning for him, slides his claws over Gerard’s mouth, pushes one inside to pin his tongue. It tastes the same as Frank’s everything tastes, cold and blank and unforgiving. It tastes nothing at all like something that should spark even more heat in Gerard’s belly, or the way he twists under Frank and sucks at the razor-sharp point. He grabs onto Frank’s hips, his ass, sucking harder when Frank starts to fuck against him, a sinuous, boneless roll that’s weird and alien, pure muscle bearing down on him.

He shakes free of Frank’s claws and says, “More, fuck, come on. Frank. Frank, more,” pushing up into the hand Frank wraps around his throat. Twisting so claws scrape, cut, slice in.

“I can’t fuck you,” Frank hisses, still moving like he could. He’s staring at Gerard’s throat, at the warmth Gerard can feel seeping over his claws. “I can’t fucking fuck you, so stop fucking asking.”

Gerard’s throat works, no air getting in, no words coming out. He tries shaking his head, because no, no, that’s not what he means. He claws at Frank’s back, relishing the cool rush of Frank’s hissed curse against his face. His mouth finds the curve of Frank’s shoulder, then his teeth do, and he bites down with enough force to split human skin, his jaw locked so Frank’s startled buck doesn’t shake him off. Then he digs in harder, and harder, Frank’s flesh still smooth and unbroken beneath his teeth, and harder again, trying to make Frank understand. Frank could slice him open and crawl inside. Frank could melt to shadows and mist again, creep down his throat, seep through his pores. He wants to get inside Frank as easily as Frank could sink into him. He wants all of Frank’s cold nothingness for his own the same as Frank craves his warmth, the frantic beat of his heart.

“Gee,” Frank gasps, shuddering, eyes squeezed shut and mouth falling slack as Gerard licks up his throat, bites down on the softer place just beneath his jaw. His claws flex on Gerard’s throat and slip away to knead at the pillow beside his head, slicing through cheap cotton and lumpy stuffing. “Gerard. Fuck. What–”

Gerard rakes his nails down Frank’s sides, groaning loudly around the flesh caught in his mouth when Frank hisses and shakes and bucks like he’s about to come. His eyes flash as Gerard heaves up, knocking Frank off him to roll on top, groping for his wrists. Claws prick the backs of his hands as he holds Frank down and bites again, grinding his teeth together, desperate to get at whatever’s hidden beneath the tight stretch of Frank’s skin. Maybe it’s nothing at all, blank and hollow like Frank tastes, or maybe it’s those shadows Frank becomes when he melts away, wispy and freezing cold. Maybe if Gerard could break through, they’d come spilling out, wrap around him and sink inside, slink through his blood to his heart, cradle it in gentle claws the way Frank holds him when he’s got nothing left.

Letting go, Gerard shoves up. His hair’s stuck to his face, obscuring his vision, but all he needs to see is the glow of Frank’s eyes, the way they’re slitted and narrow, the slack fall of Frank’s mouth. “Let me in,” he says, and digs his nails into Frank’s chest so hard his fingers ache. “Let me in, Frank, you fucking shit. Fucker, let me in.”

Frank gasps and arches and his eyes snap wide. The solid barrier of his skin wavers like he’s going to melt away, like he’s going to fucking leave again. Gerard snarls at him and grabs his jaw, kisses him so hard Gerard tastes blood, his own blood, from a stinging cut opened up on his lip. He licks at Frank’s teeth, his tongue, claws frantically at Frank’s perfect, unmarked chest, nails tearing.

“Stop,” Frank snaps, “Gee, you’re gonna,” and he grabs onto Gerard’s wrist, the hard edges of claws giving way to cool smoke, twining up his arm to flick at the shallow wounds on his throat, his lip, push inside his open, panting mouth. He chokes on nothing, Frank’s nothing, and feels his fingers sink into shadow seconds before the heat roiling in his belly snaps taut. He comes staring down at his hand half-buried in Frank’s chest, malleable pressure surrounding it, shifting and pulsing, alive. He comes with Frank inside him, soothing the burn at the back of his throat, letting him let go, ride it.

When the pleasure holding him too far above Frank lets him go, he crumples against Frank’s chest, cradling his hand between them, his fingers frozen and stiff and his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the emptiness inside Frank, tries to slow his heart to match that nothing.

Frank wraps him close, familiar rasp unsteady when he says, “You were really afraid I’d leave.”

So much worse than Frank’s chill against overheated skin is the one curdling in Gerard’s stomach. “Don’t be–”

“No, no,” Frank says, holding tighter. “I mean it. I thought we were playing.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I liked it.”

“Because you really are a dick,” Gerard mutters. He still can’t really move his fingers. They’re probably okay.

Frank says, “I liked you wanting me that bad,” and Gerard can’t see his face but he can hear the smile that’s on it, small and mischevious. “I wasn’t–”

“You were pissed.” Maybe Gerard doesn’t know as much about Frank, and what the fuck Frank really is, as he should, but he knows that. “It’s just a stupid painting for a stupid class and you were so angry.”

Claws scratch lightly at Gerard’s sweaty shoulder. It takes Frank a long while to say, “Maybe.”

“And you didn’t even fucking tell me why.”

“But hey, you figured it out.”

Gerard grunts, “Asshole,” again and clings tighter, even though he’s starting to shiver for real now. Frank’s hands smooth down his back, his hips, endless and restless even though Frank’s so quiet beneath him. Through the sleep tugging at him, Gerard can feel dawn pressing close to the walls. Soon he’s got to get up and live his life. Another whole day before he can be back here, the only place he wants to be.

“Hey,” Frank says, and slips out from under him.

Gerard rolls to the edge of the bed. Warmth rushes in where Frank used to be. “Where’re you going?” he mumbles, reaching out long after Frank’s already gone.

“Absolutely nowhere,” Franks says. There’s a rustling noise in the corner, the soft sound of Frank’s bare feet padding on thin carpet. The bed dips again and Gerard struggles to open his eyes. “Here.”

Fumbling for Frank’s arm, Gerard curls his fingers around it, following it up to Frank’s hand to find the long wooden handle of a paintbrush he holds. Gerard finally gets his eyes open, blinking up at Frank’s face. The light in the room’s gotten brighter, greyish. Frank looks like a slice of forgotten midnight.

“Finish it,” Frank says, pressing the paintbrush harder into Gerard’s grip as his own starts to melt away. “Show me what I could be.”

“Frank,” Gerard starts, but Frank hisses quietly, darting in to kiss him. Gerard rises up to meet him, pushing for more even as Frank’s lips slowly turn to cool smoke against his.

When Gerard opens his eyes again, Frank’s gone. He looks down at the paintbrush in his hand, thumb tracing the grooves left behind from Frank’s claws, then at the canvas in the corner. Frank’s face is there, staring back at him in warm flesh tones, rich brown eyes Gerard’s never seen, framed by a sweep of dark hair. The Frank he knows is hidden in too-deep shadows, a suggestion in the sharp lines of Frank’s face, unfinished, raw.

Picking up the bottle of spilled tequila, Gerard burns the nothing-taste out of his mouth, and he paints.

–

End

–

Frank is minding his own fucking business, enjoying the last drag of his shitty stale smoke, when the guy comes stumbling around the corner. Behind the stringy hair clinging to his face, his eyes are wide, scared-shitless wide, juiced-out-of-his-head wide. Franks spits, “Motherfucker,” as the guy tumbles into him, nearly taking one of those too-wide eyes out on the cherry.

“Sorry,” the guy slurs, grabbing onto Frank to stay upright, a thumb almost shoved into Frank’s mouth, “sorry, I got,” then hits the dirt on his knees like somebody cut his strings.

“Frankie,” Henderson says, sauntering up to the imaginary border of Frank’s shaded sanctuary. He jerks his chin at the guy clinging to Frank’s leg. “You wanna give that a kick back over my way?”

Frank eyeballs his smoke, wondering if he can eke out another puff. “You sure you want it?”

Henderson barks out a mean laugh, the kind of laugh that promises shit Frank’s in no mood to see. “He’s good for another couple rounds yet. Got him the good stuff this time. Check it out.” He gives the guy a jab in the ribs with one foot. The guy whines and curls closer to Frank’s leg, breathing hard for a couple beats before he starts pawing sloppily at Frank’s crotch.

“What the fuck,” Frank says, kneeing the guy off.

Henderson grins, vicious and satisfied. “Got him trained good. Want a go?”

The guy in the scraggly grass stares up at Frank with glassy eyes. His eyebrows are drawn tight, lips pursed, like there’s shit going on here he doesn’t get, and it sure as fuck isn’t the same shit Frank’s not getting. He looks like he’s trying to figure out if Frank’s worth the fucking effort.

“C’mon, bitch,” Henderson says, hauling the guy up by a fistful of dirty hair. The guy makes this noise like a pup that’s been belted one too many times, resigned and weirdly shocked. He sags in Henderson’s grip, still staring at Frank’s face. There’s this fucked up longing in his eyes. Like maybe, if he’s fucking pathetic enough, he thinks Frank’ll help him out here.

Or could be he’s just craving a shot of nicotine to go on top of whatever shit’s already cruising through his blood.

“Shouldn’t,” the guy says, propping a hand on Henderson’s chest to hold himself up, “’cause, perpetrating degradation of, like, through language,” and Henderson says, “Shut the fuck up for once,” and drags the guy back out into the sunlight.

“Jesus,” Frank says.

“Hey, hey, baby,” Park coos over the patter of water on tile, his hand held out to the wasted dude from yesterday like a gentleman helping his lady out of a car, “c’mere, sweetheart. I’ll treat you right.”

A round of half-interested chuckles go up. Frank rolls his eyes and dumps a glob of shampoo into his palm. When he first got in here, he thought this was the kind of shit that came out of Hollywood’s ass. But nobody busts in to put a stop to Park shoving the guy down, or from grabbing up a fistful of hair to rub his crotch all over the guy’s face, so what the fuck does he know.

“Wait,” the guy gasps, scrabbling for a handhold on Park’s wet hairy thighs, “wait, don’t, fuck, I don’t feel so good.”

“Not that fucking pussy shit again,” Henderson says, cuffing the back of the guy’s head. “You shut up and take it where he wants to stick it.”

The guy sucks in a shuddering breath, says, “No, I,” and flinches back when Park lifts a beefy hand. He’s hanging rag-doll limp by his hair, soaked and shivering and seriously, he fucking looks wrecked in a bad way. He sure as fuck doesn’t look like something Frank would want on his dick.

“He tweaking again?”

Henderson barks out another one of those grating laughs. “Knew you were interested, Iero!” He grabs the guy by one wrist, a shallow whimper echoing off the tile as he’s ripped out of Park’s grip, and shoves him down in a pale, pathetic sprawl. The guy’s breathing hard and fast, shoulders shaking. “Hasn’t sobered up since he got here. Don’t think he knows his own fucking name.” Another whimper answers the heel Henderson drills into his side. Henderson laughs. “Fuck, I don’t know his name.”

“Gerard,” the guy croaks, and somebody mutters something that sends up another raucous chorus of jeers. The guy doesn’t even notice, just struggles up on one arm, head low. “Fuck, I’m gonna– I’m gonna–”

“You’re gonna fucking suck your daddy off,” Henderson snarls, as Park takes hold of Gerard and jerks him around, shoving him face-first at Henderson’s dick.

Gerard hangs there for a minute, Henderson’s half-hard junk pressed into his cheek. Then looks up and says, really clearly, “Sorry,” before he fucking hurls.

Henderson shoves him back, barking, “Jesus, Jesus, fuck,” over and over again, like the poor wasted fuck hadn’t tried to like, fucking warn him. Everybody’s cursing and laughing and Frank’s right there with them, can’t even fucking help it, this guy’s the fucking saddest piece of shit Frank’s seen come through here and he’s sorry. He’s fucking sorry for puking on Henderson’s ugly-ass dick.

“Guess it didn’t look so fucking good to him anymore,” Frank says, and another round goes up, guys fucking shitting themselves laughing as Henderson tries to wash chunks of who the fuck knows what off his crotch.

“Fuckin’ useless piece of trash,” Henderson hisses, fists clenched tight. He flicks a glance at the cameras in the corners, the guards station outside the tiled partitions pretending he’s not hearing any of this crap, mutters, “Not even fucking worth it.” He raises his voice so it booms off the tile walls, bellows, “Free meat, boys! Just fucking gag the shitsucker first.”

Some guys laugh, some snort, but everybody goes back to showering, ignoring Gerard splayed out limply where he fell. His side rises and falls with shallow breaths. Frank grunts and ducks his head under the spray.

A guard raps on the wall a couple minutes later, calls, “Five!” in warning. A small handful of cons head out right away, mostly the ones who care about being first in line for the cafeteria slop. A few more drift out after, the loners, then Henderson’s crowd, other groups of two and three, until Frank’s the only one left behind.

Frank, and Gerard, who hasn’t budged an inch, except for the way he can’t stop shivering.

Frank cranks off the water, grabs a threadbare towel off the rack and scrubs at his hair. Gerard’s pale, junkie-delicate, soft in places and nothing but sharp-edged bone his others, skin smeared in a sick mottle of bruises like fingerpaints. His mouth hangs open as he sucks in one slow breath after another, his lips cracked and sore, his eyes closed, lashes lost against the thick dark bags under his eyes. He twitches at the sound of Frank’s bare feet on wet tile, but doesn’t make a move to get up.

“Jesus,” Frank mutters, and turns to go. On his way past the guard outside, he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, says, “Some guy’s sick or something,” and wonders if there’s gonna be anything even remotely edible on the menu today.

Tuesday, Gerard shows up in Frank’s anger-management group. He’s slumped in a chair, one hand hanging off to the side, the other clutching a crayon scratching at a thin pad of paper caught against his thigh. Sweat glistens on his face, his body heavy and lank as his hair. He looks strung-out and tired and in hardcore need of a hit. Word is he hasn’t gotten one in three days, not since the shit that went down in the shower. Nobody’s touched him since then, either. Henderson might’ve said free meat, but who knows if he actually fucking meant it. Could be he’s teaching his bitch a lesson. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The shrink at the head of the group drones on and on. Frank quit listening to that bullshit his first week in here. He knows he’s got issues. Most times, he’s real good at controlling the rage burbling in his belly. It’s just, sometimes, there are fuckers that don’t deserve his control.

“Gerard?” Dr Bosse prompts gently. It sets Frank’s fucking teeth on edge. Gerard lifts unfocused eyes from his sketchpad. “It’s good that you’ve started drawing again. Art is an excellent way to express emotions.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, rusty and thick. His gaze shifts sluggishly to Frank. He blinks once, slowly, and says, “Yeah,” again.

Bosse darts a confused glance Frank’s way. Frank shrugs. Like he knows what the fuck is going on in this guy’s head. “May we see?”

Gerard blinks again, still staring straight at Frank. It’s fucking creepy. He says, “Yeah,” one more time, like he doesn’t give a shit either way, and jabs his crayon between his teeth to flip up the pad one-handed. He points it straight at Frank, like Frank’s the one who fucking asked to see his scribbles.

And then Frank actually looks at the fucking drawing. It’s not scribbles. It’s Frank. It’s Frank, hung on a cross, fucking crucified, but upside down, his legs splayed wide and obscene, feet nailed to the arms of the cross, his own arms stretched out high above his head, fingers curved like claws digging into the mound of bones the cross is dug into. His chest is ripped wide open, ribs curved down and out, baring nothing but his heart, grotesque and oversized and what the fucking fuck did Frank ever do to this guy, fucking Christ.

The shrink looks vaguely concerned. Fucking thoughtful, like Gerard’s got a habit of pulling Frank’s pigtails or something, not drawing him ripped open and bleeding. “Okay,” he says, standing up. “Let’s call it a day. Frank, I need you to come with me.”

“Me?” Frank snaps. “Fuck, why not him? He’s got the fucking torture porn!”

Gerard grins, displaying twin rows of tiny, crooked, creepy little teeth.

“Frank,” Dr Bosse says, frowning, deep lines cutting into his sallow cheeks. “We need to discuss this.”

“Yeah, Frank,” Gerard drawls, Jersey dripping from every syllable, “you need to be discussed.”

“Fuck you.” Frank shoves to his feet. Gerard’s gaze slides down, and down, then takes its time crawling back up again. Frank scowls and fights off a shiver. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a genuine psycho right here. “Seriously, man. Fucking fuck you.”

Gerard’s weird slinky smile flips over to a full on grin, low beam to high, just like that. “Okay,” he says, and drops his sketchpad back into his lap, humming happily as he flips to a fresh page.

“That guy belongs in the fucking looney bin,” Frank says.

Not looking up from his paper, Gerard lifts his other hand, twiddling his fingers in a wave. Bosse’s frown lines cut deeper.

The next time Frank lays eyes on Gerard, it’s Friday. The sun’s high and bright but the morning air’s got that bite that says summer’s giving its last hurrah. Frank’s missing whatever slop they’re serving up inside for lunch, but it’s more than worth the hungry grumble of his stomach. He can’t take the fucking walls anymore. The edge of the picnic table digs into his spine, the guard on the fence is giving him the hairy eyeball like he doesn’t trust the con with the hankering for some fresh air, and he’s seriously thinking about fucking himself over entirely by having a nice little nap right here, when somebody’s shadow falls over him. The crazy fucker who owns it says, “Hook me up and I’ll blow you.”

Frank snorts, keeping his chin tucked against his chest. “Seen your idea of a blowjob already. No thanks.”

“I mean it.” Gerard knees Frank’s thigh. “I’ll suck your fucking brains out through your dick. I’ll make you forget your own name. Make you forget your momma’s name.”

“Dude.” Frank tilts his head up, squinting into the sun. “That’s sick, mentioning my momma in the same breath as my dick.”

Gerard grins his freakish little grin, says, “Got your fucking attention,” and drops to his knees right there. “C’mon.”

“You can sit your skinny ass right down on my dick if you want, I ain’t hooking you up.” Frank wiggles his butt against the hard wooden bench like that’ll make it a fraction more comfortable. “Fuck off.”

“Why not?” Gerard asks, sounding like he’s genuinely fucking wondering. “I got you out of group early. You fucking hate group. That’s gotta be worth at least one hit.”

“‘Cause maybe I just don’t fucking like you,” Frank grumbles.

Gerard snorts a giggle. “Lame.”

Frank slouches deeper into his thin jacket, shoulders hiked up around his ears. Bosse had warned him Gerard was gonna track him down. According to the shrink, Gerard is an Enthusiast, which is supposed to be a nice way of saying he gets addicted to anything and everything, and he’s been at it for so fucking long if he’s not fucking addicted to something, his body starts to shut down or some shit like that. Henderson’s made it pretty clear he’s done, so Gerard actually is free meat, and about two days from a free-fall into real crazy.

As much as Frank doesn’t want to see what Bosse thinks is real crazy, he is not this douche’s fucking safety net. “Only thing you’re gonna be eating is my fist if you don’t get the fuck away from me.”

A warm hand touches Frank’s knee. Frank grinds his teeth. There’s the soft whisper of Gerard shrugging, then a tiny breath before he says says, “Okay.”

Frank’s eyes snap open. Gerard’s just kneeling there, tired eyes wet from the wind–Frank fucking hopes it’s from the god damn wind that’s slicing around the corner–lip caught between his teeth as he stares at Frank’s face. He shrugs again. “Like, if that’s what gets you off, whatever. I don’t care.”

“Wow,” Frank says. “Fuck, wow. You are fucked up.”

Gerard’s mouth tugs up in a smile. It’s slanted higher on one side in a way that doesn’t look deliberate, like it’s as jacked as the rest of him. Frank can’t stop staring at it. It’s so fucking weird.

Weird like Gerard elbowing his way in between Frank’s legs like they’re not in the middle of the fucking yard. Frank scrambles up, one foot on the bench, one hand grabbing the table, other hand curled into a fist drawn back ready to let fly. Gerard doesn’t even flinch. Or blink. All he does is kneel there, head tilted up to give Frank a clear shot.

“Motherfucker,” Frank spits, planting his hand to swing over to the other side of the table. He hits the dirt with a muffled thump, shoulders drawn tight and muscles humming, skin itching with the weight of Gerard’s gaze. Snarling another curse, he shakes his arm out, heading for the gate. The guard barely even looks at him this time before buzzing him through.

Sunday, while the priest is making his rounds to all the cons left with a scrap of faith, Gerard sidles on up beside Frank in the library, making annoying interested noises at the book Frank’s holding, trying to read it over his shoulder. Frank handles three and a half minutes of that shit, jaw aching his teeth are clenched so tight, before he slams his book down. “What,” he snaps.

Gerard lights up like Frank invited him to join his fucking bookclub. “Is that Catcher in the Rye?” he asks, grabbing onto a heavy wooden chair and hauling it over. He climbs on up with both feet on the seat, shuffling around a little before he folds neatly down into it, feet tucked under his ass and chunky knees stuck out under the arms. “I fucking love that book. It’s still so fucking relevant. Everybody either wants to be saved, or wants somebody to save, y’know? Never fucking changes.”

For a long minute, Frank just looks at him. His face hasn’t changed, pale and drawn, dark rings around his eyes, but his eyes themselves, they’re not the same muddy brown. They’re brighter, clearer, focused in a way they haven’t been since he first started staring at Frank everywhere he went. Frank doesn’t give a shit if the guy’s toked or not. He still hears himself asking, “You find somebody else to hook you up?”

Gerard nods fast. “Bosse is trying to fucking cure me or something. I don’t need it, though.”

This is so not a conversation Frank wants to have. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another string of rapid-fire nods. “I’m gonna fucking save myself.”

“You’re fucked outta your mind,” Frank says, shoving his chair back. Snake-quick, Gerard’s hand shoots out, wiry fingers clamping tight around Frank’s wrist. He’s got a junkie’s hold, desperate, clutching, shockingly strong. “Let go or I’ll fucking break it.”

“I’ll shut up. Please sit down, I promise I’ll shut up.” Gerard’s gaze darts to the doors, the windows, jitters around the stacks before slamming back to Frank. “My Catholic guilt is astrofuckingnomical, you have no idea, please, fuck, sit down.” He starts gnawing on the cuticles on his other hand as he carefully loosens his grip on Frank’s wrist, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m not your fucking keeper,” Frank bitches, but he sits his ass back down. Only because this is his fucking Sunday spot, and every preacher man that comes through these walls knows to give this place a wide berth. That’s probably why Gerard’s here, trading on Frank’s rep. Smart.

“You sit there and you stay fucking quiet.” Frank reaches for his book and thumbs through the yellowed pages for his place. “Say one fucking word you’ll be deep-throating those stupid crayons you carry around faster than you can fucking blink.”

The hand Gerard hasn’t got shoved halfway into his mouth flies protectively to the pocket bursting with broken waxy stubs. Still gnawing on his fingers, eyes wide and innocent, he gives a quick nod. Then he jerks his hand away from his mouth and crosses his heart with spit-shiny fingers, beaming like he’s learned a new trick.

Gerard’s fucking cracked.

“Is your middle name James?”

Frank grunts, “No,” as he tosses two cards, tapping the picnic table once. Wentz cocks an eyebrow at Frank, then slowly looks over to where Gerard is perched next to him on the bench, hunched so far over his sketchbook he’s talking to his fucking knees. Frank answers with a look like I don’t fucking know and raps the table again.

“How about John? John’s a good Catholic name.” Frowning, Gerard shoves a tangle of hair behind his ear. He tilts the sketchbook half a degree south. “Sturdy. Reliable.”

Frank scrubs a hand over his face. This has been his life for a fucking week now. Gerard is always fucking there. At breakfast, in the yard, in the fucking shower, Gerard is dogging his footsteps like the fucking neediest chihuahua, all the time yap-yap-yap with the questions. Frank’s fucking sick of it, but a couple times he’s caught Bosse lurking around, watching with beady, satisfied eyes, and he thinks, fuck it. His parole hearing’s coming up in nine months. It’ll look good on his record. Like charity work.

Ellseworth, squinting at his cards, asks, “What the fuck you wanna know his middle name for?” and Gerard’s head snaps up, mouth hanging open, like he can’t fucking believe somebody wouldn’t want to know Frank’s middle name. He flaps his hands around, mouth working but no sound coming out, which is pretty fucking hilarious, and then he’s babbling, “Holy shit, Iero. From Jersey! It’s like I made him up, right? Like somebody in a comic book! Frankie J, from up Jersey way. Don’t fuck with the fucking Ieros, man, they will fuck your shit up. It’s fucking awesome.”

Wentz grins around the toothpick stuck in his teeth. “I’m gonna be the dirty cop in this story, I can feel it.”

“Suck on it, Wentz,” Frank says, folding up his hand and going for his stash. “Seven sticks in. You pussies gonna call or go play fucking dress-up?”

“You shouldn’t say pussies like that,” Gerard says, running his finger over the neat lines of crayons he’s got laid out on the table before picking up a green. “Women are fucking amazing.”

“My man,” Wentz says, slapping his chest like a dickbag and aiming at finger at Gerard. “My man, yes. Pussy is where it’s at.”

“Fuck you, Wentz,” Ellseworth laughs, shuffling some smokes into the pot. “You’ve been on dick so long you don’t even fucking remember what a pussy looks like.”

“Like heaven,” Wentz says, slumping against the table with a dramatic moan. “Sweet, wet heaven.”

Gerard’s paused with a crayon halfway to his mouth. He blinks at each of them in turn, like he’s gotta make sure they’re all really there and not the weird shit he sometimes only sees–and fucking starts talking to–in his head, then frowns. “I said women, not pussies. Well, okay, pussy is amazing, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Ellseworth drawls.

“You take that back.”

Ellseworth’s snigger trails off. He looks around, grin crooked and confused, and says, “Uh, no.”

Gerard stays eerily still for a second longer, then, like he’s decided exactly what he’s gonna do about this shit, snaps, “You fucking take it back,” and slams his crayon back down so hard it cracks into three tiny pieces. “You fucking take it back, motherfucker, ’cause that’s not what I said.”

“Jesus,” Frank says, scooting down the bench put some distance between him and Gerard’s latest round of really fucking crazy. Across the way, Wentz is doing the same. “Okay, fuck, we get it, it’s not what you said. What the fuck, man.”

“No,” Gerard snarls, hands curled over the edge of the table, nails gouging at the flaking paint. Frank carefully slides off the bench while Wentz shoots him a look and does the same. It’s a sad day when he’s on the same page as Pete fucking Wentz. “He said it. He’s got to take it back. Fucking take it back!”

Ellseworth’s got time to laugh a weird, strained little laugh and say, “Jesus Christ,” before Gerard explodes. Frank’s stuck there, staring like a moron, as Gerard scrambles up, looking like he’s about to leap across the fucking table and throttle Ellseworth with his bare hands. Then, like a movie jumping reels, Gerard snaps back, shouting, “Take it back, take it back!” as he grabs onto the bench and heaves the whole fucking works, cards and smokes and crayons and fucking Ellseworth too, up and over. Ellseworth, the stupid dick, gets a leg stuck under the table, wriggling around spitting curses right up until Gerard makes to hop up onto the table. His eyes go wide and panicked, terrified.

“What the fuck!” Frank barks, grabbing onto Gerard around the waist to haul him back. “You crazy stupid fuck, you’ll break his fucking leg!”

“Take it back!” Gerard howls, kicking at Frank’s legs, scratching at his arms, twisting and writhing and snapping his teeth at Frank’s face. “Make him fucking take it back!”

“Christ, I take it back!” Ellseworth hollers. “I didn’t mean it, fuck, I take it back, what the fuck is the matter with you!”

“I really admire women!” Gerard hollers right back, then bursts out giggling, going limp so fast Frank almost drops him on his ass.

“Fuck, fuck,” Wentz is saying, keeping a wary eye on the loon flopping all over Frank while he tries to lever up the table enough to get Ellseworth out from underneath it. “Jesus Christ, Frankie.”

“Frankie,” Gerard hiccups, and lolls his head against Frank’s shoulder. “Frankie, I lost my crayons.”

Watching the guards bearing down on them, Frank says, “The fucking crayons are the least of your fucking worries.”

“Oops,” Gerard giggles.

Gerard gets two nights solitary confinement. Frank’s jittery the entire time, eyeballing the guards, the other inmates, the fucking Warden when he makes an appearance in the cafeteria. Something’s off somewhere, messing up his vibe. It’s rubbing his last nerve raw trying to figure out which direction the shit’s gonna fly from.

It’s not until Tuesday group rolls around that it hits.

Bosse is up front, blathering on about personal responsibility. Frank’s sandwiched between some guy that gutted his wife on their anniversary–crime of passion, Frank’s white Jersey ass; guy knew his woman was cheating on him for months–and Gerard. Gerard’s got that special kind of fidgety going on, the one that nails him exactly right before he needs another hit of whatever Bosse is doling out to him. He keeps scooting his chair forward and back, forward and back, muttering under his breath as he tears page after page out of his sketchbook. Frank drives the heel of one hand hard against an eye and keeps breathing.

“Fucking fuck,” Gerard bites out, viciously scribbling over whatever the fuck he was trying to draw. He wears the crayon down to the raggedy paper, then flips it to an underhand grip like he’s gonna jab it through the sketchbook. He grinds it in, paper shredding, muttering and scribbling and cursing and then it’s, “Fucking motherfucking chair!” as he bursts onto his feet. He turns wild eyes to Frank, like it’s Frank’s fucking fault, or like Frank’s gonna fucking fix it or something, ’cause he’s screaming, “It keeps ruining my lines!” at the top of his crazy-ass lungs. “My fucking lines!”

“So get a fucking different chair!” Frank shouts back.

Gerard stops short, frozen. He’s got that look again. His fingers twitch, giving Frank this painfully crystal-fucking-clear image of him grabbing up the chair and busting it to pieces on all their heads, and next thing Frank knows he’s on his feet too, hauling Gerard away from it by the back of his collar. The last thing Frank’s expecting is for Gerard to round on him, this focused, calculated look in his eyes. Frank hesitates, grip loosening.

Gerard makes a break for the chair. Frank grabs at him again, missing and lurching forward awkwardly. He goes with it, getting his other foot under him in time to turn it into a lunge that sends him careening straight into Gerard’s back. Gerard goes down, a flash of wide eyes and that fucking grin, before he twists around and clamps his jaw onto Frank’s arm.

“Motherfucker!” Frank spits, shoving him away. The guards are there, hauling Gerard to his feet, Bosse shouting over the trash-talking racket the other inmates are making. His arm is fucking throbbing, the perfect imprint of Gerard’s cooked teeth welling up with blood.

“Damn,” the wife-sticker whistles, looking down at Frank’s arm.

Frank can’t even fucking believe it. The crazy shit bit him. He looks up, finds Gerard, caught by the arms by two guards, grinning a great big shit-eating grin at him. Frank’s blood is pink in his teeth. It’s the craziest stunt he’s ever pulled, but for the first time, he doesn’t look one bit nuts. He looks calm, and confident, and like the taste of Frank’s blood in his mouth is exactly what he woke up this morning knowing he was gonna get.

Tearing his gaze away, Frank looks at Bosse and says, “Go get me a fucking tetanus.”

“You gotta be fucking shitting me,” Frank says.

“I’m afraid not,” Bosse says, neatly sidestepping out of the doctor’s way as she bustles around getting bandages and tape and what had better be every fucking antibiotic this shithole stocks. “Gerard Way is your cellmate effective immediately. I believe in the long run, this move will benefit you both.”

“He fucking bit me.”

“Yes,” Bosse says, frowning. He rubs at his chin. “That was slightly unexpected.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Unexpected, Jesus.” Busy wrapping up his arm, the doctor darts a glance at his face, then another at his tats. Her lips curve slightly. “He better not have messed up my ink.”

“I don’t think so,” the doctor assures him.

“That may very well have been his intent,” Bosse says, oblivious to how, if he’d get his stodgy ass gone, Frank could have the girl up on the table, her legs around his waist, in about three seconds flat. “Gerard feels very deeply about art. You’re a walking canvas, Frank. He would feel jealousy over the number of artists already with their work on your skin.”

Frank says, “So where a normal dude would wanna do me a piece, he wants to gnaw a chunk outta my ass.”

Bosse nods, pleased. “Exactly.”

“Awesome.”

“Gerard’s having some difficulty reintegrating into a social environment,” Bosse says, adjusting his glasses in a way that means he’s settling in for a long ramble. It’s a good thing Frank’s got a decent view of the doctors’s awesome rack to keep him from zoning out completely. “The natural barter system of institutions is only further hindering his progress. Encountering you, someone who wants absolutely nothing at all from him, who in fact demands that he give nothing, is exactly the sort of breakthrough I believe he needs.”

The doctor finishes gently taping down the gauze. Her fingertips linger a couple seconds longer than they need to, tracing one of the red rays of sunlight along his forearm. “Yeah,” Frank says, eyes on her slim fingers, “yeah, okay, whatever.”

“‘Whatever’, Frank?”

“Yeah, fuck,” Frank says, snapping his gaze front and centre. “It’s not fucking rocket science. I let the guy hang around, free of charge, you put in a good word for me when my hearing rolls around. That’s the deal, right?”

Bosse looks doubtful, but he says, “Yes, Frank. That’s the deal.”

“So, deal.” Frank flexes his arm. It pulls a bit, but whatever the doctor rubbed on it before wrapping him up is dealing pretty awesomely with the sting. Too bad she didn’t get a chance to rub something else on him. He tosses her a smile as he hops down from the table. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Take it off to shower,” she says, eyeing him askance as she squeezes a dollop of white antibiotic cream onto a little cardboard square and holds it out. “That’s enough for three nights. Try not to let anyone else bite you in the meantime.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Frank says, hitting her up with the full does of Iero charm, big brown eyes, mischievous quirk of a smile, his hand cupped under hers to take the cardboard square light and lingering. She gives him a look back like she’s so not buying it, but that’s exactly why she’s buying it. Everybody loves a bad boy with a squishy marshmallow core. Her panties are practically ripping themselves off.

“Thank you, Dr Galloway,” Bosse says, touching Frank’s shoulder to herd him towards the door and the guards waiting to escort him back to the common room. Halfway there, his voice low, he adds, “That is exactly the sort of thing not to flaunt in front of Gerard, Frank. He’s going to be very possessive over your friendship.”

Frank snorts. “Doc, that back there, that ain’t friendship.”

“Yes,” Bosse says flatly, adjusting his glasses again, “I noticed. Regardless, Frank. Your chances at early parole are riding on this. Do pay attention.”

Early parole? Frank shoots him a look. Bosse keeps his gaze firmly ahead. So that’s the way it’s gonna be. Fair enough. Frank can play that game. He can play it in fucking spades.

By the time Frank makes it back to his cell for lockup, Gerard’s already settled in. All of Frank’s shit has been moved to the top bunk, blankets a messy, useless heap, his books stacked haphazardly on top. Gerard’s on the bottom bunk, on Frank’s bunk, sitting cross-legged bent over his sketchbook. His head snaps up when Frank crosses the threshold, nostrils flaring like a startled animal.

“Frankie!” he says, bouncing his ass like a five-year-old. “Hi! I can’t have top bunk, I sometimes fall out at night. What happened to your arm?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Frank says. “You fucking bit it!”

Gently pushing the sketchbook aside, Gerard stands up, hands behind his back as he shuffles closer. He leans forward a fraction, peering at the white square taped to Frank’s arm. “Can I see?”

No, dickbag, you can’t fucking see is right on the tip of Frank’s tongue. Grinding his teeth together, he manages to swallow it back down. Gerard could blow this whole fucking thing for him if he runs crying to Bosse. “Don’t fucking touch it,” he says instead, picking carefully at the tape.

“That’s why I’ve got my hands behind my back,” Gerard says happily. He watches, way too focused, biting on his damn lip again, as Frank peels back the gauze. “Oh wow.” His hand twitches, making Frank pull back, and he quickly says, “No, no, I won’t touch,” leaning closer, hair sliding forward, almost breathing on the fucking thing. “That’s so cool. Are those really my teeth?”

“It’s not fucking cool,” Frank says, slapping the gauze back down too hard. “You’ll be getting your meals through a god damn tube if you bite me one more fucking time.”

Gerard screws his face up, mumbles, “Sorry,” and shuffles back to his bunk. “I don’t remember.”

Frank is no chicken shit, but he’s gonna hang back here by the open bars until he figures out if Gerard’s got another episode in him today. It’s fucking practical. “Man, you wigged out on a chair.”

Wrinkling his nose up even more, Gerard asks, “A chair?”

“Yeah, for ruining your, fuck, your lines or something? Some shit like that.”

“My– Oh!” Gerard literally smacks himself in the fucking forehead. “My lines. Yeah, ’cause, I was, um,” and he trails off, gnawing on the inside of his lip, then his thumb, flipping through page after page in his book. “Yeah, I was drawing this!”

Surprise, surprise, it’s Frank again. Except this time he’s on his knees, a rosary clasped in his hands, and he’s got seven swords sticking out of his fucking chest almost exactly like the Lady of Sorrows inked into his arm. It could’ve been anybody in the picture, maybe, except Frank’s head isn’t bowed in prayer. He’s staring straight ahead, this smirk on his face that doesn’t at all match the rest of the shit going on in there.

“See?” Gerard says, looking up expectantly. “I had to get it right.”

Frank is fucking sleeping with one eye open.

It’s a good hour past lights out. Frank’s got his face shoved into the mattress, a pillow crammed over his ears, and it’s not fucking helping. He can still hear every little whisper, every cottony rustle, every god damn moan.

Yanking the pillow away, Frank flips over and viciously kicks the bedframe, one-two-three.

Gerard groans, “Sorry, sorry– Almost–”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Twenty fucking minutes. Gerard’s been down there jacking it for twenty fucking minutes. Frank hears him spit again and winces.

“I can’t,” Gerard pants, “it’s just not, fuck.” There’s a violent huff, the bed shakes, and Gerard lets out this long, low groan, chopped and ragged like somebody’s choking the life out of him.

Frank lifts his gaze to the ceiling, starts to mouth, Thank you, Christ, but before he’s even gotten halfway through, the steady slap of skin on skin starts up again. “You’re not fucking serious, c’mon!”

“It’s because I’m in a new place,” Gerard says conversationally, only the slightest strain at the edges. “Y’know? Like, performance anxiety. Except not, ’cause I’ve got no problems performing. I’m hard as a fucking rock down here.” He puffs out a groan. “Fuck, it kinda hurts.”

“Whatever,” Frank says. He grinds his teeth together when Gerard lets out another pitiful half-choked groan. “I don’t care. Just fucking take care of it.”

“I’m fucking trying!” Gerard hollers.

“Try fucking harder!”

“I am fucking harder!”

Frank snaps his mouth shut. This is one of those times in life where he’s just gotta fucking admit that no matter what he does, it’s not gonna work. Like a bumblebee bashing its dumb little bobbly head against a window. Like poor fucking Sisyphus, man, now he knows how that dude felt.

“I think it’s your voice,” Gerard says. “I really like your voice. It’s kinda sexy, y’know? It goes all low and grating when you’re pissed off.”

“I’m not fucking–”

“Oh, god, yeah,” Gerard moans. Grabbing desperately for the pillow, Frank shoves it over his face again. He gets three seconds of blessed silence before Gerard’s, “Frank, Frankie, c’mon, talk to me, almost there, feels really fucking good, Frankie,” gouges his brain like a red-hot poker.

“God fucking damn it,” Frank grates, flinging the pillow aside. Planting one hand firmly on the mattress, the other on the sturdy pole bolting their beds to the wall, Frank tumbles easily down off his bunk onto the floor beside Gerard’s. He gets one good, solid look at Gerard’s eyes flashing wide, the sharp hiss of a breath, before he slaps his hand over Gerard’s mouth, fingers and thumb digging viciously into Gerard’s flushed cheeks. Then Gerard’s face crumples, a low sound humming against Frank’s hand, the fucker fucking coming right then and there. Another rasping breath and his sharp little teeth are digging into Frank’s palm, his other hand–wet with spit and precome, Jesus Christ–coming up to hold Frank’s hand tight against his mouth.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Frank chants, viciously shaking Gerard off.

“Yeah,” Gerard purrs, blinking up at Frank slow and satisfied as he sinks against the rumpled blankets. He gives his spunk-covered dick a lazy pat. “Was it good for you too?”

“I’m gonna fucking murder you in your sleep.”

“Cool,” Gerard says, rolling up onto his side, pants halfway down his ass. He tucks his folded hands beneath his cheek. “Can we cuddle first?”

Frank stares. Gerard blinks. Then Gerard’s mouth quirks, his eyes going kinda bewildered, like he’s actually lying there fucking wondering why Frank isn’t clambering on in for some quality post-orgasmic basking.

“In your sleep,” Frank hisses, and stages a manful retreat.

Frank squints across the visitor’s room. With how fucking looney as Gerard is, he never would’ve thought they’d let him outside the plate-glass windows long enough to look at anybody, let alone leave him out here with the civilians. The guy he’s with is as skinny and gangly and blond as Gerard isn’t, slumped against the table in ripped-up jeans and a vintage peacoat, a scarf wrapped tight around his neck and his gloves still on even though it’s so hot in here it smells like armpit. Frank can’t figure him out. Doesn’t look much like a doctor type, or the kind to be dispatched by charities to visit the sick, forgotten, and deranged. He doesn’t look much like family, either. Maybe a cousin. Sucker.

Ray’s ‘fro bobs into view. “Frank?” he asks, twisting around trying to see what Frank’s gawking at.

“That guy,” Frank says, jerking his chin up. He waits until Ray zeros in on Gerard and friend. “That guy is fucking cracked.”

Ray sizes them up a couple seconds longer, eyebrows drawing slowly together. He turns back to say, “He looks pretty normal.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Frank hisses, scooting in so close to the table it makes friends with his liver. “He wants to dig my heart outta my chest with a rusty spoon and skullfuck my corpse.”

Ray blinks. He says, “Wow,” turns around to look at Gerard again, who’s smiling and laughing disgustingly normally, then looks back. “Are you sure?”

Frank thunks his head on the table.

“Hey,” Ray says, rubbing at his shoulder soothingly. “Hey. Christa’s moving in with me.”

“Dude,” Frank says, yanking his head up. “Dude. Seriously? Fuckin’ a, man, fuckin’ a.”

Ray beams. And shuffles his ass on the seat. And tries to scratch at the back of his neck, but his ‘fro is like the impenetrable hide of a Wookie so he ends up awkwardly patting it instead. “Thanks man,” he says, and pats at his hair some more. “I think she wanted to come see you. But–”

“But fucking nothing,” Frank says. “Me and your woman gotta have a good chat about how to keep you in line.”

Ray looks down at the table, then straight at Frank, high beams of sincerity cranked to the max. “She feels terrible about what happened, Frankie.”

“Not her fault.”

“But–”

“Ray,” Frank says, slapping the table and ignoring the way the beady little eyes of the guards zero in on him. “For fuck’s sake, man. I’d do it again. Dickbag fucking deserved it for trying to pull that shit.”

Ray’s broad shoulders slump. “You didn’t, though.” Fuck, his hair slumps. “Two years in here, Frankie. It’s too much.”

Frank hikes his shoulders up to his ears. He’s not lying. Sure, he’d rather be on the outside than in here dealing with all this crap, but it’s not like he’s in maximum security or something, even if some of the dudes he’s sharing space with oughta be. The days when Frank’s not feeling sorry for hanging around long enough to make sure the douche didn’t bleed out, he’s feeling sorry that he didn’t head out back for a smoke break sooner. He didn’t even know Christa back then. He doesn’t even really know her now, except that she makes Ray stupid and happy and fuck it, that’s good enough.

“Huh,” Ray says.

“What?” Following Ray’s eyeline, Frank’s gaze bumps straight into Gerard’s and gets stuck there. The guy with him arches a brow and says something, lips barely moving. Gerard doesn’t budge. Just stares, and stares, like if he tries hard enough he can peel back all the layers that keep Frank safe, skin and muscle and bone, to find whatever the hell he’s looking for.

“Fuckin’ creep,” Frank mutters, while Ray just says, “Huh,” again.

That night, Frank waits until the absolute last second to saunter into their cell, shoulders tense and gut twisting. He hasn’t seen a fucking hair of Gerard since the weird dodge and snipe staring contest during visiting hours, and he hasn’t been able to enjoy a single minute of it. All he can think about is what the fuck the crazy asshole is gonna do now.

Turns out, crazy’s gonna take a time out. Gerard’s curled up in a tight little ball on his bunk, knees almost to his chin and hair falling in a scraggly mess over his face, snoring all soft and gentle. Frank hesitates a few feet away, debating if he trusts that shit. It’s Gerard. No way should he.

But Gerard doesn’t stir when Frank takes a cautious step forward. Or when he very carefully grabs onto the bunk and heaves up into it. Frank sticks his head over the edge, squinting at him suspiciously. This has gotta be an act. Even after last night’s one-man porn show, Gerard had kicked and squirmed and tossed in his sleep for hours. Frank knows, okay. Frank is a light sleeper, and being woken up every five fucking seconds by that shit is not his idea of a good night.

Gerard snuffles in his sleep. A chunk of hair gets stuck across his open mouth. He smacks his lips a couple times in a vague way, not like he’s trying to dislodge it at all.

“What the fuck,” Frank says, louder than he should.

Gerard doesn’t twitch. And okay, Frank thinks. Okay. Life is tossing him a bone here. He’ll fucking take it.

Frank comes to with his heart clenched tight in his chest. He stares up at the blank dark, waiting for the echo of terrified whimpers to fade with his dream. It takes him a couple agonising breaths to figure out it’s not the ghost of Mama’s cries he’s hearing–Mama’s safe, Ray’s got her, Ray’ll never let her cry like that–but Gerard’s. Gerard’s down there fucking bawling his eyes out in that hushed, choked way abused animals get, too afraid to let it out but too hurt to keep it in.

“Oh, Jesus,” Frank says. Gerard lets out a weird hiccuping whine. He can’t take this. Frank’s got to get some fucking sleep.

Rolling over, Frank sticks his arm over the edge and snaps his fingers a couple times. “Hey, hey. Gerard. Gerard. Dude.” Slapping his palm against the metal bunk gets him nothing except a sharp sting in his wrist. He kicks the frame again, hard. Gerard chokes on air, this harsh, grating noise.

“Fuck it,” Frank says, and swings over the edge, trying not to step on Gerard’s head on the way down. He crouches beside the bed and gives Gerard’s shoulder a shake. “C’mon, man, wake up. You’re fucking killing me here.”

Hunching deeper into himself, hands covering his face, Gerard starts crying for real, these big, wracking sobs like somebody’s ripping his heart out while he’s watching.

“Fucking shut your bitch up!” somebody snarls from a few cells down.

“Fucking shut you up,” Frank snarls back, shaking Gerard harder.

“Hey,” one of the guards calls. “Keep it quiet.”

“Yeah, ’cause it’s not like you’re gonna fucking help me,” Frank says, keeping it under his breath this time. Last thing he needs is some kind of disciplinary action on his record. Putting his mouth close to Gerard’s ear, getting a whiff of soap and unwashed hair that isn’t actually so bad, Frank says, “Gerard. Gerard, wake up.”

Gerard comes awake with a gasp. His elbow flies out, catching Frank in the jaw and knocking him right back on his ass. Gerard doesn’t stop there, kicking, lashing out, unfocused and crazy like he’s fighting shadows. And fuck, fuck, Frank’s gonna get blamed for this shit. Somehow, some way, Bosse is gonna fucking blame him, and that’ll be it.

“Stop,” Frank hisses, making a grab for him. Gerard’s hands curl into claws, ragged nails scratching at Frank’s arms, his face. “Stop, stop. It’s me, okay, it’s Frank. Frankie. It’s fucking Frankie, for fuck’s sake, you fight like a chick!”

Gerard freezes. He blinks at his skinny wrists caught in Frank’s grip, then at his bunk, the wall behind it covered in his whacked-out drawings. “Frankie,” he says, a rusty croak, going limp. Frank’s got to tighten his hold to keep the guy from braining himself on the concrete. He looks straight at Frank, eyes bright and clear in the half-light, says, perfectly evenly, “Don’t be fucking sexist, Frankie,” and passes right the fuck out.

Frank drops his wrists and slumps down, back propped against the bunk. The slow, even rhythm of Gerard’s breaths stir the hair at the nape of his neck where it’s getting too long again. He digs a knuckle into his eye, says, “Jesus Christ,” one more time, and decides he’s just gonna hang out here for a few minutes, make sure Gerard’s not gonna come screaming awake again.

“Heard your bitch gave you some trouble last night,” Henderson says, stuffing reconstituted egg in his face. He belches, his piggy gaze making the slow trek down to the scratches sitting red and raw on Frank’s arms. For a guy that bites his nails down to the fucking quick, Gerard still managed to do some damage. He’s fucking lucky those ragged edges weren’t able to dig in deep enough to fuck up Frank’s ink for real.

Calmly finishing a gulp of lukewarm juice, Frank says, “Is that what it sounded like.”

A couple guys bust out some rough guffaws as Ellseworth reaches around two more to slap Frank on the back, all old school atta-boy, get it. Probably helps that Gerard’s back in their cramped cell, huddled in bed with the blankets tugged over his head. Anybody who walks by and gets a load of that is gonna think Frank did a worse number on him.

“Figures he’d take it like a cunt,” Henderson says, “since he looks like one and all.”

Stomach tight and hot, Frank forces down another mouthful of gritty toast and imagines the satisfying crack of Henderson’s face breaking under his fists.

The guards leave Gerard alone all that day, and the next, most likely on Bosse’s word. When group rolls around on Tuesday, Frank’s expecting Gerard’s free pass to extend there, too. But when Frank saunters over to the grouping of chairs Bosse sets up every meeting like they’re guys in a mental hospital instead of a fucking prison, Gerard is there. The first thing that sets off warning bells in Frank’s head is there’s no sketchbook perched in Gerard’s lap. The second is the way Gerard’s sprawled out in his chair, slumped way down low with his hands folded over his stomach and his legs stuck out. But what really clinches it is how Gerard’s got his head up, hair dragged away from his face, gaze tracking each of the guys as they wander in. A couple of them shoot Gerard wary looks, keeping their distance like they’d rather not have his crazy explode in their faces.

Frank marches over and plunks his ass down in a chair right beside him. Gerard doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy burning holes in the back of some dude’s skull. Frank debates the merits of saying hey–it’s not like he wants Gerard’s crazy to explode in his face again either–but before he gets around to making a decision he can live with, Bosse bustles in and starts the circus.

Halfway through the wife-sticker’s usual anti-feminist tirade, Frank’s skin starts prickling with familiar heat. He seriously fucking hates this guy. He gets blame displacement and projection and all that psycho-babble shit, but what it comes down to is the guy is a jackass that killed his wife. Viciously knuckling at one eye, Frank grates, “Would you fucking shut up?”

“Frank,” Bosse says, a warning.

“No, seriously, come the fuck on.” Elbow propped on one knee, Frank leans forward, jabbing a finger at wife-sticker’s startled face. “You think letting him verbally jack it over there every Tuesday is fucking helping him get over his limp-dick inadequacy issues? He’s not fucking sorry he finally managed to stick it to her. Nobody in here is fucking sorry, okay? Me, I’m fucking delighted that guy is eating three squares out of a tube. I’d fucking choke him with the damn thing if I got a chance.” Frank shoves his chair back hard enough it squeals against the tile. He’s so angry he’s fucking shaking. He hates this shit. He hates that Gerard’s staring at him with wide, interested eyes, like he’s trotted out a new trick. He hates these motherfuckers, and Bosse’s fucking games, and the whole fucking place. And he’s tired, really fucking tired, ’cause no matter which way he comes at it, no matter what bullshit he tells Ray to make the guy feel better, he doesn’t really believe he deserves to be in here, either.

“Just, fuck,” Frank says, raking a hand through his hair. “Quit fucking acting like you’re making a fucking difference, ’cause you’re not.” He kicks his chair out of the way, trying not to pay attention to the burn of Gerard’s attention on him, and pretends that keeping to a walk on the way out means he’s not running away.

The yard is empty. Frank’s on the fourth cigarette out of the five he had left. He’s already lost the bet he made that Bosse would send someone to collect him by number three. The Warden gives that guy way too much leash. Pretty soon they’re gonna have arts and crafts before lunch and scheduled playdates every other week.

The crunch of footsteps makes Frank huddle deeper into the popped collar of his cheap, standard issue uniform. It’s getting fucking cold out here, but he’s not ready to go back in yet. He can’t handle it. It’s too soon. And fuck, could he use a fucking drink.

Fucking figures it’s Gerard’s hunched form that comes slouching around his corner. “Hey,” Gerard says, finding a piece of wall and settling in like they’re buddies. “Spare me a drag?”

“Fucking get your own,” Frank mumbles around a mouthful of smoke.

Gerard shrugs. Fucker didn’t even really want it. “So,” he says conversationally, “that was some bullshit.”

Pressing the heel of one hand hard against an eye isn’t helping the headache Frank’s got brewing in his skull, but he does it anyway. It even starts to feel good, right before it doesn’t. When he blinks both eyes open again, his vision’s lopsided and spotty, and Gerard’s stupid face is still right there.

“Look,” Frank starts, and Gerard steamrolls right over it with, “I think I’m gonna blow you now,” and somehow ends up on his knees in the dirt with his hands shoved inside Frank’s pants before Frank can blink.

Frank tries spitting, “What the fuck,” through clenched teeth, but Gerard’s got weirdly warm hands all over his junk, palming his nuts and lifting the whole works free of the waistband that always digs into Frank’s skin and leaves a line of itchy red dents across his stomach. Gerard drags a few fingers along them like they’re something he’d maybe like to lick.

“I’m kind of a fag,” Gerard says, shaking his hair back. He gives Frank’s dick a couple slow, smooth jerks, quirking as smile as Frank sucks in a breath and starts to thicken up. “Don’t think I lied, though, I love women, they’re soft and wet and they always smell so fucking good, but,” he trails off, shoving his face right into Frank’s crotch and breathing deep, letting out this warm, shuddery sigh that sounds a fucking lot like a moan. “You smell pretty fucking good, too.”

“Dude,” Frank says, then, “dude” again because Gerard’s mouth is right there, wet and open, and it’s been a fucking long time, okay, a really fucking long time, but Gerard’s not going for it like Frank figured he would after how fast he went to his knees. Or the way he’s eyeing Frank’s dick like it’s absolutely delicious and Gerard would really like a taste right the fuck now.

“I’m not really into coercion though,” Gerard says, swaying slightly as he resettles his grip. “So it’d be really cool if you said something like ‘sure, Gee, please stick my dick in your mouth’ sometime soon.”

“Gee?” Frank echoes dumbly, not because he likes it or anything, but because he’s never heard it before, never thought about Gerard as somebody who’s got friends who give him nicknames, as somebody who’s got a real life outside these walls. Gerard looks up at him like he meant it, though, a warmth in his eyes that doesn’t match the practiced way licks up the side of Frank’s dick, deliberately closes his mouth around the head and gives it a delicate suck. Sensation too sharp to be pleasure rockets up Frank’s spine, then billows out along his nerves, sweet and sudden. It’s so good his knees buckle, and he’d hate that, too, hate how he can tell Gerard’s smiling even while pinning his hips to hold him steady, mouth opening wide to take in more of him, and fuck, fuck, this is not turning out to be the day Frank thought it would when he woke up this morning.

When Gerard pulls off, pulls off all the fucking way, the rush of cool air on wet skin makes Frank hiss. He asks, “Can I keep going?” like he actually fucking cares if this is making Frank fucking uncomfortable or some shit.

Frank’s kinda having a hard time finding words. Mostly it’s because this whole thing came right outta nowhere, slapping him in the face while he was busy nursing a good rage, and maybe a little because Gerard’s fingers are still wrapped firmly around him, jacking him too hard to be called a tease but after the wet heat of his mouth, that’s exactly what it is. He grunts something that sounds close enough to, “Yeah,” for Gerard to nose his way in again, mouth at Frank’s balls long enough that Frank’s convinced he is trying to be a god damn tease, and then Frank’s dick is in his mouth, all the way in, throat tight and hot and fucking unreal.

“Fuck, fuck,” Frank gasps, fuck, it’s way too good for a prison blow. Gerard’s going at it like he honestly fucking likes it, like the helpless little twitches of Frank’s hips trying to get in deeper, harder, are exactly what he wants out of life. Frank’s smoke is burning down to the filter between his fingers, dropping grey ash onto Gerard’s hair tangled around his knuckles. He flicks the butt away, not really wanting to start the motherfucking grease fire that’s sure to go up if the cherry hits Gerard’s dirty hair, and then his hand’s free to gather up a nice, big fistful, something real to hold onto while Gerard sucks his brains out through his dick.

“I do like it,” Gerard’s saying between long, slow sucks, “I really like your cock, Frankie, can’t wait to make you come, gonna swallow it all down,” shit like that, real pornographic shit that makes Frank’s temperature fucking skyrocket until it feels like he’s running a fever, one of those brutal, all-consuming ones that boil his brain in his skull, makes him look down to see if his skin’s peeling off his bones he’s so on fire. But when his gaze drops, all he sees is Gerard’s mouth stretched wide around him, Gerard’s eyelashes fanned dark against flushed cheeks, and the hand Gerard’s got pressed between his own legs, rocking against his palm like he’s too turned on to take it, he’s gotta touch, gotta come.

Frank grates a warning, best he can do, and Gerard gives this eager jerk, shuffling in closer and angling his head like that’ll make it easier for him to take the shot of Frank’s come straight down his throat. “Fuck,” he rasps when he pulls off, come-thick spit clinging to his lips, “fuck, so good, such a fucking hit, Frankie, you got no idea,” and obviously Frank doesn’t, because he never would’ve thought the next thing out of Gerard’s mouth would be the same ragged noise he made that night he came with Frank’s hand over his mouth, shocked and grateful, still somehow so fucking smug.

Frank’s still trying to figure out what the fuck to say, or do, his wet dick hanging out, brushing Gerard’s cheek, when Gerard looks up at him and says with his red, red mouth, “I’m not crazy.”

“That’s what crazy people say,” Frank says, breathing hard, deep and hard, but still not getting enough air.

Gerard smiles a tiny, private little smile, and rests his forehead on Frank’s thigh. “I know.”

“Is it Jacob?” Gerard asks that night, standing on his bunk with his arms folded on Frank’s, resting his chin on them like he doesn’t have two fistfuls of blanket clutched tight to keep his balance. “Jacob could be a good name.”

Frank rubs at his eyebrow and keeps his gaze focused on the words in front of him, words he hasn’t been reading for at least ten minutes. Not since Gerard clambered up here. “Maybe I don’t have a middle name.”

“No way,” Gerard says, grinning. “I know you do. I can tell.”

Frank doesn’t even want to know the logic behind that one. “You do realise I’m not a comic book character, right? This is real fucking life.”

Gerard gives him a sour look, one part no shit and two parts fuck you. “If we were in a comic book, you’d be taller than five-fucking-one, and I’d have no teeth.”

“Jesus.” Frank drops his book. He really, really doesn’t want to do the logic there, either. So much so that he’s not even gonna touch the height thing. “It’s Anthony, okay? After my grandpa. Would you get out of my fucking face now?”

“Anthony,” Gerard says, testing it out. He says it a couple more times, “Anthony, Anthony, Frank Anthony Iero,” changing the inflection in his voice, until he says, “Anthony,” like a punchline, face creasing up in the biggest shit-eating grin. “Fuckin’ a!” he crows, slapping the bed, “fuckin’ a Frankie!” cracking up, fucking howling with laugher, taking a rough tumble to the hard floor when Frank gives him a shove but barely even noticing. It’s kinda impressive, and almost kinda funny, until he slurs, “Frankie, fuckin’ a,” between crazy giggles, “I totally made you up, Frankie, Frankie, fuckin’ a.”

“Fuck you.” Frank picks up his book, thumbing quickly through yellowed pages. “And fuck off.”

Gerard’s laughter dies like somebody slit his throat. No gurgle, no warning, just bam, gone. Frank makes it a whole minute and a half before he’s got to peer over the edge of the shitty mattress to see if Gerard’s still breathing down there. Gerard peers back up at him, flushed and panting, hair clinging to his cheeks where he laughed so hard he fucking cried, and Frank gets a hit of pure lust straight to the gut like that. It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, but he wants to dig his fingers into the softness above Gerard’s hips. He’s actually fucking picturing Gerard’s naked ass dimpled under his grip, or maybe Gerard’s thighs where Frank’s holding them flush against his chest so he can just go and go and go, give Gerard a real reason to look fucked up and strung out and breathless.

“Wow,” Gerard says, puffing out a breath as he drops back on his elbows. “Your face.”

“What the fuck about my face, you fucking–”

“You want to fuck me.” Gerard bites his lip, gaze darting sideways to the closed cell door. It’s at least an hour to lights out. “You’re thinking about fucking me right now.”

Frank’s mouth snaps shut. He’s not that sloppy. He’s not Gerard, for fuck’s sake, every thought in his head showing up on his face. The whole thing surprised him, that’s all. Getting hit with the full technicolour show out of the blue like that, Gerard gasping and moaning for him in five-point-one surround sound.

“I think you wanna make it hurt,” Gerard says, his voice lowered but not enough, there’s no real wall between them and the other inmates, no cover of darkness to hide in. “Not the way some guys wanna make it hurt, but enough to leave something behind. Fingerprint bruises, bite-mark braille. That kinda thing. And not just ’cause you want to. ‘Cause you’ve got to.”

Teeth clenched, Frank swallows hard. There’s no way. There is no fucking way.

“I’m good with that,” Gerard says, like they’re talking about pizza toppings, not Frank’s sudden and apparently obvious desire to fuck him up the ass. “I think I’d probably like it, coming at it that way.” He clambers up, brushing off the seat of his pants and shuffling to his bed. The mattress creaks as he rolls down on it, cotton rustling as he gets comfortable. “Not right now, though. I gotta think about it some more.”

Frank’s pretty sure Gerard’s asleep before he manages a strained, “You fucking do that,” but that’s okay. It’s not like he’s really talking to Gerard, anyway.

Frank wakes up, the quiet dark pressing in, and wonders what the fuck it is this time. He squints at the weird shadow above his face, brain chugging along, until it resolves into Gerard’s face. “What the fuck,” he rasps, thick with sleep. He tries to shove up, but Gerard’s fucking on top of him, solid and heavy and still so surprisingly fucking strong.

“Just me, Frankie,” he says, shoving messy hair behind his ears. There’s not much light for Frank’s eyes to adjust to, but he thinks Gerard’s wearing that small, crooked grin again. “I thought about it.”

“Fucking thought about what.” Now that Frank’s awake, adrenaline surging through his veins, he should be able to shove Gerard off. If he could fucking move.

“Spit,” Gerard says, like that explains everything. He waits, expectant, then puffs out an exasperated breath when Frank keeps staring at him. “For fucking, Frankie. It’s not slick enough. But I really want you to fuck me. So I thought it’d be cool if we– Actually, this’ll probably be easier if I just show you.”

Gerard starts shoving at him, wriggling down in the space between Frank and the wall. “What the fuck are you doing?” Frank hisses, and gets a hand flapping in his face for his trouble.

“Just wait,” Gerard says, eager like he’s biting his lip again. There’s a flurry of movement, Gerard’s elbow digging into Frank’s stomach, then his thigh, what the fucking fuck, then Gerard flops against him, back heaving and hair flung in Frank’s face. Frank spits it out. “Now,” Gerard says, like he’s teaching a class or something, “where’s your– Fuck, dude, how many layers are you wearing?”

“It’s fucking cold, okay,” Frank snaps, still not really getting it until Gerard’s chill hand is worming into his shorts. He hisses again, jerking his hips back, but Gerard’s not heading for his junk.

A couple fingers tap Frank’s bare ass. “C’mon, lift up. Shove ‘em down.”

There’s a whole lotta options Frank’s got, including dumping Gerard flat on his ass on the floor. Instead he hikes his damn ass up to let Gerard tug his pants down. Gerard’s palm runs awkwardly up his side after, rucking up his shirt, and when Gerard makes this satisfied noise and settles back down, Frank sucks in a whistling breath. “You’re fucking naked.”

Gerard hums agreeably. “I get really hot when I’m turned on. Volcanic. Stick your dick between my legs, okay?”

A huge lump lodges in Frank’s throat. “Didn’t you just fucking say–”

Gerard huffs, “Jesus,” and grabs onto Frank’s dick. Frank doesn’t squawk, he fucking doesn’t, but obviously Gerard isn’t all that turned on yet because his hand is fucking ice cold. Then Frank’s got long enough to realise Gerard is hauling him forward by his fucking half-hard dick, and almost long enough to get pissed off about it, before he’s surrounded by soft, warm heat, a little sweat-damp, and a lot weird.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, wriggling closer. “Yeah, okay, wow.” He squeezes his thighs tighter around Frank’s cock, shifting slightly. “That feels pretty awesome. You should do the fucking, okay, you’ve got more leverage.”

Frank’s got one hand stuck halfway up in the air because he honestly doesn’t fucking know what to do with it. Gerard’s right there, totally fucking naked, fucking spooning, clenching his thighs kinda rhythmically on Frank’s dick while he’s making these quiet, thoughtful noises, and the best Frank’s got is blurting, “You want me to hump your ass,” in a voice like he hopes the answer is fuck yes. Which isn’t what he’s thinking at all, okay. Rubbing off on Gerard’s thighs is not the best sex he’s ever gonna have, Jesus.

“You were leaking all over the place yesterday, c’mon, it’ll get better. Just, fucking–” Flailing around, Gerard grabs onto Frank’s arm and yanks it around him, holding both of their hands tight to his chest. “Fucking go.”

“Shut up,” Frank says, and shoves up on an elbow to give it a shot. The angle’s crap but it still feels vaguely good, and he’s harder than he was a couple seconds ago. Gerard makes another one of those noises–Frank’s going to be hearing those in his fucking sleep, shit–and shuffles around some more, fucking everything up entirely. Frank’s got his mouth open to bitch him out, because this is his fucking idea, he should stay still and take it, but Gerard’s busy rubbing Frank’s dick wet and scooting back into place, so he figures he’ll let it slide.

“Better,” Gerard says, rocking back, “yeah, yeah, like that, fuck, didn’t think it’d be this good.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Frank huffs into Gerard’s hair, trying to brace his foot so he can go at it harder, actually get some fucking friction.

“No, no, right there,” Gerard says, then, “yeah,” long and drawn out. “When you bump into my balls like that, that’s so good.”

“Jesus,” Frank mutters, and shakes his hand free of Gerard’s sweaty grip to press it hard to Gerard’s belly, hold him in place. That kicks it up a couple notches right away, and fuck, Gerard wasn’t lying, he’s heating up fast, and the space between his legs is getting slicker, the slide easier. And Frank’s hard, for real hard, getting off on all that naked skin pressed against his as much as the tight, hot space Gerard’s made for him. It’s pure sensation that’s driving Frank forward, that makes him haul Gerard in as tightly as he can, that doesn’t make him flinch away when Gerard twists partway around, their faces way too close in the dark.

“See, yeah,” Gerard says, thick and heavy, “feels good, right? I like it when you, yeah, like that, when it rubs over my asshole like that, makes me think about if you were really giving it to me.”

Frank’s been doing a pretty damn good job not thinking about that, but now he is, he’s thinking about it a lot, and Gerard keeps going, says, “It’s so fucking dirty. You’re gonna come all over me. Like porn only better, because you’re not gonna have to pull away for the money shot or something stupid like that, you’re gonna come on my balls, and my ass, and sticking your dick in my mouth should be dirtier, right? It should. But everybody does that. Blowjobs are fucking, so like, fucking, passe.”

“I like blowjobs,” Frank grunts. He’s digging his fingers pretty hard into Gerard’s hip, but Gerard’s not complaining, and the only downside Frank can see is the one where he can’t actually see the dents he’s making, or the angry red rush of blood just beneath the surface when he shifts his grip a fraction.

“Well, yeah.” Gerard groans, elbow shifting–he’s jerking off now, slower than Frank’s fucking him, like he’s trying to make it last. “Obviously. But they’re not dirty anymore. Coming on my fucking face, now that’s dirty, but I like the– I like the way you taste, Frankie. God, I’d like to fucking, just, I’d fucking shoot up with your jizz, it’s that fucking good, except for the needle thing and would you fucking slow down?”

“Shut up,” Frank grates, not slowing down at all, “shut up, shut up,” because he’s almost there, he’s gonna come, and he’s gonna do it so good, holy shit. It’s having somebody to hold onto, someone hot and sweaty and kinda fucking squirmy; it’s another person, right here with him, and it doesn’t even matter that it’s the crazy guy who wants to eat his heart with a rusty spoon.

“Don’t,” Gerard says, high-pitched, way too loud, “don’t, not yet, not– Aw, Jesus, Frankie!”

Frank’s too busy coming his brains out to give a fuck. He almost got his teeth sunk into Gerard’s shoulder in time, too, a nice big bite, but it hit him too fast so it’s more like he’s pressing bared teeth against skin, but whatever, it’ll do. When he’s got the chance, he thrusts a little more, really slicking up the insides of Gerard’s thighs, and fuck, that feels so fucking good. He wants to come again right fucking now.

“Fuck,” Gerard mutters, and blows hair out of his face. He starts groping around for Frank’s hand again. “Frank. Frank. Frank.”

“What.” If he thinks Frank’s gonna jerk him off, he’s got another–

“Get your fucking fingers in my ass already!”

“Fuck you!” Frank barks, and shoves them in Gerard’s mouth instead.

Gerard goes weirdly limp. A low moan echoes deep inside his chest, reverberating around Frank’s fingers, and then he’s sucking on them really fucking hard, tongue wriggling between seeking out more salty tang. Frank belatedly realises he’s pretty much cradling Gerard against him now, Gerard’s cheek pressed damp against his. He thinks about it for a second, then a couple more, then mutters, “Fuck it,” and worms his other hand down between them, sliding his fingers through the mess on Gerard’s skin.

Gerard slurs something that sounds a fucking lot like, “Please,” and Frank’s already there, okay, that’s Gerard’s asshole his fingers are pressed against. He twists his wrist, gives a slow, steady push–not thinking about it anymore, not thinking about it–and sinks inside so easily it’s fucking criminal. It’s all tight, smooth heat, barely slick enough to fuck, but all he can imagine is his dick in there, Gerard pinned beneath him, maybe scratching up his back like all the fucking mooks in here already think happened, clinging and twisting and getting fucked so god damn good. He wants to thrust, push in, in, but he manages to do Gerard the favour of fingering him soft and easy, finding the spot that makes Gerard buck against him, hand flying on his dick, panting around Frank’s fingers in his mouth, clenching around the ones in his ass. Frank’s not even sure why he does it. The way Gerard’s jacking it, he’s gonna come pretty soon without Frank’s help.

And then Gerard’s body snaps taut, spring-loaded, ready to blow, and Frank’s so fucking glad they’re practically fused together. It feels really fucking good to feel Gerard go off, a chain reaction that’s ingrained in Frank’s brain as hot, so fucking hot, hot like porn is, like some chick with a nice rack in a low cut top, like making it to third base in high school when you still don’t have a fucking clue what you’re gonna do when you get there. Frank’s brain is fucking fried.

Gerard goes lax, humming under his breath. Frank gets stuck on the way Gerard’s calf is kinda prickly against his, this slippery, sticky kind of prickle, so it takes him a second to figure out that noise he’s hearing is Gerard’s muffled giggle.

“What now?” Frank manages, fighting off a yawn. No way is he gonna pass out like this.

Gerard’s giggle bursts out to a honking laugh that cuts off really fast, muffled like he’s got his hand slapped over his mouth. “Came all over the wall, Frankie.”

Resting his forehead against Gerard’s shoulder, Frank concentrates on breathing. He’ll figure out what the fuck he’s gonna do once he’s got a steady supply of oxygen lined up. “‘Course you fucking did.”

“Hey, at least there’s no wet spot,” Gerard says happily. He wriggles around like he’s planning on getting comfortable, and hell no, Frank’s got opinions about that shit, but what he ends up doing is mostly elbowing Frank in the gut and going, “Ugh, okay. I’m cold.”

“The fuck you want me to do about it?”

Gerard elbows him again, says, “Get up, get up, get up,” and doesn’t even give him a chance, clambering up and over, almost kneeing Frank in the junk. Frank curls up reflexively. Gerard pauses, awkwardly straddling Frank’s hips. After the count of three, Frank risks a glance up.

“I told you it would be good,” Gerard says, so fucking smug, and rolls away, slipping off the side of the bed before Frank can deck him.

Whatever Bosse’s got Gerard on, he’s mostly sober. Bosse wanders by the library one day, looking annoyingly self-satisfied to find Gerard perched in a chair beside Frank, and doesn’t even blink at the gorefest Gerard’s whipping up in Crayola red.

“That shit doesn’t scream ‘oh god, oh god, please help’ to you?” Frank asks before Bosse can slink away.

Bosse tilts his head to peer closer at the drawing. Gerard keeps on scribbling, locked in his own world. After a minute, Bosse says, “Not really, no.”

“Seriously.” Finger stuck in the book to keep his place, Frank lists sideways. To be fair, it’s not the grisliest thing Gerard’s ever drawn. Nope, those are tacked up on the walls of their cell for Frank’s viewing pleasure. This one is pretty simple, a dark, shadowy version of Frank propped up like a puppet on twisting, thorny vines. Blood seeps from Frank’s skin wherever they touch, deep, angry black swipes of crayon meant to show how deep they pierce. The fact that Gerard’s included a disturbingly detailed depiction of Frank’s hard dick pinned to his belly by them should be enough to send Bosse running for a shot of fucking something. Frank wouldn’t mind a fucking whiskey, that’s for sure.

“No,” Bosse says, resting his hand lightly on Gerard’s shoulder. Gerard doesn’t twitch. “I’d say we’re making excellent progress.”

Once Bosse is gone, Frank looks at the drawing for a long minute. Then he picks up his book again. “You’re fucking sick.”

Gerard blinks slowly down at his drawing. “Yeah,” he sighs, and adds more blood dripping from Frank’s pierced throat.

“Mikey’s gonna bust me out,” Gerard says, rocking back on his heels puffing away on one of Frank’s smokes. Which are actually Wentz’s smokes, and somehow ended up in Frank’s pocket. Frank’s not complaining, but he adds it to the mental tally of shit he already owes the guy.

“Mikey?” Frank asks on an inhale. “That dude who came to visit?”

“Yeah.” Gerard drops his butt on the ground and grinds it out with his heel. He hisses, “Aw, fuck,” as it singes through his shitty little prison-issue bootie, then turns wide, imploring eyes on what’s left of Frank’s smoke.

“Fuck off,” Frank grumbles, hunching protectively around it. “I already gave you one.”

“But the wind smoked half of it down on me!”

“Maybe if you’d fucking kept it in your mouth instead of blabbering at me,” Frank grumbles, but holds his smoke out long enough for Gerard to take a quick drag straight from his fingers.

“Whatever,” Gerard croaks, holding his breath. He’s still got his fingertips light on Frank’s wrist from where he held it steady. “He’s gonna break me out.”

“Sure, Gee.” There are a good three puffs left on Frank’s smoke, and he takes every last one of them while Gerard fidgets and bitches beside him. Frank’s gotta admit, it is pretty fucking cold out. Soon it’s gonna snow. “Fuck, my fingers are numb.”

“Oh, hey.” Planting a hand on the wall beside Frank’s head, Gerard swings around in front, legs braced wide around Frank’s feet. He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. “Want me to warm you up, baby?”

Frank chokes on a startled laugh. “Jesus, you did not.”

“Payback for the smoke,” Gerard says, already worming a cold hand under Frank’s waistband. Frank catches it before he gets too far, and Gerard glances up, eyebrows drawing together. “Is that a no?”

“Didn’t give you the fucking thing so you’d blow me,” Frank says, squeezing too hard, the bones in Gerard’s wrist shifting beneath his fingers.

Gerard gives him a steady look, not trying to reclaim his hand. He finally says, “You know why I’m in here, right?” which is so far from what Frank was expecting Frank’s surprised into answering, “No.”

“I had this john,” Gerard starts, and something in Frank’s expression makes him say, “No, no, okay. I’m not talking turning tricks for a living. I had this whole lifestyle I needed to support, and that’s quick, easy money.”

“Lifestyle,” Frank echoes. Gerard just rolls his eyes like he’s heard it all before. “Okay, whatever. So?”

“So I had this john who tried to like, stiff me after he’d already stiffed me, if you know what I mean.” Frank gets that, yeah. But Gerard’s waiting for a nod or something, so Frank gives him one. “And I think I was on the tail end of a dry streak, so when this guy tried to make like he’d already paid me, I flipped out on him.” Gerard pauses to scratch at the underside of his chin. “Pretty badly, I guess, I don’t really remember. Anyway, I took all his cash and his credit cards and I rode every single last dollar as high as I could stretch it. Mikey said it was epic. I don’t really remember that part much, either.”

Frank’s opinion of this Mikey dude just hit rock bottom. “And that’s it, huh?”

“The whole sordid story.” Gerard laughs kinda self-depreciatingly. “Kind of a let down, I guess.”

“I bottled a dude in a bar fight,” Frank blurts.

“I know,” Gerard says, fussing with the cuff of his sleeve. When he can’t get it straightened out one-handed, he bites at it with his teeth and tugs. “You’ve got anger issues. Can I blow you now? I really want to suck on your nuts.”

“My nuts,” Frank echoes.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, heading south in a slow, controlled slide. “They’re, like, palm-sized. It’s really cool. I like them.”

“Gotta admit, they are pretty cool right now,” Frank says.

Gerard lets out that startled honk of a laugh, biting his lip as it trails off to a giggle. “Told you I’d warm ‘em up for you.”

Frank thinks about Gerard’s small, crooked mouth, the number of days he’s got left in here, and says, “What the fuck, go for it.”

The next day, Frank spends every single one of his allotted minutes in the visitor’s room with Ray. Ray even sneaks him Twizzlers this time, looking wild about the eyes, terrified that he’s gonna get caught and thrown in the slammer for aiding and abetting a criminal’s sweet tooth. Gerard’s not there, and he’s not in their cell when Frank gets back to it, or invading Frank’s corner when Frank goes out for a pre-dinner smoke. When Gerard doesn’t show up for dinner, Frank’s willing to admit that tiny niggle in the back of his brain might be slight concern.

“Didn’t see him,” Wentz says, picking through the mound of stringy french fries on his plate to match up all the ones of the same length.

“It’s fucking weird,” Frank mutters, poking at the greasy plate of crap in front of him. What he wouldn’t give for a fucking carrot stick. “Couldn’t fucking pry him off with a crowbar last week.”

“You got used, man.” Wentz pops three fries in his mouth at once. “Let him get all over your dick and now he’s done.”

“Ugh.” Frank drops his stupid plastic fork and shoves his plate away.

“Maybe you should’ve gotten him a hit,” Wentz adds, chewing thoughtfully.

“Fuck that,” Frank says. “Guy’s fucked up enough on the shit Bosse is dosing him with.”

Wentz pauses mid-chew.

“What?”

“Don’t tell anybody, but, uh.” Wentz darts a glance sideways before scooting in close. “I thought you knew, okay. He’s your, y’know.”

“My bitch,” Frank says flatly.

“Yeah! But no. So anyway.” Wentz looks around again. Subtle the guy fucking ain’t. “Henderson’s pal, Park? You know him? The guy from the– Yeah,” Wentz says, nodding at Frank’s narrow glare. Yeah, Frank remembers the guy from the showers. The one that looked like he wanted to piss on Gerard’s face. “That guy. He’s been doling out on the side.”

“To Gee,” Frank says. Just to make sure.

Wentz nods once, tight and fast. “Blow for blow, fair trade. Seriously, Frankie, I thought you knew. I thought you set it up, for fuck’s sake. To get the guy off your case.”

“Yeah,” Frank drawls, “no. Tell me where they deal, Wentz.”

Frank fucking hates basements. This one’s worse than most. The ceiling’s barely taller than he is, and it’s crammed full of pipes and vents and a whole fucking lot of places for things like spiders to hide. He’s been fucking lucky he’s never pulled laundry duty down here. They’d have to lock him up for real.

Wentz said off corridor B, before the split. There’s corridor B, and there’s the split, but there’s nobody down here. Frank’s worried for a second that he’s being set up, but Wentz wouldn’t be the messenger boy in that scenario. Could be they’ve been and gone, and Gerard’s riding out his high somewhere slightly more hospitable, like the far side of the fucking moon. Frank’s about to call it quits when he hears one of Gerard’s quiet snuffles.

“Aw, fuck,” Frank says, hoping they didn’t beat the guy to a pulp for kicks. “Gee? Where are you, man?”

Frank doesn’t get an answer, but there’s another snuffle, baby-soft. Braced for the worst, from spiders to spilled guts, Frank worms his way behind a twisted mass of pipes. He singes his knuckles on one, hissing a curse. “You’d better fucking be in here.”

There’s a slow, indrawn breath, then, “Frankie?” in a voice like gravel over metal.

“Jesus.” Frank moves faster. Once he’s through, he spots a shaft of light coming from the other side. Obviously that’s an easier way to get in here, and the way Gerard comes and goes. ‘Here’ isn’t much, a tiny, stuffy cubbyhole, barely big enough to fit Frank and the heap of Gerard at his feet. Frank goes down as quick and careful as he can, running delicate hands over Gerard’s skull, throat, ribs, kidneys–all the tender, vulnerable spots–and doesn’t come up with anything bloodied or broken. Gerard’s eyes stay closed the entire time, mouth slightly open, his chest rising and falling with too-slow breaths.

“You’re okay,” Frank says, giving him a nudge in the ribs. He doesn’t respond, so Frank jabs him again, and again, grinding his knuckles into the tender bundle of nerves over his sternum. “Fuckface, look at me.”

Gerard’s eyelashes flutter. He says, “I’m okay, Frankie,” in that fucked-out voice Frank remembers from the shower. “Fuck, I’m– I’m so fucked.”

“Yeah,” Frank says. He breathes out slowly, trying to keep the rage brewing in his gut tamped down, but now that the worry is gone, there’s nothing there to bank it. He grabs onto Gerard’s wrist, along with a fistful of hair, getting ready to haul him up. “Yeah, you are so fucked, you got no fucking idea.”

Gerard’s eyelashes flutter again, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He flails uselessly at Frank’s arm when Frank starts to pull and starts making that other noise Frank remembers, the low, pathetic whimper that echoed so loud off the tiles.

“Shut up.” Frank sets his jaw. He gives a rough heave, but Gerard’s dead fucking weight, barely sliding an inch up off the floor. “Fine,” he grits out, and switches tactics, dragging Gerard toward the light. Gerard keeps whining, batting at Frank’s hands, kicking his feet in this vague, totally useless way. “Fine, bitch. Stay the fuck down there. Always fucking wanting to be on your back with your legs up, s’where you fucking belong, anyway.”

One of Gerard’s knees clangs hard off a pipe. Frank thinks, yeah, how’s that fucking feel, but Gerard doesn’t seem to notice, trying to curl up in a protective ball even while Frank’s tugging him in sharp bursts across the floor, probably dislocating Gerard’s stupid fucking shoulder while he’s at it.

“Frank,” Gerard gasps, eyes snapping open. It doesn’t last, some weird adrenaline burst making in through whatever the fuck he took. There’s finally enough light for Frank to see his face, and fuck if Frank wishes there wasn’t. He’s gone. Totally fucking gone. Rage boils straight up into Frank’s throat.

Going down on one knee beside Gerard, Frank digs the other sharply into Gerard’s gut. “You snort it or swallow it?” he asks, grabbing onto Gerard’s chin to make him face up. “I know you didn’t shoot it. You’re fucking useless even as a junkie. Afraid of fucking needles.”

Gerard struggles to open his eyes again. All Frank can see is bloodshot whites. There’s a sharp, metallic taste billowing out on the back of Frank’s tongue. “Get up,” he snaps, kneeing Gerard in the ribs again, rolling him onto his side. “Get up, fucking useless, limp-dick motherfucker, get up.”

Shivering, moaning way down low in his throat, Gerard doesn’t move. Frank wants to punch something really, really fucking hard. Like Gerard’s fucking face. He settles for grabbing it again, digging his fingers viciously into Gerard’s cheeks to wedge open his jaw. “Throw it up. Fucking puke it up like you did before, you stupid piece of shit.” When all Gerard does is moan and paw at Frank’s wrist, Frank gives him a brutal, teeth-rattling shake. “Fucking do it!”

Gerard’s back heaves like maybe he’s trying, but he’s not trying hard enough. Frank’s gonna fucking murder Park. Frank’s gonna string him up like in one of Gerard’s fucked up drawings, that’s what Frank’s gonna do. He’s burning so hot sweat stings his eyes, and his grip on Gerard’s face keeps slipping. It’s probably too late. Gerard probably snorted it all, anyway. But he’s never had the junkie sniffles when he got twitchy. His nose has never had that red, raw look Frank’s seen on the ones who go that route. So Frank makes sure Gerard’s not gonna choke too bad when it all comes up, holding tight to his hair to keep him steady, and jams a couple fingers down his throat.

Gerard bucks, back heaving again as he chokes on a thick gurgle. Frank holds on harder and keeps his fingers jammed deep, ignoring the sharp scrape of Gerard’s tiny wicked teeth on his knuckles. Then he thinks better of it and wedges his thumb in there too, keeping Gerard’s mouth pried open so he doesn’t snap Frank’s fingers clean off.

“Come on, come on,” he says, muscles burning from fighting to keep Gerard pinned and not hurt him, not for real. “Gee, just, let it fucking go, just– fuck.” Watching somebody hurl is bad enough. Being on top to feel them do it is fucking brutal, and worse still is the warm flood of bile that comes with it. Really seriously fucking disgusting. Frank can’t get his hand away fast enough, but the second Gerard stops heaving, he jams his fingers right back where they were, triggering another wave. And he doesn’t fucking stop until there’s nothing but dry, raspy choking, and Gerard’s crying, pleading with him to stop.

“Jesus,” somebody whispers. Frank’s gaze snaps up to land on Wentz where he’s standing a good dozen feet off, hands held up palm out. “I thought you were– Fuck, Frank. Motherfuck.”

Frank shakes bile off his hand with a disgusted grunt. “Shut up and fucking help me.”

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, Wentz says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He gingerly couches on Gerard’s other side to help Frank lever him up.

Gerard’s totally out of it for the majority of the trip back, his head lolling loose on his shoulders. He fucking reeks, a stale underlay of old sweat and sex along with the sharp, acidic stench of bile. There’s another stink layered in there, too–drug-like, and every time Frank gets a whiff of it he wants to kill somebody.

It takes three whole corridors once they’ve made it to the ground floor for a guard to notice something’s off. “Get fucking Bosse!” Frank bellows at the guy, and either he’s already got instructions to do exactly that when it comes to Gerard or there’s something about Frank that makes him about-face and hightail it in the other direction, speaking rapidly into the mic at his shoulder.

“Wow,” Wentz says, red-faced and struggling under Gerard’s weight. “You got pull.”

“Fucking keep walking,” Frank growls.

Most of the guys give them a wide berth as they shuffle into the cell block. Frank’s willing to chalk that up to the smell–between the three of them now, they’re seriously rank. Beside, they don’t have to be all that close to watch the show. Wentz helps get Gerard to their cell, then onto the bottom bunk before he backs off, giving Frank space. Frank’s not even thinking about what he’s doing, stripping off Gerard’s soiled shirt, seeking out his pulse at both throat and wrist. Satisfied it’s going strong, he tugs a clean towel out of his own neat little pile and wets it in the stupid sink attached to the toilet. Something about cleaning the spittle flecking Gerard’s lips makes him feel a whole lot better.

Up until he hears the familiar thud of Bosse’s boots. Calmly sponging sticky bile off Gerard’s throat, Frank says, “You fucked up.”

Bosse lets out a heavy sigh. “I thought a small measure of stimulants to his system combined with a new focus would be enough to alter his habits. Evidently, I was wrong.”

Frank rocks from the balls of his feet to his heels and stands up slowly. There are three guards flanking Bosse. More are further back, herding inmates away from them. Frank’s pissed, but he’s not fucking crazy. He knows he’s outnumbered here. “You mean me. You thought you could get him addicted to somebody, instead of something.”

“Gerard is already prone to doing exactly that,” Bosse says, and it sounds like a fucking excuse. “It honestly makes no difference to him. He gets the same high either way.”

Flicking a glance down at Gerard’s slack face, Frank thinks maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll buy that shit. Gerard is one weird fucking dude. “No more drugs,” Frank says. “If he asks you for help, fine, whatever, but don’t fucking volunteer.”

“Frank,” Bosse starts.

Frank clenches his fist so tight knuckles pop, but he doesn’t hit anything. It’s the most fucking monumental display of self-control he’s given since grade school. “No. You had your fucking chance. He’s not a god damn gerbil. Quit fucking with his head.”

Bosse gives them both long, measuring looks. Frank gets through it by imagining him choking on his own puke, see how he fucking likes it. Eventually, he says, “Alright, Frank. We’ll try it your way,” and signals the guards to move out. He hesitates before following them, glancing one last time at Gerard, and then he’s gone.

“Wow,” Wentz says. “Jesus Christ, Frank.” He’s looking at the pictures taped up all over the cell. “You guys are fucking hardcore.”

Frank heaves a sigh way too similar to the one Bosse gave. He’s got all this rage, all this adrenaline, still burning through his veins, and not a fucking thing to do with it. “Give me a few, would ya, Pete?”

“Yeah, okay,” Wentz says, already on his way out, hustling off some con dumb enough to try getting closer. “Chill, Frank. I got it.”

It’s too early for the cells to go into evening lockdown. Whatever the fuck Wentz does, Frank’s grateful–no lookie loos come sauntering by, no catcalls echo down the line. There’s just Gerard, breathing clear and steady, and Frank, sitting there next to the pile of dirty clothes he wrestled Gerard out of, wondering what the fuck he’s gonna do now.

“Hey,” Gerard says, gently shaking Frank’s shoulder. He sounds tired. “Hey, hey, Frankie, c’mon.”

Frank’s wide fucking awake, and has been since Gerard snorted his way into consciousness ten minutes ago. It’s maybe half past midnight by Frank’s count. Late, but not late enough. He thought Gerard would be sleeping that shit off until dawn at least.

“I’m awake,” Frank says. He carefully unkinks his neck from where Gerard’s crowded him high into the corner against the wall.

“You’re in my bed.”

“Yeah.” Frank draws in a long breath, lets it out nice and slow. “I figured it was safe. Pretty sure you left some stomach lining down in the basement.”

“Gross,” Gerard says, his face scrunching up in the darkness. “That was you down there?”

There’s not much space to roll over, but Frank manages it, mostly by jabbing Gerard with elbows and knees until he backs up. “You thought Park stuck around long enough to watch you OD?”

“No, I just–” Whatever it is, Gerard decides not to share, and Frank is absolutely on board with that plan. The jury’s still out on whether or not Frank’s gonna murder that son of a bitch in the morning. “That was fucked up, huh?”

Frank’s not ready to deal with any of this. He flops onto his side, dropping his arm heavily over Gerard’s middle. He mumbles, “Yeah, Gee, it was fucked up,” into a pillow that smells like Gerard’s hair.

Gerard doesn’t say anything for a long while, which is a miracle in and of itself, and something Frank’s gonna chalk up to almost dying in a fucking basement. That kinda thing wears a guy out. When he finally gets around to saying anything, it’s a slow, calm, “Okay,” and Frank echoes, Okay in his head, a couple times over.

Days later, while they’re being lead through the corridor from cafeteria to cell block after breakfast, Gerard says, “I had an art show once.”

Uncomfortable pressure settles in Frank’s chest. “Yeah?”

Gerard side-eyes him. He’s silent for a couple seconds, then he says, “You’ve got calluses on your fingers.”

“Yep.”

Gerard goes quiet again, but Frank can feel the weight of his gaze. He’s sizing up Frank’s ink like it’s the first time he’s seen it. He’s putting it all together, the blank holes in Frank’s ears, the logos and the lyrics and the pieces that should be random but aren’t inked into his skin. It’s not like Gerard knows him. Gerard doesn’t know the first thing about him. But Gerard’s looking at him like maybe he does, and when they get back to the cell, Gerard goes for his bunk and his sketchbook without another word. Happy that bullet’s dodged, Frank clambers up into his own, running his gaze along the spines of the books jammed safely between his mattress and the wall a few times over before picking one.

After a couple hours, Gerard’s head pops up near his elbow. “They’re gonna open the cells for lunch soon.”

“Holy shit,” Frank says, carefully marking his place. “Are you actually fucking hungry?”

Gerard rubs his thumb over the dent his crayons have made above the joint of his middle finger over and over. “I think my metabolism’s kicked into overdrive.”

Frank’s not hungry at all. He’s especially not in the mood for the way Gerard’s looking at him. Fishing around the cobwebs of his brain, Frank says, “Bring me back something at least close to edible.”

Right away, Frank knows it’s not good enough. Gerard gets this vague sort of shadow in his eyes, hungry for something he’s not gonna find in the cafeteria. But Frank is not his fucking keeper, and he sure as hell isn’t the answer to the problem staring him in the face.

“Sure,” Gerard says, and shuffles his way over to the bars. He sags against them, sketchbook propped awkwardly in the crook of his arm so he can keep drawing.

It takes another ten minutes or so for the announcement to ring out and the cells to slide laboriously open. Once Gerard’s shuffled out into line with the rest of the cons, Frank drops his book with a grunt and rolls over. He’s tired, just not tired enough, brain on full alert but body heavy. As silence starts to settle over the empty cells, he focuses on the weight in his limbs, slowing his breathing in the hopes of dragging his brain down with him. It seems like a long, long time and not nearly long enough before he hears Gerard’s familiar shuffle.

Braced for Gerard to start bugging him again, he only realises Gerard’s settled on his own bunk once he comes around enough to notice the light outside is fading. He grunts and rolls over and slurs out a general approximation of, “Where’s my food?”

The constant rasp of crayon on paper that’s been filtering through Frank’s hazy dreams stops. Gerard’s silence stretches long enough that Frank thinks he’s forgotten the question. “Can’t bring stuff back here,” Gerard says, the sound of him sketching picking back up.

That is such bullshit. Frank’s smuggled so much crap in here it’s practically a 7-Eleven. He doesn’t know what the fuck he was thinking with the Ding Dongs, though. Not even Wentz touches those things. Seven months in here and they still haven’t gone stale. Fucking freaky.

Frank’s gonna bitch Gerard out about it, mostly because now he really is hungry, but he’s really tired, too. “Fucking flake,” he grunts in Gerard’s general direction, and rolls back over.

Over the next couple days Frank’s feeling stretched out and thin, but there’s no sore throat or tight chest to go along with the fuzziness in his head. Figuring it’s his body’s awesome reaction to all the Gerard-induced stress, he takes it easy, cuts his smoking time in the yard down by a whole two minutes, and decides that if it takes too much energy to get to the cafeteria at meal time, sleeping is a better idea. The fucking kicker is that it works. By the time Tuesday group rolls around again, Frank’s aces.

Gerard, on the other hand, is not. He looks haggard and worn slumped in his cheap plastic chair, skin a sickly grey, eyes sunken deep and ringed in black. Frank spends a couple minutes staring at him, fascinated. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Shut up,” Gerard mumbles. He jabs his crayon a couple times at the mess he’s making of whatever he was drawing. After a couple beats, he adds, “Fuck off.”

Frank sits back, arms folded over his chest, and frowns. He’s been kinda out of it, sure, but not that fucking far gone. He’d know if Gerard was using again. He’d fucking know. And then it hits him this is what cold turkey looks like. Those noises he’s been hearing in his sleep haven’t been nightmares that he’s getting sick again, really sick like he used to, they’ve been Gerard fucking being sick. Detoxing, for real. On his fucking own.

Frank actually feels kind of like a shit. It’s not like it’s some strange new feeling or anything, mostly just unfamiliar in relation to somebody on the inside. He feels like a shit every day over what his family’s going through with him in here, and every time Ray gives him that look, the one that shows how much he hates that Frank’s got to deal with all this crap but he’s so grateful, too, because for some fucked up reason Ray thinks he’s got Frank to thank for bringing Christa to him.

But feeling like a shit for not paying enough attention to Gerard? That’s fucking new. “Huh.”

“Frank?”

“What?” Frank spits back automatically. It takes him a couple extra seconds to figure out he’s still in group and Bosse is looking at him expectantly. He follows up that declaration of genius with a belligerent, “Whatever,” and tucks his chin against his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gerard’s arm twitch occasionally, like he wants to be drawing but he just doesn’t have it in him anymore.

Tracking Gerard down when he doesn’t want to be found turns out to be harder than Frank thought. Frank’s so used to the guy just fucking being there all the time, it’s weird to turn around in the library and not see his stupid face. For fuck’s sake, it’s prison. Where’s he gonna go?

Frank puts a couple feelers out, but there are only so many guys he can afford to ask. If word gets around that he lost his bitch, he might as well glue a welcome sign on his own ass. Like hell he’s gonna turn into the original good time had by all over fucking Gerard.

Near evening lockdown, Frank calls it quits. He sorta expects to see Gerard in the cell when he gets there, but it’s as empty as it was when Frank came back from breakfast. Climbing into his bunk, arms tucked under his head, he wonders briefly if that Mikey guy really did bust Gerard out. What a fucking trip that would be, Frank turning this place upside down searching for a guy gunning it across state lines in a beat-up pinto while snorting lines off Mikey’s ass.

Fuck.

In the morning, Gerard’s back like he’d never been gone. Frank stares down at his hunched shoulders, his messy black hair, and says, “What the fucking fuck.”

Gerard jumps so hard he bangs his elbow off the bunk. He says, “Ow”, rubbing at it as he twists around to peer up at Frank. “Oh. You’re up.”

“Where the fuck were you?” Frank snaps.

“Uh. Here?”

“The fuck you were. I was fucking looking for you.” Frank can’t believe he’d actually thought maybe Gerard had gotten out, prison-break style.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, mouth quirked. “Well, whatever.”

Whatever? Whatever? “Fuck you.”

“Later.” Gerard hunts around through his crayons for a minute. “Still kinda woozy.”

“No, seriously, Gerard.” Frank is so fucking pissed, and he’s not sure why he’s pissed, and that just pisses him off even more. “Fuck you.”

“Okay, Frankie,” Gerard says, totally ignoring him. Frank hopes he chokes.

Sometime around noon, Frank’s simmering rage starts to mellow out to weird fascination. No matter how many times he tells Gerard to fuck off and die, Gerard just gives him this look like he’s a kitten learning how to walk or something, all fondly amused, and goes back to whatever the fuck he was doing before Frank cussed him out. Instead of driving Frank crazy like it should, it’s turning into this whole big thing Frank can’t let go.

“Straight up,” Frank says, and waits until Gerard’s eyebrow crooks in the way that means he’s paying attention even while he’s focused on his art. The cafeteria’s hollow noise doesn’t seem to grate on him like it used to. He draws everywhere these days. If he ever showered before somebody made him, Frank thinks he’d try to bring it in there, too. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“I’m an alcoholic,” Gerard says evenly. He squints critically as he shades in the slant of Frank’s jaw. “Or an addict, depending on who you ask. But generally I’m only into the drugs when I can’t get the booze or can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Frank scratches at his chin, as if watching Gerard sketching it on paper is making it itch. “But there’s gotta be more to it, man.”

Gerard stops drawing. This time he’s done an artful rendering Frank on the floor in pieces, his grinning head by his hip, his hand flipping the bird propped up by his calf. Frank should probably be disturbed, but mostly he’s just thankful Gerard left his junk alone. That’s what he calls progress.

When Frank glances up, Gerard’s smiling at him. Not a big distorted grin, or that crazy smirk that shows the sharp edges of all his teeth. Just a smile, kinda lopsided, secretive. The back of Frank’s neck prickles.

Staring straight at him, chin propped in one hand, Gerard happily asks, “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“I am so not crazy enough for this shit,” Frank mutters into his juice.

“Or,” Gerard counters, picking up a bright blue crayon to sketch in the open sky above Frank’s corpse, “you’re just crazy enough.”

Now that one Frank’s maybe more willing to believe. “Grass is green, dude.”

Gerard keeps scribbling away with yellow and brown and red. “Only on the other side.”

Gerard’s not asleep. Neither is Frank. He’s pretty sure they’re both pretending they are, though, which is a new kind of fucked up. Gerard’s probably on the verge of being sick again–the worst of it’s over, according to Bosse, but Gerard’s been in various stages of really fucked for a long, long time, so his brain really hasn’t caught up to what his body is telling it–and Frank’s worried tonight’s the night Gerard’s not gonna make it to the john in time and finally choke on his own puke. It’s fucking nerve-wracking.

Frank shoves up on one elbow. “Fuck this,” he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Fucking fuck this.”

“Jesus,” Gerard hisses. “Fucking scared the shit outta me.”

“Are you gonna be sick or what?” Gerard’s been sick every fucking night this week. It’s fucking brutal to listen to, but at least Frank hasn’t had to hold him through it again like down in the basement.

There’s a long pause. Slowly, Gerard says, “No?”

“Then why the fuck aren’t you fucking sleeping?”

Another pause, then, “You really wanna know?”

No. “Yes.”

Gerard scrambles up, Frank’s mattress dipping as he props himself on the edge. His face is all of three fucking inches from Frank’s. His breath smells like cheap toothpaste. “I can’t stop thinking about sex.”

“So jack it and fucking go to sleep already,” Frank grumbles.

“I mean actual sex, Frank,” Gerard says. “The kind with two people. And not to limit the definition of sex to the exclusion of certain lifestyles, but the kind that involves getting my dick in someone.”

Frank barks a laugh. “Dude, you could not fucking pay me enough.”

“That wasn’t a fucking proposition,” Gerard says irritably. “You barely even have as ass to get up in. I’m just saying, since you fucking asked, that’s why I can’t sleep.”

Scowling at Gerard’s shadowy face, Frank says, “You can’t reverse-psychology me into getting fucked.”

Gerard flaps his hands around. “I’m not trying to! Jesus Christ, you asked. Besides, I wouldn’t do it like that. I’m a better fucking lay than stick it in and go, fuck, gimme some credit.”

“You fucked people for money,” Frank’s compelled to point out.

“In no way does that suggest I wasn’t good at it. In fact, it totally implies the opposite.”

“Uh huh.”

“Fuck you,” Gerard says, and levers himself up. “Roll the fuck over.”

Frank cracks up, laughter bouncing way too loudly off the walls before he manages to put a lid on it. “Yeah, ’cause that ain’t a proposition.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Gerard says, getting handsy. Frank punches him in the arm, but he just grunts and dives for the blankets again. “Are you fucking chicken or something, afraid I’m gonna make you wish I would?”

“Last name’s Iero,” Frank says. “Not McFly. Good try, though.”

“At least get your dick out so I can suck it.”

Frank barely remembers the details of where and when Gerard last blew him, but fuck yeah, does he remember how good it felt. Still, he warily eyeballs Gerard’s shadowy outline. “You’re gonna try something.”

Gerard snorts. “Seriously, you tell me I’m fucked up. Not into coercion, remember? I just want to get my mouth on you.” He slaps Frank’s flank. “So roll over already. Up on your knees.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “That is so not how you suck dick.”

“How the fuck d’you know how I suck dick? If I want you on top of me while I do it, then that’s what I fucking want.” Gerard gives him another slap. “Plus, you can’t keep grabbing my head this way. Don’t give me that fucking look. You are so that asshole.”

Frank yanks at the drawstring of his pants. The very first thing he’s gonna do once he gets out of here is sleep fucking naked under a heap of blankets with the heat cranked. “You try to cram one finger in me when you think I’m not paying attention, I’ll fucking snap it off.”

“That kinda sounds like you’re bragging,” Gerard says, fumbling to take over pulling Frank’s clothes off. He shoves both hands under Frank’s shirt while Frank’s still kicking free. “Oh god yeah. Skin. I fucking love skin.”

“I’m gonna wake up to a portrait of you wrapped up in my skin like a blanket while I’m bleeding out beside you, aren’t I,” Frank says, and waits until Gerard’s firmly on his back before swinging a leg over, kneeing his way up, Gerard scooting further down on the bed to meet him.

Gerard stops mid-wriggle, hands on the backs of Frank’s thighs. “Wow,” he says, sounding grudgingly impressed. “You are now. Grab a pillow.” Groping through the dark, Frank drags his flat excuse for a pillow down and folds it over once before stuffing it under Gerard’s head, just so the angle’s better for him and Gerard’s less likely to scrape his dick to shit. “Awesome,” Gerard says, shaking his hair back and pulling Frank in.

Frank was totally giving Gerard a free pass on the asshole comment, because yeah, Frank is that guy, and he knows it. It’s not his fault Gerard keeps his hair so long it tangles perfectly around his knuckles, or that Gerard never fucking combs it out and all the knots get caught and tugged. Gerard nearly fucking loses his shit every time it happens, anyway. But Frank maybe hadn’t really given enough thought to the difference this position would make. If Gerard’s bitching was all about Frank’s dick shoved too far down his throat before he was ready, he seriously miscalculated.

“Jesus,” Frank grates, fisting his hands tighter in thin sheets, fighting to keep his balance, and maybe a little to keep from driving his dick straight in there. The way Gerard’s licking all around the head isn’t helping, but the rough hold Gerard’s got on his nuts sure as fuck does. He’s not going anywhere Gerard doesn’t fucking want him to, not as long as he wants to keep those attached. “You’re kinda fucking sadistic.”

Gerard hums, lips pressed in a closed-mouth kiss to the shaft, then slides down to nuzzle at the crook of Frank’s thigh. “Too tight?” he asks, loosening up enough to give Frank’s sac a sucking kiss, sharp and shocking enough to make Frank grunt. He laughs quietly before giving another lazy lick. “Not tight enough?”

“Thought you were gonna fucking suck it.” Frank risks unclenching the blankets to make a grab for Gerard’s hair. He makes it about halfway there before Gerard laughs, low and ridiculously sultry, and sucks hard on the head, sending Frank’s hand slamming back down. Then it’s a scrape of teeth, which Frank is not into, he is so not fucking into it, but it makes him shudder hard, just once. Gerard’s going down, really down, swallowing tight and fast to get Frank wedged in deep. He stays like that for two thundering beats of Frank’s heart, struggling to swallow, then tears free, face pressed to Frank’s junk, panting open-mouthed as he messes them both up with sloppy kisses.

Frank’s shaking so hard he can see the muscles in his arm quiver. “What the fuck.”

Gerard just gulps down air, gearing up to go down again. Frank sucks in a breath and holds it, and holds it, pulse pounding in his head. His fucking skull is gonna explode all over Gerard’s gory drawings. Nobody outside skinflicks does this shit in real life. Fucking nobody. It’s too fucking good. The god damn economy would collapse because everybody would be too busy getting off. Frank is gonna get off right fucking now.

“Fucking told you,” Gerard gasps out, nuzzling at Frank’s junk. He scoots down lower, really pushing right in there, licking and sucking and it’d be fucking foreplay except for the really steady, methodical way he’s jacking Frank’s dick. Frank is totally at peace with the realisation that he’s humping Gerard’s face. And the one where he’s gonna come all over it in about three seconds.

A sharp bite to the inside of Frank’s thigh startles a curse out of him. He stares down through the shadows at Gerard, the tilt of Gerard’s head and the tickle of his breath against wet skin letting Frank know he’s staring right back. “I’m not done yet,” Gerard says matter-of-factly.

“I almost fucking was,” Frank growls.

Gerard’s, “I noticed,” drifts up soft and wry. He licks the bite that’s still throbbing, not so much an apology as smugly pointing out that he got away with it. His hands slide up to cup Frank’s hips, guiding, and Frank ends up shuffling awkwardly for a couple frustrating seconds until he mutters, “Fuck it,” and lets Gerard lead. He’s not exactly sure how that ends up with him practically fucking sitting on Gerard’s face, Gerard’s arms looped around his thighs to keep him there. He’s fucking glad nobody else can see his face right now.

“I knew you were gonna– motherfuck.” Frank flails stupidly, looking for something to grab onto. An actual headboard would be fucking nice; he’s gotta stretch out too far to grab the bar at the head of the bed. Gerard’s gotta be crammed up in the worst fucking angle ever down there, but he moans like it’s heaven, like Frank’s fucking ass in his face is the best thing to happen to him in his life, and yeah, of course he wants to stuff his tongue in it, why the fuck wouldn’t he.

Frank bites back the noise that wants to come bubbling up out of him to say, “You suck” with about as much venom as he can manage while trying not to blow his load like a punk kid getting touched for the very first time. Gerard hums agreeably, shocking another thin, reedy noise out of Frank, and then he finally gets around to the sucking for real. It just happens to be Frank’s asshole his mouth his on, not Frank’s cock.

“Oh, fuck you,” Frank groans, rocking back. He’s got his dick fisted tight, practically fucking choking he’s so close to losing it. “Fuck you so fucking much.”

Gerard drops back to the sheets with a muffled oof. His hair tickles the side of Frank’s leg as he works a kink out of his neck. “I could stop.”

Punching the bed, Frank barks, “You just fucking did!”

“Nah,” Gerard says, scooting out from between Frank’s legs and rising up on his knees. Frank twists around to try to keep him in sight as much as the darkness allows. “I mean for real stop. C’mon, Frankie.” His hand touches Frank’s shoulder, a warning that earns him a twitch before he presses close, chest hot and sweaty against Frank’s back. His dick, hard and totally fucking naked, digs against Frank’s side. “Lean down for me. I just wanna kiss you.”

Frank says, “Kiss my fucking ass, you mean,” but he’s doing it, dropping down onto the palm of one hand, then his elbows, chin tucked tight against his chest. He barely hears Gerard’s quiet, “Oh god,” but he feels it, fuck, does he feel it, whispered right against the meat of his ass. He pretty much expects Gerard to go for it, jam a couple fingers in, maybe his dick right off the bat, because like this, ass up, chest to the sheets? Yeah, it feels like Frank’s asking for it. But what he gets is the brush of damp, chapped lips ghosting down his spine, strong fingers digging into his hips, his ass, spreading the cheeks so Gerard can nose back in there, breathe deep, and lick.

Once he’s figured out Frank’s not going anywhere, his hands slide up Frank’s back, then all the way down again, curling under to touch his belly and the tops of his thighs, wrist bumping into the hand Frank’s still got curled tight around his dick. He worms his fingers between Frank’s, ignoring the warning Frank tries to choke out, to start jacking him right at the root, and seriously, Frank would be okay if Gerard would stop fucking touching him. Frank wouldn’t be this shaking, moaning mess from just a guy’s tongue in his ass, never mind how fucked up and weird and fucking good it feels, wet and soft inside him, if Gerard wasn’t all fucking over him at the same time. Gerard’s not even working him over fast enough to really make him think he’s gonna blow it, but next thing he knows his balls draw tight, Gerard groaning like he can feel it, and this thick, dizzying pulse surges through him, coiling tight in his nuts and spilling out through his dick. Somehow he’s got a chunk of his pillow caught in his teeth, muffling the noises that push their way out of him as he comes so hard he can’t even feel his fucking fingers anymore.

“Oh god, oh fuck, Frank, Frank,” Gerard says, slurred against Frank’s skin, his hands still moving, tugging and holding, squeezing when Frank jerks. “Don’t move, please don’t move. You feel so fucking good, I just gotta– I’m not gonna, but I gotta–” He breaks off with a ragged groan as he drops heavily onto Frank’s back, knees rudely shoving Frank’s legs wide, his hands clawing at Frank’s chest. Frank chokes on air. Then he chokes on the spit he accidentally inhales when Gerard lines their hips up, Gerard’s dick sliding slick and hot between the cheeks of his ass. Frank’s so fucking startled by Gerard’s dick dragging over his hole he loses his balance when Gerard fucks hard against him, sprawling out flat on his face. Gerard rides him down and keeps fucking, arms bracketing Frank’s head, forehead pressed to Frank’s shoulder, mouth running the whole fucking time, crazy filthy shit broken by stuttered gasps and once, just once right before Gerard loses it, he says really clearly, “Fuck, babe, you are so fucking hot.”

Face shoved into the bed, legs spread wide with Gerard fucking shooting all over him, Frank cracks right the fuck up. Gerard bites at the back of his neck, making him scrunch up, but he can’t stop laughing. “I’m not your fucking girlfriend,” he wheezes.

Gerard grunts irritably and doesn’t move. “But you are really fucking hot. And a good lay!”

“Jesus,” Frank rasps, knuckling his eyes dry. A couple crazy giggles escape between breaths. “You’re insane.”

“But also a really good lay.” Gerard shuffles a little to the side and settles down again, comfortably sprawled on top of Frank. “You came so hard you squeaked.”

“Because you’re fucking crushing my ribs.”

“You have intimacy issues,” Gerard says, mouthing lazy, post-coital kisses to Frank’s shoulder like he’s planning on hanging around for awhile. “That’s okay, though. Nobody’s perfect.”

Frank tries to lever up on one elbow. Gerard growls and clings harder, but more than that, Gerard is actually really fucking heavy, and Frank’s never been at his best after sex. He gives up after a couple decent attempts and settles for twisting partway around to fix Gerard with a look out of the corner of his eye.

Gerard shrugs like it’s nothing, but his voice is lacking the usual jibe when he says, “Nobody lives forever either, you know.”

“M’still not sleeping in your fucking jizz tonight,” Frank says, and pretends he doesn’t notice the tension seeping from his own shoulders where Gerard muffles a laugh between them.

“A bank,” Frank says slowly, his breath frosting the air.

Wentz sighs and pushes the cards in the Go Fish pond around dejectedly. He’s the only one who didn’t bitch when Gerard ponied up a full pack of smokes for the right to choose their game. That Gerard’s got the energy for something other than shaking his way through dextoxing to dig up a fucking pack of smokes and give a shit about anteing in knocked Frank so far back on his ass his own bitching was kinda lamely half-hearted. The sketchbook hasn’t disappeared entirely, but these days, Gerard’s doing a lot more than drawing. Mostly, he’s doing Frank. “Yeah. I wanted to get her a ring. A really nice ring.”

“That was dumb,” Gerard says, squinting at the cards in Frank’s hand. “Got any threes?”

“Fuck,” Frank mutters, and fumbles one over, fingers made clumsy by the thick gloves he bummed off a guard. It’s almost too fucking cold to be out here, but inside was making his skin crawl. Besides, Gerard’s down to two cards; it’s not like the game’s gonna last forever, and he wants a fucking smoke. If he asks, Gerard’s probably gonna share the winnings with him, but it’s the principle of the the thing.

Wentz sighs. “Yeah.”

“You should’ve knocked over a pawn shop.” Gerard pauses to chew on his cuticle, then narrows his eyes at Wentz. “Got any sixes?”

Wentz is staring at him, mouth hanging open. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Gerard snaps his fingers imperiously. “Gimme your six.”

Not even blinking, Wentz hands it over. “No, I mean you’re really fucking right. Why the fuck did I think buying a ring with stolen cash would fly? I should’ve just stolen the ring!”

“And if it’s from a pawn shop, chances are good it was stolen to begin with,” Gerard says. “It’s like wearing a second-hand fur coat. You’re not exactly helping the cause, but you’re not directly funding the slaughter of innocent little forest creatures, either. Last card.”

“Don’t let the first thing you do when you get outta here be caught holding up a pawn shop, Wentz, for fuck’s sake.” After some hit and miss, Frank’s got four cards left. It’s only round one and Wentz somehow has eleven. If he can keep Gerard fishing, that pile of smokes is all his. “Your woman didn’t even show up to your trial.”

Gerard winces. “Ouch. Gimme your jack, Frankie.”

Frank doesn’t blink at the jack of diamonds sitting smack in the middle of his hand. “Why’re you so sure I got one?”

“Same as I know Mikey’s gonna get me outta here before Christmas. ‘Cause he is, and you do.” Gerard lays down his last card, the jack of hearts, and taps it twice with a fingertip. “Cough it up.”

“Mikey Way?” Wentz perks up, tossing his cards into the pond like it’s game over. “Holy shit, dude. I know him! We were Pumpkinheads!”

Frank stares. “You were a fucking groupie?”

“Elitist groupies,” Gerard corrects. “Mikey’s got taste.”

Frank turns wide eyes on Gerard. “He’s your fucking brother?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, exchanging a look with Wentz.

“And he’s gonna bust you outta prison.”

Another look. Wentz leans conspiratorially close. “You think he can get me out too?”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank says, disgusted. He shoves his jack at Gerard. “You’re all gonna end up being chased through a swamp by Federal Marshals and dobermans.”

“Don’t worry, Frankie,” Gerard says, smoothly sliding his pair of jacks into his neat little pile and scooping up five more cards. “I won’t leave you behind.”

“I ain’t going anywhere with no fucking swamps.” Frank scowls at his cards. Chances are pretty good Gerard just scooped up an ace. Nobody’s called out for a matched ace yet.

Wentz says, “What about me? Dude, you can’t fucking leave me there, that’s cold.”

“Glacial.” Gerard grins his tiny little psycho grin at Frank. “Got any aces?”

“Motherfucker,” Frank spits.

“The Fisher King!” Gerard cries, fist in the air.

It’s not like Frank was really suffering on the inside before Gerard stumbled along, but the days don’t have the same long, drawn-out drag as they used to. Not much has really changed except for the measuring glances Bosse sends their way, and the fucking staggering amount of head Frank’s been getting. Fuck if he’s complaining. He’s been sleeping like a baby every damn night.

So when he wakes up after a good solid eight hours with a familiar tightness in his chest, he figures, nah, no way. Couldn’t be. He fought off this bitch cold weeks ago. By breakfast, he’s fine. He crashes out a little after noon, but that’s no big surprise. Prison is fucking boring.

The next day it’s more of the same, except visiting hours start at ten. Frank shrugs on a jacket, ’cause it’s fucking chilly living in a giant lump of concrete and brick, and shuffles down the corridor with the rest of the cons lucky enough to have somebody who gives a shit. Gerard’s right behind him.

“Frank!” Ray says, same as he always does, and stands up to haul him in for a tight, back-slapping hug. “Sorry I couldn’t make it last week, man, I had– Hello?”

“Hi,” Gerard says to his sketchbook. He twiddles his fingers in a wave and keeps drawing.

Frank rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Like I fucking want to see your mug every damn Sunday.” He knees Gerard in the side. “Shove over.”

Not looking up, Gerard obediently scoots over a couple inches. Frank swings a leg over the bench and settles down, then gives the table in front of Ray a slap. “C’mon, sit down. Tell me all about what a good man Christa’s turning you into.”

Ray grins stupidly, scratching at his head through a mess of fluffy curls. “If you ask her, I was already a pretty good catch.”

A mirror image of Ray’s grin threatens to take over Frank’s face. “See? I fucking told you.”

“Yeah,” Ray says. He gives a happy, satisfied sigh, his eyes getting that slightly glazed, far-away look to them.

“You’re really in love,” Gerard says, startling Ray like a rabbit. He still hasn’t looked up from his drawing. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Ray says automatically. His momma would be proud. He forehead wrinkles, and he gives Frank this curious look like he thinks Frank’s gonna explain what the fuck Gerard’s doing. Then he sticks out his hand. “I’m Ray.”

“Gerard,” Gerard says, sketching busily. “It’s okay, you don’t have to talk to me.”

“But,” Ray starts. He gives Frank another one of those looks. Frank shrugs. Like fuck he knows shit about what goes on inside Gerard’s head. Ray’s entire forehead crinkles up like Frank’s grandpa’s. “But, uh. I mean–”

Gerard finally glances up. His eyes are big and round and bruised-looking, like he hasn’t really slept in a while. Frank frowns, ’cause that’s not right. Gerard usually crashes out faster than Frank does after he blows his load. “Frank’s sick.”

“What the fuck!” Frank barks, but it’s no good. Ray’s head whips around and his palm’s slapping to Frank’s forehead before Frank’s got a chance to even fucking blink. Frank tries elbowing him off, but Ray’s got fucking orangutan arms.

“You’re kinda hot,” Ray says, mouth all screwed up.

Frank mutters, “Thanks,” and finally bats him away. “I’m not–”

“You were coughing all night,” Gerard says, peering at him with tired eyes half-hidden by the mess of his hair. “All night, Frankie.”

Ray’s on his feet scanning the visitor’s room. “Do you guys have a doctor in here? Maybe if we get him on something before it gets a chance to settle into his lungs–”

“Don’t fucking talk about me like I’m not right here!”

“Sorry, Frankie,” Ray says absently, rubbing Frank’s shoulder and digging his stupidly long fingers right into the kink that’s been bugging him since yesterday. Frank does his best to bristle through the wave of sudden relief, but his spine’s already conspiring against him, crumpling like a house of cards.

Gerard’s on his feet too. “Does he get really sick a lot? Was he one of those kids? He’s kind of tiny, but I thought that was just, y’know, Frank.”

“I really fucking hate you both,” Frank grumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open. If Ray would just fuck off with the fucking awesome neck rub, he’d be able to find his fucking balls and stand up for himself.

“He doesn’t look too bad yet, maybe we caught it in time.” Ray gives Frank’s shoulder one last really good squeeze. “I’m gonna go find somebody to talk to. Be right back.”

Before Frank can remind his legs that yeah, they’re attached to his body and they’ve gotta do what he fucking says, Gerard’s hands take the place of Ray’s. Gerard’s not as good as Ray, not quite finding the exact spot, and maybe pinching a little too hard, but he manages to keep Frank on his ass. “He’s a really good friend,” Gerard says.

“Yeah,” Frank mumbles. Fuck, he is tired. Stupid fucking Ray. “I’m gonna punch him later and feel like a total dick about it.”

“That’s because you are a dick,” Gerard says, scratching his nails through the hair at Frank’s nape. “But maybe he’ll bust you outta here like Mikey’s gonna do for me, so you can say you’re sorry then.”

Frank rests his head on his folded arms. He’s not sick, but he’d bet his last smoke Ray’s gonna feel ten times better about shit if he thinks he’s helping Frank out here. So Frank’s just gonna keep his mouth shut and let Gerard dig bony fingers into his spine, and let Ray freak out at somebody over Frank’s lack of an immune system, and once he’s on the outside, he’ll make Ray pick up the tab on the biggest fucking welcome-home party the shitty little dive near his old place can handle.

That evening, Frank can’t fucking breathe. He barely remembers being marched up to visit with Dr Galloway and her awesome rack, so he’s maybe willing too concede that yeah, maybe he caught something. But it’s not like he’s gonna fucking die. He takes the pills she doles out and goes back to his cell and firmly ignores Gerard standing right beside his bunk staring at him worriedly.

Fifteen minutes later, when Gerard still hasn’t gone the fuck back to his own bed, Frank says, “M’not gonna fucking die, fuck off.”

“Fine,” Gerard says huffily. “But if you do, I’m gonna be really pissed.”

Frank snorts.

“You say that now.” There’s a familiar rustling from down below as Gerard settles in. “But when you’re a lost and lonely ghost and I’m the only one who believes in you, you’re gonna be really sorry.”

“Not a fucking ghost,” Frank says, and dreams that night that he is, only Gerard can’t see him. Gerard knows he’s there, talks to him like he can hear Frank talking back, but he can’t see him, can’t touch him, and seven years later when Gerard’s finally getting out, he won’t go, clinging to the bars and screaming how he wishes he were a ghost at somebody who’s supposed to be Mikey but doesn’t look a thing like him. Frank wakes up soaked in sweat, wheezing so hard his lungs are on fire. It takes him a couple seconds, but he manages to roll over and squint down through the darkness to see the lump of blankets and Gerard curled up tight against the wall. It doesn’t really make him feel better, but he’s tired and woozy and if he tries to move again, he’s probably going to throw up. He passes out with his chin hooked over the edge of the bed and his hand slung over the bars like he’s gonna give it a shot anyway.

When Frank wakes up again, it feels like his head’s stuck in a toilet. He drags in a watery breath and starts coughing before he’s even halfway through it. Heat explodes over his face, his neck, skin tight and burning and feeling like it’s going to burst. Gerard starts yelling his name like an idiot, howling it at the top of his lungs. Frank tries to get the air to tell him to shut up already, and failing that, give him the finger so he’ll get the fucking message, but he can’t even lift his head.

“Frank!” Gerard screams. There’s a scuffling sound, then a heavy metallic thud. Frank cracks one eye open but all he can see are white sheets. “Open the fucking door! Open the door! Let me in!”

That’s weird enough to get Frank to open both eyes. Still, all he gets for his trouble is a half-decent view of generic scuffed tile. More voices join Gerard’s, low and steady, but Gerard steamrolls right over all of them. Somebody cries out.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Gerard snarls over a heavy rattle. “Just open the door. I just want you to open the door. Just open the fucking door!”

“Gee?” Frank tries to croak out. It doesn’t even sound like a word. He struggles to sit up, wondering what the fuck is the matter with him. Maybe those pills Galloway slipped him were something way stronger than Benadryl. He tries again, louder, and dissolves into another wracking cough.

Gerard’s voice pitches higher. Frank tries to fight his way through the coughing, even though he knows it won’t help. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on here. His heart’s pounding so hard it hurts. “Don’t– Don’t come near me with that thing. I’m not gonna– Frank! Jesus fucking– Get the fucking– No, no, no!”

“It’s alright!” Bosse bellows. “Gerard, stop! He isn’t going to– Give me that!”

Gerard screams. He fucking screams, loud and terrified and real, like somebody’s fucking killing him all of five fucking feet from Frank’s bed. Frank grits his teeth and heaves upright, the whole room swimming. There’s a mass of bodies outside the bars. He lists towards the wall for support, only to find it’s gone.

“What the fuck,” Frank rasps, fumbling for something to hold onto. “What’s– Where the fuck—”

“It’s alright,” Bosse says, carefully measured. Gerard gives a strange hiccuping sob. “Open the door.”

Gerard says, “Frankie, Frankie, they–” and detaches from the blur of bodies. He stumbles through the bars, pale and shaking, clutching at his arm. The bed jostles when he bumps into it and he goes down hard. Nobody makes a move to help him. Grabbing onto the sheets, he hauls himself unsteadily to his knees. “They fucking stuck me, Frankie.”

“A mild sedative,” Bosse says, keeping his distance. “You were going to hurt someone.”

“I wasn’t,” Gerard says, his knuckles gone whiter than the sheets. “Fuckers moved you while I was sleeping. They just fucking took you away. They weren’t gonna let me see you.”

Frank manages to drag in one slow, almost-steady breath. His heart’s still beating way too fast. He doesn’t remember anything except his dreams. Gerard keeps staring at him, swaying on his knees like he’s gonna pass out. “Fuckin’ nuts,” Frank wheezes.

Gerard gives him a lopsided grin. There’s a smear of blood on his arm when he moves his hand away, groping through the tangled sheets like he’s looking for Frank’s. He finds Frank’s thigh first, and squeezes hard. He’s shaking worse than Frank is. “Mikey’s gonna get me out. He’s gonna get you out, too. They can’t hide you from me. It won’t work. I’ll get you out.”

Frank is too fucking exhausted for this shit. He takes a couple seconds to find Bosse in the cloud of dispersing uniforms outside the infirmary cell. When he’s sure his lungs can handle it, he asks, “You gonna leave him here or what?”

“Dr Bosse,” Galloway starts gravely.

“It would be more trouble to move him than to leave him,” Bosse says. “We can’t keep him sedated in his cell the entire time Frank is in recovery, Dr Galloway. It’s simply not practical. And,” he continues when she makes a noise like she’s going to interrupt, “Gerard is still in recovery himself. His body is in no condition to handle such treatment.”

“That room is not equipped for two inmates,” Galloway insists. “There’s a reason patients convalesce here instead of in the cellblock.”

Bosse sighs. “Janet, do you really want to fight me on this? Whatever you think about my methods, I know him.”

Gerard sluggishly turns to face the open cell door. He blinks a couple times, his eyes dark and unfocused. “I won’t get in the way. I’ll behave. I won’t even–” He stops and breathes deeply, like it’s taking almost as much effort for him to get air into his lungs as it is for Frank. “No more needles.”

“Fine,” Galloway says. Frank wishes they’d both fucking shut up. He’s tired, their voices are fucking drilling holes in his head, and he doesn’t fucking care. “But if my patient shows no improvement by morning, we’re moving him. I will fight you on that, Dr Bosse.”

“Agreed,” Bosse says. Gerard’s grip on Frank’s thigh tightens. “I highly doubt he’ll be much worse. Officer Zhang, could you please arrange for one of your team to be present at all times? I’m sure that will help ease Dr Galloway’s mind.” Over an affirmative and the crackle of a radio, Bosse says, “You’d best get some rest while you can, Frank. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bosse hangs around a minute like he expects Frank to say thank you, then heaves another one of his disappointed sighs and shuffles around to deal with Galloway. After securing the door, one of the uniforms takes up a post right outside it, just out of reach. For the first time, Frank takes a real good look around. The cell is one in a line of three, tucked into the corner. Two solid walls, two made of bars. The main examination room sits between them and Galloway’s office on the far side. This far away from all the other inmates, it should feel more private. It doesn’t.

“Are you gonna fucking sleep on the floor?” Frank asks, shrugging out of Gerard’s hold.

Like he’d forgotten he was already kneeling on it, Gerard looks sadly down. “Guess so. Pretty sure I’ve slept on worse.”

“Shut up,” Frank says, and scoots his ass over a couple inches. “Don’t fucking crush me in my sleep.”

“But,” Gerard says, and shoots a nervous glance at the guard.

“Fine, whatever. Sleep on the floor.” Frank resolutely closes his eyes. He’s gonna sleep for a week. “I don’t fucking care.”

“If anybody’s gonna shiv you, they’re gonna do it now,” Gerard mumbles. The blankets get tugged on, but the mattress doesn’t shift like Gerard’s climbing up. “I better stay down here.”

“Whatever,” Frank repeats, but the next time he wakes up, it’s to darkness and Gerard huddled close, muttering in his sleep about spoons. The last thing Frank thinks before he goes under again is that this place is a fucking cakewalk if they’re gonna let Gerard get away with that shit.

On the third day of Frank’s stay in the infirmary, while Dr Galloway’s taking his temperature and frowning at the little red line like she thinks it’s lying, Gerard says, “You know, I never get sick.”

“Good for you,” Frank mumbles around the thermometer she insists on stuffing back in his mouth.

“No talking,” Galloway says. “I would like an accurate reading this time, please.”

Gerard squints at the doc. He opens his mouth, glances at Frank, then closes it really fast. He goes back to doodling on the napkin that came with his lunch while Galloway takes Frank’s pulse old school style. Frank really pointedly rolls his eyes at her.

“Your fever’s broken,” she says, ignoring him to check the thermometer again. “I’m keeping you here for another night to be certain.”

“It’s okay, doc,” Frank says, settling back down on his mound of flat, stiff pillows. “I know you just like having me here ’cause I’m pretty.”

Galloway gives him an eyeroll of her own. Gerard doodles harder. Frank smiles winningly. He knows she’s laughing on the inside.

After she’s gone, Gerard says, “That would probably work better if she stuck it in your ass.”

“Aw, man,” Frank says. The fucking guard’s right there. “Fuck you.”

Gerard adds some angry red slashes to his napkin. “Maybe if she fucking paid attention in the first place, you wouldn’t have almost gone into a fucking coma.”

“Don’t you have fucking group or something?”

The crayon goes straight through Gerard’s napkin. He snarls at it, like it’s the fucking napkin’s fault he’s freaking out, and viciously rips it in two. He takes hold of one tattered edge like he’s gonna rip it again but stops cold. Taking one deep breath, he puts the napkin carefully back onto his meal tray, then looks up at Frank. Doesn’t say anything, just fucking looks.

Frank closes his eyes and folds his arms, getting comfy for a nice afternoon nap. It’s not like he cares if Gerard gets bent out of shape over some harmless flirting. He didn’t fucking ask Gerard to be here. Fuck knows he’d sleep better if Gerard would quit crawling into his bed in the middle of the night.

“Okay,” Gerard says, voice low. “Okay.”

The yard is buried in three feet of snow. Even if Frank’s lungs were up to handling it, the last thing he wants to do is go out in the cold. It’s been three days since his last smoke, sucked down so fast he barely got a chance to enjoy the curl of nicotine through his blood, and it’s seriously starting to mess with his vibe.

Worse than that cooped-up feeling settling into his bones is the fucking silent treatment he’s getting from Gerard. The first night Frank spent back in their cell, Gerard was all fucking over him. Hands and mouth fucking everywhere. Frank did his damnedest to keep up when it started, but–and he’s gonna be honest here–five minutes in, he sat back and took it, and he doesn’t feel one bit bad about it. If Gerard wants to do all the work in getting them both off, more power to him.

But then, sweat cooling and come drying tacky on Franks’ belly, Gerard rolled right off and went to bed. Didn’t even attempt a cuddle under the flimsy guise of being too fucked out to move. Then the whole day after, and every one since, whether he’s got a hand stuck down Frank’s pants or not, he doesn’t say a fucking word. It’s driving Frank crazy. Frank even tried dirty talking him the other night, right in close against his ear trying to get him to admit how bad he wanted to come, how much he’d love Frank’s hand on him when he did it, and nothing. Fucking nothing. Barely even grunted as he shot all over Frank’s knuckles. And then he fucking got up and went to bed like Frank wasn’t sitting there half-hard with a handful of come.

“Maybe just say you’re fucking sorry,” Wentz says with a shrug.

“I didn’t fucking do anything,” Frank insists.

“What’s that got to do with it?” Ellseworth chimes in. When Frank gives him a look, he echoes Wentz’s shrug. “Hey, I don’t give a shit about the guy. He can cry in his Wheaties every morning from now to doomsday for all I care. But he’s your ticket to early parole. Fucking suck it up and apologize.”

“I’m not fucking sorry,” Frank snaps, and snatches his tray off the table to go dump it. “Both of you go suck each other off somewhere I don’t have to watch, Jesus.”

Frank sets out for the cell block, ready to get his coat and brave the cold, but he ends up headed down Block D towards the library instead. Whatever, he’ll check out the new arrivals bin. Maybe some rich schmuck looking for a humanitarian of the year nomination has donated something worth reading since he last time he looked.

When he gets there, Gerard’s perched in his chair, bent low over a sketchbook that’s obviously seen better days. The edges are tattered, the wire bent flat; pages are taped and stapled and still falling out. Before Frank can get close enough to see what kind of massacre is on the menu today, Gerard’s head snaps up. He slams the book shut and slaps it on the table.

“That’s new,” Frank says. “I figured you’d be delighted to show me how many pieces I’m in this time.”

Gerard glances at the con carefully sliding books back into the shelves. He looks back at his sketchbook, then the naked crayon in his hand, the bits of blue wax stuck under his nails. “I don’t wanna blow you right now,” he says. “Come back later.”

“I’m not here for a fucking blow,” Frank says, scowling.

“Okay, whatever.” Gerard gouges another chunk out of his crayon. “What d’you want, I’m busy.”

“It’s a fucking library,” Frank snaps. “Maybe I wanted a fucking book.”

“So go fucking get one.”

Frank’s fist clenched tight. Gerard’s gaze jumps down, his chin lifting slightly, asking for it. If he doesn’t fucking watch it, Frank’s gonna give it to him. If Frank didn’t have something riding on this, maybe he already fucking would’ve. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Gerard’s eyes narrow dangerously. A tiny electric spark lights up the base of Frank’s spine, travels all the way up to prickle hotly at the nape of his neck. He’s been waiting for this. It’s been a long, long time coming.

But instead of coming at him with fists and nails and teeth to try to tear him apart like in those fucked up drawings, Gerard carefully pushes his chair away from the table and stands up. He doesn’t grin, doesn’t smile, just calmly says, “Let’s go fuck,” like he’s letting Frank know it’s cold outside.

“I thought you weren’t in the mood,” Frank sneers. His fists are clenched so tight his fingers ache, and he hates that he’s hard, really spectacularly hard, ready to go. He wants his teeth in Gerard’s throat, his dick fucking finally buried deep in Gerard’s ass, the thin, pale skin on the insides of Gerard’s wrists purpled with bruises under his fingers.

Gerard’s gaze slides pointedly down. “You are. So let’s go.”

It should be easy to say no. It’s not even about the sex. If Frank tells him to fuck off, he’ll come crawling back in the middle of the night, cold hands reaching under Frank’s blankets, warm mouth wet and open. But Frank jerks his chin at the door and Gerard smiles, snake-slick, and leads the way.

They don’t fuck. What Gerard said that first night about not wanting it with only spit has held true all this time, and even if it would be pretty easy for Frank to get his hands on some lube, what they’ve been doing has been satisfying enough he doesn’t want to deal with the mess otherwise. He’s thought a couple times about trying it in the shower. It’s not like they’ve got privacy when they fuck around at night, but doing it right out in the open like that, bright lights and beady eyes, doesn’t really turn his crank.

When Gerard leads the way down to the basement, to the fucking little cubbyhole where he used to deal, Frank thinks maybe they’re going to this time. What he doesn’t expect is for Gerard to crowd him up against the wall face-on, arms bracketing his head, and fucking stare at him.

“Fucker, what?” Frank spits, trying to shove Gerard back so he’s not up on his fucking toes.

Gerard shakes his head slowly, that slick smile still on his face. “You can be really stupid sometimes, you know?”

Frank draws off, sick of this shit, sick of not even knowing for sure what fucking shit this is, and sucks in a hissing breath when Gerard catches his wrist. He loses another scrap of air on a curse as Gerard shoves his arm flat to the wall. Gerard’s smile cuts deeper. The light down here is weird, kinda surreal. Frank’s dick is killing him. He doesn’t even bother trying to twist out of Gerard’s grip. “We gonna talk it out, or are we gonna fuck?”

“I know you don’t believe me,” Gerard says, same as if Frank hadn’t even opened his mouth, “but I’m getting out of here. So I don’t know, Frankie, are we gonna talk it out? Or am I gonna fuck you one last time so you got something to remember me by?”

Frank’s lips peel back in a snarl. There’s some shit right there that he’s sick of hearing. “You stupid shit, you’re not getting out. You got a two-year sentence for fucking aggravated assault.”

Gerard’s smile turns nasty. “Extenuating circumstances.”

Now Frank’s fucking ready to brawl. He wrenches his arm free, twisting his body to bring his heel down hard on the inside of Gerard’s ankle. Instead of stumbling back, Gerard lurches forward, slamming Frank’s back hard against the wall. Not prepared for it, Frank’s head snaps back, hits the brick with a sharp crack. The dizziness swims up fast but he breathes through it. Before he gets a chance to return the favour, Gerard’s on him again, knee shoved between his legs, strong fingers wrapping around his throat, his jaw, forcing his mouth open as teeth scrape his lips.

It’s stupid, but that’s what makes him stop. Breath goes stale in his lungs as Gerard pushes harder, tilts his head so their mouths meet, slot together. Then there’s no tongue, no teeth, Gerard’s fingers softening, holding instead of gripping. Gerard stays there for a long minute, pressed so close Frank can feel his heartbeat thundering through both their chests, and when he pulls back, stuffy basement air rushing in to take his place, Frank doesn’t move. He’s slumped against the wall, mouth wet with Gerard’s spit, and he can’t bring himself to open his fucking eyes.

And then Gerard’s back, holding his face and kissing him like it’s some scene out of Hollywood, except this time there’s the sweet wet slide of tongue on Frank’s lips and a sharper scrape of teeth that jolts all the way down to his fucking toes. Frank’s eyes finally snap open. All he can see is the dark blur of Gerard’s hair and the outline of shadowy pipes behind him. Gerard keeps kissing him harder and harder, like he’s trying to shock Frank out of the stupid stupor he’s shocked him into in the first place. It’s not working. All Frank wants to do is hang on and let it keep happening. The pressure of Gerard’s thigh against his dick isn’t anything to write home about but it’s fucking amazing anyway.

“I’m a creep,” Gerard says on a shuddery breath.

Frank’s system is feeling pretty battered, what with the fuck-fight-what the fuck going on, but he’s got enough presence of mind to figure that doesn’t really jive. He manages a, “What?” that doesn’t sound too strung-out for his pride.

A crazy giggle bubbles against Frank’s lips. “I, fuck. I did this while you were sleeping. Just once!” he shouts, grabbing at Frank’s arms when Frank jerks back. “You passed out, like, right after I blew you. And you were fucking gone. I really wanted to.”

Frank yanks a hand back through his hair. “You fucking made out with me while I was sleeping.”

Gerard’s gaze cuts sideways, but he doesn’t look one bit sorry. He looks really fucking turned on. “Yeah.”

“With my dick all over your fucking mouth.”

“Yeah,” Gerard repeats, biting at his lip. “It’s better this time.”

Frank’s pretty sure the only logical response is to crack the fuck up. Gerard stays pressed close the whole time, fucking sniffing Frank’s hair or mouthing at his ear, Frank doesn’t even fucking know. And he doesn’t care. His whole life got fucked the day some drunken dickhead decided no didn’t mean fucking no. Maybe it was fucked long before then, living in a world where he gets thrown in the slammer and the woman he tried to protect can’t even press charges. He’s got no job when he gets out of here, no place to live, broken pieces of a life and a disappointed family to face. It’s all fucked. It’s all really, really fucked.

“It’s not so bad, Frankie,” Gerard says, lips soft and chapped on the slant of Frank’s jaw. “That’s gotta be worth something, coming from somebody as royally fucked up as me.”

“Oh Jesus.” Frank swipes at his face with the back of his arm. “Fuck me, it kinda does.”

“See?” Gerard says, bumping Frank’s cheek with his nose. “Baby, it’s not so bad.”

Before the noise burbling in Frank’s chest gets a chance to leak free, he tangles a fist in Gerard’s hair and yanks him in again. It doesn’t really stop the sound from escaping, but it’s easier to pretend neither of them heard it while he’s got his tongue in Gerard’s mouth and Gerard’s hand is slipping into his shorts.

“Okay,” Gerard says, patting down his pockets like he’s making sure he’s got his wallet and his keys. All his pictures are piled neatly on his bunk. His crayons and his sketchpad are in a separate pile; he doesn’t need those where he says he’s going. Frank’s pretty sure he’s going out of what’s left of his mind, but hey, he’s not gonna judge. “Okay. Wow. I’m really nervous.”

“I hear a jailbreak’ll do that to a man,” Frank says as he turns the page.

“Ha ha fucking ha,” Gerard snarks. He goes to the sink to pick up his toothbrush, then shakes his head and puts it back down. It’s the third time he’s done that. “I know it really hasn’t been that long, but it’s gotten really nice in here.” He peers earnestly up at Frank. “You’re in here.”

“Yep,” Frank says. He hasn’t really had a chance to read the words in front of him, but he turns the page again anyway. “Gonna be for awhile yet.”

Gerard’s by the bunks in an instant, grabbing at Frank’s hand. Frank rolls his eyes and lets him take it, trying not to laugh as he clutches it dramatically to his chest. “I’m not going back on my word, Frankie. I’m gonna fucking get you outta here.”

“Uh huh,” Frank says, twisting so Gerard doesn’t dislocate his shoulder when he yanks Frank closer.

“I fucking mean it,” Gerard says darkly. “I’m coming back for you.”

“Jesus,” Frank says, losing the fight against his laughter. He shoves up, scooting forward so he’s sitting on the edge of the bunk. Gerard shuffles in between his knees, a worried crinkle between his brows. He still won’t let go of Frank’s hand. “Okay, okay, you win. You’re not gonna leave me here to die alone. Can I read my fucking book now?”

Gerard’s mouth drops open a fraction. “You’re not gonna come see me out?”

Choking back another chuckle by clearing his throat, Frank figures, why the fuck not. It’s not like it costs him anything to give the dude a moment of glory. He puts on his Sunday best, ’cause fake contrition is about as close to distraught as he’s gonna get, and says, “Can’t. It’ll break my fucking heart to see you go.”

Gerard’s face screws up hilariously, this awesome combination of him knowing, fucking knowing, that Frank’s fucking with him, and the sweet, earnest hope that Frank means it. For a second, Frank kinda feels like a dick. But once the guards march Gerard’s ass back inside in time for breakfast he’ll have forgotten all about that. Maybe Frank’ll even blow him again, just so he doesn’t waste the whole night wallowing. They’ve got a good couple of months of lost make-out time to make up for. Seriously, when you look at the guy, how are you supposed to fucking know he’s that fucking good with his mouth? Blowjobs are blowjobs, whatever, but fuck, Gerard can kiss. Frank feels like he’s back in high school some days, ready to cream his shorts from tasting Kraft fucking Dinner on Gerard’s tongue.

“Dickface,” Gerard says fondly, and fucking yanks Frank down so hard he almost slides off the bunk. And then he almost slides off it again, because Gerard’s trying to melt his fucking spine with his tongue. Feeling kinda overwhelmed and a little pissy about it, Frank kisses back harder. Which obviously means Gerard’s gotta step up his game, and fuck no, Frank’s not letting that shit fly, so next thing he knows he’s stumbling around fused to Gerard’s stupid face while the pre-recorded announcement is calmly asking them all to step away from the bars.

“Fuck,” Gerard says, shoving Frank back a step. “I’m really gonna fucking miss that.”

“Fucking right you are,” Frank says, and wipes off his mouth. He shrugs his shoulders to try to settle back into his skin.

Cons starts shuffling out of their cells. Gerard looks around, worried, then snatches up his pile of drawings. “Conjugal visits,” he says, carefully folding them and tucking them down the front of his shirt. “I’ll be back for those.”

Frank lifts a brow. “Thought you were gonna bust me out?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s gonna take some time.” Darting a quick glance at the guards, Gerard swoops in for one last kiss, more teeth than anything but still almost good enough to knock Frank back on his ass. “Just wait for me, okay?”

“Babe,” Frank says, mostly because it’s fucking gold the way Gerard lights up, “where am I gonna go?”

“Right,” Gerard says. He pats down his pockets one more time. “Right, okay. I’ll see you really really soon.”

“Sure will,” Frank says, and saunters on out to take his place in line.

“Wait. Wait a fucking second.” There’s no way Frank’s hearing this shit right. “He what?”

“He’s been released,” Bosse says.

“Released.” Frank thumps back in his chair. No way. No fucking way. “But–”

Bosse pushes his glasses up on his nose. “I find it very hard to believe Gerard kept this information from you. He’s certainly manipulative enough, but it would hardly help him accomplish his goals.”

“He said his fucking brother was gonna bust him out, not that he had a god damn parole hearing!”

“Frank,” Bosse says, too calmly, “Gerard’s brother is a very accomplished lawyer. I’m sure he never intended for his brother to be incarcerated in the first place.”

A lawyer. A motherfucking lawyer. “Motherfucking fuck me.”

Bosses eyebrows shoot up half an inch. “This will most likely work in your favour as well, you know. I’m sure Mr Way is reviewing your casework as we speak, if he hasn’t already.”

Frank furiously scrubs both hands over his face. He can’t fucking believe this shit. This is crazy. Gerard’s out.

“I’m sure he’ll do what he can to come back and see you, Frank,” Bosse says, resting a hand lightly on Frank’s shoulder. “In the meantime, perhaps you should consider what you’re going to do when he does.”

Good question. ‘Cause right now, Frank’s thinking he’s gonna deck the son of a bitch.

On Frank’s first night alone, he pretends Gerard’s bunk doesn’t even exist. He crawls up into his own, turns his back on the cell, and stubbornly closes his eyes. It’s too fucking quiet. Frank never fucking noticed how much noise Gerard made when he slept, snuffling and sighing and rolling over every five minutes.

The second night, after he’s shuffled his way through the day on about two hours’ sleep, he sits his ass down on Gerard’s bunk and picks up the abandoned sketchbook. Maybe if he takes a page out of Gerard’s book and draws a couple really gory pictures detailing exactly how he feels about this stunt, he’ll sleep better. That plan lasts right up until he opens the book. There’s not a single blank page left in it. Barely even any blank space. Every single inch is filled with the type of art that makes Frank believe Gerard once had a showing. More than once. Most of them are simple portraits, but there’s something stylised about them, too perfectly imperfect, like a comic book. Frank flips through page after page of his own face sketched out in Crayola blue, brick red, summer green. How the fuck has he never seen any of these before? There’s one of him in the cafeteria, face scrunched up laughing as he points at somebody else’s plate, and fuck, he remembers that day. He remembers it so clearly, but he can’t place Gerard in the scene. He never even knew Gerard existed until weeks after that day.

By the time Sunday morning dawns, Frank’s a fucking mess. He doesn’t know what the fuck anymore. Zhang swings by his cell to inform him that he’s got a visitor around ten. Frank shuffles through after him on autopilot. He doesn’t know what to do.

But it’s not Ray waiting for him in the visitor’s room, it’s Gerard’s brother. Mikey fucking Way. Frank’s back is up instantly, and yeah, okay, he likes that. That’s familiar. He knows how to deal with this kinda thing. He doesn’t care if Mikey doesn’t look impressed as he saunters over to take a seat. Frank’s not here to impress anybody.

“I’ve got one question,” Mikey says by way of greeting.

Sprawled on the bench like he just doesn’t give a shit, Frank says, “Shoot, cowboy.”

“Do you love him?”

Frank can’t keep the shock off his face. Of all the shit he was expecting, the rage he thought was gonna come flying his way over the shit he did to this guy’s brother, that sure as fuck wasn’t it.

“I don’t care if you’re in love with him or not. I don’t care if it’s something you’re going to fall out of, or that’ll fade away, or if it’s like a brother or a friend or two guys who went through the same hell.” Eyes hard, Mikey leans in. Frank totally believes this guy is a shark in the courtroom. “Just tell me, do you love him?”

A nicely mellow calm settles onto Frank’s shoulders. “You know what?” he says. “Fuck you. Fuck you, and fuck your fucking brother too. Who the fuck d’you think you are, waltzing in here asking me that shit? Where the fuck were you when he got tossed in here in the first place? When he was fucking turning tricks to get crack?” Frank’s on his feet and he doesn’t remember standing up. He’s up in Mikey’s face, but it’s like he’s not really there at all. All he’s got in front of his eyes is a whole bunch of shit he wishes he never saw, shit he wishes never happened. Shit nobody fucking deserves. “So fuck you. Fucking fuck you.”

About an hour later, Frank’s up to his neck in pissed-off regret. It’s not his fault the fucker totally ambushed him with that shit. What the fuck was he supposed to do, stand on the table and declare his undying love for a fucking nutjob? He could’ve. He fucking should’ve. Forget if there’s any truth to it at all, that doesn’t matter. He could’ve gotten out.

He could’ve gotten out.

The real fucking sad part is that it only takes about a week for things to go back how they were. Frank doesn’t exactly keep his head down, but no trouble comes flying fist-first his way. Some days he really fucking wishes it would. But even with Gerard out of the picture, Bosse is still more or less in his corner, so he doesn’t go out of his way to stir up some shit just to settle the uneasy crawl of his skin. He reads, Ray visits, he keeps his mouth shut in group, he goes to bed in an empty cell and jerks off with the smell of Gerard’s hair clinging to his pillow. It’s so fucking pathetic he hates seeing his own fucking face in the mirror.

But he doesn’t put a fist through his reflection like he wants to so fucking badly. He sneers at it, turns his back on it, and waits for the next day to come.

Wentz shuffles his winnings into a haphazard pile and antes up for the next round. Frank’s got three packs of smokes left, one his own, two he found hidden underneath the foot of Gerard’s mattress. They’re slightly worse for wear, but nobody in here is picky. Least of all Frank.

“So,” Wentz starts, and Frank says, “Don’t fucking even. Deal.”

“Good idea,” Wentz says. “How’s that working for you?”

Frank knuckles at his eye. He knew he should’ve stayed the fuck in his cell. It’s been over a month and he still hasn’t gotten a reassignment. Either Bosse is pulling strings again, or there’s not much call for bunks at the Warden’s fine minimum security establishment. Frank knows which one he’s willing to put money down on. “You really wanna start that shit with me now?”

“Nope, not really,” Wentz says, and finally deals the fucking cards. “But word is lil’ bro busted him out of the big house, and I’m completely serious about commissioning those very stellar services.” He slaps down the last card, face-up. Four of spades. Frank glances at his hand. Fucking brilliant. “I figured you could hook me up.”

“Yeah,” Frank drawls, tossing his hand in. “No.”

Wentz stares at the scattered cards. He gestures at the pile, at Frank, at the common room at large, like any other con in here gives a shit. “What the fuck is this?”

“Shitty hand,” Frank says, and pushes half a pack of smokes Wentz’s way. “I fold.”

Wentz is still sitting there when Frank stands up and walks away. “That’s your fucking problem, Iero!” he shouts at Frank’s back. “Right there, that’s your fucking problem!”

Officer Zhang steps up to the open bars of Frank’s cell. “Got a visitor,” he says.

Frank sits up, confused. There’s less light on the bottom bunk. He thinks he conked out for awhile. “S’it Sunday?”

“Nah, Tuesday.” Zhang raps on the bars. “C’mon, Iero.”

Shrugging, Frank follows Zhang through the quiet hallways. It finally quit snowing this morning, Zhang tells him, so most of the guys are out in the yard. Frank blinks at the windows set high in the walls. He didn’t even realise it’d started.

“Here you go,” Zhang says, taking up a post outside one of the rooms Frank hasn’t seen since he first got tossed in here. He used to meet with his shitty court-appointed lawyer in there. He sure as fucking hell hopes it’s not that jackass waiting for him.

“Mr Iero,” a tall, slim woman says when he enters. She stands up, hand held out. Frank takes it by pure habit alone. “There are only a few things we need to take care of today. I should have these filed for you by Thursday.”

“Back the– Back up a minute here,” Frank says. “What?”

“I apologize for the delay,” she goes on, expertly shuffling forms out of folders into a neat row. She produces a pen out of thin fucking air. “There were some frustrating inconsistencies in your original casework. Sign here, please.”

“No, seriously,” Frank says, staring at the platoon of pages in front of him. “What am I signing?”

The woman smiles like a shark. “The conditions of your release, Mr Iero.”

The day Frank steps outside the gate, it’s well below freezing. His breath steams on the air and dirty, ice-caked snow crunches under his boots. For the first time in eighteen months, Frank’s wearing boots. He’s in jeans, a too-thin sweatshirt, and a hoodie he’d forgotten he owned. The one he wore the last time he was outside is probably still in an evidence lockup somewhere. He takes a second to let that sink in. His clothes are in lockup; he isn’t.

Seventeen feet from the gate, an old Trans Am sits in the middle of the icy blacktop. Gerard is standing by the passenger side door wearing tight black jeans and a motherfucking poncho and the biggest fuzzy mittens Frank’s ever seen, half his face eaten by a pair of retro-looking sunglasses. His hair blazes candy-apple red in the winter sunshine. When he takes a step away from the car, his boots skid on the ice. His laugh rings out high-pitched and nervous, but he keeps on going.

“Hi, Frankie,” he says only after he’s made it halfway across the treacherous lot.

Frank’s got his shoulders hunched, hands jammed into his pockets. His nose is so cold it feels like it’s running, but when he sniffs, there’s nothing. “Guess this is the first chance you got to visit, huh.”

The smile barely clinging to Gerard’s mouth falls. “I wanted to.”

Frank jerks his chin up defensively. He’s pretty sure that’s Mikey Way sitting in the driver’s seat. No chance that’s his car, though. From the too-perfect graffiti painted on the hood down to the dirty chains lashed to the tires, it’s Gerard’s. “Lemme guess,” he says. “You had to keep your nose clean.”

“Well,” Gerard says with an uneasy shrug, “yeah.”

“And this–” Frank nods sharply at the prison looming behind them “–ain’t clean enough for you?”

“I’m an alcoholic,” Gerard says, and it sounds like he’s been saying it a lot lately. Not accusingly, or like he’s feeling sorry for himself, but like it is what it is. “And I’m a drug addict. But you.” He stops, fills his lungs slowly, lets them empty just the same. “You’re nobody’s crutch, Frank.”

Now that one sounds like an accusation. Frank sets his jaw, ready to say fuck this shit. But Gerard’s still standing there quietly like he used to, waiting to see what Frank’s gonna do. When Frank does nothing, he drags in another one of those measured breaths. “I’ve been sober for five months. Don’t say congratulations,” he says quickly, Frank’s mouth barely open. “I’m not telling you so you’ll be proud of me, or to make you believe in me. I’m telling you ’cause it’s true.”

Frank is proud. Frank does believe in him. Frank is a whole lot of things he never thought’d he’d be. “That it?”

Gerard’s eyes go hard but his mouth softens on the sliver of a crooked smile. It’s like a whole new Gerard wearing the old one’s skin better than he thought he could. “I’m not here looking for a crutch.”

“You got any idea what you’re here looking for?” Frank asks, but it doesn’t even have half the bite of the winter air. He’s got Gerard’s sketchbook tucked under one arm and Gerard hasn’t looked at it once, but he knows it’s there.

“No,” Gerard says, and he’s smiling, really smiling now, “but I think I found it anyway.”

–

End

–

Frank is lurking. If someone caught him three months ago hanging around the hall outside the art room, peeking through the crack between the door and the jamb, he would’ve freaked out, blurted some really stupid excuse, and taken off like a bat out of hell. Now, when Joy from his sixth period history class rounds the corner, scaly arms laden with musty books, and a snatch of half-sung words floats through the door, all he does is put a finger to his lips and grin when she rolls her eyes. As she nears, slowing to a stop and craning her neck to get a look inside, Frank whispers, “He’s busy.”

Joy watches quietly for a handful of seconds. She takes a breath and Frank rocks up on his toes, excitedly babbling, “I know! It’s so fucking cool!” right over the half-syllable she managed to eke out. Both her eyebrows fly up. Frank grins and blushes and doesn’t even care.

“What’s really cute is how much of a stalker you turned out to be,” she says, resettling her books in the crook of her elbow. “When’s his next pee break?”

Frank’s flush cranks it up another couple degrees, and he still doesn’t care. His face could melt right off and he wouldn’t give a shit. “Smoke break,” he corrects, eyeballing the way Gerard’s nibbling the side of the index finger on his off-hand. The smooth rhythm of the three brushes he’s working with is slowing down, hitching as they veer dangerously close to one another. “In like, fifteen seconds.”

“You’re not as ninja as you think you are,” Gerard calls out, the high vaulted ceilings making his voice echo awesomely.

Busted, Frank thinks gleefully. “Gotta go,” he tells Joy, bumping open the door with his hip. She rolls her eyes again and heads off, and Frank makes a big show of shutting the door. The click it makes when it latches sends a shivery jolt up his spine.

Gerard’s standing with his arms crossed, most of his attention on the canvases in front of him as he busily cleans his brushes. Sometimes, when Frank’s been sneaky enough to make it past the hall monitors into Gerard’s room for the night, Gerard does that in his sleep. It feels pretty awesome when it’s Frank’s fingers Gerard’s tentacles are twisting delicately around, squeezing just hard enough to wake him up. Midnight boners are not exactly new territory for Frank. Someone right there willing to give him a helping hand–a helping tentacle, fuck yeah–that is shiny and new and an amazing thing of pure fucking beauty.

When Frank’s mom gave him the teary-eyed speech about how much she was gonna miss her little boy but this school was the best choice for him, surrounded by people who would love and appreciate him for who he is, he doesn’t think that’s exactly what she meant. But hey, works for him.

Giving up on his casual stroll across the art room about three feet in, Frank breaks into a run and launches himself straight into Gerard’s arms. He gets his ankles hooked behind Gerard’s back about the same time Gerard gets both arms and all four tentacles wrapped around him, tight on his waist and bracing his ass. He wriggles hard, delighted at the secure hold, grinning the biggest shit-eating grin he’s got when Gerard grunts. Frank’s stuck in one of the school blazers, but everything Gerard owns is sleeveless, and fuck he looks good in a vest. Pure muscle ripples as the tentacle curled over Frank’s shoulder blade snakes up to shove hair out of his eyes. “Hi,” Frank says to it. “How’s it goin’?”

Gerard’s tentacle-tip settles on Frank’s jaw and very deliberately turns him so they’re face to face. He’s smiling so hard at Gerard’s imperious look he thinks his skull is gonna crack from the force of it. Fuck. Fuck. He loves this shit. “I thought you were gonna meet me in study hall?” Gerard asks, like he isn’t fighting off a giggle fit as Frank tries to worm his way closer when they’re already practically fused together.

“Study hall sucks,” Frank says, struggling to shrug out of his backpack. “Figured I could suck you instead.”

Bright colour explodes all over Gerard’s pale face. It’s fucking awesome. The guy’s maybe half a foot taller than he is and barely notices supporting his dead weight, but mention head and Gerard’s sweating bullets. The only thing that could be more awesome is if Gerard would actually let Frank suck him.

“Seriously,” Frank says, edging a hand towards Gerard’s belt buckle digging into his belly. “I know I promised I wouldn’t, like, peer-pressure you. This is not peer pressure.”

One of Gerard’s eyebrows crooks suspiciously. “Really.”

“Nope,” Frank says. He firmly tucks his fingers into Gerard’s belt to make them behave, relishing the warmth seeping through the thin cotton of Gerard’s crookedly-buttoned school shirt. “This is me letting you know that I really, really, and I mean would fucking really here, like to get my mouth on your dick.” He smiles winningly. “Upfront honesty about my needs and all that jazz you love.”

“I meant personal space and being open about our feelings and, and,” Gerard says, gaze darting around the room as he thinks before zipping back to Frank’s, “and emotional support, Frank. Those needs.”

“Sucking your dick is something I have a lot of feelings about!”

Gerard snorts.

“Are you even listening to yourself right now?” Frank leans back, crossing his arms defiantly across his chest. His stomach gives a tiny thrilling swoop as tentacles shift automatically to support him. “You’re marginalising me.”

Gerard’s mouth drops open. “I–”

“You are,” Frank says, biting at the corner of his lip to keep a smile hidden. This is totally the ace hidden up his sleeve. No way Gerard’s gonna say no to him now. “I get it, okay? Things aren’t exactly boring down there.” Once, just once in two months, Frank’s gotten his hand on Gerard’s junk. Before Gerard screamed and flailed and fucking fell out of bed, he had enough time to figure out that there was more happening in Gerard’s pants than usual. Like way more than packing some serious heat. “And I’m not gonna say I don’t care, ’cause obviously I care or I wouldn’t be all, hey, Gee, lemme get all up in your business already about it.”

“But,” Gerard tries to interrupt, looking shifty.

“But I’m not gonna pretend I’m not popping wood every fucking five minutes thinking about it, either.” Twisting around sharply, Frank makes a grab for one of Gerard’s tentacles, its nervous twitching instantly soothed the second it wraps around his wrist. Gerard scowls at it like it’s a traitor as Frank slides his hand all the way up to where Gerard’s arm and tentacles fuse at his armpit. The difference between the feel of one beneath his palm and the other is literally the stuff his dreams are made of. His wet dreams. “Plus, if you’re gonna fuck me, I’m gonna have to see you with your pants off, so you might as well just get the big reveal over with already.”

Gerard’s mouth snaps shut with a hard clack of teeth. His eyes go big and round and disbelieving. “What?” he squeaks.

“Yeah, you heard me.” Frank gives a little wiggle, trying to get some breathing room. It’s not that he actually minds Gerard holding onto him so hard his ribs creak, but if they’re gonna talk, he needs oxygen. “I’ve known you for like, a year already.”

“But we’ve only been dating for seven and a half weeks!” Gerard protests, his eyes close to popping straight out of his head.

This guy, seriously. This fucking guy. Of course he’s been keeping count right down to the day. Frank shoves his hands into Gerard’s messy hair and kisses the ever-loving fuck out of him, tongue shoved straight down his throat right off the bat. Gerard makes a garbled noise and stumbles back, bumping Frank’s knee into an easel.

“Careful,” Frank slurs, biting at Gerard’s lip, “those are fucking works of art back there,” and he tries to go back to making friends with Gerard’s tonsils. Gerard makes another one of those noises, weirdly sexy, and oh yeah, right. Right. One of these days Frank’ll remember Gerard likes a little warm up first. He dials it back to just lips and a little bit of tongue, relishing the way Gerard’s fingers clench in his shirt. By the time Gerard’s eased him down to his feet, bent low so they can keep kissing, Gerard’s tentacles squeezing rhythmically on Frank’s arms, kinda kneading almost, he figures it’s in the bag. “Okay?” he asks, still a little slurry.

Gerard’s kisses tremble to a stop. “What, now?”

Hell yes, now. Fucking yesterday. Frank looks up, hopeful, but Gerard’s expression has flipped over to flat-out terrified. “I would,” Frank says, shrugging. No point lying about it. “But I kinda wanna take my time and shit, so like, tonight?”

Gerard looks like he’s ready to rabbit. He’s not even fucking breathing. If Frank’s gonna get fucking anywhere here, he’s gonna have to play dirty.

“Yeah,” Frank drawls, idly stroking the tentacle still wrapped around his wrist with his thumb. Gerard’s eyelashes flutter, threatening to go heavy. Feeling kinda silly about it, like he’s wooing some chick in an old-time movie, Frank brings his wrist and Gerard’s tentacle up to his mouth. It tastes exactly the same as the rest of him does, soft and firm and a little salty when he tongues a kiss to it. Which makes sense–it’s just skin, hairless and smooth like Gerard’s arms, but really, really different with nothing but muscle powering it, no tendon or ligament or bone. “Shit,” he laughs, mouth still pressed against it. “Shit. I’m hard.”

“Shit,” Gerard echoes, mouth slack. His throat bobs as he swallows. “I’ve got a free period.”

“I don’t,” Frank grouses, stepping back so Gerard’s got a nice view when he adjusts his dick. Gerard’s pretty obviously hard too. He’s hunched over like he’s trying to hide it, but seriously, he’d need a fucking burka to cover that shit. “So, tonight?” Frank makes his eyes go big. “Please?”

“Jesus,” Gerard croaks.

“Yes!” Frank crows, fist in the air. He busts out a victory lap, which Gerard tolerates with a roll of his eyes and a lopsided smile that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide how much he totally loves Frank, and Frank swings back around to crash straight into Gerard’s chest. Arms and tentacles snap up to catch him. “Fuck. Fuck. I can’t wait.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Gerard groans, rubbing at the flush on his neck. “I don’t know what you’re imagining, but whatever it is, it’s not what you’re gonna get.”

“It’s gonna be better,” Frank says, slapping both hands to Gerard’s cheeks to hold him still for a loud, smacking kiss, “because it’s gonna be real.”

Gerard doesn’t look convinced. Whatever. Frank doesn’t give a shit. He’s the one here who knows exactly what kinda shit goes on inside his head. He can’t fucking wait.

Frank spends the whole day practically vibrating out of his skin. At dinner, he sits plastered to Gerard’s side, Gerard’s hand held firmly captive in his. Grinning, Wentz snaps a picture. Two seconds later, Gerard’s phone starts buzzing. He fishes it out of his pocket with a tentacle while he eats, flips it open, and rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says to Wentz. “Really?”

“What is it?” Frank asks, right before his own phone goes off. Not wanting to let go of Gerard’s hand, or leave his plate undefended, he hikes his ass up so Gerard can fish it out of his back pocket and flip it open for him.

do not fuck this up, says the text from Mikey. i will cut you.

Gerard snaps Frank’s phone shut. He curls it tight in a tentacle, effectively cutting Frank off from telling Mikey that there’s no way he’s gonna fuck this up. Gerard could be fucking dickless down there and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t care. They’d figure something out. “You’re spying on me for my brother.”

“Lil’ bro worries about you, man,” Wentz says. “Especially when you’re shacking up with a dude who’s got a rep.”

“Whatever,” Frank says. So he messed around lots his sophomore year. He’s over it. It was kinda cool at the time, hooking up with people who weren’t bothered by the weird tie-dye mottle that’s his skin, or the way it shifts like Rorschach’s mask in the movie when he gets angry or turned on. Not only does Gerard not give a shit, he calls it art–art–and tells him it’s beautiful. It doesn’t matter that Gerard’s got a slightly skewed sense of beauty.

“It’s not whatever,” Gerard says, voice rising like he’s gearing up for the big one. “It’s using shaming language about something that’s totally natural and normal and right, and it’s a dick move. Why would I care that you wanted to learn about yourself, and enjoyed having people actually fucking wanting you for you?” He points a threatening tentacle square at Wentz’s face. “Say you’re sorry for being a total heartless sack of shit or I’m telling Mikey you only hooked up with him last summer because you thought he was hiding tentacle legs.”

Wentz’s face twists up sourly. “He’s so fucking bendy,” he mutters. “I was so sure.”

Gerard’s tentacle jabs the air about an inch from his eye.

“Alright, alright, fuck,” Wentz bitches. “You’re a slut and that’s awesome, keep up the–hey.” His face screws up again, this time in deep thought, before he rounds on Gerard with the scariest big-toothed grin ever. “That is awesome. Gimme some tentacle!”

Scowling furiously, Gerard says, “Asshole.”

Wentz gapes. “Dude’s got skills, man.”

“I do,” Frank says smugly. His thinks his chances of them being be up to snuff for dealing with whatever Gerard’s hiding in his pants are pretty good, too.

“Skills,” Wentz repeats, thrusting his fist at Gerard again. “Skills all up in your business.”

Gerard’s tentacle resting heavily against Frank’s thigh gives a kinda nervous, kinda eager quiver. Frank squeezes Gerard’s hand tight.

“Yeah,” Wentz drawls.

“You’re still an asshole,” Gerard says, but there’s a tiny smug smile lurking in the corner of his mouth as he curls one into a little fist and bumps it against Pete’s knuckles. One of his other tentacles is still wrapped around Frank’s waist, tip snuck under his shirt to stroke bare skin. Frank’s whole body buzzes.

An hour past lights-out finds Frank sneaking through dorm hallways wishing for the millionth time that he could control the colours rippling over his skin and blend into the dark wooden paneling like a really kick-ass chameleon or something. He should’ve waited until at least midnight before sneaking out, but he couldn’t. And apparently neither could Bob, his roommate, who shoved him out the door with a grunted good luck and the suspicious snick of a lock. Frank has yet to figure out what’s freaky enough about Bob to land him in Special Snowflake High. He’d been about to embark on a fairly complicated three-week campaign to do just that, and had swung by the art room to see if Gerard wanted in. That was the day this whole thing finally hit him. The Gerard-thing. The one where Frank wanted to get in Gerard’s pants. He already knew he loved the guy, that was a no-brainer. The sex part, though, was a surprise.

Then again, maybe not. Before he came up with the Bob mission, he did spend a month straight trying to figure out ways grope Gerard’s tentacles, executing them with supremely dorky effectiveness. The one where he nipped a tentacle in a drawer and offered to kiss it better is still his favourite. Really fucking transparent, too. But hey, he got to lick Gerard’s tentacle. Score.

Jesus, he can’t wait to see what he gets to lick tonight.

Stuffing his knuckles in his mouth so he won’t burst out with the crazy joyful laughter bubbling up in his belly, Frank takes a quick left, then a right, then a right again to the wide stairway that leads to the senior’s hall. His heart’s beating so damn fast it feels like it’s gonna jump out of his chest. Almost there, almost there–

“Frank,” comes Gerard’s quiet hiss. Frank slaps his other hand over the one already on his mouth to muffle a yelp. Warm tentacles sneak around his wrist, his waist, tugging him through the dark.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” Frank whispers, and wonders if he could get away with stripping down right now.

“I don’t know,” Gerard says, pushing Frank ahead to the thin sliver of yellow light spilling through his door. If anybody spots that shit, they are so busted. “No, I do know, but I don’t know why I thought– I got tired of waiting, and then I took a shower, but that didn’t– Well, y’know, it kinda made it worse, and I was afraid you’d wait until later to sneak up and Frankie, shit, I couldn’t–”

Half a foot from the threshold, Frank turns sharply on his heel. His back thumps against the door as Gerard tumbles into him, stumbling over his bare feet, and then they’re inside shushing each other through stupid breathless giggles and he’s pushing Gerard up against the wall as Gerard fumbles to get the door shut. The second he gets his mouth on Gerard’s, Gerard’s hands are in his hair and there are tentacles around his waist crushing him closer, more pushing under his threadbare tee to clutch at his back. He’s got his dick snugged up tight against Gerard’s thigh, the thick, heavy heat of Gerard’s–

Gerard’s–

Gerard’s he doesn’t know pressed into his hip.

“Shit,” Frank rasps, shoving back a couple inches, enough so he can see Gerard’s face. He gets stuck there for a minute, because Gerard is seriously fucking pretty flushed dark with his mouth all wet and red and open like that, and then he’s staring straight down at the really fucking impressive bulge in the front of Gerard’s pyjamas. His mouth goes desert-dry, because they’re gonna do this, and then floods wet, because they’re gonna do this.

“Frank,” Gerard starts.

“No, nuh uh, nada,” Frank says, bracing his hands on Gerard’s hips, ready to go down. And down. “Unless you really don’t want me to stick whatever it is you’re packing down there in my mouth.”

Gerard makes a strangled noise low in his throat.

“Because I gotta tell you,” Frank says, nuzzling in close to Gerard’s ear, “as the dude who’s seriously fucking enjoyed having his dick stuffed in your mouth, that’s crazy talk. I really wanna show you what it’s like. Wet and hot and when you suck, oh Jesus, Gee, when you let me get right down there and suck, it’s gonna blow your fucking mind.”

“Stop,” Gerard wheezes, bucking against him, “stop, fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it.”

Frank’s smile cuts viciously sharp into his cheeks. “That’s the plan.” While Gerard’s dazed–fuck, that’s a good look on him, too–Frank slips both hands under the hem of his tank and tugs upwards. It takes Gerard a couple seconds to get with the program enough to lift all available appendages out of the way for Frank to haul it off him. Once it’s gone, crumpled to the floor in a heap, Frank sticks his face right in to the crook of Gerard’s underarm, licking at the shallow grooves between his tentacles. Gerard shudders so hard the back of his head thumps off the door.

“Yeah,” Frank says, trying out a gentle scrape of teeth to see what kind of reaction that nails him this time around. Sometimes Gerard’s ticklish, sometimes he’s not. Tonight it’s half and half, a squirm and a gasp that arrows straight through Frank’s belly. “Imagine that on this,” he says, framing Gerard’s groin in both hands.

Gerard bucks again, harder, hands grabbing at Frank’s arms, tentacles snapping tight around his wrists. He’s so close to all that heat but not close enough to feel the exact shape of what’s hidden behind the thin cotton of Gerard’s grandpa pyjamas. He’s got some ideas. Some really awesome, wickedly-detailed ideas. But he wants to see.

“Back up a sec,” Gerard grates, sweat shiny in the hollow of his throat. “Just–” he pushes lightly on Frank’s arms. “Just, I need a minute.”

Frank backs up a grudging step, then one more. “It’s not gonna change anything,” he says, and quickly tugs his own shirt off. Gerard’s eyes flash wide as he does the same to his pants, stomping them off his feet and leaving them tangled up with his shorts. Gerard’s tentacles do a weird aborted what-the-fuck flail. Frank grins and shrugs. “You didn’t say I couldn’t get naked.”

“But it could,” Gerard insists. “Change things.”

“Actually, yeah,” Frank says. “You’re right. I could want to fuck your brains out even more.”

Gerard snorts an unsteady laugh, but when Frank lifts a hand to beckon him over, he pushes away from the door with his hips. He’s got that cocky swagger thing going on as he makes his way over, hot and ridiculous all at once because it’s just him, just Frank, and Gerard doesn’t need to put on a show.

That’s not saying Frank doesn’t appreciate it. Sexy is fucking sexy, after all.

The minute Gerard’s close enough, Frank reaches out, scooting to the edge of the bed at the same time to pull Gerard between his spread legs. His cock’s standing straight up and he’s so hard he’s leaking, but he keeps his hands on Gerard’s waist, rests his chin on the soft bump of Gerard’s belly. All he does is drag in a breath and Gerard shivers. He can smell how turned on Gerard is. Fucking crazy.

“Okay,” Gerard says, and sets his hands to Frank’s shoulders, tentacles pushing against the backs like he needs the extra help to keep them there. His eyes squeeze shut. “Okay. Go.”

“But your eyes are closed,” Frank says, frowning. He definitely thinks this is something Gerard should watch. He’s never gonna forget the look on Gerard’s face the first time he got naked, shocked and eager and awed and just fucking amazing, like Frank was for real something special, weird mottled skin and all.

“Seriously,” Gerard says, his whole face squishing up. “Do it before I chicken out.”

“But–”

“Frank!”

“Okay, ssh, fuck!” Frank gets ready to yank, then thinks better of it, since yeah, okay, he still has no idea what’s behind door number one and it would really suck if it’s like, super sensitive beyond the norm or something. So he says, “Okay,” again, softer, tugs the lace holding Gerard’s pants up as loose as it’ll go, stretching the band all the way out and giving it a tiny nudge. Then another one, and another, and he doesn’t even realise he’s holding his breath until Gerard’s pants hit the floor and it whooshes out of him. “Holy shit.”

“I know,” Gerard moans miserably, his eyes still squeezed shut, his nails digging bluntly into Frank’s shoulders. “I know, it’s so fucking freaky, seriously, I–”

“Oh my god,” Frank says, voice tight, “shut up. I’m basking.”

“What?”

“This is fucking awesome.” So awesome Frank’s like, this fucking close to hyperventilating. He concentrates on breathing, and reminding himself that no, this is not a dream.

“What?” Gerard repeats, cracking open a cautious eye.

“I’ve died and gone to dick heaven,” Frank says, reverently lifting a hand to brush his fingertips over one of Gerard’s dicks. At least he thinks they’re dicks. There are two of them, and they’re kinda more like a cross between a cock and a tentacle, longer and way more slender than Frank but with blunt, thick heads, and a little slick at the tip. When he gets gets close they give this strange little twitch that’s more tentacle-like than dick-like. It is pretty freaky. And also awesome in this total mind-blowing way.

“You’re not freaked out,” Gerard says wonderingly.

“Are you fucking kidding me, I’m so freaked out I’m fucking delirious with joy. Dude. Dude.” Frank grabs onto Gerard’s hips and gives him a shake. “You have multiple dicks. Multiple dicks!”

“I know!” Gerard whisper-shouts, hanging on tighter.

“Multiple! As in more than one!” Frank hisses up at him, and maybe he could quit shaking the guy now but what the fuck, come on. Multiple dicks. Right there! Right in front of his face! “I’m gonna suck the fuck out of them so hard, you are not even gonna believe this shit, holy fuck.”

Gerard starts to say something, and maybe it makes Frank a bad boyfriend, but he’s totally not listening anymore. He scoots back and twists and yanks, tumbling Gerard down onto the bed in a heap of flailing limbs. Gerard lets out another one of those shocked grunts when Frank grabs at the back of his knees, shoves up and says, “Jesus, Jesus, fuck, lemme see,” and alright, Frank’s gonna agree that he’s not being the most solicitous guy right now, but he’d like to see somebody fucking try when they’ve got Gerard flat on his back with his knees up and spread wide, this shocked, cautiously pleased look on his face, all flushed and breathing hard and nothing, fucking nothing blocking the view Frank’s got of the shadowy curve of his ass, the heavy dark weight of his sac and his dicks–dicks! Still plural!–resting thick against his belly.

“I can’t believe you made me wait two fucking months for this,” Frank says. “You blew me on our second date!”

Gerard gestures vaguely with a hand and one tentacle, his other hand busy shoving tangled hair out of his face. “You let me,” he tries, sheepishly biting the corner of his lip.

“Of course I fucking let you! I–” Frank snaps his mouth shut. This is not the time for talking. He can tell Gerard later how he’d stumbled around like a fucking lovesick moon-eyed moron for three weeks before he came up with the brilliant idea to kiss Gerard and see how it went. “Okay,” he says instead, shuffling back on his knees so he’s got room to press Gerard’s legs to the bed, still spread wide around him as he braces his hands on Gerard’s hips to size up how he’s gonna do this shit. “Now you’re gonna let me, right?” He squeezes Gerard’s side once in warning before sliding his hand closer, half his attention on the weirdly anticipatory wetness in his mouth and the other half on the twitch of Gerard’s dicks when he gets his hand around one. A garbled noise echoes low in Gerard’s throat, kinda like he tried to say yes. Frank flicks a quick glance up to make sure that’s what it was, grins at the shell-shocked awe on Gerard’s face, and says, “Fuck, I know. I fucking know, holy shit.”

“What?” Gerard wheezes, hands and tentacles clutching at the messy nest of blankets on the bed. There’s one rogue tentacle hovering uncertainly in the air, like Gerard stopped it mid-grab as it was going for Frank but couldn’t manage to pull it back all the way. Frank swings one of his legs over Gerard’s so he’s not so far away, and gives Gerard’s dick a slow, experimental stroke, watching him shudder all over.

“You can, y’know,” Frank says, finally having to look away from Gerard’s face as he bends low, stretching his fingers out to try to grasp both Gerard’s dicks in one hand but fuck, he needs two, they’re thicker, and a hell of a lot harder, Jesus, than they look. He darts a glance at the uncertain tentacle. “Hold onto me if you want.”

“Oh my god,” Gerard says, and just like that there’s a tentacle draped heavily over the back of his neck and one clutching at his arm and another doing something with the pillows and blankets, tugging them into a heap behind Gerard’s back to prop him up. Frank maybe wants to crack a joke out Gerard being so handy in bed, but Gerard’s staring at him like he’s the second coming or something, reverent and eager, and he says, “Please,” like he’s praying, if he actually believed in a god or something, like he believes in Frank, “Frankie, please.”

Right about then it hits Frank that he’s probably the first person ever to get in Gerard’s pants. Maybe not the first one to get him off, but maybe the first to get him naked, and definitely the first to go down on him. So, like, no pressure there. “I’m gonna,” he says, and has to stop, swallow hard when Gerard makes this noise like a whine. “I mean, like, if I do something that’s not good, you gotta tell me, okay? You’re kinda packing different equipment down here.”

Gerard nods fast, the tentacle on the back of Frank’s neck squeezing tighter. A crazy-good shock of pleasure shoots straight down Frank’s spine into his balls. He’s pretty sure he meant to give Gerard some warning, give the guy a second to brace himself maybe, but next thing he knows he’s got his face shoved in Gerard’s crotch with one of his dicks halfway down his throat and the other pressed tight to his cheek. He gags and chokes and has to pull up sloppily, his face burning because smooth, Iero, really fucking smooth. When he tries to pull off all the way to apologise, he can’t. He pushes against the tentacle heavy on his neck in a hint, but it doesn’t budge. Gerard’s not even looking at him anymore, head tipped so far back all Frank can see is the jut of his chin and the frantic bob of his throat as he gulps air.

Fighting a grin, Frank pushes the flat of his tongue hard against Gerard’s dick. Both the one in his mouth and the one he’s got shoved against his cheek pulse, and wow. He tries it again, adding a little suck since Gerard’s not really giving him much room to move. This time Gerard’s hips snap up, dick [pushed definitely way too far, but even that’s not enough to distract from the way his dicks do this weird pulsing flexing thing like there’s way more than blood keeping them erect.

Frank lets go of Gerard and shoves at the tentacle on his neck. Gerard’s slow to get the hint, even slower to ease up, but when he does, he’s red-faced and embarrassed and Frank says, “Fuck that shit. Don’t fucking even. Do you have fucking muscle down here or something?”

“What?” Gerard scrubs a hand over his mouth, oblivious to the tentacles tight on Frank’s shoulders trying to drag him back down, or else he’s ignoring them and hoping Frank won’t notice. “No?” Frank gives him a flat look. He swallows hard. “A little?”

“Seriously,” Frank says.

“God,” Gerard huffs, and pushes Frank’s hands away from his junk like it’s a big inconvenience or something that Frank is really super interested in how his fucking freaky sexy body works. He gnaws on the inside of his lip, having some stupid internal debate because honestly, after the whole two-dicks thing, nothing’s gonna be a shock, and finally says, “It’s not like they’re prehensile or something, Christ, Frankie. I can just, like, aim.”

“You can aim,” Frank repeats slowly.

Gerard makes like he’s gonna cover his face with his hands and do that oh-my-god-Frank thing he does sometimes when Frank’s being a total shit. Getting there first, Frank grabs onto both of Gerard’s arms and pins them to the bed. That doesn’t mean Gerard hasn’t got four extra limbs to hide behind, but still, it gets his point across. Frank jerks his chin at Gerard’s crotch. “C’mon, show me.”

Rolling his eyes and muttering a curse and basically putting on the biggest show ever about what a pain in the ass Frank is–like that’s gonna distract Frank now–Gerard flexes. That’s the best word Frank’s got for it. Like, his dicks don’t suddenly make like his tentacles or anything, but he can pretty obviously move them in this limited range like pointing a finger. About ten million thoughts start careening around Frank’s skull at the same time, from how that’s kinda ridiculous to also incredibly handy because hello, hands-free fucking, and they all go crashing into one another and tumbling out in a breathless, “Wow.”

“Ta-da,” Gerard says flatly.

“Shut up,” Frank says, “dumbass, holy shit.”

Gerard’s dicks settle back against his belly. Frank can’t stop staring. It takes about three seconds before they reach Gerard’s capacity for sullen silence and he grunts, “What?”

“It’s just really cool. Hey! Quit rolling your eyes at me, fucker,” Frank says, and slaps him in the chest. “You can do all this neat sexy shit and you’re acting like it’s this big fucking trial.”

“Frank,” Gerard says, strangely measured, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, not only do I have these”–all his tentacles give a pointed, coordinated wriggle–”I have two dicks.”

Perched awkwardly on Gerard’s thigh, Frank crosses his arms. “Yeah? I look like an ADD-riddled inkblot on crack, what’s your point?”

“I don’t think it qualifies as what the general population considers sexy, alright,” Gerard grumbles, crossing his arms to mirror Frank but plucking nervously at the sheets with his tentacles.

“Oh fuck you,” Frank snaps, and grabs at one of Gerard’s tentacles, yanking it close but not sure what he’s gonna do with it once he gets it there, so he ends up just, like, clutching it to his chest. “That’s total bullshit and you know it is. You’re the one who’s always telling us to stay ugly and weird and freaky because it’s who we are.” He gestures angrily at Gerard’s everything, his too-pretty face and soft belly, the shallow curve of his dicks resting against it and the flush darkening his pale skin. “You don’t think that’s fucking beautiful?”

“Frank,” Gerard starts.

“No, I mean it,” Frank says, softer, sinking down to bring his face right up close to Gerard’s, his breath on Gerard’s lips making them tremble. “Fuck you, because I get so fucking hard just thinking about you, and I jerk off remembering what it’s like to have your stupid tentacles on me, these things right here, okay,” and he shoves one in Gerard’s face. “And in ten minutes when you finally get your stupid head out of your stupid ass you’re gonna jerk me off with ‘em while you fuck me with your fucking freaky perfect dicks. Got it?”

Gerard tries to swallow and breathe at the same time and ends up choking. Frank lets him cough in his face until he manages to drag in a ragged breath. “Okay?” Frank repeats, just in case.

“Okay,” Gerard echoes, ruined and raspy. He runs his hands down Frank’s naked back like it’s his first time touching skin, this crazy mix of eager and tentative when he follows with his tentacles that nails Frank right in the gut. When his fingers hit Frank’s ass, he squeezes gently. “But can I do this first?”

“‘Course,” Frank says, because Jesus, fingering’s kinda– Oh. That is not a finger Gerard’s got pressed against him. He totally can’t help the way he arches into it with a shiver. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, stroking gently with just the tip of one tentacle, coaxing, like Frank fucking needs to be talked into something he’s been trying to figure out how to ask for. It’s wet and slippery already, and Frank twists around wondering if maybe Gerard’s been keeping the ability to fucking secrete lube from him, too. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved when he spots a bottle leaking all over the sheets.

Then Gerard starts pushing.

“Oh fuck,” Frank says, pressing his forehead hard against Gerard’s sharp collarbone.

Gerard says, “Easy, Frankie, s’bigger than fingers,” which is probably supposed to be cautious and reassuring but just sounds fucking dirty and makes Frank want to take it right the fuck now. He grabs onto the first part of Gerard he can reach instead, which turns out to be a tentacle that snakes all the way up his arm to anchor him. He grits his teeth and breathes hard and tries not to think about how the messy blots on his skin must be jittering around like squirrels on speed. There’s no burn, just sweet, slick stretch, a twist of pressure, and holy fuck, Gerard should’ve fucking stuck a tentacle up his ass weeks ago.

A shaky laugh puffs through Frank’s hair. “Glad you like it,” Gerard says, probably aiming for smug and cheeky but mostly hitting genuine because that’s the kinda guy he is. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he adds, doing the twist-push thing again that makes white explode behind Frank’s eyelids. “They’re more sensitive than my fingers. More nerve endings, probably.” Ducking his head, hands and tentacles holding Frank steady, he presses their mouths together, and they’d be kissing if Frank wasn’t busy trying to suck in air. “You feel even better than I thought you would. Softer, Frankie. So fucking hot.”

Frank just nods, which is kinda stupid, but he’s shaking so hard it’s like his first time all over again. He says, “Keep going, c’mon,” letting more of his weight settle into Gerard’s hold, then a little more, more until he’s barely holding himself up. “So not like your fingers, holy fuck.”

“Good, though?” Gerard asks, like Frank’s dick drilling a hole through his thigh isn’t much of a clue. Frank grunts a half-assed answer, back snapping into a tight arch as Gerard flexes inside him, twists and presses and strokes and god, oh god oh fuck, Frank’s gonna come. He beats the side of his fist against Gerard’s shoulder like a total neanderthal, trying to get gonna come, gonna come across without opening his mouth because if he does, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna scream it’s that good. They’re totally not being as quiet as they fucking should be, but there’s making noise and then there’s fucking making noise.

Gerard stops immediately, which is good, okay, that’s good, but it’s also really not. He struggles against Gerard trying to push him up to get a look at his face, but Gerard’s voice is doing that frantic worried thing like the time he blew his load in his shorts while sucking Frank off and maybe kinda sorta bit Frank’s dick a little.

“S’okay,” Frank gasps out, staring at his shaking hands like they’re not really his. Fuck, he is so into this, it’s crazy. “Just, fuck. I was gonna come. And that’s awesome, right, like, it’s really fucking awesome, but I want you to fuck me. Gee, you gotta fuck me.”

Gerard makes a low, strangled sound, eyes wide and glittering dark in the lamplight. “Shit,” he says in a rush, his hold on Frank going so tight it actually kinda aches. “Shit, now I’m gonna come.”

“You totally are,” Frank promises, rummaging through the sheets for the rubbers he’s sure he saw like, five minutes ago. If he breathes nice and slow and really, really concentrates, he’ll probably last long enough for Gerard to suit up. “But not before you get your dick in my ass, okay? Oh fuck, dicks.” Dicks. Giving up the search, Frank fists up two rough handfuls of Gerard’s hair and yanks on it. “We should do that. Can we do that? We’re gonna do that.”

“Do what,” Gerard starts, wincing and carefully trying to disentangle Frank’s fingers with a tentacle. “Frank, Jesus, ow.”

Frank gives Gerard another rough shake by his hair. He’s got to fucking pay attention. “Fuck me with both of ‘em!”

Gerard’s big stupid pretty eyes get even bigger. He even stops breathing for a second.

“Yeah,” Frank says smugly. “Like that.”

“But,” Gerard rasps, “but, you can’t– Frank.”

“I can totally take it.” He’s gonna fucking try, anyway. They’ll just go slow and easy and– “You’ll have to like, really like, y’know, open me up and stuff. With– The way you were.” Shuffling up, Frank resettles his knees either side of Gerard’s hips, twisting around to size up the angle and oh yeah, that’s where those fucking condoms went. He grabs up the strip of three and rips two off. “Point those things my way for a sec.”

“Frank,” Gerard says, in his please-listen-to-me-you’re-crazy voice. But hey, Frank’s totally got hold of his dicks and is awkwardly rolling a condom down each, so obviously the whole, “I don’t think we should, the first time, I mean– Frank? Frank! Frank, are you fucking listening to me?” bit is a total front.

“Jesus, you’re hard,” Frank says, giving Gerard’s dick a slow stoke-squeeze. Gerard grunts and bucks up and yeah, Frank wants that in his ass. It’s pretty staggering to realise how much. He knew he liked it, but he likes it. Like, possibly in the way where he’s totally fetishising Gerard’s freakiness, which is not cool but also really fucking cool. Dropping down on his elbows, he tucks his face into the sweaty crook of Gerard’s neck. He’s kinda shaking again. “Please, okay? It’s you.”

Gerard makes a tortured noise, one of his hands in Frank’s hair and his tentacles draped heavily over Frank’s back. “Fucking cheating,” he mutters, but he’s making the slow trek south, stroking Frank’s hip and then his ass, then pressing gently between his legs. Frank arches deliberately into the touch, his breath catching hard in his throat when the pressure goes from outside to in, and then the curve of his spine isn’t so much deliberate as it is helpless. Gerard’s slick and hot and thick and he keeps rocking back, imagining what that’ll be like when it’s more. He bites at Gerard’s shoulder to muffle a whine.

“God, Frankie,” Gerard mumbles, his hands restless on Frank’s back. His dicks bump into Frank’s ass when he arches up, and his face does this awesome oh-my-god thing before he remembers to be embarrassed about it or some shit that Frank’s not fucking having, okay. He scoots back as much as he can with Gerard’s tentacle in his ass, oh my fucking god, and tries to rub against Gerard’s dicks like this really messed up uncoordinated lap dance or something. Air whistles through Gerard’s teeth.

“Fuck yeah, yeah,” Frank groans, perfectly willing to admit maybe he’s way more into this than is healthy, because every time one of Gerard’s dicks drags over skin, his whole body shudders. He wants Gerard to rub ‘em all over him, everywhere, his ass and his face and fuck, his belly and his chest and everywhere. “Please, please, c’mon,” he says, groping for one and pressing it alongside Gerard’s tentacle inside him, not trying to sit on it yet like he kinda really wants to but getting it slippery from the lube as Gerard fucks him open way too slowly. He seriously wishes he hadn’t been so quick to get a rubber on him. Later, like, really fucking later, he’s gonna get Gerard to hold him down and hump him or something, just so he can feel Gerard all naked and slick against bare skin.

Then it hits him that he should be totally sharing these awesome thoughts with Gerard, so he does, halting and hitched as Gerard keeps touching him. It’s not long before Gerard’s whole face is screwed up and he’s grabbed onto Frank’s hips with a tentacle pressing his dicks against Frank’s ass humping away, and as fucking good as that is, Frank has a motherfucking plan.

“Wait,” Frank says, grinning at how breathy and weird his voice sounds. Gerard makes a noise like he really doesn’t fucking want to, which is like lightyears ahead of the immediate oh-shit freeze Frank thought was gonna hit him. But seriously, tentacle is good, tentacle is awesome, but Frank wants dick. He can’t wait to see the stupid fucking gorgeous faces Gerard’s gonna make. “Go for it, okay? Like, really slow.”

“Shit,” Gerard pants, “shit, shit, shit,” groaning at the way Frank shudders when he slips out, and then it’s his dick, his dick, right there pressed against Frank’s hole. Gerard grabs onto Frank’s arms so hard all the swimming colours get shoved aside, leaving Frank’s skin this weird normal tone that he can’t stop staring at. Frank’s not sure what he’s expecting, definitely not Gerard shoving it in all wham-bam, but not this steady slide either. No hesitation, no uncertainty, slow like Frank said but not easy, Gerard’s tentacles on Frank’s hips both holding him steady and forcing him down until they’re flush together and he’s just hanging there in Gerard’s hold wheezing and trembling and so fucking turned on he can’t even fucking see. There are spots dancing in front of his eyes, a crazy mottle like his skin, and all he can think is oh god, oh god, he is so fucking full.

“Fuck,” grunts Gerard, “fuck.”

Frank busts out with this ragged kinda hysterical sounding laugh. “I know, right?” he says, and fuck, his voice is bombed. Like crumbling buildings and smoking rubble and sparking electrical fires kind of bombed. He figured it’d be deep. Gerard is big, okay, but fuck, it’s really deep. Like so deep Frank can’t even fucking move because he doesn’t remember how. Maybe he was kinda thinking about riding Gerard a little, really giving him the whole nine yards, but when he tries, all he can do is twitch and moan and pant and pretty much collapse against Gerard’s chest. “You gotta,” he slurs, “you gotta, like, fuck, Gee, move.”

Gerard says something that sounds like, “Okay,” only less with actual syllables, and he shifts and squirms and doesn’t even get around to figuring out how to thrust with Frank’s dead weight on top of him before Frank’s clawing chunks out of his shoulders. Like, okay, not for real clawing chunks out, but there are these deep red crescents dug into Gerard’s shoulder, and oh fuck, his chest too, Frank totally missed when he did that. He didn’t think he was so fucking violent, either, despite all the crashing around and banging into stuff and jumping on people shit he gets up to, but it doesn’t look like Gerard fucking minds or anything, holding onto Frank so tight, so hard it’s gonna bruise, hands and tentacles and Frank couldn’t fucking move if he wanted to. It’s all Gerard, yanking him down and fucking up into him, melting his brain and making it like, fucking explode at the same time.

A tentacle slips over Frank’s mouth and Frank fucking screams.

“Oh god,” Gerard says, pressing it tighter. “Frankie, Frankie, fuck, babe, you gotta be quiet, somebody’s gonna hear.”

Frank shakes his head violently, hands braced on Gerard’s chest trying to get the leverage to lift up higher, slam down harder. Total stupid sappy cliché or stock line out of a porno or whatever, Gerard’s dick is doing things to him he’s never fucking felt before, way beyond the stretch or the zing of shocky pleasure when it presses against that spot that makes his head spin. It’s not like Frank’s got all this experience or anything, despite the whole slutty thing last year, but he’s gotten his fair share and he thinks he’s pretty well qualified to say Gerard is the most fucking amazing lay ever. And that’s aside from the whole being Gerard thing that Frank is totally ridiculously in love with. Quiet is not something Frank’s physically capable of being right now, and Gerard’s fucking tentacle hot and heavy on his mouth isn’t exactly helping.

Frank’s eyes snap open. Oh fuck yes, yes. He’s a fucking genius. He tilts his head down and stretches his mouth wide and pushes his tongue against Gerard’s tentacle and sucks on it a little bit. Gerard says, “What the fucking fuck,” and then the world’s this bizarre, disjointed tumble, shit happening way too fast for Frank’s battered brain to keep up with. It’s still rattling around inside his skull when he figures out he’s flat on his back with Gerard between his legs, paused right before shoving back inside him. Gerard looks as shocked to be there as Frank feels.

“Wow,” Frank croaks.

“I don’t,” Gerard starts breathlessly, staring at his hands curled under Frank’s ass, his tentacles around Frank’s legs, holding him halfway off the bed. “I didn’t mean to, I just– fuck.”

It takes Frank another couple seconds to figure out how this talking-in-full-sentences thing works. Gerard’s still looking uncertain and startled, but he’s not letting Frank go or anything. “You’re just naturally this total fucking sex fiend, that’s cool,” Frank says. His ass feels all weirdly wet and raw and like, empty. He wouldn’t have suggested they take a breather in the middle of all that awesome, but it’s not so bad. Taking a minute to enjoy it, working out some of the tension built up in his muscles, he thinks, yeah. Yeah, this is good. Gerard’s up there looking pretty fucking mind-blown himself. “I really fucking liked that, by the way. The, like, your tentacle. In my mouth. It was like, can we do that again?”

Gerard’s shaking all over, pretty obviously dying to get back to business, but Frank’s kind of a shit and he’s kinda really enjoying it, and he wants to see how long Gerard’s gonna last before he just goes for it. He’s thinking about that so hard he doesn’t put two and two together about the tentacle snaking behind his neck until the tip flicks over his lips, dips between, sweat-salty and slick. He catches it between his teeth because he can, feels it flick against his tongue and he flicks it back, and it’s kinda like kissing and kinda like giving head when it pushes in further only duh, it’s so totally not. It’s hot and freaky and there is absolutely zero Frank wants to do with his life right now besides get Gerard off. Except maybe get himself off, but seriously, it’s a close thing.

“Aw, shit,” Gerard says. “Fuck, feels like– Fuck, Frankie, I gotta fuck you right the fuck now.”

Frank’s teeth dig a little harder into Gerard’s tentacle as he grins around it. He makes like, what the fuck are you waiting for? with his eyebrows, reaching up with his hands to drag Gerard closer since his legs are all up in the air and Gerard’s holding them so tight he can’t really move. It’s like Gerard doesn’t even notice he’s got Frank fucking immobilised here. He just knees up the bed when Frank tugs on his stringy hair, glances down and curses, and then his eyes are slipping shut and his head’s falling back as he slides on home so fucking easy Frank chokes.

“You feel so fucking good,” Gerard gasps, slumping forward. He catches himself on one hand, a tentacle shoving under Frank’s back to curl around his shoulder and help yank him down hard on Gerard’s dick. “I know you wanted– Fuck, I gotta–” and he’s really fucking going for it, hard and fast and like all the way in, not at all like the short and shallow bit Frank pulls when he’s in somebody, but like his entire dick’s as sensitive as the tip and he can’t fucking stand not having Frank squeezing down on the whole thing. Frank briefly thinks a couple things about trying to move with him, maybe clench up to really let him feel it, stuff like that, but while his brain’s off doing that his body is busy piloting itself, and by piloting he means clutching at Gerard and coming like a motherfucker because Gerard’s fucking other dick is rubbing all awesomely slick-wet against his. Whatever noise he makes gets muffled by the tentacle he’s still got in his fucking mouth and the blood roaring in his ears.

The ragged, half-choked shout Gerard lets out like two seconds later, though, that one he hears. He feels it in his fucking bones, that’s how tuned in he is to Gerard right now. Somehow he manages to peel his eyes open to catch the tail end of Gerard’s face all twisted up, eyes scrunched shut and mouth wide, and the way Gerard’s gone tense and trembling and he’s gripping Frank so tight Frank’s pretty sure for a minute Gerard could actually break him and he wouldn’t fucking care.

Gerard sucks in a breath, then another, his sweaty chest heaving, and Frank’s waiting for the lassitude to set in, tentacles and hands to loosen and lower him down and maybe for Gerard to do something ridiculous like rain kisses all over his face. But Gerard’s frozen, all his focus on breathing, and it’s not until Frank glances down that he figures out why.

“Holy fuck,” he garbles around Gerard’s tentacle, then shakes his head and spits it out and says, “Holy fuck,” again. “You didn’t fucking come?”

Gerard twitches, says in a voice strung as tight as his body, “No, no, I did. I just–”

“You’re still fucking hard!” Like Gerard could’ve somehow missed it, Frank jabs a finger at Gerard’s dick snugged up tight against his own, which is all spunk-sticky and not exactly soft, sure, but he’s young and he’s always horny and it’s gonna take him at least like, five minutes before he’s as fucking hard as Gerard is. Shoving at the bed, Frank pushes himself up, ignoring how he’s folded up like a fucking pretzel, and wraps a hand tight around Gerard’s dick. Gerard bucks and moans and wow, he’s still in there. Frank’s gone all weirdly sensitive and it’s not bad, exactly, but he doesn’t really know how he feels about it, either. “Ugh,” he grunts, brilliantly.

Gerard says, “Ugh,” right back at him and tries to fuck his fist, which sorta works and sorta doesn’t. “Shit, I gotta,” he starts saying again, all, “I gotta, I gotta,” and kinda spazzing out like he’s trying to do too many things at once. Frank gets that. Gerard’s got a lot going on up there.

“Gee,” Frank says, reluctantly taking his hand off Gerard’s dick to pat his hip. Gerard whines and shivers, and it takes him way longer than it should to get his eyes open and focused on Frank. He looks so totally out of it still. “Gee, c’mon, stop, tell me what the fuck, man, tell me what you want me to do.”

Making unhappy sounds low in his throat, Gee slows, and stops, and finally manages to shuffle back. His dick sliding free sends a whole-body shudder through Frank and his eyes flash wide, nostrils flaring on a sharp breath like he’s totally regretting not being in Frank to feel that. He takes another couple breaths, then says, “I kinda gotta– Well, I don’t have to, but it sorta feels like I didn’t get to come at all if I don’t, and, uh.” His voice is all low and raspy, like his middle-of-the-night voice layered on top of his chain-smoking and a couple beers voice. It doesn’t really match the way he’s still clutching at Frank and fucking with his hair. “Two dicks, y’know?”

“Shit,” Frank hisses. “Shit. Twice? Like, bam,” he says, and snaps his fingers, “bam, twice?”

Gerard does this aborted head-duck thing where he ends up just flinging his sweaty hair out of his face and meeting Frank’s gaze straight on. Frank shudders, no fucking joke, the look is that fucking intense. “Yeah,” he says, and strokes a hand up the inside of Frank’s thigh. “I was trying not to, though, ’cause you wanted like, both, but I guess I fucked that up.”

“Fucked it up, what the fuck, fuck that shit,” Frank says in a rush. “Get that fucking rubber off.”

Gerard’s already peeling the used one off, then going for the second one when Frank flaps both hands at him even as he says, “What?” like he doesn’t understand what’s going on here.

“I’m gonna suck you,” Frank says, shuffling his way up to lean against the pillows mounded against the headboard. He squints one eye, sizing up the height difference, and slumps down so he’s all lined up. The tangled sheets are slightly damp from all the sweat and spilled lube and come when he pats them. “Get up here.”

“Oh Jesus,” Gerard says, tentacles zipping out to balance his weight against the wall as he straddles Frank’s legs and knees it up the bed. His hands go to Frank’s head, fingers tangle in his hair. “Like this, seriously?”

“Fuck yeah. I’m all like fucking blissed out here, man, you can do all the work.” That said, Frank’s still the one who cranes up to lick at Gerard’s cocks, thinking maybe he can tell which one already went off by how hard they are, but it turns out all he’s got to go on is the stronger taste of come clinging to one more than the other. He’s gonna have to ask Gerard how the fuck that works. As far as he can tell, Gerard’s nuts are standard issue, so maybe it’s in the plumbing. He curls a hand around the base of the one he doesn’t think has gone off yet, since it’s not like he’s got to steady it, puckers up and sucks as lewdly as he can on the tip. “Don’t think I can fit both, so you got a preference?” he asks, letting it bump off his lips as he talks. Gerard makes a strangled, gurgling noise that isn’t much of an answer. “This one good?”

“Yeah, yes,” Gerard says, his hands tightening on Frank’s head, a couple tentacles snapping down to snake over his shoulders and pull him closer. He lets them take his weight, slinging Gerard a quick grin before he licks his lips good and wet and opens wide. There’s a slight hiccup as he waits for Gerard to push in where all Gerard does is stare at him, and then Frank shrugs to himself, thinks, Whatever, dude, gotta go for it, and he goes for it, going down as fast and far as he can. It turns out to not be very far at all, ’cause fuck, Gerard’s got a lot of dick, never mind the whole double-feature thing. He eases off with a slurp, giggling a little, because duh, he knew that, they did this like, fifteen fucking minutes ago, and fits one hand around the dick he’s sucking and the other around the one he’s not. Why not, right? No point letting it get all lonely.

Gerard starts cursing again, this long, disjointed ramble broken up by Frank’s name and a whole bunch of please, yes, please, and the shockingly hot dirty stuff like, “Fuck, Frankie, my dick’s in your fucking mouth, I can see it, fuck, suck harder,” as he rests a tentacle against Frank’s cheek to feel the way the tip makes it bulge out for a minute before Frank squares up again and his cheeks hollow as he sucks. His hips are twitching like he wants to fuck but he’s holding back, like no matter how much he wants to get off he wants to know what Frank’s gonna do next, and next, and then next. An accidental scrape of teeth makes him buck, a flutter of tongue along the ridge makes him shiver and shake and curse really awesomely, and when Frank goes down, really down, mouth and hand working in concert, Gerard curls over him like he can’t stay upright anymore, clutching and petting at his shoulders, his face, telling him it’s so fucking good, so amazing, so fucking incredible that he wants to do this. If Frank weren’t in the total cocksucking zone–and if it didn’t give him this dirty delicious thrill way down deep in his gut every time Gerard whispered how messed up and gorgeous Frank looks like this–he’d probably punch Gerard in the arm for saying that shit. Instead he just doubles up his efforts or something, paying serious attention to what makes Gerard choke and cry out, and it’s both a really long, long time and no time at all before Gerard’s tugging on his head trying to get him to pull up.

“Fuck off,” Frank says around his dick, which means it comes out more like a humming moan, but whatever. Gerard’s tugging changes tracks, less like he’s trying to haul Frank off and more like he’s gotta do something with his hands or he’s gonna go crazy. Frank stays right where he is, mouth and hand working fast, sharp breaths sucked in through his nose, and he’s so sure he’s ready for it when Gerard blows that of course he fucking isn’t. He jerks back, coughing awkwardly, and gets a splash across his cheek, but he dives straight back in, closing his lips tight and letting Gerard spill onto his tongue. There’s a hell of a lot more filling up his mouth than he thinks there should be, like maybe Gerard jizzes extra too. He manages to swallow a bunch but there’s still more on the way, so he cups his hand under his mouth and sorta spit-dribbles into his palm without letting Gerard’s dick slip free. When it seems like Gerard’s finally done, Frank gives the tip a quick closed-mouth peck, spits for real into his palm, then looks around for a minute before shrugging and wiping it in the destroyed sheets. Gotta be washed anyway.

Gerard’s still up there on his knees, swaying slightly, looking totally floored. “Hey,” Frank says, tugging at his hips, “shimmy on down here.” When Gerard makes like he’s gonna topple off to the side, Frank tugs harder, twisting and shuffling until Gerard reverses direction and flops down on top of him. An eager thrill swoops through Frank’s gut at the press of Gerard’s dicks against his thigh. Gerard never needs to wear pants again. Unless he has to leave the room. Which, hey, there’s an idea; Gerard never needs to leave this bed. “That was fucking awesome.”

There’s a couple more minutes of uncoordinated wriggling and shuffling until Gerard’s comfortable, arms and legs and tentacles all tucked in securely around Frank. “It was,” he agrees drowsily, face mushed into the crook of Frank’s neck. “You’re pretty fucking awesome, Frankie.”

Everywhere Frank looks, there’s a whole lot of bare, sticky pale skin. The curve of Gerard’s thigh right before it becomes his ass is seriously gorgeous. Frank puts his hand there because he can. Gerard pushes into it like a cat, then settles back down again. Naked, Frank thinks gleefully. They’re not having distractingly hot sex anymore, Gerard is still totally naked, and he’s not trying to hide a thing. Frank busts out with a crazy stupid, “I love you,” before he stops to think about how it’s maybe sleazy timing.

But all Gerard does give a happy, sleepy wiggle, a couple of his tentacles veering off in different directions as they lazily stroke Frank’s skin.

“You owe me like so many orgasms,” Frank says, buoyed. “I mean, like, your orgasms. You owe me like a fucking shitload of those.”

Gerard slurs, “‘Kay,” all agreeably as he burrows closer. “Just gimme a few.”

“Sure, Gee,” Frank says, grinning at the ceiling. “Sure.”

–

End

–

“Fucking amazing,” Frank rasps, hand rough on Gerard’s shoulder, fingertips digging in as he shoves Gerard’s back to the wall. His eyes are manic and bright, exactly how Gerard feels, seven steps into the wings of the shitty basement dive reverberating with pounding bass and stomping feet. “Fuckin’ told Steve– Shit, Gerard, Gee–”

“Frankie,” Gerard says, the only thing his brain’s able to spit out with Frank up in his face, hoarse and sweaty like he’s already been out there instead of back here waiting for his turn to tear it up. His shirt’s damp beneath the palm Gerard has splayed over his chest, and Gerard gets stuck staring at his hand, trying to figure out when the fuck he put it there. He’s still staring when Frank slips away, hitting the floor on his knees with a sharp grunt and yanking at Gerard’s belt. Gerard stumbles forward and slams back again, Frank’s forearm across his hips. “What– Frankie, what’re–”

Frank says, “I gotta,” like it’s torn out of him, staring up at Gerard with eyes gone dark and heavy, hazy, as he jerks Gerard’s jeans open, zipper grating. His gaze jumps to Gerard’s hand hovering weirdly in mid-air, palm still tinging with Frank’s drying sweat, then back to Gerard’s cock somehow out and in his hand and right in front of his fucking face. He doesn’t ask or say okay or fucking do anything except stare, eyes flashing wide in the dark like he can’t believe this shit either, like maybe he’s having second thoughts. Or fuck, first thoughts, because it seems like his brain hasn’t really been involved for awhile. But then he lets out this fucking gorgeous moan, thick and loud enough to hear over the noise filling the air and Gerard’s head, and his hot wet sloppy mouth is on Gerard’s dick.

“Oh fuck,” Gerard grates, fingers scrabbling at Frank’s hair, desperately trying to twist up a messy, prickly handful. Those fucking dreads are too short to get a good hold on and Gerard’s hand skids down, hooks on the hinge of Frank’s wide-open jaw. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

Frank goes down, and fucking down, too far, back heaving as he gags. It doesn’t stop him. Gerard’s flinch when teeth scrape skin doesn’t stop him either. His throat works, sweat-slick and obscene, his breaths puffing short and sharp against damp skin as he curls his fingers around Gerard’s hips, pulls him in tighter. There’s no fucking way Frank’s done this before. He’s rough and careless and greedy when he sucks, like it’s all about him, like Gerard’s just along for the ride. One tiny sliver of Gerard thinks that’s fucked up, fucked up, because Frank is fucking using him, but it’s drowned out by how fucking hot Frank is, what he looks like on his knees like this, desperate and messed up, and if this is what Frank wants, then fuck it. Just fucking fuck it. Frank can have it.

When Gerard grips his face hard, tilts it up and thrusts, he moans so loud Gerard’s fucking knees buckle. He jerks back to suck in a couple quick breaths, gaze darting up to Gerard’s face for a long second. There’s a quick flash of a wide, fucking saucy grin before he goes back down, fist tight around the base to keep Gerard from thrusting again. And okay. Maybe being a total douchebag about the really stellar blowjob Gerard had no fucking clue was about to happen–Frank is fucking blowing him backstage, what the fuck–is a good idea. He can work with that. It’s not like it’s a fucking trial to let Frank figure shit out, hard suction breaking when he gets all caught up in licking, and Gerard’s got a pretty awesome view of him fucking clutching at the crotch of his shredded jeans, face and throat flushed dark as he gets back into it again, making noises Gerard would recognise fucking anywhere as a guy about to cream himself. His lips are tight and his tongue’s firm and he’s working Gerard’s dick rough and fast and– fuck. He wants Gerard to lose it in his mouth.

“Faster,” Gerard gasps, voice sticking in his throat when Frank’s gaze flicks up again. He can’t tell from Frank’s hungry look if he’s supposed to keep talking or shut the fuck up, but if Frank wants him to come while he’s got half a case of beer and something tiny, white and wicked in his blood, Frank’s got to, Frank’s fucking got to, “Oh fuck.”

Frank lets out a sharp, eager sound, shuffling up on his knees as all the noise from the club turns to a dull static roar and Gerard comes so fucking hard he can’t even breathe. There’s a sick twist through the pleasure in his gut when Frank’s face scrunches up, spit and come spilling from his mouth, too much for him to swallow. It glistens on his chin, on the tips of Gerard’s fingers when he can’t help reaching up, thinking he’s gonna wipe it away when what he ends up doing is smearing it up over Frank’s face. When Frank pulls off, rests his forehead on Gerard’s hip, he wants to ask if it tastes good, if the sticky, tacky pull of come drying on skin is what Frank wanted. He can’t get a word out before Frank looks up at him again, still palming the front of his jeans.

Dragging in a ragged breath, Frank stumbles up and says, his face inches away, “Fuckin’ awesome,” and Gerard’s staring at the slick blur of his lips, thinking about kissing them, licking them, tasting himself on Frank’s tongue. He reaches clumsily for Frank’s zipper, and Frank laughs, rough and low and used. “M’good. Gotta– Fuck, gotta get out there, Gee.”

“Yeah,” Gerard croaks, still trying to get at Frank’s dick, thinking random shit like gotta reciprocate, gotta say thanks, gotta touch him, “yeah, fuckin’, fucking go, Frankie, kill it.”

Frank nods fast, claps a hand on the side of Gerard’s neck and squeezes, this quick shocking jolt before he slams on stage screaming, leaving Gerard slumped in the shadows still trying to catch his breath.

“Jesus,” Gerard says three nights later to the wasted guy swaying beside him. The night air is soft and tingly on his sweaty face. He closes his eyes and listens to the tinny, distant noise of the houseparty raging on behind them. When he looks up again, it’s still there. “Jesus,” he repeats. “It’s a motherfucking barn.”

“Jesus,” the guy agrees, and hands over his joint.

Gerard grunts a thanks and happily takes a hit, squinting up through the smoke as he breathes out. The stars twinkle brightly in the clear sky. The front of his shirt’s soaked from the cold beer he’s got clutched against it. He takes another decisive toke and says, “I’m goin’ in.”

“Dude,” the guy says, impressed. He salutes with the joint Gerard hands back.

Halfway to the big double doors barred with a beam carved from fucking Yggdrasil it’s so long and gnarly, Gerard remembers that typically barns are made for animals. Horses and cows and donkeys and shit. Being from Belleville and all, it’s not like he’s pure-bread city boy, but his Jersey isn’t exactly known for its fucking cows, okay. What if the hamburger he had on the way up here yesterday was made from one of these guys? There could be a revenge mob in there just fucking waiting for him.

Fuck. Next time he’s gonna cave to Frank’s anti-meat tirade and order the fucking veggie burger. There’s probably no way he’s gonna be able to get in there anyway, with that bar blocking the way and… oh. A door. Cut into one of the bigger ones, small and conveniently placed. Shit.

Braced for the inevitable hail of bovine wrath, Gerard jiggles the handle on the door, ducks under the bar and stumbles into the quiet dark. The first quick breath he takes sticks in his throat, so he takes another, slow and shuddery. It smells like dry dusty grass and black earth, and a faint tickle of something else weirdly musky. He stands really, really still for a long minute, staring into the deep shadows. Once he’s sure there’s nothing in here but him, he shuffles forward a few more steps. It’s actually kinda nice. Warm and close and dark. Like a basement in winter, when the heat’s cranked so it never cools down. The air’s got this thick, grainy texture, like he could reach out and grab a handful and draw it close like a blanket. He’s busy thinking about that, being cocooned in satiny darkness, when something ploughs into his back and knocks him flat on his face in a pile of prickly hay.

“The fuck!” he barks, kicking out hard and spitting dust. His wrist knocks into his spilled beer and sends it skittering away. “The fucking fuck, motherfucker, I–”

A familiar pot-choked giggle shuts him up fast. “Chill,” Frank says, one hand planted in the middle of Gerard’s back to keep him down. “Chill, dude, chill, just wanted to, like, horizontal, y’know?”

“The fuck, Frankie?” Gerard repeats, ’cause what the fuck? He totally needs another hit, but it’s probably a good thing he left the spliff with the dude outside. Lit joints and piles of dry hay don’t sound like a such an awesome idea. Unlike Frank’s hands pushing up the back of his shirt. “Frank?”

“S’cool,” Frank says, quiet and close. He shuffles around a bit, touch skimming softly along Gerard’s back until weight settles on his fucking thighs and then rough fingertips dig into Gerard’s sides, gripping hard. “Oh fuck yeah, it’s really cool.”

Gerard gears up to tell Frank to quit squeezing his fucking fat already, because Frank’s always fucking grabbing it, like it’s completely fascinating to skinny little fuckers like him, but Frank shifts and says, “Oh yeah,” again, all drawn out and breathy, not slurred even a bit despite the armload of beers Gerard saw him knocking back like he was dying. He says, “Fuck, you feel good,” and squeezes harder, and that is his motherfucking dick he’s grinding against Gerard’s ass.

Gerard says, “Frank,” and Frank says, “Shit,” and shoves his hands straight down Gerard’s pants. There shouldn’t be enough room, not both hands all the way in there like that, but Frank’s a quick sneaky fucker and somehow Gerard’s fly is wide fucking open already. Gerard shoves up on the palms of his hands, floundering in the hay, and whatever the fuck he’s planning on doing doesn’t happen because next thing he knows his shirt’s tugged halfway over his head and Frank’s hot mouth is on his back, sucking wet noisy kisses on his skin. It feels fucking electric. He goes back down fast, propped up on one elbow and panting shallowly. “Frank,” he tries again, and it comes out shaky and thick.

“You’re just, like, you don’t even fucking know,” Frank says, damp lips dragging over Gerard’s back. “You’re so fucked. You’re like really, really fucked right now, and you don’t give a shit.”

Giving a shit about being wasted isn’t something Gerard tends to do even when he’s sober, so he’s kinda confused about the point Frank’s trying to make. Almost as confused as he is over Frank yanking his fucking shorts down with his jeans and wrapping a callused hand around his dick, except it’s pretty common knowledge that when somebody puts a hand on your dick they’re trying to get you off. Why Frank wants to get him off is something he’s gonna have to tackle when Frank isn’t fucking doing it, holy fuck.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Frank says, muffled in Gerard’s shoulder, “I closed the door, c’mon. No one’s gonna– It’s just me, Gee. Just me.” He uses one of his knees to rudely shove Gerard’s wider, hissing curses when denim cuts in and stops him short. When he tries again his grip on Gerard’s dick goes loose and sloppy and all the shifting around brings a cascade of hay down over them. He shakes it off like dog shedding water and digs his teeth into Gerard’s back, making Gerard buck and hiss a curse of his own. Then he does it again, lower, and again, fucking heading south with purpose, and Gerard gasps, “Frank, what,” not like a question at all.

“Too fucking dark in here,” Frank bitches, and grabs a handful of Gerard’s ass and squeezes and groans so fucking loud he chokes on it. He rasps, “Fuck,” and bites at the small of Gerard’s back. There’s gonna be nothing but teethmarks and bruises by the time he’s done. He eases off, stroking lightly like he’s trying to map out the shape of Gerard’s ass with his hands but he gets all caught up in whatever the fuck is going through his mind and ends up squeezing and grabbing and biting again, digging in to the point of pain and Gerard can’t help the weird choppy noises he’s making, shocked and broken.

The sound of Frank popping open the zip on his jeans ratchets straight up Gerard’s spine. The fucking hay slips and slides as he tries to shove up, because fuck, fuck, if Frank’s getting his dick out this time, Gerard is gonna fucking see it, get his hands on it, suck it. He twists around awkwardly, grabbing at Frank’s shoulders, totally intending on shoving his face right into Frank’s crotch but they end up mouth to mouth, open and wet and sloppy. Gerard thinks, What? What? even while he’s shoving his tongue past Frank’s slack lips, tasting beer and salty chips. Frank shudders and goes completely still. He stays that way long enough that Gerard’s sure he’s done something wrong, fucked with Frank’s script, but then Frank’s grabbing at him again, falling back into the hay.

“Get on top of me, yeah,” Frank says, and cranes up for more kisses as Gerard fumbles around, trying to crawl over him without losing him in the hay. “Right on top of me, c’mon, you’re not gonna– Jesus, quit fucking around and, fuck, fuck yeah, like that,” he says, covered completely, skin to skin where their clothes are twisted. His knees come up, feet planted to find purchase as he slaps both hands to Gerard’s ass and grinds.

“Oh Jesus,” Gerard says, light bursting behind his eyelids. There’s sweat-damp cotton trapped between them and then there isn’t. Frank’s skin is soft but his stomach’s hard, tense, and his dick’s even fucking harder pressed snug against Gerard’s. Gerard sucks in a swooping, dizzying breath and thinks he feels Frank’s pulse kick, his cock getting thicker, harder, wetter. Fuck, it’s so slick between them; Frank leaks like a motherfucker.

Frank says, “Gonna, god, yeah, I’m gonna,” weirdly slurred. It takes Gerard a couple quick blinks to parse through the shifting shadows and figure out Frank’s sucking on his own fingers. Gonna come? Gerard wants to ask, wants to know before Frank loses it so he can imagine what Frank’s face looks like. But the second Frank’s fingers slide free with a slick wet pop, Gerard’s tongue is back in there, almost like totally independent of any thought on his part. But it’s a fucking good idea. Kissing Frank is pure fucking genius. Gerard’s brain might be fried but his body’s got a good handle on shit.

Something like, “Mm, yeah,” buzzes against Gerard’s lips. Frank’s hand is skidding down so Gerard hikes his hips up helpfully, completely on board with where Frank’s heading because fuck, he’s gonna come with like, two good hard strokes. He gets ready for it, knees locked and mouth shoved hard against Frank’s to muffle the noises he’s gonna make, and Frank makes this sound like a laugh.

Breaking away just far enough to breathe, Gerard asks, “What?” kinda surly and maybe a little pissed, because he’s gonna fucking come god dammit.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Frank says, all by-the-way, and uses a knee to shove Gerard off balance. He barely wheezes when Gerard sprawls flat out on top of him, just this flash of teeth like he’s grinning, so fucking pleased with himself, and his hands are on Gerard’s ass again, both of them, wet fingers in his crack, pressing, sliding in.

“Jesus fuck,” Gerard barks, but it’s not a bark at all, it’s tight and breathy and fuck, fuck, fuck.

“So hot,” Frank says again, “so fucking hot,” moaning it, like it’s the only thought he’s got in his head. He works in deeper, hard pressure that’s not slick enough but Gerard’s halfway up on his knees asking for it anyway. His dick drags over Frank’s belly, quick shocking pleasure, and he arches his back, rolls his hips, because fuck it, it feels good, great, fucking amazing.

“Fuck,” Frank says, a sharp, hard snap. Then, “Fuck,” again, “fuck, Gee, Gerard, oh fuck man, what’re you fucking– Shit, please.”

Gerard’s thighs are starting to tremble, the burn too hot, overwhelming. Another sharp curse from Frank, the sound of him spitting, and his hands are pressed harder to Gerard’s ass, one over the other shoving his wet fingers all the way to the knuckle. It’s deep and thick and sudden, being filled up like that. For a long second Gerard hangs there, shallow panting breaths shunted back in his face by the hay and Frank’s cheek slick and hot against his, Frank’s own breaths thick and laboured in his ear. Inside him, Frank’s fingers crook, making his hips twitch, and like a domino fall it rolls up Gerard’s spine, back down again, slow and not at all easy as he fucks Frank’s hand.

Crisp and really fucking clearly, Frank says, “Fucking kiss me.”

It fucks with the steady rhythm Gerard’s got going on when he tries. “Motherfucker,” Frank says, “kiss me,” like it totally doesn’t occur to him even as he’s pushing up to take Gerard’s mouth himself that he could do that shit. Gerard tries kissing back, but it’s loose and sloppy and mostly ends up being Frank’s tongue tracing his slack mouth, sucking so hard on his lip it tingles and aches and he knows it’s gonna bruise. Everything’s messy and frantic and hot and close, and Frank won’t stop talking about how good Gerard is, the best fucking fuck ever, riding Frank’s fingers like that. He’s gotta be higher than Gerard is, because Gerard’s pretty sure what he means is the best worst fuck ever because Gerard’s gonna come without getting his fucking hand on Frank’s fucking dick. Again.

“Gonna,” Gerard gasps, and Frank hisses, “Yes, yes, c’mon, yes,” shoving his hips up, grinding dicks into bellies and his fingers in deep, hard and insistent, so fucking insistent all Gerard can do is gasp again and take it, and take it, and when he comes it’s with this vicious strangled yell that he kinda wishes he could fucking replicate on stage it’s that fucking cool.

Frank says, “Fuck yeah, babe,” and digs his knuckles hard into Gerard’s gut.

“What the fuck, fuck,” Gerard pants. That’s kinda fucking rude, elbowing a dude off right after he blows it, Frank could give him a second to catch his fucking– Oh. Oh shit. Frank’s jacking off fast and loud, his fingers still buried to the knuckle and twitching sometimes like he can’t help it. Gerard clamps down because he can’t fucking help it either, his ass is totally feeling used, slick and sensitive, and that makes Frank groan and finger him a bit more and it’s this crazy endless loop of oh sweet fucking Christ. When Frank finally stiffens up and comes, back arched so sharply he’d fucking lift Gerard up except the hay shifts again and they go skidding down a foot or more, and Gerard feels the pulse-kick of Frank’s dick, he’s pretty fucking sure Frank’s fucked him sober. It’s crystal fucking clear and cut-glass sharp and fucking beautiful.

His bare ass hitting the scuffed dirt floor isn’t so pretty, but it’s hard to care with Frank tumbling along, landing sprawled out on top of him half-naked and sweaty. “Fuck,” Frank rasps, and just lies there, breathing fast.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, voice fucked beyond belief. “Fuck.”

Frank rubs his face against Gerard’s shoulder, not caring that he’s crammed halfway into Gerard’s armpit. Gerard gets the feeling he’s gonna bitch about it later, though. Frank’s got opinions about armpits. “That was so fucking good.”

Licking his lips and swallowing, Gerard nods. It really fucking was. Frank’s jizz is all over his belly and he can’t stop touching it, feeling it go from slick to tacky to dry. It occurs to him that his spunk is all over Frank’s belly, too, and he reaches out before he thinks it through.

Frank scrunches up and giggles. “Tickles, man, quit it.”

Gerard means to. He honestly does. But the more he touches, the more Frank squirms, and Frank’s not trying to stop him, not really, but it still comes as a total surprise when Gerard rolls over and Frank goes easy, flopped flat on his back clutching at Gerard’s shoulders as he wheezes and curses and laughs.

“Fuck,” Gerard says, listening to Frank pant in the darkness. “That’s really fucking hot.”

Unsteady arms loop around his neck. “Fuckin’ freak,” is what Frank says, soft and warm as the air pressing close, but what Gerard hears in it is, “Go ahead, give it to me some more.” He ducks his head and barks out a laugh, ’cause it turns out he’s not one bit sober at all. Frank wouldn’t call him babe.

“Did you call me babe?” he asks.

Frank hums quietly.

“Did you?”

“C’mon, babe,” Frank says, a grin in his voice, and slaps Gerard’s bare hip. “Let’s go get you a beer.”

“Babe,” Gerard snorts, but yeah. Beer. Something harder than beer. And maybe another toke or two. He lets Frank roll him off and then haul him to his feet. It’s totally surreal standing there in the middle of a fucking barn while Frank leans against him and giggles and does up their jeans. Surreal, and really fucking cool.

“So then,” Frank says, flinging his arms out wide and clipping Gerard across the nose. “Sorry, dude,” he adds absently, palming Gerard’s face like that’s gonna make it quit stinging, “then she was like, yeah, in my fucking pants.”

The guys from Pencey are already laughing like they’ve heard this one before but it’s still good shit, and now that the punchline’s out even Mikey’s busting a gut–Mikey’s fucking weird when it comes to Frank, though, like Frank breaks all his rules, and at least inside his own head Gerard can admit that’s one of the things he likes about Frank, that Frank’s different for Mikey too–and Gerard huffs a couple giggles just to make like he’s paying attention to something, anything, other than Frank’s leg slung heavy and warm over his lap. The basement rec room they’re all camped out in before the show tonight is cramped and musty, familiar though it’s a few hundred miles west of Gerard’s comfortable hovel, but that just makes this even more unreal.

Frank pulls off a fancy little bow from the waist, half-full beer bottle held aloft. Giving it a quick eyeball, Gerard snatches it from his sloppy grasp, tilts it up and knocks the whole thing back in one go. The burning rush doesn’t distract at all from Frank’s heat pressed so close, halfway in his fucking lap. Frank’s been all over him all fucking night but not all over him, not in the way Gerard keeps expecting with the lazy, heavy-lidded grins Frank keeps slinging his way. He knows that look now. They don’t talk about it, haven’t said one fucking syllable about it, but that’s Frank’s I’m gonna fuck you so fucking hard you’re gonna pass the fuck out before I’m even fucking done with you look. This shit’s been going on for two fucking weeks. Messy blowjobs in dark corners, Frank’s hands hot and hard and demanding in the middle of the night, shadows heavy around them driving Gerard crazy with wanting to see him in the light. Two fucking weeks and Gerard still hasn’t gotten a hand on Frank’s dick. Not for fucking lack of trying, either. Frank’s just– He’s always– He’s fucking fucking with Gerard so bad.

And he’s giving Gerard that fucking look again, right now. Sly quirk to his mouth, hooded gaze sliding down, tingling like a touch until he’s looking at Gerard’s lap and it shoots back up again, that smile spreading wide in an evil grin. “Yeah,” Frank says, tossing a quick glance at the empty beer bottle Gerard’s holding up like a trophy, “you hold onto that for me, ‘kay?” and then he’s fucking in Gerard’s lap for real, arm hooked around Gerard’s neck as he reaches for another beer, his small bony ass planted square on the half-formed boner Gerard’s been trying to keep under wraps for the last hour. Gerard’s lungs seize. Fuck.

“Mmm,” Frank hums around the mouth of his fresh beer. He pulls off and slumps back, thumbing the corner of his lips. Gerard can’t see his expression and it doesn’t fucking matter. He knows the look that’s on his face. Lazy and satisfied but totally gearing up for more. He sinks down lower, a slow, controlled slide, riding Gerard’s trapped dick the whole way. “That’s it, baby.”

“Jesus,” Gerard chokes. He flails a hand at Mikey and snaps his fingers a couple times. Eyebrow cocked, Mikey hands over what’s left of his beer. Gerard downs it like a dying man.

“That’s not even the fucking best part,” Hambone’s saying, waving his arms like he’s trying to get their attention, like he’s maybe said that bit a couple times now. “And then Frank, Frankie, he fucking–”

Whatever the fuck Frankie did, Gerard’s not listening. He’s holding onto Frank’s hip so hard his knuckles are aching, and Mikey’s giving the two of them this look like he knows exactly what they’re up to and he’s not fucking amused, except he totally is, that smirk doesn’t lie. Gerard would like to know what they’re fucking up to. Frank’s been mostly careful about this thing. Not smart about it–shoving Gerard against the emergency exit five feet and one sharp turn away from the bathroom in a busy club isn’t exactly smart–but he hasn’t fucking stuck his hand down Gerard’s pants in front of an audience yet. If he did it right here, right now in front of their bands and friends and Gerard’s fucking brother, in the house belonging to the girl kind enough to put their freeloading asses up for the night, Gerard doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do. Dump Frank flat on his ass and run for it? Run for it and drag Frank with him? Give it up like the desperate fucker he is and let Frank do whatever the fuck he wants, even if it’s haul his dick out in front of the guys?

Jesus. He’s so fucked.

Before any of that happens, Frank rocks forward, planting a hand on Gerard’s thigh for balance as he scoops up another beer. “Later, babe,” he says, mouth slanted wickedly, and leans back in, laying a loud, smacking kiss square on Gerard’s mouth. While Gerard sits there, slack-jawed and stunned, he heaves up and meanders off, bellowing something at somebody upstairs. Gerard’s jeans aren’t hiding a fucking thing.

“Fuck you all,” Gerard says pre-emptively.

After the show, while the guys are milling around the backyard trying to get an old rusted barbecue going, Gerard digs his bag out of the mess in the back of the van and tromps upstairs. His skin’s tight and itchy with more than dried sweat. Frank was fucking incredible on stage tonight. He usually is, throwing himself into the music body and soul, holding nothing back, and it’s almost as scary as it is awe-inspiring to see him stripped raw like that. Tonight, he was fucking on. If there hadn’t been a wall at Gerard’s back to hold him up, halfway through Pencey’s set he would’ve been on his knees.

Just like that, mid-step on the landing, Gerard gets hit with a full technicolour memory of Frank on his knees screaming into a mic, then a quick flicker like a television shorting out and it’s Frank still on his knees, come-smeared mouth hanging open as he pants for breath, his gaze steady and hot. Gerard’s been half-hard for hours. Now he’s there, ready, fucking dying for it, and Frank’s outside giving Hambone shit over how to properly stack coals for even grilling when he’s not even going to eat whatever the fuck they’re planning to slap on it.

“Motherfucker,” Gerard hisses, and slams into the bathroom. He’d dropped hints in the fucking van. Mostly his hints were wide, desperate eyes, and tugging on Frank’s dreads like they were in fucking gradeschool, and scrambling to ride with Pencey instead of his own fucking band, but they were hints, god fucking damn it. Frank had said later. It’s fucking later. And if Frank’s willing to let Gerard’s perfectly good boner go to waste, then fuck it. Gerard might as well. And never mind that he hasn’t had to jerk off in two weeks because Frank’s been giving it to him every other night, he still fucking knows how.

Right about the time he’s half out of his clothes, bent over fiddling with the temperature, Gerard realises that hey, Frank’s been giving it to him every other night. For a booty call, even an on-semi-tour booty call, that’s a lot. Way more than like blowing off stress or an adrenaline burn. If he wasn’t totally wasted right now, he’d probably be able to figure out what the fuck that means.

But he is, and he’s horny, and look at that, still hard. He shucks the rest of his clothes and clambers into the old avocado-green tub, whips the curtain shut and whips it out. Or puts a hand on his dick, anyway, since it’s already waving in the breeze. Privacy’s been pretty rare these days, so there’s a moment where he thinks about dragging this out, playing around a little. He eyeballs the bottle of organic soap sitting on the window ledge and rubs his fingers together, letting the idea slop around his brain. He could. Nobody would know he’s up here with a hand on his cock and a couple fingers up his ass.

If he goes out back all loose and satisfied, though, Frank might know. Frank would know. Frank’s seen him post-orgasm enough times by now. And then Frank would know that Gerard didn’t bother to save it for him. Ha, Gerard thinks viciously, and pulls sweetly at his dick, making it a show for one, and slapping his free hand to the wall when his knees wobble. Take that, Frankie.

By the time he’s fumbling for the soap, he’s on his knees bent forward in the sputtering spray. A deep, satisfying burn starts to build in his thighs as he tries to spread them wider, the tub keeping him penned in so he has to shuffle forward a little more, twist and reach between his legs to stroke behind his balls. They rest heavy and full and totally ready against his wrist, and he pushes up against them a little at the same time he crooks his fingers. He’s not thinking about anything specific, concentrating on the pleasure rippling up his spine, the way it arrows in sharply when he tugs on his dick, but between one stroke and the next he’s imagining it’s Frank’s hands on him. He sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his cock hard, teeth clenched, ’cause he’s not gonna come just from fucking thinking about Frank. He’s not, because fuck Frank, fuck him, okay, Gerard’s not gonna do it, he’s just fucking–

–coming so damn hard his vision whites out, is what the fuck he’s doing.

When he gets his breath back, he’s still kneeling on the floor of the tub, water pattering warmly against his back. He groans and heaves himself up on shaky legs. This is usually the part where he’d take a couple half-assed swipes at himself with a cloth, but instead he reaches for the shampoo, then the fruity-smelling conditioner, then dumps a giant glop of soap into his palms and lathers up. His mind is pleasantly blank. He’s like a zombie. A really clean zombie.

After he’s dry, he shuffles into some mostly clean clothes, gathers up his stuff, and shuffles downstairs. His brain’s doing that alarming thing where it’s trying to reboot, so he detours into the kitchen to snag a couple beers to cut that shit out. Somehow he manages to chug half a bottle before he realises Frank’s perched on the counter by the sink tossing something from hand to hand and watching him like a hawk.

“Hey,” Gerard croaks, because at least he’s got some fucking manners.

Frank’s eyes narrow suspiciously. Resisting the urge to brandish his beer like a broadsword, Gerard hikes up an eyebrow. Frank slips smoothly off the counter to the floor, and Gerard considers running the fuck away as the better part of valour. He’s still considering it by the time Frank’s close enough to smell the pot smoke clinging to his clothes.

Leaning slowly forward, Frank sniffs once, really loudly and deliberately. “Motherfucker,” he says, voice low, dangerous-sounding. “You showered.”

“I do that,” Gerard says, stealthily inching back toward the fridge. He’s gonna need more than two shitty beers to cope with the way Frank’s staring at him. “Occasionally.”

“You fucking showered,” Frank repeats, not-so-subtly crowding Gerard against the fridge. A tiny magnet in the shape of a unicorn jabs Gerard in the shoulder. Wriggling away from it puts him closer to Frank than is maybe safe. Frank’s looking really fucking unhinged.

“Frank,” Gerard starts.

“Shut the fuck up, motherfucker, Jesus Christ,” Frank says in a rush, and then he’s up on his toes, their mouths smashed together and what’s left of Gerard’s beer glug-glugging all over their shirts. He rudely shoves his tongue past Gerard’s teeth, cutting short Gerard’s yelp at the cold shock. And he keeps his tongue there, tasting like hard liquor and cigarettes and totally ignoring how Gerard’s trying to fucking talk, like he doesn’t give a shit at all that Gerard’s got opinions about what’s going on here.

“Mmph,” Gerard insists, and Frank shoves both hands into his wet hair, yanking his head back to latch onto his throat. Which immediately changes Gerard’s opinion to, “Oh fuck,” and maybe a sliver of, “Frank, shit,” because hot and sloppy in dark corners or not, Frank’s been paying attention. For the second time tonight, Frank’s almost put him on his knees.

“C’mon,” Frank says, stumbling back a step and pulling Gerard with him. “Forget that shit, just, fucker, c’mon.”

“C’mon where?” Gerard asks without really caring. He lets Frank manhandle him across the kitchen to the rickey screen door, through it and down the steps, and barely registers the noise spilling around the side of the house. Frank’s not being real subtle here, but it’s still a surprise when Gerard catches up against the cool metal of one of the vans. He tries to figure out if it’s his or Pencey’s by the way the shocks squeak when Frank shoves close.

“Inside,” Frank says, fumbling at the handle. “Fuck, babe, c’mon, get inside.”

If Gerard could phase through the fucking door, he would. As it is, he’s got to wait until Frank gets the thing open, and then it’s not so much he climbs inside as he falls in with Frank on top of him. He lets out an involuntary huff, more surprise than anything since Frank weighs about as much as a gnat. There’s a flash of teeth in the light pouring in from the street and then Frank’s scrabbling up, pushing at him and muttering and hauling the door shut.

“Yeah,” Frank says, whisper-rough as he pushes at Gerard’s shoulders. Gerard’s not sure where the fuck Frank’s trying to put him but he goes, clambering up on his knees on the seat, hesitating for a second before letting Frank’s weight press him up against the back of it. “Fuck, Gee, yeah, like that. Fuckin’ just like that. More.”

“No more for me to go,” Gerard mutters, shivering. Frank’s hands are under his shirt, pushing it up to his armpits, ghostly light.

Frank says, “Sure there is,” wickedly cocksure as his hands skim back down, tug open Gerard’s jeans. “Bend over.”

“What?” Gerard shoves up, stopped short by Frank’s hand heavy and certain on the back of his neck. He gives one half-hearted attempt to shake it off, catching a glimpse of Frank folded down in the footwell, lip caught between his teeth. “Shit, oh fuck, shit,” he rasps, slumping over the seat, eyes hidden in the crook of his elbow. There’s no way– “You gonna–?”

“Fuck yeah I’m gonna.” One good tug has Gerard’s clothes around his knees. Warm palms press against the inside of his thighs, urging them wider. He shuffles around awkwardly, still not sure even though he’s really pretty fucking sure. Frank’s mouth is on the small of his back and it’s fucking going places.

“Fuck,” Gerard moans, and Frank says, “Yeah, I’m so fucking gonna,” again, raspy-sweet as his thumbs curve over the cheeks of Gerard’s ass, spread them. His breath tickles the crack and Gerard jerks, cock dragging against the seat.

“Make lotsa noise for me, Gee,” Frank says, and fucking nuzzles his face right in there, soft lips and a scrape of stubble. “Been thinking about eating you out for weeks, you’re gonna make lots and lots of noise for me, right?”

If Gerard could fucking breathe, sure. No problem. Except he can’t, because Frank’s fucking face is in his fucking ass, and Frank’s kissing him. Small, gentle kisses that would be sweet and chaste if they weren’t pressed to Gerard’s asshole. His thighs, already worn out from fooling around in the shower, start trembling, and Frank moans so loud he’s sure the guys out back will hear.

Frank’s hands skid up and clench tight on his hips. “Fuck yes,” he says, nuzzling down lower, tongue sneaking out to swipe quick and wet and hot over Gerard’s balls, sending another hard shiver through him. Frank says, “You want my tongue in your ass so bad. Fuck, Gee,” another hot push against oversensitive skin. “Fuckin’ shaking with it.”

“Fucking do it,” Gerard gasps out, trying so hard not to hump the back of the seat, he’s that ready for it. “I fucking, I jerked off thinking about your fingers in my ass, do it, Frankie, fuck, don’t– Fuck.”

Frank’s moan is pushed right into the meat of Gerard’s ass, his tongue following, a hot slippery push. Everything’s already kinda feeling used from before so it’s worse, better, nerves hyper-aware of every move Frank makes. He curls his tongue deep, face mashed into Gerard’s crack, and eases back so slow, licks long and hard and doesn’t stop. Gerard grabs for one of the shadowy lumps in the back of the van, hoping whatever it is his hands close on is solid enough to handle it as he hauls himself up, spine arched to shove his ass back. Frank’s nails dig into flesh and he moans, tries working his hips to ride Frank’s face, the slippery shove of Frank’s tongue.

“Fuck,” Frank grunts, and pulls back, chuckling like the total asshole he is when Gerard can’t help the noise that slips out of him. “Not gonna stop,” he says, rubbing his wet face off on Gerard’s ass. “Just gotta– Fuck, wish I could see.” His fingers brush lightly over Gerard’s hole, his breath hissing when it twitches, and Gerard does it again deliberately, listening to his voice break. “Feels so wet and hot and loose, baby, I wanna see.”

“Dragged me out here,” Gerard says, pressing back onto Frank’s thumb. It sinks in just a little, so easy. Fuck. He’s so ready for it right now Frank could fuck him on spit and latex. It sinks in a little more when Frank pushes, pulls down a bit, leans in and licks some more. “Could’ve fucking– There’s a fucking bed in the basement, Frankie, we coulda went there.”

“Could’ve,” Frank agrees. He keeps his tongue quick and light between words, his fingers doing most of the work keeping Gerard rocking to his rhythm. “Didn’t think about it. Thought about this, though.”

That’s one thing Gerard honestly didn’t consider Frank did–think about this. It never felt like it’d been thought through. When Frank got horny, Frank did him.

Frank gets horny a lot.

“Fuck.” Planting both hands on the seat, Gerard shoves back. Frank makes a weird disjointed noise as he thumps against the back of the passenger’s seat. “Fuck,” Gerard repeats, scrambling to turn around, his jeans all caught up in his knees and sending him tumbling down awkwardly on his side. But that’s okay. That’s really fucking okay, because Frank’s up on his knees staring at him, half his face wet from fucking eating Gerard out, and his dick is tenting the front of his baggy jeans right there in front of Gerard’s mouth.

“Get your dick out,” Gerard says, yanking at his belt. “Get it out, fuck you, oh my god, get it out, I gotta–”

“Okay,” Frank rasps. His fingers tangle with Gerard’s as they both tug open his jeans. “Okay, fuck, god, okay, just let me–” Angling his body over Gerard’s, he twists up a handful of Gerard’s jeans and yanks. They get stuck on on boot, but he keeps tugging, grunting when Gerard shoves both hands inside his underwear. “Take your fucking clothes off, Jesus Christ.”

Gerard says, “Okay,” and doesn’t lift a finger to help. His hands are on Frankie’s dick. Frank’s hard, wet, thick, fucking gorgeous dick. Saliva floods his mouth. “Gonna suck you.” Elbowing his way closer, absently kicking his foot to get his boot off when Frank yanks at it, he lines up, lets the idea, the reality of Frank’s cockhead against his lips wash over him. Frank smells so fucking good. Kinda thick and dirty, pure sex. He’s fucking savouring this.

And he doesn’t get a chance to stuff his mouth full of it before Frank’s fingers are buried in his ass. “Wha–?” he gasps, jerking forward.

“Not gonna stop just ’cause you decided to be a fucking porn star,” Frank says. He twists his wrist, thumb pushing up behind Gerard’s balls, pressing hard. Gerard’s legs jerk. Then a slow, deliberate stroke inside him has his back arching, legs spreading wide, wider, until his knee hooks over the back of the seat. He’s still got Frank’s dick in hand and he absolutely plans on doing something more with it than jacking it clumsily, but every time he tries, it’s like Frank knows, and presses deeper, so fucking deep, rubs just right, right there.

“Fucker,” Gerard spits, shakes his hair out of his face, and shoves his mouth over Frank’s cock.

“Jesus fuck!” Frank barks, like he hadn’t honestly been expecting it. A grin tries to take over Gerard’s mouth but he fights that shit off, keeps his lips tight. He gives it a couple beats, three hard kicks of Frank’s pulse right there on his tongue as Frank gets harder, fucking hell, and then he sucks.

Frank slumps forward, barely catching himself on his free hand. “Oh fuck me,” he moans, hips hitching. “Motherfucking fuck me, Gee, Gerard, fuck.”

Gerard gives a pleased little hum, pulling up to lick all around the head before diving back down. He knows he’s fucking good at this. It’s about time Frankie knew it too.

He gets lost it in for a bit, the heavy weight on his tongue familiar but new, different when it’s Frank he’s sucking, Frank’s voice the one he hears breaking on sweet little moans. It makes him work harder, force Frank’s dick down deep and hold it there while he fights not to gag. He doesn’t need to breathe. He’s finally got Frank’s taste thick in the back of his throat. Oxygen’s overrated anyway. And he can tell Frank’s close, so fucking close. Any second now, Frank’s gonna lose it, he’s gonna come, it’s gonna be right in Gerard’s mouth and he’s–

Fucking pulling out?

“What the fuck,” Gerard wheezes, grabbing at him.

“Not yet,” Frank manages, and bites hard at his lip when Gerard gets a hand back on him, jerks him fast and steady. His cock’s so slick it’s easy, and he’s leaking like crazy, making a mess everywhere. “I wanna, god, you don’t even fucking know, man. You’re like, Gerard, fuck, you’re fucking my fucking hand, it’s so hot.”

Gerard opens his mouth to say no he fucking isn’t, Frank’s the one doing all the work fingering him, but when he glances down just to make sure, he totally is. His mind’s so blown it’s totally separated itself from his body or something, because his hips are working, muscles in his abs and thighs bunched tight as he rocks down on the hand Frank’s holding steady for him. That’s the spark his brain needs to make the connection again and suddenly he can feel it, sweet hard pressure right against his prostate making him work harder, faster, riding the thick knot of Frank’s fingers.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Frank breathes. He’s staring down at Gerard like he’s never seen him before, pure awe turning his mouth slack.

The crazy laugh burbling up in Gerard’s chest bursts free on a shocked moan. And out of the fucking blue, he’s there. He’s done. He sucks in a hasty breath, caught between giggles and groans as he comes. It’s not the weirdest orgasm he’s ever had. It might be the fucking best, burning though his belly and legs and all the way to the tingling tips of his toes.

Frank’s leaning in close when Gerard opens his eyes. Warm breaths push against his open mouth. “Yeah,” is barely more than a whisper sliding smoothly over his lips, followed by the easy push of Frank’s tongue. Frank’s fingers are still in him, moving slowly, still too much. He makes a noise around Frank’s tongue but Frank doesn’t let up. The slick sound of Frank’s hand moving on his dick gets louder.

“Mmph,” Gerard tries again, one hand fisting weakly in the front of Frank’s sweaty shirt. He means to push Frank off because it’s too much, way, way too much, overtaxed nerves trying to fire and making his legs twitch, his stomach jump. But Frank keeps going, somehow so slow and sweet until it gets to be too much for him too and he’s speeding up again, fucking Gerard’s mouth with his tongue and ass with his fingers and coming so hard some of it gets spattered all the way up on Gerard’s neck. Frank sucks in a wheezy breath through his nose and starts to laugh with his mouth still crushed roughly to Gerard’s, sharing slow, sloppy-wet kisses between bursts of sound.

“Fuckin’ crazy,” Frank says into Gerard’s mouth. “Fuckin’– wow.”

“Christ.” Gerard flops flat on the seat and tries to get his legs to stay still. Even after Frank’s carefully pulled free, he can’t get his muscles to stop jumping.

“So fucking glad you showered,” Frank mumbles, nuzzling up under Gerard’s chin. “I was like, fuck. I couldn’t fucking figure it out, y’know? How I was gonna, mm, yeah,” and he trails off, licking sweat out of the hollow of Gerard’s throat.

“How you were gonna fuckin’ what?” Gerard wheezes.

“Told you.” Frank pushes away a couple inches, the light from the street catching on the corner of his lazy smile. “I’d been thinking about it for awhile. Besides, it’s more fun getting you dirty when you’re already clean.”

Gerard swipes a hand over the mess on his chest and groans. “So not clean anymore.” This is why he doesn’t bother to shower every five minutes like some people. There’s no fucking point.

“But you can get clean again.” Frank’s hand makes a slow, purposeful trek up Gerard’s thigh to where his dick’s slumped and sticky. “I can even help.”

“Oh fuck,” Gerard moans, and flings an arm over his eyes. Frank giggles. “Please don’t. I can’t fucking take it, ah, ah, fuck.”

“So sexy,” Frank says like he’s not talking to Gerard at all, like he’s not busy fondling Gerard’s soft cock. Tiny shocks skip-hop from nerve to nerve. “Kinda big even when you’re down, huh?”

Gerard swallows hard. “Yeah.” What the fuck is his life. “I, uh, guess?”

“Hot,” Frank says, settling in like he’s planning on cuddling right here with his palm curved heavy and warm over Gerard’s bare junk. “Wanna use that bed later?”

Peeking out from behind his arm, Gerard says, “Sure?”

“Not for sleeping,” Frank clarifies.

“Yeah. I mean, no.” Shuffling up, Gerard leans closer to Frank’s mouth, wondering. “Not for sleeping.”

“Awesome,” Frank says, and gives Gerard a kiss he doesn’t have to ask for.

–

End

–

Tommy wiggles his fingers to feel how much the stiff leather doesn’t give. “This is pretty fucking cool.”

Tugging the second glove into place, Adam presses a kiss to his shoulder before straightening up. They’re custom-made, covering Tommy’s arms up to about an inch below his armpits. Dozens and dozens of clinking metal rings track the full length of each one. No way is Adam going to lace him up all the way the first time out, but the possibility is there. “And you look really, really good in them.”

Flexing his hands again, Tommy grins. He’s on his knees on the bedroom floor, Adam in front of him, a thick quilt folded up beneath him to cushion the beating his knees are about to get. The gloves are the only thing he’s wearing. With Adam fully dressed all the way down to the kick-ass wedge boots, looming above him, Tommy already feels small and vulnerable in the best possible fucking way. After the first few times he went off before they were both ready, Adam’s been more careful about using his size like this. Tonight, it’s totally the point.

“Let me see again how close you can get them,” Adam says, his hand soft on Tommy’s jaw urging him to bend forward.

Spreading his knees further apart for balance, Tommy tucks his arms behind his back, metal hoops chiming. They’ve been practicing for this. Not with the gloves, but with him on his knees while Adam fucks him, dragging his arms back and pinning them. It goes against what Tommy would’ve figured, but Adam says he’s looser, more relaxed, when he’s got a dick up his ass. Getting his elbows touching on his own is easy.

“Beautiful,” Adam says, stroking his cheek. Tommy nuzzles into his palm, happily. He’s as addicted to being touched by Adam as Adam is to touching him. There weren’t many boundaries between them before the start of all this, and now it’s hard to think of even one. Tommy always thought they could tell one another anything. By the time that became true, they could do anything, too.

The really kinky shit, though, that’s usually all Tommy’s idea. Adam sees sequinned zebra-print pants and has to try them on, Tommy sees hardcore bondage porn and has to try it out. Whatever. It works.

The tips of Adam’s fingers trail up to touch the liner dark around Tommy’s eyes. Tommy went all out with feminine soft tonight. His hair’s falling all around his face, tousled and spike-free, his lips are quiet pink, his cheeks lightly blushed. The makeup’s more for him than Adam. It feels good, stark against the harsh black leather on his arms, the way his cock’s already curved up hard and thick. Big money says Adam likes it, though.

“One day I would love to crawl inside your head,” Adam says, smiling. The plain black cord for the binder is snaked around his arm, dangling lazily from his wrist. “Find out exactly what you’re thinking when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Could always ask.”

Quietly, the touch on Tommy’s face sliding down to become a hand pressed to his throat, Adam asks, “What’re you thinking, Tommy Joe?”

“I love your dick,” Tommy says, no hesitation at all. “I really fucking love your dick, and I want you to let me suck it, let me try to cram it straight down my throat.”

Adam huffs a startled laugh. He should totally be used to shit like that flying out of Tommy’s mouth by now. Somehow, he isn’t. “I so asked for that.”

“You totally did,” Tommy says, and leans harder into Adam’s hold. His shoulders are starting to ache from the effort of keeping his arms back by himself. “Gonna lace me up, give me what I want?”

Adam says, “Yeah,” voice thick. He uncoils the cord, lets it whisper through his fingers, drape against Tommy’s upper back. “Bend over for me, baby.”

A shiver skittering down Tommy’s spine, he rests a hand on Adam’s thigh, settles between the spread of Adam’s legs with his shoulders butted right up against them. Once he’s sure he’s got his balance, he tucks his arms behind his back again, lifting them as much as he can for Adam to start lacing the cord through the hoops.

They could’ve done this first, had it ready. The cord’s long enough. But every time Adam drags it through a loop, it’s a slithering kiss on his ass, trailing up his back, and that is so fucking totally worth the effort of keeping still, his head bowed between Adam’s legs. Adam’s boots smell sharply of leather and mink oil, and he breathes in deep, even.

“That’s it, baby,” Adam says, running a hand down his arm, up again. Tommy lets his shoulders relax, heart kicking when the binding holds. They’re not tight yet, not even close, but he doesn’t have to work to keep his arms back anymore. “Good?”

“So good.” Unlacing his fingers, Tommy flexes his hands, listens to leather creak. The sound travels down his spine straight into his balls. “Jesus, this is crazy. I’m like really fucking hard. I might lose it before you get your dick in my mouth.”

Adam laughs, bedroom-sexy and delighted. “Let me worry about how close you are. Gonna tighten it now.”

Tommy’s okay comes in him locking his fingers back together.

There’s hardly any pressure at first. Nothing compared to when Adam’s pinning him, anyway. It comes in slow, creeping stages, gentle tugs that bring his arms closer together bit by bit until he can feel the muscles bunched up tight between his shoulder blades, the ache of it spreading out and down into his chest. When that teasing, floaty feeling starts rising up, he makes the mistake of grabbing at it. He groans miserably as it slips away slick as an eel.

“Don’t work for it,” Adam reminds him, digging blunt nails briefly through the cords into Tommy’s back. That’s another one of those things Adam says Tommy responds to wonderfully that he has his doubts about. But maybe Pavlov wasn’t totally cracked, because the second the pain spikes, he quits reaching for what he wants, lets Adam bring it to him. The soft, affectionate praise Adam murmurs in its wake doesn’t hurt, either. He is such a sucker for Adam’s voice.

By the time Adam nudges him back up on his knees, the ache in his arms has turned into a low-grade burn. For a long, long minute, Adam doesn’t do anything else, just watches Tommy’s face as the burn flares hotter, drowns under an endorphin flood and begins to build again, smouldering under skin. It’s that rhythm, waves of bite and release, that finally start to drag Tommy down.

The loud snick of Adam unzipping brings Tommy’s gaze dragging up. He doesn’t try to focus. Trusting in Adam’s hand on his jaw to guide him, he opens his mouth, his chest rising slow and easy as Adam’s cockhead slides over his tongue. Ignoring the urge to lick up all the thick taste of Adam’s precome, he opens up wider, invites Adam to do whatever he wants, tease them both with it, keep fucking against Tommy’s tongue like that, anything, as long as he doesn’t stop.

When Adam’s fingers dig into his aching shoulder, he groans, ends up sucking eagerly anyway. Adam lets him get away with it, too. He takes Adam’s cock as deep as he can manage without his hands to help guide it, brushfire heat breaking out all along his skin as it bumps the back of his throat, sticks there. His cock jerks, a sticky string of precome snapping and slapping back against his belly, hot wet cling. Seconds count off in his head in sluggish heartbeats. Right before Adam moves, Tommy knows he’s going to, but he’s expecting to be hauled off Adam’s dick, not driven down further on it. As Adam’s cock wedges into his throat, the urge to choke rises up fast, dies off even faster.

He can’t breathe. He can’t actually fucking breathe, can’t get away with his arms bound, with Adam’s grip twisted tight in his hair, and oh fuck, he’s gonna come.

“Not yet,” Adam hisses. He does choke then, fighting the need to cough until Adam’s dick is pressed wet and hot against his cheek. Fingers take its place, hooking over his teeth to keep mouth open as he struggles to breathe. When his tongue grazes the pads, it’s like he can feel every dip, every whorl of Adam’s fingerprints. He sucks the salt from Adam’s skin, nuzzles his face against the rough, scratchy weave of Adam’s pants. The scent of leather rises up again and he sinks down, knees spread as wide as they’ll go, to lick at Adam’s boots. Seams rough against his tongue, he wonders what the hell made him want to do that, why the sharp bite of oil in his mouth isn’t disgusting, why he can’t stop, not even when Adam tells him to.

“Oh, god, baby,” Adam says, “stay there for me. Don’t move. Please don’t move.”

Swallowing a breath as Adam moves away, Tommy realises the soft scratch against his forehead is carpet fibres. He groans, miserable at the loss of Adam’s heat, and again, shockingly honest, when the dull thud of Adam hitting the floor behind him registers. Two seconds delayed, he feels Adam’s hands on his bare ass, fingers pushing slick into the crack, up inside him. It doesn’t even seem real. It hurts and then it doesn’t and then it does again, endless feedback loop. He wants Adam to touch his dick. He wants Adam to stay far, far away from it, because the second Adam’s hand is on it, he’s going to come so hard. So fucking hard he can already taste it.

Hot through thick leather, Adam’s hand curls into his. He can’t ride Adam’s fingers like this, no leverage, his body not listening to him when he tries to make it move, but Adam’s fucking him anyway, sweet and slow and amazing. He holds onto Adam’s hand as hard as he can, pressing the shape of Adam’s fingers, knuckle and bone and flesh, into his palms. The taste ofAdam’s cock is still thick in his mouth, the feel of it, so hard and soft all at once, branded into the burn of his throat.

“Please,” he hears his own voice rasp, though it doesn’t feel like him talking at all, “please, I want it. Adam. Please.”

Through the haze in his head, he catches Adam telling him it’s okay. But it’s not. It’s fucking not okay. He wants Adam’s cock in his mouth, Adam’s come on his face, and he’s not getting it, and he fucking wants. Adam tells him easy, breathe, but how the fuck is he supposed to do that when Adam’s not fucking listening to him.

There’s a loud scuff of leather on carpet, Adam’s boots sliding past Tommy’s face, and Adam saying, “Baby, baby, c’mon,” as he stretches out on his side, curled around Tommy’s body, his leg beneath Tommy’s head to give him something to rest on so he can catch his balance. Tommy strains for Adam’s cock, catching the head between his lips and sucking the whole thing hard into his mouth. The sharp hiss of air between Adam’s teeth makes him fight to take more, struggle for it, scalp tingling from Adam’s grip holding him off. He whines and sucks harder, as hard as he fucking can, and gets a rough knot of three fingers in him up to the last knuckle instead of more dick down his throat. Sensation peaks, shining sparking incredible, so much he can’t tell one thing from the other anymore, doesn’t even try. It’s forever and no time at all before Adam drives in hard, stills and floods Tommy’s mouth full. Sometimes swallowing is a bitch and sometimes, like now, Tommy does it without thinking, not even a drop leaking free even though when he pictured this moment in his head, he had Adam’s come all over his face.

“Got you,” Adam says, smoothing back his hair, “just breathe, I’ve got you,” Adam’s heartbeat suddenly loud beneath his ear, a firm, steady rhythm for him to match. He thinks he maybe whimpers as the cord binding his arms releases, not sure if it’s disappointment or not. The manic buzz of deadened nerves coming back to life isn’t much of a relief, and he tries to squirm away as Adam massages his shoulders, his arms, making it so much worse.

One of Adam’s arms locks tight around his back. “Don’t fight me, Tommy Joe.”

Tommy sucks in air. It didn’t hurt before. Now it’s fucking killing him.

Adam keeps saying breathe slow, it’ll pass, and for a few tortured minutes, Tommy doesn’t actually believe him. Then the horrible buzzing starts to ease bit by bit, mellowing out enough for him to feel the ache of muscles used, abused, beneath it. Blinking his eyes open, he finds himself staring straight at the slant of Adam’s collarbone.

“There you are,” Adam says when he glances up. “Don’t worry about moving yet.”

Closing his eyes again, Tommy burrows sluggishly closer. He’s mostly on top of Adam, the quilt that had been on the floor draped over them both. Moving is a hell of a lot of effort. Talking’s almost as much. “How long was I under?”

“Half an hour since you came,” Adam says, combing his fingers through the hair at Tommy’s nape. “You still look like you’re pretty far in.”

“Feels it.” Oh hell, does it feel like it. Grounded so firmly, floating so far. There are times Tommy wishes he could bottle this feeling to save for later, take tiny, tiny sips when he needs it most. Usually when he does, Adam’s right here. But sometimes, life happens.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Adam promises. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not the whole weekend. I’m all yours, baby, as long as you need me.”

“Good,” Tommy says, already planning on taking a nap right here, shored up by Adam inside and out. In a few minutes, Adam’s going to haul him into bed to get a proper night’s sleep while he can. Despite him being perfectly willing to, Adam’s never let him crash for long on the floor. “Keep that schedule clear,” he mumbles. “Gonna need you a long time yet.”

–

End

–

Sam sets a six-pack of the local light lager on the counter next to Dean’s flask of cheap rye whiskey. He spares the sour middle-aged woman ringing them up a small smile and goes for his wallet. Which he finds out isn’t in his jacket pocket, or any pocket, because Dean fed it to the black dog back in Colorado that’d been trying to take a chunk out of Sam’s thigh.

On a deep sigh, Sam says, “Dean.”

Flipping intently through a magazine on the far side of the counter, Dean says, “Hm?”

“Could you get this?”

Dean grunts softly, his eyebrows coming together as he turns another page.

“Dean. Money.”

The woman’s gargoyle-nails tap out a quick rhythm on the plastic case full of scratch n’ win lottery tickets.

Plastering on a tight smile, Sam jerks Dean’s wallet out of his back pocket. He catches a glimpse of the glossy pages his brother’s staring at and rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Like you don’t get enough.”

“No such thing, Sammy,” Dean says, tossing the cashier a casual wink.

She doesn’t look impressed, but she takes the crumpled, smoke-stained twenty Sam hands over and slaps his miniscule change on the plastic.

“Thanks,” Sam says, carefully tugging the brown bag out of her reach. “Have a nice evening.”

Distractedly, Dean scoops up the coins one-handed and tucks them in his jeans pocket. “Don’t mind him,” he says, barely glancing up from the two-page spread he’s got folded over that doesn’t leave a damn thing to the imagination. “He’s got this thing about paper cuts.”

With a merry tinkling of the bell, Sam lets the door swing shut in Dean’s face.

Sam steals the rest of the pillows from the other bed before flopping down next to him, the greasy pizza box open between their hips. “D’you have all the beer?”

Dean jerks his gaze away from the magazine he’d tossed at the foot of the bed. The cover is bright and garish, a woman with a red-painted mouth offering up a set of fairly high-end fake tits. Sam wonders if she tried to write them off as a business expense.

Belatedly, Dean says, “Yeah, sorry,” and slaps a cold one into Sam’s outstretched hand. “What’s with you and the local shit?” He slumps lower on the bed, one foot slipping to the floor as his legs sprawl wide. There’s no mistaking the heavy bulge of his dick.

“Dunno.” Cracking the top on the edge of the scarred nightstand, Sam helps himself to a healthy swig. It’s not so bad, just a little too much on the woody side for his taste. “What’s with you and the porn?”

The two spots of colour high on Dean’s cheeks deepen but his smile stays steady. The lamplight catches on the tiny bit of grease smeared at the corner of his lips. “Paper pussy’s the only kind I’m gettin’ these days.”

Sam takes another longer pull on the bottle. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was playing games, but that’s just not the way they do this. It’s one of the things Sam was so startled to find turned him on. There’s something to be said for Dean being perpetually horny and up-front about it.

“Are you trying to tell me you’d like to go pick up a girl for a threesome?”

After a two-second delay, Dean’s laugh echoes sharp and happy. “Knew you were a kinky son of a bitch.”

Absently picking at the label with one blunt nail, Sam says, “Well, are you?”

“Why, you honestly up for it?”

Sam gives that a moment’s serious thought. The idea’s pretty hot, and it’s not like he’s afraid of the damage some random girl could do (wasn’t even really afraid of that before he found out what the inside of Dean’s mouth tasted like). “Maybe,” he ventures. “Not tonight.”

Dean slaps his knee, says, “Atta boy,” and Sam figures that’s the end of it. He wipes his fingers on his jeans, poking at a bit of cheese stuck between his teeth with his tongue because it’s sorta rude to suck somebody off with food in your mouth.

Unless that’s their thing. Sam’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t secretly harbour a food fetish, no matter how worked up he gets over a mini cheesesteak.

But Dean’s gaze has wandered back to the magazine, with occasional, uninterested glances at the television. His breaths are quick and shallow, a dark flush creeping out from under the worn collar of his tee. When Sam nudges the pizza box aside and slides a hand up between Dean’s legs to get his attention, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, forcing out the laugh caught behind the lump in his throat. “You want a girl that bad?”

“Nah.” Dean tilts his hips into the press of Sam’s cupped hand, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks everywhere but the magazine and Sam.

“So.” Slowly, Sam traces up the length of Dean’s fly, just hard enough to follow the curve of his dick to the head. Dean’s eyes threaten to close as he rubs tiny, deliberate circles around the ridge, and that combined is almost enough to make Sam forget what the hell he was going to say. “What’s with the magazine?”

Dean’s hips jerk and his eyes squeeze shut. Both of Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that his brother’s maybe oversexed and responsive as fuck (which is hot as fuck), but Jesus.

Sam’s nail scrapes hard over denim. “Dean?”

“Page fourteen,” Dean blurts, smoothly rolling off the bed and grabbing the empty ice bucket on his way. He scrubs a hand over his hair all the way down to the back of his neck. “I wanna do that. Gonna get some ice,” he says, and bolts.

Blankly, Sam echoes, “Ice?” and the television helpfully answers that tomorrow’s low is going to be fifty-two.

Clambering up to his knees, Sam makes a grab for the magazine. “Fourteen, fourteen,” he mutters, absently rising to pace a rapid circuit from the foot of the bed to the dresser as he flips through page after page of pierced nipples and shaved cunts. He hits the end of the magazine, staring at it dumbly before quickly flipping back.

It’s actually page fourteen and fifteen. One giant closeup.

Then he figures out what the hell he’s looking at and hits the bed like a sack of potatoes.

“Okay,” he says, just to make sure his voice doesn’t squeak. “Right. Sure, Dean. Sure.” Casting a wary glance at the door, Sam scrubs first one palm and then the other dry on his jeans, careful to not drop the magazine. It’ll be at least ten, fifteen minutes before Dean wanders back, sheepish grin warring with that hopeful, eager light in his eyes.

The laptop boots up with a hiccupping whirr. Crossing his fingers, Sam starts poking around for unsecured wireless. It only takes him about a minute to find what he’s looking for. Hunkering down, one hand pressed to the insistent throb of his dick, he starts reading.

It ends up being more like twenty minutes before the knob clicks and Dean eels his way inside. He takes one look at the laptop and the abandoned magazine and his shoulders slump.

Before Dean can slap on some bravado, Sam asks, “You sure?”

The half-empty ice bucket thunks on the smaller table near the door. “Wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t.”

Carefully, since one hard thought might be enough to have Sam cream himself at this point, he stands, starts backing Dean up against the locked door. “So you’ve thought about it. A lot.”

Dean goes easy, one hand coming up to curl solid and warm on Sam’s waist like a habit. “Enough. Got some chafing there, Sammy?”

Sam lifts his arms, bracketing Dean as he flattens his hands on bubbled paint. He shakes his head once, letting a tiny smile quirk the corner of his mouth.

Dean swallows, flashing the sharp white edges of his teeth before they catch briefly on the softness of his lower lip. “Too kinky for you?”

Fingers hooked in Dean’s empty beltloops, Sam jerks him away from the door and shoves him right back up against it, face-first. He fumbles the zip the first time, wrenches it hard enough to hear the catch and grind of metal teeth the second. Dean sucks in a breath that’s half-laugh, half-moan when Sam grabs him by the pockets and yanks his jeans straight down to his ankles in one go.

Sam’s got a couple things he might want to say, mostly about Dean’s methods of communication, but now that he’s on his knees and Dean’s shuffling back, boots inching further and further apart, it doesn’t seem all that important.

Brushing a light, brief kiss to the dip of Dean’s spine, Sam says, “Both hands.”

On a rough noise, Dean reaches back, long fingers dark against the pale skin of his ass, and spreads himself wide. Sam has to swallow twice to get his heart back where it belongs, eyes fixed on the pink flush of Dean’s hole. Dean doesn’t have much in the way of shame or interest in playing hard to get, but Sam’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother go this easily without at least a couple minutes heavy screwing around.

“How long have you been thinking about it?” Sam slides his hands up the insides of Dean’s thighs again, framing Dean’s sac with his palms and his thumbs stretched out, barely brushing the tight rim. It feels dirty as fuck to just sit there and watch it twitch.

“Few days, maybe,” Dean says, low and too steady. There’s precome already smearing the head of his cock and Sam hasn’t even really touched him yet. “Sam, c’mon.”

“What?” Gently, Sam thumbs dry at Dean’s hole, leans in close enough to let his breath tease. “This?”

Dean’s fist thumps against the door. “Yes, fuck, that.”

Sam swallows again, mouth suddenly Sahara-dry. “You clean?”

Above him, Dean freezes. A sound sort of like a laugh leads into, “Why’d you think I took that shower?”

The image of Dean locked away in the bathroom actually preparing for this pulls a low sound out of Sam’s gut. He breathes slow and deep, air saturated with the warmth of Dean’s skin filling his lungs. “What’d you use? And don’t move your hand,” he adds, dropping a quick kiss to tightly-clenched muscle.

“What d’ya mean, what’d I use?” Dean twists to glance down, meets Sam’s gaze. “I- Jesus Christ, Sam, just my fingers, what else was I supposed to do?”

Sam lets out a hot, gusty breath that makes Dean’s skin prickle into gooseflesh. “C’mon,” he says, standing up to grip the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Bathroom.”

Warily, Dean says, “What for?”

“To do this right,” Sam says, tugging Dean steadily across the room by whatever grip he can get and keep on the shambles of Dean’s clothes. Halfway through wrestling Dean out of his shirt, Sam stops to kiss him again, this one hard clash of teeth and tongue that knocks Dean back a step. When Sam breaks free, Dean’s lips are as flushed red as his cheeks.

“Shoulda confiscated the laptop,” Dean mutters, shrugging the rest of the way out of his button-down.

I’ll make it good Sam wants to say. But the truth is, the hot lump sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach isn’t so sure. Dean might’ve just looked at that magazine and thought hey, hot without thinking about why.

Sam’s thought about why quite a bit in the last half hour.

“Take off your boots.” Sam grabs the hem of Dean’s tee to haul it off. Dean stumbles again and tosses him a look that might’ve been irritated except for the grin that won’t wipe clean. “In the tub.”

“Not that I got a problem with marathoning it or- Christ, Sam, what the hell?”

Following Dean’s gaze, Sam shrugs. “Short notice.”

Cautiously, Dean wanders over to poke the thin hose draped over the edge of the rust-pocked tub. “Short notice for what? Perfecting your siphoning technique for the national gas shortage?”

A tiny sparking thrill lights at the base of Sam’s spine. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely at the tub before pushing the ratty curtain aside. The smallest of their holy water jugs sits empty beneath the leaky faucet, hose jabbed into a hole cut on one side and sealed as tightly as Sam could manage. “It’s the pre-game show?” he ventures.

Dean’s mouth works soundlessly as a dark flush creeps steadily up his chest. The fluttering heat in Sam’s stomach flares. “Are you serious?”

“As you are.”

Another few seconds of loaded silence, then, “That’s… pretty kinky.”

Relief surges druglike through Sam’s veins. “Boots,” he repeats, busying himself with searching through the sparse stack of towels for the least threadbare one. By the time he turns around to spread it over the tub’s chipped enamel, his hands have stopped shaking.

Dean steps into the tub, hesitating before Sam says, “On your knees, facing away from the tap.”

“Just what kinda sites did you hit for info, Sammy?”

Sam smoothes his hand up Dean’s spine, wetting his lips at the rippling shiver that follows in his wake. “Good ones,” Sam answers, his smile strong in his voice. He splays his hand wide between the sharp lines of Dean’s shoulder blades. “Chest down.”

“Ass up, legs wide? Coulda just told me to assume the position,” Dean says, joke falling short on a hitching breath as Sam pushes.

Settling down on his own knees, Sam lets his fingers drift back down Dean’s side, dip just under the curve of his ass and up between the cheeks. “I guess that means you don’t need me to talk you through this.”

There’s a half-second delay that says this has gone pretty far beyond what Dean had in mind. But he says, “You want to talk dirty, be my guest.”

Releasing a slow breath, Sam gets some slick on his fingers and goes right back to where he left off, one fingertip at Dean’s hole with only a touch of pressure. With his mouth trailing wet almost-kisses up to the red-hot shell of Dean’s ear, Sam says, “You’re really gonna let me do this, huh. Clean you out before putting my whole fist up inside you.”

Dean exhales loudly at the harder press of Sam’s finger, twisting as if to glance up and thinking better of it. “Yeah, guess so.”

“You know what that’s going to feel like?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean’s teeth scrape his lip. Leaning closer, Sam slips his free hand down Dean’s chest, feels him tense in anticipation of it wrapped firmly around his cock. Sam stops just before the dark hair low on Dean’s belly fans out in neatly-trimmed lines, spreading his fingers wide.

“Right there,” Sam says, the stubble on Dean’s cheek rough against his mouth. Two fingers sink easily into slippery heat, but it’s the push of his hand against flat stomach muscles that earns him an eager twitch of Dean’s cock. “That’s where I’m gonna be.”

“Not if you don’t fuckin’ get on with it, you won’t.”

Any other time, that’d be enough to tempt Sam to call the whole thing off. It isn’t the fact that this is probably as willing as Dean’s ever going to be, or that quitting now would make it harder for Dean to ask next time he wants something not so vanilla. It’s not even the selfish ache in his dick to see his brother split wide open and vulnerable.

The wet noise of his fingers pulling free echoes obscenely loud on the cracked tile. He reaches for the hose and turns the taps on slow, checking the temp a couple times to make sure. Trailing a dripping hand across Dean’s ass, hoping like hell his voice doesn’t crack like he’s just hit puberty for round two, Sam asks, “You ready?”

“Go for it.”

Water trickles clear and clean from the free end of the hose as Sam experimentally lifts the jug. It takes him a couple tries to force words past the thick lump in his throat. “Tell me if it’s too fast.”

“Sam.”

“I’m serious.”

When the water flows warm across Dean’s ass, following the same path of Sam’s hand, Dean jerks. Heat prickles under Sam’s skin, spreading out from the twisting coil low in his belly. One small shift has the flow spilling straight over Dean’s hole, washing away the slick.

Sam inches closer until his knees bang against the side of the tub. He plugs the end of the hose with his thumb, awkwardly smearing lube around it one-handed, obsessively checking for all the nicks he’d already smoothed away. “Dean,” he says, two parts warning, one part request.

“Okay, I’ll-”

“Tell me how it feels,” Sam cuts in. The black rubber is stark and cruel-looking against Dean’s flushed skin. “I want to know.”

Less harsh, Dean says, “Okay,” and drops his head down, forehead cushioned on a loose fist. “Just- Quit making me wait.”

Watching Dean open up around that slim bit of hose, hearing the way his breath skips a beat, sends a throbbing rush straight to Sam’s cock. He palms the cheek of Dean’s ass, meant it to be soothing but ends up being all about pulling him open, seeing the clutch of tight muscle force the hose out just to slide it back in deeper.

“God.” Scrubbing his mouth dry on the back of his wrist, Sam snatches up the jug again. “God, Dean, you gotta ease up.”

Dean shakes his head, grunts, “Don’t warn me. Just do it.”

That’s not a good idea and Sam knows it, knows he’s lying to himself when he thinks okay, but only because Dean wants it, because it’s that he wants it. Wants to hear the shock, see it in the startled flex-shift of muscle.

Sam rubs the edge of his thumb around the stretch of Dean’s hole, holding off as long as he can. It’s only a few seconds before impatience shows in the set of Dean’s shoulders. Before he turns, Sam shifts the jug higher, eyes darting between the water level and Dean’s flushed face.

It’s only the span of a heartbeat but feels like a molasses-thick eternity before Dean breathes out, “Christ.”

“Okay?”

“Fucked up, Sammy,” Dean says, shifting restlessly. He eases forward a few more inches on his elbows, stretching his back into a long, sinuous line. Sam nearly drops the whole works. “This is real fucked up.”

Sam breathes his agreement, not sure he could actually form words. The water’s draining faster than it really should. He tries to gauge how much Dean can take and bites off a groan as he fidgets again, muttering curses.

Hoping it isn’t, Sam asks, “Too much?”

“S’okay.”

“Then clench.”

“Wha- fuck.” A fresher, darker flush explodes on the back of Dean’s neck. “Jesus Christ.”

“You said not to warn you.” Sam tugs the hose the rest of the way free and lets it drop, getting both hands back on Dean’s ass to pull him open, take a nice, long look at his hole gone red and desperately tight. One gentle stroke of his fingertips has Dean hissing in warning.

Sucking in a harsh answering breath, Sam says, “You can hold it,” and leaves two fingers pressed firmly to Dean’s hole. His other hand slides down, and he’s squirming as much as Dean is, cock a heavy throbbing weight, when his fingers skim over the slight rise of Dean’s stomach, press lightly against it.

Dean says, “Don’t.”

“You can hold it,” Sam repeats, pressing harder, spitting a single reverent curse over Dean’s sharp gasp. “You can, do it for me.”

Sam flattens his hand to Dean’s sweat-damp skin, rolling the heel against the liquid fullness. A warm trickle of water over his other fingers accompanies another sharp noise and half-hearted attempt to squirm away from the pressure.

Shakily, Dean asks, “You getting off on this?”

Darting a quick glance up, Sam says, “Fuck, yes,” unable to stop himself from rolling his hand a little harder or the greedy noise it yanks out of his throat. “Stand up.”

Dean’s breaths turn quick and shallow, panic-edged, as he shuffles one foot under himself. “Can’t,” he pants. “What for?”

“You’re not letting go in there.” Sam hooks a hand under Dean’s armpit and steps to the side, clearing the way to the toilet. “C’mon.”

Fingers scrabbling at the smooth tile, Dean tries to jerk out of Sam’s grasp, breath hissing glass-sharp between his teeth. “Don’t need an audience.”

And maybe Sam should feel bad about the high-pitched, shocky noise bouncing of the walls when he slaps his hand flat to Dean’s belly. Maybe he would, if it weren’t for the haze filling up his head.

With one hand fisted at the base of Dean’s spine, Sam forces him closer, palm pressing harder against him bit by bit. Sam feels more than hears the groan building up low in his throat. The sweat slicking Dean’s neck tingles against his lips as he pulls Dean out of the tub, turns to back him up one unsteady step after another.

“But you’ve got one.”

“This is seriously fucked up,” Dean says, his voice already ragged like morning-after. He resists the weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder, his eyes gone almost totally black when they focus on Sam’s face. “Sam, this isn’t-”

The rest Sam forces him to bite back, first with his tongue stilling Dean’s, then his knuckles digging into soft, vulnerable flesh. “You asked for it,” Sam says, putting more weight on both his hands, not worried that it’s only a half-truth, not quite comfortable that the sound Dean makes is more like pain but it sings as sweet as sin in his ears.

“I put it in you, you push it out. That’s it.” Under Sam’s insistent hands, Dean’s knees buckle slowly, his hands grabbing for support in pure reflex. “Just finish this for me.”

Dean grates out, “Should make you promise,” which is more like surrender than he probably thinks it is, and stares resolutely at the dirty grout on the floor.

Dean’s hair is almost too short for it but Sam finds enough to fist, jerking Dean’s head back up and pulling him forward until his chin rests on Sam’s belly, right above the open buckle of his belt. “Don’t look away.”

The moment stretches long enough for Sam to think he’s fucked it all up, then Dean curses low and quiet like he’d look away if only Sam let him. But he doesn’t break the hold Sam’s got on him, doesn’t even try, not once. Water streams out of his body, emptying out in one continuous rush, background noise. The heat pouring off him sears Sam’s skin.

It’s finally Sam manhandling him back to the side of the tub that makes him look away, holding him, pinned back to chest, to clean him off with one of the tattered washcloths.

When Sam rinses the cloth for the last time, Dean’s head is still bowed. The lube’s where Sam left it, balanced on the very edge near the faucet. He snatches it up, flicks open the top and aim’s a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.

At the first touch of Sam’s fingers pushing back between his legs, Dean’s shoulders hunch. “Sam,” he says, voice cracked and raw. On one slow push, his spine arches.

Sam closes his eyes, narrowing his focus down to how easily Dean takes the slow, steady thrust of two fingers right to the first knuckle, the pliant weight of his brother in his arms. Drug-heady warmth swims up through him like a current.

Dean stumbles crossing the threshold. Another thrill spikes into Sam’s gut, pleasure sharp and real as a strong-fingered hand squeezing tight around his dick. He steers Dean towards the bed, caught up in the sloppy half-kisses they’re sharing and the breakneck rush screaming through his head. They’re really going to do it. Dean’s going to let him.

“Up on your knees,” he says, crushed-gravel rough. “Like in the bathroom.”

Slow as honey, Dean crawls up the bed, tucks his arms beneath his forehead. With anybody else, it’d be a show, deliberate and a little cheap. Somehow, Dean just makes it honest.

“You wanna see,” he says, not really a question no matter the hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Sam kneels, still in his jeans because he can’t risk the temptation. Soft, scarred skin is familiar under his hands but somehow new, different. Like it’s the first time he’s really touched Dean when he already has every ridge and dip and stretch memorised. He should be grateful Dean trusts him this much but all he feels is power-drunk and not nearly wary enough of it.

Lube squelches between his fingers, glistens all the way up to his wrist. Before the taste of it mars Dean’s skin, he bends down, tongues one sweet kiss to pinkened flesh. Dean’s almost too clean. The lack of salt-sweat heaviness in Sam’s mouth makes him want to stop right here, rim Dean until he’s slicked and senseless.

Dean takes both of his forefingers with barely a sound, saving a whimper-hiss of breath for when he pulls them apart, opening Dean up to his tongue. Lube smears Sam’s chin, wet, cool. The heat inside Dean burns his lips, leaves them tingling and alive when he draws back to see how wide Dean’ll willingly spread for him.

“Harder if you want,” Dean says. His body is tense, anticipating. Pleading. Sam gives him three, pulls against the tight flesh of his hole and his back bows again, a hitching moan spilled out onto the sheets.

A flash of blood-rich, pink inner flesh drags a lower, deeper sound out of Sam. “More?” he asks, giving up the sight to feel Dean clench around the knot of his fingers. Dean’s body clings to them, greedy and not yet loose enough for the flirt of a fourth. But Dean takes it anyway, jerking and cursing at the slightest twitch of Sam’s hand between shallow, panting breaths.

Sam pushes up to the wide set of his knuckles, pausing there, waiting with a breath held on the teetering edge. Teeth sinking into his lip, he eases off, listens to the rustle of Dean wiping sweat from his face onto the sheets. Again and again, fucking slowly up to his knuckles and back, Sam waits for Dean to say yes, go, do it, but all he gets are noises lodged like smouldering coals in the base of his brain.

“Dean,” he says, smoothing a hand up the too-sharp curve of Dean’s spine, “tell me you’re ready. Fuck, tell me, I want-”

“You want,” Dean cuts him off, like he’s going to finish the sentence, but says, “Please, please, c’mon.” His hands are curled into claws, sunk deep in the pillows. The long stretch of his arms tremble. “Asked for it, didn’t I.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Yeah, you did,” and he squeezes his thumb in tight to his fingers, watches slack-jawed and so hungry for it his whole body aches, throbs in time to the beat of all his blood pounding south. The world spins around him, and he can only imagine how it tilts for Dean.

At the base of his thumb, Dean’s body seizes up, stopping him short. Dean’s saying, “C’mon, please, c’mon,” rocking back into it, taking bit by tiny bit. A hand on his ass barely even slows him down and Sam thinks about pulling away, going slower, but it’s like Dean’s the one inside him driving him on, owning him.

When Dean’s body finally gives, opening up to let Sam’s hand sink in to his wrist, his rough curse is weaker than a whisper and completely drowned out by the thick, bone-deep groan drawn so damn slow out of Dean’s throat. For a long minute, Sam can’t even move, frozen with a hand buried in his brother’s guts and eyes glued to the fitful twitch of his red-swollen hole.

Reverently, barely aware he’s doing it and powerless to stop once he is, Sam’s free hand runs up and down Dean’s thighs, trails across his lower back and his ass, over and over. He eases another fraction of an inch deeper, pressing from the outside against Dean’s stomach, desperate to curl his hand into a fist to feel it.

Another fraction, and another, almost his whole wrist and Dean says, flimsy as slashed ribbons, “Wait, god, wait.”

Bending forward to press a kiss to the centre of Dean’s back gains Sam another grudging millimetre. He says, “Dean,” like a prayer and starts to spread his fingers, drowning in the impossible heat pressed so snugly around them.

“Wait,” Dean hisses. “Not yet, not yet, let me.”

“Let you?” Sam croaks out, his own arm starting to shake. “Fuck, okay, okay, just-” He fumbles the bottle the first time, nearly drops it a second after he flicks at the cap with his thumbnail. He slicks lube about a third of the way up his forearm, so much it drips to the sheets, pools at his wrist to drip slowly down to Dean’s balls hanging heavy between his legs. “Okay?”

Dean’s answer is one hand slapping against the headboard, skidding wildly from the sweat on his palm until he reaches the edge to grip. Between sharp gasps, he spits, “Now. Now, now, now,” fucking himself back onto Sam’s arm. He can’t mean what Sam thinks, just can’t, but he says, “Sam,” like he knows exactly what’s going through Sam’s head.

Painfully slowly, afraid to feel Dean break from the inside even while he craves it, while the shift of muscle to accommodate him makes him need it, Sam curls his fingers one by one into a fist. Dean stills instantly, head tossed back, eyes screwed shut. His mouth is open on a scream that’s silent until Sam rotates his wrist, pushing against the walls of Dean’s body, and even then it barely ekes out, high and breathless.

Sam gropes for Dean’s cock, finds it hot and slick enough that for a second, he thinks Dean’s already gotten off, but Dean’s still hard, rutting hesitantly into Sam’s grip.

Fucking asking permission.

Words slurred against the soft, vulnerable spot above Dean’s kidney, Sam says, “Tell me.” Dean gasps out a garbled answer, jerking from the scrape of Sam’s teeth. “Tell me.”

“Aches,” Dean blurts. “Too deep, fuck, it aches. Feel it everywhere.”

Biting viciously hard at the inside of his lip, Sam asks, “Too much?”

Dean shakes his head on another broken moan. “Not enough, almost. I, Sam-”

It is too much. Sam knows that. Even split wide open and nearly incoherent, Dean knows it, too. So that doesn’t explain why Sam braces his hand between the sharp jut of Dean’s shoulder blades, why he puts all his weight behind his shoulder and shoves, buries his arm inside Dean up to the shiny line of slick. Or why this shattered, cracked-glass noise breaks on the pillows when Sam starts reclaiming his hand, the widest part lodged against Dean’s abused hole when his brother comes in thick, jerking waves all over the sex-stained sheets.

Dean goes limp the moment Sam’s hand is free, barely caught in time from cracking his head on the bed. “Christ,” Sam says, tugging him backwards, “Dean, roll over, Jesus Christ, I have to-”

Dean goes bonelessly willing onto his back, his eyes glazed and heavy, dark. His fingers are slippery with his own come as he cups his balls, reaches beneath to lift them out of the way, guide Sam’s eye to the prize.

Sam doesn’t even have to slick himself up, just rips at his jeans, lines up and sinks right in. It’s like nothing else, hot and slippery and so fucking loose, soft flesh clutching at him with each of Dean’s ragged breaths. He edges his fingers back down Dean’s thigh, barely imagines what it’s going to feel like before he forces his fingers in next to his cock and Dean’s legs just fall open wider, yielding.

White-hot pleasure slams like a sucker punch. He feels Dean tense up, deliberately try to drag it out. The highway traffic rushing by only a few dozen feet away is drowned out by his heaving breaths synching up with Dean’s.

He eases himself down, tucking his arms under Dean’s shoulders, his forehead against the beat of Dean’s pulse. Dean’s skin tastes of sweat and sex again, rich and perfect. Sam licks it from his skin, then from his lips. Dean’s kisses are languid, heavy and drugged as the banked light in his eyes.

Sam almost asks if Dean got what he wanted, just to hear him say it, but doesn’t really have to. What he is going to ask, just as soon as he can, is that next time Dean wants something, maybe he could be a little less of an ass about it.

–

End

–

Warning prickles the back of Daken’s neck the second he steps inside his room. As the door slides quietly shut, he tilts his head up to aim a smile at Mac lurking on the ceiling above it. “Hello. Forget which room is yours again?”

Mac’s alien eyes narrow. It’s fascinating to watch the symbiote twist to fit human facial expressions. Even with only half a face to work with Mac is surprisingly more expressive than most. Lester has the market on malicious, generally accompanied by disgust or glee, but Mac manages to pack a wary, hungry sort of angry hope all in the shape of his eyes.

“I see,” Daken says, unbuttoning his vest as he crosses to the bathroom. The whisper of Mac creeping along directly above his head brings a slow curl of satisfaction. Osborn’s grown lax on his iron throne. Mac may be as loyal as a dog but he’s a dog that must be fed. Osborn is never willing to give up a pound of his own flesh.

Cool water splashes into the sink as Mac crawls over the top of the doorframe. Daken wets his face and runs damp palms back over his hair. “Which is it tonight?”

Mac makes a noise tinged with the symbiote’s hunger. His tongue snakes out as he drops lightly down, body bulking up to fill the doorway. He’s slowly beginning to understand what the symbiote has always known. Unlike the games with Mac’s hookers, this one doesn’t end.

Lifting a brow, Daken puts a hand to his belt. An eager ripple goes through Mac and spills out in the symbiote’s thick cordite scent. His clawed grip splinters the heavy granite counter. He says, “I’m hungry,” like a plea, repeating it over and over as he prowls across the tile. Slivers of his humanity peel away with each piece of clothing Daken drops to the floor. He looms behind Daken in the mirror, big hands closing carefully over his arms, claws pricking along ink and tongue chasing after the water trickling down his neck.

The symbiote quivers as Daken sinks back against him. That same quiver finds its way into Daken’s belly as tendrils separate from Mac’s hands to flow thickly down to cover his arms, heavy as tar but smooth, slick. It tightens its hold slowly, drawing his arms back until his wrists meet, then his elbows, then tighter still, every inch gained perfectly timed. It possibly knows his body as well as it knows Mac’s by now, and he wonders at times why it hasn’t tried to bond with him. Either it prefers what he can do for Mac like this or–and most likely–it knows something he doesn’t. He tips his head back to look Mac in the face instead of the mirror. “Is this your way of telling me you’re feeling playful?”

Mac’s response is a slow curl of tongue up the centre of his chest, a tingle like rubbing alcohol evaporating from his skin in its wake. The shiver that follows isn’t faked. Neither is the soft moan that accompanies it. As practical a tool as sex is, there’s no reason to not enjoy it when the opportunity is there, and Mac is the most interesting fuck he’s ever had. Definitely the most interesting thing he’s ever controlled.

The symbiote stays clamped tightly around his arms, shifting with a fitful eagerness as Mac’s hands slide down to cup the backs of his bare thighs. He spreads his legs easily enough, not as desperate as Mac for the main event but certainly as willing. Keeping his claws sheathed as he’s lifted from the floor requires a bit more effort, Mac’s strange silence needling under his skin.

A quick swipe from the symbiote knocks the few bottles on the counter aside, a few tumbling into the sink as Mac grates a contrite noise, but he doesn’t stop until Daken’s settled onto the counter, balance precarious with his arms bound behind his back and his knees spread wide on either side of the sink. Thin ropy tendrils snake out to loop over his calves, thickening to anchor him in place as smaller pieces creep up over his knees, webbing out along his thighs like veins. He glances up from their progress to take in his reflection. The brush of the symbiote weaving across his belly is like walking through a spider’s web but firmer, strong enough to catch and hold. It flutters teasingly over his cock before pinning it. It’s provocative, full of a brutal sensuality. “Mac,” he says slowly, a fond, teasing lilt that he knows Mac doesn’t want to like, “you’ve been holding out on me.”

Crooked teeth scrape the tight bunch of Daken’s shoulder blades. The symbiote adjusts seamlessly as he bends forward, inviting the hot slick of Mac’s tongue to sweep lower. A slight shift in his scent would hurry this along but Mac hasn’t needed that extra nudge for weeks. He stretches his fingers out, tips barely grazing the curve of Mac’s cock still covered. He flexes his hands, encouraging them to let it free for him to jack, but instead of Mac’s dick pushing hotly between his palms it’s cotton-thin strands of the symbiote twining around his fingers. A flutter at the corner of his lips prompts him to open his mouth. He doesn’t expect the invitation to go ignored. Anticipation buzzes through his blood like little flies trapped in Mac’s webs. He’s honestly curious which one of them, symbiote or Mac, is calling the shots here. Neither has an impressive track record with delayed gratification.

“I realise you get confused sometimes but I promise, it’s very straight forward.” Daken strokes his thumbs over the symbiote quivering between his knuckles. It seems to enjoy the threat of his claws pushing up the beneath skin. “Fuck me or eat me, Mac.”

Mac’s joyful screech ricochets off the polished tiles. His hand clamps to Daken’s jaw, thumb and forefinger almost as large as his face, and wrenches his head back so quickly the symbiote surges to keep him anchored. A kiss wasn’t quite what Daken was expecting, and it isn’t quite what he gets either; without the teeth Mac’s lips are latex-slick, his tongue hot and thick as it pushes into Daken’s mouth, strangely textured, purely alien. As clearly as if it’d been spoken aloud it says the kiss was the symbiote’s idea. It’s genuine in a way Mac isn’t, eager to please. Simply eager in all things, as if its lust for life doesn’t stop at things made of flesh and blood.

His idea or not, Mac enjoys it just the same, grinding against Daken’s hands when the symbiote allows them to curl over his cock. The shape of Mac’s mouth shifts slowly while they’re still pressed tightly together, one type of monster sinking into another. Teeth pricking at Daken’s lips brings up a moan that Mac licks straight off his tongue. Good isn’t the right word for a kiss from Venom. Thrilling maybe, like staring down the barrel of a gun, standing at the edge of a cliff. A match in one hand and gasoline in the other.

Cooler air rushes in as Mac draws away, his tongue lengthening to keep the tip tracing along the slack line of Daken’s mouth, and a hot puff of breath forcing the chill away again as it flicks at his jaw, his ear, the slope of his throat before it wriggles bizarrely beneath the heavy fall of his hair. His gaze jumps back to the mirror to watch it wrap around his neck, thick coils shifting restlessly, glistening in the bright track of lights.

His stomach swoops south as the symbiote pulses. He doesn’t have the leverage to get free if it tries something this time. His control is best through Mac but even as drenched as he is in Daken’s power, it takes more time than the few seconds the symbiote would need to bond. Mac hisses a pleased noise in his ear as his heart rate climbs and the symbiote spreads like an oil slick into the gaps where his skin shows through its tendrils. It flows over and through the coils of Mac’s tongue, an endless shifting mottle until it reaches his face, stopping so close to his eyes it brushes his lashes when he looks down. The shadows make it impossible to tell where he ends and Mac begins.

One second drags into the next. It fits as closely as a second skin, alive and thrumming with power, pulsing in time to his speeding heart. It’s crawling with impatience, pricking straight through skin to graze raw nerves. The sensation is incredible on his cock, tightening his muscles as it drags on, his thighs beginning to shake.

“Gotta feed it.” Mac’s low chuckle at the jolt he gives when the pleasure peaks feels like dry sand whispering though his bones. “You make it hungry, you gotta feed us. You have to feed us. Feed us,” Mac repeats, the words slipping from the symbiote itself, stripped of humanity to leave it shrilly resonating. His claws join with and then sink through the symbiote covering Daken’s thighs, piercing the skin beneath. It barely registers over the tightening of Mac’s tongue around his throat until the symbiote penetrates the wounds, burning like gasoline through raw flesh. A scream lodges in Daken’s throat, caught on the breath he can’t draw. Mac chokes it to nothing as the symbiote wriggles deeper.

The steady build of pressure in his head fights the squeezing pressure in his chest. A lick of black at the corners of his vision makes him think the symbiote has crept across his eyes. He blinks it away and it comes crawling back, speckled with starbursts. Distant pain bursts along his arms; the tips of his claws skim through the symbiote as it parts, then crawls up their ragged edges through the split of his skin, up into his arms. The black surges up to blind him.

Mac makes a harsh cooing noise as a sliver of air trickles down his throat. He slumps in the symbiote’s hold, eyes squeezed tightly shut against a wave of lightheaded relief. The symbiote gives an interested twitch, rippling against his cock and Mac makes that same sound again, deeper in his throat. Through the pounding in his head Daken hears him say, “Smells so good, do it again,” and the symbiote presses slick and gentle to his hole, slides easily up inside him. It grows thicker as it rubs against his prostate, another jolt of too-sharp sensation followed by the slow spreading ache of it sinking further, splitting to twist like fingers. He slowly opens his eyes, not at all certain if it’ll be Mac or the black insides of the symbiote he’ll find.

“There he is,” Mac murmurs, the shape of his hands forming in the black coating Daken’s chest. They skim down like a wave beneath the surface to frame his dick as the symbiote fucks up into him, pulling him into a slow, rolling rhythm that turns Mac’s heavy breaths short. He doesn’t think before triggering a fresh spill of pheromones into the air. They never reach it, instead sinking directly into the symbiote. It jitters the same as if he’d taken a live wire to it and Mac lets loose with a grinding screech, savagely pounds into him.

He keeps his body lax, pliable, and Mac’s hold on his throat stays loose. The gentle shifting of their reflections doesn’t at all match the roil of sensation inside him. The vague suggestion of a hand strokes along his dick, a low-grade buzz next to the constant dig of the symbiote into wounds it won’t allow to heal. If they expect him to get off, this isn’t going to cut it, and that’s not how this goes. It always goes the way Daken wants.

Mac’s vicious grin scrapes from his neck to his shoulders. The symbiote’s steady thrum pitches higher, sounding more like an instrument out of tune than something alive. He feeds them another spill of pheromones and watches it shudder in violent glee. Mac’s rhythm changes immediately in response, a reward of real pleasure instead of being used simply for their own. An unsteady laugh leaks through the smile that bares his teeth at Mac’s reflection. They have learned something from him after all.

He gives it more of what it wants and Mac starts mumbling nonsense at him, praises that sound like pleas and demands for more, half-finished promises and a steady loop back to how good he is to them, how good they can be. It stinks like love and devotion, of hungry desperate obsession, and Daken moans for them, tilts his head back and licks at the slippery length of Mac’s tongue.

Black spills into his mouth. He jerks back, resisting the urge to try to scrape it off his tongue. He can’t hold back a flinch when it flows up over his nose and covers his eyes. His throat locks up on instinct to save the scrap of air left in his lungs. Mac laughs at him, that same grating laugh as always, but this time he hears it scraping the inside of his skull. There’s no air, no light, no scent except the endless suffocating outpour of all the things the symbiote wants and needs and will destroy worlds to give him. He can have everything they are as long as they can have this one little slice of him. It muffles the wretched sound that tries to push up out of his chest, forcing him to the peak of orgasm and holding him there twisting and writhing and unable to draw a breath until he simply gives up trying. Yes, echoes in his head, yes, yes and yes, and it isn’t really a word he’s hearing at all.

He comes back from the edge of nothing to the harsh glare of simulated light with Mac’s cheek pressed to his side and the symbiote receding like the tide. It lingers in gentle lover’s caresses, gradually slinking back to leave only Mac’s hands stroking long lines down his thighs, easily supporting most of his weight. The aches they’ve left behind are already fading.

Very calmly, Daken asks, “What did you do?”

His head darting back, Mac says, “I didn’t do anything. Didn’t even fuckin’ take a chunk outta you like I wanted.”

Daken trails his fingertips across the back of Mac’s restless hands. Mac doesn’t notice. “Why didn’t you?”

A paper-cut thin line of red slices a smile across Mac’s face. “Got something better.”

–

End