bandom fic: An Illustrated Guide
Title: An Illustrated Guide
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~9,700
Disclaimer: Totally false. Stop googling yourselves!
Summary: In which Frank has had a ridiculous day, and Gerard would really like to get Frank alone and on a bed.
A/N: Hotel porn, set during the Summer of Like. Many thanks to![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
stephanometra and ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wildestranger for looking this over. This is a sequel to Pictures of Me and You.
An Illustrated Guide
The chairs in the lobby are really fucking uncomfortable. They're also really fucking ugly, like something out of a guidance counselor's office. Or a free clinic in Jersey. Fucking Hoboken, seriously. The armrests are the kind of pale, shitty wood that can be gouged with a fingernail, and the cushions are, in Frank's opinion, the exact color of balls. Frank's chair is parked next to a potted palm that smacks him in the face if he slouches too much to the right, and he's been sitting in it for almost an hour.
Okay, thirteen minutes. Either way, it's bullshit.
Apparently, there's a problem with the rooms.
"Apparently, there's a problem with the rooms," Ray says carefully. He's wearing an ancient Iron Maiden shirt and his guarded, 'bearer of bad news' face. His hair looks tired.
Gerard shrinks back inside his hoodie, until he's just a pointy nose and a random shock of lank hair. "Huh."
Their fearless leader, ladies and gentlemen.
"Fuck." Frank bats a palm frond away from his ear and chews on his thumbnail. "This is awesome."
Ray snorts. Loudly. "You just want a shower, Frankie."
Well, yeah. Frank does want a shower -- a shower with soap and running water and maybe Gerard, but. At this point, he'll take two out of three. It's been a ridiculous, ridiculous day, full of delays and issues and injuries and equipment clusterfucks. The last involved an amp Frank didn't recognize, a microphone stand that might've been Paramore's, and one of the techs from Dropkick Murphys asking him if anyone had seen a set of bagpipes.
Cut to right now, and how he's stuck in some kind of hell that looks a lot like a hotel lobby. How he's sitting in the world's ugliest, most uncomfortable chair, trapped between a plant that won't keep its hands to itself and Gerard. Not that Gerard's any better. He's been groping Frank in a vague sort of way all day -- pinching Frank's thigh, tugging Frank's hair, sneaking his fingers under Frank's shirt -- and yeah. After last night, Gerard's pretty much all Frank can think about. Last night and this morning. Trading slow kisses across the kitchen table had seemed like a good idea at the time, but then the day had worn on and on and on and Frank had failed to get Gerard naked. Or alone. He'd eventually settled for humping Gerard's leg on stage, and maybe, maybe licking a little, but. Having Gerard's hand on his ass and Gerard's skin under his mouth for less than thirty seconds hadn't exactly taken the edge off.
Bullshit.
Gerard pats Frank on the knee, then slips his hand up -- a little too high to be friendly -- and fucking squeezes.
Frank shifts until his dick isn't pressing right against his zipper and glances at the reservation desk, where an older woman in a hotel blazer and sensible shoes is sneering at her computer. She stops stabbing at her keyboard long enough to shoot them a nervous, sideways look, and Frank starts tapping the bass line to Our Lady of Sorrows on his thigh. Gerard sighs heavily and pulls on the strings of his hoodie. Ray hunches over, resting his elbows on his knees, and picks up Frank's rhythm with one of his feet.
"I wonder if they're overbooked," Ray says, to no one in particular.
He would be talking to Bob, but Bob's already disappeared. He fucking disappeared the minute their bus pulled into the hotel parking lot.
"They might be," Mikey says, returning from -- well, somewhere. Frank doesn't even know. Mikey fucking disappeared the minute they walked into the lobby. "The other hotel is," he adds, and flops down next to Gerard. He curls into a pointy ball of knees and elbows, flipping open his Sidekick just as it starts to buzz. "You know, overbooked."
The other hotel is across the street. Frank suspects Bob is over there right now, taking the shower Frank's been dreaming about since he got off stage. He decides not to dwell on it, because Bob's probably taking it with Patrick.
"Yeah?" Gerard asks, turning in his seat. He leans his head on Mikey's shoulder and swings his legs over the armrest, putting his feet in Frank's lap. Frank pushes them out of his crotch -- already hard, thanks -- and folds his hand around Gerard's ankle. He hides his thumb under the hem of Gerard's jeans and brushes slow circles over Gerard's skin. "What's going on?"
Mikey pauses mid text-message to spare Gerard half a glance. "The reservations are like, all fucked up." He shrugs and lets his fingers twitch back into gear, all soft and stuttered tap-tap-taps. "Motion City's trying to get over here, I guess." His phone buzzes; he blinks at it like he's never seen it before, then quickly starts typing again. "There's too many people, or something. Midtown's in with Gym Class and Academy."
"Fuck," Frank mutters, because yeah. Gabe and William are also taking the shower he's been dreaming about since he got off stage. And maybe Travis, if he didn't get distracted by his bong first, and that's bullshit. Seriously, bullshit. "Hey, ask Pete if he's seen Bryar."
"No."
And yeah, that's a classic Mikey Way answer: mumbled and fucking vague enough to mean anything. Frank reaches out to pull Mikey's hat down over his glasses -- he totally, totally deserves it -- but Gerard picks that exact moment to twist around and kick Frank in the knee.
Frank yelps like a fucking girl and jerks up so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. Ray catches him by the shoulder, and that's enough to keep him upright, but he slams his elbow against the back of the chair and gets a palm frond right to the mouth, and Gerard's still fucking moving. He kind of rolls over, so that he's curled sideways in his chair with his face jammed in Mikey's armpit, and he wedges one of his feet between Frank's legs, sliding it up until his toes are poking Frank in the balls.
"Hey," Gerard says, pinching Mikey's side. Mikey's fucking chewing, like Frank isn't starving. "What've you got?"
"Twizzlers," Mikey replies, mostly to his phone, and Jesus Christ, it's fucking buzzing again.
"Where?" Gerard grabs the front of Mikey's peacoat with one hand and starts patting him down with the other. He tries to cram his fingers into the pockets of Mikey's jeans, and Frank silently wishes him the best of luck. Mikey's wearing the tightest, girliest pair he owns. "Where?"
"I don't have anymore," Mikey insists. He sighs and flicks Gerard's forehead. "I ate them."
"Mikey," Frank says, and he knows he's whining, but whatever. "I'm hungry, Mikey, really. Fucking starving." Gerard, who's still kind of pawing at Mikey's peacoat, nudges Frank's thigh with the heel of his foot. "We," he corrects, and he grabs Gerard's leg, because seriously, Gerard's about to kick him in the fucking balls. "We're fucking starving."
"Vending machines," Ray offers. Mumbles, actually, because he's also fucking chewing. He flashes Frank a quick grin and points to a nearby hallway with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. "Down that way."
Getting out of his chair is a fucking feat -- he's got Gerard's legs in his lap, and the strap of his overnight bag is, for some reason, twisted around his ankle, and never mind the fucking potted palm -- but Frank manages. Mostly by grunting a little, swearing a lot, and flailing around until he catches Ray's arm and uses it for leverage. The room tilts for a second, because Ray's not so much holding him steady as pulling him sideways, and Gerard's feet are still kind of tangled up with his legs, only lower now, closer to his knees. As soon as Frank's actually upright, Gerard straightens and wraps his hand around Frank's wrist, his thumb flat against Frank's pulse.
"Here," Gerard says, stuffing a couple dollars into Frank's pocket, and there's that smile again, the soft, lopsided one that had made Frank think kissing him in the bus kitchen was a good idea, had made him keep doing it until Bob had stumbled out of the bunks and sunlight had pushed too brightly through the blinds. "Get me something."
Frank fiddles with the zipper on his hoodie and ignores his dick. Tries to, anyway. Frank's jeans aren't as tight as Mikey's, but they're tight enough, and Frank's hard-on is really fucking obvious. Frank's pretty sure it's visible from outer space. The reservation lady has probably noticed it. Mikey might even notice it, if he wasn't busy having text-message sex with Pete fucking Wentz. "What do you want?" he asks finally, and yeah. That's a loaded question.
"Oh, um," Gerard says quietly. "Something sweet." His cheeks pink and his lower lip retreats between his teeth. "Or coffee."
Of course.
"Of course," Frank replies. Outside, the moon is glaring at them through the lobby's plate glass windows. "You're never going to go to sleep."
Gerard gives him a look. It's heated and open and maybe a little bit filthy, and Frank needs to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Otherwise, he's going to do something obvious and visible from outer space, like blow Gerard. Right there, in front of Ray and Mikey and the reservation lady's plate glass windows.
Mikey might notice that, and Ray is -- well, Ray.
"Okay," Frank says. "Something sweet. Or coffee."
Frank doubts the chances of finding coffee; Frank hasn't seen a vending machine that offers coffee outside the kind of hospitals in Jersey that make people sicker than they were when they came in. Frank had loved those machines as a kid, because his mother would give him fifty cents for the ones that also served hot chocolate. The hot chocolate had always tasted like ass, but he'd liked watching the little cup shoot out into the vending window.
The hotel does, in fact, have a coffee vending machine. It's at the end of the row, hidden in the corner like a dirty secret, and Frank blinks at it for a minute, because wow. He totally feels like he's seven years old, and that brings on a craving for a juice box, and maybe goldfish crackers, which he never even really liked, and yeah. This day has officially gone beyond ridiculous. He blinks at the coffee machine again, this time because he's trying to decide if he should actually get a cup for Gerard. If the hot chocolate had always tasted like ass, the coffee's not going to be much better.
Of course, it's not like Gerard would care. He's seen Gerard coo over the dirty water catering hands out, and the thick, half-dead stuff found at gas stations. Also, those bottled Frappuchino, and they're not really fucking coffee. Gerard has admitted they're not really fucking coffee, but that doesn't stop him from eyefucking the stupid things every time Bob drinks one.
Besides, it's only seventy-five cents.
The money Gerard gave him is folded up neat, which is weird. Really, really weird, because Gerard's money is always crumpled. Occasionally, it's wet. Frank finds a scrap of paper between the two dollars, and he almost throws it away; he figures it's a Starbucks receipt, or one of those stupid notes Gerard is always writing to himself -- wash your socks! unplug Mikey's flat-iron! -- but it's not. It's a drawing, and when Frank looks at it, he nearly swallows his tongue.
It's really small and kind of hastily done, but Frank recognizes himself right away. Because of his bangs, and the shadowed lines on his arms, and the smudge under his lip that could be a piercing. Gerard's just an abstract, a scribbled impression of hair and hands and awkwardly bent knees, but. Frank's eyes are closed. His mouth is slack and open, and Gerard's fingers are splayed against his hip.
It's fucking pornography.
It's also not the first one Gerard's given him today. That was a quick, ball-point sketch of them kissing in the kitchen, and when Frank had found it in his bunk, he could still taste Gerard's coffee on his tongue. The second had been hidden in a compartment of his guitar case; he wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't broken a string, and while it hadn't been what caused Frank to hump Gerard on stage, it had been the reason Frank did it the way he did, with his guitar pushed to the side and his dick flush against Gerard's hip. Whatever Gerard had been trying to draw on his hand at dinner might've been the third, but Gerard had run out of space because of Frank's tattoos, and time, because Bob's a drummer now, but his internal clock still thinks he's a tech.
He probably shouldn't be surprised, but when a hand suddenly cradles his elbow, Frank just about jumps out of his skin.
Gerard looks smug. A little tired, but mostly smug. "Hey."
"Is this, um." Frank fumbles with the drawing -- folding it, waving it at Gerard, folding it again. "Is this later?"
"Well," Gerard says slowly, his hand tightening on Frank's elbow, "I was kind of hoping now."
Which, yeah. Frank's not going to argue with that.
Gerard's hand slides up Frank's arm, almost to his shoulder, and his fingers twist in Frank's sleeve, his head dipping down as he pulls Frank closer. He catches Frank's mouth at the corner, a soft press of lips and his tongue against Frank's ring, and Frank wraps his arms around Gerard's neck, tugging at Gerard's hoodie until he can get his hands in Gerard's hair. Gerard makes a noise then, harsh and breathy as he licks inside Frank's mouth and nips at Frank's lips, and yeah. Fuck yeah. Gerard's got his hand on Frank's ass, and he's working his thigh between Frank's legs, and it's everything Frank's been wanting all day.
Almost everything. He also wants Gerard's skin, warm and maybe sweaty against his fingers, bruising under the press of his thumb, and when he finally finds it under Gerard's hoodie and shirts, he hums his approval around Gerard's tongue. Gerard nudges Frank back, crowding him against one of the machines, and his mouth slides over Frank's jaw. His hands drop down to hold Frank by the waist, and then there's lips and tongue and teeth at Frank's neck and the quick, dirty roll of Gerard's hips.
"Shit," Gerard says, and he's fucking panting, warm and wet just below Frank's ear. "I want to get you on a bed."
And yeah, a bed would be fantastic. This is fucking great -- he's palming Gerard's dick through his jeans and his own his riding against Gerard's thigh and Gerard knows exactly how hard to bite -- but this is just like last night's sweaty, frantic fumble for the finish line, minus the stinky bus and Gerard's skeleton pajamas. They're standing now, and there's an ice machine is hissing and groaning over their moans, but it's still too many clothes and not enough air and the desperate need to fucking hurry. Frank wants to get Gerard naked. He wants to pin Gerard's wrists to the pillows and flick his tongue over Gerard's nipples.
He wants to see what Gerard's cock looks like in his hand.
Frank goes for Gerard's zipper, but Gerard pulls back and bats his hand away before he can draw it down.
"Wait. Fuck, wait."
"What?" Frank asks. He rubs the heel of his hand down the front of Gerard's jeans, and Gerard sucks in a sharp breath. "I fucking want to touch you."
"Not -- not here," Gerard says, grabbing Frank's arm. He pulls Frank away from the vending machine and brushes a quick kiss to Frank's temple. "Not here."
Gerard waves at the door and -- oh, yeah. There isn't one. Half of Warped is in this hotel, and they're kind of having almost sex less than fifty feet from the lobby. In a vending machine room with no door. Someone they know could stumble in, wanting the kind of shit people only eat when they're stoned. Like Funyuns, or Cornuts. Not that Frank cares right now. His dick is still pressed against Gerard's thigh, and he can feel Gerard breathing.
He kisses Gerard, hard and fast and a little bit messy. Too much tongue, and his thumbs are digging into Gerard's jaw, but Gerard fucking moans, low and throaty and right into Frank's mouth, and yeah. Fuck it. Every band on the second stage can pile in next to the Coke machine and watch. Gerard's hand slides down over Frank's ass, fingers tracing the seam of Frank's jeans and pressing a little, and Frank pushes his face against Gerard's neck and fucking bites.
"Fuck," Gerard says, and they're both panting now; the ice machine's drone is just a muted buzz. "Come on."
Gerard peels himself away from Frank, turns them toward the doorway, and gives Frank a shove. He stumbles out into the hallway, his feet tripping over the carpet as he hip-checks the opposite wall, and Gerard's hand skims over his back. Gerard looks up the hallway, then down, then up again -- nervous, like he's a little kid about to cross the fucking street -- and no. Fuck no, fuck that. If they go back to the lobby now, it'll be more waiting for the rooms in ugly, uncomfortable chairs, and explaining their rumpled clothes and sex hair to Ray while Gerard twitches and Frank's hard-on tries to wear a hole in his jeans.
"Gee."
Gerard pushes a wet kiss to Frank's cheek. "Hurry," he hisses, flinging open a door Frank hadn't realized was there.
It's a stairwell. A badly-lit stairwell that smells a little like cigarettes and a lot like stale air, and the second the door closes, Gerard is fucking on him. He hauls Frank around, pushing him back against the wall, and then it's hands and mouths and fingers and tongues and Gerard's dick rubbing hard against Frank's hip. Frank pulls at Gerard's hoodie and growls -- it's the stupid, inconvenient kind with a kangaroo pocket and no zipper down the front -- and Gerard laughs into Frank's neck, all soft puffs of air and lips against Frank's scorpion. Frank settles for shoving his hands underneath, fighting two shirts to get to Gerard's skin, but Gerard's hands are on his belt, on the button of his jeans, and Frank freezes. A moan catches in his throat, and he watches, just fucking watches Gerard smile and drop to his knees.
And fuck, Gerard's mouth. It's hot and slick and impossibly fucking wet, and it's just a little bit sloppy, like he's done this before but maybe not a whole lot, and yeah. Yeah. Gerard's got one hand on Frank's dick, stroking up to meet his mouth, and the other splayed against Frank's hip; Frank's pretty sure he's found his favorite place to be ever, and then Gerard catches a rhythm, his head dipping and his cheeks hollowing, his tongue flat along the underside and swirling around the head, and Frank's legs start to shake. The hand not snagged in Gerard's hair fumbles for the railing, fingers skittering over cool metal and chipped paint, and Frank's making stupid, slutty noises that echo endlessly off the stairwell walls.
"Gee -- oh, God. Gee."
Gerard looks up at him, all big, wide eyes and a red, swollen mouth, then a quick sliver of tongue as he pulls up and slips back down, and Frank can't watch. He can't fucking watch. Gerard's touching himself, just a rough, frantic hand over the front of his jeans, and that. That. Frank's hips snap away from the wall, pushing his cock into Gerard's mouth, but Gerard takes it, takes him deeper, maybe a little too deep; Gerard's throat flutters against the head of his dick, and that shouldn't be hot, it shouldn't, but it is, it really is. Gerard does it again, with stretched-tight lips and a filthy look half-hidden by his hair, and Frank tries to warn him, pulling at Gerard's hair when his skin flashes hot and his stomach bottoms out, but Gerard just holds him in place with both hands and fucking swallows it down.
"Jesus." Frank's hand slides from Gerard's hair to his shoulder, and he pulls Gerard up by a fistful of hoodie. "Come here, fuck."
Gerard unfolds slowly, and everything's clumsy for a minute; Frank's legs don't want to work, and Gerard's kind of rutting against his thigh, and Frank ends up nosing at Gerard's cheek because he can't quite find his mouth. When he finally does, he can taste himself on Gerard's tongue, and Gerard lets out a moan that's mostly a sigh, his hips rocking between Frank's body and the hand Frank has curved around his ass, and yeah. Incredibly fucking hot. He stills Gerard long enough to get inside Gerard's pants, licking along Gerard's jaw and nipping at the skin behind his ear as his fingers wrap around Gerard's cock, and there, there, Gerard's hard and heavy in his hand, just like he's wanted all day.
He strokes Gerard fast, his wrist twisting with each pull up and his thumb skimming over the head, and Gerard curls against him, all grasping, desperate fingers and ragged breaths hidden in Frank's shoulder. His hips stutter to a stop, then start again with short, hard thrusts that mirror Frank's rhythm, and Frank tightens his hand, hissing Gerard's name against his ear. He tilts his head up for a kiss, brushing Gerard's jaw before he catches Gerard's mouth, but Gerard twists away from him, and Frank laughs, has to fucking laugh, because Gerard's shooting on the dirty floor instead of Frank's shoes.
"Fuck," Gerard says, mostly to Frank's hoodie. "Shit, Frankie."
Frank closes his eyes and lolls back against the wall. "I know. That -- wow," he says, grunting as he tries to swallow a yawn.
"Hey." Gerard's halfway to the door now, his cheeks pinking as Frank watches him do up his pants. "You can't fall asleep. We have to go back."
Which, they do. Frank doesn't know how long they've been gone, but it's probably been long enough. Frank pushes away from the wall, zipping his jeans as Gerard opens the door.
Back in the lobby, Ray is alone. He's pulled a worn denim jacket over his Iron Maiden shirt and he's wearing his 'I seem to have lost my band' face. His hair still looks tired.
"We agreed," Ray starts, as Frank climbs over the back of what had been Gerard's chair, because yeah. It's further away from the fucking potted palm. "We agreed. You said you'd only leave me at truck stops. Truck stops have food and CD racks. And pinball," he adds, folding his arms across his chest. "What were you doing?"
Frank leers a little. "Your mom."
"She just called," Ray replies easily. "She said you were awful. Gerard, though -- she said Gerard can stop by any time."
"Yeah, I'll pencil her in," Gerard says, slumping into Frank's old chair. A palm frond smacks him in the back of the head, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Where's Mikey?"
Which, yeah. Someone had to ask. Frank's pretty sure he knows the answer, but he's not touching that if he doesn't have to.
Ray shrugs; Franks waits for his 'bearer of bad news' face, but it doesn't come. "Bathroom," he says finally, which Frank totally doesn't expect. Of course, Mikey's stuff still piled in a sad heap next to his chair, so. "He said he'd be right back, but -- I don't know. He left right after you did."
Frank's not touching that, either. Mikey's probably finishing whatever Wentz started over text-message, but. Ray's frowning at his shoes, and Gerard's really, really interested in his fingernails.
"Oh, hey. We've got rooms now," Ray offers brightly. "I was just waiting for--"
"--rooms?" Frank shouts, jumping out of his chair. "Rooms!" He grabs Ray, hugging him with both arms and most of one leg. "I love you, Toro, seriously. I love you, even if your mom says I'm a lousy lay."
Ray sighs and pushes at Frank's shoulder, but Frank just latches on tighter. Right now, Ray's his fucking hero, and that calls for hugs. Full-body hugs, and maybe a little nuzzling.
"They weren't overbooked. It was some kind of glitch, like -- dude, Frank, stop it! -- like, their computers wouldn't make the keycards, or something. Anyway, it's fixed now, and we've got three rooms, with two beds each."
"You think Bob's coming back?" Gerard asks, and Ray kind of shrugs and shakes his head at the same time. He knows more of Bob's business than the rest of them, but he doesn't talk about it anymore than Bob does. "Okay." Gerard wrinkles his nose. "That's four people."
"Gee and I can share," Frank says quickly, because yeah. Gerard wants him on a bed, and he totally, totally approves of this. "I mean, I love you man, but you fucking snore, and Mikey might --" he shoots Gerard a careful, sideways glance "-- Mikey might, um."
"Mikey's not staying," Mikey says, as he slouches back from the bathroom. He looks a little rumpled, but it's not like Frank can talk. And Jesus Christ, Gerard's hair. Also his mouth, but mostly his hair. "Pete's, um -- Pete's picking me up."
Gerard fucking stares, but Frank can't help laughing a little bit. "Pete's picking you up?" The other hotel is seriously across the street; Frank can see it through the lobby windows. "Like, in a car, and shit?" And fuck, he's laughing again -- laughing so hard he just fucking snorted, but. Those two. Frank doesn't even know where to start.
Mikey replies with a half-shrug, one shoulder inching up as he types something into his phone.
"Okay, that's three people, and three rooms," Ray says, passing keycards to Frank and Gerard. "We're on the same floor. Two connected rooms, and one right across the hall." He frowns a little, and waves his keycard in front of his face. "You don't care who's where, do you?"
And yeah, Frank cares. He cares a whole fucking lot, but it's not like he can say he cares. There's no explanation for why he would care, aside from 'well, Gee and I were planning on having loud, dirty sex until the sun comes up,' and that's not really information Ray would want. Or Mikey, who's not staring at his phone anymore -- he's suddenly really, really interested in Frank's belt.
Maybe because it's undone. Fuck.
Mikey quirks an eyebrow, and yeah. Frank's not sure what to do with that. He's really not, but. He doesn't have to try; Wentz picks that moment to burst through the lobby's front doors, and that saves Frank's ass, because it's obviously Mikey's cue to grab his bag and slink away.
"I'm serious," Pete says happily. He's wearing striped jeans and his 'love can't save you' hoodie, and he's talking to one of Fall Out Boy's roadies -- a big guy Frank thinks goes by Dirty. "Pink," Pete continues, waving his arms a little. "Bright -- really bright, like pink. I'm totally serious."
Dirty just chuckles and slaps Pete on the shoulder.
"You don't believe me," Pete accuses. He sighs and bats his bangs out of his eyes. "Patrick didn't believe me either, even when I -- oh." He pauses, tilting his head, and his huge, donkey smile spreads across his face. "Hey, Mikey Way!"
"Hey," Mikey replies, sliding his arm around Pete's waist. Pete's smile somehow manages to widen, and he presses a quick kiss to Mikey's cheek. "Let's go."
And yeah, Frank can't stop looking. He just can't. Gerard is picking at his shoelaces, and Ray -- Ray's got his keycard in his hand, and he's frowning at it like he's practicing his Jedi mind-trick, or some shit, but. Frank's turned into that creepy older guy who watches kids make out at the park, all wide eyes and not even pretending to peek from behind his hand. He's fucking staring, but it's not like he can help it. They're like a bad foreign film. A bad foreign film with aliens. Or unicorns.
Pete takes Mikey's bag and nudges him toward Dirty. "I promised you a ride," Pete says, and Frank doesn't understand that at all, not until Mikey grabs Dirty's shoulders and starts climbing him like a tree. Seriously, alien unicorns. In girl jeans. Gerard's still picking at his shoelaces, but Ray has abandoned his keycard for his Doritos, and he's kind of watching, enough that Frank doesn't feel bad staring. Once Mikey gets settled, Dirty starts for the door, and Pete picks up the conversation they'd been having like he never left it.
"I mean it. Pink."
"Wow," Ray says, popping another chip into his mouth. "Dinner and a show."
Gerard makes a noise. "I'm going upstairs."
--
When Frank walks out of the bathroom, he finds Ray peering around the door that connects their rooms. Behind him, Pantera is screaming its way through A New Level, and he's frowning a little -- probably because Frank's fucking naked, and yeah, it's the third time Ray's seen him naked today, but it's not like Frank's been trying, or anything. Ray's the one who keeps turning up when Frank's doesn't have any clothes on, so. Frank slings a towel around his waist and figures Ray can deal. Ray just blinks at him, then clears his throat and leans further into the room.
"Gee was just here. Said he needed socks."
"Socks," Frank says, pushing his wet hair out of his face. Gerard has plenty of socks, each pair stinkier than the last. "Huh."
"Yeah," Ray continues. He's also wearing a towel, but his is wrapped around his head like a turban. "I said he could have some of mine, but -- I don't know. He wanted yours."
"My socks are clean," Frank says, because Ray leaves dirty socks all over the bus. At least, Frank thinks it's Ray. Today, Frank found two under the couch cushions and one in the kitchen, and Bob found one in his bunk. "Yours wouldn't fit him anyway. Your feet are fucking huge."
Ray laughs. "Jealous?"
"Of what?" Frank asks, hitching his towel up higher. "Your big-ass clown feet?"
"You know what they say, about hands and feet," Ray says, as he retreats into his room. "And dude? You have tiny feet."
"Fuck you!" Frank counters cheerfully.
Also, fuck his bag. It's unzipped and it's turned on its side -- which isn't how Frank left it -- and his clothes are fucking everywhere. Gerard. Gerard and his fucking socks. Frank doesn't know why he's surprised; this morning, he watched Gerard destroy a box of Pop Tarts while trying to open it, and yeah, Gerard had been cruising along on just his first cup of coffee, but. He managed to drop it twice and pry up the wrong end. Frank tosses his bag on the bed and starts straightening things out, and he's not really expecting to find more pictures, but there they are, tucked between his camo thermal and his favorite pair of black jeans.
The first is a kissing close-up of their faces, all shadows and mouths and the slow slide of Gerard's tongue. The second could be earlier, if they hadn't been in a shitty, hotel stairwell; there's grass under Gerard's bent knees, and he's got Frank pinned to the vague outline of a wooden fence. The third looks older -- the paper is slightly yellow and kind of smells like stale smoke -- and Frank just stares at it. He follows the lines with the tip of his finger, tracing he curve of Gerard's jaw and the arch of his own back, because fuck. Fuck.
It's incredibly detailed. It's also incredibly distracting, so. When the door creaks and Ray says "You still up, man?" over yet more Pantera -- Fucking Hostile, now -- Frank nearly has a fucking heart attack.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Hey," Ray says slowly. He's still got that fucking towel on his head. "You okay?"
"Yeah, um -- yeah." Frank stuffs the drawings back into his bag and fumbles for his sweats. He's got another really obvious hard-on, and yeah. His towel isn't hiding anything. "Getting dressed."
Ray nods and disappears, but he doesn't shut the fucking door, and then he's back, looming in the doorway before Frank really has his sweats up over his ass. He's wearing a different Iron Maiden shirt and his Superman boxers, and he looks a lot like someone who needs a partner for Halo. Or that fucking bongo game that makes Frank's head hurt, and no. That's really not what Frank has in mind.
Frank blames Bob. Also Patrick, but mostly Bob.
It's not that Frank doesn't like Ray. Frank fucking loves Ray. He's funny and talented and dependable, and his hair is hilariously fantastic, and he's perfect for napping on, because he has less pointy bits than Mikey and none of Bob's personal space issues. Frank thinks Ray is totally, totally awesome, but. Right now, he'd love Ray even more than he already does if Ray would go be totally, totally awesome in his own room.
"What's up, man?"
Ray shrugs a little. "I can't sleep."
That's not what Frank has in mind, either. Not after his shower -- which was the best shower in the history of ever, because it had lots of soap and hot, running water, and also because he spent most of it touching his dick and thinking about Gerard -- and not after Gerard's fucking pictures. The third one was particularly filthy, and yeah, Frank would really, really like to get on that.
"It's the Pantera," Frank replies, because Pantera is great and everything, but it doesn't make Frank want to sleep. It makes him want to throw chairs and kick things.
"No," Ray says, shaking his head. His towel-turban kind of sways. He frowns again, mostly at Frank's nipple; Frank sighs and snatches a shirt out of his bag. "I'm just, I -- you know."
And yeah, Frank knows; he had the same problem on their last hotel night. Two or three days of thinking about a real bed had made him so twitchy that, when he finally got it, he couldn't fucking sleep. Gerard, of course, had passed out right away -- on top of the blankets, in a pair of sweats that hung too low on his hips, and yeah, Frank's dick had appreciated that, thanks -- so Frank had spent most of the night flipping between QVC and the ridiculous, soft-core porn on Cinemax while not looking at Gerard's ass.
Of course, now that Frank has a free pass to look at Gerard's everything, Ray can't sleep. Also, the fucking phone is ringing.
There's a song in here somewhere, Frank's pretty sure, something about complications and missed opportunities and sexual frustration. As titles go, We Finally Got a Bed (Insomnia and Telephones are for Cockblocking) is more Fall Out Boy's style, but. They can probably get away with it, if they give it an angry bridge and put in metaphors about Valkyries, or some shit. Alien unicorns. Gerard can do the chorus in his 'don't mind me, I'm just a little psychotic' voice, and during live performances, Frank can hump Gerard's leg and not get off.
Or, he can fall off Bob's kick drum. That never gets old.
Frank leans over the bed -- seriously, who the hell is calling his hotel room? -- and snatches the receiver off the cradle. "Gerard?"
"Ray?"
"Bob."
"Frank."
"Um, Mikey?" Frank asks. The name game never gets old, either. "Brian?"
"Funny," Bob grumbles. He sounds tired and suspiciously fucked out, and no. Frank's not jealous at all. "Is Toro there? He's not answering his cell."
"Ray was here, but I ate him," Frank replies gravely, because he loves fucking with Bob, and it's at least partially Bob's fault that he's having this conversation when he could doing other things. Like sucking a line of bruises along Gerard's collarbone. Or licking the skin right under Gerard's navel, which Frank has only really seen in his imagination, because Gerard swears he's fat and allergic to sunlight. "I ate him, right before I flushed his phone down the toilet."
There's a short, Bob-like pause. Bob's probably trying to kill Frank with his mind, but Frank's not too worried. It hasn't worked yet. "I'm hanging up now, Iero. Tell one of the grown-ups that I'll be back in the morning."
Bob's parting huff clicks into a dial tone, and Frank sets the receiver down with a smirk. "So, Stump's holding Bob hostage, or something."
"As long as he doesn't bang on my door the minute I fall asleep," Ray replies neutrally.
"Yeah," Frank says, because that's how touring works. The second you knock out, there's a kickball game that needs another player, or a fireworks going off outside your bus, or someone wanting to order pizza with your wallet. "If he -- hey, why the fuck did he call me?"
"I don't know," Ray says. "Maybe I have him the wrong room number. That's okay, though," he adds, smiling. "If he does come back, he'll wake your ass up, not mine."
Bullshit.
"Anyway," Ray continues, rubbing his hand over his face. "I came to see if you brought any of those guitar magazines. Maybe if I read, or something, I can--"
"--yeah, yeah," Frank says, reaching for his bag. "I think I've got one." He digs past his clothes and Gerard's drawings -- don't look, don't look -- and pulls out a battered issue of Guitar. "It's kind of old, but."
Ray waves him off. "Whatever. It's something to do." He flips open the magazine and scans the first page. "You going to sleep?"
"In a minute, yeah. I've got to talk to Gerard really quick."
Ray's mouth twitches, like he's trying to hide a smile, and yeah. Frank's not touching that. Of course, he probably doesn't need to, because Ray's not stupid. Thankfully, he's not nosy, either, so he won't ask if Frank doesn't offer. It's one of the reasons he's totally, totally awesome.
Besides, the fucking phone is ringing again.
Frank just stares at it, because no. Seriously, no. On the third ring, Frank gives it the finger. On the fourth, Ray sighs and walks over to the nightstand.
"Hello?" Ray asks, wedging the receiver between his shoulder and his ear. "Oh, hey. Okay. Yeah, um -- yeah." Ray glances at Frank, and his mouth twitches again. "Yeah, I'll tell him. Night."
"Who the fuck was that?"
"Gerard," Ray says, and seriously, his mouth. It's going to fucking stick that way. "He wants you to, uh -- he says he needs help with those socks."
Um.
"Um," Frank says, because Gerard is ridiculous, and Ray -- Ray's smiling openly now, and he's looking at Frank like he suspects 'socks' is actually secret code for 'bring lube' or 'lose your pants on the way over.' Which, yeah. Since Gerard is ridiculous, Ray might not be too far off. "I'll just, you know. Go."
"Night, Frank."
Frank does bring lube, because Gerard isn't the world's best planner. He has great ideas -- fucking fantastic ideas, if that last drawing is anything to go by -- but he sometimes has trouble with the details. Frank doesn't lose his pants, because yeah. Hotel. If Frank learned anything while touring with The Used, it's that streaking down hallways is all fun and games until someone calls the front desk. Jepha and Quinn had thought it was fucking hilarious, but that security hadn't been amused.
Gerard's door isn't quite closed. It's just resting against the jamb, and yeah, that's an invitation if Frank's ever seen one. He doesn't bother knocking.
The TV is on, with the volume muted to a dull buzz, and its random flickers paint Gerard in bright stripes of color. He's sprawled out on the bed, flat on his belly with his sketchbook practically under his chin, and he's wearing the same stupid sweats that had given Frank a permanent hard-on a couple weeks ago. They're fairly standard issue -- baggy, shapeless, gunmetal gray -- and they're sliding all over everywhere, inching down one hip and riding at the curve of Gerard's ass.
Gerard looks up when Frank gets about two feet away and taps his pencil against his lips. "Fucking finally," he mutters.
"Dude, you don't even know," Frank says, but he kind of hopes Gerard doesn't ask. They've got better things to do than talk, and Frank's pretty sure if he even thinks about Ray, he'll start banging on Gerard's door. He sits on the edge of the bed and nudges Gerard's shoulder. "You drawing me more pictures?"
"No," Gerard replies simply. He tilts his head a little, and Frank gets a quick view of a zombie feeding frenzy. It's also standard issue -- blood, guts, stringy hair and sloping foreheads -- and the victim is doing a decent impression of Wentz. At least in the teeth department. Gerard flashes Frank a smile that's mostly soft but also kind of dirty. "I figure you got the hint."
Oh.
"Oh." Frank didn't know he was the one being slow. It's not like Gerard spent their last hotel night watching shitty porn alone while Frank breathed at him from a different bed. "Okay."
"I was, um," Gerard starts, slanting his eyes toward the TV. He rolls onto his side, and yeah, there go his sweats again, hitching down and around until they're not hiding anything. His hipbone wants to be bitten, Frank's pretty sure. "I was making you a book. I was going to give it to you -- I don't know, sometime, but you caught me, so."
Frank just fucking stares, because yeah. There's not much he can say to that. Besides, talking is fucking overrated. Frank stretches out on the bed, pulls Gerard on top of him by a handful of shirt, and kisses him.
Gerard goes with it immediately, his mouth falling open and his tongue slipping wet and slick against Frank's. He tastes a little like coffee and a lot like cigarettes, and Frank's teeth catch his lower lip with tiny, nipping bites. Gerard leans into Frank, his elbows on the bed and his hands in Frank's hair, heavy and solid as he presses down and rolls his hips. Their dicks slide together, the friction muted by their sweats but still hard and slow and just this side of rough, and yeah. Fuck yeah.
"Shit," Frank says, his mouth against Gerard's jaw. "Wanted this all day." He pushes Gerard's shirt up, and Gerard's skin is smooth and warm under his hands. "Why are you still dressed?"
"What about you?" Gerard asks. "Showing up here in clothes -- you're practically a fucking nudist."
Frank really can't argue with that. He doesn't want to, anyway -- they'll start talking again, and no. Fuck that. He curves his hands over Gerard's ass instead, arching up as he pulls Gerard closer, and the slow rise and fall of Gerard's hips shifts into sharper, steadier thrusts. Gerard drags his lips down Frank's jaw, pausing to lick and suck just below Frank's ear before coming back up for a kiss. They meet hard and fast, all open mouths and quick, messy tongues, and Frank shoves at Gerard's shirt, running his hands up Gerard's back and digging his nails into Gerard's skin. Gerard makes a noise, a hissed moan that's hoarse and breathy and ridiculously fucking hot, and when he pulls away, his eyes are half-closed and his lips are wet and red.
Frank watches Gerard pull his shirt over his head, just fucking watches, because it's more of Gerard than he's ever seen all at once. Touring with Gerard has always been like that weird, Victorian porn -- an arm here and a thigh there, a sudden flash of back or belly -- but this. Fuck. This is flat nipples and smooth, white skin and a line of soft hair leading away from Gerard's navel. It disappears inside those stupid, stupid sweats -- hanging low now, one side caught under the jut of Gerard's hip -- and Frank can't stop fucking staring.
"What?" Gerard asks, biting his lip, and yeah, Frank's still staring. Gerard blushes a little, his cheeks coloring just slightly, and grabs the hem of Frank's shirt with both hands. "Come on. Ray's seen you naked like six times today."
Which, no. It was more like four times, and none of it was Frank's idea, but. He can't complain about it, because Gerard's tongue is in his mouth again, and fuck. His hands. His hands are fucking everywhere -- up and down Frank's thighs and then over his dick, across his belly and up his sides, his fingers sweaty against Frank's hips as he fumbles with the string on Frank's sweats. Frank's shirt is shoved up under his chin, which isn't the most comfortable ever, not with the scratchy Misfits logo rubbing against his jaw, but Gerard slides down Frank's body a little, and then his mouth is on Frank's nipple, warm and wet and a just-barely-there scrape of teeth. A whine catches in Frank's throat, high and tight and stupidly fucking desperate.
Gerard's tongue flicks out, dragging up slow and slick before swirling around, and then there's another hint of teeth, and yeah. Yeah. Frank whines again, but he can't fucking help it, and he twists as much as he can with Gerard pinning him down, his hips snapping up as his hands snag in Gerard's hair. It's a little wet, damp like he just had a shower, and there's an idea, the fucking shower. They can take one in the morning, with soap and steam and lazy hand-jobs under the spray, and Frank can lick the water off Gerard's hips and blow him up against the tiles.
"Shit," Frank says, half-choked because Gerard yanks Frank's sweats down to his knees and wraps his hand around Frank's dick. He doesn't stroke so much as rub, but it's really, really fucking good, all loosely-curled fingers and slow, sweat-slick pressure, and Frank has to stop himself from just pushing up against it and humping Gerard's hand until he screams. That's a great idea, and everything, but Gerard's last drawing was even better, and if Gerard doesn't quit it right fucking now, they're never going to get that far.
Frank pushes Gerard onto his back, starting on Gerard's sweats as he kicks his own the rest of the way off. His put up a fight, twisting around his ankle and catching on his foot, but Gerard's go easily, and Frank mentally apologizes for calling them stupid, ugly, and -- as he said numerous times on their last hotel night -- a total fucking menace. Gerard just watches him, his eyes wide and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, his breath hitching as Frank digs his fingers into his hips, and Frank smiles. He palms Gerard's dick, leaning down long enough to swipe his tongue over the head -- and yeah, there will be shower blowjobs, if Gerard's going to make noises like that -- then he slides up, shifting until his nose is pressed against Gerard's cheek and Gerard's wrists are pinned to the bed.
"Hi," Frank says, licking at the corner of Gerard's mouth. Gerard turns his head, coaxing Frank into a kiss, and Frank hums as he sucks on Gerard's tongue. "We're going to have sex now."
"Maybe later." Gerard lifts his hips and pushes his dick against Frank's ass. "I promised Ray we'd play that bongo game."
That is... not funny. "Fuck Ray's bongos," Frank says, and slips two fingers into Gerard's mouth.
Gerard sucks them right in, all hot and sloppy and his tongue curling around the tips, and yeah. This is about to be embarrassing, because Gerard looks like porn and Frank's just about done. He probably could come like this, with his fingers in Gerard's mouth and Gerard's dick rubbing his ass and his own riding against Gerard's belly. Fuck. That's another great idea, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow, because Frank has a plan. A plan that came with a fucking illustrated guide, so. Frank sits up, loses his stupid, stupid shirt, and plants his knees on either side of Gerard's body. He lets his ass bump Gerard's dick, and he watches Gerard watch him as he reaches between his legs and behind his balls.
"Fuck," Frank says, hissing as he pushes a finger inside. The first one is always kind of a surprise, like is ass is two steps behind his brain, but he starts to adjust after a long, stuttered exhale. His dick twitches at the familiar stretch and burn, his body sparking each time he strokes in and presses, and a dull, pleasant ache is burning up his thighs.
Gerard shifts under Frank a little, arching up slightly and bending his knees, his hands wandering between Frank's sides and belly and dick before settling firmly on his hips. His mouth is parted, his tongue just peeking out, and his hair is fucking wild. He wets his lips, watching as Frank twists above him and fucks himself on his own hand. By the time Frank's working on his third finger and sucking in short, uneven breaths through his teeth, Gerard's eyes are huge and his thumbs are digging bruises into Frank's skin.
"Now," Gerard says. His voice is thin and tight. "Frank, fuck -- now."
Which, yeah. Now would be good. Now would be fucking awesome -- Frank's wrist is cramping and his legs are shaking, and Gerard's totally fucking naked, Jesus Christ, flushed and sweaty and just laid out underneath him -- but the lube Frank brought is in the pocket of his sweats, and his sweats are... somewhere. Frank doesn't even know. On the floor, maybe. Wherever they are, they're not on the bed. Frank starts to slide away, tipping himself sideways to reach over the side of the bed, but Gerard stops him and fumbles under one of the pillows, and he comes back with -- oh, yeah. Lube and condoms. Frank apparently hasn't been giving Gerard enough credit, at least in the details department.
It's awkward for a second; the cap doesn't want to come off the lube, and condoms have a way of not really cooperating, and Frank's fingers are stupid and clumsy all of a sudden, enough that the whole thing gets a little ridiculous. The lube squirts all over everywhere, and Gerard has to deal with the condom because Frank's stupid, clumsy fingers are now sticky and wet, but then. Then. Gerard settles, stretching out again, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other warm on Frank's thigh, and Frank sinks down on his dick, delicious fucking pressure that's too fast and too slow all at once.
Fuck.
"Fuck." Gerard's eyes slide closed, all fluttering lids and shadowed lashes. "Don't, fuck -- don't move." He's fucking panting, hitched and ragged, and yeah, hot. He shifts a little, and tightens his grip on Frank's hips, fingers squeezing. "Okay, okay. I'm -- slow. Go slow, yeah?"
"Yeah," Frank says, because he can totally do slow. Actually, he needs to do slow. Gerard still looks like porn and Frank's still just about done, so. If he does anything but slow, this will be over before it starts. "Okay."
Frank just breathes, because this -- wow. Gerard's thumbs are drawing circles over his hipbones and Gerard's skin is sweaty against his thighs. Gerard's dick is inside him, hard and almost too big, and it's pressing on Frank's prostate just right, causing a dull throb of pleasure that's kind of too much, but Frank doesn't want to lose it, either. He stays perfectly still until Gerard shifts, tiny motions that are careful but also a little restless, and when Frank finally moves, it's a short, measured roll of his hips. Gerard makes one of those noises -- a low, throaty moan that's just raw and rough and filthy -- and his hips snap up off the bed, and yeah, slow is so not going to happen.
Slow is seriously not going to happen. Frank can't, and apparently, Gerard can't, either. He's fucking moving again, just tiny, shallow thrusts, but they're making Frank crazy, so no. Frank totally wants to drag this out forever, wants to lean back and ride Gerard until sunrise, or whatever, but Gerard's moving and Gerard's fucking panting -- which, yeah. Incredibly hot. His hands slip on Frank's hips, his palms flat over Frank's birds, and thighs are hitching against Frank's ass, like he's digging his heels into the bed. Frank lifts up and comes back down hard, because yeah. He really does want to drag this out forever, but he also wants Gerard's dick driving into him, fast and deep and now now now.
"Oh -- Oh, God." Gerard tips his head back, turning his neck and jaw into long lines and sharp angles. "Frank."
And yeah, Frank could listen to that all night, to Gerard spitting out his name in that raw, fucked out voice, so he pulls up and slams back down, just to hear Gerard do it again. Gerard does, shuddering underneath Frank and splitting the word in half because it catches in the back of his throat. His arm curls around Frank's waist, his hand pushing up Frank's back and into Frank's hair as he pulls Frank closer, folding him over. Their mouths kind of meet, but it's not kissing, not really, just lips dragging together and tongues fucking everywhere and sharp, ragged breaths against each other's skin.
Gerard's hand jerks in Frank's hair, twisting and pulling, and his other hand comes up to curve over Frank's ass, urging Frank to move faster with rough fingers and nails that scrape over Frank's skin, and it's fucking perfect. Frank's dick is trapped between their bodies, pushing against Gerard's belly, steady and sweat-slick friction that's fantastic, but not quite enough, and Frank would love to touch himself, he really would, but he's got one thumb on Gerard's nipple, flicking in time with the snap of Gerard's hips, and his other hand is curled where Gerard's neck meets his shoulder, heel pressed to Gerard's collarbone, and he can't seem to let go.
He doesn't need to -- Gerard thrusts into him hard, arching up and twisting a little as he wrenches Frank down, then he lets go of Frank's ass and shoves his arm past their hips, and fuck. Fuck. He gets his hand around Frank's dick, and he's not really stroking -- there's not enough room and his knuckles are bumping Frank's belly and Frank can't stop pushing back onto him -- it's mostly just his palm sliding up the shaft and his fingers twitching over the head, but yeah. Yeah. That's totally enough. Heat is knotting in Frank's stomach and his prostate is sparking every time Gerard moves, and Gerard's teeth are at his neck, his tongue darting out to smooth over the marks.
More than enough. Frank just fucking stops, choking out a chain of curses as he comes all over Gerard's chest.
"Jesus, Frank," Gerard says, and there's that voice again, hoarse and completely fucked out. "Your -- your fucking face. You should've seen it."
"What?" Frank asks, and he gasps, because he's kind of trying to breathe, and Gerard's still rocking up into him. "Was it stupid?"
Gerard smiles, all soft and crooked. "A little, yeah, but I like it. I want you to make it again."
He rolls them over, slipping out of Frank slowly and then pushing back in hard, his elbows braced on either side of Frank's head and Frank's legs around his waist. It's quick and really, really sloppy, all short, desperate thrusts and Gerard panting hot and wet against Frank's temple, but also really, really fucking good -- Gerard's fingers are ghosting over Frank's neck, and that awesome, morning-after ache is already spreading through Frank's thighs, and Gerard's making those beautiful, slutty noises again. Frank realizes Gerard's about to come a second before it happens; Gerard's body snaps taut and his next breath is shuddery, kind of broken, but Frank doesn't get to see his stupid orgasm-face, because he hides it in Frank's hair.
Fucker.
"Fucker," Frank says, turning his head. Gerard's just a nose and one eye under a messy pile of sex hair. "That's not fair -- I didn't see your stupid face."
"Oh," Gerard replies, pushing himself up. His voice is quiet, but he shoots Frank a soft smile as he futzes with the condom. "Next time, I promise."
"Okay." And yeah, next time. Frank's kind of stupidly glad to hear that; it means he won't have to ask before dragging Gerard into the shower, and that's good. Morning blowjobs are totally on tomorrow's itinerary. As far as Frank is concerned, anyway, unless Gerard draws up something better -- oh, yeah. Maybe Gerard's done with that. "Hey, are you still going to give me dirty pictures?"
"Maybe," Gerard says, lobbing the condom at the wastebasket in the corner. He misses, of course, and he frowns at Frank like he wants Frank to do something about it. Which, no. His room, his problem. Frank just laughs; Gerard lifts his chin, but his mouth twitches with the beginning of one of his sly, sneaky smiles. "I have other things to draw besides your naked ass, you know."
"Oh, yeah?" Frank asks. "Like what?" Gerard rolls over as Frank stretches out on the bed, curling into Frank's side. He butts his head against Frank's chin, and Frank wraps his arm around his shoulders. "Seriously, what -- more fucking zombies?"
"Yes. More fucking zombies."
Frank laughs and twists some of Gerard's hair around his finger. "More zombies making a snack out of Wentz?"
"That's not Wentz," Gerard mutters. He pulls away from Frank a little, just enough to look up and glare at Frank with one eye. "It isn't."
Yeah, okay. It isn't Wentz. Except that it is. "Hmm."
"I mean, his pants aren't tight enough, and his hair is pretty normal, and --" he tucks his head back into Frank's shoulder "-- it's the teeth, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Frank says. He sighs and pats Gerard's back. "It's totally the teeth."
end
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~9,700
Disclaimer: Totally false. Stop googling yourselves!
Summary: In which Frank has had a ridiculous day, and Gerard would really like to get Frank alone and on a bed.
A/N: Hotel porn, set during the Summer of Like. Many thanks to
stephanometra and wildestranger for looking this over. This is a sequel to Pictures of Me and You. The chairs in the lobby are really fucking uncomfortable. They're also really fucking ugly, like something out of a guidance counselor's office. Or a free clinic in Jersey. Fucking Hoboken, seriously. The armrests are the kind of pale, shitty wood that can be gouged with a fingernail, and the cushions are, in Frank's opinion, the exact color of balls. Frank's chair is parked next to a potted palm that smacks him in the face if he slouches too much to the right, and he's been sitting in it for almost an hour.
Okay, thirteen minutes. Either way, it's bullshit.
Apparently, there's a problem with the rooms.
"Apparently, there's a problem with the rooms," Ray says carefully. He's wearing an ancient Iron Maiden shirt and his guarded, 'bearer of bad news' face. His hair looks tired.
Gerard shrinks back inside his hoodie, until he's just a pointy nose and a random shock of lank hair. "Huh."
Their fearless leader, ladies and gentlemen.
"Fuck." Frank bats a palm frond away from his ear and chews on his thumbnail. "This is awesome."
Ray snorts. Loudly. "You just want a shower, Frankie."
Well, yeah. Frank does want a shower -- a shower with soap and running water and maybe Gerard, but. At this point, he'll take two out of three. It's been a ridiculous, ridiculous day, full of delays and issues and injuries and equipment clusterfucks. The last involved an amp Frank didn't recognize, a microphone stand that might've been Paramore's, and one of the techs from Dropkick Murphys asking him if anyone had seen a set of bagpipes.
Cut to right now, and how he's stuck in some kind of hell that looks a lot like a hotel lobby. How he's sitting in the world's ugliest, most uncomfortable chair, trapped between a plant that won't keep its hands to itself and Gerard. Not that Gerard's any better. He's been groping Frank in a vague sort of way all day -- pinching Frank's thigh, tugging Frank's hair, sneaking his fingers under Frank's shirt -- and yeah. After last night, Gerard's pretty much all Frank can think about. Last night and this morning. Trading slow kisses across the kitchen table had seemed like a good idea at the time, but then the day had worn on and on and on and Frank had failed to get Gerard naked. Or alone. He'd eventually settled for humping Gerard's leg on stage, and maybe, maybe licking a little, but. Having Gerard's hand on his ass and Gerard's skin under his mouth for less than thirty seconds hadn't exactly taken the edge off.
Bullshit.
Gerard pats Frank on the knee, then slips his hand up -- a little too high to be friendly -- and fucking squeezes.
Frank shifts until his dick isn't pressing right against his zipper and glances at the reservation desk, where an older woman in a hotel blazer and sensible shoes is sneering at her computer. She stops stabbing at her keyboard long enough to shoot them a nervous, sideways look, and Frank starts tapping the bass line to Our Lady of Sorrows on his thigh. Gerard sighs heavily and pulls on the strings of his hoodie. Ray hunches over, resting his elbows on his knees, and picks up Frank's rhythm with one of his feet.
"I wonder if they're overbooked," Ray says, to no one in particular.
He would be talking to Bob, but Bob's already disappeared. He fucking disappeared the minute their bus pulled into the hotel parking lot.
"They might be," Mikey says, returning from -- well, somewhere. Frank doesn't even know. Mikey fucking disappeared the minute they walked into the lobby. "The other hotel is," he adds, and flops down next to Gerard. He curls into a pointy ball of knees and elbows, flipping open his Sidekick just as it starts to buzz. "You know, overbooked."
The other hotel is across the street. Frank suspects Bob is over there right now, taking the shower Frank's been dreaming about since he got off stage. He decides not to dwell on it, because Bob's probably taking it with Patrick.
"Yeah?" Gerard asks, turning in his seat. He leans his head on Mikey's shoulder and swings his legs over the armrest, putting his feet in Frank's lap. Frank pushes them out of his crotch -- already hard, thanks -- and folds his hand around Gerard's ankle. He hides his thumb under the hem of Gerard's jeans and brushes slow circles over Gerard's skin. "What's going on?"
Mikey pauses mid text-message to spare Gerard half a glance. "The reservations are like, all fucked up." He shrugs and lets his fingers twitch back into gear, all soft and stuttered tap-tap-taps. "Motion City's trying to get over here, I guess." His phone buzzes; he blinks at it like he's never seen it before, then quickly starts typing again. "There's too many people, or something. Midtown's in with Gym Class and Academy."
"Fuck," Frank mutters, because yeah. Gabe and William are also taking the shower he's been dreaming about since he got off stage. And maybe Travis, if he didn't get distracted by his bong first, and that's bullshit. Seriously, bullshit. "Hey, ask Pete if he's seen Bryar."
"No."
And yeah, that's a classic Mikey Way answer: mumbled and fucking vague enough to mean anything. Frank reaches out to pull Mikey's hat down over his glasses -- he totally, totally deserves it -- but Gerard picks that exact moment to twist around and kick Frank in the knee.
Frank yelps like a fucking girl and jerks up so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. Ray catches him by the shoulder, and that's enough to keep him upright, but he slams his elbow against the back of the chair and gets a palm frond right to the mouth, and Gerard's still fucking moving. He kind of rolls over, so that he's curled sideways in his chair with his face jammed in Mikey's armpit, and he wedges one of his feet between Frank's legs, sliding it up until his toes are poking Frank in the balls.
"Hey," Gerard says, pinching Mikey's side. Mikey's fucking chewing, like Frank isn't starving. "What've you got?"
"Twizzlers," Mikey replies, mostly to his phone, and Jesus Christ, it's fucking buzzing again.
"Where?" Gerard grabs the front of Mikey's peacoat with one hand and starts patting him down with the other. He tries to cram his fingers into the pockets of Mikey's jeans, and Frank silently wishes him the best of luck. Mikey's wearing the tightest, girliest pair he owns. "Where?"
"I don't have anymore," Mikey insists. He sighs and flicks Gerard's forehead. "I ate them."
"Mikey," Frank says, and he knows he's whining, but whatever. "I'm hungry, Mikey, really. Fucking starving." Gerard, who's still kind of pawing at Mikey's peacoat, nudges Frank's thigh with the heel of his foot. "We," he corrects, and he grabs Gerard's leg, because seriously, Gerard's about to kick him in the fucking balls. "We're fucking starving."
"Vending machines," Ray offers. Mumbles, actually, because he's also fucking chewing. He flashes Frank a quick grin and points to a nearby hallway with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. "Down that way."
Getting out of his chair is a fucking feat -- he's got Gerard's legs in his lap, and the strap of his overnight bag is, for some reason, twisted around his ankle, and never mind the fucking potted palm -- but Frank manages. Mostly by grunting a little, swearing a lot, and flailing around until he catches Ray's arm and uses it for leverage. The room tilts for a second, because Ray's not so much holding him steady as pulling him sideways, and Gerard's feet are still kind of tangled up with his legs, only lower now, closer to his knees. As soon as Frank's actually upright, Gerard straightens and wraps his hand around Frank's wrist, his thumb flat against Frank's pulse.
"Here," Gerard says, stuffing a couple dollars into Frank's pocket, and there's that smile again, the soft, lopsided one that had made Frank think kissing him in the bus kitchen was a good idea, had made him keep doing it until Bob had stumbled out of the bunks and sunlight had pushed too brightly through the blinds. "Get me something."
Frank fiddles with the zipper on his hoodie and ignores his dick. Tries to, anyway. Frank's jeans aren't as tight as Mikey's, but they're tight enough, and Frank's hard-on is really fucking obvious. Frank's pretty sure it's visible from outer space. The reservation lady has probably noticed it. Mikey might even notice it, if he wasn't busy having text-message sex with Pete fucking Wentz. "What do you want?" he asks finally, and yeah. That's a loaded question.
"Oh, um," Gerard says quietly. "Something sweet." His cheeks pink and his lower lip retreats between his teeth. "Or coffee."
Of course.
"Of course," Frank replies. Outside, the moon is glaring at them through the lobby's plate glass windows. "You're never going to go to sleep."
Gerard gives him a look. It's heated and open and maybe a little bit filthy, and Frank needs to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Otherwise, he's going to do something obvious and visible from outer space, like blow Gerard. Right there, in front of Ray and Mikey and the reservation lady's plate glass windows.
Mikey might notice that, and Ray is -- well, Ray.
"Okay," Frank says. "Something sweet. Or coffee."
Frank doubts the chances of finding coffee; Frank hasn't seen a vending machine that offers coffee outside the kind of hospitals in Jersey that make people sicker than they were when they came in. Frank had loved those machines as a kid, because his mother would give him fifty cents for the ones that also served hot chocolate. The hot chocolate had always tasted like ass, but he'd liked watching the little cup shoot out into the vending window.
The hotel does, in fact, have a coffee vending machine. It's at the end of the row, hidden in the corner like a dirty secret, and Frank blinks at it for a minute, because wow. He totally feels like he's seven years old, and that brings on a craving for a juice box, and maybe goldfish crackers, which he never even really liked, and yeah. This day has officially gone beyond ridiculous. He blinks at the coffee machine again, this time because he's trying to decide if he should actually get a cup for Gerard. If the hot chocolate had always tasted like ass, the coffee's not going to be much better.
Of course, it's not like Gerard would care. He's seen Gerard coo over the dirty water catering hands out, and the thick, half-dead stuff found at gas stations. Also, those bottled Frappuchino, and they're not really fucking coffee. Gerard has admitted they're not really fucking coffee, but that doesn't stop him from eyefucking the stupid things every time Bob drinks one.
Besides, it's only seventy-five cents.
The money Gerard gave him is folded up neat, which is weird. Really, really weird, because Gerard's money is always crumpled. Occasionally, it's wet. Frank finds a scrap of paper between the two dollars, and he almost throws it away; he figures it's a Starbucks receipt, or one of those stupid notes Gerard is always writing to himself -- wash your socks! unplug Mikey's flat-iron! -- but it's not. It's a drawing, and when Frank looks at it, he nearly swallows his tongue.
It's really small and kind of hastily done, but Frank recognizes himself right away. Because of his bangs, and the shadowed lines on his arms, and the smudge under his lip that could be a piercing. Gerard's just an abstract, a scribbled impression of hair and hands and awkwardly bent knees, but. Frank's eyes are closed. His mouth is slack and open, and Gerard's fingers are splayed against his hip.
It's fucking pornography.
It's also not the first one Gerard's given him today. That was a quick, ball-point sketch of them kissing in the kitchen, and when Frank had found it in his bunk, he could still taste Gerard's coffee on his tongue. The second had been hidden in a compartment of his guitar case; he wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't broken a string, and while it hadn't been what caused Frank to hump Gerard on stage, it had been the reason Frank did it the way he did, with his guitar pushed to the side and his dick flush against Gerard's hip. Whatever Gerard had been trying to draw on his hand at dinner might've been the third, but Gerard had run out of space because of Frank's tattoos, and time, because Bob's a drummer now, but his internal clock still thinks he's a tech.
He probably shouldn't be surprised, but when a hand suddenly cradles his elbow, Frank just about jumps out of his skin.
Gerard looks smug. A little tired, but mostly smug. "Hey."
"Is this, um." Frank fumbles with the drawing -- folding it, waving it at Gerard, folding it again. "Is this later?"
"Well," Gerard says slowly, his hand tightening on Frank's elbow, "I was kind of hoping now."
Which, yeah. Frank's not going to argue with that.
Gerard's hand slides up Frank's arm, almost to his shoulder, and his fingers twist in Frank's sleeve, his head dipping down as he pulls Frank closer. He catches Frank's mouth at the corner, a soft press of lips and his tongue against Frank's ring, and Frank wraps his arms around Gerard's neck, tugging at Gerard's hoodie until he can get his hands in Gerard's hair. Gerard makes a noise then, harsh and breathy as he licks inside Frank's mouth and nips at Frank's lips, and yeah. Fuck yeah. Gerard's got his hand on Frank's ass, and he's working his thigh between Frank's legs, and it's everything Frank's been wanting all day.
Almost everything. He also wants Gerard's skin, warm and maybe sweaty against his fingers, bruising under the press of his thumb, and when he finally finds it under Gerard's hoodie and shirts, he hums his approval around Gerard's tongue. Gerard nudges Frank back, crowding him against one of the machines, and his mouth slides over Frank's jaw. His hands drop down to hold Frank by the waist, and then there's lips and tongue and teeth at Frank's neck and the quick, dirty roll of Gerard's hips.
"Shit," Gerard says, and he's fucking panting, warm and wet just below Frank's ear. "I want to get you on a bed."
And yeah, a bed would be fantastic. This is fucking great -- he's palming Gerard's dick through his jeans and his own his riding against Gerard's thigh and Gerard knows exactly how hard to bite -- but this is just like last night's sweaty, frantic fumble for the finish line, minus the stinky bus and Gerard's skeleton pajamas. They're standing now, and there's an ice machine is hissing and groaning over their moans, but it's still too many clothes and not enough air and the desperate need to fucking hurry. Frank wants to get Gerard naked. He wants to pin Gerard's wrists to the pillows and flick his tongue over Gerard's nipples.
He wants to see what Gerard's cock looks like in his hand.
Frank goes for Gerard's zipper, but Gerard pulls back and bats his hand away before he can draw it down.
"Wait. Fuck, wait."
"What?" Frank asks. He rubs the heel of his hand down the front of Gerard's jeans, and Gerard sucks in a sharp breath. "I fucking want to touch you."
"Not -- not here," Gerard says, grabbing Frank's arm. He pulls Frank away from the vending machine and brushes a quick kiss to Frank's temple. "Not here."
Gerard waves at the door and -- oh, yeah. There isn't one. Half of Warped is in this hotel, and they're kind of having almost sex less than fifty feet from the lobby. In a vending machine room with no door. Someone they know could stumble in, wanting the kind of shit people only eat when they're stoned. Like Funyuns, or Cornuts. Not that Frank cares right now. His dick is still pressed against Gerard's thigh, and he can feel Gerard breathing.
He kisses Gerard, hard and fast and a little bit messy. Too much tongue, and his thumbs are digging into Gerard's jaw, but Gerard fucking moans, low and throaty and right into Frank's mouth, and yeah. Fuck it. Every band on the second stage can pile in next to the Coke machine and watch. Gerard's hand slides down over Frank's ass, fingers tracing the seam of Frank's jeans and pressing a little, and Frank pushes his face against Gerard's neck and fucking bites.
"Fuck," Gerard says, and they're both panting now; the ice machine's drone is just a muted buzz. "Come on."
Gerard peels himself away from Frank, turns them toward the doorway, and gives Frank a shove. He stumbles out into the hallway, his feet tripping over the carpet as he hip-checks the opposite wall, and Gerard's hand skims over his back. Gerard looks up the hallway, then down, then up again -- nervous, like he's a little kid about to cross the fucking street -- and no. Fuck no, fuck that. If they go back to the lobby now, it'll be more waiting for the rooms in ugly, uncomfortable chairs, and explaining their rumpled clothes and sex hair to Ray while Gerard twitches and Frank's hard-on tries to wear a hole in his jeans.
"Gee."
Gerard pushes a wet kiss to Frank's cheek. "Hurry," he hisses, flinging open a door Frank hadn't realized was there.
It's a stairwell. A badly-lit stairwell that smells a little like cigarettes and a lot like stale air, and the second the door closes, Gerard is fucking on him. He hauls Frank around, pushing him back against the wall, and then it's hands and mouths and fingers and tongues and Gerard's dick rubbing hard against Frank's hip. Frank pulls at Gerard's hoodie and growls -- it's the stupid, inconvenient kind with a kangaroo pocket and no zipper down the front -- and Gerard laughs into Frank's neck, all soft puffs of air and lips against Frank's scorpion. Frank settles for shoving his hands underneath, fighting two shirts to get to Gerard's skin, but Gerard's hands are on his belt, on the button of his jeans, and Frank freezes. A moan catches in his throat, and he watches, just fucking watches Gerard smile and drop to his knees.
And fuck, Gerard's mouth. It's hot and slick and impossibly fucking wet, and it's just a little bit sloppy, like he's done this before but maybe not a whole lot, and yeah. Yeah. Gerard's got one hand on Frank's dick, stroking up to meet his mouth, and the other splayed against Frank's hip; Frank's pretty sure he's found his favorite place to be ever, and then Gerard catches a rhythm, his head dipping and his cheeks hollowing, his tongue flat along the underside and swirling around the head, and Frank's legs start to shake. The hand not snagged in Gerard's hair fumbles for the railing, fingers skittering over cool metal and chipped paint, and Frank's making stupid, slutty noises that echo endlessly off the stairwell walls.
"Gee -- oh, God. Gee."
Gerard looks up at him, all big, wide eyes and a red, swollen mouth, then a quick sliver of tongue as he pulls up and slips back down, and Frank can't watch. He can't fucking watch. Gerard's touching himself, just a rough, frantic hand over the front of his jeans, and that. That. Frank's hips snap away from the wall, pushing his cock into Gerard's mouth, but Gerard takes it, takes him deeper, maybe a little too deep; Gerard's throat flutters against the head of his dick, and that shouldn't be hot, it shouldn't, but it is, it really is. Gerard does it again, with stretched-tight lips and a filthy look half-hidden by his hair, and Frank tries to warn him, pulling at Gerard's hair when his skin flashes hot and his stomach bottoms out, but Gerard just holds him in place with both hands and fucking swallows it down.
"Jesus." Frank's hand slides from Gerard's hair to his shoulder, and he pulls Gerard up by a fistful of hoodie. "Come here, fuck."
Gerard unfolds slowly, and everything's clumsy for a minute; Frank's legs don't want to work, and Gerard's kind of rutting against his thigh, and Frank ends up nosing at Gerard's cheek because he can't quite find his mouth. When he finally does, he can taste himself on Gerard's tongue, and Gerard lets out a moan that's mostly a sigh, his hips rocking between Frank's body and the hand Frank has curved around his ass, and yeah. Incredibly fucking hot. He stills Gerard long enough to get inside Gerard's pants, licking along Gerard's jaw and nipping at the skin behind his ear as his fingers wrap around Gerard's cock, and there, there, Gerard's hard and heavy in his hand, just like he's wanted all day.
He strokes Gerard fast, his wrist twisting with each pull up and his thumb skimming over the head, and Gerard curls against him, all grasping, desperate fingers and ragged breaths hidden in Frank's shoulder. His hips stutter to a stop, then start again with short, hard thrusts that mirror Frank's rhythm, and Frank tightens his hand, hissing Gerard's name against his ear. He tilts his head up for a kiss, brushing Gerard's jaw before he catches Gerard's mouth, but Gerard twists away from him, and Frank laughs, has to fucking laugh, because Gerard's shooting on the dirty floor instead of Frank's shoes.
"Fuck," Gerard says, mostly to Frank's hoodie. "Shit, Frankie."
Frank closes his eyes and lolls back against the wall. "I know. That -- wow," he says, grunting as he tries to swallow a yawn.
"Hey." Gerard's halfway to the door now, his cheeks pinking as Frank watches him do up his pants. "You can't fall asleep. We have to go back."
Which, they do. Frank doesn't know how long they've been gone, but it's probably been long enough. Frank pushes away from the wall, zipping his jeans as Gerard opens the door.
Back in the lobby, Ray is alone. He's pulled a worn denim jacket over his Iron Maiden shirt and he's wearing his 'I seem to have lost my band' face. His hair still looks tired.
"We agreed," Ray starts, as Frank climbs over the back of what had been Gerard's chair, because yeah. It's further away from the fucking potted palm. "We agreed. You said you'd only leave me at truck stops. Truck stops have food and CD racks. And pinball," he adds, folding his arms across his chest. "What were you doing?"
Frank leers a little. "Your mom."
"She just called," Ray replies easily. "She said you were awful. Gerard, though -- she said Gerard can stop by any time."
"Yeah, I'll pencil her in," Gerard says, slumping into Frank's old chair. A palm frond smacks him in the back of the head, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Where's Mikey?"
Which, yeah. Someone had to ask. Frank's pretty sure he knows the answer, but he's not touching that if he doesn't have to.
Ray shrugs; Franks waits for his 'bearer of bad news' face, but it doesn't come. "Bathroom," he says finally, which Frank totally doesn't expect. Of course, Mikey's stuff still piled in a sad heap next to his chair, so. "He said he'd be right back, but -- I don't know. He left right after you did."
Frank's not touching that, either. Mikey's probably finishing whatever Wentz started over text-message, but. Ray's frowning at his shoes, and Gerard's really, really interested in his fingernails.
"Oh, hey. We've got rooms now," Ray offers brightly. "I was just waiting for--"
"--rooms?" Frank shouts, jumping out of his chair. "Rooms!" He grabs Ray, hugging him with both arms and most of one leg. "I love you, Toro, seriously. I love you, even if your mom says I'm a lousy lay."
Ray sighs and pushes at Frank's shoulder, but Frank just latches on tighter. Right now, Ray's his fucking hero, and that calls for hugs. Full-body hugs, and maybe a little nuzzling.
"They weren't overbooked. It was some kind of glitch, like -- dude, Frank, stop it! -- like, their computers wouldn't make the keycards, or something. Anyway, it's fixed now, and we've got three rooms, with two beds each."
"You think Bob's coming back?" Gerard asks, and Ray kind of shrugs and shakes his head at the same time. He knows more of Bob's business than the rest of them, but he doesn't talk about it anymore than Bob does. "Okay." Gerard wrinkles his nose. "That's four people."
"Gee and I can share," Frank says quickly, because yeah. Gerard wants him on a bed, and he totally, totally approves of this. "I mean, I love you man, but you fucking snore, and Mikey might --" he shoots Gerard a careful, sideways glance "-- Mikey might, um."
"Mikey's not staying," Mikey says, as he slouches back from the bathroom. He looks a little rumpled, but it's not like Frank can talk. And Jesus Christ, Gerard's hair. Also his mouth, but mostly his hair. "Pete's, um -- Pete's picking me up."
Gerard fucking stares, but Frank can't help laughing a little bit. "Pete's picking you up?" The other hotel is seriously across the street; Frank can see it through the lobby windows. "Like, in a car, and shit?" And fuck, he's laughing again -- laughing so hard he just fucking snorted, but. Those two. Frank doesn't even know where to start.
Mikey replies with a half-shrug, one shoulder inching up as he types something into his phone.
"Okay, that's three people, and three rooms," Ray says, passing keycards to Frank and Gerard. "We're on the same floor. Two connected rooms, and one right across the hall." He frowns a little, and waves his keycard in front of his face. "You don't care who's where, do you?"
And yeah, Frank cares. He cares a whole fucking lot, but it's not like he can say he cares. There's no explanation for why he would care, aside from 'well, Gee and I were planning on having loud, dirty sex until the sun comes up,' and that's not really information Ray would want. Or Mikey, who's not staring at his phone anymore -- he's suddenly really, really interested in Frank's belt.
Maybe because it's undone. Fuck.
Mikey quirks an eyebrow, and yeah. Frank's not sure what to do with that. He's really not, but. He doesn't have to try; Wentz picks that moment to burst through the lobby's front doors, and that saves Frank's ass, because it's obviously Mikey's cue to grab his bag and slink away.
"I'm serious," Pete says happily. He's wearing striped jeans and his 'love can't save you' hoodie, and he's talking to one of Fall Out Boy's roadies -- a big guy Frank thinks goes by Dirty. "Pink," Pete continues, waving his arms a little. "Bright -- really bright, like pink. I'm totally serious."
Dirty just chuckles and slaps Pete on the shoulder.
"You don't believe me," Pete accuses. He sighs and bats his bangs out of his eyes. "Patrick didn't believe me either, even when I -- oh." He pauses, tilting his head, and his huge, donkey smile spreads across his face. "Hey, Mikey Way!"
"Hey," Mikey replies, sliding his arm around Pete's waist. Pete's smile somehow manages to widen, and he presses a quick kiss to Mikey's cheek. "Let's go."
And yeah, Frank can't stop looking. He just can't. Gerard is picking at his shoelaces, and Ray -- Ray's got his keycard in his hand, and he's frowning at it like he's practicing his Jedi mind-trick, or some shit, but. Frank's turned into that creepy older guy who watches kids make out at the park, all wide eyes and not even pretending to peek from behind his hand. He's fucking staring, but it's not like he can help it. They're like a bad foreign film. A bad foreign film with aliens. Or unicorns.
Pete takes Mikey's bag and nudges him toward Dirty. "I promised you a ride," Pete says, and Frank doesn't understand that at all, not until Mikey grabs Dirty's shoulders and starts climbing him like a tree. Seriously, alien unicorns. In girl jeans. Gerard's still picking at his shoelaces, but Ray has abandoned his keycard for his Doritos, and he's kind of watching, enough that Frank doesn't feel bad staring. Once Mikey gets settled, Dirty starts for the door, and Pete picks up the conversation they'd been having like he never left it.
"I mean it. Pink."
"Wow," Ray says, popping another chip into his mouth. "Dinner and a show."
Gerard makes a noise. "I'm going upstairs."
--
When Frank walks out of the bathroom, he finds Ray peering around the door that connects their rooms. Behind him, Pantera is screaming its way through A New Level, and he's frowning a little -- probably because Frank's fucking naked, and yeah, it's the third time Ray's seen him naked today, but it's not like Frank's been trying, or anything. Ray's the one who keeps turning up when Frank's doesn't have any clothes on, so. Frank slings a towel around his waist and figures Ray can deal. Ray just blinks at him, then clears his throat and leans further into the room.
"Gee was just here. Said he needed socks."
"Socks," Frank says, pushing his wet hair out of his face. Gerard has plenty of socks, each pair stinkier than the last. "Huh."
"Yeah," Ray continues. He's also wearing a towel, but his is wrapped around his head like a turban. "I said he could have some of mine, but -- I don't know. He wanted yours."
"My socks are clean," Frank says, because Ray leaves dirty socks all over the bus. At least, Frank thinks it's Ray. Today, Frank found two under the couch cushions and one in the kitchen, and Bob found one in his bunk. "Yours wouldn't fit him anyway. Your feet are fucking huge."
Ray laughs. "Jealous?"
"Of what?" Frank asks, hitching his towel up higher. "Your big-ass clown feet?"
"You know what they say, about hands and feet," Ray says, as he retreats into his room. "And dude? You have tiny feet."
"Fuck you!" Frank counters cheerfully.
Also, fuck his bag. It's unzipped and it's turned on its side -- which isn't how Frank left it -- and his clothes are fucking everywhere. Gerard. Gerard and his fucking socks. Frank doesn't know why he's surprised; this morning, he watched Gerard destroy a box of Pop Tarts while trying to open it, and yeah, Gerard had been cruising along on just his first cup of coffee, but. He managed to drop it twice and pry up the wrong end. Frank tosses his bag on the bed and starts straightening things out, and he's not really expecting to find more pictures, but there they are, tucked between his camo thermal and his favorite pair of black jeans.
The first is a kissing close-up of their faces, all shadows and mouths and the slow slide of Gerard's tongue. The second could be earlier, if they hadn't been in a shitty, hotel stairwell; there's grass under Gerard's bent knees, and he's got Frank pinned to the vague outline of a wooden fence. The third looks older -- the paper is slightly yellow and kind of smells like stale smoke -- and Frank just stares at it. He follows the lines with the tip of his finger, tracing he curve of Gerard's jaw and the arch of his own back, because fuck. Fuck.
It's incredibly detailed. It's also incredibly distracting, so. When the door creaks and Ray says "You still up, man?" over yet more Pantera -- Fucking Hostile, now -- Frank nearly has a fucking heart attack.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Hey," Ray says slowly. He's still got that fucking towel on his head. "You okay?"
"Yeah, um -- yeah." Frank stuffs the drawings back into his bag and fumbles for his sweats. He's got another really obvious hard-on, and yeah. His towel isn't hiding anything. "Getting dressed."
Ray nods and disappears, but he doesn't shut the fucking door, and then he's back, looming in the doorway before Frank really has his sweats up over his ass. He's wearing a different Iron Maiden shirt and his Superman boxers, and he looks a lot like someone who needs a partner for Halo. Or that fucking bongo game that makes Frank's head hurt, and no. That's really not what Frank has in mind.
Frank blames Bob. Also Patrick, but mostly Bob.
It's not that Frank doesn't like Ray. Frank fucking loves Ray. He's funny and talented and dependable, and his hair is hilariously fantastic, and he's perfect for napping on, because he has less pointy bits than Mikey and none of Bob's personal space issues. Frank thinks Ray is totally, totally awesome, but. Right now, he'd love Ray even more than he already does if Ray would go be totally, totally awesome in his own room.
"What's up, man?"
Ray shrugs a little. "I can't sleep."
That's not what Frank has in mind, either. Not after his shower -- which was the best shower in the history of ever, because it had lots of soap and hot, running water, and also because he spent most of it touching his dick and thinking about Gerard -- and not after Gerard's fucking pictures. The third one was particularly filthy, and yeah, Frank would really, really like to get on that.
"It's the Pantera," Frank replies, because Pantera is great and everything, but it doesn't make Frank want to sleep. It makes him want to throw chairs and kick things.
"No," Ray says, shaking his head. His towel-turban kind of sways. He frowns again, mostly at Frank's nipple; Frank sighs and snatches a shirt out of his bag. "I'm just, I -- you know."
And yeah, Frank knows; he had the same problem on their last hotel night. Two or three days of thinking about a real bed had made him so twitchy that, when he finally got it, he couldn't fucking sleep. Gerard, of course, had passed out right away -- on top of the blankets, in a pair of sweats that hung too low on his hips, and yeah, Frank's dick had appreciated that, thanks -- so Frank had spent most of the night flipping between QVC and the ridiculous, soft-core porn on Cinemax while not looking at Gerard's ass.
Of course, now that Frank has a free pass to look at Gerard's everything, Ray can't sleep. Also, the fucking phone is ringing.
There's a song in here somewhere, Frank's pretty sure, something about complications and missed opportunities and sexual frustration. As titles go, We Finally Got a Bed (Insomnia and Telephones are for Cockblocking) is more Fall Out Boy's style, but. They can probably get away with it, if they give it an angry bridge and put in metaphors about Valkyries, or some shit. Alien unicorns. Gerard can do the chorus in his 'don't mind me, I'm just a little psychotic' voice, and during live performances, Frank can hump Gerard's leg and not get off.
Or, he can fall off Bob's kick drum. That never gets old.
Frank leans over the bed -- seriously, who the hell is calling his hotel room? -- and snatches the receiver off the cradle. "Gerard?"
"Ray?"
"Bob."
"Frank."
"Um, Mikey?" Frank asks. The name game never gets old, either. "Brian?"
"Funny," Bob grumbles. He sounds tired and suspiciously fucked out, and no. Frank's not jealous at all. "Is Toro there? He's not answering his cell."
"Ray was here, but I ate him," Frank replies gravely, because he loves fucking with Bob, and it's at least partially Bob's fault that he's having this conversation when he could doing other things. Like sucking a line of bruises along Gerard's collarbone. Or licking the skin right under Gerard's navel, which Frank has only really seen in his imagination, because Gerard swears he's fat and allergic to sunlight. "I ate him, right before I flushed his phone down the toilet."
There's a short, Bob-like pause. Bob's probably trying to kill Frank with his mind, but Frank's not too worried. It hasn't worked yet. "I'm hanging up now, Iero. Tell one of the grown-ups that I'll be back in the morning."
Bob's parting huff clicks into a dial tone, and Frank sets the receiver down with a smirk. "So, Stump's holding Bob hostage, or something."
"As long as he doesn't bang on my door the minute I fall asleep," Ray replies neutrally.
"Yeah," Frank says, because that's how touring works. The second you knock out, there's a kickball game that needs another player, or a fireworks going off outside your bus, or someone wanting to order pizza with your wallet. "If he -- hey, why the fuck did he call me?"
"I don't know," Ray says. "Maybe I have him the wrong room number. That's okay, though," he adds, smiling. "If he does come back, he'll wake your ass up, not mine."
Bullshit.
"Anyway," Ray continues, rubbing his hand over his face. "I came to see if you brought any of those guitar magazines. Maybe if I read, or something, I can--"
"--yeah, yeah," Frank says, reaching for his bag. "I think I've got one." He digs past his clothes and Gerard's drawings -- don't look, don't look -- and pulls out a battered issue of Guitar. "It's kind of old, but."
Ray waves him off. "Whatever. It's something to do." He flips open the magazine and scans the first page. "You going to sleep?"
"In a minute, yeah. I've got to talk to Gerard really quick."
Ray's mouth twitches, like he's trying to hide a smile, and yeah. Frank's not touching that. Of course, he probably doesn't need to, because Ray's not stupid. Thankfully, he's not nosy, either, so he won't ask if Frank doesn't offer. It's one of the reasons he's totally, totally awesome.
Besides, the fucking phone is ringing again.
Frank just stares at it, because no. Seriously, no. On the third ring, Frank gives it the finger. On the fourth, Ray sighs and walks over to the nightstand.
"Hello?" Ray asks, wedging the receiver between his shoulder and his ear. "Oh, hey. Okay. Yeah, um -- yeah." Ray glances at Frank, and his mouth twitches again. "Yeah, I'll tell him. Night."
"Who the fuck was that?"
"Gerard," Ray says, and seriously, his mouth. It's going to fucking stick that way. "He wants you to, uh -- he says he needs help with those socks."
Um.
"Um," Frank says, because Gerard is ridiculous, and Ray -- Ray's smiling openly now, and he's looking at Frank like he suspects 'socks' is actually secret code for 'bring lube' or 'lose your pants on the way over.' Which, yeah. Since Gerard is ridiculous, Ray might not be too far off. "I'll just, you know. Go."
"Night, Frank."
Frank does bring lube, because Gerard isn't the world's best planner. He has great ideas -- fucking fantastic ideas, if that last drawing is anything to go by -- but he sometimes has trouble with the details. Frank doesn't lose his pants, because yeah. Hotel. If Frank learned anything while touring with The Used, it's that streaking down hallways is all fun and games until someone calls the front desk. Jepha and Quinn had thought it was fucking hilarious, but that security hadn't been amused.
Gerard's door isn't quite closed. It's just resting against the jamb, and yeah, that's an invitation if Frank's ever seen one. He doesn't bother knocking.
The TV is on, with the volume muted to a dull buzz, and its random flickers paint Gerard in bright stripes of color. He's sprawled out on the bed, flat on his belly with his sketchbook practically under his chin, and he's wearing the same stupid sweats that had given Frank a permanent hard-on a couple weeks ago. They're fairly standard issue -- baggy, shapeless, gunmetal gray -- and they're sliding all over everywhere, inching down one hip and riding at the curve of Gerard's ass.
Gerard looks up when Frank gets about two feet away and taps his pencil against his lips. "Fucking finally," he mutters.
"Dude, you don't even know," Frank says, but he kind of hopes Gerard doesn't ask. They've got better things to do than talk, and Frank's pretty sure if he even thinks about Ray, he'll start banging on Gerard's door. He sits on the edge of the bed and nudges Gerard's shoulder. "You drawing me more pictures?"
"No," Gerard replies simply. He tilts his head a little, and Frank gets a quick view of a zombie feeding frenzy. It's also standard issue -- blood, guts, stringy hair and sloping foreheads -- and the victim is doing a decent impression of Wentz. At least in the teeth department. Gerard flashes Frank a smile that's mostly soft but also kind of dirty. "I figure you got the hint."
Oh.
"Oh." Frank didn't know he was the one being slow. It's not like Gerard spent their last hotel night watching shitty porn alone while Frank breathed at him from a different bed. "Okay."
"I was, um," Gerard starts, slanting his eyes toward the TV. He rolls onto his side, and yeah, there go his sweats again, hitching down and around until they're not hiding anything. His hipbone wants to be bitten, Frank's pretty sure. "I was making you a book. I was going to give it to you -- I don't know, sometime, but you caught me, so."
Frank just fucking stares, because yeah. There's not much he can say to that. Besides, talking is fucking overrated. Frank stretches out on the bed, pulls Gerard on top of him by a handful of shirt, and kisses him.
Gerard goes with it immediately, his mouth falling open and his tongue slipping wet and slick against Frank's. He tastes a little like coffee and a lot like cigarettes, and Frank's teeth catch his lower lip with tiny, nipping bites. Gerard leans into Frank, his elbows on the bed and his hands in Frank's hair, heavy and solid as he presses down and rolls his hips. Their dicks slide together, the friction muted by their sweats but still hard and slow and just this side of rough, and yeah. Fuck yeah.
"Shit," Frank says, his mouth against Gerard's jaw. "Wanted this all day." He pushes Gerard's shirt up, and Gerard's skin is smooth and warm under his hands. "Why are you still dressed?"
"What about you?" Gerard asks. "Showing up here in clothes -- you're practically a fucking nudist."
Frank really can't argue with that. He doesn't want to, anyway -- they'll start talking again, and no. Fuck that. He curves his hands over Gerard's ass instead, arching up as he pulls Gerard closer, and the slow rise and fall of Gerard's hips shifts into sharper, steadier thrusts. Gerard drags his lips down Frank's jaw, pausing to lick and suck just below Frank's ear before coming back up for a kiss. They meet hard and fast, all open mouths and quick, messy tongues, and Frank shoves at Gerard's shirt, running his hands up Gerard's back and digging his nails into Gerard's skin. Gerard makes a noise, a hissed moan that's hoarse and breathy and ridiculously fucking hot, and when he pulls away, his eyes are half-closed and his lips are wet and red.
Frank watches Gerard pull his shirt over his head, just fucking watches, because it's more of Gerard than he's ever seen all at once. Touring with Gerard has always been like that weird, Victorian porn -- an arm here and a thigh there, a sudden flash of back or belly -- but this. Fuck. This is flat nipples and smooth, white skin and a line of soft hair leading away from Gerard's navel. It disappears inside those stupid, stupid sweats -- hanging low now, one side caught under the jut of Gerard's hip -- and Frank can't stop fucking staring.
"What?" Gerard asks, biting his lip, and yeah, Frank's still staring. Gerard blushes a little, his cheeks coloring just slightly, and grabs the hem of Frank's shirt with both hands. "Come on. Ray's seen you naked like six times today."
Which, no. It was more like four times, and none of it was Frank's idea, but. He can't complain about it, because Gerard's tongue is in his mouth again, and fuck. His hands. His hands are fucking everywhere -- up and down Frank's thighs and then over his dick, across his belly and up his sides, his fingers sweaty against Frank's hips as he fumbles with the string on Frank's sweats. Frank's shirt is shoved up under his chin, which isn't the most comfortable ever, not with the scratchy Misfits logo rubbing against his jaw, but Gerard slides down Frank's body a little, and then his mouth is on Frank's nipple, warm and wet and a just-barely-there scrape of teeth. A whine catches in Frank's throat, high and tight and stupidly fucking desperate.
Gerard's tongue flicks out, dragging up slow and slick before swirling around, and then there's another hint of teeth, and yeah. Yeah. Frank whines again, but he can't fucking help it, and he twists as much as he can with Gerard pinning him down, his hips snapping up as his hands snag in Gerard's hair. It's a little wet, damp like he just had a shower, and there's an idea, the fucking shower. They can take one in the morning, with soap and steam and lazy hand-jobs under the spray, and Frank can lick the water off Gerard's hips and blow him up against the tiles.
"Shit," Frank says, half-choked because Gerard yanks Frank's sweats down to his knees and wraps his hand around Frank's dick. He doesn't stroke so much as rub, but it's really, really fucking good, all loosely-curled fingers and slow, sweat-slick pressure, and Frank has to stop himself from just pushing up against it and humping Gerard's hand until he screams. That's a great idea, and everything, but Gerard's last drawing was even better, and if Gerard doesn't quit it right fucking now, they're never going to get that far.
Frank pushes Gerard onto his back, starting on Gerard's sweats as he kicks his own the rest of the way off. His put up a fight, twisting around his ankle and catching on his foot, but Gerard's go easily, and Frank mentally apologizes for calling them stupid, ugly, and -- as he said numerous times on their last hotel night -- a total fucking menace. Gerard just watches him, his eyes wide and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, his breath hitching as Frank digs his fingers into his hips, and Frank smiles. He palms Gerard's dick, leaning down long enough to swipe his tongue over the head -- and yeah, there will be shower blowjobs, if Gerard's going to make noises like that -- then he slides up, shifting until his nose is pressed against Gerard's cheek and Gerard's wrists are pinned to the bed.
"Hi," Frank says, licking at the corner of Gerard's mouth. Gerard turns his head, coaxing Frank into a kiss, and Frank hums as he sucks on Gerard's tongue. "We're going to have sex now."
"Maybe later." Gerard lifts his hips and pushes his dick against Frank's ass. "I promised Ray we'd play that bongo game."
That is... not funny. "Fuck Ray's bongos," Frank says, and slips two fingers into Gerard's mouth.
Gerard sucks them right in, all hot and sloppy and his tongue curling around the tips, and yeah. This is about to be embarrassing, because Gerard looks like porn and Frank's just about done. He probably could come like this, with his fingers in Gerard's mouth and Gerard's dick rubbing his ass and his own riding against Gerard's belly. Fuck. That's another great idea, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow, because Frank has a plan. A plan that came with a fucking illustrated guide, so. Frank sits up, loses his stupid, stupid shirt, and plants his knees on either side of Gerard's body. He lets his ass bump Gerard's dick, and he watches Gerard watch him as he reaches between his legs and behind his balls.
"Fuck," Frank says, hissing as he pushes a finger inside. The first one is always kind of a surprise, like is ass is two steps behind his brain, but he starts to adjust after a long, stuttered exhale. His dick twitches at the familiar stretch and burn, his body sparking each time he strokes in and presses, and a dull, pleasant ache is burning up his thighs.
Gerard shifts under Frank a little, arching up slightly and bending his knees, his hands wandering between Frank's sides and belly and dick before settling firmly on his hips. His mouth is parted, his tongue just peeking out, and his hair is fucking wild. He wets his lips, watching as Frank twists above him and fucks himself on his own hand. By the time Frank's working on his third finger and sucking in short, uneven breaths through his teeth, Gerard's eyes are huge and his thumbs are digging bruises into Frank's skin.
"Now," Gerard says. His voice is thin and tight. "Frank, fuck -- now."
Which, yeah. Now would be good. Now would be fucking awesome -- Frank's wrist is cramping and his legs are shaking, and Gerard's totally fucking naked, Jesus Christ, flushed and sweaty and just laid out underneath him -- but the lube Frank brought is in the pocket of his sweats, and his sweats are... somewhere. Frank doesn't even know. On the floor, maybe. Wherever they are, they're not on the bed. Frank starts to slide away, tipping himself sideways to reach over the side of the bed, but Gerard stops him and fumbles under one of the pillows, and he comes back with -- oh, yeah. Lube and condoms. Frank apparently hasn't been giving Gerard enough credit, at least in the details department.
It's awkward for a second; the cap doesn't want to come off the lube, and condoms have a way of not really cooperating, and Frank's fingers are stupid and clumsy all of a sudden, enough that the whole thing gets a little ridiculous. The lube squirts all over everywhere, and Gerard has to deal with the condom because Frank's stupid, clumsy fingers are now sticky and wet, but then. Then. Gerard settles, stretching out again, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other warm on Frank's thigh, and Frank sinks down on his dick, delicious fucking pressure that's too fast and too slow all at once.
Fuck.
"Fuck." Gerard's eyes slide closed, all fluttering lids and shadowed lashes. "Don't, fuck -- don't move." He's fucking panting, hitched and ragged, and yeah, hot. He shifts a little, and tightens his grip on Frank's hips, fingers squeezing. "Okay, okay. I'm -- slow. Go slow, yeah?"
"Yeah," Frank says, because he can totally do slow. Actually, he needs to do slow. Gerard still looks like porn and Frank's still just about done, so. If he does anything but slow, this will be over before it starts. "Okay."
Frank just breathes, because this -- wow. Gerard's thumbs are drawing circles over his hipbones and Gerard's skin is sweaty against his thighs. Gerard's dick is inside him, hard and almost too big, and it's pressing on Frank's prostate just right, causing a dull throb of pleasure that's kind of too much, but Frank doesn't want to lose it, either. He stays perfectly still until Gerard shifts, tiny motions that are careful but also a little restless, and when Frank finally moves, it's a short, measured roll of his hips. Gerard makes one of those noises -- a low, throaty moan that's just raw and rough and filthy -- and his hips snap up off the bed, and yeah, slow is so not going to happen.
Slow is seriously not going to happen. Frank can't, and apparently, Gerard can't, either. He's fucking moving again, just tiny, shallow thrusts, but they're making Frank crazy, so no. Frank totally wants to drag this out forever, wants to lean back and ride Gerard until sunrise, or whatever, but Gerard's moving and Gerard's fucking panting -- which, yeah. Incredibly hot. His hands slip on Frank's hips, his palms flat over Frank's birds, and thighs are hitching against Frank's ass, like he's digging his heels into the bed. Frank lifts up and comes back down hard, because yeah. He really does want to drag this out forever, but he also wants Gerard's dick driving into him, fast and deep and now now now.
"Oh -- Oh, God." Gerard tips his head back, turning his neck and jaw into long lines and sharp angles. "Frank."
And yeah, Frank could listen to that all night, to Gerard spitting out his name in that raw, fucked out voice, so he pulls up and slams back down, just to hear Gerard do it again. Gerard does, shuddering underneath Frank and splitting the word in half because it catches in the back of his throat. His arm curls around Frank's waist, his hand pushing up Frank's back and into Frank's hair as he pulls Frank closer, folding him over. Their mouths kind of meet, but it's not kissing, not really, just lips dragging together and tongues fucking everywhere and sharp, ragged breaths against each other's skin.
Gerard's hand jerks in Frank's hair, twisting and pulling, and his other hand comes up to curve over Frank's ass, urging Frank to move faster with rough fingers and nails that scrape over Frank's skin, and it's fucking perfect. Frank's dick is trapped between their bodies, pushing against Gerard's belly, steady and sweat-slick friction that's fantastic, but not quite enough, and Frank would love to touch himself, he really would, but he's got one thumb on Gerard's nipple, flicking in time with the snap of Gerard's hips, and his other hand is curled where Gerard's neck meets his shoulder, heel pressed to Gerard's collarbone, and he can't seem to let go.
He doesn't need to -- Gerard thrusts into him hard, arching up and twisting a little as he wrenches Frank down, then he lets go of Frank's ass and shoves his arm past their hips, and fuck. Fuck. He gets his hand around Frank's dick, and he's not really stroking -- there's not enough room and his knuckles are bumping Frank's belly and Frank can't stop pushing back onto him -- it's mostly just his palm sliding up the shaft and his fingers twitching over the head, but yeah. Yeah. That's totally enough. Heat is knotting in Frank's stomach and his prostate is sparking every time Gerard moves, and Gerard's teeth are at his neck, his tongue darting out to smooth over the marks.
More than enough. Frank just fucking stops, choking out a chain of curses as he comes all over Gerard's chest.
"Jesus, Frank," Gerard says, and there's that voice again, hoarse and completely fucked out. "Your -- your fucking face. You should've seen it."
"What?" Frank asks, and he gasps, because he's kind of trying to breathe, and Gerard's still rocking up into him. "Was it stupid?"
Gerard smiles, all soft and crooked. "A little, yeah, but I like it. I want you to make it again."
He rolls them over, slipping out of Frank slowly and then pushing back in hard, his elbows braced on either side of Frank's head and Frank's legs around his waist. It's quick and really, really sloppy, all short, desperate thrusts and Gerard panting hot and wet against Frank's temple, but also really, really fucking good -- Gerard's fingers are ghosting over Frank's neck, and that awesome, morning-after ache is already spreading through Frank's thighs, and Gerard's making those beautiful, slutty noises again. Frank realizes Gerard's about to come a second before it happens; Gerard's body snaps taut and his next breath is shuddery, kind of broken, but Frank doesn't get to see his stupid orgasm-face, because he hides it in Frank's hair.
Fucker.
"Fucker," Frank says, turning his head. Gerard's just a nose and one eye under a messy pile of sex hair. "That's not fair -- I didn't see your stupid face."
"Oh," Gerard replies, pushing himself up. His voice is quiet, but he shoots Frank a soft smile as he futzes with the condom. "Next time, I promise."
"Okay." And yeah, next time. Frank's kind of stupidly glad to hear that; it means he won't have to ask before dragging Gerard into the shower, and that's good. Morning blowjobs are totally on tomorrow's itinerary. As far as Frank is concerned, anyway, unless Gerard draws up something better -- oh, yeah. Maybe Gerard's done with that. "Hey, are you still going to give me dirty pictures?"
"Maybe," Gerard says, lobbing the condom at the wastebasket in the corner. He misses, of course, and he frowns at Frank like he wants Frank to do something about it. Which, no. His room, his problem. Frank just laughs; Gerard lifts his chin, but his mouth twitches with the beginning of one of his sly, sneaky smiles. "I have other things to draw besides your naked ass, you know."
"Oh, yeah?" Frank asks. "Like what?" Gerard rolls over as Frank stretches out on the bed, curling into Frank's side. He butts his head against Frank's chin, and Frank wraps his arm around his shoulders. "Seriously, what -- more fucking zombies?"
"Yes. More fucking zombies."
Frank laughs and twists some of Gerard's hair around his finger. "More zombies making a snack out of Wentz?"
"That's not Wentz," Gerard mutters. He pulls away from Frank a little, just enough to look up and glare at Frank with one eye. "It isn't."
Yeah, okay. It isn't Wentz. Except that it is. "Hmm."
"I mean, his pants aren't tight enough, and his hair is pretty normal, and --" he tucks his head back into Frank's shoulder "-- it's the teeth, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Frank says. He sighs and pats Gerard's back. "It's totally the teeth."