bandom fic: Pictures of Me and You
Title: Pictures of Me and You
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
Words: ~2,300
Disclaimer: Stop googling yourselves!
Summary: In which Frank is tired, and Gerard is subtle like an anvil.
A/N: Obligatory bus porn, set during the Summer of Like. This was supposed to be comment fic for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wildestranger, but it spiraled wildly out of control. Many thanks to ![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
stephanometra for the beta.
Pictures of Me and You
The keypad takes the code the third time Frank punches it in, which Frank declares bullshit. He had it right on his first two tries. He knows this, because the code's his fucking birthday, and he knows his fucking birthday, thank you, even in the dark. Even with smoke stinging his eyes. It's tattooed on his fucking hands, so. The keypad's just being a shit because it got hit with a Super Soaker this morning, and that wasn't Frank's fault. That was William. William Beckett and Gabe fucking Saporta, and maybe, maybe, Frank wrenches the door open a little too hard. A lot too hard. Hard enough that it fucking hurts when the door cracks against his elbow.
Bullshit.
Touring is great. Touring is awesome, and Frank really, really, honestly loves it, but. Sometimes, Frank wishes Warped wasn't such a shithole. Wasn't two guitars and a stage away from being a roadside carnival. Sometimes, he wants a beer that doesn't taste like parking lot dust, or a shower that doesn't involve a garden hose, or food that doesn't look like it was actually plastic and wax before catering slopped it on his plate.
Also, the bus fucking reeks.
"The bus fucking reeks," he says, because he's tired. Not regular tired, but the crazy, jittery kind of tired where everything is too sharp around the edges and he can't have a thought without expressing it.
Not that anyone is listening. His audience includes a pair of broken drumsticks, one really dirty shoe, a stack of guitar magazines, a hoodie that maybe belongs to Patrick Stump, and Gerard.
Gerard is the one paying the least amount of attention.
"Fuck."
"There's coffee," Gerard replies mildly. His hair looks like birds have been nesting in it.
"Coffee," Frank repeats, because he's also the kind of tired where parroting others is easier than having his own thoughts.
Gerard waves toward the kitchenette without looking up from his sketchbook.
Franks turns around, and yeah, there is coffee. Of course there's fucking coffee. It's almost midnight, and tomorrow's sound check is obscenely early, but that's never stopped Gerard. There's always fucking coffee. Frank thinks Gerard would have sex with the coffee maker, if the coffee maker would stop playing coy and tell Gerard how it likes it.
Of course, Frank didn't smell the coffee when he walked in. He still can't, because the bus fucking reeks.
"The bus fucking reeks."
Gerard shrugs. "It always has," he murmurs. Which, point. Frank honestly can't remember a time when the bus didn't fucking reek. To be fair, you'll have that when you've got five guys living in a metal tube, but. This is really, really bad. Worse than it's been in weeks. It's also different. A sharp, smoky odor is lurking under the usual suspects of sweat and ass and socks shoved between the couch cushions.
That's Ray, with the socks. Frank just can't prove it.
The stench is stronger in the kitchenette, and Frank finds the source just as he's pawing through the cabinets for a mug that's passably clean. It's waiting for him, right next to the coffee maker -- it being one of the green, yellow, and aqua polka-dotted bowls that, when Bob bought them at Target, Frank complained made him think of disco. The stuff inside is both dark orange and a disturbing shade of brown, and lumpy in a way that makes Frank think it was macaroni and cheese in a past life. A spoon is stuck in it, rising up from the center like a flagpole.
"Wentz," Gerard says, before Frank can ask.
Frank gives the bowl a poke. "Wentz?" And fuck, he's doing that repeating thing again. Also, the spoon doesn't even move. Frank now understands why Fall Out Boy survives off Pop Tarts and noodle cups. To Frank's knowledge, Pete's had nothing but Skittles for two fucking days. "Wentz cooked?"
"Mikey was hungry," Gerard says.
Frank's not touching that one. He's really not. He probably wouldn't anyway, but right now, he's too fucking tired. Right now, Gerard is all soft lines and worn out skeleton pajamas and fucked up hair, and Frank doesn't trust himself not to be a douche. When he last saw Mikey -- a good hour ago, maybe more -- he and Pete had been wearing matching t-shirts and not quite making out against the Academy bus. That's pretty much business as usual, but Frank's pretty sure Gerard doesn't want to hear about it. About Mikey's hands in Pete's back pockets, or Pete pressing his stupid, stupid donkey smile into Mikey's hair.
Instead, Frank says, "You want some?" and holds up the coffee pot like Gerard can see it with the back of his head.
"Always," Gerard replies, because apparently, he can. This only confirms Frank's suspicions about Gerard's torrid affair with the coffee maker, and for his own sanity, Frank does his best to put that aside. Way too fucking tired. The last thing he needs to think about is Gerard humping the coffee maker. Gerard humping anything. Frank really doesn't trust himself not to be a douche. An incredibly horny and pathetic douche.
"Yeah," Frank says, then, "we don't have anymore mugs," because they don't. Because all fourteen are in the sink. Most are fuzzy. One is so fuzzy Frank thinks it could declare itself an independent nation and get away with it.
Gerard waves this off with his pencil. "We can share."
Frank fills the mug too full -- so full that coffee slops over the sides when he walks -- and he pauses in front of the couch, taking a long sip before he ends up with coffee all over his last reasonably clean pair of jeans. Gerard watches him, all too-big eyes and a charcoal smudge across his cheek. He takes another sip and Gerard frowns. Frank tries to hold out, but Gerard resorts to grabby hands, and Frank sits, passing the mug over with a sigh. Gerard mumbles -- more to the coffee than to Frank -- and tucks his feet under Frank's leg.
"Early call tomorrow," Frank says, as Gerard passes the coffee back. It's almost empty, of course, but Frank sure as fuck isn't getting back up. "We should be asleep."
Gerard shrugs, one shoulder inching up in pursuit of his ear. "Yeah." He glances at the TV, where Dawn of the Dead is on mute, then squints at his sketchbook. "I can take it." He smiles, the quiet, lopsided smile that makes Frank want to kiss him. "Tomorrow's a hotel night, so."
"Yeah, because you sleep so much on hotel nights," Frank replies. Hotel nights mean a shower and a real bed and food that's actually edible, but they also mean porn marathons and Guitar Hero tournaments. And people stampeding down the halls. And Mikey banging on the door at whore o'clock in the morning, because he left his keycard somewhere ridiculous, like in Pete's pants. "You'll watch bad anime and pass out on top of a sketch of Wentz getting eaten by werewolves."
"Zombies," Gerard corrects, flashing his tiny, ridiculous teeth. "And I'm going to sleep. I'm going to sleep so fucking hard Worm'll have to carry me downstairs in the morning." He stretches his legs, which shoves his feet directly underneath Frank's ass. "I'm going to sleep, and you're going to do it with me," he adds, twirling his pencil between his fingers. "We're rooming together."
Frank frowns at the last of the coffee. "Are we?"
"Yes."
Frank's not touching that one, either. Because, yeah. Horny and pathetic douche. He knows what he wants to think, but he also knows that Ray snores like a fucking champion, and that currently, rooming with Mikey is just a free subscription to the Pete Wentz show. Gerard's only other option is Bob, and Frank's fairly certain that Bob is having sex with Stump.
Fairly certain. Bob doesn't kiss and tell, or some shit, and when he and Patrick disappear, they fucking disappear.
Gerard sighs and shifts his feet, curling his toes, which tickles, and Frank giggles, twisting around until Gerard's feet are somewhere safer. Like, not right up against Frank's fucking balls. Ignored, Dawn of the Dead continues. Gerard settles back into drawing, and the soft scratch-scratch-scratch of his pencil starts lulling Frank to sleep.
"What are you drawing?" he asks around a yawn.
"You," Gerard says simply. He looks at Frank, the kind of cross-eyed, lip-chewing look that says he's measuring the space between Frank's eyebrows or checking the shape of Frank's ears. Frank hates those looks, because he wants Gerard to do it with his mouth. "Us."
That's nothing unusual; Gerard is forever drawing people he knows. There are two finished sketches on the table -- one of Ray and Mikey napping on the couch, and one of Bob hunched over his kit. There both incredibly detailed -- scratches mar the side of Bob's floor tom, and Mikey's hand is curled loosely in the front of Ray's shirt.
"Can I see?" Frank asks.
Gerard barely hesitates. Barely. Then he bats his hair out of his eyes and tosses the sketchbook into Frank's lap.
Um.
"Um."
"I know," Gerard says, almost miserably. "Your nose is kind of. Fuck, I don't know, and that tattoo" -- he leans over and pinches at Frank's arm -- "I always have trouble with her. Something about her face."
"Yeah," Frank mumbles. Fuck, he can't stop looking. "Yeah, but." His tattoos. Gerard is worried about his tattoos. He's worried about Gerard's hands. Well, Gerard-in-the-picture's hands. "We, um. You know." The real Gerard has his hands tucked safely in his lap. His own lap. "We don't really do that."
"Oh," Gerard says, like Frank-in-the-picture's jeans aren't shoved down around his knees. Like Gerard's mouth isn't just south of the And. Like his fingers aren't digging into Frank's hips hard enough to bruise. "That's tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Frank asks, and fuck, he's doing that repeating thing again, but he's earned it this time. His brain's stuck in fucking neutral. "Tomorrow?"
"Hotel night." Gerard smiles -- the slow, sly smile he makes when he's alone with the coffee maker. "Or, you know. Now." He sits up, his lip caught between his teeth, and gives Frank's arm another pinch. "Now is good, too."
Gerard leans in a little, his eyes half-closed and his mouth parted just slightly, and yeah, now is good. Now is really, really good. Frank grabs the front of Gerard's pajamas and pulls, and Gerard slumps into him, tipping them over, and Frank's head smacks against the arm of the couch, which is totally, totally bullshit, but. Gerard is in his lap. Gerard's thigh is right up against his cock, and Gerard is kissing him, all wet lips and lewd, slick tongue.
Now is fucking fantastic.
"Fuck," Frank says, right into Gerard's mouth. Gerard's fucking mouth. "Yeah."
"I know," Gerard says, slipping one hand into Frank's hair. The other sneaks under Frank's shirt, his fingers warm and a little sweaty against Frank's skin. "I know."
They kiss again, hard and fast and really fucking messy, and Gerard shoves his hips down, pressing their cocks together. He gasps into Frank's mouth, and Frank can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe. He curls his tongue around Gerard's and bites at Gerard's lips, arches up as Gerard pushes down again and slides his hands over Gerard's back and sides. He can't stop touching. His fingers trip over worn flannel, and he hates Gerard's stupid, stupid pajamas, because he wants to be touching skin.
"Get these off," Frank says, giving Gerard's zipper a tug. "I want to see."
"Tomorrow." Gerard's voice is thick. Fucking hoarse. "We'll have a bed. And a door with a lock."
And yeah, Gerard has a point -- they're in the middle of the fucking lounge -- but Frank wants to get his hands on Gerard's thighs and his fingers around Gerard's cock. Gerard pulls back a bit, watching Frank's face as he rocks against Frank again, and Frank settles for palming Gerard's ass, urging him on, because he also wants Gerard closer, and the frantic rise and fall of his hips is filthy fucking hot.
"Hot." Frank twists up, and yeah, right there. Right there. "So fucking hot."
"You," Gerard says, and when he ducks back down he misses Frank's mouth by a mile. Also, the TV remote is jabbing Frank in the side, but. Gerard presses his face to Frank's neck, and then there's tongue and teeth over the scorpion and a soft kiss behind his ear. "You."
Gerard finds Frank's mouth again, moaning quietly as he licks his way inside, and suddenly it's fucking high school, all soft gasps and fumbling fingers and way too many goddamn clothes. Frank reaches down and between them, still hating Gerard's stupid, stupid pajamas as he rubs at Gerard's cock with the heel of his hand. Gerard just stops, completely fucking stops, his hips stuttering as he pulls Frank's hair and pants against Frank's jaw.
He slides down Frank's body slowly -- way too fucking slowly -- stopping when his face is level with Frank's cock. He runs his hand over it once. Twice. Presses his mouth against it hard and fast, and yeah, Frank is fucking done.
"Fuck."
"Yeah," Gerard says. His cheeks are red and his chin is resting on Frank's hip. "We should sleep. We have an early call tomorrow."
Frank shrugs. He wants a cigarette, but he really, really doesn't want to move. "Hotel night tomorrow."
"Yes," Gerard says, crawling up Frank's body for a kiss. "It is, and we're not sleeping at all."
end
This has a sequel: An Illustrated Guide [Frank/Gerard, NC-17].
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
Words: ~2,300
Disclaimer: Stop googling yourselves!
Summary: In which Frank is tired, and Gerard is subtle like an anvil.
A/N: Obligatory bus porn, set during the Summer of Like. This was supposed to be comment fic for
wildestranger, but it spiraled wildly out of control. Many thanks to stephanometra for the beta.The keypad takes the code the third time Frank punches it in, which Frank declares bullshit. He had it right on his first two tries. He knows this, because the code's his fucking birthday, and he knows his fucking birthday, thank you, even in the dark. Even with smoke stinging his eyes. It's tattooed on his fucking hands, so. The keypad's just being a shit because it got hit with a Super Soaker this morning, and that wasn't Frank's fault. That was William. William Beckett and Gabe fucking Saporta, and maybe, maybe, Frank wrenches the door open a little too hard. A lot too hard. Hard enough that it fucking hurts when the door cracks against his elbow.
Bullshit.
Touring is great. Touring is awesome, and Frank really, really, honestly loves it, but. Sometimes, Frank wishes Warped wasn't such a shithole. Wasn't two guitars and a stage away from being a roadside carnival. Sometimes, he wants a beer that doesn't taste like parking lot dust, or a shower that doesn't involve a garden hose, or food that doesn't look like it was actually plastic and wax before catering slopped it on his plate.
Also, the bus fucking reeks.
"The bus fucking reeks," he says, because he's tired. Not regular tired, but the crazy, jittery kind of tired where everything is too sharp around the edges and he can't have a thought without expressing it.
Not that anyone is listening. His audience includes a pair of broken drumsticks, one really dirty shoe, a stack of guitar magazines, a hoodie that maybe belongs to Patrick Stump, and Gerard.
Gerard is the one paying the least amount of attention.
"Fuck."
"There's coffee," Gerard replies mildly. His hair looks like birds have been nesting in it.
"Coffee," Frank repeats, because he's also the kind of tired where parroting others is easier than having his own thoughts.
Gerard waves toward the kitchenette without looking up from his sketchbook.
Franks turns around, and yeah, there is coffee. Of course there's fucking coffee. It's almost midnight, and tomorrow's sound check is obscenely early, but that's never stopped Gerard. There's always fucking coffee. Frank thinks Gerard would have sex with the coffee maker, if the coffee maker would stop playing coy and tell Gerard how it likes it.
Of course, Frank didn't smell the coffee when he walked in. He still can't, because the bus fucking reeks.
"The bus fucking reeks."
Gerard shrugs. "It always has," he murmurs. Which, point. Frank honestly can't remember a time when the bus didn't fucking reek. To be fair, you'll have that when you've got five guys living in a metal tube, but. This is really, really bad. Worse than it's been in weeks. It's also different. A sharp, smoky odor is lurking under the usual suspects of sweat and ass and socks shoved between the couch cushions.
That's Ray, with the socks. Frank just can't prove it.
The stench is stronger in the kitchenette, and Frank finds the source just as he's pawing through the cabinets for a mug that's passably clean. It's waiting for him, right next to the coffee maker -- it being one of the green, yellow, and aqua polka-dotted bowls that, when Bob bought them at Target, Frank complained made him think of disco. The stuff inside is both dark orange and a disturbing shade of brown, and lumpy in a way that makes Frank think it was macaroni and cheese in a past life. A spoon is stuck in it, rising up from the center like a flagpole.
"Wentz," Gerard says, before Frank can ask.
Frank gives the bowl a poke. "Wentz?" And fuck, he's doing that repeating thing again. Also, the spoon doesn't even move. Frank now understands why Fall Out Boy survives off Pop Tarts and noodle cups. To Frank's knowledge, Pete's had nothing but Skittles for two fucking days. "Wentz cooked?"
"Mikey was hungry," Gerard says.
Frank's not touching that one. He's really not. He probably wouldn't anyway, but right now, he's too fucking tired. Right now, Gerard is all soft lines and worn out skeleton pajamas and fucked up hair, and Frank doesn't trust himself not to be a douche. When he last saw Mikey -- a good hour ago, maybe more -- he and Pete had been wearing matching t-shirts and not quite making out against the Academy bus. That's pretty much business as usual, but Frank's pretty sure Gerard doesn't want to hear about it. About Mikey's hands in Pete's back pockets, or Pete pressing his stupid, stupid donkey smile into Mikey's hair.
Instead, Frank says, "You want some?" and holds up the coffee pot like Gerard can see it with the back of his head.
"Always," Gerard replies, because apparently, he can. This only confirms Frank's suspicions about Gerard's torrid affair with the coffee maker, and for his own sanity, Frank does his best to put that aside. Way too fucking tired. The last thing he needs to think about is Gerard humping the coffee maker. Gerard humping anything. Frank really doesn't trust himself not to be a douche. An incredibly horny and pathetic douche.
"Yeah," Frank says, then, "we don't have anymore mugs," because they don't. Because all fourteen are in the sink. Most are fuzzy. One is so fuzzy Frank thinks it could declare itself an independent nation and get away with it.
Gerard waves this off with his pencil. "We can share."
Frank fills the mug too full -- so full that coffee slops over the sides when he walks -- and he pauses in front of the couch, taking a long sip before he ends up with coffee all over his last reasonably clean pair of jeans. Gerard watches him, all too-big eyes and a charcoal smudge across his cheek. He takes another sip and Gerard frowns. Frank tries to hold out, but Gerard resorts to grabby hands, and Frank sits, passing the mug over with a sigh. Gerard mumbles -- more to the coffee than to Frank -- and tucks his feet under Frank's leg.
"Early call tomorrow," Frank says, as Gerard passes the coffee back. It's almost empty, of course, but Frank sure as fuck isn't getting back up. "We should be asleep."
Gerard shrugs, one shoulder inching up in pursuit of his ear. "Yeah." He glances at the TV, where Dawn of the Dead is on mute, then squints at his sketchbook. "I can take it." He smiles, the quiet, lopsided smile that makes Frank want to kiss him. "Tomorrow's a hotel night, so."
"Yeah, because you sleep so much on hotel nights," Frank replies. Hotel nights mean a shower and a real bed and food that's actually edible, but they also mean porn marathons and Guitar Hero tournaments. And people stampeding down the halls. And Mikey banging on the door at whore o'clock in the morning, because he left his keycard somewhere ridiculous, like in Pete's pants. "You'll watch bad anime and pass out on top of a sketch of Wentz getting eaten by werewolves."
"Zombies," Gerard corrects, flashing his tiny, ridiculous teeth. "And I'm going to sleep. I'm going to sleep so fucking hard Worm'll have to carry me downstairs in the morning." He stretches his legs, which shoves his feet directly underneath Frank's ass. "I'm going to sleep, and you're going to do it with me," he adds, twirling his pencil between his fingers. "We're rooming together."
Frank frowns at the last of the coffee. "Are we?"
"Yes."
Frank's not touching that one, either. Because, yeah. Horny and pathetic douche. He knows what he wants to think, but he also knows that Ray snores like a fucking champion, and that currently, rooming with Mikey is just a free subscription to the Pete Wentz show. Gerard's only other option is Bob, and Frank's fairly certain that Bob is having sex with Stump.
Fairly certain. Bob doesn't kiss and tell, or some shit, and when he and Patrick disappear, they fucking disappear.
Gerard sighs and shifts his feet, curling his toes, which tickles, and Frank giggles, twisting around until Gerard's feet are somewhere safer. Like, not right up against Frank's fucking balls. Ignored, Dawn of the Dead continues. Gerard settles back into drawing, and the soft scratch-scratch-scratch of his pencil starts lulling Frank to sleep.
"What are you drawing?" he asks around a yawn.
"You," Gerard says simply. He looks at Frank, the kind of cross-eyed, lip-chewing look that says he's measuring the space between Frank's eyebrows or checking the shape of Frank's ears. Frank hates those looks, because he wants Gerard to do it with his mouth. "Us."
That's nothing unusual; Gerard is forever drawing people he knows. There are two finished sketches on the table -- one of Ray and Mikey napping on the couch, and one of Bob hunched over his kit. There both incredibly detailed -- scratches mar the side of Bob's floor tom, and Mikey's hand is curled loosely in the front of Ray's shirt.
"Can I see?" Frank asks.
Gerard barely hesitates. Barely. Then he bats his hair out of his eyes and tosses the sketchbook into Frank's lap.
Um.
"Um."
"I know," Gerard says, almost miserably. "Your nose is kind of. Fuck, I don't know, and that tattoo" -- he leans over and pinches at Frank's arm -- "I always have trouble with her. Something about her face."
"Yeah," Frank mumbles. Fuck, he can't stop looking. "Yeah, but." His tattoos. Gerard is worried about his tattoos. He's worried about Gerard's hands. Well, Gerard-in-the-picture's hands. "We, um. You know." The real Gerard has his hands tucked safely in his lap. His own lap. "We don't really do that."
"Oh," Gerard says, like Frank-in-the-picture's jeans aren't shoved down around his knees. Like Gerard's mouth isn't just south of the And. Like his fingers aren't digging into Frank's hips hard enough to bruise. "That's tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Frank asks, and fuck, he's doing that repeating thing again, but he's earned it this time. His brain's stuck in fucking neutral. "Tomorrow?"
"Hotel night." Gerard smiles -- the slow, sly smile he makes when he's alone with the coffee maker. "Or, you know. Now." He sits up, his lip caught between his teeth, and gives Frank's arm another pinch. "Now is good, too."
Gerard leans in a little, his eyes half-closed and his mouth parted just slightly, and yeah, now is good. Now is really, really good. Frank grabs the front of Gerard's pajamas and pulls, and Gerard slumps into him, tipping them over, and Frank's head smacks against the arm of the couch, which is totally, totally bullshit, but. Gerard is in his lap. Gerard's thigh is right up against his cock, and Gerard is kissing him, all wet lips and lewd, slick tongue.
Now is fucking fantastic.
"Fuck," Frank says, right into Gerard's mouth. Gerard's fucking mouth. "Yeah."
"I know," Gerard says, slipping one hand into Frank's hair. The other sneaks under Frank's shirt, his fingers warm and a little sweaty against Frank's skin. "I know."
They kiss again, hard and fast and really fucking messy, and Gerard shoves his hips down, pressing their cocks together. He gasps into Frank's mouth, and Frank can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe. He curls his tongue around Gerard's and bites at Gerard's lips, arches up as Gerard pushes down again and slides his hands over Gerard's back and sides. He can't stop touching. His fingers trip over worn flannel, and he hates Gerard's stupid, stupid pajamas, because he wants to be touching skin.
"Get these off," Frank says, giving Gerard's zipper a tug. "I want to see."
"Tomorrow." Gerard's voice is thick. Fucking hoarse. "We'll have a bed. And a door with a lock."
And yeah, Gerard has a point -- they're in the middle of the fucking lounge -- but Frank wants to get his hands on Gerard's thighs and his fingers around Gerard's cock. Gerard pulls back a bit, watching Frank's face as he rocks against Frank again, and Frank settles for palming Gerard's ass, urging him on, because he also wants Gerard closer, and the frantic rise and fall of his hips is filthy fucking hot.
"Hot." Frank twists up, and yeah, right there. Right there. "So fucking hot."
"You," Gerard says, and when he ducks back down he misses Frank's mouth by a mile. Also, the TV remote is jabbing Frank in the side, but. Gerard presses his face to Frank's neck, and then there's tongue and teeth over the scorpion and a soft kiss behind his ear. "You."
Gerard finds Frank's mouth again, moaning quietly as he licks his way inside, and suddenly it's fucking high school, all soft gasps and fumbling fingers and way too many goddamn clothes. Frank reaches down and between them, still hating Gerard's stupid, stupid pajamas as he rubs at Gerard's cock with the heel of his hand. Gerard just stops, completely fucking stops, his hips stuttering as he pulls Frank's hair and pants against Frank's jaw.
He slides down Frank's body slowly -- way too fucking slowly -- stopping when his face is level with Frank's cock. He runs his hand over it once. Twice. Presses his mouth against it hard and fast, and yeah, Frank is fucking done.
"Fuck."
"Yeah," Gerard says. His cheeks are red and his chin is resting on Frank's hip. "We should sleep. We have an early call tomorrow."
Frank shrugs. He wants a cigarette, but he really, really doesn't want to move. "Hotel night tomorrow."
"Yes," Gerard says, crawling up Frank's body for a kiss. "It is, and we're not sleeping at all."
This has a sequel: An Illustrated Guide [Frank/Gerard, NC-17].