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Frank’s actually less high right now than he has been in weeks. He’s got a different buzz under his skin, the unbeatable thrill of hearing a track start coming together, of nodding along and catching eyes with the others in the studio. It’s a sharp feeling, slicing through the post-breakup fog; he’s spent the past few months watching his old band crumble away slowly and unspectacularly, like a loaf of bread left out in the rain. And as fucking exciting as watching someone else’s band make a record might be, it also kind of feels like you’re the only single guy in the sex club, sitting alone in the corner. Frank would look terrible with a perv mustache.
The others actually have gone out tonight—not to a sex club, obviously, just Geoff’s buddy’s place for some kind of house party. Or maybe it was tabletop games. Although Frank still reckons that’s code for some kind of sex thing—otherwise why the fuck would people do it on a Friday night—so maybe they are at a sex club.
Whatever. Point is, Frank doesn’t need to give Geoff a lift home tonight, and now that Alex has told Ray to put his guitar away for once, Jesus fucking Christ, and gone to bed, he and Ray are alone in the living room. The two of them had been invited along to the boardgames-or-secret-sex-thing, but Frank had caught Ray’s eyes as he declined, and he thinks Ray got the hint.
Frank rolls the last of his very shitty weed into a measly joint. He fumbles it a bit, fingers still stiff from sitting out in the freezing van for hours writing his part to add to Monroeville, but he relishes the ache—a reminder that he’s in this band now. This band that might actually be going places beyond tri-state basements. Here he is, lying on the same ratty couch he’s been glued to for the past week, lighting a joint that will barely be enough to give the two of them a buzz, but he’s sharing it with Ray. Ray, who’s his bandmate now, even though Frank feels like he barely knows the guy.
He’d expected tension, shouldering in late like this. A bit of bitchiness, a bit of a pissing contest, a bit of cock-measuring. Geoff had certainly warned him about it; you can’t write music with someone that good, he’d said. Then again, he’d also said that Gerard couldn’t sing, and he’s eaten those words now. Ray’s fucking…nice.
Maybe this is the honeymoon phase, and the novelty will wear off once Ray realizes Frank’s sticking around. But even if it was a rushed shotgun wedding, the sex is hot. Frank’s still riding the high of Ray turning that kid-in-a-candy-store grin on him and saying, “This is fucking sick, bro!” when Frank had showed them his Monroeville part, and Ray had clapped him on the back hard enough that his teeth stopped chattering.
Still, there’s that awful, niggling suspicion that Ray’s just trying to be nice to the new guy, which would be so unbearably embarrassing. It makes Frank prickle up, want to poke and prod at Ray a little. See how far he can push until he gets a kickback.
Luckily, Ray gives him plenty of easy fodder.
“Take that the fuck back,” Frank exclaims. “I refuse to be in a band with a guy who thinks Pinkerton is the pinnacle of music.”
“It’s good!” Ray protests.
“Fine, dude, it’s good. But it’s not, like…revel—revalatol—you know, it’s not, like, a revelation.”
Frank frowns down at the joint and passes it to Ray. This shit is nowhere near good enough to justify him slurring his words.
“Man, you gotta listen. It’s, like, the layers. The guitar is, like—ugh.” Ray’s voice rises in pitch as he speaks, and the joint waves around as he gesticulates wildly. Frank finds himself following the dance of his fingers through the air for a little too long, eyes tracing down the slump of his broad shoulders and the soft curve of his spine. He’s a weird-looking guy, like Alex said, just slightly out-of-proportion. He looks kind of overgrown, like one of those puppies who doesn’t realize how big they’ve gotten, loose-limbed and long-legged in a way that’s awkward rather than graceful. Big hands.
Then he gets a guitar in those hands and it’s like he settles into the breadth of his own body. Everything about him makes sense when he’s curled around his scuffed-up old Les Paul knockoff, fingers blurring on the fretboard. He won’t even notice all the eyes in the room are on him until he looks up and asks, “How was that? Should I go again?” and Geoff will roll his eyes at Alex while the Ways clap Ray on the back.
“Like. The way they know how to build a song. Listen, man, the way the layers grow—” Frank half-tunes out as Ray launches into a rant about the complexities of Tired of Sex by Weezer, but he likes watching the way he talks with his entire body. There’s an openness to him, a refreshing kind of honesty. He broadcasts every emotion on his face and wears his eccentricities unapologetically—yesterday, he’d shed unabashed tears at Gerard’s vocals for Monroeville, and he carries around a little Spiderman action figure everywhere he goes, like that’s normal for a 24-year-old. It kind of makes Frank squirm, but it’s also a little captivating. Maybe this scene could do with a few more people who aren’t desperately trying to convince everyone they’re cool.
Frank digs down at his side and pulls out his video camera, partly to give his hands something to do while Ray’s got the joint, partly out of habit. Partly because he wants to capture the enthusiasm in Ray’s voice. He’s been filming a lot over the past week in the studio. Alex has, too – he knows they both know My Chem is the real deal. Frank just wanted the memory, the proof that he was part of it, way back at the start. Now, he has to keep reminding himself that he might be part of it for much longer.
“Tired of Sex,” he says, cutting Ray off mid-rant with a laugh. “Isn’t the singer, like, a born-again virgin or something?”
“What? I dunno, dude. But the instrum—”
“No, he is, I swear. He’s celibate or something.”
“Really?”
“Does the song speak to you, Toro?” Frank teases.
“I’m not—” Ray yelps, but he cuts himself off with a laugh when he turns and sees the camera. “What are you filming this for?”
Frank smirks. “To show it to your mom tonight, after I—ow, stop!” Ray stops slapping his wrist and reaches up to cover the camera lens. Frank holds it up easily out of reach.
“Aww, don’t be shy, Toro, you look cute.” He covers his words with a teasing grin, same way the others call him sweet baby or Mikey little dude. Ray blushes anyway.
“Shut up,” he laughs, swatting at the camera.
“You’ll have to get used to it, dude, soon you’ll be famous. Pretend I’m a groupie.” He pitches his voice into a stupid falsetto, leaning over to crowd into Ray’s personal space. “Ooh, Raymond, you’re the handsomest one. Play me like you play your guitar.”
Ray shoves his face away, rolling his eyes, and Frank snatches the joint out of his hands while he’s distracted. He puts the camera down, though, so Ray will relax back against the couch. He does, but starts tapping out a restless rhythm out against his leg. Frank hasn’t actually seen him sit still the entire week they’ve been in the studio.
“What’s it actually like?” Ray asks, after Frank’s taken a long drag.
“What?” Frank pulls a face. “Getting groupies? Dude, that doesn’t—”
“No, idiot. Touring and shit. Like. I might have to take leave at my job and shit.” He sounds a little disbelieving, like the thought’s only just occurring to him.
“You’ll be lucky if they don’t just fire you,” Frank says, a little smug. Ray might be able to play circles around everyone in this studio, but Frank’s the one with the actual hard-earned experience. Like, street smarts and shit. “It can be tough. You’re living show to show. But that’s what it’s all about, dude. The show.” He rolls over onto his side so he can face Ray more fully. Ray’s twisted around to look back up at Frank, eyes bright and mouth half-curved up in an absentminded smile. “None of the other bullshit, you know?”
“Yeah…” Ray says, blinking slowly.
“That’s how it’s gotta be. That’s how you know it’s real.”
He eyes the joint in his hands. Maybe this is a bit better than he thought. He’s getting all profound. He passes it to Ray and shivers at the brush of his fingers, shockingly warm.
“I gotta say, though,” he says. He’s got Ray’s full attention now, and he wants to keep it. “All those guys living in the one van…things can get nasty quick.”
“Is that what happened with…?” Ray trails off, like he’s embarrassed to bring up his buddy’s divorce. Frank twists his mouth up and shifts his weight a little, resisting the urge to start patting Ray’s hair. It looks like a nice texture, like it would feel good between Frank’s fingers, but he’s seen Ray shy away from people touching it. He’s not sure if the two of them are really there yet.
“There’s always one person, you know?” he says sagely. He’s not that 17-year-old kid anymore, thinking being in a band is all shits and giggles. “No matter what else happens, shit’s bound to go wrong in some way. You can always count on that one thing. And if there’s a dude who doesn’t quite gel…people gang up, you know? It happens.”
Ray frowns. “Oh, great. So, basically high school.”
“I guess, but less puberty and more sleeping on each other’s laps every night.”
“Okay.” Ray puffs smoke from his nose as he huffs a laugh. “So what you’re saying is, Otter’s fucked?”
Frank cackles.
“Toro, that was mean,” he says, delighted. Ray immediately looks guilty, but that doesn’t dampen the warmth in Frank’s chest at the implication that Frank is a better fit in this band than the guy who helped found it. Being the new guy is…precarious.
“Sorry. I didn’t actually mean that. I’m just…surprised I’m in a band with him again.”
“Oh yeah,” Frank says, trying to remember the name. He’d heard of Ray’s old band by virtue of them being from Jersey, but they’d always been one step removed from the whole Eyeball/331 Somerset punk house scene. “The…”
“Rodneys. It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend like you knew us,” he says, sounding genuine as always. “It was just us fucking around in Otter’s attic. I never thought…”
He pauses, turning around again to face Frank more fully. He’s all twisted up in his sleeping bag, leaning on the couch so Frank can feel the soft pull of gravity towards the divot his arm makes in the cushion.
“I just…man,” Ray says. “Am I crazy to think we’re actually going somewhere with this? Like…I was barely even playing guitar anymore when Gerard called me.”
It should be so easy to resent Ray, Frank thinks, with his casual talent and random connection to Gerard that landed him in a band that has so much promise, when it’s something Frank wants like breathing. He’s been in bands since he was thirteen, and doesn’t think he’d know how to live without one. But Ray’s looking up at him with raised eyebrows, face open and earnest; Frank couldn’t bring himself to resent him even if he tried.
“I’m meant to be looking for actual film opportunities, you know? A career. And it’s literally only been a few months with this band but…you know, Gerard.”
Frank laughs, and takes back the joint with a ‘cheers’ gesture. “Oh, I know. Gerard.”
Frank’s seen the way Ray looks at him. He knows Ray feels it too, that weird urge to follow Gerard Way to the ends of the Earth, over hot coals, through walls of flame. Or whatever.
“What is it about that guy?” Ray says, eyes crinkling up in a mystified smile.
“It’s the eyebrows,” Frank says around the joint. It’s starting to burn out, and he’s barely feeling the effects beyond a slight syrupy sensation in his limbs, a subtle echo to his thoughts. “They’re compelling.”
Ray giggles, high-pitched and breathy. His cheeks dimple up, and he takes off his stupid glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. It’s infectious. Frank shifts his weight onto his side and props himself up on his elbow so he can see his face better. He’s all soft around the edges, gentle-looking everywhere Frank is sharp and angular: broad, friendly nose, full lips, slightly chubby cheeks. He’s cute.
“The thousand yard stare!” Ray laughs, pulling his eyelids wide open with his fingers to demonstrate. “And his weird little teeth.”
Frank’s mouth feels all dry. He reaches past Ray to take a swig from the glass of water on the cardboard box acting as their coffee table, and the brush of his curls against Frank’s arm sends static tingling over his skin.
“Don’t forget his little pixie nose. Fucking adorable,” Frank grumbles.
“Stupidly adorable,” Ray agrees, and reaches up to tap Frank’s own nose. Frank blinks at the sudden contact and goes to bat Ray’s hand away in a half-hearted motion, but their hands just end up brushing against each other. A pleasant shiver runs all the way down Frank’s arm. Almost automatically, he loops his fingers lightly around Ray’s wrist.
There have been those who have called Frank impulsive. Frank prefers the term proactive. There’s a time and place for overthinking, and that time and place is later and in private. For now, Frank can’t ignore the thickness in the air between them.
“You know,” he says slowly, gesturing with the joint. “We’ve been wasting this.”
“Yeah?” Ray’s body is twisted around awkwardly to stare up at Frank, but he makes no move to pull his hand away and settle back down against the couch. Frank lips his lips. He watches Ray’s eyes track the movement.
“Mm-hm,” Frank hums. “It’s the last of my supply. We gotta make the most of it.” He takes a deep inhale from the stub of the joint, drawing in smoke and holding it in his chest, letting his eyes slide shut, until his lungs start to tingle. When he opens his eyes, Ray’s still staring, lips parted.
Cute.
It’s too easy to curl a hand around the back of Ray’s head and pull it forward, and he dips down and exhales into his mouth.
Ray’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t cough. He strains against Frank’s hand for half a second, then relaxes. Frank’s nose brushes Ray’s cheek. Ray sits very, very still.
There’s a niggling voice at the back of Frank’s mind telling him this might be a bad idea, but it sounds an awful lot like the voice that says his playing style shouldn’t work with Ray’s. He gives Ray full five seconds to pull back. Ray doesn’t.
His lips are soft, softer than those of any girl Frank’s kissed. They taste like beer and smoke, a tang of spit. They don’t move against Frank’s.
Frank leans back and takes a breath. Ray’s staring up at him, wide-eyed, his pupils blown wide. His lips part with a slight pop. There’s a little sheen of saliva on them. Frank’s.
Frank giggles, high and breathy, and Ray’s face crumples up as he holds back his own. It comes out as a little snort from the back of his throat and dissolves into muffled snickers, his shoulders shaking with it. He laughs with his whole body, Frank already knows, like how he plays guitar or gives hugs. His eyes slide away from Frank’s to linger on his mouth. He bites his bottom lip.
“C’mon,” Frank breathes, and leans back down to kiss it, coax it out from under his teeth and suck it between his own lips. Ray’s breath hitches, and he shifts his weight so he’s finally moving against Frank’s mouth, pressing his face up into his.
Frank pushes himself up further onto his elbow so he has better leverage and nestles his hand more firmly in Ray’s hair. Frank was right; it does feel nice between his fingers, short curls winding around them.
“Is this—are we still pretending that you’re a groupie?” Ray says, wide-eyed, when Frank pulls back for breath. Frank barks out a surprised laugh.
“Fuck, dude. If you want. Should I put on a wig?”
“I—no, I—”
Okay, so sometimes Frank gets swept along in the rush of his thoughts. He pulls the reins; maybe he’s left Ray a few steps behind him.
“Sorry. You wanna stop?”
Ray licks his lips. “…No?”
Frank leans back in, more slowly this time. Ray kisses not like how he laughs, or plays guitar, or gives hugs. Tentatively. Frank has to bear down on him from above to get him to open his mouth properly, has to pull out all the stops to get him to move his tongue. Once he does, though, things slot into place, their tongues sliding together hotly as Ray presses his face up into Frank’s. When Frank lets his teeth catch on his lips, he makes these little cut-off breathy noises, like he’s holding back. Now, that won’t do.
Frank half-rolls, half-slides off the couch, pitching his weight over until he’s perched on Ray’s thighs, knees bracketed on either side of his hips. His thighs are big, his hips wide, a little pudgy where Frank squeezes his knees against them. He gapes up at Frank, mouth hanging open, lips red and wet. Frank grins salaciously. He feels giddily bold, propelled along by some pride or excitement burning bright in his chest. Ray keeps pleasantly surprising him this week; why should this be any different?
“Is that Spider-man in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”
Ray’s laugh stutters in his throat. He licks his lips again.
“What do you say to a little inter-band bonding?” Frank says, voice low. “You know, christening it.”
“Christening it?” he asks, his laugh going up in volume and pitch. Frank’s eyes flick over to check on the door to Alex’s room. “Is that… something you do? With all your bandmates?”
Frank smiles wider. “Only the cutest ones.”
Ray’s expression darkens a little. “Are you making fun of me?”
“What? No, dude. Why would I—that would be fucked up.” He blinks, trying to adjust to Ray’s train of thought. “Don’t overthink it, man. This feels good, right?”
“…Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay, what? You wanna keep kissing me?” He shifts in Ray’s lap. “You wanna blow off some steam?”
“I—yeah. That sounds. Good,” Ray says, and Frank narrows his eyes, checks for reluctance in Ray’s expression. He’s breathing heavily, though, face flushed and pupils almost completely swallowing the brown of his irises, and Frank wasn’t just kidding about the bulge in his jeans.
Frank leans forward, slowly, until their chests are inches apart. Ray’s leaning back on both of his arms on the floor, now, and Frank braces his right hand near Ray’s left to keep his balance. His arm presses against the side of Ray’s ribs. Ray’s skin jumps and shivers at the touch. He doesn’t pull away.
“Tell me to stop if you want,” Frank says, and waits for Ray to nod before he lets his hand wander over Ray’s hips, trailing across his belt. The buckle is cool against his skin, while everything else feels burning hot.
Ray’s arms tremble a little. He pulls his bottom lip back under his teeth. “I’ve, uh—I’ve never, y’know…”
He trails off, and Frank waits for him to finish. He doesn’t, so Frank can only wonder what he’s never done. Kissed another guy? Touched another guy? He wonders if many girls have gone for the cute dorky thing he’s got going on. He remembers Ray saying, with a wave of his hand and a redness in his cheeks, that he only got so good at guitar because he never had a girlfriend in high school.
He curls his hand around Ray’s belt buckle, thumbing the metal post.
“That’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s just like touching your own. Okay?”
“Okay,” he replies. Then, more resolutely, “Yeah, yes. C’mon.”
Frank grins and flicks the buckle open. Ray’s breath stutters as Frank pulls the zip down, teasingly slow, and when Frank works his hand under his waistband and closes it around hot flesh, he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut and choking back a whimper. Frank’s tempted to latch onto the column of his neck, kiss and suck and bite, but he stays focused on watching his reactions.
Plus, he’s a bit distracted by what’s in his hand.
“Damn,” he says lowly. “Maybe not quite like touching your own. You’re fucking packing, dude.”
There’s that blush again, only a million times deeper.
“I—it’s just—” he stutters, and Frank shuts him up with a dry pump of his hand. His head lolls back again, and his throat bobs. Again, Frank resists the urge to bite it.
Frank draws back his hand and spits onto his palm. When he wraps it back around Ray’s dick, Ray lets out a strangled, “Fffuck.” Frank’s chest twinges with pride.
He starts stroking, slowly, teasingly, at first, and doesn’t pick up the pace until Ray’s trembling all over. It’s probably too dry still, a bit uncomfortable with the base of his dick straining against his waistband, his zipper digging into his skin, but if he doesn’t like it, it doesn’t show. He’s making these little aborted noises, like he’s trying to hold his breath to keep quiet. Challenge accepted.
Frank pumps him hard, twists his wrist and squeezes, and Ray moans, thick and loud, bucking his hips.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Frankie, fuck. Can I—?”
He lifts one hand to grasp at Frank’s hip, and his other arm trembles and collapses under their combined weight. He tumbles backwards, Frank landing on his chest, hand still wrapped around Ray’s dick where it’s trapped awkwardly between them.
It’s all unbearably funny until Frank shifts his weight to regain his balance and his clothed dick rubs against Ray’s just so, and then their laughter cuts off into a shared moan. Frank braces one hand against Ray’s chest and the other on the ground and rolls his hips down harshly, desperate to draw that noise out of Ray again. He can feel Ray’s thick thighs tensing beneath him as he tries to grind back up against Frank, and then Ray’s hands are digging into his ass, helping him drag their cocks together.
“F-fuck,” Frank stutters. The friction is almost unbearable, his dick still strapped in his pants, and he can only imagine how Ray feels—pretty fucking good, if the look on his face is anything to go by. The sight of him sprawled flushed and panting beneath Frank is almost enough to make him come there and then.
He grits his teeth; there’s no way he’s finishing before Ray. Ray’s chest is soft where Frank’s palm presses against it. His ribs heave, and his nipples are clearly visible through the thin grey fabric of his t-shirt. Frank kneads his chest and accentuates the next roll of his hips with a sharp tweak of Ray’s nipple, and that’s all it takes for Ray to cry out and shudder through his release, face screwed up and fingers gripping Frank’s ass.
Frank laughs, quietly smug. He’s ready to just rut against Ray and finish himself, knows he’s close, but Ray stills him with his hands on Frank’s hips.
“Wait. Let me, like…”
Ray rolls so they both pitch over onto their sides, face to face. A hot pulse of want jolts through Frank when Ray’s hand brushes against his crotch, going for his belt. Well, fuck. Frank’s not going to say no to that. He helps Ray get rid of his belt and tug his jeans down to his thighs, and Ray wraps a hand around him. Too gentle.
“C’mon, lick it,” he gasps. Ray gapes at him, wide-eyed. “Your hand, I mean. ‘S too dry.”
Ray swallows. Licks his lips.
“Can I?” he asks.
“…What?” Frank has a pretty good idea of what he means, but he wants to hear him say it.
“Can I, like…I wanna try,” he says, and there’s that determined set to his brow, the excited glint in his eyes, that Frank recognizes from before he lays down a solo in the studio. He guesses he shouldn’t be so surprised that once Ray’s committed, he’s going all in.
Still, he’s not gonna give him an easy time. Plus, he’s got to stall for a bit if he doesn’t want to come the second Ray touches him again.
“Try what, Toro?”
“Fuck.” Ray rolls his eyes, even as he flushes redder. “Can I suck your dick?”
“Well, shit, dude, you only had to ask,” Frank teases.
“Fuck you,” he says through a smile, and rolls Frank onto his back. He moves down Frank’s body slowly, staring down at his cock like it’s a page of guitar tab. Frank’s not exactly shy, but it makes him squirm a little, desperate for action.
“You look cute, Toro,” he blurts out, because it’s true, and Ray pulls a face.
“Shut up,” he says, shaking off the compliment. Frank narrows his eyes. Ray keeps doing that. “Just, like…tell me if it’s good, okay?”
“What, you need me to talk you through a blowjob?” Frank asks, grinning so Ray knows he’s not serious.
“I know how to—I’ve gotten a blowjob before, dude,” he snaps. “Jobs. Blowjobs. Just—hey, shut up—just tell me what feels good.”
“Dude.” Frank would feel worse about laughing if Ray weren’t so easy. “Stop thinking so hard. You just gotta close your eyes and suck.”
Ray stares up at him for a moment longer, an unusual slyness creeping into his smile.
“Alright, then,” he says, and in a swift motion closes his lips around the head of Frank’s cock and sucks.
“Fuck!” Frank hisses, and he’s glad he’s lying on his back with his jeans around his thighs, or he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from thrusting his hips into Ray’s mouth. Ray doesn’t let up on the suction as he swirls his tongue in a sharp circle and Frank sees white for a moment, a dizzying rush of pleasure swooping through his gut. His hands fly down to bury back into Ray’s hair, and he tugs harder than he meant to.
“Okay, okay, fuck, stop,” he gasps, panting embarrassingly fast.
“You okay?” Ray asks, gazing up at him, wearing the closest thing to a smirk Frank’s ever seen on his face. Asshole, he thinks proudly.
“Alright, okay. Just…a bit slower, yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ray hums, a delicious vibration against his cock, and eases back down. He moves steadily downwards, lips stretched around Frank, brow furrowed in concentration. His mouth feels impossibly good, and Frank has to fight not to throw his head back and close his eyes, because he doesn’t want to look away.
“You look…so fuckin’ hot like this,” Frank gasps, and Ray sucks again, as if in retaliation. It makes him choke a little, and he pulls back, breathing heavy and wiping his mouth.
“Sorry,” he says, and closes his lips back around Frank’s cock before he can protest the apology.
“Ohhh fuck, Toro,” Frank moans, patting Ray’s hair in soft, repetitive motions. “That’s good, that’s good.” Ray takes him a little deeper every time he says it, until he chokes again and rocks back.
“You don’t have to go so deep,” Frank tells him breathlessly. “It’s okay, just—”
He’s shocked into silence when Ray actually shushes him. Then Ray keeps him silent by going back down on him with determination, pinning his hips to the floor and stealing all the breath from his lungs. He supposes Ray’s a freakishly fast learner with his mouth as much as he is with his hands, because this time he takes Frank right to the back of his throat and swallows around him like it’s nothing.
“Fuck, baby, just like that,” Frank chokes out. Ray swallows again and shit, shit – Frank panics, the edge of his orgasm curling sharp and sudden in his gut. He bites out a warning, tugging at Ray’s hair, but Ray just draws back to the head of Frank’s cock and hums around it. It’s all Frank can do not to jerk his hips rudely as he empties into Ray’s mouth, until the pleasure twists into something too overwhelming and he has to beg Ray to let up.
Ray rocks back onto his heels, a kind of considering look on his face, like he’s trying to decide what he thinks of the taste. The taste of Frank’s come. Fuck. Jesus. Frank hadn’t exactly planned this whole thing, but when he leaned down to shotgun Ray he’d been thinking stoned making out, mutual handjobs at best. This is—fuck.
“Fuck,” he says eloquently. Ray’s mouth and eyes are obscenely shiny, and he’s got the same satisfied smile he gets after he nails a perfect take in the recording booth. Shit. Frank’s never going to be able to concentrate in the studio tomorrow, not after seeing this.
“Good?” Ray asks, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.
Frank laughs. “Not bad at all, Toro.” He’s struck by a sudden swell of confidence. “You know, a little more practice and I think you could be truly great.”
Ray’s eyebrows shoot up. “You know, I could have gotten more practice just now if you hadn’t come so quick.”
“Ha!” Frank claps his hands together, and the sound rings out across the room, and both of them freeze at the same time, as if they’re both remembering where they are. In the studio under Alex’s Mom’s house, with Alex asleep—hopefully—next door, and the others bound to return at any moment. They stare in silence at Alex’s door for a moment, as if it’s about to open.
Frank starts giggling into his fist first, and Ray follows suit. “What do you say, Toro? Reckon this was more fun than board games?”
“Card games, technically,” Ray says, and, at Frank’s look of disdain, adds, “I dunno. Magic the Gathering is pretty sick. Goes for longer, too.”
“Hey, foul play! You can’t use the same joke twice, come on, man.”
He sits up and shoves Ray’s shoulder with his own. Ray rocks back against him, and the two of them collapse, side by side, against the couch.
“You wanna know something else about touring?” Frank asks eventually into the comfortable silence.
“Mm?”
“Bands are like a machine, you know? They run smoothly if you keep the parts well-lubed.”
Ray snorts. “I think the expression is well-oiled, dude.”
“Uhh, actually I think it’s lube. Trust me on this one.”
Ray meets Frank’s eyes for a moment, then looks down at his lap, grinning softly.
“Yeah alright, man. I trust you.”
