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The AC crapped out on them about a hundred miles ago, and Gerard is suffering. There aren’t any windows in the bunk ‘room’- is it really a room if there aren’t any walls?- and the stagnant air feels almost liquid against his sweat-drenched skin. The sweat glues his hair to his forehead, trickling unpleasantly down the valley between his shoulder blades, and he wanted to take a nap, but even his complicated blanket arrangement- one foot out, one foot in, bunched up to perfectly to cradle his head, over his front but leaving his back exposed- isn’t enough to lure him to the realm of sleep.
Even less so when Mikey wanders past him, probably to get something out of Gerard’s suitcase and, offhandedly, says, “Stop molesting the bat, Gee.”
“I am not molesting the bat, Mikey, what the fuck.” Gerard mumbles, and that should be it. He moves the, admittedly, poorly placed bat, since its face is pressed right against the apex of his thighs, and rolls onto his back, resigning himself to losing his chance to nap. His head hurts. He just wants some fucking sleep before their next show, and he’s out of his aids- booze, pills, anything at all that will quiet the brewing storm in his brain. It sucks. And that should be it- joke, misery, and they move on.
But Frank.
“You could molest me instead!” He calls from the ‘living room’- again, room-ness debatable here- and Gerard can hear the grin in his voice, accompanied by the disgusted groans of Ray and Bob, it’s a joke.
But it doesn’t stop Gerard from burning somehow hotter in his too-tight skin at the thought of Frank nestled between his thighs. Mikey gives him a smug half-smile on the way back- phone now in hand, which means he’s going to be nagging their manager for a hotel night so he can have alone time with his not-boyfriend, gross- that says I’m never letting you live this down.
Gerard flips him off, which has Mikey kicking at his outstretched leg, which then turns into the most pathetically unathletic brawl in world history, which has the others crowding in and half-heartedly cheering them on. Mikey’s bony fucking elbow digging into his sternum isn’t enough to distract him from Frank’s lazily enabling grin, or the way his ten bucks for Gerard has his stomach turning- even before Mikey manages to knee him in the gut and headbutt him at the same time, probably by accident, but it has Gerard surrendering anyway.
Frank takes those ten dollars from Gerard’s wallet.
He’s not even mad.
-
Later that week, in the dead of night, when the moonlight peeking through windows is the only light available, Gerard slips a hand down his pants, pillowcase between his teeth and breathing carefully, perfectly level. Not that Frank is paying attention. But Gerard hadn’t drawn his curtain all the way shut, and from his vantage point, he has a perfect view of the concentration furrowing his brow, the way his lashes flutter when he must get his hand around himself. His own face is mushed into his pillow, eyes half-lidded so that if, by some miracle, Gerard were to glance up and see him, the light wouldn’t be catching his eyes and he could pretend.
Jerking off on the bus is generally a no-no, out of respect for their bandmates, but Gerard is an expert at doing it so quietly that no one else notices. Ray and Bob are snoring away, Mikey’s out in the living room- talking to Pete or Gabe or some other poor boy who fell for Mikey’s somehow magnetic charm- and Gerard doesn’t know about Frank, know that he’s watching, that he’s been rock hard ever since Gee had shut his curtain because he knows. He watches.
It’s dark, but Frank’s eyes have adjusted, and he’s so grateful.
He watches as Gerard’s breathing picks up- still so soft, so even that nobody but Frank would know, and his head relaxes a little further into his pillow, eyes fluttering shut, face a picture of pure bliss, even with the fabric stuffed between his lips- does he like that? Like having something in his mouth, like having to keep quiet, fuck- and Frank has to break it, break this, to keep his sanity.
“Need some help with that?” Gerard’s hand stills immediately. Silence, aside from the hum of the engine, thickens the air, and Frank should have stayed quiet.
It sounds like he’s teasing, like it’s a joke, but it’s not, Frank’s deadly serious, and he hopes that shows on his face when Gerard’s eyes fly open, glaring at Frank with something like embarrassment. It’s too dark to tell if he’s blushing, but God, Frank hopes so- something about bashful Gerard, when pink’s dusting his cheeks and he can’t quite meet Frank’s eyes, is just so… so. Sweet, addictive, intoxicating, empowering, it makes Frank want to kiss him to watch that flush spread further, want to follow it down and-
“Fuck off, Frank.” Gerard tugs the curtain that last inch closed, and. And.
Frank can hear his hand moving. His own fingers snag in the sheets, and Frank stares at the curtain, wishing harder than ever that he had X-ray vision. Is Gerard looking back? Does he want Frank to hear? He must- he must know that Frank can hear him, the way he breathes through his nose- too hard, strained, picking up in time with the rustling of his own sheets, and Frank is so hard it hurts, but he can’t touch himself, can’t risk breaking the spell even if his cock is throbbing in tempo with his ever-quickening heartbeat.
It’s torturous. Cruel, that Frank can’t do anything but listen, not even watch, and wait for the stuttering of Gerard’s breathing, for the one, sharp exhale that signals he came, followed by carefully shallow, whispering breaths. Frank barely remembers to lay his head back against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling when Gerard pulls the curtain open and staggers to the bathroom, and he wants to scream.
But he can’t.
He can only suffer. Lie there, stock-still as Gerard comes back steadier on his feet, rolling into his bunk and stilling almost immediately, but he can’t touch himself, can’t risk Gerard finding out that his teasing isn’t teasing because then Gerard would leave and Frank would die. Or something equally extravagant. Because he’s in love with his best friend, his front man, his Gerard who will never be his the way he wants.
-
Their next few shows, Frank is somehow more insane than usual. Gerard hadn’t known it was possible, but hey, you learn new things about your friends every day, right? And it’s good- the kids lap the shit Frank does up, headbanging so hard Gerard’s shocked he hasn’t strained a muscle in his neck, open-mouthed, or grinning, sly and filthy, bouncing around in his little stage-bubble until- and maybe this is wishful thinking on Gerard’s part- he gets tired of that and decides it’s time to mess with Gerard.
Now, as far as performing goes, Gerard knows he’s amazing. The screaming, the hands reaching for him, the lights burning through his retinas; he fucking loves that shit, loves the power it gives him, the way they hang on his every word, move, fucking blink. But something about Frank and him like this- when Frank’s striding over to him, swaying like he’s drunk off that lukewarm beer they’d downed backstage, in the green room, arguing about fucking chicken noodle soup- works the kids into a frenzy, the wild throng pushing against their newly acquired security like water at a dam as their screaming reaches a fever-pitch.
It’s just Frank touching him- with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Gerard barely feels where Frank’s hands wander, over his junk, under his shirt, and he’s fucking lucky that he can’t. Because it lets him keep a straight face when Frank leans in, and he can’t whisper on stage- it’s too fucking loud, between the caterwauling of the crowd and the screech of the speakers- but he covers his mic and shouts into Gerard’s ear, some semblance of privacy.
“Meet me off stage after and I’ll touch you like this for real.” And he’s laughing, and leaning in so close Gerard can feel Frank’s breath on his cheek. By some divine intervention, he’s still singing, but he can’t hear anything but Frank over the blood rushing in his ears. Gerard can’t look away from Frank, the light throwing every angle, every dip and hollow into sharp relief, and he’s hot, until he says, “You won’t, no balls.”
Gerard glares at him, hopes to convey how fucking juvenile it was- who, above the age of twelve, says ‘no balls’? Frank Iero, apparently- and finally finds the strength to tear his eyes away in time to throw himself face-first into the chorus, channeling all the annoyance and- let’s be honest here- lust, raging like a fire and scorching him up from the inside, into screaming, wailing, anything to distract from Frank, who is still looking at him, floppy dark hair in his eyes and grinning like he knows.
Fucker.
-
Frank knew he was pushing himself- he always does, with adrenaline to numb the pain in the moment and the memory of tearing shit up to keep him from being careful next time. This time, he just sprained his wrist a little- at least there’s no blood, and the medic who looked at it after the show said he should take it easy for the next week or so, which is leagues better than most prognoses he gets.
The next gas station they stop at, in some Midwestern state- could have been California for all he knows, but the air has that Midwestern feel- Frank picks up a wrist brace and a bag of ice and spends the rest of the day on the couch, commanding pity from everyone. Well. Mostly, he just uses it to get Mikey to fetch his beers and Ray to play the songs he wants on acoustic- Bob fucked off to the bunks after breakfast- but they appreciate the pain he’s in, right?
But, unlike the others, Gerard takes one look at his long-perfected puppy dog eyes and scoffs. “This is low, even for you, Frankie.”
Rude. Frank has excellent puppy dog eyes- they’ve gotten him out of a mugging, two speeding tickets, and currently have everyone but Gerard falling over themselves to wait on him hand and foot. He’s long past things like ‘shame’ at this point at being sick, and hurt, and every other ailment that comes with being on tour more than half the year. Frank’s bathed himself with a garden hose in a parking lot, for fuck’s sake, the only thing worse than that would be having someone sponge-bathe him.
Which- actually… “But, Gee, it hurts.”
Gerard’s unimpressed expression might have another, weaker man backing down, but Frank just works harder- pinching his brows a little further together and letting his mouth twist into a pained frown. It’s not entirely fake- his wrist really is bothering him, no matter how much he hams it up. There won’t be a ‘boy who cried wolf’ situation, because when it comes down to it, Frank will be right up there again with the rest of them, regardless of if his wrist heals in time. And maybe that’s what has Gerard relenting, face softening.
“I know. Want me to ask if we can stop to get more ice? We could get a whole bag this time, so we don’t have to keep stopping.” It’s a nice offer, but Frank wants something more. They have beers if he needs an ice pack.
“Could you play with my hair? It’ll help distract me.” It’s a bit risky, pushing a little harder than usual, but Gerard nods and settles in beside Frank on the couch. Helps Frank lay down, head in his lap, before brushing his fingers through Frank’s unwashed hair, and Frank melts. Gerard has beautiful hands- artist’s hands, delicate and long, with nails that scratch over Frank’s scalp just right- probably catching some dandruff on the way, but they’re all gross, so he doesn’t worry about it.
His wrist is throbbing, but that’s on his periphery- all of Frank’s attention is on the warmth of Gerard, the softness of his sweats beneath Frank’s cheek, the hand petting him, joined after a few minutes by another touching his face, the pads of Gerard’s fingers kissing his cheeks, his eyelids, his ears, ticklish but somehow grounding. They don’t talk. Ray’s plucking away, and it’s so peaceful, one tranquil moment between weeks on weeks of chaos and stress.
He dozes off to the sound of Gerard’s breathing.
-
Their next hotel night is a Sunday; they arrive well past midnight, so it’s technically Monday, but whatever. The clerk at the front desk, some half-awake old man in sixties, gives them their keys before going back to staring blankly at the wall. They troop upstairs in relaxed silence, all-too-prepared to finally rest, not in fitful bouts of unconsciousness, but proper sleep in a bed.
Motherfucker doesn’t even mention that one of the rooms is a single, not a double, and it’s so late that Gerard can’t work up the energy it would take to go back and complain, so he just dumps his luggage and turns to Ray, who shakes his head, then Mikey, who won’t meet his eyes, then Bob, who stares him down like I dare you, and, finally, Frank, who thins his lips and nods grimly. There, settled.
They shuffle into their respective rooms, too dead on their feet to even say goodnight, and Gerard almost tears up at the sight of a real bed, with multiple pillows and blankets and a mattress. It’s been so long and he just wants to fall into it, but the grime from the road keeps him standing, wanting, until Frank breaks the silence.
“You’re showering first.” He whispers- it feels right, in the darkness and quiet of the room, and Gerard can’t even argue. It’s a plan of action that ends with him cradled in clean sheets and- maybe- the arms of the man he’s loved for so many years. He could fall asleep where he stands, but he dutifully walks, zombie-like, into the bathroom, peeling off layers of sweat-dirt-and-cum crusted clothing while the water heats, plumes of steam fogging up the mirror before he has to face himself.
The shower is nice, but when Gerard steps out, his knees almost buckle, and his fingers feel too weak to keep the towel closed around him. Frank steps past him, leaving Gerard alone to dress and decide what side of the bed to sleep on- he picks the right- and he nearly moans when he feels the sheets, cool and fresh against his steam-heated skin, and the feather-light embrace of the pillow around his ears. The tension bleeds out of him, and his eyes are so heavy.
Gerard’s almost asleep- or maybe he was- when Frank emerges from the bathroom. He watches idly as Frank goes about getting dressed, too tired to even feel aroused when he drops the towel to pull on some boxers, before clambering into bed beside Gerard, pulling the blankets up to his chin.
“Gee?” Frank whispers. Gerard turns his head to look at Frank, who is on his side facing Gerard, looking infuriatingly adorable with his cheek smushed into the pillow. His hair is still wet, curling all across his forehead, and the image is so domestic that Gerard’s on the verge of tears again, because it’s so close to everything he wants, being beside Frank like this. “Can I hold you?”
Gerard manages a weak laugh. Maybe he’s still asleep, and this is a dream, because only his subconscious could be so cruel. “What?”
“I wanna cuddle. Please?” Funny thing is, Gerard can’t think of a reason not to. Frank looks so raw, so hopeful, and his hand is already inching towards Gerard across the sheets, that he just can’t say no- not that he wants to.
“Sure, Frankie.” Frank doesn’t move very fast, but one moment Gerard’s alone, and the next he’s being rolled onto his side, Frank’s forehead between his shoulder blades, chest pressed against his back, an arm thrown over his waist and a thigh pushing between his. It’s intimate, and tomorrow, Gerard will freak out about this, but for now, he covers Frank’s hand with his own, and lets himself slip off to dreamland to the sound of Frank’s breathing, comfortable, warm, loved.
-
The next morning, Frank wakes before Gerard. They haven’t moved much in their sleep, and he sighs, hugging Gerard closer, reveling in the morning glow. It’s probably closer to noon, but they have nothing to do today, so Frank lets himself enjoy having Gee in his arms. He breathes in the scent of him- hotel shampoo and body wash, smoke, and beneath it all, something musky and warm and sweet and pure Gerard, and doesn’t even try tilting his hips back to hide the way their proximity is affecting him.
He feels it when Gerard wakes, twisting a little, probably to figure out who’s holding him. Frank can even feel when Gerard realizes, tensing, but not moving away. Maybe he thinks Frank’s still asleep. Frank waits, breathing even and still, to see what Gerard will do, and waits, and waits, and waits, until he realizes Gerard has fallen back asleep, and he’s left strangely disappointed.
That is what gets him up and out of bed to brush his teeth, brew some coffee- complimentary and as shitty as one would expect of complimentary coffee from some Holiday Inn in the middle of nowhere. His erection dies at some point, since Frank couldn’t find it in himself to get off when he’s feeling all negative like this, because today feels like something, like a game-changer, like a tipping point, but Gerard’s still asleep and Frank doesn’t have the heart to wake him.
Of course, the coffee, once it’s brewed and the scent’s in the air, is what has Gerard stirring. Like fucking bloodhounds, those Way brothers, when it comes to coffee, Frank thinks, somehow bitter and jealous over coffee being persuasive enough to wake Gerard up, when Frank’s hard-on against his ass hadn’t been. It’s a little pathetic, he has to admit, seething over the way Gerard slurps the coffee down, gasping between gulps because it’s scalding, with his sleep-mussed hair and sleep-soft eyes. Frank wants to kiss him so fucking bad, but no, Gerard would rather drink his coffee, oblivious to Frank’s crisis.
Once he’s finished the cup, Gerard stretches out on the bed, and Frank can’t help but stare at the lines of his body, twisting in the sheets, arms over head, and his fucking shirt is riding up, exposing the softness of his stomach, and it’s not fucking fair.
“Come back to bed?” Gerard yawns and relaxes, splayed out on the sheets and looking at him with- with- ugh. He just looks so inviting, soft, warm, any other adjective that could capture Gerard at his softest, sleepy and cute and Frank wants to vomit at the fluffy fucking thoughts the sight induces in him, of crawling back into bed with Gerard and just cuddling him, holding him, loving him.
But he can’t. So Frank gets dressed in the bathroom, and when he gets out, Gerard’s still in bed, remote dangling lazily from his grasp as he flicks through channels. They don’t have anywhere to be- nowhere for Frank to escape as Gerard smiles at him, dorky, adorable, and Frank wishes so bad that he didn’t love Gerard like this, that he could look at him, completely stripped of stage presence, and not lose his mind. There’s no one to answer his prayers, so he suffers, in equal parts overjoyed and devastated when Gerard pulls him back against his chest and holds him while he finds something for them to watch together.
They binge some ghost hunting show for the rest of the day, drinking coffee and coffee-flavored water until the sun peeking through the blinds tints orange and Gerard fishes his pack out of his suitcase. He lights one without even offering one to Frank, and he’s about to open his mouth for the first time all day- he hadn’t even realized they hadn’t been talking, wow. All day?
Frank’s still pondering it when Gerard’s finger hooks under his chin, tilting his face up and to the side and, before Frank can even begin to wonder what’s happening, slotting their mouths together.
Tar floods Frank’s tastebuds, and Gerard’s breathing out into his mouth- oh.
Gerard isn’t kissing him.
Frank watches, helpless, hurt, as Gerard takes another drag before pushing their mouths together again, and it’s so sweet, but it’s not what he wants, not even close, but he can’t help but lean up into it, chase it, crave it. Gerard’s lips are chapped and dry, and they feel so fucking good against his, but it’s so empty. Frank’s lungs burn, but most of the pain Frank’s feeling concentrates on the upper left side of his chest, as he takes Gerard’s smoky open-mouthed kisses that aren’t kisses, and tries not to cry.
“Gerard.” He croaks, when they’ve finished it off and Gerard goes to grab another, before he can stop himself, force himself to take what he can get. Frank doesn’t know what Gerard sees when he glances at Frank, but whatever it is, it must be bad. Why? Because Gerard’s hand is on his cheek, and wow, when did he start crying? It hurts, it fucking stings, the pity in Gerard’s eyes. Usually, Frank likes that look on him, but it’s too real; that Gerard might know and he’s pitying Frank for falling for him, for loving him.
“Frankie, what’s wrong? I’m sorry, I thought you were- I thought we-” Gerard stops himself, and his thumb strokes under Frank’s eye, over the edge of his eye socket for one painstaking moment before he starts again. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry.” Frank, by the grace of God, manages not to burst into tears. It’s a near thing, and a couple more escape down his cheek, but Gerard wipes them away. He isn’t pushing Frank away. He just looks at him, waits, still sleep-soft in the bed they shared last night, in the bed they kissed in, cuddled in, and it’s just not fucking fair. His eyes burn, and he has to blink Gerard back into focus a few times, sending more tears sliding down his face, and he’s never felt so pitiful in all his years on this godforsaken planet.
"What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything.” Gerard asks, all earnest, and he’s so close, and Frank can’t find the words, so he just leans up the few inches it takes to taste Gerard’s lips again, kissing him properly, like a confession, like a goodbye, pouring everything he feels, from the sticky-salt of his tears to the treacherous arousal brewing in his gut to the way Gerard’s making him feel right now, looking like this, at him like this, into it, because he might never get this chance again.
Gerard kisses him back.
His hand stays on Frank’s cheek, and maybe he doesn’t get it, and he needs Gerard to get it, to understand, to push him off and slap him and break the spell Gerard has over him.
But he doesn’t. He lets Frank push him back into the pillows and takes it, whimpering into Frank’s mouth when he nips at Gerard’s lips, hands grasping at Frank’s shoulders, pulling him closer, clutching at him, holding him. Tears stream openly down Frank’s face, and he can taste them, is sure Gerard can as well, but he can’t break this moment. Because if he pulls back, this will end right here, and he can’t let this go, can’t let them go, not when he’s finally getting a taste.
Until Gerard pushes him- gently, with a hand on his shoulder, but Frank feels it like a shove. God, he must look like shit- his eyes always puff up really bad when he cries, and there’s snot already clogging his nose, and he just sniffles, eyes fixed at a point above Gerard’s head, because he can’t look down and see the disgust on Gerard’s face- the betrayal of having Frank be in love with him, when they were just supposed to be best friends, when Frank was supposed to be there for him but never like this.
“Frankie. Frankie, look at me.” He looks, because how could he not? He'd walk to the ends of the Earth for Gerard- right off the fucking edge if he had an inkling that's what Gerard wanted.
Gerard doesn’t look disgusted. Frank sniffs one more time, ugly and snuffling, and feels small, childlike, when Gerard grabs his face, using both thumbs to smooth away the tears burning lines in Frank’s skin.
Then.
Then he pulls Frank down and kisses him, and it’s like Gerard is saying I love you and it’s okay and Frank breaks, sobbing into Gerard’s mouth, but Gerard just pulls him closer, one hand stroking up and down Frank’s back, soothing him. He’s wrung out and raw, but he pushes closer, closer, needing this to be real, needing to feel Gerard reciprocate, and- and Gerard’s hard against his thigh.
“Gee.” Frank mumbles into his mouth, before Gerard’s tongue slips between his lips and suddenly he’s quite uninterested in talking this out, in anything other than the way Gerard’s hand pushes down on Frank’s lower back, encouraging him to roll his hips, slow, sensual, but somehow so soft, with Gerard’s hands on him, keeping Frank together when he’s bursting at the seams with how much he fucking loves this man.
“Frankie.” And then Gerard’s pulling away, which is awful, and his hand pushes down on Frank, slowing his grind to a halt, which is worse, but he’s still right there, breathing in Frank’s exhales and looking at him, something inexorably fond in his eyes as he pushes Frank’s hair back. “Frank.”
“That’s my name.” Frank responds dumbly, but Gerard just smiles, eyes flicking down like he’s considering kissing him again and yes, yes, they should absolutely do that before he meets Frank’s gaze again. He’s kiss-drunk, and Gerard tastes like cigarettes and coffee and home, like love, like life.
“I wanna feel you,” Gerard says, the words heavy with intent, searching Frank’s eyes for something, and all Frank can do is stare at him because this cannot be happening, but that sounds like Gerard’s saying he wants to have sex with him. Gerard huffs out what might be a laugh, and Frank feels it against his lips like a kiss when Gerard pushes at his shoulders again.
“There’s lube in my suitcase. Unless you just wanna make out.” He frowns, like he’s realizing that Frank could want that, even if he really fucking doesn’t, holy shit.
“Oh my fucking God.” Frank rushes out, and he kisses Gerard again, one for the road, and falls over himself to get out of the tangle of sheets ensconcing them and over to his bag. The lube’s buried beneath some old clothes, and it’s half-fucking-empty, but Frank can’t think about that, because Gerard’s stretching out all cat-like on the bed, spreading his legs in an easy invitation, and fuck.
He’d hoped that Gerard would be into this- into him- but he hadn’t dared to dream that he’d let Frank fuck him. Not that he thinks Gerard would have any hangups about it, but if Frank had let his mind go down that road he would have probably died years ago with how Gerard- moves, breathes, sings, just fucking is, and he’d probably have carpal tunnel and. It’s just really fucking hot, okay.
Frank is incredibly grateful that Gerard hadn’t gotten dressed for the day- unlike him, why the fuck did he think skinny jeans were the right move- because it makes it so easy to slip down his boxers, off his shirt, and just drink him in, his flushed cock bobbing up over his stomach, hard and dripping in clear evidence that Gerard wants him, his milky white thighs, marked only by furious, dark red lines, that Frank lets himself fall forward and mouth over because he can.
“Honey,” Gerard says, like he’s testing the word in his mouth, a hand slipping into Frank’s hair to pull him away, and why, he almost wants to cry again, because why does Gerard keep denying him. “No teasing. Be good for me, okay?”
“Okay.” Yes, sir. Frank pops open the lube, slicks his fingers up in a practiced motion- Gerard’s not the only one with a half-empty bottle of lube in his suitcase- and lets his mouth fall back to the flesh of Gerard’s inner thigh while he traces a finger around his rim, sucking and biting to distract them both when he pushes that finger again, groaning at the tighthotwet of Gerard’s insides, and fuck, Frank wants to be inside him so bad, wants to feel him, feel Gerard’s thighs around his hips, arms around his back, needs to kiss him again.
Fingers twist in Frank’s hair, not cruelly, but not kindly, a silent hurry up that he obliges in a heartbeat, fucking in and out of Gerard for only a few thrusts before adding a second, scissoring, stretching to feel the gape, what the fuck. He’s impatient, but not enough to risk hurting Gerard, even if the hand in his hair is starting to hurt and he’s sure he feels some strands snap under the pressure.
It’s only when he’s worked his way up to three fingers, spreading easy, almost no resistance, that Frank realizes he doesn’t have any condoms.
“Please say you have a condom.” He whines- whines, and his face burns, because it sounds so fucking petulant, but Gerard doesn’t laugh at him.
“No- I. I mean, I haven’t… since I got tested.” Gerard speaks slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully, and he’s searching Frank’s face again. It’s an offer, and one Frank is abso-fucking-lutely going to take.
“Neither have I.” He breathes, like a revelation, and Gerard uses the hand in Frank’s hair to guide their lips together again, hard, pulling Frank until he finds the right angle, and. And Frank’s fingers are still in Gerard’s ass, so he presses them in until he can feel the skin between his pinkie and ring finger straining and Gerard’s hiccuping into his mouth, hips bucking up into it like he can’t help it, and it’s dizzying.
Frank can’t pull away, but he grabs blindly for the lube, slicks himself up and thanks his past self profusely that he has enough practice to lube himself up without breaking the kiss, indulging himself in the slide of their lips together, the dance of their tongues, tasting each other, even as lights burst on the inside of his eyelids, and his breath shudders out against Gerard’s cheek because he’s so fucking sensitive, after waiting so long, and it’s too much.
But Gerard goes when Frank pulls his hips into his lap, finally pulling back, one lube-slick hand on his cock and the other on the back of Gerard’s knee, pushing him open so Frank can stare at his hole, gaping and fluttering around nothing, until Gerard clears his throat, and he’s slipping forward, and the head of his cock is against Gerard’s hole, until oh, oh fuck, it’s popped in and he’s sliding in and-
“Gerard.” His voice wrenches itself from his lips, almost guttural, broken, and he’s melting again, like that day on the bus, the last time Gerard’s hand was in his hair and he’s never going to be able to look at Gerard the same way again. Not when he knows what he looks like mid-moan, brow furrowed, cheeks flushed, mouth open and gasping and tempting, pulling him like he’s on a string to connect their mouths again, so he can taste Gerard’s moans, feel the sheets dampening with the sweat trickling down their thighs.
“I love you.” He whispers when they have to breathe again, because he does, and it’s Gerard’s turn to cry now, hiccuping, sobbing, ugly and beautiful and perfect, when Frank pulls out, pushes back in, as gentle as the tide, and they aren’t fucking, nothing violent, nothing rushed like he’d imagined; this moment is a million times better than anything his lackluster imagination could have conjured up.
“I love you too,” Gerard whispers right back, and then he’s pushing up, up, until Frank has no choice but to fall back, still buried deep inside when Gerard settles on his hips, fingers spread over the roses on his chest, staring down at Frank with fire burning his eyes- but. Not like a forest fire, more like a campfire, controlled but still hot when he gathers his thighs under himself and raises himself off Frank’s cock.
“Fuck,” Frank breathes, and Gerard smirks at him, a stupid little half-smile before he drops back down, and Frank’s echoing, “Fuck, oh my God, Gee.”
“Yeah? Feels good?” Gerard rides like he’s done this before, like he’s a fucking expert, bracing himself on Frank’s chest and fucking himself up, down, head hanging low, cheeks ruddy, eyes squeezed shut, and Frank loves him. He’s so beautiful in the dimming light, pinks, reds, yellows playing on his skin, catching on the sweat glistening there.
“So good, you look so fucking pretty right now, Gee, it’s driving me crazy.” And, like they’ve been reanimated, Frank’s hands find their way to Gerard’s thighs, fuck, feeling the muscle work beneath his fingertips before he’s using the grip to haul himself up so Frank can kiss him again, can breathe so fucking pretty into Gerard’s mouth and feel the way it makes him shiver from the inside out, feel the way he tightens around Frank’s cock.
“Yeah? Like being told how pretty you are?” Frank doesn’t mean to tease, but it’s worth it for the way Gerard half-nods, before he comes back to himself grabs a fistful of Frank’s hair, pulling so hard his scalp burns.
“I thought you were gonna be good, Frankie, what happened?” Fuck. Fuck. Frank whimpers, and he buries his face in Gerard’s neck because of course he knows. Gerard cradles his head, slowing his pace to barely rising at all, more rolling his hips, fucking himself on Frank’s cock in a way that doesn’t provide Frank with enough friction, but, from the way Gerard’s cock is dripping between them, is rubbing right against his prostate.
“You gonna be good? Because I can cum, just like this, and leave you here, high and dry. And you’d deserve it.” Gerard shouldn’t sound so in control like this, when he’s using Frank like a fucking sex toy, but he does, and Frank falls a little more in love with him when Gerard yanks him back, forces Frank to look him in the eye.
“I’ll be good, I promise.” He means it, he does, but Gerard just hums and sighs and fucking squeezes around Frank, and. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good. Gee, please. Please.”
Gerard tips them back over, hair fanning out against the pillows, black-on-white, and Frank takes the hint. He uses every little fucking trick he knows- dipping his head down to nip at Gerard’s chest, one hand on his cock, the other on Gerard’s stomach, pressing down, until Gerard’s sobbing his name, pulling weakly at Frank’s hair, and he’s not even speaking English.
“Fuck-” He chokes, before spasming under Frank, around him, hand slipping from Frank’s hair to claw at the sheets. “Frank, right fucking there, don’t you dare stop.”
For a moment, Frank doesn’t know why he’s saying that- why the hell would he ever stop, before he realizes, oh shit, oh shit, he’s so fucking close, he hadn’t even realized that the pressure building between his hips was an orgasm- maybe some part of him had thought he could keep this up forever (or as long as Gee needs) but he needs to slow down or he’s going to cum but Gerard said he couldn’t stop.
“Gee, I can’t-”
“You can.” Gerard insists, like he knows, and Frank can’t see beyond the tears swimming in his eyes, but he gives everything he’s got to fucking Gerard, to loving him, and it pays off because just when he’s sure he’s failed, that he’s going to cum before Gerard does, he crushes their mouths together and wraps himself around Frank like an octopus, clenching around his cock so fucking tight that Frank loses his breath, and he doesn’t get a chance to appreciate how gorgeous Gee’s face is when he cums before he’s following him over the edge.
Frank goes boneless, crushing Gee into the bed, and they should clean up (Gerard in the shower, Gerard in the shower) but none of his muscles listen when he tells them to move, and Gerard's arms are still around him, and.
Gerard loves him. He confessed to Gerard and Gerard loves him back.
"Am I dreaming?" He mumbles, and Gerard huffs again, tired, before digging his nails into Frank's back.
"Still think you're dreaming?"
"A little. You should do that again." Frank's lips curl into a smile when Gerard smacks him, a little weak.
"Fucking masochist." A wet, slobbery kiss against Frank's hair, and he's smiling so hard it hurts. "Love you, though."
"Love you too."