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No one makes Gerard blush like Grant. A glance from those magnetic eyes or a suggestive phrase wrapped in that lush accent will heat up his cheeks and paint his skin various shades of rose, strawberry, scarlet.
It had been that way before they officially met each other in Glasgow, Gerard's platinum pixie cut tucked under a striped black hoodie, sweaty palms shoved in his pockets, heart hammering a staccato beat as he watched the bald figure emerge from the Maserati, eyes hidden behind jet black shades and long wool coat swirling around their legs like a sexy supervillain.
It had been that way before he saw Grant for the first time as an intern at DC Comics, clutching a stack of papers, trying not to spill his rapidly cooling coffee as the majestic Morrison swept down the hall, a deviant dream in head-to-toe black latex.
It had started in 1995.
He was a dorky 18-year-old rotting in his basement bedroom, curled up on his bed in musty pjs and dirty socks, reading issue 14 of The Invisibles. The few photos and blurbs of Morrison he'd absorbed had spiked his belly with a curious thrill, and the way they wrote King Mob with such an obscene lust for life made his thoughts drift from admiration to desire on any given day. But now there was Something Else, something that teased the curious thrill into arousal and made him flush with embarrassment, drawing his bedclothes up around himself as if from the protection of Grant's mind.
Surely they could see inside the head of this pathetic nerd in his Jersey basement, inside the pants, even, knew their sinister scheme had gotten him and hundreds like him hard and wet. Because here it was in print: Morrison's request for a mass ritual to charge their sigil. A date, even: Thanksgiving. Supposedly the magical force of a thousand orgasms would prevent the death of his favorite comic. Gerard panicked, wondering if he should try to wait a week, save up all his...energy...so that he could honor the author's request with a powerful contribution. He sighed, knowing a wet dream would intervene between now and then if he tried to abstain. Besides, he was about to make a mess in his pjs just thinking about it, so he slipped his hand under his waistband and exhaled in relief when he got his fingers around his aching boner and squeezed, imagining Morrison connected to him now, smirking in some seductively gloomy office, sipping a glass of whiskey as they witnessed the desperate pleasure of the horny kid with whom they momentarily shared a psychic link.
Thanksgiving night, he devoted himself utterly to the ritual. He waited long enough after the family dinner that he was no longer sluggish, then showered thoroughly, his heart thrumming with the anxiety of his impending performance. There was a cinnamon candle flickering on the nightstand, and he stretched out naked and clean on the bed, lotion by his side. He closed his eyes and summoned Morrison's face, imagining those dark eyes drilling into his. His breathing was slow and relaxed as he held a wish in his mind, for Morrison to keep writing King Mob, and pictured the wish flying up into the ether like dandelion fluff.
Now his mind was empty of all but that black gaze, and his breath came hot and fast as they pinned him down, cock hard and flexing against his belly, hips twitching up unaware. He was shaking as he spread his legs, one lotioned hand on his dick and the other cupping his balls. He thrust up slowly, fingers stroking firmly over his taint, then down over his rim. He held his breath; he'd only penetrated himself a few times and the thought of doing it under Morrison's gaze had his cock wet and twitching in his hand. The slow intrusion of his middle finger felt just as weird and uncomfortable as it always did, until he'd pushed deeper past the ring of muscle into his own hotly pulsing warmth.
Gerard cried out softly, squeezing his cock, feeling the impending orgasm simmer beneath his skin, the sharp pleasure raking up his insides and pooling in his groin, every muscle clenched in an electrified tremor. He jacked his cock faster, snapping his hips up in a shaky rhythm, rubbing against the swollen bud of his prostate as he saw Morrison smirking down at him, imagining they were opening him up, filling him, taking him, and his body rocked up off the bed, jaw hinged wide in a silent scream as he painted his torso with bursts of white. He shivered through the aftermath, gasping as he felt the power of his desire flood his body with intoxicating warmth.
He could feel something just out of his grasp, the powerful magic that seemed to flow from Morrison's being. It was there for the taking. He could be just as bold and fearless, strutting through the world and leaving gender fuckery and glitter in his wake.
But he wiped himself off with his bath towel and wiggled into loose boxers and a Slayer tee, draining the can of lukewarm Diet Coke on his nightstand and flicking on the TV. Nightmare on Elm Street was on, art school was looming, and he was warm and sleepy. Glittery genderfuck could wait.
Four years later, in DC's hallowed halls, lurking with the other whispering minions waiting on Morrison's arrival, he felt like that dorky kid again. Felt even worse, honestly, like a basement dwelling cryptid who rarely saw the light of day and wasn't fit to be among humanity.
The rumors of the meeting had started Monday and he'd tried to dress cooler than his usual generic button down and khakis, but the black turtleneck and dark jeans probably made him look desperate. His stupid overgrown hair was nowhere near long enough to look like Joey Ramone, instead it looked like a Beatles bowl cut stuck onto his head. Despite his attempts to tousle it into shaggy rocker chic, it insisted on falling back into a perfect helmet. He was a pathetic, masturbating, bowl-cutted geek with bad posture, clutching a stack of copies against his chest as if in protection from Morrison's thermonuclear aura.
There was a hushed sweep of voices that preceded their entrance. They were thronged by a couple of assistants with whom they chatted casually, and their eyes were hidden behind opaque black wraparound shades. They nodded to the gawking interns with a pleasant twist of a grin, their presence was like a Hulk-sized fist to the gut. Gerard's cheeks flamed as Morrison strolled past him, a vision in shiny black so tight it looked painted on. The bulge of their crotch apparent between the flex of latex thighs, a black tshirt in some shimmery fabric stretched over the swell of their chest, framed by the sharply tailored V of the jacket that matched their pants. He sniffed the air, trying to catch a plume of their scent, but smelled nothing except his own shitty coffee and the bandaids-and-pencil shavings odor of the office.
His cubicle neighbor Ryan leaned in to blab at him, some attempt at a joke about The Matrix and fetish clubs, but Gerard's ears were ringing.
"I, um, bathroom, sorry," he stammered, the tips of his ears burning hot, but he shuffled off before he could catch the "got to rub one out, huh?" thrown his way.
Because he did, most desperately, have to rub one out, and cold coffee splashed over the top of his cup as he scurried off.
He understood his fascination now. They were real in a way most people weren't, and the sight of them stalking the corridor, every muscle and bulge outlined in skintight latex, had gotten him instantly hard in his jeans.
He poured the coffee down the mens' room sink and trashed the cup, tossing his folder onto the counter and praying like hell no one would come in and disturb it. He shot into the stall, dick throbbing against his zipper, and he hadn't been so close to coming in his pants since he was in high school. He was panting, and he wanted to jack off screaming no matter who could hear, his skin was crawling with a violent rash of lust and euphoria and shame and his head was swirling with visions of Morrison bending him over his desk, or bursting into this bathroom and bending him over the counter, he could fucking feel hot breath on his neck, cold strong hands tugging his pants down to his thighs, hear the metallic scrape of zipper as they brought their cock out and--
"Fuck!" the strangled cry left his throat as soon as he shoved his hand into his briefs and squeezed himself, slamming his burning forehead against the stall door as he spurted over his fist and into his underwear after half a stroke. He whined in disappointment even as he shuddered in the throes of orgasm. He'd wanted to take his time with it, reach around and get a finger inside, imagining Grant fucking him, the slick slide of latex against his bare cheeks as they thrust into him.
His breath came in hot little puffs as he tried to prolong the sensation, slicking his cock up with his own cum and jacking it slow, reaching back and trailing his messy hand over his taint till he found the whorl of muscle, relaxed now from coming, and his middle finger slid right in. Gerard gave a pathetic whimper as his dick twitched in his hand, and he felt something, something that was sort of like needing to piss and sort of like being halfway to heaven, and he thrust the finger in a little deeper, harder as he twisted his grip on his cock. He tried to hold an image in his mind, his own body prowling a similar corridor to meet Morrison as a colleague, a line of books already credited to his name, or prowling a stage like a hypersexual vampire Bowie, hundreds of kids screaming his own words back to him, the spectral thrall of Morrison hitting him from the audience before they met backstage.
The hows and whys of the setting dissolved and there was just Grant's hot breath against his ear as that sinful voice purred "you feel so good, darling boy" and all of a sudden he was coming again, toes curling in his oxfords as he painted the stall door white. He shook with the force of it, sweat beading under his stupid hair, a thousand little cries bitten off behind clenched teeth.
He had to press his burning forehead against the coolness of the stall door and catch his breath before his brain reacquainted itself with such concepts as cleaning jizz off bathroom doors and pulling one's pants up.
Soon enough, though he hadn't written a meta ideal of himself as Grant had, hadn't struck a devil's bargain with a fictional character that granted him success, Gerard did achieve metamorphosis, via the magic of heavy metal riffs and punk percussion. Commanding a stage in those early days, channeling Freddie and Iggy in a whiskey-powered trance, was his own shamanic ritual. He seduced and shocked and wove his heart's blood into the dark little anthems that curled around brain stems and vibrated spines.
By 2007 Gerard didn't feel quite so dorky or childish anymore, but waiting outside the hotel for Grant's arrival, he was fraught with nerves, chainsmoking and shivering. Late March in Glasgow was cold and blustery, and the chilly winds lashed his cheeks. When he crossed his arms around himself for warmth, he broke into a sweat, the armpits of the plain black t-shirt under his hoodie going unpleasantly swampy. He scuffed the toe of his boot against the sidewalk, took another drag, cast his eyes up and down the street for a sleek black sportscar.
Thank fuck the Glasgow fans were not the easily impressed sort. If anyone recognized him here, they were more likely to shout good-natured insults from a safe distance rather than approach. He couldn't help but grin at the occasional cries of "wanker!" It was refreshing from the usual invasive and awkward encounters, sweet as they were. He had no illusions that he was better than any of his more starstruck fans; here he was on a freezing street corner waiting like a good puppy to meet his idol, and he was just as shit nervous as they probably got. And a wanker to boot.
He had a game plan for trying to keep his face calm and composed so that Grant couldn't look into his eyes and see just how many times he'd beaten off over them. He would think of an endless wheat field under mellow late afternoon sun, amber waves of grain and all that.
Now fucking “America the Beautiful" was stuck in his head, and he cackled at himself, and of course right then a jet black Maserati slid into a parking spot across the street, liquid-smooth, ink on wheels, its engine thrumming a throaty purr.
"Fuck fuck fuck," Gerard mumbled, stubbing his cigarette out onto a nearby waste can and then tossing it in. Briefly considered trying to climb in himself and pull the trash over his head as camouflage. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket that topped his hoodie, balling them into fists and then releasing. Flex, release, flex, release, and the deep breaths he pulled into his scorched lungs did nothing to slow the hammering of his heart.
His sanity had been on thin fucking ice since he'd gotten an email from Neil Fucking Gaiman letting him know that Grant Fucking Morrison wanted to meet him. He might have chucked his laptop down on the seat next to him and rushed into the narrow little nothing of a tour bus bathroom to scream. His bandmates had to endure his hysterical laughter and flapping hands, and he had to endure their teasing, Frank's veering into far more X-rated territory than the others.
Grant had emailed him then after the warning from Neil, and he felt like a plump juicy fly caught in a web the two of them had woven. It was not an unpleasant feeling at all, and the idea that his company was desired, on any level, by his own personal god was intoxicating. The emails had been friendly, and flattering, but Gerard told himself that's probably how Grant spoke to everyone. He tried not to read anything into it, tried not to fantasize about what could transpire between them, but of course his imagination was treacherous, so he was standing here on that freezing street corner in Glasgow, thinking of glowing wheat fields as Grant emerged from their sinister black carriage.
He inhaled & watched his breath plume out and up into the grey sky. If Grant weren't so comfortable and casual in whatever they wore, whether it was the PVC from 1998 or today's sharp dark plum suit, topped by a majestically windswept black wool coat, tailored impeccably to their body, they would have looked ridiculous rather than sexy.
Grant crossed the street with barely a glance around them, and Gerard could feel their eyes trained on him beneath the black shades. He didn't know why he was wearing this dumbass hoodie (it was cold, and his hair was short), he thought he would look casually cool in the head-to-toe black that offset his platinum hair so beautifully. He should have tried harder, should have bought a suit or hell, a fucking ballgown to impress them, maybe make them feel even 1/10th as swept away as he felt now.
His armpits went damp again and his stomach twisted in a quivering knot as Grant stopped right before him.
"Gerard," they said warmly, their smile as sinfully rich as their voice, and Gerard may have squeaked, bracing himself for a hug or a handshake. When Grant's strong warm fingers wrapped around his rather moist hand, and they bent low over it, saying "Enchanté” with a quirked lip, their eyes locked on his through the shades, he giggled. He fucking giggled, and a hot flush swept his insides, spreading up his neck and to his cheeks, painting him hot pink as the warm, dry kiss grazed his skin.
Grant was none too surprised at the swoop in their stomach that accompanied Gerard's giggle. They had an idea of how nervous he might be, but if Gerard was starstruck, Grant was bewitched. Had been since they'd seen this rock & roll cherub marching across their television screen, challenging the heavens and earth to join with him in his crusade against modern day cynicism, against the death of everything that mattered, voice rising pure and diamond-bright then descending to a seductively bitter snarl.
They were confident they needed to know him, needed to be scorched by such a blinding light, perhaps share some of their own fire with him. They'd entertained no illusions about what they wanted to give, less yet about what they might take, preferring to let the universe to stitch them together however it deemed fit. Now, though, touching Gerard's skin and breathing him in, they were utterly at the mercy of those dazzling bright eyes. They would pull down the moon if he wanted.
But they started with lunch. The hotel where the band was stationed had a fine restaurant attached, so they'd agreed to meet there.
"Let's be on our way, we can just as easily get acquainted in where it's warm," Grant said smoothly, and with Gerard's shaky "Yeah!" of agreement they spun him towards the lobby doors, a gentle hand on his back.
Grant steered them to a dimly lit corner booth, removing their sunglasses and pocketing them within the confines of their coat before shrugging that off as well.
Gerard tried not to audibly gulp at the first clap of Grant's naked eyes to his, and exhaled with relief when they began peppering him with questions about his trip, what he thought of Glasgow, the show tonight. Two plates of fresh-caught salmon and bottles of sparkling water soon appeared on the snowy tablecloth, as if magicked there.
Between quick bites of food, Grant eased him into a discussion of the album, their impression and interpretation of it, and was delighted to hear of The Umbrella Academy's impending publication.
"You are quite the wunderkind, aren't you," they murmured. "Doing what I did, only far, far better, and much more stylishly. You will no doubt take over the comics world like you did rock and roll. I should be shaking in my boots."
The slow stretch of grin and the sparkle in their eyes was much too charming, and Gerard's eyes shot to his plate as he bit back a simper.
"I'm not exactly a kind," he laughed, cheeks pinking. "And a lot of this was your influence, you know. You're one to talk about style. You're strutting around like King Mob, driving around in supervillain cars, and look at me." He swiped his free hand over his outfit.
"I'm looking," Grant couldn't help but purr, grinning as Gerard ducked his head again, face flaming to the bleached roots of his hair. "And what do you mean, I strut?"
Gerard's laugh was an awkward, but merry cackle, and Grant was utterly disarmed. They were seized with a fierce need to protect and cherish this beautiful creature, shelter him beneath their black bedraggled wings, give him all the magic they were able.
The conversation eased deeper into comics talk as the meal ended and they sipped their coffees, Gerard settling back into the rich dark leather of the booth with a sigh, warm and full and relaxed for the first time today. His senses were alight, his spine crackling with the electricity of Grant's gaze, but he felt calm within that gaze now, and hadn't thought of wheat fields for a half hour.
Perhaps it was stupidly romantic, then again he was stupidly romantic, but this meeting felt meant to be, and there was no need to be nervous anymore. He felt the dull idiot warmth of letting his mind go, letting the universe or destiny or what the fuck ever cradle him in her arms as the handsome stranger who was less and less a stranger with every millisecond charmed and occasionally challenged him with their words.
An offhand comment about Batman sparked him awake again, and Gerard sat straight up, coffee sloshing against the rim of his cup.
"Wait, wait," he interrupted, grabbing a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbling on a napkin. "This might be something."
Grant snatched the napkin up and beamed at Gerard.
"So um, I have sketchbooks and notebooks and stuff upstairs," he offered, thick lashes sweeping his cheeks in a blink. "I don't wanna be presumptuous, and I know we're just meeting, just hanging out, but if you want, we could--"
"I wouldn't dream of refusing.” Grant was already sliding their arms back into their coat. "I must confess I hoped we might collaborate on something."
He stood and held his hand out, and Gerard took it, staring hard at the floor to stop the moon-eyed grin threatening to creep over his blushing face.
An hour later, they were draped across Gerard's king-size bed, surrounded by a detritus of sketches and hastily jotted notes, the shimmering bubble of An Idea gleaming and expanding between them. The silky duvet was a mess of ink splotches and graphite dust, and they were both grinning at the ceiling, passing a bottle of water between them.
"I knew destiny put you in my path for a reason, Gerard Way," Grant announced. "Or on my telly, at any rate."
The rush of creative inspiration having ebbed, Gerard was too exhausted to fight his reactions, and covered his burning face with his hands, giggles escaping between his fingers, socked feet kicking at the covers.
"You can't just say shit like that," he complained, peeking at Grant through his spread fingers. "Nobody fucking talks like that."
Grant's face was genuinely puzzled, and they quirked a dark eyebrow at their young disciple.
"You're just too...smooth," Gerard elaborated lamely. "It's too much, the clothes, the car, the way you talk. It's all so--"
"Pretentious? Do I seem like I'm putting on an act?" Grant gave him a teasing smile.
"No, not at all, just--"
"Am I too charming? Are you falling under my spell, Mr. Way?" They grinned, waggling their fingers in parody of a second-rate magician. They rolled closer to Gerard, and he shuddered inwardly as he felt their body heat against him, caught the sweet warmth of their subtle cologne.
"Maybe," he mumbled into the heel of his hand, his face still covered.
Grant gave a delighted little snicker and plucked his hands away from his face. He drew in a shaky breath. Grant was propped on one elbow, reclining beside him, their thighs almost touching. They cupped his jaw tenderly, their thumb stroking his cheek as they marveled at the softness of his skin, the beauty of the blushing cheeks in contrast to the pallor of his forehead, slashed by those extraordinary dark brows, and the lovely line of his neck, where his adam’s apple bobbed with a nervous swallow. Gerard's lips looked just as pink, just as soft as his rosy cheeks. His breath hitched as Grant's eyes slid to his mouth, and his small teeth sank into his bottom lip.
"I don't want to take advantage, Gerard," Grant murmured, still stroking his face. "And please tell me to fuck off if I'm overstepping, but I feel our connection goes beyond the mental, and--"
Gerard sucked in a breath, gathered the few shreds of courage he possessed around him. And rolled his eyes. At the seductive, cheek-stroking, molasses-eyed Grant Morrison.
"Look, I'm almost fucking 30," he cut in, drawing a surprised glance. "I'm a sober grown adult. I know what I want. And I fucking want you to take advantage."
His voice was a low roughened-silk growl that snagged Grant just the right way, and they reached for his hand, surprisingly large and masculine, but soft skinned, dewy with moisturizer, palms damp with nerves. They slid their thumb along the webbing between thumb and forefinger, dark eyes blackening further as Gerard blinked that ridiculous fringe of lash, pink lips parting to emit the faintest whisper of a sigh.
"Who's charming who now?" Grant smiled, trailing their hand up along Gerard's arm and over his heaving chest, dragging their fingers over that beautiful column of throat, nails snagging just the tiniest bit, just enough to make Gerard gasp and roll his hips against nothing. They finished up back at the soft curve of jaw, and this time their thumb stroked over those beautifully shaped strawberry-colored lips, and they did feel like rose petals.
Grant pushed their thumb inside, into the dark wet warmth of Gerard, closing their eyes against his responding groan, their cock twitching in their trousers as tongue and lips closed around them, sucking gently. Gerard's eyes on them glowed, molten honey, eyelids heavy with lust, and Grant was utterly fucking gone.
"Grant, Grant, please," Gerard whispered, pulling off their thumb, cleaving to the tense heat of their body, lacing his arms around their neck, feeling like a weakly swooning maiden in a storybook.
Grant growled at him, pulling him under them with a possessive strength, arms like iron wrapped around him, their lips pressing hard and dry against his mouth, tongue plundering inside right away. One hand snaked down to cup the fleshy swell of his ass, pressing his arousal tight against their hip, rocking him during the ecstasy of the kiss. It was zero to 100 in six seconds, and Gerard mewled against their lips, writhing against them without shame, borne away on a cresting wave of pleasure.
Grant chuckled at the way Gerard wrapped himself around them, fists clutching at the back of their shirt & thighs clamped around their waist. The sweetest little whimpers fell from his lips as Grant first licked and then sank their teeth into his smooth ivory column of neck. The delicate birdlike cries became a desperate groan as Grant squeezed him closer, lifting his hips off the bed with the strength of their embrace.
Gerard felt like he was caught in the grasp of a very seductive monster, a devil who could rip him to shreds but chose instead to end him with unbearable pleasure.
"Like being manhandled, do you, love?" they whispered roughly against his ear, smirking at Gerard's rapid nods and the pitiful whine of "mmhmm!"
“I want to find out everything you like, everything that drives you wild,” Grant said, pulling down the neckline of Gerard's shirt to suck wet kisses into his clavicle. "Want to explore you in so many ways, Gerard. But I think for now your needs are too immediate, and we'll just stick to the basics?"
“Hmm, what, yeah, we can—” Gerard was breathless, flushed and panting, looking fucked over three times already, the sleek platinum cap of his hair mauled into a bleached punk scruff. "You can do anything, you can fuck me, just want you—”
"Christ," Grant swore. They recognized that Gerard was too far gone to withstand serious negotiations, needed relief as soon as possible. And they intended to devote themself thoroughly to the task.
“May I undress you, pet?" They asked against his kiss-swollen lips, dropping a peck upon them.
"Fuck yeah," Gerard exhaled, trying to not to rut against them. "Like you calling me that, pet or love or—” he flashed his tiny teeth, and Grant smiled at his round crimson cheeks, the dazzle of hazel eyes.
"Mmm?" They arched an eyebrow as they slid down his hoodie zipper. "Darling? Beautiful? Good boy, perhaps?"
“Ffffuuuccckkk, " Gerard gritted out, eyes screwed shut, hips snapping up against their thigh. "Yes, please, want to be good for you.”
“How did I get so lucky," Grant murmured, peeling Gerard out of his hoodie and t-shirt and starting on his jeans. Their calm tone belied their rapid pulse. They were simply amazed at their good fortune, having this gorgeous pink and white beauty all spread out before them.
“I don't know if it's possible for you to displease me, darling.”
Gerard huffed out a shaky sigh, lifting his hips up as Grant tugged down jeans and underwear at one go. They dragged the clothing off his legs and flung them onto the floor, greedily drinking in the sight before them. They ran their hands up Gerard's beautifully shaped legs, lingering on the smooth fullness of his thighs, kneading the soft pale flesh of his hips and tummy, crisscrossed with livid red lines from his waistband. They circled the tender round pads of his nipples with their thumbs, and they were rose petal soft, rose petal pink to match his lips and the thick tumescent cock that curled against his belly. Gerard shivered as Grant pinched his nipples into stiff buds, his cock twitching and dripping onto his skin at the sensation.
"So beautiful, so fucking beautiful, Gerard," Grant declared, then bent their head to lap at them, their hand trailing down between his legs, grazing his inner thigh and resting lightly on his drawn-up scrotum.
“Grant, Grant.” Gerard moaned, head thrown back and eyes rolling up white after he'd snuck a glance at the bald head bent to his chest. Never in his wildest dreams...Well ok, in many of his dreams, but he'd never really thought he'd be here, under them, at their mercy, feeling the heat and strength of them, smelling them all over himself.
They sucked a path of damp kisses over Gerard's soft belly as it quivered with his breath, then spread his thighs and pushed them up, giving their greedy mouth complete access to the delights between them.
Gerard cried out at the rough handling, cock flexing and precum oozing from his tip, so close so close so close.
Grant smirked at his responsiveness, licking and nipping at the smooth skin of his inner thighs, nuzzling his balls and breathing deep of the soapy-musky scent.
“Delicious boy,” they murmured, kissing the wet head of his cock, digging their tongue into the slit to coax out more bittersweet ejaculate.
Gerard was moaning endlessly now, singing a song of broken sighs. He was flushed pink from the roots of his hair to his sternum, and Grant groaned at the sight, just as they groaned at the taste and the heavy feel of Gerard's cock on their tongue. They sucked him in deep and held him there, feeling his heartbeat on their tongue, his thighs trembling around them.
They pulled off only to murmur, "you can let go, pet, come in my mouth," smiling at the responding cry, swallowing him again, grasping his soft hips as if lifting a sacred chalice to their mouth.
Gerard bucked up, fisting the bedsheets, and Grant hummed in encouragement. One throaty whine and two thrusts later, and Grant moaned as they felt his release hit the back of their throat. They swallowed it down as if it were holy communion, and bobbed their head, suckling him until his writhing stilled and he drew in deep shuddering breaths.
"Oh god," Gerard cried out, gazing down at his god, the dynamic figure of his dreams, who fixed him with lust-dark eyes while licking their fucking lips. He was utterly drained, a barely conscious scrap of meat, a dry leaf liable to drift away on the wind.
"Come here, come here Grant, let me--" He reached for them feebly, and Grant chuckled darkly, crawling up his spent body.
"Fucking amazing," they declared, claiming his mouth in a wet messy kiss. Gerard moaned at the taste of himself, his fingers scratching at the waistband of Grant's trousers. Grant pressed his hand there, and Gerard felt the hot pulse of their cock beneath the wool.
"I know you have to sing tonight, darling, but—”
"Oh god fuck my mouth please," Gerard begged, jaw dropping and tongue stuck out obscenely, drool pooling beneath it already.
“As you wish," Grant responded shakily. dragging their zip down and pulling out their cock, thick and curved and flushed dark red.
They were so wet that the slide was easy when they jerked themself slow, mesmerized by Gerard's slick pink lips, parted invitingly, his tongue reaching out to taste. Grant rested the head of their cock upon it, and Gerard's eyes rolled up as he whimpered.
Grant held back, despite the wet lurid invitation of Gerard’s mouth, despite their desire to fucking ravage his throat, despite the knowledge that Gerard would welcome it, was begging for it.
He lay there, head cradled against silky pillows, hair ragged and eyes livid with need, that beautiful voice whining for their cock, and then Grant shrugged off any lingering embarrassment about coming too quickly as they jacked themself to the edge, that sinful tongue curling around them, then thrust inside, feeling Gerard’s moan shudder around them, his lips forming a tight seal that Grant fucked into three, four, five times until their hips stilled with the moan wrenched from their own throat. They gasped, nerve endings ablaze, as the pleasure broke and then slowly ebbed, and the flutter of Gerard’s lashes was better than anything they’d imagined.
They slowly withdrew, groaning softly at the sight of the line of spit and cum webbing them to Gerard’s lips.
Gerard smiled, beatific, angelic, parting his lips to reveal the small puddle of cum he’d kept on his tongue, making Grant watch as he threw back his head and swallowed, throat working obscenely.
“Mmmm,” he hummed, licking his lips like a proper slut, regarding Grant with dark and sated eyes.
“Good boy. So good for me,” came Grant’s husky whisper as they stroked the moist pink curve of Gerard’s cheek.
They tucked themself back in their trousers and flopped beside Gerard with a sigh, drawing him close, dropping lazy kisses on his cheek and jaw as they breathed in the hot sweet musk of his scent.
“You could have been a lot rougher, you know,” Gerard said with a bratty little smirk.
Grant slapped the generous swell of his rump playfully, shivering with glee as the pale skin reddened at the light contact.
“Decided not to put your voice at risk after all,” they murmured. “I want you to sing pretty for me tonight, my angel.”
Gerard wriggled against them, the tips of his ears reddening.
“Wanna be yours,” he hummed with sleepy delight.
“You already are,” Grant whispered against his ear, and they both fell into a shallow doze that was sweet and dreamless.
A year later, at the San Diego Comic Con, Gerard was no longer Grant’s platinum cherub. His hair was black, longer, curling against the joint of neck and shoulder, just where Grant liked to rest a possessive hand, rubbing their thumb along the nape of Gerard’s neck till he shivered, and also where he liked to bite when they were joined in scorching throes of lust, claiming him with their mouth and body.
His face was still angelic, a little more mature, but just as soft skinned, just as apple-cheeked, and Grant suspected he would look that way even as an older man. The contrast of the newly black hair against Gerard’s fair skin brought out the green cast in his eyes, and when he blushed, when Grant nailed him down with their laser sharp gaze, or leaned over to whisper in his ear, their voice like a sinfully rich dessert, Gerard’s rosy cheeks and reddened lips made him resemble Snow White.
Grant told him so in their hotel room, spreading Gerard out like their own personal feast on the luxurious bed, sliding up his shirt slow, revealing an inch of smooth pale skin at a time.
“You’re my fairytale princess,” they purred, grinning at the hectic flush that bloomed on his neck and chest.
“Lips red as rubies, hair black as coal, skin white as snow.” They punctuated each phrase with a kiss, stamping each cheek and the tip of that adorable upturned nose with their affection, before brushing Gerard’s lips with their own.
Gerard gasped against the kiss, welcoming Grant into his mouth, shuddering as their warm, rough palm slid over his chest and belly.
It had been months since they’d seen each other, and though they’d only had the opportunity for physical intimacy once between Glasgow and now, they were so deeply immersed in each other that it felt as though they’d been together for years. Lifetimes.
They spoke on the phone almost daily, video calls weekly if possible, and they invaded each other’s dreams. Grant had reluctantly adapted to text messaging, due to Gerard’s habit of texting as soon as he woke up, describing his dreams in hazy misspellings.
Once it was we were n ur car & the road was like a roller coaster cutting between 2 mtns & it felt like we were driving straight into the moon, once it was the batman book should be a show or movie I dreamt we were at a premere u were wearing a black ballgown it was amazing & I was dressed like robin but it was a tux, once it was you were kissing me and it was sunset we were in this wheat field & I was crying I miss you miss you miss u
Grant had their own beliefs about destiny and timelines and universal law and magic, some of which they’d shared with Gerard, but they knew each time they met in the flesh their connection deepened, became more electric, and when they were pressed together like now, skin to heated skin, it seemed their hearts were reaching towards each other, weaving their souls together with each synchronic beat.
And since this was their third time together and three was such a lovely symbolic number, Grant let themself go, let everything they wanted Gerard to have flow out of them into him, nearly sobbing into his mouth, their tongues intertwined, as they thrust slow and deep into the quivering heat of his body.
They broke the kiss with a gasp, licking up Gerard’s neck, teeth grazing his jaw, savoring his low moan, murmuring “love you love you I love you Gerard” so low and silky it was like velvet against his ear.
Gerard cried out, tightening around them, reaching up to grip Grant’s jaw, gemstone eyes glossy with tears as he looked into them.
“Oh god I love you too Grant, my love, my God,” he cried, and Grant crushed him to their chest, their hips snapping forward as they drove Gerard towards their mutual delirium.
“My darling, my pet, my beautiful boy,” Grant groaned, sinking their teeth into their favorite spot, bruising Gerard’s tender flesh as his body arched beneath them, shuddering at the white-hot pleasure, and neither knew which of them was moaning or crying out, only that the room was filled with the sounds of passion, and they both shook as the climax hit, Gerard’s thighs squeezing Grant’s waist like a vise as they emptied into him with a shout. Gerard sobbed through the comedown, his twitching inner muscles milking every drop from Grant.
They were pulled down into sleep still joined, glued together by sweat and cum, and awakened some dazed hour later, blinking in offense at the brightly lit room. Gerard pouted as he felt the congealing mess he was lying in. Grant stumbled into the bathroom for a warm damp towel, and soon everything was put to rights, and they curled together naked under the covers, sharing a room-service milkshake and watching a terrible zombie movie.
Grant was humbled with the realization that not only did they want this forever, but that they might have it, too.
And before they parted that morning, after a languorous makeout session and coffee and pastries, vows were spoken, promises made, dates starred in their phone calendars.
Grant left him outside the hotel, looking so like the boy they'd met a year ago, enormous blinking eyes and soft rosy cheeks.
"I hate this part," Gerard mumbled into their shoulder, eyes tearing, breathing in the spicy sweet warmth of Grant, wanting to cling to them, seeing a future where he followed them to their dark and dusty home on the loch, where they could spend their days reading, curled together and flanked by purring cats, walking by the water arm in arm and breathing in fresh petrichor, collecting magical stones and leaves and shells, offerings from the earth.
"As do I, my love," Grant murmured, kissing away the tears that studded Gerard's lashes like dewdrops on petals. "You'll come see me in a few months, hm? And we'll have a grand adventure. We'll go on hikes, play music together, chase kittens around, and continue our great collaboration."
"Yeah." Gerard's laugh was shaky, and even as he mourned their parting, he withdrew into himself, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.
Grant contained their sigh. They'd offered Gerard all of themself, a shared life, in Scotland or here or both, but he was so young still, still clinging to his ideals of what a family, what love, should look like. Grant was patient, though, and if they only got a little bit of Gerard every year, then they would collect those moments carefully, holding them precious like the smoky quartz they'd found once on a mountain trek.
Time ticked on, and Gerard changed with the seasons, shades and length of hair, artistic and musical obsessions, wardrobe. His address changed with his moods, and when Grant found themself in LA, they always met Gerard in a new location.
In 2010, the hair was flame red, and Gerard was lean and ablaze with inspiration, flitting out of their grasp as he rushed towards new projects. Grant always caught him, though, ensnared him with their dark gaze, and he was just Gerard again, the boy who'd shook at the sight of Grant in that DC hallway, the angel with the white hair whose eyes had lit up under that grey Scottish sky. Grant stayed the same, his rock, his guiding light, secure and perfect in their chosen form, a security that Gerard craved and chased after, even as he sought the trappings of what he'd longed for as a child, before Grant Morrison had blown off his brainpan.
Grant didn't begrudge him that. They were nearly 20 years his senior, and they'd also had their youthful hangups, not fully exploring the varieties of human existence until their 30s. They merely enjoyed him as he was, while showing him every possibility and reflection of what he could be.
They delighted in becoming a part of Gerard’s desert apocalypse musical fantasia, reveled in seeing his rapid fire universe come to life. Party Poison was a character he had to embody, and though Grant wished Gerard would play catchup to them and realize he could become his fully realized self without playing a role or flirting with destruction, they waited it out, knowing the universe would give him back to them again.
A year later, Gerard's hair was still red, though shorter, and his cheeks and ears nearly matched his hair as he sat on a stool in a bookstore and narrated his first encounter with Grant in front of a captive audience. He burned as he remembered rushing to the bathroom after catching a glimpse of King Mob themself. He hadn't given up that intel yet.
Grant was firing on all cylinders during the talk, keeping Gerard flustered the entire time, teasing and even serenading him, their eyes sparkling with mischief each time they sent Gerard into giggles. Gerard was 18 again and had no chill at all, covering his flaming cheeks and grinning through his fingers, and surely the audience could see the pink cartoon hearts ballooning out of his eyes every time he looked at Grant.
"You're fooling no one, darling," Grant murmured afterwards, stealing a brief kiss in the hallway near the exit before they left to get in their car.
Gerard's cackle was almost hysterical. "You were driving me crazy, you asshole." His arms trembled as he laced them around Grant's neck, squeaking as they copped a very lengthy feel of his jeans-clad ass.
"Mmm, I love driving you crazy, pet."
"Have to s-s-stop," Gerard muttered against their neck, even as his hips rocked against them. "We're supposed to go to dinner and...and be normal."
Grant gently pushed him away, surveying him at arm's length.
"Have you learned nothing from me, pet? Normal is fucking boring."
And with that, they dipped Gerard gracefully over their thigh for a show-stopping Hollywood kiss, swallowing his squeal.
Gerard was fully thawed, melted, a puddle, a barely solid form clinging to Grant's side as they pushed him into the car and then ushered him into the private dining room where family and friends waited. He participated gamely enough, but Grant caught his gaze more than once, amber eyes gleaming beneath blinks of those cursed lashes, moist pink lips parted, a look that was just for them.
And when Grant had him later, it was facedown on their hotel bed, Gerard clawing at the sheets as he pushed back against them, not holding back the cries that became howls that became stuttering screams. It was as wanton as a first time and as desperate as a last, and when Grant released deep inside him, they caught his shoulder in their teeth with a guttural moan, not letting go till they were both limp and twitching and wrung out.
Grant kissed his cheek gently, carding their fingers through the damp scarlet strands of Gerard's hair, their gaze utterly possessive, raking from the fire of his hair to the blush of his cheek to the deep strawberry grooves their teeth had imprinted on his skin.
"Mine," they whispered against his ear, and Gerard shivered against the heat of their breath and the sear of their words.
"Yours," he whispered back, lacing their fingers together, falling into sleep surrounded by Grant, held by Grant, loved by Grant.
It would be two years before Grant held him again.
The Gerard they met in Sydney was no longer a little fireball. His hair was black with blond streaks that curled under his ears, against his neck. His eyes were softer, his cheeks round and pink against his hair, echoing their Snow White from 2008. He'd been humbled by hell and heartbreak, and Grant had tried to dry those tears from afar, feeling helpless as Gerard struggled. They were sparing with their advice. Gerard was headstrong, and deserved to make his choices, even if they turned out to be mistakes, and learn his own lessons. Grant allowed themself approximately five minutes of wallowing in what-could-have-been following that first phone call after the band dissolved.
He was just as sharp witted and earnest as ever in their panel, though Grant was a bit stung by the absence of that adoring gaze they'd grown accustomed to. They were wearing leather trousers, for fuck's sake, and here sat Gerard in his button up and cardigan, looking adorable, but looking and behaving far more respectably than Grant had ever witnessed. He joked that he was in his "dad era," to which Grant rolled their eyes. With the greatest affection, of course.
He responded to their few flirtatious remarks over dinner with laughter, eyes crinkling charmingly, but steered the conversation to comics or their home lives.
They went for a walk after, and right past the Opera House, Gerard snapped a selfie. Grant snaked an arm around his waist from behind, glaring into the camera, and felt Gerard's breath hitch. When he lowered the phone, Grant pulled him closer, cupping his soft, smooth jaw.
"I've missed you, darling," they murmured. "So much."
Gerard's throat worked, and his lashes swept his cheeks as he gave Grant his first blush of the day.
"I-missed you too," Gerard said shyly. "I’m sorry I—it's been weird. And I'm sorry. I don't mean it to be. I don't know how to--just be with people." He laughed shakily.
Grant tucked his fluffy head into their shoulder nook, kissing the rosy cheek softly. "No apologies needed, love. I know things have been difficult."
Gerard tried to raise his head, but Grant wouldn't let him. "I shouldn't have given you the short end of the stick, though," he mumbled into their shirt.
"Do shut up, darling." Grant said quietly. "I’ll always be here."
Gerard shivered in their arms, and Grant caught the choked-off sob, felt fresh tears soak their collar.
When Gerard looked up, his lashes were impossibly black and long and wet, blinking against those luminous doe eyes, his lips pursed into a red little pout that Grant could barely resist kissing.
"Can we go to your room?" he asked quietly.
Grant smiled, kissed his cheek again, tasting salt, and led him there by the hand. Neither of them cared if anyone saw.
"I've...been thinking about a lot of stuff lately." Gerard was walking the floor of Grant's suite, not quite pacing, eyes on his hands, which were stretching out and then balling up a string he'd picked off his jeans, over and over.
"Do tell, love," Grant said mildly, patting the sofa cushion nearest to them.
Gerard stared at the sofa rather than Grant, chewing on his bottom lip.
"I've discovered some things about myself. Or rediscovered things I already knew, have already done, but they have a different meaning now. Or maybe I didn't think about them before." Gerard's arms were crossed, and he was hunching into himself.
Grant assumed that Gerard preferred not to be close to them while getting whatever this was off his chest, so they were surprised when he sucked in a deep breath and literally threw himself at Grant's feet, resting his forehead against their leather-clad leg, fiddling with the seam near their ankle just as he'd fiddled with the string from his jeans.
Grant leaned forward, stroking over Gerard's soft nest of hair with a gentle hand. "You can tell me anything, darling," they murmured.
"I—" Gerard glanced up, and the naked need in those eyes took their breath away. "I want to dress up for you. Not, not now. It's late and we're jet lagged but we have the day off tomorrow and...I've worn some dresses and skirts recently and I... like it. I used to do it as a kid but didn't think that much about it. And. I haven't done it in front of...anyone yet, since wanting to again. I think it would be easy with you, you've done it, and it's not...it wouldn't worry you or bring on questions I don't have an answer to yet."
"Oh darling," Grant bit out, leaning further still and pulling Gerard to them the rest of the way for a tender kiss. They cupped his face in their hands and kissed it all over, lips then nose then forehead then blushing cheeks, and right back to lips again.
Laughter danced in Gerard's eyes, even as they welled with tears. He grinned, shoving his flaming face against the relative coolness of Grant's leathers again.
"Of course, my love," they assured him, resuming the stroking of his hair. "I would love to see you like that. And I feel so privileged that you would want to share that part of yourself with me." They meant every syllable, and their heart felt close to bursting behind their ribcage, so swollen it was with pride and love and devotion for the person at their feet.
"Why do you always have the perfect fucking thing to say," Gerard laughed, hoping he wasn't damaging the leather by blubbering all over it, because he really fucking wanted to see Grant in them again.
"Because my sole purpose in life is to charm and flatter and soothe you, pet," Grant grinned, and it widened when Gerard climbed onto the sofa beside them, balling himself up, half in their lap, smelling deliciously cozy and sweet. Grant placed a kiss directly on top of his tousled head.
"My lifetime as a cat lover and owner has prepared me well for you."
Gerard wiggled against them, humming in delight.
"Nothing's prepared me for you," he laughed. "I still can't believe I know you, let alone have you —have you as such a close friend."
"Oh, you have me in every way, pet. And I'm quite content about it, myself."
"You remember when I saw you at DC? In 99?"
"Well, I was exaggerating a bit when I said I remembered you, but—"
"No, I know, I don't give a shit," Gerard interrupted. "Just, you know it happened?"
At Grant's bemused nod, he continued. "Well um, I..after I saw you, I had to run to the bathroom." He glanced up at them beneath his lashes, his cheeks cherry red.
"You were so nervous I made you vomit," Grant teased, knowing Gerard wouldn't be blushing like that if that were the case.
"Not quite." Gerard's eyes hit him again, before he looked down and bit his lip.
"I had to get myself off. I was like instantly hard when I saw you. I barely got a hand down my pants before I came."
Grant groaned, pulling Gerard closer, rubbing their hand along his denim thigh, their breath coming faster as they spotted the tent in Gerard's pants.
"I, I had to do it twice," Gerard said breathlessly, leaning into the caress. "I was still so turned on and I was imagining you bending me over the bathroom counter, fucking me, just unzipped enough to take your dick out, so I could feel the latex against my ass. I fingered myself thinking about it.“
"Fuck," Grant swore, flipping Gerard around so he was flat on his back, panting up at them, eyes heavy-lidded and fucked out already. They crawled atop him, taking his mouth in a bruising kiss, plunging their tongue inside, swallowing his cries as they roughly stroked his denim-covered erection.
They broke the kiss, trailing their tips wetly down Gerard's soft pale throat, pausing to gnaw at his clavicle.
"That wasn't the first, the first time," Gerard panted, rolling his hips up against the stone of Grant's thigh. "When I was 18, you did, there was that fucking wankathon for the Invisibles..."
"Don't tell me," Grant sighed, pausing their feast of Gerard's skin, which was now bright pink going down into his shirt collar, his hand thrown over his eyes in embarrassment, his cock throbbing even harder against Grant. "Young Gerard charged my sigil with his lusty offering?"
"Fuck," Gerard gasped, hiding his blazing face in the crook of Grant's shoulder and wrapped his legs around their waist, bucking up against them. "Yeah, yeah, I did. I even lit a candle and I imagined, imagined you watching me while I— it was almost like you took my virginity, Madam Morrison," he giggled, even as he rutted against Grant's hip.
"Little fucking whore," Grant growled, their dick about to split the crotch of their pants. "That's it, get up."
They dragged Gerard up to standing, despite his whines of protest.
"Nooo," he pouted against their chest. “I can barely stand up, we can just do it on the couch..." his knees sagged and he tried to pull Grant back down with him.
"I said get up," Grant gripped him firmly by the chin, fixing him with a glare that they knew would just weaken his knees further.
And Gerard thought he would faint when Grant hoisted him up by the thighs till his legs were wrapped around his waist.
When they began to march them both down the hall, and detoured for the expansive bathroom rather than the bed, he stuttered "Wh-what are you doing, Grant?"
Grant deposited him onto the marble vanity counter, beginning to attack the buttons of his shirt.
"What I'm doing, my pet, is getting some of these clothes out of my way, so I can bend you over the counter and fuck you deep and hard."
"Fuck yesss," Gerard moaned against their lips.
"And Gerard?" Grant craned forward to whisper into his ear with a devilish smirk. "I'm only going to unzip enough to take my dick out, and you will feel the leather against your skin while I fuck you."
Gerard wasn't able to form an intelligible word for the next hour.
The following evening, Grant arranged for them to have dinner in Gerard’s suite. Gerard would have privacy to get ready while Grant waited in the living area. They brought their laptop, and fired off a few emails to colleagues before the concierge arrived.
The small round dining table was draped with a snowy cloth, china and silverware and napkins were laid out, as well as the arrangement of red and white tea roses Grant had ordered. Taper candles were lit, and the cart with their meals under metal chafing dishes and an ice bucket with bottles of Pellegrino was left before Grant tipped them and they departed.
They wondered if they should put music on, something quiet and romantic, classical guitar perhaps, then decided against it. Their belly was a knot of nerves, not unpleasantly so. It was the charmingly anxious anticipation of a date that could lead to a first sexual encounter.
“Smells amazing,” Gerard said softly from the bedroom doorway.
Grant sat up in shock, and the snap of their laptop closing seemed awfully loud. They swallowed hard, then exhaled, their lips parted in wonder as they took in the sight before them.
Gerard was not in black as they’d anticipated, but in a flowy, filmy burgundy dress with an A line skirt that fell just above his knees. The rich wine color of the dress was devastating against his dark hair and pale skin. Sheer black stockings hugged his shapely legs, and he wore black velvet pumps with a low heel.
“You look amazing,” Grant said fervently, crossing the room to meet him. “You’re breathtaking, darling.” They lifted Gerard’s hand to their lips, pressing a kiss to it and leaving their mouth there, inhaling Gerard’s fragrance, soft woods kissed by vanilla.
Gerard’s chin wobbled only a little, cheeks going crimson as he met Grant’s eyes above his hand, so like he had six years ago, and an ocean away.
He was wearing a new eyeshadow for tonight, a burgundy color with a golden sheen that played off the dress and made his eyes, framed by lightly mascaraed lashes, glow green. Shimmery gold highlighter was dusted at the corners of his eyes, on the apples of his cheeks, and over the slice of collarbone that was exposed by the plunging V neck of the dress. His lips sparkled with a sheer berry-tinted gloss.
He reminded Grant of a 1920s film star, with his short waving hair, doe eyes and berry-tinted bow of a mouth, but he was something infinitely more intoxicating.
“Thanks.” Gerard smiled shyly, and leaned into Grant when they rose to grace his jaw with a tender kiss, not wanting to disturb Gerard’s makeup till it was time to disturb it.
“Shall we?” Grant said smoothly, taking Gerard’s hand and leading him the few steps to the dinner table.
“This is like a first date,” Gerard laughed, hands fluttering up to cover his mouth as Grant pulled out his chair for him.
“So it is, pet,” Grant smiled, leaving another kiss atop Gerard’s head. Even his hair smelled like sweet perfume, and they breathed in deep, their head fairly spinning.
Grant dished out the food onto their plates, a mushroom risotto with a side of roasted asparagus.
Their dinner conversation was as immersive as always, this time delving into early cinema, inspired as Grant was by Gerard's beauty. And then the vampires found there, Murnau's Nosferatu and Browning's Dracula and then somehow ending up at Theda Bara and Siouxsie Sioux, Gerard flushed scarlet as he recounted the older men who bought him drinks at the goth clubs of his youth.
"I'd have certainly bought you a drink if I'd met you, then, love."
Gerard giggled, eyes downcast as he cut into the berry tart that was their dessert. "And I'd have certainly gone home with you. Assuming I didn't fucking faint just from the sight of you."
Grant smiled, waiting for Gerard to finish his bite, the weight of the velvet box in their jacket pocket at the forefront of their mind.
"Perhaps it's a bit uncouth to give gifts on the first date, darling." They smirked as they produced the box with a dramatic flourish. "But I've been meaning you to have this for quite some time."
Gerard eyed the flat rectangle, biting his lip and tasting the crème brulee flavor of his gloss and the sugared berries of the tart. It wasn't a ring box, but it was likely jewelry. A statement, and then a question, caught in his throat, and died there.
"Open it, love?" Grant's smile was sweet, their eyes lit with a warm hopefulness.
He sucked in a breath, tracing the dark velvet embossing of the box, staring at his clean but too-short, too-blunt fingernails. Perhaps he should have worn polish, but it had really slipped his mind.
"It won't bite," Grant urged, their grin a bit nervous now.
Gerard glanced up at them through his lashes and pried the box open with shaky fingers. There, puddled on shining black satin, was an inky metal chain, and hanging from it, the luminous finger of smoky quartz that had found Grant, once upon a time. The crystal was faceted along its natural terminations, and lightly polished to bring out the beautiful stardust swirl of the inclusions within.
"Grant," he breathed, struck with wonder. He'd expected a more feminine piece, perhaps something to commemorate tonight, but as always with Grant, he was given something more mysterious, and no doubt more loaded with meaning.
"I apologize if it's not what you expected," Grant said softly. "Perhaps it's a bit rugged for your beautiful dress. But I've had this piece a long time, found it on a hike, oh, over a decade before we met. It spoke to me, it seemed to contain eons inside it. It's smoky quartz, you can google all its properties, but I'm not giving it to you as a talisman to be used for a specific purpose, although you may use it any way you like, love. I'm giving it to you because you are also a treasure I found, and I want to show you my devotion by giving you a piece of my past, a piece of my soul. My sweetheart, I--"
Gerard had clutched the crystal in his palm, tears sparkling on his lashline, and at Grant's "sweetheart" he launched himself into Grant's lap with a small cry, the heel of his shoe catching on the tablecloth but somehow managing to not drag the table's contents onto the floor.
"Grant, Grant, it's perfect," he mumbled against their lips, and Grant smiled into the kiss, their eyes misting up even as Gerard amused them with the clumsy eagerness of his gloss-sticky kisses.
"And I think it goes perfectly with the dress," Gerard beamed, dropping the chain down over his head, and Grant grinned back at the sight of those cute little teeth. The quartz glowed darkly against the burgundy dress, inches below Gerard's heart.
Grant shivered as he gazed at it later in bed, Gerard's skirt already up over his waist and their hands plundering the shaven-smooth glory of delicious pale thigh above the lace tops of stockings.
Their eyelids fluttered as they breathed him in, and it was the fragrance of home; the chill air clinging to the pines behind his house, the richness of the wood in his library, the dusty smoke of first editions housed on the shelves, the sweetness of the honey in his tea, the cozy softness of kitten fur.
Time seemed to stutter and skip and this was their Gerard, home where he belonged, and some dim part of them knew this was also Gerard's Gerard, LA's Gerard, Dad Era Gerard, but Grant made love to him as though he were no one else's, even so. They left aubergine kisses on those thighs, sucking and licking in between them, not stopping till Gerard shuddered apart above them, then taking him immediately, deeply, snaring his eyes with their own as they fucked him. They cried out against his perfumed throat as the pleasure stabbed them all too soon, swallowing down Gerard's beautiful whimpers, saving them up to recall when they parted.
They left each other that morning with the same promises, going back to their separate lives. Grant wondered if a day would come when they would prefer to not to reunite, would rather instead settle into a soft armchair in Scotland, head full of daydreams, face pressed against the veil that separated them from the world where Gerard was always theirs, feeling him next-door close and yet a galaxy away.
The Gerard who came to them the very next year was different again, nearly as manic and lusty as he'd been during Danger Days, copper-haired and all afire with the new album, commanding his smaller theater audiences with a fevered intensity and a vulnerability that was almost sexual. He accepted their gifts and grasped for their hands and spat angst in their faces, and Grant mused that he wanted to devour them, and be devoured himself.
He backed Grant against the wall backstage, eyes blazing and shirt transparent with sweat, yanked their trousers open with a trembling desperation and went down all wet and messy, sucking their soul out through their dick. Grant gripped the dressing room countertop, gasping in astonishment, thighs quaking with aftershock. Gerard's eyes snapped to theirs and he cried out at the sight of them, as if their appearance was sudden and startling, and Grant dragged him up for a kiss, smothering Gerard's "I wanted--" and "I missed--" and "I'm sorry."
"I know, I know, pet," they murmured against his cheek, ever soothing, and Gerard's breathing calmed, even as they brought him off with their hand. Gerard leaned against them, hips gently rocking, humming in pleasure with each stroke, and when he spilled over Grant's fist, a soft musical sigh escaped him, and he brought Grant's hand up to his lips, licking away his mess as he regarded them with fucked-out eyes, then kissing the back of their hand with reverence, face resting upon it, eyelashes kissing their skin.
He was not wearing the quartz.
But it appeared in selfies occasionally, as the years sped by like water rushing down a mountainside, and here was Gerard in his "wizard era," smelling of fragrant high end weed as they talked for hours about shamanism till Grant pressed him into the couch, sucking a bruise into his neck, the soft rasp of beard against their face something new, bringing him off with their hand, chasing the spark of the boy/the woman/the witchling inside the man.
Their magic was clumsy in this sphere of consciousness that Grant's mind and body had been shoehorned into, where he and Gerard met again and again, coming together and parting like shuffled cards, slaves to the temporary bliss of their orbital resonance.
There were murmurs of dual citizenship and a home nearby, and Grant tried not to think of other Gerards, their Gerard, gleaming like a pearl in the shadowy corridors of their country home, the home they shared, days filled with leafy walks and conversations that led them to the moon and back, bookshelves lined with their collaborations, their love shielding him from heartbreak and destruction, their linked path lined with starlight and sunshine.
And it was fine, it was okay because that did happen, not in this when but perhaps one just a hands breath out of reach, and somewhere they were spending the evening curled together with mugs of tea and lapfuls of cat, and they weren’t hugging goodbye in a Los Angeles doorway, Gerard already turned away from them, distracted by the demands of the corporate commodities his inventions had become.
Grant reminded themself that the other Gerards were as real as this one, and they would see him again in little glimpses, and that would do until the dreams that sometimes came, where they kissed snowflakes off blushing cheeks and breathed in the warm sweetness of their darling.
The deck was shuffled again by a global pandemic, and the magic that Gerard had grasped for in his "wizard era" was suffocated by the anxiety of his dreams melting like paper castles in the rain.
Grant bore the frequent phone calls and video chats. Gerard had always been so blessed with luck that he was floundering at sea, and even Grant was caught off guard by the fear and loss that spiked and then ebbed but never really washed away.
It was a reminder that sometimes things were beyond control, that everything was temporary. The calls and chats dwindled as Gerard, sensitive and wounded by the clamor of a dying world, sank into distractions. They both wrote, and created, and Grant produced their first novel, and it wasn't easy, but they ripped the words out of themself with hooked cat claws, bits of their and Gerard's story bleeding onto the page, encrypted in psychedelic psychosexual swirls of prose.
The universe took two more years from them, and then Gerard reemerged, alive and blazing with purpose, singing his heart out all over Europe, every night of music healing old wounds and filling a void that other pursuits, and other loves, never quite managed to touch.
Soon enough they were in Glasgow together, Grant's nerves vibrating as they waited to see that dynamic being command a stage again. Gerard was drenched in black oil, slutty and wanton in a way they hadn't witnessed in nearly a decade, his voice a powerful spell of its own, spiraling up to the heavens with plaintive cries and demonic roars.
When they met in the dressing room after the show, Gerard was radiant beneath the grime, electric with the charge of tapping into the raw divinity that was his performer's soul.
“Finally you have me blushing, Mr. Way,” Grant laughed, and their eyes pricked with tears as well, overwhelmed by the beauty of Gerard that was greater than any magic they’d ever seen or created.
Gerard beamed, and it was like the sun after a biblical flood. He reached out a slender black-streaked hand, and then pulled it back to himself.
"I gotta fucking shower," he laughed. "And yes I'm aware I've probably only said that five times in my life."
Grant chuckled and plucked Gerard's hand back to them, swept forward with a debonair bow, and bestowed a firm kiss upon its back.
"I will patiently await your return," Grant said smoothly, eyebrow arched.
Their stomach swooped at Gerard's dizzy giggle.
"Always so smooth," he grinned. "I think I told you when we first met that nobody talks like that."
"Only to you, my darling," Grant smiled.
Gerard bit his lip and lurched forward again, stopping himself when he remembered the black sludge coating him, the clothes sticking to his body.
"Shower, love," Grant murmured, leaning in to plant the most delicate peck on his lips, which were probably the cleanest visible part of him.
They laughed when they saw they'd transferred the black from the hand kiss to Gerard's lips, and waved him off as he scurried to the showers.
Soon enough, a scrubbed-clean Gerard, nestled in a long sleeve tee and soft sweatpants, joined them in the lounge for snacks and drinks, flitting out of Grant's orbit to chat up visiting friends, their crew members, and band mates. But he always returned to their side, nudging against them, making Grant's heart squeeze at the warm vitality of him, the soft dark scent of him.
Grant had booked a room in the band's hotel, and Gerard went back with them, and they curled together naked, Grant marveling at Gerard's beauty, how pure and perfect he was, adorned now with the silver hairs and fine lines of age rather than the shocking dye and smudged liner of his youth, and he was just as perfectly gorgeous, and he surrendered to Grant's desperate kisses just as fervently as he did their first time in Glasgow.
"I reread Luda before we got here," he murmured after, trailing wet little kisses over Grant's chest, nuzzling his cheek into their warmth. "I loved how you put us in there, in little pieces, where no one would think to look."
"I'm sure some caught on," Grant smiled. "But then it was never about keeping you, or us, secret from the world. It was simply part of myself spit out on the page, and as you are woven into my very soul, my love, you couldn't help but appear there."
Gerard's eyes fluttered shut on a deep inhale, the lashes still as thick and curling as ever, casting shadows on rosy cheeks. When he exhaled, his eyes blinked open and flashed at Grant. He frowned and stretched over the side of the bed, digging for something in the pile of cast-off clothing on the floor. He reemerged grinning in triumph, hair a staticky sex-rumpled halo.
"I know I don't wear this much," he said, and Grant's heart nearly broke when Gerard's fingers uncurled to reveal the smoky quartz on his palm.
"Jewelry can irritate the fuck out of me, you know, like shirt tags do. But I keep it on my desk in the studio, and I fiddle with it sometimes, but usually I just hold it when I think of you, and I close my eyes and send my love to you, and hope you can feel it."
"I always feel it," Grant choked out, gently cupping Gerard's hand, index finger tracing the gleaming surface of the quartz.
Tears glittered on Gerard's lashes, but his eyes were warm and glowing with love, and he kissed Grant softly, over and over, with petal pink lips that matched his cheeks.
"Because I'm always yours," Gerard murmured. "Even when I'm away, I'm never really away."
"I know, love, I know," Grant said, shaken, returning the kisses and lacing their fingers together, the quartz snug between both their palms.
Gerard blinked, and his eyes were grey-green beneath his white hair and hoodie, and then they were flashing gold against red hair and a desert sky, and then they were moss green, rimmed by burgundy that matched his dress, and then they were radiant amber, drowsy beneath heavy lids as they gazed at Grant in this room. He was here, and they were there, and it was now and yesterday and ten years ago and tomorrow, and so they fell into sleep together, hearts beating in a rhythm that was the music of their eternal union.