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"You can just take a pair of mine," Gerard says.

"No." Frank is holding the very edge of the sock between his fingers, top lip curled. He shakes it at Gerard. "No, okay? This is the third fucking time someone has used my socks to wipe up their nasty-ass jizz and I am putting my fucking foot down."

Frank does, in fact, put his foot down. A potato chip crunches under his bare toes.

"Are you sure it's—" Gerard asks, reaching for the sock.

"Yes," Frank says, pulling it away from him and nearly hitting his own face with it. "Dude, I know what a fucking jerk-off sock looks like, okay?" He wrinkles his nose and drops it into Gerard's lap. "You know what? You are totally welcome to look at it, dude."

No one else says anything while Gerard squints at the sock, stretching it out and sniffing it as Sabbath plays on the van's stereo.

Frank smacks the back of the bench seat. "Guys, I am motherfucking serious, this is not cool. Who keeps doing it?"

"Mmph," Ray says around a pepperoni stick before he lifts a hand from the steering wheel to wave the stick in the air. "I haven't jerked off since we started the tour, Frankie. Sorry."

"Freakish monk," Frank says. "Otter?"

"He's asleep," Mikey sighs from behind them, "and I know this because he's crushing my legs and I can't make him move."

"Well was it you?" Frank twists as far around as he can with the seatbelt digging in to his chest.

Mikey blinks behind his glasses. "No offense, but socks don't really do it for me, man."

Frank narrows his eyes. "I know all about your—uagh!" He throws both his arms in the air when he feels something move under his bare foot. "Jesus Christ!" He rams Gerard with an elbow as he hugs his legs to his chest reflexively.

"Um," Gerard says.

"Shut up." Frank lets out a slow breath through his nose, trying not to shudder. "Something moved down there."

"I changed lanes," Ray suggests.

"I saw this thing about rats on TV," Gerard starts, "where it said just touching them can give you this disease that makes—"

"So I have to choose between rats eating my toes and playing a show with someone's spunk all over them?" Frank sighs into his knees, bare where his jeans have ripped open. "Awesome."


The soccer game in the parking lot gets rained out, so Frank finds himself wedged between Mike and Dave from Senses Fail on one of the couches in the dressing room, three hours to kill before sound check.

"That's impossible," Mike says, "I have never seen stiletto heels in a pit."

"She was wearing them!" Dave taps Frank's thigh. "Dude, do you remember her? Two nights ago, pink hair, kind of on the left side of the crowd?"

"Sorry, man, I get kinda out of it when I play." Frank tries to cross one ankle over his thigh without nailing Dave in the balls.

"Dude," Dave says, gesturing with his beer can at Frank's knobbly bare ankle, "you know that makes your shoes reek, right? Like, Buddy wore shoes without socks for a month on tour and we had to take them away in a biohazard bag in the middle of the night, that shit was so bad."

"It's my goddamn band." Frank sighs, tilting his head back on the couch. "Someone's been fucking jacking it into my socks and now I don't have any left. And the assholes are all denying it, too! I have evidence. Like, DNA evidence."

Dave lowers the beer he was about to take a swig from, grimacing.

"It was Otter," Mike says simply.

"How do you know?" Frank can't see Otter anywhere in the room, but then again he can't see much beyond Ray and the techs he's laughing with, standing in front of them.

"Oh, man." Mike rubs at his face. "That fucking kid. We lived together, and it was only when we moved out that I found all these nasty spunk-socks under his bed. And I know they were mine because I got the fancy ones for Christmas that year with the fuzzy shit inside."

"Were they still fuzzy?" Dave asks.

"In a... different way," Mike says.

"Otter," Frank hisses, planting both feet on the floor and wiggling his cold, bare toes inside his shoes. "Excuse me gentlemen, I need to go stuff a sock down someone's throat."

Frank closes his fingers around Ray's elbow and pulls him over to the rider table where it looks like Gerard and Mikey are carefully dividing a mixed bowl of chips into each flavour. He doesn't ask.

"Guys," Frank says between clenched teeth, "I just got inside information that our rogue splooge artist is Otter."

"How do you know?" Gerard squints at him.

"He's a repeat offender!" Frank runs a hand across his buzzed hair. "He ruined Mike's socks too, when they were roommates."

"Man," Ray says, frowning and stealing an orange-coloured chip, "repeat offender. Shit. Is that a kinky kind of thing? Would that be considered a foot fetish?"

"I think it would be if he was, like, blowing his load on Frank's toes while he slept," Mikey says. He's stacking Doritos on top of each other now. Frank sometimes wonders if the rock star life has passed them by.

"No one is blowing their load on my toes," Frank says.

"That you know of," Gerard points out.

"Fuck you, just because you sleep through sex doesn't mean everyone else does." Frank kind of wonders if his band would be more helpful if this had unfolded before the cases of beer arrived in the dressing room.

"Is coming on someone's toes considered sex?" Ray's eyebrows are drawn together as he leans in, like they're in a fucking football huddle.

"Guys, focus." Frank snaps his fingers, looking each of them in the eye. Mikey's glasses are crooked and Gerard's gaze is kind of unfocused and Ray has that far-away look like he's still thinking about foot fetishes, but it's the best Frank's going to get. "We need to plan some serious motherfucking revenge. It could be your socks next!"

"Ooh, should we send him a message?" Gerard throws an arm around Mikey and Frank's shoulders, smiling wide.

"Like Godfather send-him-a-message?" Ray grins.

"Yes," Gerard says, "exactly like The Godfather, only instead of his bed it'll be his favourite clothes and instead of a horse's head it'll be our motherfucking jizz."

They stand there in a swaying huddle, considering it. Someone's breath smells like fake cheddar.

"I kind of love you guys," Frank says.


They decide to take turns doing it, since they've got some time to kill before sound check and all the vans have already been unloaded. Gerard gets all worked up about going first because it was his idea, so Frank hangs back, eating chips with Mikey and Ray while he waits for Gerard's half-hour to end.

It's been forty-five minutes when Frank tells them he's going out there to make sure Gerard hasn't been arrested for public exposure or fallen asleep with his dick out again.

The rain is still beating down, heavy and warm, as Frank jogs across the nearly-empty lot towards the white van. His t-shirt's damp and sticking to his shoulders by the time he wrenches the handle and slides the door open.

"Shit!" Gerard hisses from somewhere in the back. "What the fuck, who is it?"

"Where are you?" Frank asks. "Are you rubbing one out down there with the rats?" He pulls the door closed behind him and climbs up to kneel on the front bench seat. Gerard is lying across the middle seat, hands mostly covering his dick, jeans around his thighs and hoodie pushed up so his pale stomach is showing.

"If you came out here to cheer me on, you better do it from a safe distance," Gerard says. Frank thinks his pissed-off face is way less scary with his balls out like that. "What are you looking at?"

"Your balls," Frank says as he turns to sit down properly, facing the front. "Seriously though, dude. We had a schedule. You got half an hour, and now you're just eating into my one-on-one time with Otter's favourite skate shoes."

"His shoes?" Frank can hear the smile in Gerard's voice. "Nice one."

"Otter's not the only splooge artist," Frank says. "Okay, Ray's coming to switch out with me in ten. Are you gonna bust a nut or what, old man?"

"Fuck you, I was just getting into the groove when you interrupted. Worst cheerleader ever, by the way. You didn't even bring pom-poms."

"Are we actually having a conversation while you hold your dick?"

"Yes. Boner-killer." Gerard sighs, shifting around on the bench seat.

"Okay," Frank says decisively. He tucks one of Otter's shoes under his armpit before getting a knee up on the console and hauling himself forward between the two front seats. "I'm gonna—ow, motherfucking armrest—park my ass here where I can't see you and you can't see me. You're gonna do your thing back there and I'm gonna come in this motherfucking shoe. Okay?"

It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of rain on the roof of the van and Frank's breathing.

"Maybe you're the one with the foot fetish," Gerard mutters.

Frank says, "Can you hear this?" He unzips his jeans, banging his knee on the dash as he wiggles them down his thighs, along with his underwear. "This is the sound of me getting my dick out. So shut up and jack off already."

"Nice pillow talk. You must be a prince in the bedroom."

"Shut uuuuuuuuup," Frank groans, spitting in his palm and squeezing his eyes shut. "If you keep talking, I'm gonna pretend you're a sexy chick in a porno."

Frank hears Gerard move around a bit, but he doesn't say anything else. Finally.

The fabric of the driver's seat is kind of prickly under his bare ass and he keeps knocking his elbow into the armrest, but it still feels good slipping the tight wet ring of his thumb and forefinger up and down his cock as it hardens in his hand.

Frank doesn't usually think about much when he jacks off. He's kind of the same about fucking: likes it just fast and rough enough that he can't think, likes the way the world narrows down to nerve endings and the tight heat in his belly. He breathes out hard through his nose as he rubs the crown of his head back and forth on the seat. Right about now he'd usually be squirming around in his sheets or pressing his face and chest into the slippery cool of the shower tiles, restless. Locked in a van, all he can do is circle his hips. Frank's eyes are closed but he knows the shade of his own cock, imagines it pink against the pale of his knuckles and the black chipped polish on his nails.

Gerard makes a choked sound, like he's trying to hold his breath and failing.

"Jesus Christ." Frank opens his eyes and plants both hands on the steering wheel. Raindrops track down the windshield in front of him, the blurry shapes of cars in the parking lot swimming in and out of focus.

"Sorry," Gerard says as he lets out a heavy breath. "It's hard. I'm kinda—um. Loud when I do this."

"Of course you fucking are," Frank says, closing his eyes again. He busies himself with running his tongue along his palm and up the length of each finger, getting them slippery. "Just try, okay?" His breath hitches a bit as he gets his hand on his dick again, twisting around the head and rubbing his palm back and forth.

Gerard says, "'kay," in a low voice as Frank squeezes his other hand around the base of his cock. Frank gasps—quietly, he hopes—and is just getting into it again, toes flexing and curling in his shoes under the pedals, when the side door slides open.

"Oh my fucking god," Gerard groans just as Frank swears, pulling his legs up to his chest. His hard-on feels ridiculous, trapped heavy and damp between his t-shirt and thighs.

"We came to make sure you guys didn't get murdered or something," Frank hears Mikey say.

"Or have buttsex," Ray adds. The air they bring in with them is humid and smells of wet asphalt.

"We're trying to send a message, remember?" Frank says, looking over his shoulder and trying not to flash them.

"You're all the biggest fucking cockblocks ever," Gerard moans from somewhere behind him.

Frank can feel the damp spot spreading on his t-shirt where the head of his cock is touching. Ray leans in the doorframe with his arms braced above him on the roof while Mikey peers in around him, hair stuck wetly to his face. They're both grinning.

"My dick is out," Frank says miserably. "I'm looking you in the eye right now and my dick is out. Can you please fuck off and let me finish?"

"Sound check's in less than an hour," Ray says, cheek pressed to the inside of his arm as he makes a show of trying to see Frank's lap. Frank narrows his eyes and pulls his legs tighter into himself.

"Well then fuck off or get in," Frank says. "I haven't jacked it in weeks and I was right in the middle and I have Otter's shoe, okay?" He clenches his jaw, feeling the muscles shift.

"Okay." Frank blinks as Mikey props a foot on the van floor and hoists himself inside. "I call his favourite jeans."

"What the fuck, Mikey?" Gerard sits upright, pulling the hoodie he had grabbed from Otter's duffle bag over his lap. Frank can see how pink his cheeks are from here. "Get your own fucking van."

"Yeah, like you never rubbed one out when we shared a room." Mikey climbs into the back, behind Gerard. "I already know all about your dying-animal sex noises."

"Jesus Christ, Mikey," Gerard says. Frank twists in the seat to see them; there's water beaded on the lens of Mikey's glasses and his lips are red as he grins. His shoulders are shifting in a way that makes Frank think he's opening his pants already.

"Oh god, my eyes!" Gerard slaps both hands over his face and whirls back to face forward.

"Well, why were you watching?" Mikey asks.

"You just gonna stand there, Toro?" Frank asks. "Gerard made a rule: if you're cheerleading, you need pom-poms."

Ray's arms flex as he sways forward and back in the doorframe, skin shining wet from the rain. "I dunno..."

"You can come on Otter's Yankees hat?"

It only takes Ray a second to think about it before he says, "I do hate the Yankees." He climbs in and slides the door shut behind him.

After all the rustling fabric and zipper sounds have passed, Frank finally lets himself lower his feet back to the van floor. It's harder to pretend he's alone, now, but there's a low buzz of arousal in Frank's limbs and he's still half-hard as he starts to fist himself.

"This is like a letter to Penthouse," Mikey says conversationally from the back. He's probably happily touching his dick while he says it, the exhibitionist.

"Shut up," Frank says, "you're worse than Gerard."

Someone—Ray, probably, because he's so close it feels like he's breathing down Frank's neck—lets out a long breath. "Frank, I can see your elbow around the seat," he complains. "Your elbow's watching me."

"I can see my brother's head," Mikey says. "And yours. And Frank's elbow."

"You win," Ray agrees. "Or does that mean you lose?"

"Okay, seriously," Gerard says, sounding kind of tight. "I've been jacking off for, like, more than an hour now. Can we just do this already?"

"Hey, I've been doing it for the last five minutes," Mikey says.

Frank groans and pulls his elbow in against his side. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

Surprisingly, the guys listen. The sound of the rain isn't loud enough to drown out the three dudes breathing behind him or the occasional ambiguously wet noise, but with Frank's eyes squeezed shut and a hand curled around his cock, he can just imagine they're sex noises. Like he's got a porno playing in the background or whatever.

Frank tongues at his lip ring as he gets a good rhythm going, one hand moving tight on the base of his dick as the other slips back and forth over the head, just the right combination of slick and friction when the skin catches. He can feel the muscles in his calves tense and relax as he breathes heavily through his nose, the familiar warmth spreading out through his limbs, tingling like pricks of heat up the base of his skull and across his scalp.

Someone grunts behind him. Frank touches his tongue to the corner of his open mouth and thinks could be anybody, just a porno noise and decides that, whatever, it's kind of hot. Like he's jerking off for a chick or something. Frank shifts around, rubbing his shoulders against the seat, shoving his hips up into his hand. Yeah. Like she's up against the headboard with her legs open and fingers pushing into herself, noises rising deep from her belly as she watches him with heavy eyes.

Frank arches his back under the imaginary gaze, one side of his mouth tugging up in a smirk as he presses his cheek into the seat, baring the line of his throat, the scorpion inked there.

"Jesus, Gerard, you're like a fucking freight train," Mikey says, laughter bleeding into his voice, "have you always gone at it so fast?" Frank's eyes fly open again and he swears.

Gerard groans loudly and smacks the seat. "Mikey. I was getting—fuck," he pants. Frank's eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror instinctively and he sees Gerard's face in it, flushed and twisted up in frustration, eyes shut tight and hands still in his lap.

"Is this how you two always do it?" Ray asks. Frank can't see his reflection, but he can hear him shifting around on the seat.

"Seriously," Gerard grits out. There's a tone to his voice that Frank's never heard before. "I just want to fucking get this over with and I need you to be quiet. How many ways is there to say 'shut up'?"

"How about 'shove a sock in it'?" Ray suggests.

The four of them pause before bursting out laughing. Frank slaps one hand over his forehead and the other down on the armrest, giggling so hard he bashes his knee into the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

"Dork," Mikey says between dry gulps of laughter. Frank can see his head tilted back, wide smile on his face as Gerard shakes his head, hands over his face but obviously grinning.

Frank's dick twitches, spit cooling on his skin. He groans and gets a hand back around it. "This is the weirdest fucking boner I've ever had," he says, another giggle bubbling up in his throat.

"I'm sorry, Gee," Mikey says. Frank watches as he pats awkwardly at the top of Gerard's head. "I know this is... oh. That hand was just on my dick. Sorry. I'll stop touching you with it, now."

Gerard makes a horrified noise and Ray bursts out laughing again, falling sideways onto the seat. That sets Gerard off laughing too. The smile that spreads across Ray's face is the kind that Frank always thinks is infectious, the way it softens Ray's eyes at the corners.

Franks smiles at the mirror and then looks down. He's started moving his fist up and down on his cock again. He looks back into the mirror, at Mikey's wet hair plastered to his forehead and Gerard's eyelashes dark on his face and Ray's red, red lips, at his band mates smiling big and happy. Frank shifts over discreetly so he can get a better look in the mirror. That's actually kind of—

He squeezes his dick.


"Come on, guys," Ray says, laughter still in his voice. He drops to one elbow, lying on his side on the seat, appearing in the bottom of the rear-view mirror. He looks down his own chest to where one of his hands dangles over his stomach, pulling at the fabric of his t-shirt. "We've only got, like, a half-hour left. Priorities."

Frank blinks as he follows the path of Ray's hand in the mirror, digging his feet into the floor so he can sit up higher and see when Ray's hand slides down his own dick, holding it away from his body before letting go so it slaps back against the hem of his t-shirt.

Frank's breath catches. Damn.

"Sorry," Mikey says from the back. "I'll try to ignore Gerard's speedy jack-off tactics." Frank is only half paying attention because—shit. He always knew Toro was hung, but his dick even looks huge under the slide of his own big, tanned hand, pressing it to his stomach and sliding his fingers up and down its length. Frank doesn't even realize he's started imitating Ray, unable to look away, until he gasps at the sensation of cotton under his own sensitive skin and the drag of his too-dry palm.

"Sorry," Frank whispers to the van at large.

"Ungh," someone says from behind Ray. No one yells or complains, so Frank thinks maybe there's just going to be some noise and there's not much they can do about it. He watches Ray lick his own palm and tip his head back, can see where he hasn't shaved in a few days. Ray's throat bobs, swallowing a deep noise, when he curls his wet fist back around his cock.

"Fuck," Frank says, and then, "shit," when he realizes he said that aloud, but when he darts his gaze to Mikey and Gerard in the mirror, they don't even have their eyes open. It's kind of weird that he can't see below their armpits. They could just be sitting there like normal, like it's Frank's turn behind the wheel and it's the wrong side of three in the morning, everyone in the van snoring behind him.

Frank rubs a hand over his cheek, chest rising and falling more quickly now, his skin hot. It's different, though. Gerard's shoulder is shaking hard and fast, pieces of black hair swinging back and forth in front of his face. Mikey's shoulder rolls more slowly, like he's working out a crick in his neck, but it's calculated and surprisingly smooth for Mikey. It looks like it feels good.

"Oh," Ray sighs. Frank pushes his toes into the footwell so he can crane up and see Ray's face in the mirror, pressed into the arm he's got spread out on the seat beside him, mouth wet and open and eyes shut as he rolls his hips into his hand. The head of his cock is flushed red, a darker colour than Frank's and wider too, as it slips out of the ring of his fingers and back in, over and over again.

"Christ, Toro," Frank breathes before he can stop himself. Ray blinks his eyes open, meeting Frank's in the mirror immediately, and it makes Frank's stomach flip over, hand stilling on his dick.

"What?" Ray's cheeks heat up and Frank forces a smile, tries not to look too creepy. Ray hasn't taken his hand off his dick, though.

"What?" Mikey repeats, sounding breathless.

"Toro's fucking packing," Frank says, meeting Mikey's eyes in the mirror. He hopes they can't see his dick in it; objects may seem smaller than they appear, and all that shit—especially compared to Ray's. "You should see this."

"Yeah?" Mikey bites at the corner of his lip. In the seat in front of him, Gerard's head is hanging and he's breathing heavily behind the screen of hair, shoulders shaking fast. He's panting so loudly it sounds like he's running a goddamn marathon.

"Whatever. It's all about how you use it," Ray says. It sounds sort of like he's handing out advice and sort of like he's making a really dirty promise. Ray's gaze meets Frank's in the mirror, eyes half-closed. He's fucking up into his own hand with a slow, driving roll of his hips; it makes the skin at Frank's neck prickle.

Frank has to close his eyes and breathe, spitting blindly into his palm and dropping a quiet, "Ah, fuck," at how good the slide feels when he rubs it up the length of his dick. Shit, this is kind of messed up.

"Oh, uh, I'm—" Gerard chokes out. Frank has no shame anymore; he speeds his hand on his dick as he looks up at the mirror again. Gerard's hunched so far forward that his head's touching the back of Ray's bench seat, shoulders shaking. "Fuck," Gerard gasps at his lap, words slurred, "the hoodie, I was supposed to—oh god, I'm close, Frank, where is it? Shit."

"I don't know," Frank says breathlessly, "I thought you had it?"

Gerard's other hand curls tight around the seat-back next to his head, fingers digging in. "Fuck, I wanna..."

"It's there," Mikey says quickly, "it's okay Gee, you just dropped it, look, it's down—"

"Ah—ah—" Gerard gasps, high and desperate, and Frank feels his cheeks heat up; it's such a vulnerable, personal sort of sound and he's making right it here, in front of all of them.

"Oh, okay, I'll..." Mikey disappears from view behind the seat-back. "Fuck, I can't reach it from here."

"Please, please, I'm gonna—" Gerard's hand claws at the seat as he begs, voice tight and needy, "I can't, please—"

Mikey fumbles and gets himself around the edge of the bench seat, his eyes on Gerard as he shuffles in next to him and bends down—fuck, Frank can't see what he's doing behind the seat, he can't see. Frank doesn't even give a shit anymore; he gets a knee up on his seat and turns around to watch, his dick pressed hard against the fabric. Gerard's panting is loud and ragged, filling the van.

Mikey sits upright again with the missing hoodie in his hand. The way his eyes drift from his brother's bowed head down the line of his spine to the dark space behind the seat that Frank can't see makes Frank groan, loud and embarrassing, into the side of the seat where his face is pressed.

"Shut up," Frank says tightly when Ray raises both eyebrows at him, "Mikey, you're—"

"Shit," Gerard swears, loud and almost violent, "shit, you guys, oh my fucking—fucking—" His voice hitches even higher. It's impossible not to watch; even Ray rolls onto his back to look up at him. Frank's heavy breath makes the upholstered seat hot and moist against his face as he pushes his cock into the fabric.

"Gerard," Mikey whispers like it's surprised out of him. His eyebrows are drawn together, the lines of his body tense. Gerard gasps, his shoulders hitching.

"Gerard," Ray repeats, low and sure.

"Don't—fuck, you guys, I can't—" Gerard begs. He pushes his face sideways against the seat-back, hair all over the place.

"Gerard," Frank manages, throat suddenly dry. Gerard gasps and tilts his head to look over, meeting Frank's eyes. He looks wild and overwhelmed and like he's both far away and completely present at once.

"Motherfuckers," Gerard grits out before squeezing his eyes shut and shaking apart under his own hand. Frank can't help watching Mikey's face while it happens, the colour high in his cheeks, the dumb sort of way his mouth hangs open and his hair sits limply on his forehead.

The van seems warmer than it was when they got in; Frank can feel the heat radiating from his own skin, from the hard line of his dick pressed against the fabric of the driver's seat. All of them are breathing heavily, watching Gerard.

"Check it out," Gerard mumbles as he sits upright, holding Otter's black hoodie. There's a wide, white stain across the very middle.

Ray grins and Frank says, "Thank god you got that art degree."

"Gross," Mikey says, wrinkling his nose. Gerard's gaze slips to Mikey's lap and then quickly out the side window.

"Ten minutes," Ray says, eyes widening, when he looks at his watch. "Shit, you guys. Ten minutes, and I gotta come on this hat."

"This is the weirdest circle jerk I've ever been to," Mikey says, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes, hand disappearing into his lap again.

Ray snorts, rubbing both his hands over his face and back through his hair, fanned out on the seat around his head as he looks up at the van ceiling. "How many circle jerks have you been to?"

"Is this even a circle jerk?" Frank asks. He figures he should sit back down, get going again, but there's something about watching his band: the hard line of Ray's dick curving up against the black of his t-shirt, shifting as his stomach rises and falls with his breath; the boneless way Gerard leans against the window; Mikey chewing on his lip. Eating and sleeping and breathing with these dudes is a lot, but it really hasn't prepared him for their sex faces.

"I think we'd have to be, like..." Gerard carefully lays the hoodie out on the back of the seat between himself and Mikey, looking anywhere but his brother, "jerking each other off?"

"And we're not in a circle," Ray points out. "Shit," he whispers as he drops one shoulder to cup his balls and wraps the other hand back around his dick, pulling in long, slow strokes that lift it up off his belly.

Frank feels too far away and too close, somehow. He's drooling on the back of the seat where his cheek is pressed in as he palms his own balls, tugging lightly and starting to jack himself off with his other hand.

"You like it dry, Toro?" he asks.

"What?" Ray's voice is throatier than usual and Frank gasps when Ray's eyes meet his just as the head of Frank's dick rubs against the rough upholstery. It's more intense when it's not through a mirror.

"Oh, fuck," Frank moans loudly into the seat, shoving his forehead into it so Ray can't see his face. "Ignore me. I don't even know what I'm—ungh." Frank can't hear anything but his own breath and the slap of skin. His skin. Other people's skin. This is insane.

"If it's hard enough," Ray says quietly. "I mean, I like it when—but people don't usually do it. Um."

"Girls never believe me when I want it harder," Mikey says. His voice shakes with the movement of his hand, breathless. "You know?"

"Shit, yeah," Frank mumbles down at his lap, rolling his forehead back and forth on the edge of the seat. The rough drag of the fabric every time his dick brushes it is just a little too much; exactly the kind of too much that Frank likes. "If it hurts, that's—fuck—not always a bad thing."

"Christ," Gerard says, loud enough that Frank looks up at him. He notices Mikey do the same. Ray pushes up on one elbow but doesn't let go of his cock with the other, struggling to crane his neck and see over the seat. "This is a lot more awkward now that my dick is back in my pants. I—I'll just wait for you guys outside?"

This is creepy. Frank is getting way too used to watching his band mates talk while he pulls at his own cock. He keeps forgetting to listen and just zones out, watching their lips move.

"—raining really fucking hard," Mikey is telling him, frowning, "and you'd have to climb over my lap."

"Oh. Right. Where you're..." Gerard waves a hand at Mikey's lap and Mikey raises his eyebrows before Gerard spins, wide-eyed, to look out the opposite window. Frank squeezes his dick a little harder and makes an embarrassing noise that he hopes gets lost in the upholstery he's started gnawing at.

"Five minutes," Ray groans when he checks his watch again, flopping back onto the seat and throwing his arm over his eyes. "Shit. The pressure is killing me, guys, this is why I never do this on tour."

"Okay," Mikey says firmly, "let's fucking do this. I'm gonna do what I... need to do. And you guys—yeah. This is important, remember. We're making a statement."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Ray says and then stuffs his own forearm in his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. Frank somehow feels less creepy watching the way his hand speeds up on his dick, pushing his t-shirt up his belly, when Ray can't see him. This is kind of worrying, because it should be more creepy.

Right. Okay. Five minutes. Frank spits on his hand and decides he's going to do it as hard and fast as he can, even though the muscles in his right arm are starting to burn.

"God," he moans, eyes rolling back in his head, because... shit. He forgot how close he already was.

"God," someone says in response, and then someone else—who sounds very much like Gerard—says, "God!" in an alarmed sort of way.

The van is starting to smell like sweat and all Frank can hear is harsh breathing and wet slapping sounds and the sensory overload is a sweet one, just what he needs. Frank's thighs tremble as he hits a good pace, rolling his shoulders and feeling it turn his body liquid and hot all over.

"Oh," someone breathes in surprise. Frank has to fight to open his eyes, bracing a hand awkwardly on the dashboard behind him as he leans back. Ray's got both hands on his dick now, one over the other, fucking up hard into his grip. "Oh, shit," he says, and Frank hears him swear all the time but there's something so fucking dirty about the way Ray's lips, wide and red and shining wet, curve around the syllables.

"Yeah," Mikey groans. He's slumped lower now, head tipped back on the seat behind him. His throat looks thick and the tendons stand out in sharp relief as he groans and rolls his head side to side on the seat, shoulders shaking.

"It's—this is—" Ray breathes, rhythm faltering as he fucks up into his hands, then pulls at himself, and then fucks up again, hips circling. His fingers flex and curl and, god, it's—

"Fuck, oh, motherfucker," Frank moans as he wobbles back on his knees, braced on a shaking arm. Because—how did he not see this before? The set of Ray's shoulders, the crease between his eyebrows, the curl of his biceps, raised veins in his forearms... it's like he's fucking playing. It's like when he plays that bridge in Enter Sandman, the progression that builds hard and fast and heavy. Ray told Frank once that he sometimes doesn't feel like one of the guys, living less for bar fights and smooth pick-up lines than for late nights in the studio and big hugs. But when he plays that progression? He feels like a fucking man.

Frank groans and bites his lip, elbow nearly buckling before he straightens it again, fisting himself as fast as he can.

"This is so weird," Gerard says quietly, pressed up against the window like he wants to climb out of it but also kind of like he wants to feel it up or something.

"Your face is so weird," Mikey says, voice tight.

"Don't fucking—Mikes!" Gerard sounds scandalized. "Don't talk to me while you're—"

"Pruuuuude," Frank sings, and then chokes out, "oh, god," as Mikey grins and bats his eyelashes at his brother, mouth hanging open and cheeks flushed. His glasses slip down his nose a fraction as he shakes with the movement of his arm.

"Stop it!" Gerard says, voice high, waving a hand at Mikey like he wants to slap him but he's afraid to touch. "Don't... stop it! Stop looking at me!"

Mikey's eyes fall shut, then, and he jams a knuckle into his mouth, moaning around it. He jerks hard on the seat and Gerard swears and Ray groans low and long, back arching as—oh, shit—he comes, striping his chest, mouth hanging open and cheeks pink. Frank's so close, moaning out loud, when his arm finally gives out and he falls back against the steering wheel.


"Fuck!" goes Ray, throwing both arms out and bolting upright.

"I didn't look!" Gerard says, slapping his hands over his eyes.

"Oh, shit," Frank chokes out, and the horn stutters a few more short honks as he attempts to get up and falls back again because he's so close and his hand is at just the right angle and he can feel the guys watching him, watching him fist his cock and arch his back, and—"Oh, shit, I'm... fuuuuuck." Frank comes all over the back of the driver's seat, giggling and groaning at the same time.

"Christ, Frank," Ray moans, pushing hair out of his face with his clean forearm as he looks down at the mess on his t-shirt and hands, dick curved and soft against his stomach, "always gotta be louder than everyone else."

Frank can't help laughing, trying to clean up the seat-back with his hand but doing little more than spreading it around. He's boneless and smiling stupidly and just wants to slide down onto the floor and fall asleep, rats or no rats. "Come on. You know that's why you asked me to join your band, Toro."

"Nice," Mikey says to himself, sounding pleased, and Frank looks up from wiping at the seat. He's holding Otter's jeans up. There's a spectacular and very incriminating mess across the front of the crotch.

"Dammit," Frank mutters, remembering the shoe. It's still sitting on the seat next to him.

"Oh, crap," Ray says. Frank scrapes what he can off of his palm into the heel of the shoe and looks up to see Ray running a finger down his own chest, wrinkling his nose as he wipes it off gingerly along the outside of Otter's baseball cap.

Mikey grins and then balls the jeans up, bending down to shove them back into Otter's bag. "A lesson he'll never forget."

"Man, we're a spunk machine," Frank says. "I don't think I've ever been surrounded by so much semen before." He maneuvers himself around in the seat so that he can get his underwear and jeans done up.

"It was kinda weird," Gerard says. "I shouldn't have blown my load so early. I could see and hear everything."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have taken up everybody else's turn," Mikey tells him.

"Like you didn't love it, you big perv." Frank grins as he climbs back over the console.

"My shirt," Ray says sadly, looking down at his chest. "I Otter'd myself, and I don't have any clean shirts left."

"You've got shitty aim, dude," Mikey says, smiling crookedly. He wrenches the door handle and slides it open. The muggy New England air seems crisp and clear compared to the smell in the van. Frank shoves Otter's shoe back with the other one under the seat. He feels the kind of warm, happy vindication that only comes from pulling a really good joke. He's already excited for Otter's reaction tonight.

"It's a delicate art," Gerard says, climbing out behind his brother. He shakes his head in the rain and squints up at the sky, taking a deep breath. "I tried to go for, like, an abstract sort of design with mine." Ray snorts.

"Just turn your ruined shirt inside-out," Frank suggests.

"Oh my god," Ray says, shoving at Frank's side so he can get past him to the door. Frank pushes back easily with his hip. "Is that why you wear all your shirts inside-out?"

Frank climbs out of the van after him, tapping his nose. "I'm taking that one to the grave, dude." Ray slides the door closed behind them and Gerard fishes the key from his pocket, fighting with the jiggly lock.

Mikey's already halfway across the parking lot, jeans low on his hips and bony elbows in the air as he tries to protect his hair from the rain. "Thanks," Frank says quickly, and then scrunches his nose up at himself. "For, like, helping with the whole—vengeance. Thing."

"We've got each other's backs in this band," Gerard says with one of those stupid smiles that means if Frank asked him, he could go on for an hour about his feelings. "Familia, right?"

"Ri-ight," Frank says. His legs are still a bit loose and wobbly, and he weaves between Ray and Gerard like a ping-pong ball as they near the venue's back door. "Because your idea of family bonding time is so wholesome. I saw you two being creepy in the back."

"What? No! Ew." Gerard smacks hard at Frank's shoulder, his cheeks red. Frank and Ray share a grin.

"Jesus Christ," the sound tech swears as soon as they reach the stage. Mikey's already pulling the strap of his bass over his head and smiling at them. "Where did you guys disappear to?"

Otter points a drum stick at them. "Painting each other's nails?" Gerard flips him off as they find their spots onstage. Frank darts over quickly to pat Otter's back with his still-clammy palms, rubbing them into his shirt until Otter pushes Frank away. Ray, Gerard, and Mikey double over laughing.

"What? What?" Otter asks.

When Frank looks up at his band he feels good, all the way from his fingers curling around the neck of his guitar down to his toes.

They wiggle, bare and happy, in his shoes.