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Show And Then Tell

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The thing is, Ray’s got needs, they all have -- that’s something that’s been understood from the start. If that means rubbing one out under a blanket or grabbing moments alone in a gas station bathroom, well, that’s just what Ray does.

Not that it’s ideal. It’s difficult to maintain a mood when the blanket wrapped around you smells like vomit and sweat, and as for the stalls.... Ray’s been wary since the time he slipped and nearly brained himself on the sharp edge of the paper dispenser.

Head sliced open, dick in hand and someone’s discarded condom stuck to his foot. That’s not how Ray intends to go out. Not that he intends to go out at all right now, but he’d prefer a way that has some dignity at least.

So Ray does what he has to. Dredges up fantasies that make him come quick and has trained himself to keep silent. Hand fisted and shoved in his mouth, teeth digging in as he jacks his dick and tries not to touch any part of the stall.

Which works. Ray gets what he needs and if an unfortunate side-effect is he gets hard at the sight of graffiti-scrawled walls and the stink of piss, well, that’s okay, it’s not like anyone will see.

Until the time that they do. Maybe. Sort of.

Ray’s just finished up, cheeks flushed and mouth dry, paper crumpled in his hand as he rides the afterglow of imagining being serviced by Robot alpha 732a -- it’s a thing okay, Ray’s sure in the future everyone will have their own robot that tends to their needs -- when he pushes open the door and freezes in place.

“Hi,” Gerard says, glancing over his shoulder. Which okay, that’s fine, it’s not like Gerard would ignore him, but Gerard also looks shifty, all hunched over and skittish as he stares at the wall behind the urinal. “The others went back to the van. We bought you a soda.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Ray replies, still polite as he throws the jizz soaked wad in the bowl. “I’m just going to.... hands.” Ray indicated the steel sink in a corner, and drops his hands when he realises the right one is sticky.

“Watch out for the shit on the floor.” Gerard’s still staring forward, but isn’t actually pissing. Not that Ray’s actually listening, it’s just the bathroom is small and quiet, and Gerard’s still standing there, like he’s actually reading the messages on the wall -- that or he’s seeing the meaning of life in the cracked white tiles. Which is weird, but then again, Gerard’s the definition of weird, like now, when he looks over at Ray, blushes bright red and says, “I’ll see you out there.”

Ray doesn’t point out Gerard hasn’t washed his hands. There’s no point in wasting his breath.

~~~~~

The second time Ray hears Gerard and doesn’t see him at all.

His hand clenched just right, Ray grunts softly, legs braced and pants pushed low on his thighs. It’s not the most comfortable of stances but better aching muscles than touching the shit-smeared bowl. Really, people are pigs and if Ray wasn’t so desperate he’d have turned and walked out -- but he is desperate.

It’s been days since he’s last touched his dick apart from brief moments while pissing or changing his pants, and those do nothing to ease the ache in his balls. Living in the van of squalor, testosterone and rampant hormones doesn’t help. The air is constantly filled with the scent of sex and sweat, every item of clothes damp, every person thinking it’s okay to jerk off when Ray’s trying to sleep.

That is if they’re not off having actual sex. Like Otter, who somehow seems to pick up a girl at each venue or Mikey who’s off doing who knows what.... no, strike that. Ray knows exactly what and who Mikey’s doing, because Mikey tells Gerard. Every. Fucking. Night.

Ray’s tried ear plugs and earbuds and lying with his head under a pillow. But always he hears them, whispers that aren’t quiet and Gerard asking questions that leave Ray blushing, and also wanting to hump the nearest soft surface, because, jesus fucking christ, Ray’s not made of stone.

And sure, he could rub one out too, but the truth is, Ray wants some room. He likes watching his own hand, the slip slide of his dick through his fingers. It’s part of the game, fucking his own hand as he thinks about men and women and robots with shiny steel fingers -- or tentacles, those are good too.

He’s been wanting this. Needing this, and it’s why he doesn’t stop when he hears a creak, and a door softly thud shut.

So soft in fact that at first Ray’s not sure if he actually heard it at all. Hips jerking forward, Ray listens past the slick sound of skin against skin, the slap of his balls against the back of his hand. There’s nothing, and Ray’s whole body is buzzing as he pulls in a breath at the sight of his dick pushing out from the tight curl of his fingers.

Despite himself, Ray groans, breathy and broken, and he starts to hurry things up. He has to, if he doesn’t he’s going to end up as his own personal porno, and as appealing as Gas Stop Gang Bangs was, Ray’s got no urge to be pressed against a wall and ravaged by plaid-wearing truckers.

Not that Ray’s got anything against truckers themselves, even ones wearing plaid. In fact, in the right circumstances he’d be all about being fucked against a wall, just, not in a bathroom. Still, with a tweak of his thoughts bathroom stalls turn to bedrooms and he imagines being held in place, someone keeping him still as they fuck him. It’s been too long since that happened, far too long, and Ray’s ass clenches and he feels over-heated, his legs trembling as he tightens his grip, strokes just that right kind of rough as he thrusts his hips forward and gasps, “Fuck.”

And hears someone say fuck in return.

“Gerard?” Ray says, cautious, and can’t help one last fast, frantic stroke, spilling over his hand as he hears the sound of running footsteps and a door slamming shut.

~~~~~~

The third time Ray waits.

He’s been putting pieces together. How Gerard’s so jumpy and won’t look Ray in the eye and yet seems to have an obsession about studying his crotch.

It’s not a new thing, at least the crotch glancing isn’t. Ray doesn’t like to brag, but it’s just something that happens when you’ve got a big dick. People notice and not-so covertly attempt to mentally measure. Ray’s used to it, hell, he encourages it sometimes when he’s been drinking and it feels good to strut. It’s just, he thought with the band it was over, years past drunken conversations and that one taboo occasion when the tape measures came out.

It’s why this makes no sense. Gerard knows what Ray looks like, he’s got no need to stare at Ray’s crotch and follow him into bathrooms.

Except that it seems that he is.

Ear close to the stall door, Ray’s barely breathing as he listens to the footsteps, the sound of breathing and a zip being unfastened, muffled and slow.

Ray waits a beat and then opens the door, says, “There’s no paper in there,” and tries not to stare when Gerard jumps and then spins, almost head-butting the wall as he launches himself at the urinal.

Gerard cheeks are bright red and he shakes his head, making his hair fall forward, concealing his face as he fumbles in his pocket and brings out a napkin, his voice octaves higher when he says, “You can use this.”

Ray looks at the napkin, how it’s crusted in places and spotted with red. He shakes his head, says, “It’s okay. I’ll wait.”

He leaves the bathroom and heads for the van needing to think.

~~~~~

The fourth time is deliberate.

Ray’s spent hours figuring it out. Even longer watching Gerard who’s taken to avoiding Ray like he’s plague-ridden. It’s something Gerard’s impressively good at, especially considering the time spent trapped in the van. Who knew Gerard could drive for ten hours straight or wedge himself behind boxes of merch and pretend to be sleeping.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so frustrating. Ray misses Gerard, even if he is a dick-watching, urinal obsessed weirdo. Or alternatively, intent on his own insane version of flirtation, one that comes along with crotch watching and hanging out at urinals.

After a lot of thinking, Ray thinks it’s the second, is sure in fact when Mikey stops cock blocking Frank enough to stop talking to Jamia on the phone and announce, “If you hurt him I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“I won’t,” Ray promises, and actually shivers because Mikey’s a scary fucker when he’s so intent on protecting his brother. Not that Ray has any intention of actually hurting Gerard, the opposite in fact, he just needs to fit some final pieces together.

A last look at Mikey, who’s curled around the phone and pointedly ignoring Frank’s threats to give him the phone, now!, Ray gets out of the van, taking in a deep breath of blissfully fresh air.

Close by is the bathroom. It’s at the side of the gas station and already Ray knows that it’ll be dire inside. It’s there in the way the door has a hole kicked in the bottom and the limp condoms that litter the ground.

Nose wrinkling, Ray carefully opens the door.

Inside it’s how he expected. Mirrors made of dented metal, stalls covered in graffiti, and for some reason an orange in the urinal, floating in a pool of stagnant piss. It’s all kinds of disgusting, except for one thing, the breathy sounds of someone rubbing one out in a stall.

Ray knows it’s Gerard. At least, he hopes it’s Gerard because if it isn’t Ray’s about to risk being arrested for public indecency, and wouldn’t that be a good clipping for his mom’s scrap book?

Still, Ray’s 99% sure, and he takes a last look at the main door before moving close to the stall and unfastening his belt. It takes two attempts, Ray’s hands are sweaty and on one hand he can’t believe he’s about to do this. On the other he’s close to coming in his pants right now.

Swallowing, Ray pulls at his zip, the sound loud, and from the stall there’s nothing but silence. It’s easy to imagine Gerard on the other side of the door, hand on his dick, waiting for whoever is outside to finish and leave.

Ray’s got no intention of leaving. Pushing at his pants he leaves them crumpled at mid-thigh, standing bare-assed and hard as he spits in his palm and rubs his fingers together, then goes in for the first stroke.

It’s nothing different or special. Even so, at the first touch of skin against skin Ray feels weak at the knees, his skin prickling with a combination of fear and freedom, the exhilaration of doing this as he moves his hips, fucking his hand.

There’s a thump from the stall, as if Gerard’s fallen and Ray can’t help saying, “Gee?”

“Ray?” The door opens a crack, Gerard looking out, his eyes widening as he sees what Ray is so blatently doing. “You’re.... what.....”

“You wanted to see,” Ray says, and this isn’t exactly as he pictured this going. Gerard staring as if Ray’s gone insane. Even so, there’s no way Ray can stop now, especially so when Gerard opens the door further, showing his pants are buttoned but not zipped, his belt hanging open. “I’m showing you.”

“Yeah.” Gerard takes a step forward, eyes dropping from Ray’s face and down to his dick. “You look.... Fuck.”

Ray knows how he looks, he can see in the mirror, his image distorted but still clear enough. And what’s clearer still is Gerard’s reaction, hesitancy draining away as he gets closer, reaching out as if wanting to touch. “Can I?”

“God, yes,” Ray says, and if the sight of fucking his own hand was hot, the addition of Gerard’s makes it scorching, their fingers linked together, Gerard’s palm still slippery and slick.

Ray thrusts, focus pulled tight so all that matters is their joined hands, the maddening drag of skin over skin, Ray panting and letting his head fall forward, forehead against Gerard’s, sharing his air and all the time aware that Gerard’s still watching, taking in every little minute detail.

It makes Ray feel exposed. It makes him feel amazing, revelling in each thrust, Gerard's breath sour against Ray’s face as he says, “Jesus Ray, fuck.”

“Next time,” Ray manages to say, and Gerard’s hand tightens, almost too much as Ray gasps, spilling over their joined fingers.