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Kings of Glamor

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Frank is in his underwear and grinning at nobody in particular.

He's hunched over with his face mashed up against the gritty fabric of the seat in front of him, hands pushing through CD cases and empty bags of chips on the floor. He locates what are most likely his shoes and pulls them towards himself before curling forwards to grope around under his own seat.

The van changes lanes in that sudden, halting way that can only mean Mikey is driving and Frank topples sideways into Gerard's knee, but his fingers brush a familiar cargo fabric. Frank is up in his seat now, legs through the holes of his brown Dickies, lifting his hips to get them over his ass before wriggling into a CBGB shirt. Frank is toeing off his ratty running shoes and lacing up his Chucks, and he's still grinning.

They're going to a show.

Not their own, not someone else's watched from side-stage or from the tents in the distance. Just a regular, darkened-bar, sticky-floored, boozy, sweaty local show. Someone had left a flyer under the van's windshield wipers this afternoon, neon green with a clip-art skeleton on it, and with a day off and nowhere to travel overnight Frank had pushed this show on the guys like it was his job.

So right now Gerard may be passed out, chin on his chest, damp patch at the collar of his hoodie from his open mouth. So Ray may be rubbing his temples and sighing really obviously every once in a while. So Otter may be pulling his sleeping bag out on the back bench seat and arranging it already for the night. Frank's got two nice, tightly-rolled joints in his wallet and an itch behind his teeth, that burning feeling of wanting to just scream a little bit, maybe be obnoxious in the pit so the delicate scene queens frown and give him his space, so the old guys like him who remember what it used to be like will slam him back with big stupid grins on their faces.

Frank is going to a fucking show.


The five of them are lined up with their backs against the bar like the fucking Jets, elbows on the grimy wood, surveying the room. Otter points out kids who look like they're out past curfew while Ray mutters about his headache and Mikey complains about the shitty nu-metal station on the radio. Jesus, Frank feels old.

"Fuckin' trip, huh?" Frank drops his head to the side, shoulders up around his ears, looking over his raised eyebrows at Gerard.

Gerard's black leather jacket creaks a bit as he shifts, taking a long pull off his beer bottle and staring out at the crowd. "Eh. Seems way less glamorous than it used to."

Frank snorts at the dainty-looking wrinkle of Gerard's nose and has to lean over to butt Gerard's shoulder with his forehead. "Fuck you and your fucking 'glamorous,' what shows were you at?"

Gerard's mouth pulls up at the side, slightly unfocused gaze fixed on the empty stage and the crew moving around on it. "Same ones as you, probably. Like, it was the grittiness that made it great, you know? Made you feel like you were living a cooler life, just while you were there."

Frank smirks to himself but doesn't feel like ripping on Gerard in case he bails on the show. Even if he is being a fucking poet about nasty basement-bar Jersey shows. "Miss being on this side of the stage," Frank says eventually, emptying his bottle and tapping it against his bottom lip, metal clinking against glass.

Gerard hums his agreement. There are kids starting to move up front to claim a spot, girls who look uncomfortable in their bodies with slumping shoulders and hair in their faces, boys in too-big or too-small pants, wallet chains and studded belts. Frank wonders, like he always does, if he was that awkward when he was their age.

Finally, finally, the crappy radio music fades out and the lights go down all around them. The opening band launches into some pop-punk that Frank finds pretty underwhelming considering how much energy they have. Still, Frank's chin is lifting up and down with the heavy slam of the guitar and when he cuts his eyes to the side he sees Mikey tapping his thumb against the side of his rum and Coke.

By the time the band's done, Frank's eying the circle pit and the pale flashes of kids' elbows in the air, dreadlocks whipping around and gelled-up 'hawks wilting slightly. He wants to get in there and get slammed into, lose his breath and grin through it as he slams back.


Frank had lured everyone outside for a smoke between sets in the hopes that they wouldn't head back to the van to crash out. It was a lost cause with Otter, who had taken the keys and told them to "Enjoy getting manhandled by underage chicks with raccoon eyes," but Mikey, Gerard and Ray had stayed to help Frank with his first joint.

He's feeling warm and focused after he finishes the second one himself, only noticing how high he is when Ray catches him zoning out over Mikey's spidery hands twisting his lighter around and around and around. Mikey stops then, carding his fingers through his bangs, pulling them carefully to the side.

"So fucking ready to mosh," Frank says the moment he thinks it, swimming happily in that way he gets when he has a good combination of chemicals in his blood. Not too mellow and not too keyed-up.

"Oh my god, Frank's reverted to fourteen." Mikey puts his hand over his eyes.

Gerard huffs a laugh through his nose, folding a hand over Mikey's shoulder and curling in against him slightly, eyes on Frank as he adds: "He said it was a 'trip'." Gerard and Mikey's shoulders shake together in laughter that Ray catches on to soon enough and Frank loves it, can't wait to take the bait.

"Sorry, sorry, it's glamorous." Frank grins and runs one poised, straight finger across his forehead to sweep imaginary hair over his shoulder. Mikey drops his hand and his eyes are squeezed shut behind his glasses, wincing and smiling all at once. "Let's go in there and show these kids some fucking glamor, guys."


In the pit, Frank feels good. Frank feels so good.

He's not so tall that he feels like the adult he is amongst the kids, not so famous that anyone's looking at him twice in the darkness, not so sober that he's hung up on the asshole skinhead who keeps pissing everyone off or the chick with the labret whose hands keep lingering on the sweaty small of his back. There's just enough ink and metal on his body to fit in but not too much to look like he tries hard.

He had headed towards the stage with Mikey and Gerard behind him and Ray watching their coats at the bar. With his bare forearms up in front of him to clear the way, Frank had pushed through to the front, ignoring the scene kids who huffed in frustration as he elbowed past. Mikey and Gerard had stood there uselessly for about a song and a half, getting bumped into and rolling their eyes at each other whenever Frank slammed over to them, spine curled and shoulder dropped to butt them in the sternum, grinning wide.

Eventually Mikey shoves Frank back, eyes on his feet but a small smile on his face, bony points of his collarbone shifting under his t-shirt, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. Almost immediately the kids around them start shoving into him, like they know he's fair game now, and Frank loses him for a while as he spins off of a chick swimming in an over-sized Megadeath shirt and steadies himself on a guy's denim vest.

He hasn't looked at the stage in a while but he feels the music like a wall of noise, like a slow burn in his gut every time the singer rips into another verse. And okay, yeah, maybe Frank got a bit more stoned than usual and it's mixing with the two beers he had during the opening set, because he keeps finding himself staring dumbly at the dirty toes of kids' sneakers against the stained black floor as they shove into each other. Frank fucking loves being blindsided like that, just bowled over when he has no idea it's coming, catching himself at the last second to lurch back in the other direction.

There's a chick who's been meeting Frank's eye when he looks up, remarkable because she looks so unremarkable compared to the other girls, no makeup or piercings. Her t-shirt rides up over the curve of her hips and the soft round of her belly, bright red elastic of boy-briefs sitting high above her own Dickies and her green eyes flitting over Frank under messy brown bangs. Frank wonders when he started finding girls that dressed like him attractive or if he had, at some point, starting dressing like the girls he thought were hot?

Over sweaty heads and surging bodies Frank spots Mikey's broad shoulders slumped low, glasses crooked and teeth showing as he bumps, eyes closed, off the kids around him. Frank stumbles on a shoelace--maybe his own, who knows--and reaches out to the nearest body to keep him upright, which appears to be Gerard. His jacket's with Ray at the bar, dark patches of sweat soaked into his shirt, and Frank's fingers squeeze briefly at that fleshy give above where Gerard's belt digs in. Gerard grins stupidly at him, black hair stuck wet across his face.

"GOTTA PISS," Gerard announces way too loudly into Frank's ear, lurching forward as the bodies around them continue to move, one broad, warm hand pressed to Frank's clavicle. Frank's overwhelmed with the smell of sweat, hair product, lingering cigarette smoke and beer spilled on clothes and the sticky floor. It's kind of sour and rancid and Frank has fucking missed this.

"Me too," Frank mouths more than speaks, gesturing towards the far wall. He slams into Mikey on his way past and nods towards the bathrooms. Mikey blinks like he hasn't opened his eyes in a while and follows.

The door to the men's room swings shut behind them and it's like stepping into a tube, the sudden drop in volume and sensation, the air cool on Frank's sweat-slick skin and the space around his body.

"Fuuuuuuuuck." Frank unzips and aims the best he can, with his head tilted back and eyes closed. Funny, when he stops moving he feels dizzier than when he was going at it in the pit. "I don't give a shit, I wanna be fourteen again." His voice feels hoarse and too loud in his ringing ears.

Mikey just laughs from somewhere to Frank's left. Gerard takes a huge breath before contributing: "Holy shit, yes. Frank, this was the best idea ever. God, I forgot all about this."

Frank tucks himself up and washes his hands, wiping them dry on his pants and looking into the grimy mirror. His yellow t-shirt is completely saturated and he loves the way his ink shows through, loves to think maybe some kids saw, maybe gave him a bit more respect because of it. He buzzed his hair the other week, just 'cause it's low-maintenance, but it already makes him feel more tough.

"Fuckin' told you, fuckin' told you." Frank rubs a palm back and forth over the crown of his head, sort of grossed out that his scalp's sweating but liking the feeling of the short hairs. He turns to face Mikey and Gerard. "Shitty band, though. We could have these kids fucking brawling if we were onstage."

Mikey's back is to them, hands waving uselessly under a hand dryer that won't seem to turn on. "Dude, Mr. Chainmail was brawling anyway, fuck everyone else."

Gerard turns from the sink, shaking his his hands out like he's doing spirit fingers. "God, yeah, the one with the--"

"--fuckin' four belts on, right? Jesus. It was like he took it personally every time I touched him." Frank shakes his head, heel tapping the floor in time with the thud of the drums beyond the bathroom door. He feels simultaneously destroyed by the pit and like he wants to get the fuck back in there.

"No sense of mosh pit etiquette," Mikey sighs, giving up and walking over to wipe his hands off on Gerard's t-shirt.

"What's the etiquette for groping?" Gerard asks.

"You fuckin' dog, Gee," Frank laughs and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his Dickies, bouncing up onto his toes a few times. "Taking advantage of underage ladies when it's dark and confusing..." He pauses just long enough for Gerard to frown and open his mouth before raising one finger and an eyebrow. "I'm so proud!"

"Like fuck I am, come on. I mean, like, I got a couple stray hands below my belt..." Gerard breaks into a grin suddenly, looking down at the grimy tiled floor and plucking his damp t-shirt away from his chest a few times. "Guess that's just people trying to keep their balance, huh?"

Mikey snorts and lunges across the room to slam into Frank with his left shoulder dropped. Frank barks out a laugh in surprise--"Shit!"--hands trapped in his pockets as his back hits the concrete wall and he gets a face full of sweaty, fruity-smelling hair. Without warning, Mikey grabs Frank's ass hard enough to lift him up onto his toes for a minute.

Mikey's gone in another second, grinning, slumping back against the wall next to Frank. "What?" he asks his brother, drawing his mouth into an 'O' that exaggerates the bow of his upper lip. "I lost my balance. From beside the hand dryers. Had to grab Frank to keep from falling over."

Frank's laugh comes out kind of choppy as he swallows at the same time, choking a bit. When he stops, his eyes are getting teary and he has to rub at them with the heel of his palm. Shit, how is he still so fucking high? Gerard's smiling, arms crossed, hips cocked out to one side. "Uh huh?"

"No, check this out. My favourite--" and Frank isn't going to tell them that he tried this one out just two songs ago on Miss Boxer-Briefs, but he can still show them, grabbing Gerard's elbow, pulling him around to stand facing the wall next to Mikey, "--my favourite is the 'I'm just protecting you from all those assholes' grope."

Frank bounces on his feet, shoving into Gerard's back a few times like they're in the pit again. "Oh shit, there's this dude... this dude behind us trying to obectify you..." he pauses because he and the brothers have to take a moment to snicker, and Gerard throws his hands up in submission, one palm braced against the wall as Frank jostles him, "...total sexist asshole, but it's no big deal, I'm here." Frank presses himself up against Gerard's back from chest to hips, and it's only up close like this that Frank remembers how much taller than him Gerard is.

"I just gotta--" Frank frowns in mock-concentration and continues to move up against Gerard’s back, Mikey grinning all the while, "--make sure you don't fall over." Frank slides one hand up under Gerard's armpit to grab at his pecs, massaging the flesh there obscenely and making a gross turned-on face.

"Christ! My virtue!" Gerard laughs, high-pitched, and snaps his arm down over Frank's, but it only pins him there and Frank breaks down into giggles, eyes closed and forehead bowed to press against the sweaty, smelly middle of Gerard's back. He doesn't stop his fingers squeezing and releasing on Gerard's chest.

"Protection my ass," Mikey says. "You have no tact, Frank. You gotta work up to it." Before Frank has a chance to lift his head, Mikey's behind him, the warmth of his long fingers curling over Frank's hips.

"Gee, your brother's taking my virtue now," Frank stage-whispers into Gerard's shoulder blade, and he should really be grossed out about his lips moving over the damp fabric but he can't even be, he's grinning too stupidly. Gerard's back muscles shift and Frank's totally forgetting about the groping, just clenching aimlessly at the front of Gerard's shirt now.

Frank kind of wonders how the three of them would look, if anyone came into the bathroom right now. He's half thankful it's the main set that the kids paid money to see, half disappointed because he'd love to scar a few of the prissy kids out there who just cross their arms and nod when the band is busy thrashing around on stage. There's a chance that even when Frank is in the audience, he still wants to command it.

"Just... just take it slow," Mikey explains, smile in his voice, shifting Frank's hips slightly side-to-side with the rhythm of the guitar pounding through the walls of the bar, "she won't even notice." He squeezes then, and his hands are so big it feels like they're bracketing Frank's hips entirely. He keeps grinning stupidly into Gerard's back, star-bursts behind his closed eyelids, but it's kind of comforting to be held like that. He's still feeling high enough to miss that constant contact with other bodies in the pit, that feeling of sweat and slick skin and scratching metal belts rubbing up against you, even if you don't know who they belong to.

"Think it's working, Mikes," Gerard says, "he's so distracted he's forgotten all about my tits."

Frank giggles and worms his other hand under Gerard's arm so he's got both on Gerard's upper chest, grabbing erratically, forcing Frank to lean all his body weight against Gerard's back. "Sorry! Sorry. Shit, I'm a terrible student."

Mikey heaves a sigh and his right hand shifts down a bit, two fingers slipping between Frank's pants and boxers, thumb rubbing up under his t-shirt to sweep back and forth over the sweat drying on his skin, near the dimples at the base of his spine. "Never gonna get any tail this way, Frank."

Frank feels swimmy again, and he's not gonna admit how much he likes how tiny Mikey's hands make him feel--Jesus, apparently he dresses like one chick and he's now turning into one. "So what, you'd stick your hand in her pants this soon?"

"Hell no," Mikey huffs. He steps up to Frank's back, warm points of contact where his knees touch the backs of Frank's thighs, chest against Frank's shoulders. "Just makes her think about it, y'know?"

Gerard shifts his weight onto his other foot and Frank rolls his forehead against his shoulder blades with the movement, eyes still shut. He runs one hand down Gerard's chest, over the soft give of his belly, and tucks one thumb behind his belt buckle. "So what are you thinking about now?" Frank asks him.

"Mmmmm... thinking about how gross you smell, and how you couldn't fuck me 'cause your dick doesn't even reach my ass, midget."

Frank feels air puff across the back of his neck as Mikey laughs and he involuntarily shivers when the sweat there cools suddenly.

"Shit, she wants me so bad she's shaking, Gee," Mikey says and Gerard laughs. Frank loves this Mikey, when he's drunk or stoned or whatever enough to be outgoing. He pushes his hips back just to goad Mikey on, intending to rub against his crotch but really Mikey's crotch is closer to Frank's lower back.

"Daaaamn, baby," Frank says in his best porn-star voice, one hand slipping up under the hem of Gerard's shirt and rubbing back and forth at the sweaty skin of his abdomen, the curl of hair trailing down.

"There's usually no first base in mosh pits," Mikey explains, and Frank feels the point of his nose at the crown of Frank's head, rubbing back and forth at the buzzed-short hair there; it's weirdly intimate. "But that means you can go straight to second."

Frank's high is unfocused, he's just lost in the press of warm skin in front and behind him, the rise and fall of chests and shoulders with their breath and laughter, smiling into Gerard's shirt. But then Mikey's pinching his left nipple over his t-shirt and Frank fucking gasps when all he was trying to do was inhale, and his whole being is just the sensation from that one spot and how it shoots through his spine and it feels sexy, what the actual fuck? When Frank finally lets out a measured breath he realizes Mikey's fingers are gone and Gerard's stomach is tensed under his hand.

"Frank, what--"

"What's next, man?" Frank says in a monotone, not moving. Mikey's other hand is still curled over his hip and he hasn't stepped away. Gerard doesn't say anything.

"Um, you--" Mikey swallows and his free hand falls lightly to Frank's side again, "--pretend to be pushed or whatever, and your hand, like, slips." As he says it the fingers of his other hand move just under the elastic of Frank's boxers. His thumb's brushing the edges of Frank's pubes.

"You sneaky perv," Frank says, shifting his hips slightly under Mikey's grip. "I barely even noticed."

"My brother is pretty creepy like that," Gerard says knowingly. "Don't underestimate him."

Mikey's shifting again now along Frank's back, curling his fingertips back and forth through short, wiry hairs. "Fuckin' mosh-pit-groping ninja," he agrees. "I'm like two inches away from third base now."

"Shit, I'm like ten inches away, I suck at this, sorry Gee." Frank laughs softly and shoves his hand into Gerard's pants with way less finesse than Mikey had, but he hasn't got those long fingers anyway, fuck it. The short, curly hairs there feel really, like, soft. Silky. What the fuck. Frank's giggling against his back now.

"Hey, hey, I'm trying to--"

"Mikey? Your brother conditions his pubes. Just, you know, sharing an important discovery." Frank laughs into Gerard's t-shirt and feels him immediately try to twist out of Frank's grip with a "Hey!". Frank just pulls him tight against his chest with the hand still on his stomach.

"Oh my god, shut up, I don't want to know about..." but Mikey's laughing too as he trails off. "Better not be my fucking conditioner."

The three of them are giggling stupidly now, and that's exactly what Frank is doing when Mikey's fingers touch Frank's dick for the first time. "Oh, Jesus! My virtue!" Frank splutters, but Mikey just keeps going, and Frank is laughing while Mikey curls his fingers around him, pulling up and down as much as he can under his Dickies. Frank's choking on his laugh again, because it feels good too. Shit.

"Mikey, Mikey, wait. Damn. I have to... catch up, I gotta--" Frank is struggling though, because apparently he left his co-ordination behind when he stepped outside for a smoke, "--your fucking brother's pants are too fucking tight to get at his well-protected dick."

Gerard drops his hand from the wall and flips at his belt buckle, thumbing open the button on his jeans. "It's only protected from space cadets who can't undo zippers."

"Don't call me a space cadet, fuckwad--"

"You are seriously not getting to third base if you call her a fuckwad, okay? Jesus." Mikey's got a tight ring with his thumb and fingers going, and Frank's getting hard now. He should really be dealing with this more--he's giggling like an idiot, Gerard is calling him names while Frank struggles with his fly, Mikey is fucking jacking him off and berating him at the same time--but he's just gone completely stupid with the weed and the pit out there and the bass thumping in his bones, and Frank's fucking enjoying this.

"Fuck, finally," Frank mutters. Gerard's pants are open and Frank's got both hands inside, curling around him like a champ, like it isn't his first time getting this friendly with another dude's dick. There's a chance that it helps he's getting some action too, though.

Gerard groans really loudly, which probably shouldn't be a surprise, but Mikey's fingers tighten around Frank and it makes Frank grunt, jerking his hips back instinctively. Yeah, that's definitely the hard line of Mikey's dick against his lower back, through denim, and Frank realizes Gerard's pretty much hard now too, and there's a lot more of him for Frank to curl his fingers around.

For a few moments the three of them are quiet, Mikey pulling Frank back against him with the hand on his hip, other hand jerking up and down in the confines of his pants, thumb sweeping over the sticky tip of Frank's cock and pulling a low noise from his chest. It feels like Mikey's working every inch of Frank's spine when he does that, warmth pooling out to the tips of Frank's toes flexing and curling inside his Chucks.

Frank's got more space to work Gerard's dick with his pants now open, one hand curled over the other to squeeze even tighter, the way he likes it on himself. With Gerard in front of him it's almost like doing it to himself, except for the way Gerard's hips stutter forward into the touch and he mutters shit into his armpit, where he's shoved his face. Frank still thinks it would be sweet to freak some teenagers out if they came into the bathroom right now, but part of him is thinking it might also be a bit embarrassing, that they might just look like an awkward circle-jerk but, like, in a conga line. He sort of hopes the band is good enough to keep the kids out there.

"Mikey," Frank says in a voice that's a lot more strung-out than he'd thought it would be. "What, uh... what should I be doing? Thought you were teaching me, here."

"Oh! Shit, um." Mikey's hand swivels and it makes Frank's jaw drop open, eyes slipping shut, but Mikey doesn't even seem to realize what he's doing to him as he continues. "Um. Maybe they like when you go a bit... uh, lower." Mikey sounds kind of distracted.

Frank waits for Mikey's hand to move lower but it doesn't happen--how could he anyway, when Frank's pants are still done up--and that's when Frank realizes Mikey was telling him what he should try on Gerard.

"Jesus, yeah, okay." Frank uncurls one hand and shoves Gerard's pants a bit further down his thighs to cup his balls, drawn up close to his body, rolling them lightly in his palm.

"Shiiiiiit," Gerard moans on one long exhale, squirming under Frank's hands, pushing his hips back but curling in on himself at the same time. Frank sort of feels like doing the same thing, the way Mikey is working him in short, hard pulls. Frank understands some semblance of hand job etiquette that suggests no one is taking care of Mikey, but fuck it. His blood is laced with awesome and it's like every cell in his body is feeling everything on hyper-drive; how can he think about anything but his dick and pulling those noises out of Gerard?

"And, like, sometimes it's too dry, so you gotta..." Mikey trails off, short of breath behind Frank. Frank pulls one hand off Gerard's dick automatically and lifts it to his mouth, but Mikey catches it with the hand that had been on Frank's hip. Frank's wrist feels tiny under Mikey's long fingers.

"What?" Frank asks, and opens his eyes in time to see Mikey lean over Frank's shoulder, eyes shut and eyebrows drawn together as he licks a slow, obscene swipe across Frank's palm and up, pulling the tips of Frank's fingers into his mouth and swirling his tongue around them. Gross, my hand probably tastes like dick, Frank thinks, Gerard's sweaty dick, and then he's thinking that all over again when Mikey breaks away from his hand, chest hitching on his breath, spit-slick lips and a trail of saliva snapping between his mouth and Frank's fingers. Only this time Frank thinks that 'gross' might be the wrong word for it. Damn.

Mikey guides Frank's hand back around Gerard's hips, into his pants, and even though his fingers are only curled around Frank's wrist, Frank is still thinking holyshitholyshitholyshit as his thumb and forefinger slide in a perfect, slippery ring down Gerard's cock and back up under the direction of Mikey's hand.

"Unghhh." Gerard sounds like he's been wounded and Frank really wants to see him, is trying to lift up onto his toes to look over his shoulder, but he's too fucking short. The angle of Gerard's head and his muffled noises make Frank think he's probably drooling and mouthing at his own arm. Nice. Mikey's hand stopped moving on Frank's dick a while ago but he's barely noticed because Mikey is like, jacking his brother by proxy right now--by proxy that is Frank--and is rutting up against Frank's back, breath hot and heavy on the base of his neck.

"Mikey, Mikey," Frank says to ground himself, feeling a little bit overwhelmed but more than anything else feeling really fucking awesome, "Mikey, what do I. What do I do to make them, um." Why is Frank having so much trouble breathing right now?

Mikey's grip on his wrist is like fucking iron, and he's jerking Frank's hand up and down even faster now. "This is the part where I usually--shit--um, I usually ask them."

"Oh," Frank says dumbly. It takes him a full minute of kneading Gerard's balls and pulling at his dick, grinding against Mikey's forgotten hand in his own pants, before he gets it. Frank is having serious tunnel-vision problems right now, he is such a fucking pothead. "Oh! Fuck, uh. Gee?"

Gerard chokes a little, and Frank feels kind of like Gerard hasn't done much talking this whole time. Maybe it's because he can't talk. Frank definitely understands that. "Nnngggghhh, um. Um. Just--just faster."

Mikey's moving Frank's wrist like a fucking pro, although Frank had been doing it just fine by himself. Gerard's got a low moan going on now that doesn't really seem to end except when he hiccups on an inhale.

"Maybe, like, ungh--" Gerard's hips jerk forwards and Frank thinks he's gotta be close, thinks he'd be close too, "--shut me up. Like, with your fingers or something."

Frank's skin flashes hot all over at Gerard Way talking like a fucking slut and his dick twitches in Mikey's hand. He's just about to take his hand from Gerard's balls to shove into Gerard's mouth--whatever, if he's okay with tasting his own balls then Frank's not gonna stop him, it looks like the Way family is not that concerned about these things--when Mikey wriggles his other hand out of Frank's pants and hooks his arm up over Frank's shoulder. Frank can't see, but he can hear the muffled sound Gerard makes when his brother shoves his fingers--his long, warm fingers from Frank's pants--into Gerard's mouth.

Frank is blinking like there's sweat in his eyes or like he's hallucinating, but he can't see anything anyway, he's not tall enough, stuck staring at the wide slope of Gerard's shoulders hunching over and his thick neck, the mess of black hair obscuring his face. Frank focuses as hard as he can on tightening his grip around Gerard's cock as Mikey wrenches his hand up and down, and it's barely a minute more before Gerard is gurgling and coughing and spitting around Mikey's hand, curling over and coming hot and wet across Frank's knuckles and down the front of his jeans.

"Fuck, fuck, Gee--" Mikey chokes out, and Frank, despite being a bit of a stoned spacecase right now, can't help noticing that's the first time Mikey's talked directly to his brother since they started, "--you fuckin'..."

"Mikey, come the fuck on," Frank grits out, feeling a bit more desperate about the hard-on tenting his Dickies and the fluid warmth in his spine. He shakes his hand out of Mikey's grip and extracts himself from Gerard, stepping back. Frank wraps his fingers around Mikey's wrist and pulls it towards his own zipper, uncoordinated and hurried. Gerard's come is getting smeared all over their hands and the front of Frank's pants, but what the fuck ever. If Mikey would just--

Mikey twists his hand out of Frank's grip easily, and Frank is about to protest when Mikey wheels Frank around by his shoulders and slams him, hard, back against the concrete wall.

"What the fuck?" Frank frowns. He hasn't seen Mikey's face until now but it's so intense it's kind of weird to see, and before he can do more than just register Gerard slumped face-first against the wall next to them, breathing heavily, Mikey is crowding him, pinning Frank's shoulders back against the rough concrete with the pressure of his chest. Frank's eyes widen at this version of Mikey, and it's making his body buzz with anticipation, like getting slammed into in the pit before you spin around to slam right back.

"Just, fuck, let's do this right," Mikey says, and looks down--down--his nose because he's so close and Frank has to look all the way up to meet his eyes, as Mikey matter-of-factly unzips his jeans and pulls his dick out. Frank's gaze drops, looking right at it--because he's a total fucking chick now--and gapes a little bit at the darkened pink length of it, the raised veins mirroring the ones sticking out in stark relief on Mikey's forearms.

"Frank." Mikey's actually pissed! Wow. Frank only realizes how much he likes this when he finds himself grinning right up into Mikey's stern frown. He's lightheaded from all of this, from Mikey and Gerard fucking using Frank to touch each other, from the satisfying feeling of getting pushed roughly against the wall. Well, fuck it. Frank drops to his knees.

"No fuckin' way," Gerard breathes, and Frank looks over, sees Gerard leaning against the wall with one hand frozen pushing the hair out of his face, eyes wide and lips red, all around his mouth and chin glistening with spit.

"I can totally be a ninja at this too, come on," Frank grins, loving their reaction. He plants a hand around the base of Mikey's dick and just goes for it before he can think twice.

He can hear Mikey making noise but it's distant, like he's underwater. Frank tries to get his lips over his teeth but they catch on the dry skin of Mikey's cock so Frank has to gather all the saliva he can, he has to get his tongue down the sides as far as he can without choking. It's fucking messy, and of all the things Frank could have guessed about sucking dick he never would have thought that. But it is, it's like there is always drool dripping between his fingers and out the corners of his mouth, and he sucks on the way up but doesn't know what to do with his tongue, so he's just kind of swirling it around all over the place. He keeps forgetting to move his hand, and gives Mikey a few pulls when he remembers.

Mikey's got an actual taste too, like a distinct one, and it's not as nasty as Frank would have thought, just a bit like sweat, but not the raunchy stale-armpit kind. And the feeling of it is surprising; he's already tracing the raised veins with his tongue, thinking about Mikey's arms and the veins there.

"Frank, fuck, can I... can I..."

"Whatever, man, whatever," Frank mumbles against the head of Mikey's cock, lips rubbing wet against the spongy texture there, eyes closed and feeling hopelessly, hopelessly lost in this as he goes back down again. As he descends, Mikey steps forward and Frank feels his shoulders and then his head hit the cement abruptly, enough to shock him into choking a bit around Mikey's dick.

"Jesus, shit, holy shit, Gee, fucking look at him..." Mikey is babbling like a fucking teenager but he feels a lot more substantial in the way he's crowding Frank and forcing himself deeper.

Frank's eyes are welling up and he is totally, totally overwhelmed, his chin's dripping with his own spit now, hand moving sloppily. He can't even push his head down but he finally just relaxes enough to take it as Mikey jerks his hips forward, fucking into Frank's throat. Each time he doesn't know if he's going to be able to suck in a small breath or swallow all the saliva collecting in his mouth, and god it is fucking amazing. It's like being blindsided, like being slammed into from behind when you can't anticipate what's next and you feel that rush of adrenaline when you catch yourself, when you push back into it hard.

Mikey's coming way before Frank's started thinking about what would happen when that became an issue, and he doesn't even make any warning noises like his brother. Frank splutters and finally lifts his hands to shove at Mikey's hips, slipping off his dick loud and wet and dropping hard onto his ass on the floor, legs out in front of him. Frank's dizzy from lack of air and shocked at the bitter taste in his mouth. He plants a hand on the nasty-ass tile next to him, leaning over heavily and spraying out Mikey's come on an exhale, a fucking Pollock on the bathroom floor.

"Fuck," Frank mutters to himself in a voice that seems to have gone through a cheese grater since he last used it. He rolls his head back against the concrete, feeling the thump of the bass through it, and looks up, where Mikey's braced against the wall above him, hand cupped over his dick and eyes squeezed closed, breathing heavy. Who knew Mikey Way was such a kinky little shit.

Frank's eyes slip shut and okay, yeah, it's kind of hot what a kinky little shit Mikey is, and what a whore his older brother is, and Frank is feeling strung the fuck out at this point, he is so ready to come. He gets his pants undone, spitting another mouthful of bitter-tasting saliva into his palm before getting his hand in there and curling around his dick.

"Frank, do you--" Gerard asks in a voice that is way too polite. Frank cuts his eyes up at him and suddenly Mikey and Gerard feel closer--they're looming over him--with their eyes huge and their mouths hanging open.

"I can handle myself," Frank grunts, not really giving a shit now, just wanting to come already. It feels too good, the soreness when he tries to talk, the spit drying on his chin, the numbness of his lips, the twist of pleasure in his belly, the soft sound of skin slapping skin as he works his cock just the way he likes. And the brothers, who are staring down at him with their broad shoulders and dark eyes, but who he totally took to pieces a few minutes ago. Frank feels used and grimy and small, on the floor at their feet, and this time the thought of getting walked in on makes his thighs tense and snap towards each other, makes his back bow off the cement wall and his jaw lock.

"Nnnrgh," Frank grits out and slams his head back, jacks it as fast as he can, chasing it down until he's finally coming, prickling waves of fuck yes tensing through every muscle in his legs and ass, through his curled stomach and hunched shoulders. "Shiiiiiiiit."

Frank feels sort of delirious. He is so fucked out right now, and he know he has that lame smile stuck on his face that girls have told him about before. If he's not careful he's gonna start giggling again. Frank pulls his hand out of his pants before it begins to get tacky and wipes it unceremoniously on the concrete wall beside him, a mere foot from his artistic rendering of Mikey's jizz.

"Someone needs to shine a fuckin' blacklight on this shit, huh?" He laughs, pulling himself to his feet. He forgot about the brothers looming over him and suddenly he's all up in their space, the stink of spilled booze and sweat on their clothes and their intense fucking stares. Why does he have such creepy friends? He grins up at them because his face is incapable of doing anything else right now.

"You probably got crabs from sitting on that floor," Mikey finally says, taking a step back, tucking himself into his jeans and zipping up, "just in case you were wondering."

"Awesome, that's why I was there." Frank still pushes between them to go wash his hands, though, or he'll feel like a first-grader peeling glue off his skin later when everything dries. He could flick it at Otter's sleeping bag though, which would be pretty rad. Three dudes' spunk on him and he wouldn't even know.

Frank looks at Gerard and Mikey in the mirror. They're frowning at each other. "Jesus, get the fuck over it," Frank says loudly, "the set's not even over yet, and we're at a show, guys." The word 'show' has been used very significantly all day while Frank's been reminding everyone of their plans this evening.

Mikey smiles and puts his hands up, palms out, "Okay, okay, we're at a show."

"Fuckin' right." Frank yanks the door open to a wall of noise and the reek of sweat and beer. It makes him smile as he ushers Gerard and Mikey back into the bar. "We're fuckin' glamorous."


END

(DVD commentary on this fic here!)