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You Look Pretty Low

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6 October 2014, St. Louis, MO.

It’s sometime after midnight on the last night of the tour. Bert’s sitting with his legs crossed underneath him, leaning back against the headboard and nursing a lemonade. Frank’s reclining in front of him, legs straight and crossed at the ankles. Bert keeps one hand on Frank’s leg and another around his soda.

They’re still naked from the shower and the quick fuck they managed to get out of the way before the post-show exhaustion set in. A gutted smoke alarm rests next to an open tube of lube on the nightstand.

“So you wanna be best friends forever, huh?” Frank says with a smirk, taking a deep drag of the joint between his fingers. He exhales a thick cloud of smoke, holding Bert’s gaze. “‘Twas a pretty impassioned speech you gave about my bitchin’ band tonight.”

“I knew you were sidestage, you fucker.”

“Backstage, actually. Your ass looks better from behind.”

“I’ll have you know, Frank Iero, that my ass looks scrumptious from any angle.” Bert takes the joint from him and has a toke before reaching across Frank’s legs to stub it out. Frank cranes his neck to get a better look at his delectable behind.

“True,” Frank admits. “I bet it would look even better on my cock.”

“Sorry kid,” Bert murmurs softly. “I don’t bend over for anyone. Not even for heartbreakers like you.”


When Bert settles back against the pillows, he takes a long sip of his soda before saying, entirely out of fucking nowhere, “So, Gerard.”

Frank should have seen this coming.

“It’s been 19 dates and you still haven’t said a word about him.”

Frank shrugs, attempting another sip of his beer before realizing it’s empty. He picks at the label. “There’s nothing to say.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“He was burnt out, wanted to do his own thing, spend time with his family, whatever.”

“I wasn’t asking about the band.”

Frank would literally kill for a cigarette. “It is what it is,” he says dismissively.

“And what is it?”

“It’s really fucking shitty and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s cool,” Bert says, and he grabs a pack of cigarettes from the floor. ”He’s not an easy guy to get over, if I recall correctly.”

Frank gratefully takes the cigarette Bert offers him. “Are we out of beer?”

“Check the minibar.”

Frank gets up to rummage through the mini fridge. He comes back with several miniature bottles of liquor, a bottle of ginger ale and a small can of Pringles. “Sour cream and onion. It’s a waste of a flavor, but it’s all we’ve got.”

He ashes his cigarette and meets Bert’s eyes. Bert’s taking slow drags of his cigarette, one palm cupped loosely around his junk. “So what happened?” He asks.

Frank sighs. “This is weird, okay? For the record. This is weird.”

“We’re on tour with your brother-in-law and yet you’re eating sour cream Pringles in my bed with lube leaking out of your ass, but this is weird?”

“The fact that we’ve both fucked Gerard and now you want to have a heart-to-heart about him? Yeah, it’s fucking weird.”

“It doesn’t have to be a heart-to-heart. We can just talk about what a big asshole he is.”

“I don’t want to talk about what a big asshole he is. I don’t want to talk about him at all.”

“Does he know you’re fucking me?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Would he be pissed?”

“Nah.” Frank picks some dried come off his stomach. “He’d be disappointed. Which is worse.”

“So why are you?”

“Why am I what?”

Bert’s staring at him defiantly. The hand covering his junk moves lazily. “Fucking me.”

Frank isn’t going to back down. “Because you’re a good fuck.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. I never asked.”

Bert blows out a ring of smoke, watching Frank closely. “Of all the dicks in all the world, you decided to get on mine. That’s got to mean something.”

“It means I needed a good dicking and you’re not hideous.”

“Or it means you want to hurt him because he hurt you first.”

Frank snorts and drains a tiny bottle of gin. He throws Bert the bottle of ginger ale. “I’m not the one still singing songs about him a decade after we broke up.”

“Deflecting, nice.”

“I don’t want to talk about Gerard.”

“Because you’re still sweet on him.”

“Because I don’t want to fucking talk about Gerard. Have some respect.”

Bert sneers. His hand has started moving on his cock. He’s already half hard. “Hit a nerve, have I?”

“Can you please shut the fuck up? For once?”

“If you’ll admit that you’re fucking me to get back at him. It’s cool, I don’t mind.”

“You know what? Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the van.” Frank gets out of bed and starts gathering his clothing.

“Or you can come over here and sit your sweet ass back down on my cock.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on, fucking his ex behind his back.”

They stare at each other for a few long moments. Frank’s holding his T-shirt and one sock in his hands. Bert’s leaning back against the headboard and stroking his cock like they aren’t having a fucked up emotional conversation about the black hole in Frank’s chest.

“I don’t mind," Bert murmurs, wrist twisting on every upward stroke. "It doesn’t have to be weird.”

Frank watches Bert cup his own balls. “I’m still sweet on him,” he says finally. "I'm so fucked up about him I don't know what to do with myself."

“I know you are. Come here.”

Frank drops his clothes and crawls back onto the bed. Bert reaches for him and pulls him into his lap. His arms come around Frank’s torso and his mouth tastes like lemons when it brushes against Frank’s.

“Do you need more prep or are you still good?”

Frank reaches for a condom on the nightstand and quickly rolls it down Bert’s cock. He squirts a little lube on his hand and slicks him up. “I’m good.”

“He’s a complete fucker for letting you go. You have to know that.”

“Shut up,” Frank growls, wincing a little as he sinks down on him. “I don’t want to talk about Gerard anymore. It's fucking weird.”

“Yeah," Bert moans, before catching Franks lips in a wet, messy kiss. "It’s a little weird.”