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Don't Fence Me In

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They spend the first night off tour grilling out in Ray's backyard. Frank's got a Corona in each fist and command of Ray's biggest lawn chair, sun setting over nearby rooftops while conversation and laughter rises and falls around him.

"Stop looking so satisfied," Gerard says.

Frank holds up a bottle and uncurls his middle finger from around its neck. "Fuck you. I deserve this after the shit you guys put me through yesterday."

Gerard snorts. "Right. Because denying it until you collapsed onstage and couldn't get back up again, that was a smart plan."

"How's it going?" Cortez appears, hoisting an orange cooler from his hip down to the ground in front of them. Gerard crosses his legs so he can lean forward and fish out a can of Coke, ice and glass bottles clinking as they shift.

Frank holds up both of his beers at Cortez, grinning. "Medicating right now, dude. Be back on the leg by tomorrow."

Gerard leans back on his hands in the dry, yellowed grass. "Six weeks, Frank. Not hours." He takes a sip from his can. "Thank fuck one of us went to that clinic with you or we'd never know the real diagnosis."

Cortez bats away a stray dart from the Nerf gun that some of the sound guys by the garage have been shooting. "How did you break yourself this time, Iero?"

Frank takes a swig from one of his beers and drops his head back on the law chair to squint up at the orange sky. "Aerobics." He pats at the thigh muscle the doctor claims he pulled. "Workin' it to Ray's Richard Simmons tape; getting pumped up for the stage. You know how it is."

Cortez laughs and Frank can hear him lift the cooler back up to brace on his hip. "Not what Mikey's been saying. Heard you two were boning in your bunk and tried some freaky Kama Sutra shit."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Gerard says from the grass.

"You watch." Frank settles lower in the lawn chair, breathing deeply. He's missed the summer smell of barbecue and cut grass; there's not a lot of either on tour. "I'll sleep on it tonight and be back in the game tomorrow."

"My favourite walking injury lawsuit," Cortez says, patting Frank's head as he passes by.

"Technically he can't walk," Gerard points out. Frank can hear the smile in his voice.

"Fuck you," Frank says. "You are so not getting laid tonight."


Not even twelve hours later, Frank has to admit that he really can't walk. He knows this because he's stranded in the dry goods aisle at the grocery store with no way out.

"Shit," he breathes, digging his fingernails into his palms. The elevator music plods away on the store's speakers and Frank can hear kids laughing in the next aisle over, the beep of the cashier scanning people through.

He takes a deep breath in and holds it while he flexes his toes in his sneakers, trying to edge his left leg forward slowly. "Oh fuck me," he groans when his thigh muscle seizes up again, stomach dropping away at the lurch of pain. He can't even hobble on his good leg because he doesn't have shit to lean his weight on—he had refused to take the crutches that the clinic offered, because he pulls muscles all the time, it never takes six weeks to heal—and now he's going to be stuck reading the labels on the lentil packages until the world ends. Or the store closes.

Frank had left Gerard sleeping; they got home pretty late, and have about two months' worth of it to catch up on. Since they had nothing but mayonnaise and orange juice in their fridge, he had decided that it was time for groceries. He may have had an ulterior motive (to show Gerard he was just fine on his own) but no one could prove anything. Frank had been sure he could drive with his leg busted, he's no fucking invalid. But he hadn't really thought about the fact that Gerard's stupid muscle car was a goddamn stick-shift. He nearly drove the whole way to the store in second gear to avoid touching the clutch, pain flaring up his thigh every time he hit a red light and had to push his left foot to the floor.

He'd told himself to man up as he hobbled stiffly through the store. He'd ended up with three boxes of that whole-grain flaxseed pasta shit because the regular kind he liked was too far up to reach without pushing up onto his toes, but it was going to be fine. Maybe he'd need to sit in a hot bath for the next five hours, whatever. Then Frank had bent down to get some packets of instant ramen noodles and his thigh had seized up like a fucking charley horse but so much worse. He couldn't do this.

It's his first day off in months, the sun is shining, Gerard is waiting for him in their bed, all sleep-soft and pale, and Frank's stranded in the fucking dry goods aisle with a leg made out of what feels like solid, immoveable stone. Stone that is, somehow, also on fire.

He has the shittiest luck.

"Price check, register three," a bored-sounding woman says over the speaker system. There's a beat of silence before the soft high-hat of the easy-listening music starts up again.

"Fuck me," Frank says again, digging his phone out of his pocket.

Frank calls Mikey, because Gerard has no way of getting there without his car, Bob is probably still on the highway back to Chicago, and Ray deserves to sleep in after the localized explosion of band and crew went off in his backyard the night before.

"You better buy me breakfast," Mikey says when he shows up, massive sunglasses on and a red line from his pillow bisecting his face. He hoists Frank's arm around his shoulders and mostly carries him to the checkout.

"How many donuts is it gonna take to buy your silence?" Frank asks between clenched teeth as he shifts his weight onto his bad leg so he can ease his wallet out of his back pocket. The guy at the cash register narrows his eyes at them. "I'm just trying to bring home the bacon, but I don't think your brother's gonna see it that way."

"At least a dozen of the jelly kind," Mikey says. "Also, I don't think that expression means what you think it means. You'll probably never bring him bacon. Ever."

Frank grunts as he hop-skips down the checkout to get his change from the guy at the till, leaning heavily on the counter. "I would, if Gerard really wanted it. I don't want him two-timing me with some dude from the deli counter."

Mikey swats Frank's hand away and picks the grocery bags up in one hand, grabbing him around the waist with the other. "Shut up, it's too early for meat jokes." Frank can feel Mikey recoil slightly from the blinding sunlight when the automatic doors open for them. "Donuts, and then I expect not to see or hear from you guys for a least twenty-four hours. Post-tour detox."

"You just wanna bang your wife," Frank says. He hisses when Mikey lets go of him before he's finished easing himself into the passenger seat. "Fuck. You don't have to throw me in, dude."

"Thought you could handle yourself, sorry." Mikey's lips curve up as he folds into the driver's side.

Frank lets out a breath and drops his head back against the seat while they pull out of the lot. He rubs both hands up and down his thigh, the denim heating up under his hands, and wills his thigh to relax. "I can. I just gotta man up."


Mikey wakes Gerard up when they get back to the apartment, forcing him to get dressed so Mikey can drop him off at the grocery store and Gerard can drive the car back home.

"No, no, noooo," Frank hears Gerard moan from the bedroom while he cranks the tap as hot as it'll go, sitting where Mikey left him on the edge of the bathtub.

"Yes," Mikey says in a bored voice. Frank wonders if this is what they sounded like when they had to get up for school. "Yes, yes, yesssssss. Otherwise you'll have no car because your stupid boyfriend tried to drive stick with a broken leg."

"What?" There's the noise of blankets rustling. "Frank drove my car? Jesus christ."

"It's not broken!" Frank calls out, but they ignore him.

"I'll take the bus and get the car later," Gerard finally says, "fuck off."

"No you won't, because the last time you took a bus in Jersey, you took it in the wrong direction and called me from the fucking end of the line by I-78. Put on your pants." Frank is always impressed when Mikey gives orders.

Frank watches Gerard emerge from the bedroom with his hair all over the place , squinting at the sunlight in their apartment. "It's not my fault Frank went to the store." He bumps into one of the Umbrella Academy panels framed on the wall and paws at it until it's something resembling straight again before shuffling into the kitchen.

"It's your fault you had fucking acrobatic sex with him and broke him," Mikey says, appearing in the bedroom doorway behind his brother and crossing his arms.

"No regrets, man." Frank grins at him when he looks over, sloshing a hand back and forth in the water as the bathtub fills. Mikey curls his top lip and Frank decides not to mention the smear of leftover jelly on his chin.

"Frank's the fucking gymnast, okay? My dick is not to blame." There are some noises from the kitchen and then Gerard returns to the hallway with the orange juice carton in hand. "You try to stop him, he's a fucking animal in the sack," Gerard says around the pop tart he's stuffed in his mouth. He points the orange juice carton at Frank, eyebrows raised.

"Fucking right I am." Frank grins and points a finger back. "Also, that orange juice is so expired I don't think it's a liquid anymore, dude. Put that shit down."

Mikey waves a hand around. "Right. Gymnast, animal, pole fucking dancer, I don't need to hear about it, okay? All I know is I woke up way too goddamn early on my first day off tour so I could rescue Frank from the pasta aisle, and I have a bed full of animals and wife waiting at home."

"I tried to restrain him," Gerard says as he bends down to tie his laces. Frank eyes the way his hoodie stretches across the width of his hunched shoulders and rides up to expose his lower back. Fuck, it's been so long since they've had more than a bunk curtain's worth of privacy; Frank's already looking forward to being naked and wet when Gerard gets back.

"What?" Gerard shoves Mikey when he narrows his eyes at him, scooping the keys up from the table. "I did. I made sure I kept an arm over him all night so he couldn't escape."

Mikey snorts and crowds Gerard out the door when he gets it open, waving goodbye to Frank on their way out. "You of all people should know nothing's gonna keep him down but fucking shackles and chains, dude."

Frank catches Gerard's eye over Mikey's shoulder just before the door closes, and bites his lip at Gerard's dirty smile. "How did you know we had a set of those hidden under the bed?" Frank hears him say.

"Oh my god," Mikey moans as the door swings shut.


When Gerard gets back, Frank is warm and loose from the bath. Maybe he had to unpack the groceries with most of his weight on his right foot, but the deep throb of pain is gone and Frank's sure this isn't gonna last forever. He's got Rage Against the Machine's Renegades in the stereo, the window open, and he's making grilled cheese in his underwear.

"A stove," Frank says with a happy sigh, waving his spatula at Gerard when he comes in the door. Frank gestures: "A real fridge. A bathtub. A couch that we know no one but us has fucked on."

Gerard pushes his sunglasses up his head and toes off his sneakers, giving Frank a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. "Total fuckin' freedom," he agrees. He plucks at the waistband of Frank's boxers and grabs at the soft skin around his middle. "And there's this hot-ass dude bedridden in my apartment for the next month and a half."

Frank giggles under Gerard's fingers, hopping on his good leg to get out of the way. "So that's why you wanted to try that kinky shit in my bunk: so you could keep me as your butt slave."

"Say groove, sucka, groove," Gerard sings along to Zach de la Rocha, nosing up into Frank's hair and doing a little shimmy against his ass. Frank laughs and pushes back against Gerard's jeans while he flips their sandwiches. "A butt slave who makes things with melted cheese in them. Fuck, I've missed real food."

Frank eases into one of the kitchen chairs and they toss a list back and forth of all the things they want to do now that they're home. By the time Frank's done eating his sandwich, he gets too distracted watching Gerard lick crumbs off his fingers to notice what's coming out of his mouth.

"Yeah, sure, I'll do it," Frank says. "Why aren't you naked yet?"

"You want to call my bank?" Gerard asks, confused, but Frank points him at the bedroom.

Gerard goes down laughing onto their bed, wiggling out of his jeans while Frank lowers himself carefully onto the mattress and proceeds to cover Gerard's entire body with his own, licking and biting at his lips, his earlobe, his neck.

"Bunks are such bullshit. I missed this," Frank says with his nose pressed into Gerard's neck, breathing him in deep.

"I swear the ceilings just keep getting lower." Gerard moans when Frank bites down hard into the meat of his shoulder. His legs fall open and his fingers dig into the flesh of Frank's ass. "Fuck me already. Christ."

It turns out that it's easier said than done.

Frank gets about two thrusts into Gerard's ass, head thrown back and teeth gritted while Gerard writhes around under his hands, before he swears and curls over in pain. "Shit," Gerard gasps, gripping Frank's sides as he hitches his hips up, "come on, Frank, I need—" He blinks his eyes open and frowns. "Oh, fuck. Are you okay?" His cheeks are pink and damp, eyes heavy and lips red; Frank just needs to fuck him already.

"No." Frank drops his head to Gerard's chest, thigh muscle burning so badly he's not even sure he can pull out. He sighs as he feels Gerard's breathing slow. "There is no fucking way I can last six weeks without this."


They spend the next two days doing laundry, catching up with some local friends who weren't on tour with them, retrieving bits of their gear that ended up in the wrong studio, and having sex that makes Frank feel like some kind of fragile virgin.

Every time he tries to do anything to Gerard, his whole fucking body gets into it when he stops paying attention, and his thigh seizes up again. "This is karma," Frank complains when he's done swearing and breathing carefully through his nose—he'd attempted to go down on Gerard, but his thigh had tensed up. "We tried to have sex so great that no man should ever be able to experience it. These are the consequences."

"Bullshit," Gerard pants. His fingers have slipped back around his own dick, jacking himself while Frank lays his head on Gerard's chest and catches his breath. "We'll figure it out." When he meets Frank's eyes across his chest, his hand slows and he uncurls his fingers, skating them down Frank's cheek. "Shit, Frankie, I'm sorry. This sucks."

Frank pouts and bites at Gerard's thumb. "Come on my face?"

Gerard's eyes drop to half-mast and he grins. "Always."


They have to do the rounds of family time, that weekend. Frank's mom smacks him on the back of the head but sends him home with his old crutches from high school that she'd kept in the basement.

"I was fucking fifteen," he complains while he watches her stuff them into the backseat of Gerard's car. "They're not going to fit."

Gerard grins at him over the roof of the car, chin resting on his folded hands. "I've seen pictures," he says, "they'll fit." His smile is crooked and warm when Frank narrows his eyes at him. He doesn't even have the decency to stop looking so goddamn pretty when he takes Frank's mom's side.

"You can always bring them back," his mom says as she helps Frank into the car, trying to lift his leg in for him like he's a fucking rag doll. He bats her hands away.

"Yeah, yeah, you're all on cloud fucking nine now that I can't do anything for myself." Frank sighs but leans up so he can kiss her cheek when she bends down for it. "You're gonna be sorry when you need someone to mow the lawn or run your junk to the dump and I'm stuck wetting my bedpan."

"He's just as dramatic as he was when he was fifteen, too," his mom says over the top of the car.

"Right? And he calls me a diva." Gerard laughs, waggling his fingers at her before climbing in.


The Ways decide to come over to Gerard and Frank's place for dinner, because Donna is all up in arms about Frank getting in a car to come over. Frank thinks Mikey may have told her about the whole grocery store fiasco, which is bullshit because it's not like Frank wants to drive Gerard's stupid car again anyway.

The lasagna—the only thing Frank is decent at cooking—goes over well, and Frank likes having his house full of laughter and conversation like that. After their parents have left, Gerard and Mikey stay at the kitchen table, sinking lower in their chairs as they remember all the times they attempted to cook something more complicated than microwave popcorn when they lived at home.

Alicia looks sideways at Frank when she drops down next to him on the couch. "Either you've got a serious hate on for Mr. Burns, or something's wrong."

Frank realizes he's frowning at the TV and sighs. He'd been thinking about the plate of brownies in the kitchen and how much work it was going to take to go get it. The crutches from his mom are still resting against the wall by door but there's no way he's touching them.

"I'm sick of being fucking housebound all week." Alicia raises her eyebrows and Frank grinds his knuckles into his own thigh through his jeans. "Sick of making Gerard pass me books and CDs and cups of coffee because I'm too fucking broken to get them myself. Sick of not being able to drive myself anywhere or do my own fucking laundry. There's a groove in this couch from where I have to plant my ass all goddamn day. Fuck, I'd be giving up the right to piss standing up if Gerard knew how much it hurt me, but there's no way I'm letting on."

Bart and Homer are wrestling for something on the screen. Frank looks over and Alicia smiles at him. "Sick of being a whiny bitch?"

"God, yes," Frank moans, "please shut me the fuck up already."

They both laugh. "You know what your problem is, Iero?" she asks as she scoops the plate of Donna's brownies up from the kitchen table. Fuck yeah, Mikey knows how to pick them.

Frank grins and reaches for one but Alicia slaps his hand away, sitting back down on the couch. He bounces slightly. "What? My house, my brownies."

"Your problem is," Alicia continues, tucking her hair behind her ears and setting the plate down just out of Frank's reach on the coffee table, "you have terrible self-discipline."

"Two cups of baking soda!" Gerard wheezes from the kitchen, making all the dirty dishes on the table clatter when he slams his hands down. Mikey is hunched over the table laughing with him.

"I've got self-discipline coming out of my ass, okay?" Frank turns his gaze back to Alicia and catches her watching the brothers fondly too. "I practice all the fucking time. We've barely been off tour a week but I've still been playing." Frank braces himself on his good leg and leans forward to grab at the plate, but Alicia blocks him with her arm.

"Sure, because you love doing it. But I've seen you; you run yourself into the ground all the time on tour even when you're sick, you have to be physically removed from your boyfriend or you'll scar everyone by jumping him in the bus lounge—" Frank makes a pffft sound, waving his hand around, "—you forget to sleep because you let your band mates convince you it's time to watch all of Kubrick's film collection in one sitting... you want me to keep going?"

Frank makes a grab at the brownie Alicia takes a bite out of, but she holds it back out of reach. "So I know how to have a good time. I embrace life." Frank grins as he plants an elbow on the back of the couch and a hand on the cushion. "And if you don't think I'm willing to injure myself to get your brownie, you clearly don't know me," he says, making a move for it.

"Fine! Fuck, fine." Alicia laughs and shoves him away when he tries to body check her. "Sit down before you break yourself again."

"Frank," Gerard says from the kitchen. "Don't use your leg."

"Fuck you, it's my leg. Alicia's withholding dessert because she's trying to teach me some lesson about how it's bad to like Kubrick more than sleep."

Alicia carefully puts her brownie back down on the plate. "Okay," she says slowly, looking like she's enjoying herself way too much. "I dare you to stay still, in this exact spot, until your very considerate boyfriend who just wants to take care of you tells you that you can move."

The chairs in the kitchen scrape on the linoleum as Gerard and Mikey get up. Frank narrows his eyes at Alicia. "And this is supposed to prove my self-discipline?"

"What, not man enough to do it?" Alicia asks. Mikey folds himself down over the back of the couch, wrapping his long arms around her neck. She leans back into him, not taking her eyes off of Frank.

"You're asking me to trust Gerard to tell me when to move," Frank confirms. Gerard sits down on the coffee table in front of him, their knees knocking. "You'd probably go out for a coffee and get distracted by a book store or a pigeon or some shit and leave me here to starve on the couch."

Mikey and Alicia huff a laugh and Gerard leans forward, gently rubbing Frank's thighs with his hands. "Or," he says, teeth in the side of his bottom lip and eyes on Frank's, "I could make it worth your while."

Frank raises his eyebrows.

Mikey stands up to dig his car keys out of his pocket. "And on that note..."


Gerard makes Frank strip down and stay in his spot on the couch while Gerard cleans up the kitchen—"To test your self-discipline," Gerard says over his shoulder while he stacks all the dishes and fills the sink with water. Trust the one time Frank agrees to obey Gerard's every command to be the time he decides to clean up after himself.

Frank feels sort of weird about watching Conan with his dick out—he's hugged the guy, there's something kind of sleazy about that—but unless Gerard is planning to give him a sponge bath or something, there isn't any scenario Frank can think of that starts with nudity on the couch and doesn't end in sex, so he can wait. Well, other than the time Dewees passed out naked on their couch after that one party with the beer bong, and that was only because no one wanted to dress him themselves.

Frank grimaces and shifts his bare ass around gingerly on the cushion, wishing he could remember what part of Dewees had been on this half of the couch.

After Gerard's finished cleaning and letting Frank narrate exactly what's happening on the TV to him, he wanders over and starts rubbing Frank's shoulders from behind.

"Mmmm." Frank sighs, eventually rolling his head forward and letting his eyes slip shut. He feels warm and relaxed. "Alicia didn't tell me this was gonna be self-discipline in a fucking massage chair. This I can do."

Gerard hums to himself. The crowd on TV laughs at something. "I like you like this."

"Naked?" Frank asks, angling his head to one side as Gerard's hands bracket his neck and his thumbs dig in. Fuck, Frank loves Gerard's hands. "Injured? Immobile?"

"Staying still like this. For me." Gerard's fingers aren't gentle, working out the tight muscles of Frank's shoulders, and it feels incredible. It's like all the strings connecting his limbs are being cut one by one until he's completely limp on the cushions. Frank moans a little and can't remember what he was going to say; he loses track of time there, under Gerard's hands.

Gerard eventually stops and leans over him, smelling of sweat and deodorant and cigarettes. Frank's fingers twitch at his sides, dick already halfway hard, but Gerard just grabs the remote from the cushion next to him and turns the TV off. "Sorry, Coco," Gerard says, low and not apologetic at all, in Frank's ear.

"Get over here," Frank murmurs. He turns his face up to mouth along Gerard's jaw. He'd shaved just before dinner, and it feels good. Frank aims for his lips but Gerard pulls back just before he can get to them.

"Sorry?" Gerard asks. He lifts a hand to push his hair out of his face, eyebrows raised.

Frank doesn't break his gaze. He loves seeing the yellow flecks of colour in Gerard's eyes, up close like this. "I said," Frank says, and lifts his chin as his lips pull up into the smile that usually gets Gerard to pay attention in bed, "get over here, sweetheart."

Gerard stands up and walks slowly around to the front of the couch, pushing the coffee table out of the way. His long-sleeved t-shirt has a few patches of water on it from doing the dishes, the sleeves rolled up his arms, his thin wrists bare.

Frank bites his lip. "Sit on my dick," he says, voice low. Gerard's cheekbones stand out like they always do when he's trying not to show his smile. He doesn't move.

"Fine," Frank says and punctuates it by spitting in his own palm. He starts to jack himself off, eyes on Gerard.

"I'm pretty sure the deal was that you would stay put," Gerard starts, fingers on the hem of his shirt, "and let me take care of you."

Frank grunts, speeding his hand up on his cock as he smiles, showing all of his teeth. "I'm taking pretty good care of myself right now." But when he skates the slippery palm of his hand over the tip of his dick and his hips buck up reflexively, he swears, "Motherfucker," and slams his head back against the couch. He slaps both hands over his thigh where the pain bursts, hot and sharp.

Gerard is looking at him, bare-chested with his shirt in hand, when the pain ebbs and Frank opens his eyes again.

"Fuck off," Frank says, the frustration at being so goddamn useless sweeping through him again, and then sighs. He lets go of his leg to settle his palms on the cushion on either side of him. "Take care of me?"

Gerard grins.

It's not long before Frank is whispering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," with his cock heavy on Gerard's tongue. It's only then that he remembers—even though they've been home a whole week—that there isn't anyone microwaving burritos or playing Call of Duty ten feet away. He adds, "Jesus fuck, Gerard," in a louder voice, and then moans at how good it feels to hear himself like that.

Gerard's fingers tighten on his sides in response and Frank lifts his gaze, eyelids heavy, to watch the way Gerard's bare back twists and dips as he bobs up and down Frank's cock. Gerard's naked on his knees on the carpet, one on either side of Frank's feet—Frank's got his legs tucked close together because it helps keep him from using his thigh muscles—as Gerard's dark hair hangs forward, obscuring his face.

"You're fuckin'—jesus—yeah, harder," Frank moans, and his fingers twitch on the cushion, where Gerard told him to leave them. "God, you fuckin' love this shit, don't you."

"Mmmm," Gerard moans loudly. He likes to use his mouth and hands on Frank's dick when they're both lying down—it gets Frank off fast and hard—but right now he's braced over Frank's lap instead. His elbows dig into the cushions and fingers dimple the flesh of Frank's hip tattoos while he ducks up and down like he's doing goddamn push-ups, muscles straining.

"Ah, shit, fuckin' look at you," Frank swears, mouth open and chin on his collarbone. His stomach muscles tense as he looks down his own heaving chest. Gerard makes another noise around Frank's dick and the vibrations, the thought that Gerard's mouth is too stuffed full of Frank's cock to talk, make Frank's breath catch. Gerard's messy suction breaks for a second, spit sliding down Frank's balls, as he gasps in a breath. Frank's dick slaps back against his belly before Gerard chases it down, ducking his nose to Frank's stomach, forehead sweaty on Frank's skin as he gets his lips back around the tip of Frank's cock and slides all the way down again.

"Fuck," Frank chokes out. He has to ball his hands into fists to keep himself from grabbing Gerard's head. The way Gerard looks when he does that kills him: eyes closed and sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, groping greedily for Frank's cock with his red, wet mouth, moaning like he just wants Frank to choke those noises back down his throat.

This is usually about as long as Frank lasts before the pull of want drives him crazy and he has to slam Gerard back down onto the bed, bruising grip on his wrists as he holds them together over his head. He'd sit heavily enough on Gerard's chest that his breaths would come even more shallow and ragged while Frank fucked his mouth messily, slipping out to slide across Gerard's cheek before Frank would angle his hips right and Gerard would open his mouth wider and Frank's dick would slide home again.

But—fuck. Self-discipline.

"Wanna fuck your mouth so fucking bad," Frank moans, head dropping back on the couch and unfocused gaze directed at the ceiling. "Wanna—shit. Just flip you over and slide inside, go until you're fucking shaking for it, begging, and then keep going some more." He doesn't even hear himself, just feels the way Gerard moans around him in response.

Frank swears under his breath when his thighs twitch together reflexively. He tries to ignore it, just breathe through it, but Gerard must feel his body tense. He pulls off with a wet noise, his breath warm and fast against Frank's damp cock as he looks up through his hair. "You okay? Is it your leg?" God, his voice is wrecked.

Frank gnaws at his lip ring and frowns. "Yeah, fuck that shit, whatever. I'm fine. C'mon."

Gerard squints at him, balancing on one shaky arm as he pushes hair out of his face with the back of a hand. "You sure? Dr. Robertson said no strenuous activity and I dunno if this—"

Frank makes a noise like a growl, fighting the urge to shove his hips forward, and Gerard shuts up. He wants to fit his hand in the dip between Gerard's shifting shoulder blades, hold him down by force. He wants to fuck up into Gerard's mouth, flip him over and hold him in place with a heavy hand at his base of his spine and another at the base of his neck; he wants to fuck Gerard so hard the pale skin of his ass will still be red an hour later when he crawls off to find his underwear.

"Gonna pull another muscle if you don't let me come, motherfucker," Frank swears. Gerard's eyes have started to drift down from Frank's face, distracted, skating across his tattoos and settling on his dick.

"Oh, for fuck's—" Frank grips a hard handful of Gerard's hair and pulls him down, but Gerard responds so quickly it makes Frank's breath catch.

"Stay still," Gerard grits out, grabbing Frank's wrist and pinning his hand to the couch.

They stare at each other for a moment, breathing hard. Frank can feel his mouth hanging open in surprise. Gerard's eyebrows are drawn together, lips set in a fierce line, pieces of hair stuck to his face. His fingers haven't let up on Frank's wrist. He looks like a force of fucking nature.

"Yeah," Frank breathes, and tilts his head back to bare his neck. His dick feels impossibly hard, wet and curving up between them.

Gerard straddles Frank, then, but instead of sitting on Frank's cock, he fists a hand in the hair at the base of Frank's neck and looks down his chest at him. Frank's jaw drops and his mouth starts watering the minute Gerard grabs his hair, like always.

"Just wanna take care of you, Frankie," Gerard says in a low voice. He rubs the thumb of his free hand down Frank's cheek and across his bottom lip. Frank knows there was something he wanted to say, something about sitting in Frank's lap to make him feel better, but his eyes are on Gerard's dick as it sways in front of his chest while Gerard balances on the cushion. "You gonna let me do that?" Gerard asks.

Frank has no clue what Gerard is asking, anymore, but—"Yeah," he whispers. His eyes water as he tries to pull out of Gerard's grip and bend down to get his lips on his cock. "Fuck, c'mon, please."

It feels like Frank barely gets a chance to blink before Gerard pulls his head down and he's spluttering around Gerard's dick, lips too dry, struggling to get air in through his nose. "Mmmph," Frank moans.

He sucks as best he can, but he has to curl his shoulders down and slump a little lower on the cushions. Gerard is doing most of the work anyway, fucking up into his mouth. "Oh shit, you look... fuck, Frankie," Gerard pants above him.

Frank never knows what it is about getting his throat fucked that wipes his brain completely empty. Maybe it's the bruising grip of Gerard's hands in his hair, knuckles digging into his scalp; the jerky way Gerard always loses his rhythm so Frank can't predict exactly when he's going to slam forward again—it always seems to catch him off guard; or maybe he's just not getting enough air to think properly.

"Look how much you love this shit. It's—ungh—so hot." Gerard's voice is stilted, shaking with the force of his own thrusts. Frank feels his dick leaking sticky against his stomach, hands limp at his sides, but can't even imagine moving them right now. It's as if every time the head of Gerard's cock bumps the back of his throat and Frank fights down the urge to gag, feels his own spit escape the suction of his lips and drip down his chin, his body comes a little bit more undone.

It's just then that Gerard rips Frank's head back and pulls out, gasping, "Christ, fuck, fuck, fuck," as he pants and sways back and forth. Frank blinks up at him, lips numb and throat raw. Gerard's head rolls back on his shoulders, skin pink all down his face and neck, spreading across his chest. His dick looks huge and flushed dark and perfect. Frank pulls at Gerard's grip and tries to get his mouth back around it.

"No, I—oh, oh—" Gerard swallows a high noise as Frank rips out of the hold Gerard's got on his hair and mouths up the side of his dick again, so needy for it he's getting sloppy. "I'm gonna, Frank—ungh—don't—" Gerard says weakly, and makes like he's going to push Frank away but just pets down the side of his face instead.

Frank pulls back, panting. "What?" He feels like he's underwater, slow-moving.

"Just..." Frank notices the way Gerard's hips are circling in the air. "Wanna fuck first. Come on."

Frank sighs. "Can't. My fucking leg."

"I know," Gerard says. He fits a thumb under Frank's jaw and tilts it up, pulling Frank's gaze from his cock to his face. He looks pretty fucking wrecked. "I'm gonna make sure I don't touch your legs."

Frank's breath catches. "Oh."

And somehow, Gerard pulls it off. Frank sits there, stunned into silence, hands limp at his sides, and watches.

Gerard rides his dick with a slow roll of his hips, catching himself just as he gets to the base of Frank's cock and canting his hips to slide up him again, like a fucking porn star. But the way Gerard pauses to moan, "Oh, yeah. Feel so fucking full," head tipping back to show the slow bob of his Adam's apple, is way better than any porn Frank has seen.

Frank feels so strung out that he's barely making words, just moaning and panting through it. It's so much sensation, but at the same time so much less than he's used to: instead of the feeling of skin on skin all along his body, it's just the impossibly tight heat of Gerard sliding up and down on Frank's dick. Gerard's thighs shake whenever he lowers himself and lifts again, his fingers squeezing and relaxing on Frank's shoulders. Little "Ah"s spill from Gerard's mouth every time he lowers his hips, catching himself right before he bottoms out. Frank never knew Gerard had muscles like this, holy shit.

"Frank," Gerard whispers, urgent, his dick hard and bobbing slightly with his slow rise and fall, face twisted up and mouth open. "Frank, Frank."

"I got you," Frank murmurs. He doesn't think twice before he licks his palm and curls it around Gerard's cock, can't remember why he wasn't supposed to use his hands.

Gerard moans and Frank moans back when he feels Gerard tighten around him. Gerard carefully takes one hand and then the other off of Frank's shoulders to reach back and curl around his own ankles. It makes his spine arch and shoulders drop back, skin and sweat and muscles shifting, the soft flesh of his belly jumping with the tensing of his muscles as he lifts and lowers himself with his arms.

It's just—that, then. Just the two of them in rhythm: Gerard's hips lifting and lowering, Frank's hand moving on his cock, eyes on each other, the wet sound of their fucking and the way they both breathe out, "Hah, hah," on each exhale. Then it's Gerard swallowing Frank's noises, tongue sweeping his mouth and hips stuttering up into Frank's hand while Frank shakes and comes apart and Gerard follows a few strokes later.

Gerard is trembling but careful as he lifts himself off of Frank's dick and pivots to avoid his bad leg, slumping gracelessly onto his side on the cushions. It takes all of Frank's strength to roll his head along the back of the couch and look over. He feels incredible.

"Fuck, you're hot," Frank mumbles, smiling. Gerard's stomach droops a little when he lies on his side like that and his pale toes dig into Frank's right leg, and Frank wants every inch of him.

"Shit," Gerard breathes into his own arm, grinning stupidly. "That was a serious fucking workout. How's your leg?"

Frank's eyes drift down Gerard's back and he gets distracted by the way the soft skin of his ass and thighs shine wet with Frank's come. "What?"

Gerard hums and pulls one knee up towards his stomach so Frank can get a better view. Frank moans and slides a hand up the inside of Gerard's thigh to dip the tips of his fingers inside of him, hot and sticky, the muscle clenching and releasing. "Ah—stop it. Come on. Your leg?"

"I don't know these 'legs' you speak of," Frank says with a grin, wiping his sticky fingertips off on Gerard's calf. "They don't work anymore. Don't need 'em."

"Uh huh?" Gerard tilts his head and scoots closer to the edge of the couch until Frank gets the hint and carefully arranges himself on his side along Gerard's back, sliding his right arm under Gerard's neck where he's lifted it up for him. "So you gonna let me take care of you?" Gerard asks, lips moving against the inside of Frank's arm.

"Don't remember this being part of the prescription," Frank mumbles into Gerard's sweaty back, walking his fingers up Gerard's ribcage, "but I'll take it."

Gerard presses back, sticky and warm all along Frank's body, and laughs softly. "You will."

And Frank does.