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It's Friday night, and like most Friday nights since Frank got paired with Mikey Way in Chemistry and discovered Mikey a) was awesome, and b) knew a lot more interesting people than Frank did, they're down in his brother Gerard's basement bedroom trying to convince him to come out with them.

"C'mon, Gee," Frank says, shoving at the edge of Gerard's boot with the toe of his converse. "It'll be fun. Promise."

Eyes on where Frank's foot is prodding at his, Gerard waves a hand in the general direction of his desk behind him and gives his eternal excuse. "Got a project due Monday."

"You always have a project due Monday," Mikey says. "Maybe some day you'll start it before Friday night."

"Probably not." Gerard tears his eyes away from his feet long enough to give Mikey a little smile. "Semester's over in a couple weeks."

"He's too cool for us." Frank says it like he's kidding, but Gerard's in art college making actual art. He doesn't need a fake to buy beer anymore. He is pretty cool.

"Yeah," Mikey says. "I don't think that's it."

Gerard mimes stabbing himself in the heart and collapses backwards in his chair, making it wobble alarmingly. Frank grabs at Gerard's knees to rescue him, but by the time he's made contact, Gerard's recovered and is sticking his tongue out at his brother. "Whatever. I'm way cooler than you."

"You wish."

As Mikey stands to leave, he gives his brother a peck on the forehead. Frank stands too, and plants a sloppy kiss on Gerard's cheek just to see what he'll do. He flails, tipping his chair again, and this time he grabs for Frank, catching his shoulders and jerking him off balance so Frank's lips mash against his hairline.

"Oh I see how it is," Frank says, laughing, pushing himself upright again. "Foreheads only around here."

"We don't discriminate against other heads. All head kissing is welcome." Gerard waves in the direction of his crotch like Frank might not get it.

Laughing again, Frank grabs his own junk. Sometime's Gee's so fucking delicate. "Kiss this," Frank says. Gerard rolls his eyes, but he's totally grinning.

"Dude, stop kissing my brother. There's beer waiting for us." Mikey's got a foot on the stairs already.

"Work hard," Frank says, heading for the door.

"Have fun," Gerard tells them, spinning his chair toward his desk.

 

Three hours later, Frank and Mikey are a little drunk and a lot high—or maybe a lot drunk and a little high, at this point Frank is honestly not really sure anymore—but they got spots on the sofa even though there are a ton of people at this party, and Frank has his mom's permission to sleep over at the Ways' and Mikey's parents won't notice if they come home wasted, plus someone just handed Mikey a fresh forty, and if Mikey has beer that means Frank has beer because Mikey's awesome like that, so Frank's cool with everything.

The guy who brought Mikey his drink lies on the floor next to them and puts his feet up on the couch so he's sort of cuddling with Mikey's shoes, and what the fuck. If you want to sit next to Mikey, sit next to him. Don't cuddle his shoes. His shoes stink. Frankie knows this from personal experience.

"Hey, Pete," Mikey says, shifting a little, but not making an attempt to dislodge him.

"Mikey Way," Pete says, face breaking on the biggest smile Frank's ever seen. His hair is very black and his teeth are very white, and in the dim light he looks kind of like one of the characters Gerard draws in his comics sometimes. Frank likes Gerard's comics. A lot. He's not sure about Pete yet.

Not wanting to be rude, Frank sketches a half a wave in Pete's direction, though he's pretty sure that Pete only has eyes for Mikey. As predicted, Pete ignores him, so Frank grabs Mikey's beer and takes a swig. Mikey smiles at him, the sort of mysterious smile he sends at Gerard sometimes when the three of them are hanging out that Frank's pretty sure means, "awww, isn't he cute?" Frank looks at Pete again. Frank guesses he's pretty cute if you like that sort of thing.

Then Pete says, "How's your dick?" and pats Mikey's knee.

Mikey's eyebrows are hidden behind his hair tonight, but Frankie can tell from the shape his mouth makes that they're doing their You're serious with this? thing.

"It's fine," Mikey says with actual words, because Pete is still looking up at him expectantly from the floor like he either can't or won't read Mikey's face. Mikey takes his beer back and downs a couple of swigs.

"Did Mikey tell you about his dick?" Pete asks, turning his attention to Frank just long enough to make it clear it's Frank he's speaking to. He's obviously not easily dissuaded.

"No," Frank says. He and Mikey talk about a lot of stuff, but generally avoid chatting about what's going on in their pants.

"Mikey's brother can come three times without stopping. Mikey thought he should try it," Pete says like he's announcing his team won the World Series or something.

As though Pete didn't say anything at all, Mikey asks Frank about the exam they have in Chemistry on Friday. Because chem homework can totally compare as a conversational topic to three orgasms in a row.

"Get him to tell you about it sometime," Pete says, shaking Frank by the ankle before subsiding, seemingly content to finger the cuffs of Mikey's jeans and listen to him fret about the Periodic Table. If Pete's gonna drop it, Frank doesn't feel like he can pick it up again.

After an hour or so Pete disappears off somewhere. Frank and Mikey share a cigarette, and then Mikey wanders off too. When he comes back he asks if Frank is ready to leave. His hair isn't covering his eyebrows anymore.

On their walk back to the Ways', Frank asks Mikey if Pete was joking or on drugs.

"Don't think he does drugs," Mikey answers like Frank is maybe not gonna notice he's avoiding half the question.

"But guys can't really come three times without stopping, right?" Frank is pretty sure he would have heard about this if it were true.

Mikey doesn't say anything, so Frank presses. "Right?"

"It's not that big a deal," Mikey finally says a block and a half later. "You just keep jerking after you've come until, like, you can come again."

"And again?" Frank asks. Pete said three times.

Mikey shrugs. "It's not like I've done it a lot or anything. Three's a lot of work."

Frank just bets it is.

 

The next morning as Frank lies looking at the bottom of Mikey's bunk, he's not thinking about jerking off, or Gerard or Mikey jerking off, or Pete and his weird shoe cuddling. He's thinking about the fact that Mikey's room smells like smoke and BO and something Frank is starting to strongly suspect is puke. He doesn't remember puking, so he was either much drunker than he thought, or it was Mikey. Except Mikey drank less than Frank did, and he drinks a lot more often. The sound of awake breathing is coming from the bed above him, so Frank asks, "Dude, did you ralph last night?"

Mikey's head peeks over the edge of his bunk. It is not the head of someone who was puking. Other than the fact that his current haircut really really doesn't work upside down, he looks like totally normal Mikey. "No. Why?"

Frank wrinkles his nose and sniffs again, gingerly. Yep. Definitely puke-scent happening. "It fucking reeks in here."

"Oh," Mikey says, head disappearing again. "Yeah. Gee puked in my trash can the other night. He probably didn't clean it out that well."

"Ugh," Frankie says. "Ugh. Why am I even friends with you two?"

"Because we're awesome," Mikey says.

Frank can't actually argue with that.

He can, however, go home, and shower, and take a nap. So he does.

 

When he wakes up for the second time, he's totally thinking about jerking off. In the way where he's lying half on his side, both hands cupping his junk, humping his palms, trying to hold onto the threads of his dream. Gerard and a party and some— And then he realizes that the reason he's awake and not still dreaming is that his mom is standing right there—though she is at least turned somewhat pointedly away, straightening the books on Frank's desk—saying something about how he needs to get up because they're going to be late.

"Fuck, Mom, seriously?" Frank says, his tongue thick, the swear spilling out before he can stop it.

"Watch your language," she snaps, turning to glare at him. Belatedly, he whips his hands off his crotch and hopes that the covers are rucked up enough it wasn't too obvious. "It's almost two in the afternoon. What did you boys get up to last night that you still need to be sleeping?"

"I just— Nothing, mom. Sorry. I just meant maybe you could knock next time."

She did knock, apparently, twice, and Frank's gonna let it go, but arguing with his mom is a pretty good boner killer, so he pushes it a little until she tells him he'll be downstairs in five minutes all ready if he knows what's good for him, and storms out in a huff. Once the wood in his shorts has gone down and he's shaken off his nap, Frank's able to charm her out of her bad mood, and they're friends again by the time they get to his grandparents' house. He cements her good will by helping his grandfather in the yard for a while and offering to run into the store for her to get some coffee on the way home. Over dinner they talk about the guitar Frank wants and what his grandfather's planting next to the front walk and the new woman at his mom's work, and then she's off to her book club, and Frank has the house to himself for the night.

He considers calling Mikey and Gerard to see if they want to hang, but that reminds him that the Ways can come three fucking times without stopping, and fuck. Frank's gotta try that. He's got his hand on his dick by the time he's halfway up the stairs.

While he's shucking his pants, Frank considers the lube-or-no-lube question. Lube wins when he remembers the first time he got drunk and chaffed the fuck out of his dick jerking it dry. Yeah, things sometimes get a little too sensitive in the good way when it's all nice and slick and slippery, but red raw is not a good look for his penis, and as Mikey said, three's a lot of work.

Getting off is not exactly a science, at least not when you're seventeen, but Frank figures this is kind of like one of the experiments they do in Chemistry, and their teacher is always blabbing on and on about preparing your work station, so he pulls the quilt off the bed, makes sure the lube and his t-shirt—which is already dirty and needs to go in the wash anyway—are in reach, and pulls his emergency-stash porn mag so it's sticking out between his mattress and his boxspring so he won't have to get up or grope around if he needs it. He's got a pretty good imagination, and his spank bank is never short of deposits, but it's better to be ready just in case. When he's good to go, he checks the clock, and he's got at least three hours before his mom is back, which is plenty of time.

The lube is cool, but he doesn't warm it up first. He likes the shiver it gives him as it hits the hot skin of his dick, and the way it reins things in before ramping them up again better than before. Letting his mind drift, he concentrates his grip on the base of his cock, squeezing short tugs that get him all-the-way hard, then even harder. As his left hand rubs his belly, Frank imagines it's someone else's, that they're holding him steady, maybe so they can suck him. Yeah. That's fucking good, fucking— It's the dream he had about Gerard. Sitting on a fucking dingy sofa, all these people around, and there was Gerard on his knees between Frank's feet, looking at him, hands on Frank's stomach.

That makes Frank's stroke falter for a second, because there's gotta be a bro code about this kind of thing, but fuck it. It was just a dream. And Gerard's pretty hot down there rubbing Frank's tummy, so whatever. He lets his hands get back to work, firm grip on his dick, other hand squeezing the skin over his hips, the soft swell of his belly. When his toes start curling and the heat's spreading through his belly, down his legs, he lets the strokes speed up, get longer, just right just right, until he's coming, jizz dripping down over his fingers and spattering his stomach.

This is the point where he usually lets go, gropes for a t-shirt or wipes his hand on his boxers, but he has a goal here, so he holds on, pausing for just a second to let the shiver from his thumb on the crown of his cock dissipate, and then starts rubbing again. It's okay for a minute, or, well, a stroke or two, but then it's too okay, and his knees feel unhinged and his ass is clenching so tight it aches and his chest is shaking, and fucking christ, this isn't like rolling over too soon and the sheets being too much friction on your dick, this is crazy. As much as he wants to, Frank can't make his hand keep moving on his cock. Like he has no control over it, it flies to the inside of his thigh and squeezes. Tight. Hard enough to hurt and distract him from the zinging sensation centered on his junk.

When he can get a deep breath, he reaches for the lube again, figuring a little fresh cold might help. It sends a chill down his spine, and makes his abs start jumping, and he can just about take some slow friction right above his balls, but he has to stop again when he tries to get anywhere near his cockhead or get a rhythm going.

He does make it to a second orgasm, but it's almost half an hour after the first, and there is no way he could say he kept a hand on his dick the whole time. A third orgasm is completely out of the question.

Instead, Frank showers, and puts on a load of laundry, and wonders if there's something special about Gerard and Mikey's dicks. Are they made of, like, stone, or rubber? Have they got some kind of mutant powers? Or maybe Mikey and Pete are playing a trick on Frank. But that doesn't really make sense. If it were Mikey and Gee or Mikey and Ray even, Frank would be more likely to believe that, but he'd never even met Pete before last night, and Mikey had seemed pretty embarrassed. Well, as embarrassed as Mikey ever gets anyway. Which is like, not very.

While his laundry's running Frank gets out his electric guitar and practices chords without plugging it into his amp. He's been kind of shit about playing it lately, mostly because he really wants a better one, and the strings make his fingers hurt. It distracts from the feel of his junk in his sleep pants though, which is awesome. He's not used to being so aware of everything down there unless he's actively thinking about it. But it still feels sensitive and kinda buzzy, like maybe it's still horny even though Frank mostly isn't. Or maybe like he's horny and his junk is saying, dude. No. He can't really tell.

His mom comes home while he's folding the towels hot out of the dryer, and she gives him a hug and a kiss despite his protests, and tells him he's a good boy. He doesn't tell her that while he does like making her happy, he's more into not having to sleep on sheets all smeared with lube. There are things a boy's mother doesn't need to know.

 

Sunday, Ray comes and picks him up and they go over and get Mikey, and for a miracle, Gerard is happy enough with his project that they manage to drag him out of his basement. The weather's nice, so they hang out in the woods smoking the rest of Mikey's stash, throwing rocks into a creek, and plotting to take over the world.

"No, see, it's gotta be art," Gerard's saying to Ray. "It's gotta be."

Frank is slumped against a tree root, buzzed and mellow, but Gerard's leaning forward, gesturing with great sweeps of his arms in Ray's face. He clearly needs to smoke more.

"I don't know," Ray answers. He's leaning against a birch with peeling bark and he's so going to end up with strips of it in his hair. "I think music might be the thing."

"Music is totally art, though! That's the point." With the ease of years of practice, Ray lifts a hand to defend his face against Gerard's illustrative pointy finger. "Don't you see? Art is music and music is art. It's all… a—" Gerard sets his hands spinning in front of his face like a kitten boxing with a speed bag. "It's the circle of life." And okay, maybe he doesn't need to smoke more.

"Yeah," Ray says doubtfully, and Gerard's off again.

Frank can't stop staring at Gerard's hands. It's not that he's never noticed Gee talks with his hands before. He has eyes. But he's never really looked at Gerard's fingers. How they actually make shapes, like he's speaking in sculpture.

"Who has the lighter?" Mikey asks, holding a freshly rolled joint aloft. Ray wiggles his fingers into his front pocket to fish it out. His are sturdier than Gerard's. Squarer. They're fucking genius at making music, but they don't make pictures. Maybe everyone's secret to taking over the world can be found in their hands.

When Mikey's lighting the joint, Frank notices how similar his fingers are to Gerard's, and Frank remembers that those are fingers that can make multiple orgasms happen. "Orgasms would totally work," Frank says.

The other three all turn to stare at him.

"Work for what?" Ray asks just as Gerard says, "Orgasms can totally be art."

Mikey laughs so hard he falls over onto his pile of throwing stones. Frank half-heartedly aims a kick in his direction but he's way too baked to be actually embarrassed.

"No starting fires," Ray says, rescuing the joint and lighter from Mikey's fists which are flailing around in the leaves and dirt as he tries to get his giggles under control.

"If we're doing apocalypse scenarios, I vote zombies," Gerard says, stealing the stuff from Ray and relighting the joint.

By the time they're down to the roach, Mikey's rock pile is gone, and Frankie is toast. "Oh my god, toast would be so fucking good right now," he says. "Bring me toast."

"No one's bringing you shit. We're in the woods." Mikey pokes him in the hip with his toe.

"Seven-eleven," Ray says.

"Fuck yeah, Seven-eleven," Gerard agrees.

Ray totally does have bark in his hair, and they all have leaves stuck to their clothes, and Frank wonders if they look like gorillas, or maybe chimps, as they groom each other before heading for the car.

Gerard calls shotgun, and Frank climbs in behind Ray, so he has a perfect view of Gerard's hands and his face in two-thirds profile as he talks. His words are lost in the thump of the stereo, so Frank's brain fills in for him. Talking about art again, probably, holding a paint brush, then squinching one eye shut and putting his hands up, framing the view out the window, but when he grips his left wrist loosely in his right fist, Frank's pretty sure he's talking about dick. Maybe his dick and how he can jerk it three times in a row without stopping. Fuck, Frank wants to see that.

Too bad there's not really a good way to say, So, hey, I know you're my best friend's big brother and all, but next time you're going for a marathon jerking off session, how 'bout you let me watch?

"Dude," Mikey says. "What are you staring at?"

Frank tears his eyes away from where Gerard still has his fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Nothing," he mumbles, fixing his gaze on the tuft of hair sticking up on top of Mikey's head instead.

 

Monday starts way too early, and it's all school, and homework, and that upcoming Chemistry test, and Frank mostly forgets about the Way's freakish orgasm skills. Until Wednesday night when he's desperately trying to get an English essay done before his mom gets home from work, and he gets a text from Gerard saying Mikey's not letting him pick the movie and Frank should come over and be on Gee's side. "Can't," he texts back, because his mom's not working that late, and she'd skin him alive if he went out on a Wednesday night when he has homework to do and a test to study for. Frank does not want to be skinned. Or grounded. "See you Fri tho?"

"Text Mikey and tell him he shouldn't make me watch Empire again until we've watched Jedi, and I'll forgive you for abandoning me in my time of need."

Frank snorts because he's pretty sure neither of them needs to watch any of the Star Wars films again, they can probably close their eyes and see them all by memory, but he sends Mikey a text anyway. It says, "you're both losers. Watch something new. C u tomorrow."

He tries to go back to metaphor in Poe's Telltale Heart, but all he can think about is how maybe if they can't agree on a movie, Mikey will just go upstairs, and Gerard won't have anything to do but have lots of orgasms. Frank wants lots of orgasms. His mom never comes up to check on him until she's had dinner and watched some TV, so orgasms could totally happen and he can get back to his essay later.

This time he tries without lube, hoping that might help. It doesn't. It just makes the first orgasm harder to get to, and then the actual skin on his dick hurts, not just— whatever, all up inside and right under the surface that gets too sensitive. He's back at his desk by the time his mom gets home.

The next day at lunch Frank flat-out asks Mikey if he and Pete were lying about the orgasm thing. Frank's pretty sure if Mikey were Gerard or Ray he'd be laughing at him, but he's Mikey, and he's not stoned, so his nose just wrinkles a little—not even enough to move his glasses. "You're an asshole," Frank tells him.

"You just can't handle my level of awesome."

"Uh huh," Frank says. "Right. Awesome this." Frank gives Mikey a one-two punch in the shoulder. Mikey doesn't even flinch, just puts Frank in a headlock he seriously doesn't even see coming, and calmly picks up his sandwich and takes another bite.

Frank fights that shit off quick as he can, because if there is one thing he's learned in the last couple months, on the list of places you do not want your face, all up in a Way's armpit is near the top. "Ugh! Gross!" he says once he's escaped. "You're still an asshole. And take a fucking shower."

Mikey flips him off, putting down his sandwich so he can use both hands, but he looks pretty happy when he does it, so Frank feels safe stealing one of his potato chips. He still doesn't have his answer about whether or not it's really possible to do that coming three times thing, though.

For the next few weeks, Frank sticks to jerking off like a normal person and tries not to spend too much time on the nagging voice in the back of his head asking if it's actually Gerard and Mikey who're the normal ones. Maybe it's Frank who's the freak. He's pretty sure he's not, but the doubt still eats at him.

Tuesday of spring break, Frank heads over to Mikey and Gerard's house after lunch. Mikey's been ignoring his texts—or Pete's taken his phone away so Mikey will pay attention to him; apparently Pete does that sometimes—but Gerard is always home, and Mikey's promised Frank a thousand times that Gee doesn't care Frankie's still in high school or that he was Mikey's friend first. He thinks Frank's cool.

There's a minute after Gerard answers the door and says, "Mikey's out," that Frank thinks maybe Mikey was wrong, but then Gee says, "Come in. What're you doing?" when Frank turns to go. Apparently Gerard's just grumpy about the fact Mikey's out with Pete. All the way through the house to his basement, with a detour via the kitchen to get cans of coke, he complains about guys who think they can just make Mikey do whatever they want.

Frank's only met Pete the one time, but Mikey talks about him, and Frank's pretty sure it isn't Pete who's in charge there. It doesn't sound like Pete's willingness to lie at Mikey's feet is just literal. But Frank doesn't say any of that, because Gerard is not exactly reasonable when it comes to his brother-protection tendencies, and it's simpler to just let him vent. Instead, Frank says, "So did Mikey ever let you watch Jedi?"

"No!" Spinning toward Frank with a look of dismay on his face, Gerard throws himself passionately into the new topic. "He's like, suddenly over Ewoks. What's that even about? I mean, okay, they're not—"

Frank tunes out the words and just listens to the sound of Gerard's voice, heading over to the stack of DVDs in the corner to try to find the disc. He doesn't really get the Ewok thing, but he doesn't have anything against them, and he likes making Gerard happy, so they might as well watch it. Disc in the player and TV on, Frank turns toward the bed, where Gerard's propping pillows and straightening covers. Usually he and Mikey are all set up when Frank arrives, and honestly it had never occurred to Frank any bedmaking had happened first. Watching Gerard doing more flailing than straightening, he can see why. But wrinkled sheets don't matter when there's a spot big enough for Frank to sit next to Gerard and drink his coke and watch the movie.

They're watching the scene in Jabba's lair when Gerard says, "I saw a sex doll dressed up like that once. On the internet."

"I hope you mean Leia," Frank says, because a sex doll of Jabba is too terrifying to contemplate. His mouth is just— no.

"Of course I mean Leia. Although—" Gerard tips his head to the side. Frank fights the urge to slap a hand over his mouth and make him stop talking. "I bet there are Han and Luke sex dolls, too."

Maybe Frank is a freak. Apparently Gerard didn't even think about the non-human alternatives here. "So, um," Frank says before he knows he's going to say anything at all. Unfortunately, Gerard's attention is on him, so he feels like he should continue. "Speaking of sex dolls. Mi—" It occurs to Frank that maybe Gerard doesn't know that Mikey's telling people about his wanking skills. "Um, I've heard, you know, around, that like, there are guys who can get off three times without stopping. And I was, I mean—" god he sounds like a fucking idiot. "Have you ever heard of that?"

Usually Frank's not a big blusher, but the back of his neck feels all prickly, and he's staring holes through the middle of Gerard's chest because he can't look him in the face. He is the least smooth ever.

"Fucking Mikey loves to brag about that," Gerard says easily. "Even though he's only done it once. He wouldn't even know about it if I hadn't told him. Have you tried it?"

"It's— I mean." Frank waves a hand around helplessly.

Warming to his subject, Gerard shifts so he's turned right toward Frank, his knee pressed to Frank's thigh, and says, "It's a lot easier if you have someone to help. Like, it's really hard not to stop when it gets too much if it's you, but if someone's doing it for you, they just don't stop if you don't want them to, even if you think you want them to at the time, if you've arranged it beforehand or whatever, then it's easier."

He's looking at Frank like he expects Frank to have something articulate to say about this, but Frank's pretty sure most of what he said didn't even actually make sense. The last time Frank had a handjob was just before the girl he was seeing moved to Florida more than ten months ago. She was pretty good with her hands, but she definitely never tried to keep going once he'd come. Frank wants to know who's been giving Gerard handjobs. And who Gerard's been giving handjobs to.

And now Frank can't stop thinking about all the thoughts he's had about Gerard's hands the last few weeks.

"Uh huh," Frank says, because he can just about manage that. Gerard's still looking at him, and Frank's not sure what the look means, but Frank's dick likes it. Frank's everything likes it, but his brain gets that Gerard isn't actually looking at him like he's thinking about Frank's dick the way Frank's thinking about his hands.

"I love this part!" Frank blurts because Gerard looks like he's going to say something and Frank's afraid to hear what it is. He's not even looking at the screen, so he doesn't know which part he's loving, but Gerard likes the whole damn thing, so he probably won't think Frank's weird. Too weird. It turns out to be the part with the sail barge rescue, which is pretty cool, so it's all good. They both settle back to watch the movie.

Or Gerard settles back to watch the movie. Frank settles back to look at the screen and fail completely not to think about what Gerard said. About not stopping because Frank had told him not to stop even if Frank begged. Frank's pretty sure he would beg. He should probably feel more embarrassed about that, but somehow it just makes him hotter and more restless. He scoots away from Gerard a little bit because he can't stop shifting, and the way Gerard's hand keeps brushing Frank's thigh every time Gerard takes a sip of his drink is really not helping with Frank's efforts to keep his dick from poking through his jeans. Frank is almost certain that if Gerard were helping him he could have three orgasms in a row. Possibly he could have three orgasms at once. And hey. Maybe Mikey didn't do it jerking off either. Maybe Mikey did it with Pete, and that's how Pete knows about it, and maybe Pete was bragging and not just being impressed.

And that is way more detailed thinking about Mikey's dick than Frank feels comfortable with. Which maybe doesn't make sense considering how comfortable he's gotten in the last ten minutes thinking about the details of Gerard's dick. And about Gerard thinking in detail of Frank's. And now Frank's thinking about Gerard's theories on assisted masturbation and multiple orgasms and Frank having them.

Not that Gerard had meant he would want to help Frank. Just, like, someone might. Except maybe he would want to, because Gerard likes to know stuff. Not just about art and music and zombies and things, but like, other stuff too. Maybe he'd want to know if Frank could do it. Like, for science.

"Oh, hey," Gerard says, and Frank nearly jumps out of his skin. "Want some rum in your coke? I totally forgot to offer."

Frank would absofuckinglutely love some rum.

Gerard takes his can when Frank holds it out, and tips some rum through the hole in the top. "You should shake it up," Gerard says, but obviously Frank's not going to shake an open can of soda. He sort of gives it a little swirl, and keeps his eyes glued to the screen.

The swirling doesn't do a lot to mix his drink, or Gerard just has a really heavy hand, and Frank ends up having a super embarrassing coughing fit when he takes his first sip, and then sits there wheezing like an octogenarian bishop at a peep show while Gerard rubs his back. Frank would like to say that he doesn't take advantage of the fact that he's had a lot of practice wheezing to keep Gerard's hands on him longer than is strictly necessary, but he'd be lying. Gerard's hands are Gerard's hands, and if Frank isn't going to get to feel them on his dick, he'll take them wherever he can get them.

"You okay?" Gerard says when Frank finally takes his breathing back to normal. He doesn't move his hand from the small of Frank's back, though, even when Frank says, yeah, he's fine, and takes another—smaller—sip of his drink to prove it. And when Frank sits gingerly back against the pillows again, Gerard only moves it as far as Frank's neck.

There is only so long Frank can cope with the combined heat of Gerard's palm and Old St. John's before he loses control of his tongue. He's not sure how long he lasts, but there are definitely Ewoks on screen when he breaks.

"I don't have anyone who would," he says, eyes trained on a storm trooper blasting a fallen tree.

"I would totally take down a planetary shield for you," Gerard answers, squeezing Frank's neck.

"What?" Frank takes another sip of his drink, except there's nothing left in the can. Oops. "A shield?" Then he registers Han and Leia huddled in the doorway of a bunker. "Oh," he says. "Thanks. But I meant—" Frank mimes jerking off with the hand holding his empty. He can feel Gerard's gaze on him, but he can't turn to meet it.

"Tons of people would," Gerard says, his hand leaving Frank's neck.

Frank's pretty sure he would notice if people were lining up to give him handjobs. "I don't think so."

"Well I would." Frank does turn to look at Gerard then, because that is definitely his hand on Frank's thigh.

"For science?" Frank asks. Because apparently rum and Gerard's hand on his thigh makes him forget that some things are best not said aloud.

"Sure?" Gerard watches his hand move an inch toward Frank's dick and then two inches back toward his knee. Frank can totally live with the science thing. It is, after all, just what he expected, and a handjob for science has to be better than no handjob at all, even though it would maybe be kind of nice if Gerard wanted to do it because Frank is Frank. "And because," Gerard says. His hand moves half an inch upwards again. "Just because I would. If you wanted. Me to, you know, do that. For you. With—" Gerard's fingers tighten on Frank's thigh for the flash of a second— "you."

Somewhere on the other side of the room, important things are happening on the screen. Things some people (Gerard) would argue changed the face of cinema forever (Frank's not so sure). But Frank is paying absolutely no attention to that, because right here on the bed something even more important is happening. Something he's pretty sure, if he plays his cards right, might lead to him getting a handjob from a guy who can magic up three orgasms. In a row. He really hopes he can play his cards right.

"That would be awesome," he blurts. Which, for a fucking miracle, seems to be a royal flush.

Gerard's hand squeezes again, and he looks up at Frank's face, and he's smiling. The smile he gets when he's delighted and surprised about it, eyes bright and going wide above his mouth full of tiny teeth. Frank loves that smile, but he's more used to seeing it directed at Mikey. It's kind of a shock to be hit with it full force.

"Awesome," Gerard says back, his smile somehow not getting lost at all as his lips shape the word.

Frank's brain tries to think of something clever, or charming, or appropriate to reply, but while he's busy thinking, his mouth says, "Awesome," again.

Since Luke and Vader are on the screen, Frank figures Gerard means later, but Gerard's hand is on the move again, up to Frank's waist, pushing and tugging like he wants Frank to lie down. Frank is totally willing to lie down. He's just not totally sure how to go about it, with a can in his hand, and Gerard half in his lap, and the pillows all bunched up behind him, so he ends up all twisted up in his clothes and Gerard's sheets for a minute. Then his empty coke is somewhere on the floor and he's got his hands on Gerard's shoulders, and Gerard is there filling his view, looking at him, and he's still got that smile on his face and a hand on Frank's hip.

"Okay," Frank says, which is at least better than repeating himself again.

"Yeah." Gerard's fingers slide under Frank's shirt, stroke back and forth where his waistband digs in a little. "I would also, if you want— Can I kiss you first?"

Other than the time he kissed Gerard's cheek, Frank's never really thought about kissing him. This turns out to have been a terrible oversight on his part.

Gerard waits for Frank's nod, and then the hand not on Frank's hip goes to his face and his fingers sort of stroke through Frank's hair, tilting and guiding and suddenly Frank's mouth is perfectly aligned with his. It's a really smooth move for a guy who can talk for half an hour about how awesome Ewoks are. Frank figured they'd kiss and maybe grope a little, and then get to the handjobs, but Gerard is kissing him like Frank's mouth is the only thing on his mind. And Frank would remind him that they've got a plan here, but the kissing is nice. Really nice. Like Frank's got both hands twisted in Gerard's hair and is trying to wrap both legs around him to get closer kind of nice. Excellent, really. Frank tries to tell Gerard that he's a really excellent kisser, but Gerard is sucking on his tongue, so it sounds a lot more like a desperate moan than the compliment he means it to be.

But Gerard gives him a pleased hum and settles Frank more firmly against his chest, so maybe he gets it.

They make out for a long time. Long enough for the music to swell and fall and swell again before starting the endless menu loop. Long enough for Frank's desperate grabbing to turn into contented squirming before tipping back to desperate, his fingers nearly ripping the belt loops off Gerard's jeans as Frank pulls him down, grinds against his hip, so close, so fucking close, who needs handjobs anyway.

"Yeah," Gerard whispers against Frank's lips. "Yeah. Can you? Can you like this?"

It's never been one of Frank's goals to say, hey, I totally creamed my jeans, because, hello, it's nice to have some kind of self control, but he can absolutely come from lazy morning mattress humping, so he doesn't even think before gasping, "Yeah, just—" and shoving Gerard's hand down to give him something a little less bony to push against.

Gerard's palm is perfect, his fingers curling just right under Frank's nuts, and Frank comes, gasping, staring up into Gerard's grinning face.

By the time he's soaked his shorts with jizz, Frank's forgotten what they're doing here, and he squeaks in surprise when Gerard goes for Frank's fly, pulls his dick out through the hole in his boxers and starts stroking him, firm and slow, still grinning down at Frank's shocked face. Frank's whole body lurches, but Gerard has a leg pinning Frank's thighs, and he's half lying on Frank's chest, so all that does is make Gerard grin a little wider, press his thumb hard right under the head of Frank's dick on an aborted upstroke. "What?" Frank says. "Fucking what—" and he remembers. Three orgasms. In a row. No stopping. He hauls in as much air as he can, lets it out on a string of blaspheming and curses that would have got his mouth washed out with soap back in the days before his mom gave up, but nowhere contains any word that sounds like "stop."

"You good?" Gerard asks when Frank's babbling peters out. He's fucking delighted with himself, and damn it, Frank is good. It's still too much, his dick oversensitive and caught between going soft and getting hard, his legs shaking under the weight of Gerard's thigh, but the sensation of Gerard's hand on him is new and that's enough so he can take it. Not enough so he can form coherent sentences though, so he just nods and grips Gerard's shoulders tight enough that the ache in his knuckles distracts a little from what's happening in his pants.

When Gerard starts kissing him, that helps even more. Frank sucks Gerard's lower lip, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, concentrating on that, letting the sharp spikes of arousal from his too-stimulated cock spread out warm through his belly and down his legs. Plus, Gerard seems really into the lip sucking, so Frank can focus on the little sounds he's making, the way he keeps clutching and releasing and then clutching tighter at Frank's t-shirt. All of which allows Frank's dick to go from confused to actually hard again, and it's still crazy intense coming at an orgasm from the other side, but it doesn't feel like his dick's gonna fall off the way it did when he tried this on his own. And now he's hard, Gerard's going faster, doing some fancy shit, Frank doesn't fucking know, but it feels fucking great, and if he keeps it up, Frank's so going to come again.

"Gonna," Frank mumbles, lips still half around Gerard's, "gonna nnnnggnh—" and holy fuck his god damn toes are coming, and he lifts Gerard half off the bed with the arch in his spine.

"Fuck, Frankie, that was— Fuck." Gerard sounds impressed. He fucking well should, because that was totally impressive. Two in a row is better than he managed on his own, and Frank's happy there. He's pretty sure he's done though.

"Gnnnngh—" Frank says, loosening his grip on Gerard's shoulder so he can shove Gerard's hand off his dick. He would be begging Gee to stop now, but he doesn't have a language to beg in.

Gerard doesn't fight Frank's pathetic prodding; he takes his hand off Frank's junk and squeezes his hip. Frank is extremely relieved. And maybe a tiny itsy-bit disappointed. Two though. Two is awesome.

"Two is awesome," Gerard says, and when did mind reading become his X-men power? "I can't wait to see three."

His hands are very definitely still on Frank's hip and twisted in Frank's shirt over his ribs, and Frank is absolutely not touching his own dick, but, oh, Gerard is on the move and that's his tongue licking jizz off Frank's stomach right next to where Frank's dick is slumped, waving a white flag.

"Three?" Frank says even more weakly than he'd moved to push Gerard away a second ago.

"You wanted to do three, right?" Gerard asks far too brightly for someone who is now tugging at Frank's jeans and extricating Frank's dick from his clinging boxer shorts. "I really want to blow you."

"You—" Of course he does. "'Kay," Frank manages.

There has definitely not been enough recovery time for blow jobs, even though Gerard's maybe breaking some of the rules—not that Frank knows exactly what the rules even are. Are there rules for this?—by not sucking right away. Instead, once he's carefully freed Frank from his clothes, he nuzzles his face into the groove of Frank's groin, presses firm kisses to Frank's belly, his thighs, the base of his dick, and wet sucking ones to Frank's balls. He waits until Frank takes a deep shuddering breath all the way down to his stomach before he licks his way up Frank's dick and takes it into his mouth.

"Aaaack!" Frank says, loudly. Louder than the DVD. Loud enough to be heard upstairs probably, and he hopes no one's come home since he got here in case his sex aaacks are distinguishable from his Mikey-just-pushed-me-off-the-bed-onto-something-squishy/sharp/breakable aaacks.

Frank has had two blowjobs in his life. The first one was over almost before it started, Frank was so wound up from going down on his girlfriend first, and the second one was at a party, and he honestly has clearer memories of puking in the bushes on the way home. Gerard has apparently had more blowjob experience than Frank. He's got most of Frank's cock surrounded by wet, wet heat—not that Frank's dick is huge when he's mostly soft or anything, but Frank's still impressed—and he's just sucking gently, rubbing a little with his tongue, enough to make Frank's feet twitch and his hands curl in the sheets. He really wants to look, but he can't open his eyes or move his head, or do anything but brace himself and hold on as Gerard sucks a little harder.

The laughing starts about the time Gerard cups Frank's nuts in one hand and starts doing things that make arrows of fuck yes! and oh god, too much shoot down Frank's legs and up his spine. It's not the kind of tipsy gigglefit Frank gets when Mikey and Gerard argue passionately about something only brothers understand; it's great braying whoops of laughter coming from deep in his chest. He'd be kicking, but his legs are trapped under Gerard's armpits, his hips pinned by Gerard's forearms, so he's left with thrashing his head side to side, grabbing everything he can reach—pillows, bedding, Gerard's wrists and hair. He needs something to pull against that won't give, but he can't find anything. He doesn't know when he gets hard again. Or when the tears start. He's shaking, still laughing, and he grabs his own face and it's wet, and Gerard's bobbing up and down now, can't keep all of Frank in his mouth. Frank can't come again. He cannot. There is no possible way to turn everything that's happening in his body into an orgasm. But he has to or he's going to die.

A litany of pleasepleaseplease runs through his head, but the sounds coming out of him are nothing like words, nothing like laughter anymore, just desperate, broken noises he can't stop. Twinges in his stomach muscles, sharp pain in his arm where his teeth are clamped, eyes aching under the crook of his elbow, but none of it anything compared to the soaked-velvet friction on his dick, too-rough-soft and wet and neverending, and Frank's gonna die anyway, no matter what happens, orgasm or not. Except he's coming, twitching, jerking, sudden stillness, and he can still feel his arms wrapped around his face, and he probably couldn't feel that if he were dead.

Frank comes around to Gerard murmuring in his ear, all four limbs cradling Frank close. Parsing sentences is beyond him, but Frank can make out, "good," and "perfect," and "everything's okay," and it's easier to believe him than not, so Frank floats on the sound of Gerard's voice, the feel of his fingers playing with Frank's hair. He starts to shiver and Gerard pulls a piece of warm over his bare back, and then the Star Wars theme is gone, and with it the glow of the menu screen. "'m I dead?" Frank mumbles into Gerard's neck. Heaven probably doesn't smell like sex sheets, but Frank's never been that sure he was going to heaven anyway.

"Not dead," Gerard says, soft, jaw moving against Frank's temple. "Fucking fuck though, that was crazy."

"Yeah." Crazy is one word for it. Gerard is obviously some kind of sex ninja.

"You need anything?" Gerard tugs at the covers, tipping Frank farther into him, but liberating enough fabric to tuck the comforter a little more around Frank's shoulders. It makes Frank re-evaluate his sheets-in-heaven theory.

"Naah," he says. "'m good." All he needs is Gerard to stay right where he is until Frank can feel his toes again. Or at least his legs. Assuming that ever happens. And the thought of losing his legs to sex shouldn't be funny, but Frank starts giggling.

Gerard strokes his hair again, and Frank tries to apologize. "Naw, you're good," Gerard says. "You come back whenever you're ready. I won't go anywhere." Somehow that's funny too.

When Frank wakes up, he's clinging to Gerard's thigh, with Gee propped up on pillows so he can smoke, free hand heavy on the back of Frank's neck. "Me," Frank says, reaching up to tug the cigarette from between Gerard's fingers so he can take a drag himself. It makes him cough, but he holds onto it, taking another pull before he'll give it back.

"You can have your own," Gerard says, waving a hand presumably in the direction of his pack. But Frank's cool.

"Three fucking orgasms're no joke." Frank twists so he can lie on Gerard's thigh and look at him. "You guys are fucking nuts."

"A little," Gerard agrees. The way the smoke drifts out of his mouth when he talks is fascinating. Frank takes the cigarette back for another hit, smiling when Gee gives it up easily. It strikes Frank as he hands it back that he's still naked, under the covers or not, and he's lying in Gerard's bed sharing a smoke with him after they had sex. Lots and lots and lots of sex. It should feel much weirder than it does.

"Should this feel weirder than it does?" Frank asks. Unless. "Unless— maybe it is weird for you? Is it weird?"

Gerard looks at him, left eye squinched against the ribbon of smoke rising up into his face. "It's awesome, Frankie."

Awesome. Awesome is good. "Cool," Frank says.

"Totally worth missing the end of Jedi for."

"Wow." Pulling Gerard's hand down to his mouth, Frank sucks in another mouthful of smoke. "That really is awesome."

"It is," Gerard says, taking his cigarette back so he can have the last drag.