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The Keeper Of The Keg

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Jacob Anderson is a complete douchebag, but when you're sixteen and still haven't been to a big house party, there's something fucking wrong. So Frank says yes when Dewees asks him to go and then he says hello to Jacob by comparing the size of his house to his mom's ass, just on principle.

It turns out to be worth it in the end, because right now, at approximately two-thirty am on a Saturday night (or Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it), his bicep is satisfyingly stained with a big purpling bruise, and Frank is high as fuck. He brought his own pot, of course, because good luck trying to score anything halfway decent from the likes of these fucking chumps. He's sat on the kitchen table, knees spread around the keg, legs cold and numbing in his jeans. Everything's blurry around the edges, and people swim in and out of his vision like shadows, like vague outlines of what they're supposed to be. Like ghosts.

It would probably freak Frank out if he wasn't drunk off his ass, too. As it is, the noise of rowdy inebriated teenagers is strangely soothing. He's pretty sure ghosts don't sound like that. They probably, like, make haunting noises. Wooooo and shit.

"Dude, the fuck you talking about?" Dewees' voice is distinctly un-ghostly, slurred and obnoxious from the floor.

Frank snorts, "Your face," and then giggles at his own lame response. He is really not on his top game right now. "Oh man, I am so wasted. So wasted. I'm a total waste right now."

"Your life is a total waste," Dewees grunts, foot suddenly connecting with Frank's calf, and Frank yelps when his bare knee connects with the keg in a sharp flash of coldfuckcold! Why does he have to rip the knees of every single pair of jeans he owns to shit, again? "You wanna, like, go?"

Frank tries to look down at him. He's slouched against the cabinets, legs sprawled out across the tiles, seemingly unconcerned with the grumbling people shuffling and stepping over him trying to get into the kitchen. Giggling again at some dumbass blonde chick's annoyed orange face, Frank says, "Dude, naw, not yet." He's been playing Keeper Of The Keg for a little while, but so far that pretty greasy dude hasn't come over. A few stupid jock types, some raised-eyebrowers, and a random tall guy in a dress, but no pretty greasy dude.

"It's not faaaair," Frank whines, mostly to himself, and Dewees obligingly ignores him. Yeah, Frank's probably moaned to him enough tonight. Like, Dewees is a buddy, but Frank gets there's only so many times you can listen to your best friend bitch about how they've had a big gay self-revelation only to realize they have absolutely nobody to experiment with. Like, wow, it sucks so hard, and not in the literal sense Frank would like; he's just been flailing around and confused and figuring it out for so long that now he's finally realized that yes, he does indeed like cock he just has no patience left. Frank knows what's what now, okay, and he's done waiting. He just wants to touch a dick already.

"No," Dewees says, and the disgusted look on some approaching neanderthal’s face confirms Frank has indeed just said that out loud.

Frank pulls the most grotesque face he can at him until he slowly turns and shuffles back the way he came. No beer for the homophobe, yay! Gleefully, Frank turns back to Dewees, "Not you, dickbag, don't fucking flatter yourself." The keg totters a little as he kicks a leg in his general direction with a deliberately childish, "Ewwww, no way! I wouldn't wanna catch something."

Dewees smacks Frank's foot away, flipping Frank the bird. "Fuck you, asshole, it was your mom that gave me it in the first place," and Frank's laughing so hard several people follow Neanderthal Homophobe out of the kitchen, shooting Frank dirty looks as they go. Frank happily makes blowjob gestures at them. Maybe he can get thrown out before three am.

"Ugh," Dewees moans, "M'so drunk. I don't wanna pass out here, man, I want my bed."

The awww, diddums is thrown off Frank's tongue by the sudden emerging of a certain pretty face from the crowd. Fuck, yeah. He's black-haired and pale and kind of dirty looking, and Frank guesses that must be his type because god damn Frank would hit that. Like, sure, technically he doesn't even know what hit that means yet, but he knows he would anyway. He's feeling all tingly and shit.

Greasy dude shuffles through the kitchen door, holding a paper cup awkwardly against his chest and looking slightly alarmed, twitching every time someone gets too close. Frank guesses he must have finished that little bottle of vodka he was trying to hide in his jacket pocket earlier, taking sips in the corner of the living room when he thought no one was looking. His tastes must have turned to good old-fashioned beer now, because he's coming this way.

Shit, he's coming this way. Greasy dude edges gingerly around some dickhead in a wifebeater and then suddenly his wide eyes land on Frank.

And get wider.

And-- oh. Yeah. Frank should probably take his fist away from his mouth now. Dewees is still talking, fucking reciting poetry about going home and jacking off in bed with a bowl of Lucky Charms or something, and it isn't doing anything for the dude's caught-in-the-headlights look.

Frank flails his foot in Dewees' space again, catching him in the ribs. "You want beer?" he asks over Dewees' threat-filled spluttering.

Greasy dude visibly hesitates, his eyes darting between Frank, Dewees and the keg. Booze is booze though, and after a moment he says slowly, "Yeah," and steps up.

Frank internally fistpumps. "Gimmie your cup," he says, and after another pause the dude hands it over, looking a little wary, like he thinks Frank's going to spit in it or something. "Don't worry," Frank reassures him. "I'm Keeper Of The Keg, this is what I do."

"Hah," greasy dude actually laughs, thick and kind of croaky in his throat. "Sounds kinda like, er," he trails off, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"What? Noooo, come on, what?" Frank maybe sounds a little too eager, but whatever, he's too high to care. "I'm gonna put a fucking -" The dude's smile is kind of dorky and lopsided, shy from behind his hair, and wow, what's the word Frank's searching for? He fills the cup while he thinks. Oh yeah. "Toll! I'm putting a toll on your beer. I'm the keeper, so you have to tell me."

"Fuck," greasy dude says, making a weak grab for the beer, but Frank holds it out of reach with a grin. "Fuck," he repeats, sighing. "Okay, just that. It sounds kind of like Tolkien. Or a D&D villain, or something. The Keeper Of The Keg." He sounds almost nervous as he says it, fingers fidgeting.

Frank stares. And then stares some more. The dude coughs, eyes down, and Dewees snorts so loud Frank wants to deck him, except he's too busy staring at pretty nerdy dude. "Wow, okay. Screw that, I'm changing the toll price," the words flow easily from Frank's mouth even as his stomach knots up, "now you gotta kiss me."

"Uh," greasy pretty nerdy dude says, and Frank does kick Dewees then, right in the curve where neck meets shoulder, because wow, he does not need his stupid fucking - guffawing right now, okay.

"Oh my god, you are such a fag," Dewees spits through his laughter, lunging away from Frank's foot when he goes for a second blow and spilling his beer all over the floor. "Oh, shit! I swear to god, Frankie, if I wasn't too drunk to move you'd be on your fucking ass right now, fuck."

"Huh?" Frank's still laughing at the beer slowly spreading over the floor, the shrieking girls falling over their high heels to avoid it, but greasy dude is looking down at Dewees, eyes narrowed. "Hey, that's. That's not cool, dude, you shouldn't say that."

"What?" Frank and Dewees say at the same time.

"Fag," the dude says quietly. His pupils are blown but his expression is suddenly serious, mouth set in a tense little pout. "It's not. Not a nice word."

"Yeah, well, Frank isn't a nice person," Dewees says with exaggerated tragedy, clutching dramatically at his chest. "I mean, first he assaults me with his feet, and then he murders my beer! And his mom gave me the herp."

"Fuck off," Frank tries to say, but it kind of dies in his throat because - because what, pretty greasy nerdy dude is suddenly all up in his space. Like, looming. "Uh," Frank says; he's really pretty and also really strongly tobacco-scented and then he's got a hand up against Frank's face and he's-- oh. Oh man, he's fucking kissing him, lips wet and hot, pressing close. The keg wobbles a little when Frank flails, free hand grabbing at the dude's jacket, the other hovering in mid-air behind himself so he doesn't spill beer everywhere, moving on autopilot because fuck if he knows how to handle this. His mind is spinning and all there is is heat, and spit, a sloppy hint of tongue and a solid, crowding body between his thighs.

God, yeah. This is awesome. This is what Frank has been waiting for. He's pretty much ready to go for the dick-touching right now, but hot pretty nerdy awesome-kisser pulls back. "Your toll," he whispers, face still all up near Frank's, hot-breathed and long-lashed, sort of out of focus. Frank keeps his grip on his jacket. He feels a little unsteady. His ass is sort of numb. "Now give me my beer."

"Beer," Frank repeats dumbly.

"Oh my god," Dewees voice anguished voice is kind of fuzzy and faded in the background. There's shuffling around them, some agitated mumblings.

Pretty awesome-kisser dude says, "Small minded idiots." His hands are on Frank's hips. When did that happen? His hands are really warm, too, spanned wide over Frank's t-shirt.

"Uh-huh," Frank says.

The dude smiles again, but Frank's pretty sure there's nothing shy about it now. "So your name is Frank, yeah?" His teeth are tiny and white. There's stubble on his jaw, peppering his neck. Frank nods. "I'm Gerard. Uh, beer?"

"Oh," Frank says. "Sure." He hands it over and greasy - no, Gerard - drains it in one go, throat rippling in front of Frank's face before he tosses the cup carelessly over his shoulder. Jesus. Frank would really, really like to touch his dick right about now. Also the rest of him, but mostly his dick. It's kind of crazy how much he wants it. He's not even nervous - or, okay, mostly not nervous, but through the pot-fuzzy vision and the low burn in his gut and the semi-boner in his pants he knows Gerard is hot as hell, and that's kind of all he can concentrate on right now.

"Frank, I love you, man, but I'm not getting my head kicked in for you," Dewees says, apparently on his feet now; there's the vague impression of his badly shaved hair moving around behind Gerard's head. "I'm just gonna go, um. Over there. Just. Come find me later, okay? When you're not, uh, yeah."

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, like Frank can't say it himself. Like he isn't this braindead, wordless mess from just a fucking kiss. It's not like he's never done that before. Well, okay, never with a really hot, pretty, nerdy, awesome-kissing dude in front of a whole audience of stuck-up homophobic douchebags, but--

Fuck it. "You're really hot," Frank breathes. "Um."

Gerard laughs easily, licking his lips a little. Frank can't believe he thought this dude nervous, or shy, or anything other than, like, blowing Frank's fucking mind. "Thanks," he says. "But maybe we should, uh, go somewhere. Else."

Frank's heartbeat kicks up a notch, and he barely manages to cling to the last tattered remains of his self-restraint against the part of his mind that's yelling dick-touching! Dick-touching! He manages to nod again, and Gerard grins, taking him by the hand and tugging him gently off the table. Frank very deliberately does not rush; his ass is still kind of numb, his legs don't want to cooperate, and the glimpse of people's variously horrified faces doesn't help his head rush when he gets upright.

Frank can't help but laugh as Gerard leads him out the kitchen, "Did you see their faces? Oh my god," but Gerard doesn't look back, just tightens his fingers around Frank's, leading him carefully through the people standing around in the living room, out into the hall. Frank swallows hard, suddenly a lot more nervous than he was a minute ago. Gerard seems to know exactly where he's going, and - oh, apparently it's right here, the closet under the stairs.

"Spiders," Frank blurts out, but Gerard's already pulled him inside, shutting the door after them and pressing Frank up against it, kissing him again, just like that. Everything feels weightless for a moment, suspended in the dark; it's pitch black but Gerard's mouth is hot and sloppy, tasting like beer and spit, messy and wet and completely awesome. "Mmph," Frank moans appreciatively, grabbing handfuls of Gerard's jacket, gut full of heat, and Gerard presses close, closer, until suddenly his thigh is between Frank's legs.

"Oh fuck," Frank breaks away to pant, and Gerard makes this noise, low and rumbling in his throat. Frank feels his hair brush his face and then his mouth is on Frank's neck, thigh pressing up hard and firm up against Frank's dick and damn, that feels good. This is already better than jerking off. He tries to tell Gerard that, but his hips are running ahead of him, rutting up against Gerard's thigh. He could get off like this so easily, just rub himself off until he came in his pants, but Gerard's breathing hard in his ear and rocking his thigh up and fucking groping every inch of him, and Frank's just--

"I wanna, wait," Frank gasps, pushing blindly at Gerard's chest, eyes blinking uselessly in the dark. "Can I just-- ugh, can I just touch your dick already, I want -"

Gerard's hands falter, and there's a long, dragging moment where everything slows down, stops, stretching into the blackness. "Are," he says slowly, "Are you? Oh, wow, really?" Frank's mind is spinning with confusion, panic rising in his chest, but before he can freak out, Gerard laughs, low and not unkind. "Frank. You've never done this before, have you?"

Crap. "I," Frank starts, but then there's Gerard's teeth dragging over Frank's neck, the slippery-wet hint of his tongue tracing the shell of Frank's ear.

"It's okay, we won't stop," he whispers soothingly, hands sliding up Frank's arms. "It's just - god, I'd just never have guessed, the way you were in the kitchen, I mean, I'm not. I don't do this much myself, really, but you just--"

"You kissed me," Frank gets out.

"Yeah," Gerard murmurs, lips moving against Frank's throat. "Yeah, I did, but you didn't stop me. You asked me to, in front of everyone. You didn't give a fuck who saw, and that's. Fuck, I can't even," His voice is rambly and nasally in Frank's ear, surrounding, sinking into Frank's consciousness. Through the dark and the veil of need everything seems a thousand times louder, sharper - hotter, and Frank is so turned on he can't even think.

"Come here," Frank growls, and then they're kissing again, heavier, more desperate. Frank can't get enough, and he doesn't even know what he's doing. It's just touch and need, grabbing for everything he can get. It's another warm, moving, pressing presence, another heavy breath and - oh shit, yeah, another hard dick, right up against Frank's hip, hot and straining in Gerard's jeans.

"Oh, that, yeah," Frank grunts mindlessly, hands frantic and ineffective at Gerard's waist. He's soft and sweaty and there are too many clothes in the way, and Gerard getting his hands up under Frank's t-shirt isn't helping anything. Frank jerks and swears when Gerard rubs over his nipples, hips bucking against Gerard's thigh, shit, shit -

He chokes out a noise and Gerard's thigh is gone. Frank's whine is muffled by Gerard's tongue. "You gonna come for me already?" Gerard says breathlessly against Frank's mouth, knuckles suddenly nudging Frank's stomach - unbuckling his belt and pulling Frank's jeans open, oh god. "Before I even get my mouth on your cock?"

"Fuck," Frank gasps. Air hits Frank's thighs; his jeans are around his knees and Gerard's hands are on his lower back, sliding under the waistband of his boxers, fanning fingers over Frank's ass and squeezing. Frank grabs behind himself for Gerard's wrists, hears himself saying, "No, fuck, I can't," because jesus christ, even the idea of Gerard sucking him off is making him stupidly close. "Can you just--"

"What? What do you want, Frank?" Gerard practically purrs, this low dragging sex voice that Frank didn't think people actually did outside of porn, what the hell. "You want me to touch you? Want my fingers in you?"

"Nggh?" Frank says, but Gerard makes that noise again like Frank actually answered, hands pulling away from Frank's grasp. All Frank hears is slurping, sloppy noises and then Gerard's sweaty palm is spreading over Frank's ass, spit-slick fingers pressing firmly into the crease, sliding wetly over Frank's asshole. He doesn't even tease him, just goes for it, slides one right up inside - all deep, sudden pressure and Frank gasps and shivers because wow, what? He's experimented himself, sure, but it's never been like this, never been this good. Gerard fucking knows exactly where to touch him, exactly how to crook his finger to make Frank jerk, dick leaking against his stomach until the fabric of his boxers is sticking to his skin.

"God," Frank pants, and then, "Oh god, mother of fuck," when Gerard works another finger in, the stretch sweet and sharp, twinge of pain making his spine arch. Gerard's other wrist is sweaty - or, no, it's Frank's palm, damp to the air when Gerard lets go of his ass, sliding around to push Frank's underwear down, wrapping around his cock. "Oh, shit."

"Mmm," Gerard hums, all throaty and satisfied against Frank's shoulder. "So fucking hot," and Frank is suddenly really glad for the darkness, because he's almost certain he would not want Gerard to see the face he's making right now. Glad and disappointed all at once, because wow, he wishes he could see it, those pale fingers wrapped around his cock, the way it must look sliding through Gerard's fist, his hips riding Gerard's fingers. Gerard's hand is wide and warm and sure, shit, he knows exactly what he's doing, thumb smearing through the precome Frank's leaking everywhere, stroking slow and firm until his whole hand is slick with it - making the slide easy, making Frank's fucking toes curl in his sneakers.

Frank moans, loud, head hitting the door with a thud. His hips are twitching, rocking forwards and back like he can somehow get more of this, like he could even take it if he could. He's grabbing at Gerard's arms, pinned in place by Gerard's body and the hand on his cock and the fingers in his ass; this is what he's been missing out on, all this time he's spent bitching when he could have just been doing this.

Frank pretty much wants to do this for the rest of his life, except Gerard's jacking him faster, fucking him with his fingers and running his mouth off in Frank's ear - stuff Frank can't even understand, he's too far gone - but he can hear the heat in Gerard's voice, knows instinctually it's just pure, awesome filth, and Frank's going to come.

"Yeah?" Gerard's hands slow and Frank makes a choked, protesting noise, but Gerard's drawling, "Thought you wanted to touch my dick?" and oh, hell yeah, Frank does.

"Yes, yeah." Frank's scrabbling for Gerard's belt again; he's clumsy and useless and in the end Gerard just does it for him, fingers sliding out, belt clicking loud and metallic in the dark. Frank's panting, reeling from the edge of orgasm, but then he hears Gerard's zipper come down, the rustle of denim, and he's too turned on to think about it.

"Come here," he says again, and shoves his hand inside Gerard's jeans.

...And finds nothing but bare, hot, sweaty skin.

"Oh my god," Frank says.

Gerard presses close, breath hot on Frank's face. "Laundry day," he says, weirdly sheepish after all that bravado. "Uh."

"Oh my god," Frank repeats. Fuck, Gerard was going commando. That's really hot, and Frank's head is spinning. He's really doing it. He's touching a dick. He's touching Gerard's dick. And it's - "You're fucking big."

Gerard laughs breathily, licking teasingly at Frank's bottom lip. "Y'dont-- you don't have to say that, Frank. I'm already getting you off."

Frank wants to protest, because wow, Gerard really is fucking big, thick and hard and leaking in Frank's hand, skin smooth and pulsing - but he's too busy marveling at the way it feels. It feels exactly like Frank thought it would - like a dick, like his own - only it's not his own, it's someone else. It's Gerard, this random pretty, greasy nerd who Frank just met, who apparently gets off on hormonal teenage virgins throwing themselves at him in public.

And it's weird, doing this to someone else, like everything's back to front. But Gerard makes a little moany encouraging noise when Frank strokes experimentally, his own hand back on Frank's cock in response, tipping their foreheads together so Frank can hear him - feel his little hitches of breath against his face when Frank does something just right.

"Wow," Frank breathes. "Oh, wow."

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, free hand sliding up Frank's sweaty neck, cupping his skull. It's really hot in here, stifling and endless in the dark. The only sounds are their breath, the rustle of their arms working, and the dull buzz of the party they left behind.

"Fucking limbo," Frank gasps, and Gerard kisses him clumsily, moans into his mouth as the pace speeds. Frank's breathing hard, doing his best to mimic Gerard, but he can feel the edge coming, his balls drawing up, heat twisting up tight in his stomach - and Gerard's hips are moving, fucking hotly into Frank's fist as he pants against Frank's face. "Gerard, I can't--"

"You're good," Gerard groans, fingers twisting in Frank's hair, mouth dragging sloppily over Frank's jaw, hand relentless on Frank's cock. "Yeah, just - ah - just like that. God, Frank, gonna make me come."

"I am? I mean, fuck yeah, I am, I'm gonna," Frank's babbling and he knows it, but he can't make himself stop. He's mindless, gone - and when Gerard twists his wrist on the next stroke and yanks hard on Frank's hair, he's done. Frank comes, hard, with a noise he didn't even think he was capable of making. Through the white noise in his ears he hears Gerard swear appreciatively, and then not so appreciatively when Frank goes limp. His hand disappears from Frank's cock and then suddenly there's slick, dirty, fucking porno noises: the sound of Gerard jerking off with fingers wet with Frank's come.

"Holy fuck," Frank says weakly, but he can't just stand here and listen, not after all this. He grabs for Gerard's hand, folding his own palm over Gerard's sticky knuckles so they can bring him off together, hands moving in sloppy sync. Gerard moans, thick and desperate and gorgeous, and when he comes Frank can feel it, hot and dripping over their entwined knuckles.

This is the greatest night of Frank's life. Gerard's face is still smushed in Frank's shoulder; he's slumping and kind of heavy, both of them breathing hard, sweaty and reeking of come. The world is still lurching, and Frank's buzzing from head to toe.

"God," Frank sighs happily, and salutes a fond goodbye to his dick virginity. His hand is still covered in come. Well. Gerard can't see it, Frank reasons. Slowly, he brings his hand to his mouth, licks a little, curious. It tastes like come, thick and gloppy and not all that pleasant, but Frank digs it anyway. He can't wait to try sucking Gerard's dick sometime.

Gerard makes a choking kind of noise. Frank giggles with realization. "Sorry. Kind of lose my filter when I'm trashed. And everything else, actually."

"Oh," Gerard says. There's a long pause, and then he peels himself away, his warmth and weight disappearing into the dark. Frank tries not to feel too disappointed. "So you. You want to see me again?"

"Yes?" Frank says, and then realizes it's true. Wow, it's really true.

The silence stretches. There's the rustle of clothes, a clink of a belt like Gerard is pulling his jeans up. "Um."

"Wait, now you go shy on me? Come on, man." Frank wipes his hand on his own jeans like an afterthought, like, Gerard's come is on your hands! You touched a dick! Shyness has no place here! He doesn't say that, though. He doesn't feel quite as good as he did a few minutes ago.

"M'not, I just." There's shuffling sounds; slow, tense breaths. "I just. God, I just have to go, I'm sorry."

"What?" Frank says, but Gerard's already opening the door, making Frank stumble forwards, still off-balance with his jeans around his knees. The sudden bright light streams in like a flash of lightening, hitting Frank in the eyes; he curses and rubs at them but by the time they've adjusted, Gerard is long gone. "Shit," Frank says, rushing to pull up his own pants, but his heart is already sinking.

There's nobody greasy or pretty in the hall, or the living room, or by the keg. There's nobody waiting outside. It's just the same stupid people that were there before Gerard. Frank finds Dewees asleep on the stairs and kicks him in the head.

"Ugh," Dewees groans, blinking up at him blearily. "Frank? The fuck, man?"

"Come on," Frank says dully. "We're going."

"Wow, finally," Dewees says, clawing at the stair railings until he finally manages to get himself upright, grumbling and clutching at his head. "Ow, motherfucker. So?"

"So, nothing," Frank says, shoving Dewees down the stairs. "Fucking nothing at all."


Frank doesn't care. He really doesn't. People do it all the time, this casual sex thing. They go to parties and they get drunk or high and they hook up with strangers in closets and then they never speak to each other ever again. Frank just forgot about that fact of life, or something.

Thankfully, he and Dewees aren't a pair of chicks, which means Dewees doesn't pester him about the details. Frank thinks he knows it didn't go too well, though. Maybe it was the kick to the head, or maybe it was when Frank said he didn't fucking want to talk about it, in that tone that was just daring Dewees to try, and see how far it got him. It doesn't matter, though, because by Sunday night, Frank's convinced himself he's over it. Like, he had his gay dick-touching experience, and it was-- it doesn't matter. The point is, he can move on now.

Monday rolls around too quickly. Frank feels vaguely sick in the morning, but nobody calls him a fag. At least, no more than usual. Not in any way other than it's just the easiest insult to throw at the short kid with the shitty fauxhawk that doesn't give a damn who sees him jumping on Dewees by his locker. Nobody says it with intent, like it's coming from a place of knowledge. Frank's kind of amazed, considering the whole world and its dog must have seen him necking with Gerard in Jacob's kitchen. Maybe the people who saw don't go to his school. Frank can't recall any of their faces from memory, probably wouldn’t recognize them even if saw them. They all look the fucking same anyway. Gerard was the one who looked like he'd been beamed in from outer space.

...But Frank doesn't want to think about him. He's over it.

And school may suck, but at least it keeps him busy. Jacob may be responsible for the bruise on Frank's arm, but he was flanked by his cronies when he gave it to him. It's an entirely different story here in the hallways; Jacob's a sophomore like Frank, and most of his friends are older, which means in the classes they have together, Jacob doesn't have backup. Frank relishes his revenge in the form of spitballs and noogies. He doesn't need to fuck the fucker up to prove his point. Although he totally could.

He's still tense, though. But then suddenly it's Wednesday and there's still nothing, and Frank starts to let himself think that maybe - maybe, nothing's going to happen. That everything will just carry on as normal.

He's not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed.

On Thursday his mom works late, and Dewees comes over. Frank had been avoiding it as casually as he could, but the dude is used to being at Frank's practically every night, so he knew he couldn't keep it up.

"This weekend," Dewees says from the floor at the end of Frank's bed.  "There's a party over in Bloomfield." He pauses, and Frank can hear the grin in his voice, "A friend of Jacob's."

"Eh," Frank says. He's lolling on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I dunno, I'm kinda bored of crashing douchebags' little get-togethers." Dewees can't see his finger quotes, so he makes sure to stress it. He has legitimately heard one of those lame-asses say that.

"Dude," Dewees says incredulously. "You've been once. And since when do you get bored of fucking around with assholes?"

"Wasting my weekend on fuckheads like that?" Frank says, a little sharper than he meant to - but fuck it, he has a point. "I'm surprised you actually want to, damn. You got a boner for Jacob or something?"

"Not me, man. Boners are your department." Dewees snorts with laughter at himself, giggles floating up from the end of the bed, like he thinks he's totally hilarious.

"I'll shove my boner in your mom's department," Frank snaps, and the giggles taper off. Frank immediately feels stupid, but his gut is still fluttery with annoyance. He's been unusually quick to lose his temper the past few days. Even getting back at Jacob didn't help much.

"Okay," Dewees says finally. "Are you going to tell me what's up your ass or what?"

Frank grits his teeth. "Nothing's up my fucking ass." His mind unhelpfully flashes related images at him, but Frank doesn't feel like making the obvious joke. He likes things in his ass, so fucking what. Dewees can go suck a fucking turd.

He very deliberately does not think about Gerard.

"Whatever," Dewees sighs. "I dunno what went on with you and creepy goth dude, but you need to get over it. Your little fag drama is really starting to piss me off."

Maybe it's the words, or maybe it's the way he says them. Maybe it's nothing to do with Dewees at all, but Frank's scrambling up and throwing himself off the bed anyway. He catches a glimpse of Dewees' wide, surprised eyes before they're crashing together onto the floor, Frank landing on top with a satisfying thud. And then they're rolling around, grunting and swearing as they wrestle to pin each other down. Dewees is bigger and stronger than him, but Frank fights dirty, and he's bony in places where Dewees is soft. When Dewees tries to get him in a headlock, Frank digs his fingernails hard into his ribs, throwing him off with a swift knee to the thigh when he jerks back and swears.

And they're laughing, kind of, but then Dewees grabs Frank by the hair and suddenly they're not anymore, shoves getting harder, fists less restrained. Suddenly, they're thrashing around on Frank's bedroom floor for a reason Frank can't remember. He just knows he feels so angry he wants to smash something, even if that something happens to be his best friend.

"Frank!" Dewees eventually yells, trying to restrain him, Frank thinks - grabbing for Frank's wrists. "Frankie, come on, man!" He manages to get his weight on top of Frank, pinning him down on his back; Dewees' face is flushed and his eyebrows are scrunched up, and something about his expression makes Frank feel instantly, abruptly shitty. He lets himself go limp, breathing hard. Dewees looks down at him warily. "Are you gonna sock me if I let go?"

"Maybe," Frank growls, but he stays still when Dewees moves away, holding his hands up like Frank's aiming a gun at him.

"Seriously Frank, the fuck is your problem?"

Frank lets his breath huff hard through his mouth, back to staring at the ceiling. "Nothing."

"Yeah, right," Dewees scoffs, thudding back on his ass against the side of Frank's bed. "I know you're pissed off because your little homo rendezvous didn't go how you wanted, but don't fucking take it out on me."

Frank's stomach is twisting. His whole body is still buzzing with adrenaline, but he grits his teeth. He knows he deserved that. He inhales deeply, exhales in a harsh sigh, trying to calm down. After a long moment, heartbeat finally slowing, he snorts a little. "Did you just say homo rendezvous? Like, really? I thought I was the fag?"

Dewees suddenly looks a little sheepish. "Look, Frank. I didn't, uh. I didn't mean that."


Dewees rolls his eyes, looking hulking and uncomfortable. "When I called you a fag. Like, I know I rip on you sometimes, but y'know I don't really give a shit what you do with your dick, right? I'm just," he trails off, apparently at the limit of his ability to express an emotion other than total scuzzy dickhead, which is what he usually rocks.

Frank feels strangely touched. He doesn't even want to laugh at Dewees' stupid awkward face. "It's okay," he says, and it is. He already knew that, really. Dewees is an asshole, but he isn't that kind of asshole. "Sorry I whaled on you."

Dewees visibly relaxes, grinning a little. "S'okay. Not like it hurt," and wow, that didn't take long. Frank sits up and punches him lightly in the arm, like, okay, and that's that. Frank's always liked that about Dewees, about their friendship. It's refreshingly simple. "So, like, are you -"

"I'm fine," Frank says quickly. "Just got, like. Carried away."

Frank can tell Dewees doesn't believe him, but he keeps his mouth shut. Frank would never tell him, but sometimes he's really glad they are friends.


They end up going to the stupid party. It's just as suicide-worthy as Jacob's, if not worse. Frank thinks he sort of recognizes a few faces, mostly by the way they're looking at him. And of course, Jacob himself, who doesn't seem too pleased to see Frank, for some reason. Usually Frank would be all over it - messing around with people, stealing beer, reclaiming his spot in the kitchen - but the thing is, he can't stop seeing Gerard's fucking face everywhere. Everywhere he looks, people with dark hair, dark jackets. They're all talking to each other, though, guffawing and hooting at each other's pathetic stories and unfunny jokes like a pack of ugly hyenas. Everyone who's here, looks like they should be here. Like this is where they belong.

Their natural habitat, Frank thinks snidely.

With the exception of him and Dewees, of course. But even then, Frank's always thought Dewees could fit in here, if he wanted. He's just that kind of guy - the kind that people just like. He's funny, a little bit weird, but only in the sort of way where people want to know him. He's a character. Frank has too much of a chip on his shoulder to be a character and he knows it; his form of funny and weird is laced with sarcasm and that makes people uncomfortable. People want to feel like you're laughing with them, not at them.

Frank doesn't give a shit. He wouldn't try and fit in here if you paid him. He's only here because he had nothing better to do, not because he thought there might be a chance Gerard would show up. Because even if he did, it's not like it would matter. Gerard made that pretty clear when he ran away from Frank like Frank had the goddamn herp.

Fuck it, Frank has pretty much given up pretending he's entirely over it. It's just-- he just can't stop replaying those fuzzy moments before Gerard opened the closet door. It won't arrange itself right in his mind. He just sees endless darkness, vague memories of fumbling hands. Gerard's stuttering voice saying, "God, I just have to go, I'm sorry."

That, and how it had felt when Gerard touched him.

Frank feels himself flush. Right here, sat on the steps of the front porch of a house filled with fucking chumps from his high school, he's blushing thinking about some greasy-haired douchebag he doesn't even know. Frank finishes his cigarette in an angry puff of smoke and immediately lights another one. He's really got to get around to scoring again soon. Dewees is still inside somewhere, probably hooking up with that empty-headed brunette in the sparkly top - Frank doesn't care. He's tempted to just leave, go home and go to bed and--

Except, he can't just go. Frank can take the half-hour walk alone in the dark, no problem, but Dewees was trashed before they arrived.

"For fuck's sake," Frank spits under his breath, and stomps inside to find him.

That turns out to be easier said than done, because he is indeed in brunette bimbo land; Frank only finds out that they're locked in the bathroom together by chance. He just happened to be passing when Dewees apparently threw up on her. (Even if she hadn't shrieked like the building was coming down, he would have recognized Dewees' retching anywhere).

They kind of have to leave after that, because brunette bimbo's boyfriend comes to see what's going on. Frank would usually call being chased down the street by an angry football player the sign of a good night, but when he gets home and falls into bed, Frank just feels, like, deflated.

Maybe Gerard had a reason he left. Like, a reason other than he realized he'd just hooked up with a stupid little kid and now had to deal with them throwing themselves at him like a pathetic character in one of those hideous romcoms Frank's mom likes. Maybe he had to get home to feed his dog. Maybe he left the goddamn oven on.

Or maybe Frank is just a fucking idiot. He feels unbearably embarrassed when he remembers it, how he blurted out that he wanted to see Gerard again so soon; even Frank knows you're supposed to wait, play it cool or whatever, so you don't freak them out. Frank doesn't know how old Gerard is - hell, he doesn't know anything about him, not really, just knowing what his mouth tastes like and his hands feel like isn't knowing him - but he's got to be at least a couple of years older than Frank. If only going by the way he was, how in control he was. He probably does that all the time, Frank thinks. Just drags boys off into closets and kisses them like that and says that filthy shit in their ears--

You want me to touch you? Want my fingers in you?

Under the covers, Frank rubs his fingers lightly against his hipbones. He can feel how his eyebrows have screwed up, how his gut has tightened, because he just - he just doesn't understand. He doesn't get why Gerard didn't say anything, even if it was just to tell Frank no. He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about it. He thinks about touching Gerard, how his cock had felt in his hand, and wishes not for the first time it hadn't been so fucking dark, because now he has nothing. No pictures in his mind, nothing to really make him feel like it was real. It's just vague memories of touch, sound, sensation. When Frank closes his eyes as he thinks about Gerard's fingers in his ass, it feels exactly the same.

The covers ruck up over Frank's bare chest as he eases his hand inside his boxers. This is mostly why Frank realized he had to stop pretending this isn't a big deal; it's been a week since Gerard touched him now and Frank has touched himself every night since. It's conflicting, frustration laced through every nerve even as he feels himself getting hard thinking about it. It almost feels like he's jerking off to a dream, sometimes - like the whole thing is just some lame fantasy he made up - and that only makes him angrier. All he has, is that pretty fucking face and the lingering sound of Gerard's voice. Frank doesn't even know his last name. He doesn't know anything at all.

He feels his mouth curl into a snarl as he strokes himself roughly, curving his palm over the leaking head of his cock to ease the slide. It's always the same. At first he feels pathetic, like this is just insult to injury, but then it gets to the stage where he's digging his heels into the mattress and fucking his fist as he thinks about Gerard's fingers sliding up between his ass cheeks, Gerard's wet fingertips stroking over his hole and sliding inside. How Frank had felt the stretch through his whole body, from his thighs to the tips of his toes. And when Gerard had done that thing, curved his fingers that way and made Frank's knees jerk and his spine buckle, clutching and gasping desperately into the dark.

That's never happened before. Frank has never been able to do that to himself. Gerard, a stranger, this random fucking nerd from a high school house party, can work Frank's body better than Frank himself can.

"Fucking fuck," Frank spits into the empty room, free hand thumping hard into the mattress as he jacks himself faster, harder. Maybe he just wasn't good enough. He remembers when he came, that complete bleaching of his senses - how Gerard had practically had to finish himself off, for god's sake. He remembers how his fingers had felt, sticky and clumsy over Gerard's own; christ, no wonder he bolted, Frank barely even touched him. Maybe he should have tried to suck Gerard off, instead, or made him come first before he let him touch Frank. Just done something, anything more than flail around in the dark like the pathetic little virgin he was, and just take it.

Maybe he should have really taken it. He didn't have condoms on him and he doubts Gerard did either, but he was that fucked up--

Frank would have let him. As soon as he thinks it he knows it's true. It's fucked up and disgusting and wrong, fucking dangerous, but he would have let Gerard turn him around and fuck him bare. He would have let him come in his ass; fuck, just the thought of it is enough to make Frank grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut and come all over his own hand, his underwear, the insides of his thighs.

He kicks the covers away from his heated skin and lays there panting for a while, hand still inside his soaked boxers. He doesn't feel good. He just feels dirty, violated. Violated by his own fucking brain.

And really, he hopes he never sees Gerard again. Because if he did, he doesn't know what he'd do. Whether he'd kiss him stupid, or punch his fucking lights out.


Time passes. Frank stops going to parties. Well, those kind of parties, at least. Dewees gets friendly with the right people (Frank always knew he had it in him) and by his seventeenth birthday, Frank Iero has his very own fake ID. Not that it always helps, because he still looks about thirteen years old and he knows it - but it turns out that the bouncer at The Monroe club is very susceptible to friendly persuasion. The first time Frank blows him in the alley behind the club is a rush like nothing else he's experienced - fucking terrifying but also completely exhilarating, and hot in a way he's almost ashamed to admit to himself. A way that suggests he liked being used like that.

After that, he gets even more careless, and his luck with school finally runs out. Every cloud has a silver lining, though; Frank supposes he kind of owes Jacob and his posse for jumping him on his way home, because it's what finally persuades his mom to get him a car. She might as well have handed Frank an all-access life pass that said "Freedom!" on it in giant shiny letters. Or, alternatively, "Sex!"

Holy shit, Frank has a lot of sex. Blowjobs in bathrooms, alleys, dudes' houses (never, ever Frank's house - even if his mom isn't in, it just doesn't sit right with him) and, occasionally, Dewees' house, when he's too wasted to notice or care what Frank's getting up to in the next room.

The first time Frank fucks a guy he lasts about a minute, but it's okay, because he's always younger than them. He's still got his stamina.

He thinks about Gerard occasionally, but it's distant. At first, he kept an eye out in the clubs, paid a bit more attention than he should have to anyone with a vague resemblance - but after a while, he gets over it.

He still jerks off to him sometimes, though. But only sometimes.


Two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, Frank moves out. His new apartment is shitty, but it's close to where he works at the convenience store and, most importantly, it's Frank's. It's Frank's own place, and he can do whatever the hell he wants in it. He's not quite sure he's mastered this whole adulthood thing yet, but he's got things to fill his days and in the evening he's got a place to fill other things, so he thinks he's doing alright. He fucks up sometimes; a few months later he gets himself fired and almost arrested for punching some homophobic douchebag in the face, and one time he messes up on his budgeting and has to live on toast and raw carrots for a week (yeah, he goes home for a dinner a few times, whatever) but it's okay. He's figuring it out.

The main and most awesome thing is that Frank gets his first tattoo. A Halloween jack-o-lantern on the back of his neck. It hurts like a bitch and it costs an entire week's worth of wages, but it's so worth it. And after his first time in the chair, Frank kind of can't stop. By the time he's nineteen, he's wearing almost every penny he's earned from every crappy job he's had since leaving school.

Frank gets his first boyfriend a few months after his birthday. His new favorite club has gigs every Friday and Frank meets him in the pit when they barrel into each other. His name is Kyle and he's really hot and funny and fun to be with and awesome in bed - everything he should be, Frank supposes, and he likes him a lot - but he keeps expecting to feel something more, and it just never happens. They break up after six months, and if he's honest, Frank doesn't feel too sad about it. He feels bad, because he doesn't know what his deal is, but he doesn't feel sad.

He doesn't think much about Gerard anymore. Or at least, he doesn't until after he says goodbye to Kyle.

It's another year later before Frank runs into him.


The band is shitty, but the pit is on fire. There's a burly, blond, aggressively enthusiastic dude who seems to keep finding his way into Frank's space, biceps and hips and snarling smiles. It's exactly what Frank needs. He gives back as good as he gets, throws himself around as hard and heavy as he can. He comes out bruised and sweaty and shirtless, burly blond in tow.

Frank fucks him in the bathroom, pressing his face into the cubicle wall with a hand twisted in his blond hair as he ruts into him from behind. They're both noisy and drunk and it's good, it's satisfying. The guy offers him his number when they're done and Frank says sure, lets him scrawl it on the back of his hand between his tattoos. Whatever. It's usually less hassle than just turning them down outright.

Back in the club, the band is packing up for the night. Frank finds his shirt and heads for the bar.

"Jäger," he tells the bartender. "Straight up."


He fucking knows who it is as soon as he sees the hair. He looks older, obviously, and a little thinner, but the hair is exactly the same. "Fuck me," Frank says.

"Wow," Gerard says. He's wide-eyed, half-drunk, and still pretty. Frank can't help but laugh, rubbing a sweaty palm over his face. "Um." Gerard blinks a few times, looks around a little aimlessly at the empty stools next to him. "Can I get you a drink?"

Frank pointedly holds up the Jäger the bartender just set down for him, and then downs it in one go. "Thanks anyway," he rasps, teeth bared against the harshness of the alcohol burning down his throat. He slams the glass down, throws a couple of bills on the bar, and turns to leave. He's not angry, exactly, but his stomach feels tight and hot, vision swimming a little. He knows he wants to get as far away from Gerard as possible.

"Wait," he hears Gerard say faintly, "Frank, wait," but Frank's already shoving through the door onto the street. The cool night air is pleasant on his overheated skin, through the tattered rips in his shirt, and Frank lights a cigarette as he trudges down the street towards his car. He is not running, but he isn't sticking around, either. He hears the club door open, quick footsteps behind him, and curses under his breath, keeping his head down. Maybe Gerard will take the fucking hint.


"Motherfucker," Frank snarls to himself, kicking his car in the back tire when he reaches it. When he turns around Gerard is right there, out of breath and twitchy. "What?" Frank asks him harshly, and then, suddenly, "Fucking weird me being the one running away from you, huh?"

"Oh god," Gerard says, eyebrows screwing up. He's wearing an old, black, beat-up leather jacket, just like the last time Frank saw him. Maybe it's the same one. "Look, can we just--"

"What?" Frank says again, taking a couple of steps forward. Gerard's still taller than him, but not by much, and he seems smaller with the way he shrinks back into himself when Frank gets in his face. "What the fuck do you even want from me, Gerard? Fucking tell me so I can go."

"You're driving?" Gerard asks, expression turning worried. "But you're drunk."

Frank snorts. "The fuck do you care?" He was actually planning on walking to Dewees', but he doesn't feel like telling Gerard that.

Gerard looks upset. "I do. I do care, Frank, please. Look, I live near here. Why don't you come back with me?"

Frank laughs bitterly. "What, so you can fuck me and then kick me out? Sorry, I'm not really--"

"No!" Gerard says, voice rising. "No, I just. I just wanna talk, Frank, please."

Frank stares at him. The edges of his vision are a little blurry, just like the last time Frank saw him. It only makes this feel even more surreal. Maybe this isn't even happening. Maybe someone spiked Frank's fucking drink. How does Gerard even remember him? "But why," Frank eventually asks, a little desperately now. His head is spinning. He absolutely cannot deal with this right now. "What do you even want to say?"

Gerard looks at him, eyes wide and earnest, lips set in a worried little line. "I just," he starts, and then sighs. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, okay? Fuck, I know it was years ago, but I've always felt really shitty for running off like that, Frank. Will you just."

"What?" Frank asks again, but there's no venom in it now. He doesn't know why his heart is pounding; it was years ago. Four of them. Frank should not still be hung up over this. He didn't think he even was.

"Come back with me," Gerard says softly.

"Yeah," Frank says, surprising himself. "Yeah, okay."


Gerard's apartment is a fucking mess. Gerard opens the door and Frank nearly falls over a stack of boxes right in the goddamn doorway. "Sorry," Gerard says sheepishly. "I, um, just moved in."

Oh, okay. So that explains why he suddenly just appeared in Frank's club. Frank shrugs, edging around into what is apparently Gerard's living room. Boxes everywhere, then, overflowing with books and paper; an ugly old couch, countless used cups and plates stacked on the floor and on a battered-looking coffee table. There's a desk against the wall under the window, and it's the only thing that looks actually lived-in. Pots bulging with pens and pencils, a tray full of paper and card, some elaborate-looking elevated drawing board with metal rulings. There's an easel, too, and canvasses leaning against a box full of art supplies.

"You're... an artist?" Frank says slowly.

Stood in the middle of all the mess, Gerard scuffs his toes against the dirty beige carpet. "I guess," he says.

Frank doesn't know what that means. His eyes scan the room a little aimlessly. The air is thick, tense. Frank doesn't know what to say. Between this and the ten minute silent walk here, he doesn't feel that drunk anymore.

After a long moment, Gerard stutters, "Um, so--"

"So why did you run away?" Frank interrupts. He didn't mean to say it, entirely, but fuck it. This is still really fucking weird, and Frank just wants to know, finally. Even if he's sure he knows already; he's still spent a lot of time only hearing it in his own head, and now he wants to hear it for real. He wants to hear Gerard say it was just a fuck, say he didn't really want him. If he can just hear him say it, maybe Frank can--

"Because." Gerard hesitates. He's looking mostly at the floor, awkwardness laced into every limb, and Frank just wants to tell him it's fine, he gets it, he was a stupid naïve kid who didn't understand how hookups go - but he doesn't. He watches Gerard rub his palms together, sighing again a little desperately. "Because I'm chickenshit, I guess."

"Yeah," Frank agrees. Gerard winces a little, but Frank goes on, "I mean, I know I was just a sad little virgin, but it's not like I couldn't have handled you just telling me you didn't want to see me again, for fuck's sake. You didn't have to fucking run away like--"

"What?" Gerard says, looking up at Frank for the first time. "What, no. That wasn't why I," Gerard pauses, eyebrows narrowing with confusion. "No, you said. You said you were trashed. You pretty much told me flat-out you had no idea what you were doing."

Frank opens his mouth to protest, but then - oh. Oh yeah. He remembers. Feeling giddy, feeling awesome. Tongue-trigger happy and rambling right off the top of his high little head. But he didn't - that's not what he meant. "I did," Frank says, shaking his head. "No, I did know. I was just."

"And in the kitchen," Gerard goes on quickly, voice gaining weight now, "When you kissed me--"

"You kissed me!"

"Well, exactly!" Gerard says frantically, hands flying up in frustration. "I kissed you because you asked me to, because you seemed fine, you weren't fucking, like, falling all over the place - you didn't," he trails off, crossing his arms over his chest and looking hard at the wall. "You just weren't acting like you were out of it, okay."

"But," Frank frowns, "you knew I was high, dude. Come on, you must have!"

"Well, yeah," Gerard says tightly. "I mean, obviously I knew you weren't sober, but I at least thought you knew what you were doing, and when you said that, I just - I dunno, I just felt. Like, dirty. Like I'd taken advantage of you." He looks utterly miserable, hunched up inside himself, and something kicks in Frank's gut, twists up into his chest.

"No." Frank's moving forwards, a couple of wide steps until he's right in front of Gerard. Gerard jumps a little, flinches like he's going to step back, but Frank grabs him by the arms. "No," Frank says again, softer, and Gerard looks at him, eyes big and slightly panicked, hands suspended in mid-air between them. "I wanted it. I wanted you."

"You didn't even know me," Gerard says quietly.

It's true. Hell, that was partly what had got Frank so much about it, the fact he couldn't stop thinking - obsessing, really - about something that by all rights should have meant nothing. "No," Frank admits, leaning closer. "But I wanted to. I would have. If you'd let me."

"God." Gerard closes his eyes briefly. "I wish I hadn't just - ugh. But I guess I just freaked out. I didn't even know how fucking old you were, christ."


Gerard's eyebrows crease up even more. "Fuck. I was nineteen."

"And now I'm twenty," Frank goes on smoothly. "And I still -" For a moment he thinks about not saying it, about making his peace and leaving. About letting this go, finally. Finally.

Gerard's face is open, anxious, and still so fucking pretty; it's like Frank's seeing him for the first time all over again. Like this, right here, is entirely new. "I still want you," Frank finishes.

"Frank." Gerard licks his lips, barely, and Frank can't help it - he leans in and kisses him. Gerard huffs a harsh breath against Frank's mouth, hands grabbing instantly for Frank's shoulders, and he kisses Frank back. It's deep and hot from the start, clutching hands and teeth. Frank lasts about ten seconds before he's pushing at him, shoving him back onto the couch and straddling his hips.

"If you're gonna run away after this you better fucking tell me now," Frank breathes when he pulls back for air, impatient hands shoving at Gerard's jacket.

Gerard makes a forceful, negative noise and surges up - gets his wet, open mouth on Frank's neck as the jacket gets tossed carelessly onto the floor. They make out hard and fast, hands everywhere, until they're both panting and grinding their hips, both hard in their jeans. It's messy and desperate and Gerard's mouth and hands are interfering, distracting, stopping Frank getting Gerard naked, and horizontal, sweaty and moaning and possibly begging-- wow, that's an idea. Gerard wasn't a virgin last time, wasn't fumbling or clueless or anything other than rocking Frank's world, and now -

Now Frank wants to give it back, show Gerard what he's learned since that goddamn closet. He wants to rock Gerard's world.

Frank forces himself to pull away, pressing Gerard back with firm hands on his chest. "Bedroom?"

"Down the hall," Gerard gets out, face flushed. Frank practically drags him there, half-tripping over each other. Gerard loses his shirt before they reach Gerard's bedroom, and shit, he's fucking gorgeous, pale and pliant under Frank's fingertips.

Frank has to shove him up against the door when it closes, get his hands on Gerard's hips, waist, arms while Gerard fumbles for the light switch. He's definitely thinner than Frank remembers, but Frank's fingers still dig pleasingly into that fleshiness around his waist, the sweaty dip of his back when Gerard arches into his hands. For a second there's the weirdest stab of déjà-vu, mind swinging back to Gerard pressing him up against that closet door. Only - it's not dark, and Frank's not high, he can see everything. He can see Gerard's bare skin, the way his own hands look against it. Gerard's dark eyes, dark hair, dark jeans bulging deliciously at the front.

"Oh, yeah. I remember this," Frank breathes, hand dropping to cup Gerard's cock through the denim, rubbing slowly, feeling him hard and straining against his palm. "Remember how fucking big you are."

Gerard makes a low, breathy noise, and yeah, Frank remembers those, too. He unbuckles Gerard's belt, pulls his jeans open, and - hey, Gerard's wearing underwear this time, impressively tenting the front of a pair of purple (fucking purple) boxer-briefs. Frank's mouth is already watering even before he sinks to his knees.

"Frank," Gerard's breath catches, hands grabbing for Frank's shoulders as Frank hooks his fingers over the waistband. "You don't. You don't have to, I--"

"I thought about this," Frank cuts him off, talking quietly, like he's admitting a secret. He kind of is, he supposes. "For months after. Wondered if I'd tried to suck you off, if I'd been better, then you wouldn't have run away." Gerard makes a sad sort of noise, starts to speak, but Frank goes on hastily, "But mostly I just thought about it when I was jerking off. Thought about if I'd got on my knees in the dark and just let you fuck my mouth. If I could even have taken it. If you would've made me take it."

Gerard's breathing hard above him as Frank pulls the briefs down carefully, leaving them bunched up with Gerard's jeans around his thighs. And fuck, yeah, Frank wishes he'd got to see this last time. Gerard hard and huge, straining up against his stomach, the way Frank's hands look cupping his hipbones. Frank leans in straight away, licks long, slow lines up Gerard's cock, base to tip, flicking the tip of his tongue against the head and speaking lowly, "Thought about you coming on my face. Making me feel used, dirty."

Gerard makes a strangled noise, hands clutching at Frank's shoulders as Frank goes down on him as far as he can. Frank's done this a lot, but christ, he has to work to get Gerard into his throat, wrapping a hand around what he can't take. Gerard tastes good, sharp and a little sweaty, filling up Frank's mouth and nose with his smell, turned-on and heady. Frank's heart is thudding in his ears, eyes welling up, and Gerard's hips are twitching, like he's fighting not to just fuck forwards into Frank's mouth. Frank braces his free forearm over Gerard's hips, pulls back to breathe, and goes down again. And then again. Saliva pools in his mouth, leaking through the seams of his stretched lips, until Frank's chin is dripping and Gerard's cock is shining with Frank's spit.

When Frank finally pulls back, throat sore, breathing hard and leaking in his pants - Gerard's fingers are twisted tightly in Frank's hair, and his chest is flushed almost as much as his face. "Fuck, Frank," he says hoarsely, looking down at him like he's never seen him before, eyes huge and dark. And suddenly, in a rush of clarity or maybe madness, Frank wants. He knows exactly what he wants.

"Yeah, you should," Frank says, and god, his voice is wrecked. "You should fuck me."

"Uh," Gerard says a little desperately, chest heaving. "Are. Are you sure?"

Frank watches his own wet hand stroke Gerard's cock, plush skin sliding, head slick. He says, "Yeah," and it's weird to mean it, weird to want it, when he's never--

"Fuck, okay," Gerard says, running a hand through his hair. "Let's - we should. Bed."

Frank's heart is pounding, gut churning with nerves. He feels light-headed when he stands, but Gerard's pulling him close and kissing him, licking at the wetness smeared around his mouth as he walks them backwards, kicking out of his jeans as he goes. It reminds Frank that he's still fully dressed; he pulls his shirt up and Gerard steps back to help him tug it off before pressing Frank back onto the bed. Gerard has black, paint-stained sheets that smell like smoke and fabric softener, and Gerard's weight on top of him - his bare body resting between Frank's thighs - is really, really awesome.

What's also awesome are Gerard's hands, smoothing over Frank's chest, head bowed to watch his fingers trace Frank's tattoos. "Mmm," Gerard hums, fingertip skirting the flame over Frank's heart, circling his nipple lightly, trailing down to the birds on Frank's hips. "I like these."

"Yeah?" Frank asks breathlessly, stretching a little as he leans back on his elbows, because yeah, he's proud of his ink, and Gerard's touch is intent, slow, taking it all in. His fingers stroke Frank's stomach, tracing the faint red lines where his jeans have been digging in, opening the fly as he kisses and sucks on Frank's neck.

Unlike Gerard, Frank isn't wearing underwear. He kind of left them in club bathroom. But Frank doesn't want to think about that, now. It suddenly seems extremely unimportant.

"Oh," Gerard says, high and surprised, and Frank grins, pushing his hips up to help Gerard get his jeans off. It kind of fades from his face when Gerard presses his lips to Frank's stomach - licking teasingly close to Frank's cock, dragging his tongue up until he's sucking on Frank's nipples, one then the other until Frank's panting, falling back flat and pulling at the sheets with impatience. "Gerard, come on."

"Shhh," Gerard soothes, hands sliding up Frank's thighs, bringing them up around Gerard's hips as he leans down, braces himself over Frank. "You're not the only one who's thought about this."

"What?" Frank tries to ask, but Gerard kisses him again, deep and messy and shit, suddenly it's serious, both of them naked and hard and pushing against each other, Gerard's hand wandering between Frank's legs, sliding down the back of his thigh. When his fingers tease at Frank's hole Frank breaks away to swear, breathing hard against the sudden rush of fear. "Uh, you should - I've never." Fuck, his face is flaming. He can't believe he just-- Gerard just knew last time, but Frank's not exactly unpracticed anymore. He really likes to think he's past that whole blurting out stupid shit thing.

Gerard stills, raising his head to look at Frank. The realization that spreads slowly over his face is almost comical. "Oh, my god. Seriously?"

"Shut up," Frank grumbles, pulling at Gerard's shoulders, but Gerard's smiling, lopsided and strangely familiar in a way that tugs behind Frank's ribs. "No, it's okay. Just a little, um. Déjà vu."

"Fucking tell me about it," Frank growls, finally succeeding in pulling Gerard down, pressing his mouth to his ear. "Now fuck me."

Gerard makes a pleased noise of agreement, and shoves his tongue in Frank's mouth. Frank gets back into it straight away, stomach swooping not entirely pleasantly, but Gerard's hands slide down his body, curl around his hips - urging Frank over, rolling him onto his front. Which, okay. Okay.

Frank exhales hard into the sheets, trying to calm down, and Gerard kisses at his shoulders, the nape of his neck, knee between Frank's thighs, nudging them further apart until Gerard's kneeling between them. "I thought about this, too," he's saying, voice low behind Frank's ear. "Well, not this, specifically, but." His mouth is between Frank's shoulderblades, the mattress dipping as he goes lower, licking down Frank's spine. "I felt really bad for a long time, thinking I might have fucking messed you up or something."

No, Frank thinks. It didn't mess him up, not in the way Gerard's thinking - but he can only make a negative noise, because he's suddenly lost the power of speech. Gerard's mouth is on his lower back, hands fanning over his cheeks and spreading them and oh, Frank thinks he knows where this is going but he's not sure, he's never -

Gerard's tongue is hot and wet, dragging up from the base of Frank's balls to his tailbone. "Mmm, yeah," Gerard drawls over Frank's shocked moan. "I remember I really wanted to use my mouth on you, but you wouldn't let me."

"Couldn't--" Frank gasps as Gerard licks him again, back arching and hands fisting in the sheets. "Couldn't have - handled it, fuck."

"You handled my fingers though," Gerard says, and there's that porno voice again, the one Frank's been hearing in his dreams ever since that damn closet. "God, you were so hot. I was jerking off to the sounds you made for months. Like, it was all I could think about, even though I still felt bad. Just couldn't stop myself." He laughs a little against Frank's ass, breath hot and teasing on the sensitive wet skin. "Guess we're both kind of sad, huh?"

"I'll be really sad if you fucking stop," Frank spits out in a rush, and Gerard laughs again before his tongue is back - all long, slow strokes over Frank's hole, circling and then pressing in, fucking into him with quick, firm jabs. Frank swears, forehead sliding sweaty against the sheets. He knows he's making stupid noises but it's just-- he can't believe how this feels, how worked up he's getting just from Gerard's tongue in his ass. It's actually ridiculous how ready to come he is from this, cock jerking against his stomach with every lap of Gerard's tongue, hips moving helplessly against the bed just to get some form of relief, some friction.

When Gerard finally pulls back Frank almost whimpers; he's so turned on and he can feel how wet he is, Gerard's spit sliding over his asshole and dripping from his balls. Gerard leans over him to fumble in his bedside table and Frank licks his dry lips as he hears the rip of foil, the click-squelch of lube. He feels giddy, strung-high, not even nervous anymore. All he can think about is feeling Gerard inside him, feeling his body open around that big dick of his, Gerard's hips flush against his ass and his voice low and heated in Frank's ear.

Gerard gives him two slick fingers at once and Frank moans gratefully; it's been a while since he's fingered himself and the stretch is just right, the undertone of hurt giving the heat that climbs up his spine a sharp, overwhelming edge.

"God, still hot," Gerard says breathlessly and Frank grunts something, demanding. Three fingers feels like more but still not enough; it's like he's a fucking virgin all over again. Maybe there's just something about Gerard that brings that out in him, Frank thinks wildly. "Can't believe you've never done this."

"Fuck me," Frank tells him again, the record stuck in his head, and Gerard - Gerard does.

His cock pushing in draws a moan from both of them, Frank's half-choked and gasping because holy shit, he feels that. That's a lot. Gerard doesn't mess around, doesn't try to treat Frank like something delicate, thank god. He just goes for it, leans over Frank's back with hands braced either side of him and rocks his hips slowly, burying himself an inch at a time. It kind of hurts, but that's never exactly been a turn-off for Frank - the deeper Gerard gets the better it is, the more it makes Frank feel like he's going to go insane from how fucking full he feels.

When Gerard's hips finally flush against his ass, Frank lets out a hard, overwhelmed breath. Gerard stills, hair brushing Frank's shoulders as he gets out, "Okay?" breathing hard.

Frank can't even speak. He just nods, face in the bed - and after a long, tense moment, Gerard sits up and pulls back. Slow, still so slow, and Frank gets a bunch of sheets in his mouth and bites down, muffling the strangled noises he makes as Gerard slides back in. Jesus christ.

"Frank." Gerard's grunting and shifting his weight, knees sliding against the inside of Frank's thighs, fingers digging in to Frank's hips. "Uh, can you - can you get up on your knees for me?"

Frank doesn't think he can, but Gerard's hands are firm, coaxing, pulling his hips up until Frank manages to get his knees under himself. "Oh my god," Frank spits as the angle changes, his back arching and hips tilting, letting Gerard get even deeper. He buries his face in his forearms and tries to breathe through it. He's shaking, a little, thighs trembling. He can't help it, he feels completely wrecked - and exposed like this, in a way he's never wanted anyone else to see before.

He doesn't know why he's letting Gerard see it now. There's just something about this guy that makes Frank want to give him everything.

"Yeah, yeah," Gerard's murmuring to him in the porn voice, draped over Frank's back, fucking him with sharp, rolling thrusts of his hips. "S'good, you feel so good - so tight, god, how. How come you never?"

"Just," Frank gets out, breaking off to moan and pant when things suddenly amp up, their movements getting easier, more fluid. "Just never - I dunno, I--"

Gerard's hips kick just right and Frank swears, fumbling a hand under himself so he can jerk off, fast and hard. The pace kicks up in response, skin starting to slap together, both of them breathing hard. "So how's it feel?" Gerard pants.

It feels overwhelming, almost painful. It feels like Frank's not going to walk right for days, like he's going to fall apart as soon as Gerard pulls out. It feels fucking incredible. Frank tries to tell him that, but he's kind of about to come already, pulsing in his own hand and clenching around Gerard's cock. Gerard's teeth dig into his neck and Frank chokes out a warning; a hand joins Frank's on his dick, the other sliding up his chest, cupping Frank's chin and turning his face so Gerard can swallow his noises as Frank comes hard, all over their fingers and the sheets and his own stomach.

Gerard moans and fucks into him faster, harder-- fucking Frank back down into the bed, fucking him through Frank's orgasm and out the other side. Frank whines into the bed, strung-out and oversensitive, but he doesn't want Gerard to stop, hell no - he wants Gerard to use him, keep going until Frank literally can't take it anymore, every nerve ending in him screaming for Gerard to stop.

It doesn't happen. Gerard comes with the same gorgeous throaty noise Frank remembers, and the pulsing of his cock inside that Frank doesn't, sticky hands petting clumsily at Frank's thighs and arms and sides. They lie together in a sweaty heap for a while, breathing hard and sticking together.

"Sorry about your sheets," Frank eventually says, because it seems like the thing to say. He is lying in one hell of a wet spot.

Gerard makes a laughing, snorting sort of noise into Frank's shoulder. "S'okay. Not like-- um. Let's just say they needed a wash anyway."

Frank makes a snorting laughing noise of his own. Gerard's still inside him, face in Frank's skin, greasy-damp hair in Frank's face, and Frank doesn't know how he feels. He feels good, he thinks. Fluttery, content. He does hiss a little when Gerard pulls out, but even the zap-shock of being so suddenly empty - feeling so open and raw, doesn't change that. Frank still really, really wants a cigarette.

And he doesn't want to leave, which is strange. This is usually the part where he starts getting his shit together.

Gerard rolls off him, ties and chucks the condom, and fumbles in the draw again, coming up with a cigarette in his mouth like he read Frank's mind. "You want one of mine?" he asks and Frank nods gratefully, rolling onto his back with a high, thin wince. Gerard makes an acknowledging noise. "Yeah, sorry. You'll be feeling that for a while."

Propping himself up on his elbows to take the smoke Gerard hands him, Frank looks at him. Despite everything, there's still a small part of Frank that's expecting Gerard to freak or kick Frank out - but Gerard just smokes, looking quite calm, sat hunched forward over his half-crossed legs. He's pale and soft and fleshy and so far from what Frank usually picks up it's funny, but Frank's attracted to him anyway. Still.

"You wanna stay?" Gerard asks him then, and suddenly that nervousness is back, tugging at his fingers. It's seriously confusing, especially since Frank's stomach is still tacky with come and Gerard's dirty, drawling voice is still fresh in his mind.

Frank nods again, surprising himself. "Yeah." He doesn't know what this is, what happens now, but he knows he wants to stay.

They smoke together silently, lying side by side, not-quite touching. When they've finished Gerard fetches Frank a washcloth, turns the lights off, and pulls the covers over them. This is still really weird, but Frank's tired, aching to his bones, and Gerard's emitting heat next to him, present and comforting.

He falls asleep pretty quick.


When Frank wakes up, his head is throbbing, his ass and thighs are screaming, and he has no idea where he is. It's dim in the room, but light enough to see, like the morning light is escaping around the edge of blinds. Frank's really hot and he doesn't know why; when he shifts he feels something really warm and really soft pressing all along his back, steady breaths against his nape and an arm draped over his side and--

Oh, yeah. Frank stops squirming, but Gerard's already stirring, groaning a little against the back of Frank's neck, low and vibrating. Frank can tell when he wakes up because his whole body goes stiff, breathing stilling and tensing in pace.

After a long pause he goes to pull back, but Frank reaches behind himself and stops him. "Don't."

"Sorry," Gerard mumbles. "I, er, move in my sleep a lot."

"It's. It's fine." Frank can't remember the last time he woke up with someone, let alone spooning with them. Kyle hadn't stayed over much, and most of the sex he's had has been in bathrooms and basements. He does pull away though, just because he is really hot. He lets the sheets pool around his waist and lays back down, turning to face Gerard.

Gerard looks back at him, face a little flushed, hair stuck to his forehead and neck. "I am sorry about, y'know," he suddenly says, voice a little tight. "Running off."

"It's okay," Frank says, and it is. Whatever's happened, whatever the fuck's going on now, Frank feels okay. With Gerard, with himself. "It was just. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was insane."

"It was your first time," Gerard says understandingly, but Frank shakes his head.

"It wasn't just that. I mean, I'd pretty much been ready to do it for weeks." He laughs a little, remembering moaning to Dewees in his basement, getting high and frustrated and going home to jerk off. "It was just you. Fucking, kissing me like that, in front of everyone. I couldn't get over it."

"You told me to," Gerard reminds him, but he's smiling, visibly relaxing. "Me neither. That you just let me, I mean. Like, you were a virgin, and you still didn't care. You were fucking fearless. And - I don't know, I guess that turned me on."

"Oh yeah?" Frank says knowingly, raising an eyebrow. "You get off on stealing vulnerable young boys' innocence, sicko?"

"No!" Gerard protests, and then catches on. "Oh, fuck off. Stop laughing at me, asshole."

Frank stops laughing, mostly, but only because Gerard's stupid pouty face is making him want to kiss him too much.

"Mmph," Gerard huffs against Frank's mouth when Frank pulls Gerard into it with a hand curled around his jaw, kissing him until they're both breathless.

When Gerard starts making awesome little whimpering noises and pressing his hips forward into Frank's, Frank pulls back. There's a full, squirmy feeling in his stomach. It feels like anticipation.

"So," he says, grinning at Gerard's flushed face. "You wanna get breakfast?"