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Frank's slumped on a pile of pillows on his bed, hanging out his bedroom window blowing smoke in a long, thin stream up at the quiet midsummer stars. It's not smart, and he's gonna have to sleep with the window open to get the smell out, but it's almost two in the morning and he's way buzzed after helping Dewees break into Mr Henderson's garage to get at the stash of hard liquor he hides in the old toolbox crammed on a shelf high above the deep freeze. Frank's craving the nicotine so bad it's worth the risk getting caught, and the giant bruise he's gonna have on his gut in the morning. Henderson's a total boozer and scared shitless his battleaxe of a wife's gonna leave him. If he even notices the missing forty, no way he's gonna say shit. Guy's such a loser he'll probably figure he drank it on a blackout binge the last time his missus went outta town.

Down to the filter, Frank squints an eye shut to carefully stub it out on the black smear of roofing tar half a foot to the left of his window. He panics slightly when the butt gets stuck and he almost fumbles it into the bushes. It's not like he couldn't climb out and get it; the house is an awkward single-floor deal, a bunch of rooms cobbled together. That's still more noise than he wants to chance, even with his mom asleep on the other side of the house. Quickly, he stuffs it in a wad of tissues and crams it under his mattress up near the headboard. It's kinda gross, but he knows his mom's not gonna go near it. Cleaning up his snotty tissues when he's sick is one thing; a handful of fresh teenage jizz is so totally something else.

Fuck, all he's gotta do is think about spunk and the buzz in his blood heats, centers way down low. He smacks a hand over his face, drags his pillow up to the sill and slumps over it. He's not stupid. Even before his mom sat him down for like the worst talk in the history of man, ever, he knew that shit suddenly shooting out of his dick didn't mean he'd fucking broken it. What's fucking crazy is how much of it there is. He's going through shorts and sheets and towels like pissing the fucking bed.

Maybe his cock's become a second brain or something, because his hand's down his shorts without his actual brain being involved in any way at all. He leaves his fingers cupped over his hard on and gropes for the pack of smokes he lifted from the gas station all the way across town (that's the only place where the attendant is stupid enough to leave the case behind the counter unlocked when he goes to pump gas for some vapid college chick), fumbles one between his lips and lights it with a practised flick. The amount of shit he's gonna get in if his mom finds him drunk and smoking and whacking off is epic. Fuckin' epic. It's fucking scary, his mom'll kill him, for real kill him, but he's cracking shit up thinking about it. Smoke puffs out of his lungs, little ha-ha-ha bursts that become ah-ah-ahs as he humps his hand, knuckles pressing into his pillow, cockhead pressing into his palm, leaking all over it, getting it slick. Suddenly it's too good, too sharp. He yanks his hand out of his shorts and grinds into the pillow, shakily, stupidly, still trying to smoke. He's gonna set the fucking house on fire. He's gonna set himself on fire, but he's already burning up, shirt clinging to his sweat.

It usually takes him all of thirty seconds to get off. Maybe it's the booze, or he's so close to nicotine overload it's fucking with his brain, but this time everything feels real slow. He notices the way the cherry flares and crackles when he takes a drag, the way the smoke curls between the stars, the way they're flickering in and out of focus, bright-dull-bright as his eyelids flutter. He gaze hooks on the brightest star as he bites his lip and gets a good grip on the windowsill, ashes scattering. He's gonna come. The star's getting brighter and brighter, bigger, pulsing in time with his hips, with his breath, with the hot surge as his pulse kicks and he comes. It's so fucking good.

He's sprawled right there, legs slack, come smeared all over his junk, his head hanging out the window and cigarette burning down in his fingers, when some guy says, "Hi."

Frank's head jerks up so fast he bashes it on the bottom of his window. "Jesus fuck," he hisses, clutching at his skull. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Shit," the guy says. "You okay?"

"Fucking freak." Frank knuckles tears out of his eyes and blinks a couple times. The guy's standing all of like three feet away, one hand stuffed in a pocket and the other scratching at his neck. The moonlight's so clear his skin's washed of all colour, almost white next to the solid matte-black of his clothes, but his hair's this violent screaming red lit up like neon. "What the fucking fuck, man?"

The guy scrunches up his eyebrows, confused. He looks up at the sky, back down at Frank, then steps right up to the window and braces both hands on the sill. Frank barks, "Christ!" already scrambling back, his sheets all tangled up, his pillow in the way. He gets like five inches of distance and another sharp crack upside the head. He sags against the wall by the window. Fuck.

"Maybe you should quit doing that. It looks like it hurts."

"You fucking creep," Frank says, snapping his burnt-down cig up to wave it in the guy's face like a weapon. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"You're the one who called me," says the guy. He crosses his legs at the ankle, hip cocked out. He smiles like he thinks this shit is funny. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"If you don't get the fuck away from me right now, motherfucker, I'm gonna call the cops," Frank says, aiming for deadly calm and hitting totally freaked the fuck out. His heart's beating so damn hard his ribs are shuddering.

"The cops?" the guy echoes.

"Yeah, the fucking cops," Frank snarls. "You think they're gonna be laughing when they find you creeping out at some kid's window?"

"But you called me," the guy insists.

"I did fucking not!"

"Then what the hell were you doing!"

"Jerking off, asshole!"

"That's what I said!"

Frank's mouth snaps shut. He hears the guy suck in another lungful of breath like he's gonna keep on shouting. "Okay, okay," Frank says, fast. So much for scaring the guy away, and the cops crawling up his ass is the last fucking thing he needs tonight. Dude's a creep and a weirdo and fucking twice his age, but if he can get out of this without the shit hitting the fan, he's totally gonna try. "Okay. Back it up. What?"

"I was up there," the guy says, jabbing a finger at the sky, "minding my own fucking business, and then you started shooting your stupid human pheromones straight at me. Don't try to tell me you didn't know what you were doing. I've heard that one before, okay? It's not cool. I could've crashed."

Frank waits for that to sink in. It doesn't. It slops around on the surface of his alcohol-sodden brain. Maybe this is one of those hyper-real dreams he's heard about.

"Usually, I'm not into it," the guy goes on. "A bit of flirting is nice, I can appreciate that. It's a long way to go for a shallow hook-up, though, and that's really not my thing. You think it's tough doing the walk of shame across town, try a galaxy." He ploughs a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Fuck. That's totally what this is, isn't it?"

"No," Frank's startled into saying. That's absolutely not what this is. He doesn't have a fucking clue what this is, but it's not that.

The guy says, "It really seemed like you meant it," as he slumps down, elbows on the windowsill, cheek plopped in his hand. "You were so insistent. Mikey told me you were young, but I figured, what does that matter? I was two when I decided it was time to leave home and explore the universe. Make something of myself, you know? Make a difference."

"In my pants," Frank says slowly.


"Make a difference in my pants," Frank repeats, giggling. Great. Perfect time to hit the loopy portion of his drunk.

The guy heaves a long, disappointed sigh, and starts to stand up.

"Wait," Frank says, lurching forward. "Wait a minute. That's it?" The dude shoots him an odd look. "I mean, I wasn't fucking serious. About the cops. You're just gonna go?"

"Well, yeah," says the guy. "You're hot, and I totally would've, but obviously you're not-- Hey. Hey. Stop it."

Frank looks around wildly. He wouldn't be surprised at all to find his dick-brain had taken over again. Weirdo creeper or not, this guy is pretty, he's all long, loose sloping lines, and the weirdo-creep factor is actually kinda doing it for Frank, but both his hands are still clutching the pillow. "I'm not doing anything!"

"You are." The guy crosses his arms and scowls. "I can smell it."

"Dude," Frank says. "You can smell jizz?"

"Of course I can," the guy says. "I just told you--"

"But, uh." Frank wets his lips. Once he wakes up, or quits hallucinating, or whatever the fuck is going on here, he seriously hopes he can remember this. "I already did that. Like, before."

"I know, I watched," says the guy, sending heat snaking out all along Frank's skin, making his cock give a sweet, hard kick. "See!" The guy flaps a frustrated hand. "See, there you go again!"

Concentrating on getting air in and out of his lungs, Frank says, "I didn't do that. You did that."

"I--" Pausing with his hand still mid-air, the guy says, "What?"

Frank shakes his head. "I didn't do it. You did." It's weird how steady his hand is when he pushes the pillow aside and kneels up, leaning halfway out the window again. "When you said you watched me."

This time, Frank catches the way the guy's nostrils flare, his head tilted a bit like he's scenting. That's so fucking weird. It sends a hot shiver all the way down Frank's spine, and the guy breathes in deep, slow, his hand falling lax at his side. "That's not fair," he says. "You smell really good."

"I'm hard," Frank says, and bites his lip at the guy's sudden sharp intake of air. He's right there in front of the window again, hands clamped on the sill, startling Frank into backing up a bit. His eyes are really fucking dark, and pretty, shit, he is seriously the prettiest guy ever. Kinda girly in that way where he's not girly at all, just, something about the way he stands, how his body moves.

"I didn't know," Frank says, because that seems important. This shit isn't really happening, it's all in his head, but it still seems really, really important that this figment of his addled teenage brain knows that he didn't mean to. "I was just horny, okay? And I guess I'm kinda easy." Half the shit coming out of his mouth right now is booze-fuelled, but awake and sober, he wouldn't have the guts to say it. Not to somebody like this dude. "But man, this one's your fault."

The guy looks suspicious.

"Look, I'm not trying to, like, take advantage of you," Frank says, while his brain says, liar lair, and his dick's saying, please, please, take fucking advantage of him, fucking look at him. "But you're here, right? And you totally think I'm hot, and you got me all-- Listen, listen, wait. What's your name?"

"Gerard," he says cautiously, making Frank grin. Totally, of course. A sex alien named Gerard dropped out of the sky to watch him jerk off. No way is his brain making this shit up, right.

"Okay, great. I'm Frank."

"I know," Gerard says.

"Great, yeah," says Frank, nodding fast. "Guess I beamed that one up to you already, huh?"

"You don't believe me," Gerard says. "All you want is somewhere to stick your dick, and then I'll never hear from you again."

"No!" Cringing, Frank shoots a quick glance over his shoulder. He's gotta be way more careful. If he's not actually hallucinating this shit, and this pretty, random, crazy dude is real, his mom busting in on them isn't gonna end well. "No, no, I promise. You don't even have to do anything if you don't want. You could just, like, hang out."

"Hang out," Gerard repeats, slow and doubtful.

"Yeah. While I jerk off."

Gerard squeezes his eyes shut and makes a noise deep in his throat like a moan.

"Fuck," Frank breathes. Fuck, that is hot. He is this fucking close to shucking his shorts and going for it. "You could watch again. But, like, from real close up. And if you wanted me to stop for a minute or something, you know, make it not so quick this time, whatever, you could tell me." Gerard makes that noise again, low and sweet, and Frank knees it a little closer, his cock catching on his damp shorts making his breath hitch. There's this sharp, kinda ozoney smell clinging to the air. The moonlight's not as bright this close to the house, filtered through the scraggly, summer-brown trees, but Gerard's skin is still so pale, near translucent. "If you wanted to touch me, you could. Or kiss me, you could do that, too. That'd be okay."

Thickly, Gerard says, "This really isn't fair. I want that. I want that so, so bad, Frankie, you have no idea."

Frank's got time to say, "Dude, I'm not fucking stopping you," and then Gerard's on him, like, totally all over him, one hand shoved in his hair and one gripping his shoulder to yank him halfway out through the fucking window again, tongue shoved straight in his mouth. A weird metallic buzz like licking a battery tingles over Frank's lips and through his tongue, up into his cheeks. His mouth falls open without him thinking about it and Gerard groans, pushes harder. It's nothing at all like the tentative little flicks of tongue he's gotten before, it's all squishy and wet, deep and dirty and good, it's so fucking good. He clutches at Gerard's shoulders, registering the funky texture of his clothes, like rubber or latex but not, and the heat pouring off him, and then Frank's choking on a whine as Gerard pushes him back.

"Don't stop, why'd you stop," Frank groans, trying to drag Gerard in again, right through his fucking window if he's got to.

"So amazing," Gerard says, kinda not like he's talking to Frank at all, and licks his lips. His eyes are half-shut and heavy. "Humans always taste good, but you." He dips in, licking over Frank's lips, sucking on them a little, soft and slow. Frank hangs there like a moron and lets him. "You taste so good, Frank, how do you do that?"

"Beats the fuck outta me," Frank mumbles, tilting his head back as Gerard finds a patch of skin on his throat to suck on. Which, like, yeah, there's an idea. He shoves a hand into his sticky shorts and starts beating off like his fucking life depends on it.

Gerard says, "Oh," like he totally forgot that was the fucking point. "Yeah, yes, no, wait!" He yanks at Frank's wrist, and when that doesn't work, switches to yanking at his clothes. "You weren't naked. Be naked this time."

Like fuck Frank wants to take his hand off his dick long enough to bother. But Gerard's desperately chanting, "Please, please please please," in the crook of Frank's neck, teeth and tongue teasing skin, and that's so hot, so fucking heady, that he fumbles out of his shirt. Gerard really wants him. Like, wants him, bad. Maybe it's not a connection, not like Gerard was talking about, but it's the first time Frank's ever felt like he's in this with somebody. That's gotta count for something.

"Okay, okay," Frank pants, resting his forehead on Gerard's shoulder. He'd be good with leaving his shorts stuck around his thighs, but Gerard's restlessly stroking his back, his arms, everywhere he can reach through the wide-open window, so Frank pushes them all the way down to his knees and then wriggles them off his calves. "There. Naked. Can I fucking jerk off now?"

Gerard says, "No," and snakes an arm around Frank's back to haul him in so they're flush together faster than Frank can fucking blink. It's vaguely claustrophobic and his heart gives this one hard jerk, and so does his cock, fuck, right before Gerard wraps a firm hand around it. "I'm going to do it."

"Sure," Frank wheezes, and wonders for a second if this is what it's like to be the chick on the cover of a trashy romance. His limbs are like fucking jelly, refusing to go where he wants to put them. His head feels heavy, kinda lolling on his shoulders. All he can manage is a vague, uncoordinated shove into Gerard's grip, but it doesn't matter. Either Gerard's got the same thing as Frank in his pants or he's done this a whole hell of a lot, because his fingers are tight and slick and strong, moving steady but not fast, not like Frank would, barrelling for the finish.

A quiet spark of static starts echoing in Frank's head. "I know," Gerard says over it, "I know."

Frank slurs, "What?" gripping Gerard's elbow hard, he's almost there, almost there, and Gerard says, "You're so close, baby. Look at me. Please look at me. Just like you did before, Frankie, look right at me."

Getting his eyes to focus is a hell of a lot harder this time around. He shakes his head, groping for better grip, trying to haul himself up. His gaze keeps sliding past Gerard to the stars. They keep shifting around up there.

"No, at me," Gerard whispers, coaxing his chin up. "Nobody but me." Then, viciously, "Shut up. I know I did. I wasn't thinking!"

"Me neither," Frank confesses. Everything's getting kinda slow and lazy, like he's already come. He hasn't, though. There's still tight, coiling heat in his belly, the sweet, slick slide of Gerard's hand on his dick. It's really, really fucking good. Like, amazing. Like he could ride this wave all fucking night long and it would never have to end.

"Fuck," says Gerard, all gentle again. "Frankie, you gotta--"

Whatever the fuck Frank's gotta do, he never says. One minute Frank's clinging to him, watching the night sky swirl above his head, and the next Frank's flat on his back in bed, Gerard looming over him. "Oh fuck yeah," Frank says, stretching his arms out, drawing his knees up, letting them splay wide. "Yeah, you can, yeah."

"Oh my sweet fucking," Gerard chokes out, and shakes his head. "No, no. I can't. Fuck, Frank, I would. I so would. I shouldn't have kissed you. You're so fucking high you have no idea what you're doing."

"I do so," Frank says. "I'm totally gonna get off, if you'd put your fucking hand back on my dick."

Gerard makes a noise like Frank asked him to jump off a bridge. Which... that doesn't sound right. Frank starts to sit up. The whole room spins. Fuck, the whole house does. The planet.

"Did you." Frank frowns. "Did you-- Am I fucking roofied?"

There's that noise again. "I didn't mean to!"

Frank throws an arm over his eyes and laughs. And laughs, man, fucking great big whooping gasps of it. Gerard kinda spazzes out, says some shit that Frank doesn't catch, still too busy braying like a fucking donkey, then slaps a hand over his mouth.

That shuts Frank up, fast. He lifts his arm. Gerard's kneeling over him, face right up close, big, sweet dark eyes peering down at him. Gerard's mouth is wet and slack, and apparently fucking laced with E.

"It is not," Gerard says, indignant. "MDMA has a stimulating effect on humans."

"I was feeling pretty damn stimulated," Frank says, grinning, and tries a quick, fumbling grab that actually works when Gerard makes to pull away again. "But yeah, no, okay. I get it. It's okay." So alien spit gets humans high. Good to know. "You're still gonna jerk me off, right? 'Cause I wasn't high when I asked for that." Drunk, hell yes. But if he'd been high, he probably would've just asked for it sooner. It takes some effort, but he gets his eyes to fix on Gerard's face. Once he's there, it's way easy to keep focused. "You're really good at it."

"Humans," Gerard says, the same way Frank's teachers say teenagers, and Frank bites his lip, stretching his body out as far as he can so Gerard can touch anywhere he wants. Everywhere he wants. Gerard makes another one of those really cool so-turned-on-it-hurts noises, and then his hands are sweeping down Frank's chest, curling over his hips. "Too late now anyway," he says, like a shrug, and bends down, his hair tickling Frank's belly as he sucks Frank's dick into his mouth.

"Holy fuck!" Frank bucks up once, hard, words dissolving as Gerard holds him pinned and keeps sucking. Fuck, he literally sucks, and Frank had no idea even though he really should've because hi, hello, it's called sucking dick for a reason. There's no way he's making this shit up. This is real. Gerard is totally, impossibly, real. He gulps down a couple great big choking lungfuls of air, tangles in hands in Gerard's hair, and loses it so hard so fast his orgasm is like a motherfucking brick wall falling on him.

"Ow, ow, ow," Gerard says, fumbling at his hands. Frank's whole body is gone slack, what's left of his energy dedicated to core functions like oxygen in, carbon dioxide out, so he can't really help getting his fingers free. Gerard manages eventually. The bed dips as he leans in close again, peering critically at Frank's eyes. "You're probably going to pass out soon."

Frank clumsily paws at Gerard's face. He so totally is, but he wants one more kiss first. Just one more.

"Sorry, Frankie," Gerard says, catching his hand and twisting it palm up, kissing that instead. "It's like alcohol. You need to build up some tolerance."

Sluggishly, Frank nods. He can do that. "Tomorrow," he says. "When you come back."

Gerard, busy nuzzling into Frank's palm and sniffing his skin like a total freak, pauses. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, tomorrow."

"You can kiss me until I pass out," Frank says dreamily, curling into Gerard's warmth. The breeze from the open window is getting sharp. "Do it again when I wake up."

"Yeah," Gerard repeats, really quietly. "He's almost out."

"You're gonna stay for a bit, yeah? But you gotta go before my mom wakes up," Frank goes on. "You so don't want to be here for that, Gee. Oh man, you so don't wanna."

"Don't worry," Gerard says. The bed shifts as the breeze rises. Frank shivers in the cold until the blankets settle around his shoulders. He burrows down gratefully, breathing in the sharp ozone smell. "Don't worry, Frankie, it'll be like I was never here."


College parties fucking suck ass. College fucking sucks ass, but at least Frank knows why he's there. Or why he's supposed to fucking be there, because it sure as hell isn't like he's learning anything. Why he's at this dive wasting his stash on Dewees and his asshole girlfriend instead of toking up on his own in his dorm is totally beyond him. She's so still banging that guy from Western Lit, too, the one Frank caught with his dick halfway down her throat in a bathroom stall. Dewees has got to dump her trashy ass and move the fuck on.

Yeah. Get the fuck over it. Move the fuck on.

"Frank," Dewees calls, waving the hand he doesn't have crammed down her shirt, "Frankie, where you goin'?"

"Out, dude," Frank says. "Chill."

"You better come back with my weed!" Dewees shouts over the sound of the screen door banging shut.

Frank rolls his eyes. "My weed, motherfucker." Some douchebag perched on the battered concrete stairs sneers down at him. Frank flips him off and keeps walking. Away from the noise of the party, the night's quiet, still. The stars are high and bright in the clear sky, the moon full. His skin's been crawling since the sun went down.

"Get the fuck over it," he mutters, and starts digging through his pockets. It's not like he keeps track of the days like some twisted anniversary. Been too long for that shit. Summer days run into summer nights into more summer days, anyway, and he was trashed every other night during that summer, and the summer after, and yeah, the one after that. Trashed like he is now.

His pockets finally give up a crumpled pack of smokes and a dented zippo. He lights up and blows smoke at the sky and thinks, fuck you. "Fuck you."

"That's almost what you said last time," comes a soft voice.

Frank's whole body goes cold, then flushes hot from the inside. No way. No fucking way.

"Hi, Frankie," Gerard says.

Around the lighter, Frank's fist clenches tight, the edges biting into his palm. He hunches his shoulders and doesn't turn the fuck around. This shit isn't happening. Not now, not tonight, not ever. It never happened, just like Gerard promised. "No fucking way. Motherfucker."

The heavy scrape of boots on concrete ratchets up Frank's spine. Every bone in his body's screaming violence, but of course, of fucking course, Gerard doesn't read it as a threat. The fucker could take Frank out by spitting in his eye, what's he got to be afraid of?

The way these stories go, Frank should've lost half his childhood to late-onset night terrors. Spent hours and days and years in therapy. Probably gotten institutionalized somewhere. He should've become something sensational, shocking, a spectacle babbling about bright lights and translucent skin and kisses sweeter than the purest hit.

All he ended up was lonely. How fucking mundane is that shit?

"I knew you'd be pissed," Gerard sighs. "At least look at me, would you?"

Look at me, echoes through Frank's head, bringing with it a slow, painful shiver. Baby, look at me. People say that shit all the time. Fuck Gerard for making Frank always hear it in his damn voice.

"Look," Gerard starts, and no, no no no, fuck no, Frank can't hear it again.

"I called," he cuts in. All those years with the window open, waiting, hoping, and nothing. Even when he started fucking around, he didn't care, he kept it open. Let everybody hear it. Hoped Gerard would fucking hear what he was missing out on. The first time Frank tried to sleep with somebody who made him close it, he actually lost his fucking boner. Fucking lost it, like he was ninety instead of nineteen. "Gave it up. Ain't doing it no more, so fuck off."

"I couldn't come back."

"Wouldn't." He takes a slow drag, lets it sit in his lungs. It aches not knowing if Gerard's hair is red like fire, or like cherries. Forgetting all over again'll ache worse.

"Couldn't," Gerard repeats. "Child abduction's pretty dicey on this planet. Consent issues."

"Yeah," Frank snorts. "Right."

"You didn't believe me last time, either," Gerard says, and it sounds like he's smiling. "I would have taken you that night. Mikey wouldn't let me."

Frank doesn't care. He says, "Guilt tripped you out of it, huh," anyway.

"You were so high," Gerard rambles on, "you would've let me. I like to think I would've brought you back, if you asked. But I knew I'd do everything I could so you'd never ask. It's pretty creepy, when you think about it."

It doesn't sound so creepy to Frank. What it sounds like is a hell of a lot better than wasting six years of his fucking life on waiting.

"Creepy like leaving your bedroom window open for me," Gerard says. When he touches Frank's shoulder, the shock of it travels straight down his spine to twist up hot in the pit of his stomach. He plants his feet, shoulders straight, and doesn't turn, not even when Gerard fists his shirt and warm fingers brush his neck. "If you want to," Gerard says, quiet and soft and dark like the sky, "you can touch me."

Frank squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck, he wants to. He really, really wants to. The leaves are rustling softly with the rising breeze. There's a sharp, chill edge to it, and Gerard's so fucking warm.

"You can even kiss me," Gerard says, his hand sliding down, his arm wrapping around Frank's waist to pull him back. Everything's exactly the same. The heat, the sharp smell of ozone, that weird, rubbery texture of Gerard's clothes. The wind pitches higher, snapping at Frank's hair, his clothes. "Anything you want. I won't stop you."

Frank's done waiting. He smiles up at the too-close stars, their bright jagged edges, and turns around.