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It's Gerard's turn to buy the weed, which means it's Frank's turn to provide the location. It's nice for Gerard to be out of his basement and in Frank's room instead; Frank is an incessant neat freak even when drugs are on the cards, which both he and Mikey like to make fun of him for, but Gerard admits it was nice to walk into his bedroom and not trip over anything. They even end up sitting on the floor, which is pretty standard, but Frank doesn't have piles of dirty laundry and used crockery and--
"Fuckin' superglue on my favorite jeans," Frank interjects, because Gerard is, of course, saying all this out loud.
"That was one time," Gerard says. "And it wasn't superglue, it was--" he pauses, trying to remember. He knows it wasn't superglue, because Gerard doesn't use superglue. He has no glue in his room, super or otherwise. One of his art teachers is always telling him glue is for the lazy. One time she caught Gerard using a little to fix a tear in his papier-mâché zombie vegetable garden and he thought her head might explode. It wasn't gum either. After the last time Ray somehow ended up with it in his hair, none of them dare bring it down there anymore.
"Whatever," Frank says, apparently bored of waiting for him to figure it out. "Sticky stuff. On my jeans. Not the good kind."
"How is that - no, wait." Gerard laughs out of nowhere, and Frank giggles back at him, reaching over to swipe up the Doritos. The floor is littered with various snacks - they'd planned in advance this time. Frank's wearing a tight t-shirt that's slightly too short for him, which Gerard is really grateful for, because it rides up his back when he bends over.
"It's not good, good, obviously," Frank's saying, still leaning, scrabbling for the unopened pack of Goobers that have somehow ended halfway across the floor. They're slumped against the side of Frank's bed, Ninja Turtles going in the background - Frank has them all on DVD - and they've got the place to themselves for another few hours before Mikey gets back, Gerard thinks. "But it's like, if you have an awesome orgasm what's a little jizz on your jeans? It, like, balances it out, y'know?"
"Uh, yeah," Gerard says. He's pretty sure Frank knows Gerard doesn't care about shit on his jeans anyway, and he's just thinking out loud. He's kind of distracted by Frank saying awesome orgasm, though. Imagining Frank having awesome orgasms. Gerard bets he's loud. He looks like he'd be loud. Frank's a loud kind of person in general, so it makes sense.
"Earth to Gerard," Frank says loudly, waving a hand in front of his face, and Gerard feels extremely validated for one giddy, glorious moment. "What's so funny?"
"I'm not," Gerard says automatically, except he totally is. "I mean. Nothing."
Frank's looking at him with this weird expression on his face, like he wants to laugh, but he doesn't know what at. Gerard stuffs his hand in the Doritos bag and crams some in his mouth, crunching loudly to drown out the embarrassment. They're the cheesy kind which he doesn't like too much; they're too strong and smelly and they make his tongue feel furry. He thinks he's mentioned this to Frank before, but Frank doesn't say anything. Gerard is pretty sure he's doing that thing, that thing where he overthinks. Frank probably does not give a fuck what flavor Doritos Gerard prefers. (Cool Ranch).
Nothing happens, though. They smoke a bit more, watch a few more episodes, and then Frank suggests he bring out his bong. He's in serious stoner mode, flushed and giggly, loaded up on salt and sugar, and the air in the room is already thick; Frank's tiny window isn't doing much. This is probably the point where Gerard should call it a day. Mikey isn't here, because Mikey is elsewhere, which means Mikey can't keep things, like, kosher. Gerard spares a moment to feel irrationally annoyed at his brother. Mikey knows-- he knows how much Gerard sucks at this, basically. This whole behaving normally and having self-control thing. Mikey can play that shit like nobody's business. Obviously there's some recessive gene at work that decided to skip over Gerard. He mentally flips it off.
In his defense, though, this is good stuff. It seems a waste not to do it properly.
Frank goes first ("Apartment-owner rights trump weed-bearer rights, asshole," says Frank gleefully as he fiddles with the tobacco. "Sorry, I didn't realize this was Gondor, Faramir, I'll just hand it over," Gerard snarks back, but he gives in, of course) and Gerard watches as he takes a generous hit, the water bubbling merrily. Frank's sat with it between his knees, hunched over, strands of dark hair falling over his eyes. His eyelids flutter when he inhales, the bump of his throat moving when he tips his head back and exhales, slowly. He looks totally blissed-out, and Gerard could be feeling eager because he wants his turn. That's easily what it could be. Except Frank is so stupidly hot sometimes and when Gerard's this high and about to get higher, he doesn't have much in the way of convincing himself.
"Dude," Frank's saying, "Gerard. Duuuuuude." He's slid the bong over and is holding the lighter out for Gerard to take. Oh. Right. Gerard takes it and does his thing with minimal fumbling, and the sweet burn in his lungs, rising up like fog through his mind, is a welcome distraction. They pass it back and forth until Gerard can barely see anymore, vision swimming, stomach swirling with equal parts contentment and jitters. He makes a pleased, rumbly noise and feels the vibration from his temples right down to the tips of his fingers.
"S'good, right?" Frank's proud, satisfied voice hums through the haze, like he thinks he fucking invented marijuana or something.
"You can't," Gerard slurs, pressing the heel of his hand against his head to try and make his thoughts stay still. "You can't take credit for what the weed does, Frankie, that's."
"Plagiarism?" Frank suggests. "Oppressive? Immoral? Just, like, totally not cool, oh my gooood?"
Gerard may be dangerously close to totally fucked, but he knows when he's being mocked. He chooses not to rise to it, and makes a face in Frank's direction instead. He doesn't even know if Frank saw.
They're both quiet for a while. Gerard's ass is kind of numb, even though he snagged one of Frank's pillows to sit on when he sat down. He thinks about moving to the bed, but then Frank would probably sit on it too. Gerard glances at him. He's got his eyes closed, head laid back against the mattress, one leg bent and the other sprawled out, this stupid little smile tugging at his mouth. "You're staring again, aren't you," he suddenly says, without opening his eyes.
"No," Gerard says, too quickly, darting his eyes to the TV. And then back to Frank, "Wait, I don't. Again?"
"Yeah," Frank says, head still tipped back. "You do it a lot. Stare at me." He keeps his tone neutral, like he's just stating facts, so Gerard doesn't know how Frank feels about that, or what he's getting at, or what he means.

Gerard's heart starts beating faster. He feels kind of lurch-y. He doesn't know what to say, but he feels like Frank is expecting some sort of response. "I don't," he stutters, except he does. God, does he ever, so he shuts up. He tries for another hit, even though the best of it has long fizzled out - inhales badly and ends up coughing up a lung. Awesome. Maybe he'll die right here.
When he stops choking, Frank's opened an eye and has it fixed it on him. "It's okay," he says reassuringly. His smile is fuller, wider. "I don't mind."
"Uh," Gerard gets out, still heaving a little. "Okay?" That's good to know, he supposes.
Frank sits up straighter and snatches up the Twizzlers with a joyful whoop, and then a string of swearing as he wrestles with the plastic wrapping of their six-pack of Coke. "You want another?"
Gerard tries to catch up. "Yeah." With any luck, Frank won't even remember this tomorrow.
Frank passes over the Coke without incident. Gerard briefly considers asking for something to put in it, but then quickly vetoes that idea. It's tempting, but Gerard knows he really doesn't need anything else making him even more useless. He doesn't want to push his luck. He tries to keep his eyes on the Turtles, but after a few minutes Frank starts fidgeting.
"Fuck, my ass is fucking dead," he groans, rising up on his knees and stretching, arching his back. "Let's get on the bed, come on."
Gerard doesn't have much choice; Frank's already tugging at him before he can say anything. Frank's painfully handsy anyway, but when he's high, he's even worse. They wind up side by side on Frank's tiny double, propped up against the headboard. Gerard folds his arms as casually as he can, but Frank seems content to just sprawl, getting in Gerard's space, elbows and knees and legs. Gerard tries to focus on his breathing, in-out, in-out. He read somewhere it's supposed to help keep you calm in times of stress, but all it seems to be doing for Gerard is making him feel like he's hyperventilating. Or, like, giving birth. Although, the air in here probably contains a higher percentage of weed fumes than it does oxygen. Fuck, he's sweating.
"Gee?" Frank says. He's kind of giving Gerard the side-eye, but his knee is still twitching, like he can't sit still, repeatedly nudging Gerard's leg. "You good?"
"It's hot," Gerard says, stupidly.
"Take your hoodie off, then," Frank says. The duh is heavily implied.
"I - nah." Gerard's hands dart to the bottom of his hoodie, tugging it down. "I'm good."
"You're not, though," Frank says, sitting up slowly. Shit, he sounds predatory. If Gerard could look at his face he's sure he'd be grinning.
"Don't," Gerard pleads, but Frank's already on him, scrabbling hands yanking at the offending clothing. Gerard shrieks and flails, but Frank gets it halfway over his head so he can't see and he really doesn't want to fall off the bed, so Frank gets his way. Frank always gets his way.
Gerard huffs and hunches over in his t-shirt, bare arms crossed against his belly, while Frank waves the hoodie over his head in victory. He's laughing, though - they both are. It's kind of impossible not to. Gerard tries, clamping his jaw shut, but it's just - it's just Frank's face. The air just keeps escaping out of Gerard's mouth like an untied balloon.
"You should," Frank gets out between snorts, "you should cut your hair."
"What?" Gerard wheezes.
"No, it's just - it's all stuck up." Frank shuffles forwards on his knees and then his hands are in Gerard's hair. Gerard's laughter dies down abruptly. Frank's fingers are surprisingly gentle on his scalp, ruffling it up, carding through it. "We'd probably have to wash it first, though," he says thoughtfully.
Gerard pulls his eyes away from the strip of Frank's stomach he can see to swat at Frank's hands, which accomplishes absolutely nothing. "I'm not washing my hair," he says, affronted. "Or cutting it, what the fuck?" Gerard didn't think there was anything wrong with his hair. He just redyed the black a month ago and everything. Sure, it's getting a little long and unkempt, but he likes it that way. It's, like, punk. Apparently Frank doesn't agree, though. Gerard tries not to feel hurt. "You don't - you don't like my hair?"
"No!" Frank says, and oh, Gerard thinks, okay. "No, no, I mean," Frank goes on quickly, "I like it, it's just, it keeps getting in your way, y'know?"
"No?" Gerard says blankly. The only things he's really noticed getting in his way are Frank's clothes, but he's not suggesting Frank cut those off. This all seems horribly unfair.
"Oh, don't sulk, Gee, I'm just saying," Frank says. He sounds fond, but Gerard is not sulking, damn it. Before he can protest, though, Frank adds, "I can't see your pretty face."
"...Fuck off," Gerard says, a beat too late. His heart is thudding again; it's ridiculous. Frank is just making fun of him. Gerard can't see Frank's face - he's sat on his ass with his legs kind of curled under him, and Frank's kneeling properly now, thighs spread to keep his balance on the mattress while he fiddles around with Gerard's hair. It feels like he's separating it into sections, fingers sliding back from his ears to the base of his crown. Frank's waist and belly are right under Gerard's nose, soft-looking and tempting, the waistband of his jeans riding low on his hips. Gerard hands feel awkward in his lap, fidgeting with a loose thread on his jeans.
"If I did this," Frank's murmuring, like it's to himself, "pinned this up on top so I could shave underneath - just the side, wouldn't even have to see it then, if you wanted, but it would, like, take some of the weight out, I think--"
"Frank?" Gerard says quietly. He's not sure what's going on now. He feels kind of floaty, lost.
"Yeah!" Frank suddenly says, dropping back on his heels to grin at Gerard. "It will totally work. I can just undercut the side for you. And, like, if you get fed up of it or whatever, you can just wear your hair over it, see? You won't even see it. But I think it will look good. Badass."
Gerard looks at Frank's hair, the shaggy fuzz of the blond sides and the shock of black fringe curling from his forehead around his jaw. Frank's always been proud of the fact he's styled it himself since he was about sixteen, which - yeah, Gerard can see why. Frank's hair is always awesome, even when it's kind of lame. The problem is, though, that this is Gerard's hair. And since Gerard is Not Frank, he definitely won't be able to pull it off.
But then, it really doesn't sound too extreme, what Frank's suggesting. He said you wouldn't even be able to tell, if Gerard wanted it that way.
Frank's looking at him hopefully. Gerard's scalp is still tingling from Frank's fingers. "Okay," he says weakly. Frank grins wider and claps his hands, but Gerard quickly adds, trying to sound firmer, "But I'm not washing it first."
"Okay," Frank says happily. He mutes the TV and scrambles off the bed, pulling off some serious acrobatic moves to avoid tripping over all the crap that's still on the floor and get to his desk. Gerard's pretty sure he would have fallen on his face if he'd tried that, but Frank just has this natural thing - like he's at one with the world around him, as opposed to a hideous intruder, or some sort of blistering mutation on its face. Gerard can never decide which he wants more: to fuck Frank, or to be him. Maybe both, although he isn't sure if that would be classed as masturbation or incest. He wishes he could ask Frank - he usually has interesting things to say about things like that. He'd ask Mikey, but he'd probably just get one of those looks. Gerard hates his brother's looks.
"Here," Frank says as he climbs back on the bed, dropping clippers and a bunch of hair grips on the mattress. There's a pair of scissors in his hand. Gerard's stomach lurches. "Shouldn't be too hard, even with, uh." The giggles bubble up like boiling water, infectious as fuck, even with how nervous (terrified) Gerard suddenly is.
"Impaired dexterity?"
"I was gonna say high as balls," Frank laughs. "There's nothing wrong with my - um. Whatever. Basically just don't worry, I've totally done this before in worse states than this."
"That isn't actually that comforting," Gerard mutters. He might have to go back to the breathing exercises at this rate.
Frank doesn't seem to notice that Gerard is just about ready to vibrate out of his skin. He's totally casual in the way he gets in Gerard's face again, settling on his knees in front of him, close. Gerard has just enough time to hold his breath before Frank makes a negative noise and drops back, shuffling around until he's sat up against the headboard.
"Nah, come - come sit here," he says, spreading his legs and patting the mattress between his knees. "It'll be easier."
Gerard hesitates, but Frank's just sat there, waiting for him, looking quite calm, though obviously eager. Slowly, Gerard edges his way towards Frank, until they're face to face. They look at each other for a long moment, until Frank raises an eyebrow, expression amused. "Turn around?"
"Right," Gerard says, high and stupid. His face is flaming as he scrambles to sit the other way, but then Frank's fingers are on the back of his neck and his mind goes abruptly blank. They slide up into his hair, following the curve of his skull, slow. Gerard breathes in slowly, deeply, fighting the urge to yield to it, let his head drop forwards against the pressure of Frank's hand.
"I'm gonna cut it first," Frank's saying, free hand moving just off the edge of Gerard's vision, presumably retrieving the grips. Gerard feels like he can't turn his head to look. "I won't go too high - I'll make a parting line, like, above your ear, yeah? And I'll go back to about -" Gerard feels him slide a fingertip back from behind his ear to the top of his neck, "here?"
Gerard doesn't know. He has no fucking idea. It occurs to him Frank didn't bring over a mirror, that Gerard hasn't even seen what Frank is planning to do, but he can't bring himself to ask, and have Frank move. This is definitely, absolutely, the worst idea ever.

"Yeah," Gerard says. His voice comes out kind of thin, mouth a little dry. "Sounds good."
Frank hums thoughtfully, two hands in Gerard's hair now, fingers raking back over his temples, pulling his hair off his face, leaving Gerard feeling weirdly exposed. "Yeah, don't worry though, I'm gonna leave loads on top, so if you don't like it or anything, it won't be really - y'know - while it grows back. This one of your weird-ass sideburns will have to go, though."
Gerard can't think of anything even halfway biting to say to that. He feels hot all over, painfully aware of Frank's body behind him. Gerard's back feels tense and awkward from holding himself up straight between Frank's thighs. It would only take the slightest of movements, an accidental slump, for his ass to press against Frank's crotch. Gerard's palms feel clammy. He tries to wipe them on Frank's sheets without him noticing.
Frank starts parting his hair properly, a rhythmic slide, pull of his fingertip stroking over the line to catch the hair and then pulling it up out of the way. Gerard's seen his mom getting her hair done before and he remembers the stylist doing something like this, using a scary-looking comb with a long, sharp handle. Frank's blunt fingers feel frighteningly clumsy in comparison to the image in his mind, but Frank seems sure of himself, his hands steady.
"Turn your head a little," he says smoothly, and Gerard does. "This would be easier if my fingers didn't keep slipping on the grease." Gerard feels a patch of his hair tug at the root as Frank slides a grip into place. He chuckles under his breath, "Surprised that's even holding it."
"Shut up," Gerard manages, feeble and pathetic. Frank laughs again; Gerard feels the little huffs of air on the back on his neck and shivers minutely.
Gradually, the side of Gerard's head starts to feel cooler as it's stripped of the layers protecting it. He feels vaguely silly, definitely anxious, but mostly - he feels turned on. Frank's fingers are gentle but firm, rubbing and stroking at his scalp; it would probably be soothing if it were anyone but Frank, if Gerard wasn't high as fuck and sat between Frank's legs on Frank's bed, alone with him in the apartment he shares with Gerard's brother. There are so many factors that make this incredibly not-soothing.
Frank finishes the gripping, and then he reaches for the scissors.
"Oh." Gerard tries to keep his voice from pitching up into something close to hysteria. "Are you - okay, you're doing it? Okay. Uh. Yeah, okay."
"Yeah?" Frank asks evenly. There's a brief, panicked moment where Gerard almost says no, his mind flipping from one scary image of himself with fucked-up hair to another, but then Frank says, quieter, "Trust me?"
And fuck, it's only hair, right? Why is he so nervous anyway? So what if he looks a bit stupid for a few weeks? Gerard internally snorts. He mostly looks stupid anyway, so what's the difference? Does he really care what people think?
Gerard takes a deep breath, and nods.
The first metallic snick, loud right by his ear, makes Gerard jump and gasp a little. A quick, firm hand lands on his shoulder, "Stay still, I don't wanna nick you," and Gerard exhales hard, tries to calm down. He can feel himself blushing, embarrassed at himself - at being scared, at the twisty heat in his gut.
Frank's hand leaves his shoulder, fingertips dragging through the hair curling around Gerard's ear, pulling it taut. Gerard feels Frank's body move a little, his other hand rise - snip, snip - and the sudden release of pressure on his scalp as the hair comes away. Gerard gnaws hard on his bottom lip, fists clenching. There's no turning back now.
"Don't freak out," Frank says calmly, like he can read Gerard's mind. Or maybe he can just feel the tension coming off of him like heat from a furnace. "It's gonna look good."
Gerard tries to believe him, but it doesn't really work. He wonders how Frank stood this the first time he did it, alone in his bathroom with a razor and a pair of scissors and a box of cheap bleach, the possibilities stretching out for miles in front of him. He probably didn't even bat an eyelid, Gerard thinks. Frank just throws himself into everything.
It does get a little easier - as Frank snips away the hair at his temple, as Gerard manages to breathe through it. There's almost a zen to it, the quiet that falls over them both, just their breathing and the repetitive noise of the scissors, Frank's fingers in his hair. His touches are feather-light things now that he's actually cutting, brushes that Gerard senses rather than feels; Frank's knuckles rustling his hair and making his scalp prickle.
When he gets to the low spot behind Gerard's ear the cool handle of the scissors presses against his neck, sudden and shocking on his heated skin. Gerard jerks and hisses - can't fucking help it, the sensation sharp as glass. And then - then Frank's clamping his thighs tight around Gerard with a harsh, "Fuck, stay still," knees pressed up hard against Gerard's ribs.
Gerard squeaks and freezes. Frank hums a satisfied noise and starts snipping along Gerard's hairline at the base of his skull, the flat sides of the blades dragging lightly over his skin as they open and close. Gerard can feel the hair dropping, littering his bare arms, itchy on his neck and shoulders. He can't seem to move his hand to brush it off.
"There," Frank murmurs. He blows lightly on the nape of Gerard's neck, and Gerard instantly breaks out in goosebumps. He's not cold - he's boiling fucking hot - Frank's thighs clamped firmly around him, chest warm and solid up against his back. Gerard's sweating, trying to breathe normally. He was turned on before, but now he's seriously about to pop a boner if Frank doesn't move the fuck away right fucking now. Panic floods back, clenching tightly in his stomach among the heat; he's not sure he could handle it if Frank saw and laughed at him, even if he didn't mean anything by it. Because Gerard's sure he wouldn't, Frank's not that kind of guy. He's not an asshole. He's the exact opposite, and god, doesn't Gerard know it.
"Shaving time now," Frank says quietly. "I'm thinking... two?"
Fuck. Gerard's been around Frank enough to know that two means short. Probably not even half an inch long.
"Sure," Gerard croaks.
Frank is still for a long moment, just breathing. And then he leans into Gerard's back, reaching slowly for the clippers, still on the mattress by Gerard's left foot.
And that's when it happens. Their t-shirts catch, ride up, and suddenly Gerard's feeling the soft flesh of Frank's bare belly pressed against the dip of his lower spine, skin hot and damp. His intake of breath is loud and sharp and completely fucking obvious, but before Gerard can slam his face into his hands, he hears the noise Frank makes, too.
And then he feels it. His ass flush tight between Frank's thighs, and - hardness between them. It feels like Gerard's heart skips a beat, before it zooms right into fucking overdrive, because that is definitely a bulge in Frank's jeans and it is definitely his dick causing it.
The moment seems to stretch forever, both of them frozen. It feels like Gerard's mind is racing as fast as his pulse. He feels almost delirious, still strung-high, mind thick and clouded. Fuck it.

He puts his hands on Frank's knees and presses back, trembling at his own daring. Just a little - barest pressure against Frank's hard-on - but enough to get his attention, to let him know how Gerard feels about this. Frank's breath whistles through his teeth. Gerard's own is coming thickly through his mouth. He doesn't know how to make himself clearer.

"Gee?" Frank says, really, really quietly. His voice is low behind Gerard's ear and it goes straight through him, fuck.
"Yeah," Gerard whispers, the word catching in his throat. He doesn't even know what question he's answering, only knows his answer is yes.
Frank makes another low sound; Gerard can feel him breathing through his mouth. "I - I've gotta," he stutters, "Just let me -" and then the buzz of the clippers starts up.
Oh, yeah. Gerard almost forgot what they were doing. The first press of the guarded blade makes him shiver. Frank goes slow, careful; he's clearly practiced at this. It feels like it should hurt - the edge of the trimmer is sharp, and Gerard can feel his newly-short hair catch and tug slightly as it rakes through it - but it doesn't. It drags over his scalp smoothly, and Gerard can hear both their breath in the pauses between Frank pulling it back to let the hair fall. There's a rather intimidating amount of black on the bed around them now, but Gerard doesn't even care anymore. Everywhere Frank touches him sends frizzles of heat through his nerves.
In the next pause he shifts his ass back again, grinding more deliberately against Frank's crotch. They both make a noise at that, and Frank's free hand clamps hard around Gerard's hip. "Wait," he grits out, breathing uneven. "Stay - stay still, let me finish -"
Gerard doesn't think he can. "Frank." God, his own voice is rough as hell.
"Wait," Frank stresses. He sounds almost pleading. "M'nearly done."
Gerard's skin is thrumming. He closes his eyes as Frank curves the clippers around his ear, his hairline, upwards from his neck to catch the last few strands. The side of Gerard's head feels strangely bare, but everywhere else feels fucking smothered. Finally, finally Frank clicks them off, and Gerard's pushing back into him before the clippers even hit the mattress.
"Fuck," Frank chokes out, both hands biting into Gerard's hips now, pulling Gerard back against him hard. "Fuck yeah, Gerard."
Gerard's panting; he's got his hands braced solidly on Frank's knees, and he just lets go. He moves against Frank, shifts up higher and deeper when he grinds back in, rolling his hips between Frank's legs like he's fucking-- Gerard doesn't even know. Like a stripper, like something sensual and dirty. Like he's riding Frank's dick without clothes in the way - and shit, yeah, Gerard wants that. He wants Frank to fuck him, to feel him inside. He wants Frank to push him down on his face, cover his back and rut against Gerard's ass until he comes all over him - feel it on his skin, hot and so fucking filthy.
He wants Frank to make a fucking mess of him.
Frank's swearing, panting just as hard as Gerard. There's vague notions of turning around in Gerard's mind, of getting their clothes off, doing this properly - but he can't seem to make himself stop. Frank's thighs shake every time Gerard grinds back, knees trembling under Gerard's hands. Both their shirts are still rucked up; Frank's fingernails are painful in Gerard's bare hips, and where their skin rubs together is slick with sweat. "Yeah, Gee," Frank groans, "fucking god, don't stop -"
Gerard shakes his head frantically. He can't stop, couldn't if he tried. The feel of Frank's hard cock right there is driving him crazy, even through the rough, chafing layers between them. He grinds against him again, again, and Frank practically sobs, pulling him back into it, fingers clamped tight into Gerard's waist. Frank whines high and desperate in his throat against the back of Gerard's neck, ruts up hard against Gerard's back and - oh fuck, fucking comes - Gerard can tell, Frank's knees clamping tight around him, his whole body shaking against him.
Gerard can't even see straight. He's so hard he's dizzy, pressed up painfully against the front of his own jeans. "Frank," he says desperately, squirming, unable to stop moving now he's started. "Frankie, I -"
Frank's boneless against his back, breathing hard in his ear, but his voice is rough and hoarse when he says, "Yeah, holy fuck, just - come here," and fists a hand in Gerard's hair, pulling his head back hard against Frank's shoulder, shoving the other down between Gerard's legs. Gerard gasps at the ceiling as his hips kick, feet spreading further apart and back arching to thrust frantically against the amazing pressure of Frank's palm.
"Fuck yeah, you gonna come for me?" Frank drawls in Gerard's ear, rubbing roughly over his cock. "God, you're so hard - look at you fucking my hand, wanna see you lose it," and he bites - fuck, he fucking bites down on Gerard's neck, and that's seriously all Gerard can take.
He hasn't come in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fucking does right then, pulsing long and hard inside his underwear. "Fuck," he spits, eyes squeezed shut, thighs straining, toes curling hard in Frank's sheets. "Fuck, fuck."
"Mmm, yeah, so hot," Frank's murmuring when Gerard can hear again, low and rambling. "So fucking hot, wanted to do that forever, Gerard, shit."
"You - what?" Gerard's still reeling, panting through the aftershocks. "Really?"
Frank makes a scoffing, laughing kind of noise against Gerard's neck. "No, I was just blatantly flirting with you all day for no reason at all." Frank was flirting with him? Gerard doesn't remember. His mind won't narrow down, won't process what he's hearing. "Mikey just decided to skip out on smoking up and go to the fucking dentist instead."
Wait, Mikey knew about this? "He - he told me he had work," Gerard says weakly.
"Whatever, I said I didn't care what his excuse was." Frank makes a dismissive hand movement. "Point is, I knew you'd never realize on your own, and I didn't have the balls to tell you sober."
"Tell me?" Gerard is seriously lagging behind here. There is a serious lack of processing going on. His heart is fluttering anyway.
"That I like you," Frank explains.
"Oh," Gerard says. He can't think of anything else to say except the truth. "Uh, me too. I mean. You."
Frank snorts, "Always so articulate," but he sounds happy. Gerard can just about make out the edge of his smile from where his head is still tipped back on Frank's shoulder. It makes Gerard smile too, an automatic instinct, and Frank nuzzles a little into his hair.
A light suddenly clicks on in Gerard's head. "Oh fuck, my hair! How does it look?"
Frank sweeps a hand over Gerard's head, pulling the grips free, and urges him to a sit forward so Gerard can turn around. Frank's silent for a long moment, just looking, and Gerard's stomach sinks. "...How bad is it?"
Frank shakes his head, eyes intent and bright. "You look good," he says, voice low. "I told you you would."
He doesn't seem like he's just trying to spare Gerard's feelings, but Gerard has always been inherently distrustful of anyone who pays him a compliment, so he gets up to see for himself, sharing a face with Frank at the matching mess in their pants. Eh, Gerard thinks, shrugging to himself. Worth it. Frank follows him to the bathroom, and they look in the mirror together. And, wow.
"Wow," Gerard says, turning his head back and forth to see it from every angle. "Oh, wow."
"Good wow or bad wow?" Frank says, grinning at Gerard in the mirror.
Gerard's pretty sure Frank already knows; he kind of can't stop looking. It's different, less hair but somehow more. More of something recognizable, Gerard thinks, something memorable. He slides a hand through his new hair, ruffling it up to see how it sits, sort of getting reacquainted with it. He pushes it to the side to expose the short cut, pouting a little at himself, feeling kind of giddy.
"Are you done preening?"
"No," Gerard says primly, making a face at Frank's reflection, but he can't stop grinning, too. "It looks fucking awesome, Frankie, seriously. Where did you even learn to do this shit?"
"Mostly trial and error. And practicing on poor saps like you."
"Well, I like it," Gerard says happily. And yeah, there's relief in there too, he's not even going to deny it. He really didn't want to look like he had a run-in with a rogue hedge trimmer or something. He feels good, floaty, high for a different reason, now. Even though the original reason is still very much around. Gerard doesn't do things by halves; this was really good stuff. "Thank you," he tells Frank sincerely, smiling, and Frank makes a rough noise and presses up behind him, trapping Gerard against the sink with hands braced on the edge of the basin either side of his hips. Gerard's attention instantly falls away from the mirror, stomach fluttering.
"You gotta stop doing that," Frank murmurs against the back of Gerard's neck, chest warm and flush against Gerard's back, hips pressed tight against his ass even though it's got to feel gross with the jizz in his pants. "I won't be able to keep my fuckin' hands off you when your brother gets back."
Gerard stops the Do what? just before it leaves his mouth, because he's suddenly pretty sure he knows. God knows how many times he's thought the exact same thing about Frank, minus the brother part.
Fucking Mikey. Gerard is going to kill him. Frank opens his mouth against the side of Gerard's throat, tongue wet and hot, and Gerard shivers. Well, maybe killing him is going a bit far, but Gerard still isn't letting him off easy. There will be words.
"Let me - come here." Gerard shifts until he can turn around in Frank's arms; he hasn't kissed Frank yet and he's fucking dying for it. Frank makes a hungry, agreeable noise and pulls him in by his t-shirt, other hand sliding up to cup Gerard's jaw, firm except for his thumb stroking gently over Gerard's cheekbone. Gerard gets his hands in Frank's hair and tries not to moan into Frank's mouth as Frank presses him against the sink, possessive and needy, edge of the basin hard in the dip of his spine. It's slow and hot and dirty and it leaves Gerard breathless all over again, fucking light-headed and turned-on as hell, just like that.
Frank pulls back with a nip of Gerard's bottom lip that makes his gut kick, smirking darkly. Shit, he's fucking gorgeous; cheeks dimpled, face flushed, mouth red and wet. Gerard's glad for the sink because it feels like his legs might melt. They look at each other, eyes hot and full of promise, until Frank breaks with a grin, hands sweeping at Gerard's shoulders and arms. "Shit, we're both fucking covered in your hair. Why did I do it on my bed? Just as well we didn't make it to the naked stage."
"Are you saying we can't go fuck in your bed?" Gerard asks innocently, and Frank splutters a little.
"No," he says firmly, winding his arms around Gerard's waist and burying his face in Gerard's shoulder. "Absolutely not." Before Gerard can celebrate, though, he adds, "But I'm vacuuming first." Gerard groans. He's not so sure he likes Frank's freaky neatness anymore. "Hey, we could use the couch, but I doubt your brother will appreciate it if he comes home."
Gerard snorts with surprised laughter, imagining Mikey's face. "He'd deserve it. Scheming motherfucker."
"Technically, I did most of the scheming. He was just an accomplice." It's practically a purr in Gerard's ear, and Gerard's whole body buzzes in response. He feels loopy, overwhelmed, like - like he's wanted Frank for years and now somehow, suddenly, he has him - and Frank wants him, too.
"I suppose in this case," Gerard starts, hands sliding up under Frank's t-shirt (because he can, because he's allowed), throat going tight at the feel of Frank's warm, slightly sweaty skin. "The end justified the scheme."
"You suppose?" And now Frank's teasing, his voice roughing up, his nipples hard under Gerard's thumbs.
Gerard grins stupidly. "Definitely," and Frank kisses him again, with purpose.
Fuck it. Mikey will just have to deal.