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Gerard wakes up with the taste of last night’s alcohol still on his tongue. He doesn’t drink like that anymore—not really—but insomnia makes him slippery. Always has.
The curtains are drawn. There’s a notebook on the floor, half-filled with ideas he already hates. He rolls over, grabs his phone off the nightstand, and stares at the cracked screen for a second. Then he calls Ray. It rings twice.
“…Hey,” Ray says. His voice is rough with sleep. Not annoyed, though. Never annoyed.
Gerard wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit, did I wake you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ray says. He yawns. “You okay?”
That makes Gerard pause.
“I mean—yeah,” he lies. “I just. I had this idea.”
“For the band?”
“No, for… something else. A side project. Maybe. Something kind of… just me. But I wanted you. I mean—I want you to help. If you want.”
He can hear Ray shifting on the other end. Sitting up, probably.
“You want me to come over?”
Gerard bites his lip. “Not like—now now. But like. I was thinking… I don’t know. You and me, disappearing for a week. Somewhere quiet. You could bring your guitar, I’ll bring my brain. We could write something. Try something. Just us.”
A silence. Not long enough to sting.
Ray says, “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“Really?”
“I’d follow you off a cliff, man. A cabin sounds nice.”
——
[Gerard’s apartment. 10:42 a.m.]
Gerard’s packing like he’s about to be arrested. Fast, chaotic, borderline theatrical. A small black backpack—worn out and fraying at the straps—lies open on his bed, already half full of nonsense.
Two notebooks. One nearly empty, one filled with old lyrics he hates but won’t throw out. Three sharpies. Black. One missing its cap. A hoodie that still smells like his old apartment in Newark. A tiny travel sketchpad, its edges chewed from nerves.
His toothbrush. No toothpaste. Whatever.
He stares down at it all and thinks: This isn’t enough.
Then: Ray’s going to think I’m insane.
Then: Maybe he already does.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, fingers twitching over the laces of his boots. He hasn’t slept much. His head is buzzing with the idea of this trip—not even what they’ll write, but the fact that Ray said yes. No questions. No hesitation.
Ray had said, ”I’d follow you off a cliff.”
And the thing is… Gerard believed him.
A beat-up car horn honks outside. Twice. Short, casual. It cuts through the quiet. He stands. Runs a hand through his hair. Damp from the rushed shower. Still dyed dark. Still clinging to this version of himself that’s halfway between alive and whatever comes next.
He zips the backpack up, slings it over one shoulder, and grabs another sketchpad on instinct. Just in case. Just in case his hands get too restless and his mouth forgets how to say what he means.
By the time he opens the door, Ray’s already leaning against the car, sunglasses low on his nose. Black t-shirt. Hair pulled back.
“Hey,” Ray calls. “You forget your bag?”
Gerard lifts the backpack. “I pack light,” he shrugs.
Ray raises an eyebrow. “That’s all you’re bringing for a whole week?”
Gerard frowns. “Are you bringing, like, a suitcase?”
Ray grins, pushes off the car, and opens the passenger door for him.
“Nah. Just thought you’d have, I don’t know… twenty eyeliner pencils and a coffin-shaped duffel bag.”
Gerard snorts as he climbs in. “I left that one at Mikey’s.”
And well… they drive for a while in silence. Not the uncomfortable kind. Just the kind where words feel too small for what’s building in the air. Ray taps the steering wheel along to whatever tape’s playing. Gerard keeps stealing glances at his hands. Big. Calloused. Familiar.
“You really didn’t ask any questions,” Gerard says finally, staring out the window.
Ray shrugs. “Didn’t need to.”
“You’re not even a little curious why I wanted this?”
Ray shifts gears. “Because you needed it.”
That shuts Gerard up. Because yeah. That’s exactly why. Gerard plays with the fraying sleeve of his hoodie, twisting a loose thread around his finger until it turns purple. Ray turns onto the main road, the city slowly peeling away behind them. The buildings fade into trees. Brick turns to brush. Gas stations. Billboards. Nothing.
After a while, Gerard leans his elbow on the window, fingers tracing nonsense shapes against the foggy glass.
“You think we’ll be doing this forever?” he murmurs, like the thought only just occurred to him.
Ray glances at him, squinting past his sunglasses. “What, music?”
“Yeah. Or, like. Running. Escaping. Making noise. Pretending it fixes something.”
Ray doesn’t answer right away. He adjusts the volume knob slightly—just a hum of something instrumental, low in the background. Then he lets his hand rest back on the wheel.
“I think… it’s the only thing that makes sense,” Ray says, softly. “Everything else feels fake. Even when it’s good.”
Gerard lets out a short laugh, but it’s not sarcastic.
“I used to think I’d be dead by twenty-five,” he says, watching the trees blur past. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… figured I’d fuck it up.”
Ray doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his hand slightly, knuckles flexing on the wheel.
“You didn’t,” he says.
Gerard turns, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. I didn’t. Which is crazy, ‘cause I tried.”
Another stretch of silence. Not tense. Just full. Ray finally says, “You made it out. You keep making it out. That counts for something.”
Gerard watches him. Eyes dark and unreadable. He doesn’t say thank you, because that would be too soon. Instead, he tilts his head, voice lighter.
“You’re kind of smart when you’re not saying anything.”
Ray smirks without looking. “I get nervous when you compliment me. I think it’s a trap.”
“It usually is,” Gerard says.
But not this time.
⸻
The cabin creeps into view through the pines, late afternoon sunlight slanting across the windshield like golden bars. Ray slows the car, crunching over gravel, pulling into a clearing where the old wooden structure sits. The trees are dense here. The air already feels different.
Gerard leans forward to look up through the windshield. “This looks like where people get murdered in horror movies.”
“Only if you make me mad,” Ray says, cutting the engine.
The quiet that follows is sudden. No radio. No hum. Just the birds. Wind. Leaves. Gerard opens his door. Steps out. The air is colder than expected. He stretches his arms above his head, hoodie riding up a bit. The waistband of his jeans cutting sharp under the fabric. Ray slams the trunk and comes around with his guitar case, glancing at him as he walks toward the front porch.
“It’s kinda charming,” Ray says, nodding at the creaky cabin.
Gerard scoffs. “It’s kinda a serial killer lair.”
“Yeah, well. At least it’s our lair for the week.”
Ray unlocks the door, pushing it open with a creak that echoes into the dim interior. Gerard steps in after him, letting the screen door slam behind. It smells like dust, old wood, and something sweet and stale. Maybe pine. Maybe whatever the last person here left behind.
There’s a single bed. A couch. A kitchenette. A window with faded curtains. The sun slices in golden across the wooden floorboards. Ray sets his case down gently in the corner. Gerard drops his bag by the couch, glancing around like he’s trying to find a ghost. Ray’s already moving to open the windows, let the breeze in. Gerard watches him. Watches how soft Ray’s movements are. How easily he belongs in a place like this.
And for the first time since he got the idea… Gerard realizes he might not want to leave.
Ray disappears into what must be the tiny back room, muttering something about checking for firewood. Gerard stays frozen in the middle of the cabin for a second, just listening.
It’s quiet here. Really quiet. Like the kind of quiet that makes your own breath feel too loud. City noise stripped away. No cars. No fans. Just leaves rustling outside and the dull creak of floorboards when Ray walks back in, arms full of chopped wood.
“Found a stack,” he says, like he’s explaining something simple. “We’ll be warm.”
Gerard nods and crouches to unzip his bag to pretend he’s doing something important. He fixes his hoodie up… sleeves swallowing up his hands. By the time he straightens up again, Ray’s crouched at the old brick fireplace, stacking logs with practiced ease. He lights it without a word, flicking the lighter a few times before the flame catches and glows orange. He sits back on his heels and watches it for a moment, expression soft.
Gerard watches him, again. He doesn’t realize he’s still staring until Ray looks over his shoulder, hair catching firelight at the ends. “Window’s too drafty,” he says. “Gonna close it.”
Gerard nods quickly and looks away as if he got caught doing something weird. The breeze cuts off when Ray latches the window shut. The cabin still smells like autumn outside, but now the warmth starts spreading. Quiet. Gentle. The crackling logs filling the space with something familiar.
Gerard exhales and finally walks over to the couch, tossing his sketchpad down and flopping onto his stomach dramatically.
“I feel like I just got dropped into someone else’s life,” he mumbles into the cushion.
Ray chuckles and drops down to sit on the floor, back against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him.
“Well,” Ray says, “hope they don’t want it back.”
Gerard grins against the fabric.
They don’t talk for a bit. Just the sound of the fire, the rustle of Gerard flipping pages, the soft thunk of Ray adjusting the strap on his guitar case in the corner. His boots are off now.
Gerard finally pulls his notebook onto his lap. Balances it over the pillow. The spine’s warped and the pages are curled, some already torn out. He stares down at a blank one. The lines blur. Then, out loud, without meaning to:
“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to just… start over?”
Ray tilts his head back to glance at him. “Start over how?”
“I dunno. Wake up in someone else’s life. New name. New problems. No band. No expectations. No… whatever this is.”
Ray hums. Looks forward again. “I think I’d miss you too much.”
That makes Gerard freeze. Then blink. Then laugh a little, nervous. “What, me yelling in your ear every night on stage?”
“No,” Ray says, still facing the fire. “You, just being. You.”
Gerard doesn’t say anything. Just stares at his notebook like it’s suddenly become very, very interesting. He writes something down. It’s not even a lyric. Just a word: safe.
He doesn’t know what the hell he’s writing yet. He just knows it’s starting.
Outside, wind kicks up through the trees. Ray leans his head back against the couch, shoulders brushing Gerard’s knee where he’s curled sideways.
Neither of them moves away.
Gerard shifts upright on the couch after a while, knees folding underneath him, notebook perched in his lap. He chews the edge of his pen. Scribbles something. Crosses it out. Tries again. His handwriting is even messier than usual.
Ray hasn’t moved, sitting on the floor, arms loose around his knees. Just… existing. The fire makes his hair look like it’s glowing.
“I think I wanna try something,” Gerard says, suddenly.
Ray tilts his head up. “Yeah?”
Gerard closes the notebook, pinches it under one arm, and gets up. His feet on the creaky wood. He walks over to Ray’s guitar case, glances at him for permission—Ray just nods—and opens it.
The guitar’s already tuned. Because of course it is.
Gerard sits down cross-legged across from him, adjusting it over his lap.
Ray raises a brow. “You’re gonna play?”
“I can play,” Gerard insists, sticking his tongue out as he adjusts the strap.
“You can sort of play.”
“Wow, fuck you,” Gerard mutters, already strumming.
The chord is well played.
Though, Ray flinches dramatically. “That was illegal.”
“I’m experimenting,” Gerard says, nose scrunching.
He strums again. After a few seconds, he starts cycling between two or three half-formed chords. They don’t exactly go together. Aimless. Somewhere between punk and accidentally summoning a demon.
Ray watches him with a completely straight face. Doesn’t say a word.
Gerard glares. “Say something, asshole.”
Ray shrugs, shifts his weight. “Keep going.”
Gerard pauses, side-eyeing him. Then keeps going.
Strum. Strum. A pause. A wrong note. Another pause.
And then—Ray reaches forward, slow, like he’s been waiting for permission all along. His fingers gently brush Gerard’s on the neck of the guitar. He adjusts the placement, presses a chord into Gerard’s hand like it’s a spell.
“Try that one,” he murmurs.
Gerard does. It rings out clear.
“Huh,” Gerard says, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Cool. I meant to do that.”
Ray snorts, leans back. “Sure you did.”
They fall into a strange rhythm after that—Gerard cycling through the same progression. Ray closes his eyes, humming softly under his breath. Then, without warning, he reaches behind him and grabs his guitar. Plucks it into tune like it’s nothing.
Gerard stops strumming.
Ray raises an eyebrow. “Keep going.”
Gerard starts again.
Ray listens for a few bars, then starts adding over it. Real chords. Gentle layering. Fills the gaps Gerard leaves behind. Doesn’t correct him—just follows. Shapes the sound into something that feels like it could actually become a song.
Gerard stares at him.
“You’re kind of a freak,” he says.
Ray doesn’t look up. “I know.”
“No, like. I was literally just making shit up. You’re doing some math rock symphony over it.”
Ray shrugs. “You gave me something. I’m just playing with it.”
Gerard laughs softly. Then: “You always make my mess sound better.”
Ray strums one more chord. Lets it ring out.
“I like your mess.”
Gerard blinks and looks down at the notebook still open on the floor beside them. The word safe is still there. He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps playing. And Ray keeps playing with him.
And for a while, they don’t talk. They just make something. Together. The fire’s crackling steady behind them, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Outside the window, the last bits of sunset are disappearing behind the trees—just streaks of soft gold fading into bruised blue.
But Gerard doesn’t move. He keeps playing, fingers fumbling over a chord Ray just showed him. Over and over. His nerves.
Ray doesn’t stop him. Just leans in sometimes to fix the shape of his hand. Mutters, “Yeah, that one,” or ”Try this instead,” and lets Gerard fall into the rhythm again.
It’s weirdly quiet. But not uncomfortable. Gerard’s not sure how long they sit there like that. It could be ten minutes. Could be an hour. His hand cramps eventually, and he winces, shaking it out.
Ray chuckles. “You’re gripping it like a bat.”
“I’m used to violence,” Gerard mutters, setting the guitar down on the floor. “My art is pain.”
“Oh my god,” Ray groans, grinning as he leans back on his palms.
Gerard breathes out a laugh. Then wipes his hands on his jeans. Pauses. Looks around at nothing in particular.
“…Okay,” he says.
Ray blinks. “Okay?”
“Let’s do what we actually came here to do.”
Ray’s smile softens. “Alright. Sure.”
He’s looking at Gerard now with that face—open, interested, calm—but behind it is this quiet expectation. Like he’s ready for something brilliant to fall out of Gerard’s mouth at any second. Like he believes it will.
Gerard’s stomach turns over. Because—fuck.
What did they come here to do?
What was the plan again?
He blinks down at the notebook beside him. At the word safe. At the three half-formed phrases below it that don’t even rhyme. Then up at Ray.
Watching him. Still waiting.
And Gerard—hands twitching, throat dry, legs crossed awkwardly—suddenly has no idea what the hell to say. The words are gone. Replaced by static. By Ray’s eyes. By how warm it is in here. By how quiet it is. By how close they are.
Ray leans forward a little, picking up his guitar again, cradling it loosely in his lap.
“You got anything?” he asks gently.
Gerard opens his mouth and closes it immediately. Then opens it again and shrugs, trying not to look like he’s spiraling. “I—uh. I was thinking of starting with a concept, maybe? A theme? A vibe.”
Ray nods, strumming a soft chord.
“Okay. What kind of vibe?”
Gerard looks at him. Big eyes. Hair loose around his shoulders. Firelight dancing across the curve of his jaw. His legs stretched out comfortably like this isn’t weird. Like Gerard isn’t fighting for his life in silence right now.
Gerard clears his throat.
“Something, um… haunting. Kinda romantic. But fucked up romantic. Like…” He flaps a hand. “Dunno…”
Ray raises an eyebrow. “So, standard you.”
“Fuck off,” Gerard mutters, face warming.
Ray smiles.
Gerard shifts uncomfortably, flipping to a new page in his notebook. “I dunno. It’s easier when I’m by myself. I don’t usually have, like… an audience.”
Ray leans his cheek into his palm, elbow resting on his knee.
“I’m not your audience.”
“You’re literally watching me.”
“Because you asked me to come here.”
Gerard makes a pained little noise. “I didn’t think this far ahead.”
Ray laughs softly. “You don’t have to perform,” he says. “Just say something weird and I’ll make it sound cool.”
Gerard stares at him for a second too long.
Then quietly: “…okay.” He presses his pen to the page. Writes one word. Then another. Then three. Then crosses them out, muttering something under his breath.
Ray waits. And finally, Gerard reads something out loud. Quiet. Unsure. Ray doesn’t laugh, he just nods. Plays a low chord. And they begin.
They keep going for a while. Testing sounds. Scribbling lyrics. Gerard spits out strange little images and Ray spins them into melody.
Gerard reads things out loud just to hear how they taste. Ray adjusts his playing to fit. Slower here. Sadder there. Louder on the chorus.
And the weirdest part? It works.
Ray sits cross-legged on the floor now, hunched over his guitar. Gerard is curled up sideways with his notebook, hair falling into his face, pen tapping against the cover. He sighs suddenly. Loud. Dramatic.
Ray glances up, amused. “What now?”
Gerard leans his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
Gerard groans. “I’m thinking what could make this better.”
Ray tilts his head. “Like, musically?”
“I dunno. Just. Something’s missing.”
Ray plucks a note. Shrugs. “Could throw in a weird time signature. Or some ambient noise. You could layer a spoken word thing underneath—like a voicemail or something.”
Gerard hums. Taps his pen to his chin. “Could be cool…”
But then he flops fully onto his back with a loud thunk, notebook falling to his chest.
“…I’m tired.”
Ray laughs softly, setting his guitar down beside him. “It’s eight.”
“Exactly. Witching hour.”
Gerard lets his arms splay out to either side like he’s been crucified by inspiration. “My brain’s melting. I’m not used to being productive this long.”
Ray stretches his legs out once again, groaning slightly. “Same. I think we both forgot we’re not twenty anymore.”
“We are twenty-seven.”
Ray makes a face. “Okay, but emotionally I’m like forty-five. And my knees are eighty-seven.”
Gerard laughs quietly, his eyes half-lidded now, still staring up at the beams of the cabin ceiling. The fire flickers softly in the background. The shadows move. It’s warm in here. Ray leans back on his hands, sitting beside him on the floor. A safe distance, but close enough that Gerard can feel the warmth of his arm.
“We made good progress,” Ray says.
Gerard hums.
“Do you like it?” Ray asks, quieter.
Gerard nods. “I like… doing this with you.”
Ray doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Just: “Same.”
Gerard closes his eyes. Not to sleep. Just to feel. And they sit there. Gerard lies still for a while, breathing slow. The notebook rises and falls against his chest.
Ray hasn’t moved much—just shifted slightly, his guitar loose in his hands. He starts plucking soft notes again, not really thinking about it. Just muscle memory. Something quiet.
It’s a progression they used years ago. One of those songs that never made it to an album. The kind they only played in soundchecks or on rainy days. Gerard’s voice used to crack a little on the chorus. Ray always liked that. He plays it slower now. Softer.
Gerard’s eyes are still closed, lashes fluttering just slightly. Ray keeps looking. Just for a second too long. His fingers slow. Then stop. And that’s when Gerard opens one eye, barely a slit. Catches him. And smirks.
“…Were you staring at me just now?”
Ray blinks. Instantly looks down at his guitar. “No.”
Gerard hums, amused. “You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
Gerard stretches, arms reaching over his head, shirt riding up just slightly.
“Mmm, you totally were. Ray. You so were.”
Ray shakes his head, lips twitching, avoiding eye contact.
Gerard props himself up on one elbow now, full grin on his face. “Holy shit, you were playing the ‘Sad Soundcheck Song’ and staring at me like I was gonna float away.”
Ray groans, tilting his head back dramatically. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Gerard grins harder. He’s tired, half-melted into the floor, but now he’s got a burst of energy that only comes from successfully teasing someone who deserves it.
He narrows his eyes, faux-serious.
“Be honest. Did I look hot just now? All sprawled out like a tortured poet? Like one of your sad little French movies?”
Ray, defeated, lets out a long sigh. “You looked like you were about to fall asleep and start snoring.”
“Oh my god. Wow. The lies. The slander. I looked ethereal.”
“You looked like you needed a chiropractor.”
Gerard laughs so hard he nearly drops the notebook off his chest. His head thuds back onto the floor and he stays there, grinning like an idiot.
Ray’s watching him again. But this time, Gerard lets him. And for a second… neither of them says anything. The fire pops. A log shifts. The warmth in the room deepens. Gerard’s voice drops, quieter now. Still teasing, but lower.
“Seriously, though. You were totally staring.”
Ray’s fingers hover over the strings. He doesn’t play anything. Then, finally, he meets Gerard’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I was.”
Gerard’s whole face goes blank for half a second—expression caught somewhere between holy shit and oh no he’s hot—before his eyes widen slightly and he scrambles upright like he’s just remembered he left the oven on.
“Oh-kay!!” he says, voice high and abrupt, clapping his hands together once. “Awesome! Cool! That’s—y’know what, that’s great.”
Ray raises both eyebrows, caught between confusion and amusement. “…What?”
Gerard grabs his notebook off the floor with unnecessary force, flipping randomly to a page that definitely has nothing useful on it.
“Nothing!” he blurts. “Just saying! Totally normal thing to admit! Very casual. Yup. Guys staring at each other. Guys being dudes.”
Ray tilts his head slightly. “You okay?”
“Me? Oh, I’m fantastic,” Gerard says, voice wobbling. “Not flustered at all. This is just my face.”
Ray sets his guitar aside slowly. “I wasn’t trying to weird you out.”
“Pfft. You didn’t! You could never! Weirded out? Who’s weirded out? Not me!”
A beat.
Gerard coughs. Then abruptly blurts, “Do you think Mikey and Frank would find this funny?”
Ray blinks. “Find what funny?”
“This! Us! Here! In a cabin! Making music like fucking indie lesbians or something. You staring at me like that. They’d lose their minds.”
Ray lets out a small laugh, completely thrown. “Wow. We really are running away from this conversation.”
“Damn right we are,” Gerard says, standing up and pacing toward the kitchenette. “This conversation is a cop. And I am the last man on earth.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re enabling me,” Gerard calls over his shoulder. “You agreed to this whole cabin-in-the-woods thing. This is on you.”
Ray’s still smiling, leaning back on his palms again, watching Gerard now like he’s both a beautiful disaster and the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
Gerard, who’s currently opening cabinets like he’s never seen food before, mutters, “Imagine Frank walking in right now. He’d be like, ‘What the fuck is this.’ And Mikey would immediately turn around and leave.”
Ray shrugs. “Frank would probably make it gayer, honestly.”
Gerard snorts. “Yeah, true. He’d start singing about kissing me in front of you just to see what happens.”
Ray raises a brow. “Would you let him?”
Gerard freezes with his hand on a can of soup.
“…Don’t ask me things like that.”
Ray laughs, low and warm. “Why not?”
Gerard closes the cabinet. Turns around slowly, eyes narrowed.
“Because I’m flammable,” he says, pointing at himself.
Ray’s smile softens. “I noticed.”
Gerard blinks again. Then grabs the can of soup and throws it gently onto the counter.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “Okay. Time to make dinner before I combust.”
“Need help?”
“No. If you stand next to me again I’m gonna short-circuit.”
Ray, still grinning, leans his head back against the couch. “You’re really bad at flirting.”
“I’m not flirting!”
“You’re so bad at flirting.”
“Eat my ass, Toro.”
“Maybe later,” Ray says casually.
Gerard makes a noise like a dying cat and turns around immediately.
That’s the final fucking straw.
Gerard spins on his heel, eyes wide, pointing the soup can at Ray like it’s a weapon. “Okay! Okay! What the fuck was that?!”
Ray doesn’t even flinch. Lounging against the couch like he’s just watching a particularly dramatic play. His expression is equal parts amused and confused. “What?”
Gerard storms a few steps closer, waving the can around like it’s about to explode. “‘Maybe later’?! You can’t just say that! You can’t just—joke like that! While we’re alone! In the woods! In a cabin! While I’m vulnerable and soup-less!”
Ray blinks up at him. “You’re literally holding soup.”
Gerard lets out a strangled, high-pitched sound. “You know what I mean! You’re—you—” He gestures wildly. “You can’t look at me like that and say shit like that!”
Ray stands. It’s slow. Intentional. Casual—but not really. He rises from the floor like he’s done it a hundred times, shoulders unfolding, hair falling loose around his face.
He’s taller than Gerard remembers. Maybe he’s always been this tall, this solid, but now Gerard’s looking up at him and his brain is shorting out.
Ray’s voice is quieter now, but steady. “Gerard.”
“No,” Gerard blurts, already backing up a step. “No, don’t do the voice. Don’t do the ‘Gerard’ thing. You’re being all—gentle, and that makes it worse.”
Ray takes another small step forward. Careful. Calm.
“I’m just—trying to get you to breathe, dude.”
“Oh my god,” Gerard mutters, running both hands through his hair and immediately making it worse. “This is, like, the worst version of horny I’ve ever had.”
Ray stops.
“…What?”
Gerard’s eyes go huge as he realizes what he just said out loud. He slaps both hands over his mouth like it might reverse time.
Ray raises a single eyebrow.
Gerard mumbles behind his hands: “Nothing. I said nothing. You imagined that.”
But it’s too late—Ray’s staring at him now. A little surprised. A little smug. A little interested, maybe, and—fuck. He’s still standing too close.
Gerard looks up at him, breathing shallow, hands halfway covering his face. And all he can think is: Wow. His hands are huge. His shoulders are even bigger up close. He smells like smoke and soap and pine needles. His hair is kind of haloed in firelight. His eyes are warm. His mouth looks—
“You okay?”
Gerard exhales sharply. “No. You’re looming. Stop looming.”
“I’m not looming.”
“You’re absolutely looming. You’re, like, casting a shadow on my soul.”
Ray huffs a laugh, stepping back half an inch just to be polite.
Gerard exhales again, shoulders slumping.
Then: “…Sorry. I just. You know. I have issues.”
Ray’s voice is soft. “I’ve known you for years, dude.”
Gerard looks up at him again. Just stares. And Ray stares back.
Gerard opens his mouth like he might say something real—but instead, what comes out is:
“I’m hungry.”
Ray blinks.
Gerard clears his throat, nods to himself, and takes two quick steps toward the kitchenette again. “Yep. Food. That’s what this is. I’m just low blood sugar and insane. Easy fix.”
He grabs the soup can off the counter again. Fumbles with it. Doesn’t even have a can opener in hand yet. Gerard starts muttering to himself. “Yeah. Let’s make food. Let’s feed our bodies. Let’s pretend we’re not weirdly flirting in a murder cabin in autumn. Let’s just—”
And then he drops the can. It clatters to the floor with a metallic bang that echoes way too loud in the tiny cabin. Gerard stares down at it. Then turns around slowly, face blank.
“Actually,” he says, calm as death, “I’m not hungry.”
Ray raises an eyebrow. “You just said—”
“I’m changing.”
“What?”
Gerard’s already walking—stomping, really—toward the tiny bathroom at the end of the hallway. “I’m gonna change. Into something more comfortable. Because that’s normal. That’s a thing people do. And then I’ll come back and maybe eat. Who knows.”
“You didn’t bring pajamas.”
“Who cares, Ray.”
“You brought a backpack the size of a cat.”
Gerard throws open the bathroom door and shouts over his shoulder, “Then I guess I’ll get creative, won’t I?”
The door slams shut behind him.
Silence.
Ray just stares at the door for a long second, blinking like he’s buffering. Then quietly:
“…What the fuck just happened.”
The bathroom door stays closed. Longer than necessary. Long enough for Ray to blink at it once more, shrug to himself, and stand up.
“Guess we’re all changing now,” he mutters.
Gerard’s not coming out anytime soon. Probably having a full-blown existential crisis.
He walks over to his backpack in the corner. Kicks it open, digs around without fanfare. Shirt comes off first. Just in the open. Whatever. He doesn’t even think about it—this kind of thing used to happen on tour all the time. Changing backstage. In green rooms. In vans. You learn not to care… plus if Gerard’s gonna hide out in the bathroom for thirty years, Ray’s gonna get comfortable like a normal person.
He slips into another loose black shirt, faded from too many washes. Soft cotton. Grabs a pair of old flannel sleep pants—green and hideous—and yanks them on. Hair messy.
Done.
He stretches once. Arms over his head. Hears the satisfying crack of his spine. Then he sits on the edge of the bed. And he does not get to sit there for longer than 30 seconds. Because the bathroom door opens, kind of abruptly, and Gerard emerges.
He’s back in his hoodie. Underneath are his boxers and not much else—socks, sure. And yeah, okay, he’s shivering a bit, but he walks out like he’s fine.
Ray watches him, but doesn’t say anything.
Gerard doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t dare. He walks straight to the bed. Stops. Looks at the folded blankets at the foot of it. Hovers for a second like he’s about to ask something—but nope. He grabs one, rips it off the stack, and makes a beeline for the couch. Doesn’t say a word.
Ray doesn’t move. Just lets him.
Gerard tosses the blanket dramatically over himself, flops down with his back to the fire, and grabs his sketchbook off the floor beside the couch like it’s the most important thing in the world. He flips to a half-used page and starts scribbling something. Fast. Chaotic. Probably not even looking at what he’s drawing.
Ray lays back on the bed slowly, head hitting the pillow. He grabs his phone from the bedside table and stares at the screen like it’ll give him something to focus on.
No signal.
He snorts under his breath. “Right. Cabin in the woods. Forgot.”
Gerard keeps drawing.
Ray glances over. Gerard is curled up tight, sketchbook on his knees, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Hair all over the place. Lips pressed tight. He’s shivering a little, but he’s acting like he’s completely fine.
Ray almost says something. But instead, he just… watches. Then turns back toward the ceiling. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Just lays there, phone in hand, screen dark, the fire flickering across both of them.
They stay like that for a long while. The fire crackles. The occasional log pops. Ray continues to lay flat on the bed, his arms folded behind his head, half-scrolling through nothing on his phone before finally giving up and dropping it beside him. The fire’s warm. The bed’s soft. His body’s tired in that weird, emotionally drained kind of way. It seeps into his bones. He closes his eyes. Not to sleep—just to rest. The kind of rest you don’t get on tour buses or backstage floors. It’s quiet. The good kind.
Across the room, Gerard’s pen scratches faintly against paper. It’s constant. Fast. Thoughtless, maybe. Or hyper-focused. Ray can’t tell which. He doesn’t know how much time passes—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour—but eventually he turns his head toward the couch, eyes blinking open slowly.
“Hey.”
Gerard doesn’t look up. “Hm?”
Ray’s voice is soft, sleepy. “You want the bed?”
Gerard pauses, pen stilling mid-line. “What?”
“Bed. You want it? We can swap.”
“No.”
Ray yawns into the back of his wrist. “You sure? You look like you’re freezing your ass off over there.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re wrapped in three layers.”
Gerard finally glances up. His hair’s messier. His face is lit warm and gold from the fire, but his expression is the same as always—a little amused.
“I’m comfortable,” he says, voice flat.
Ray raises an eyebrow. “Right.”
Gerard goes back to his sketchbook. “You sleep like a stretched-out golden retriever. There’s no way we’re sharing.”
Ray chuckles. “Didn’t say anything about sharing.”
“Uh-huh.”
They fall into silence again.
Ray closes his eyes. Gerard keeps drawing. Maybe he’s sketching the corner of the couch. Maybe the guitar. Maybe the shape of the firelight on Ray’s shoulder earlier when he wasn’t looking. Who knows.
After a minute, Ray mumbles, eyes still shut, “You brought us out here, man. You better be writing the best record of your fucking life.”
Gerard doesn’t answer for a second. Then, quietly:
“I’m trying.”
Ray hums, already halfway asleep again. And Gerard keeps drawing. Pen moving slow now. Thoughtful. They don’t say anything else. Just breathe in the same room.
Eventually, Ray’s breathing evens out. One arm slips off the pillow, draping lazily over his stomach. His chest rises and falls in that slow, steady rhythm—like he’s been holding tension all day and just now let it go. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the ends of his hair, the curve of his cheekbone.
Gerard glances up from his sketchbook. Ray’s lips are slightly parted. His brows relaxed. His whole body looks soft, in a way Gerard rarely sees. Not on stage. Not in photos. Not when he’s half-asleep in the van with sunglasses on and a hoodie pulled over his head. This is different.
Gerard swallows. His eyes trail lower to Ray’s hands. One of them is resting across his stomach, half-curled. The fingers are long. Broad. Thick knuckles. Strong tendons. The kind of hands that know how to build something. Steady and worn and unfairly sexy in that accidental, working class god kind of way.
Gerard stares for a second too long, grabbing a pencil instead now. Then whispers under his breath, “Jesus Christ.” He flips to a fresh page in his sketchbook. Tries to be casual about it. But his hand is already shaking a little, just at the idea of trying to draw that. He starts with a light outline—just the shape of Ray’s hand, the curve of his thumb. Then the wrist. The arm.
He glances up again. Ray doesn’t move. Gerard keeps going. He draws the thick stretch of Ray’s forearm, the slight crease in his shirt sleeve, the way the firelight hits the back of his hand. Then he adds the veins. The lines. The little details that shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely are.
His face is burning. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He also can’t stop. By the time he gets to the knuckles, his legs are curled up tighter beneath him, blanket hiked higher over his chest like it might protect him from the sinful thoughts infecting his brain.
He looks at Ray’s face again. Peaceful. Soft.
Not fair.
Gerard sketches his mouth next. Just loosely. Just because. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the pencil tip snaps. He flinches. Freezes. Looks up. Ray doesn’t stir. Gerard exhales shakily, pressing the sketchbook to his chest and sinking back against the couch cushion like he just survived something.
He whispers, “I hate you.”
Ray breathes in deeply. Mumbles something incoherent in his sleep.
Gerard closes his eyes. And smiles. The pencil’s tip is snapped, but Gerard doesn’t care. He switches back to pen again. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Pen means commitment when you’re drawing. But his hand is already moving before his brain catches up. He starts again. This time it’s not just Ray’s hand. It’s his entire arm. His bicep. The way it stretches under the sleeve of that stupid soft black shirt. He draws the shape of the muscle, the line of the shoulder, the suggestion of the way Ray’s chest rises with every slow breath.
He keeps glancing up like a criminal. Ray still hasn’t moved. Asleep, mouth slightly open, looking like a fucking Renaissance sculpture if Renaissance sculptures had wild hair and a Slayer shirt.
Gerard starts shading and that’s when things start getting dangerous. Because now he’s drawing Ray’s neck. The slope of it. The way it connects to his shoulder, the way there’s that one vein that only pops out when he’s playing hard. The way the firelight hits his collarbone.
What the fuck, okay?
Why does he look like that?
Why does he sleep like that?
Why does he have lips like a romance novel cover and a nose bridge that makes Gerard want to start crying?
Gerard stares down at the sketch. Then flips the page. New drawing. Fast. Messy. A different angle. His brain is fucked now. He sketches the pose. Ray’s legs stretched out. One knee slightly bent. Hands relaxed. Big hands. He draws the shape of them again. Detailed. Fingers loose. Veins pronounced. He shouldn’t know the topography of Ray’s goddamn hands this well but here he is. Shading in the wrist. Doodling the rings he wears sometimes.
Why does he know what those look like?
Why is he thinking about what those hands would feel like?
On a guitar.
On stage.
On his hips.
Gerard stops. Stares at the page.
“Okay. No. Nope. No, no, no, no,” he mutters under his breath, slamming the sketchbook closed and holding it against his chest. He leans his head back against the couch, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
What the fuck was that?
He squeezes his eyes shut.
“Snap out of it,” he whispers to himself. “Snap the fuck out of it.”
You’re not gay. You are not gay.
But this is WAY different.
This is Ray.
Ray is…
Ray is huge. Ray is steady. Ray is gentle in a way that makes Gerard feel like a song. Like a thing someone would actually want to hold.
And he’s so unreasonably kind. All the time. Not just when people are looking.
It’s disgusting. It’s unfair.
Gerard groans, dragging the blanket up over his face.
“I’m gonna die here.”
Ray lets out a soft snore from the bed. Gerard flinches. Frozen. Then peeks out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him.
“Asshole,” he mumbles.
But it comes out fond.
Gerard stays up longer than he should. Sketchbook cradled to his chest, blanket over his head, mind racing. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees hands. Shoulders. Hair. That mouth. The dumb way Ray said “Yeah, I was.”
Eventually, though… sleep wins. His body gives up. The fire burns down to embers. The pencil slips from his hand sometime after 2 a.m.
⸻
Time passes… and Gerard wakes up to violence. Loud, echoing, sky-shattering thunder. The kind that sounds like god himself just threw a drum kit down the stairs.
The room lights up white for a split second. Then darkness again. Then BOOM, loud enough to shake the cabin walls.
Gerard bolts upright on the couch, wild-eyed, hair in every direction, blanket tangled around one leg.
“What the fuck?!”
Across the room, Ray groans from the bed. “Oh my god.”
Another crack of thunder. Louder this time. The rain starts hammering the roof.
Gerard whines. “Why does the sky hate me.”
Ray shifts, voice hoarse. “You dragged us into the fucking woods.”
Gerard grabs the blanket again and throws it over his head like that’ll somehow mute the storm. “It wasn’t supposed to storm. It was supposed to be moody autumn weather. Pumpkin spice bullshit. Flannel. Not—this.”
Ray mumbles into the pillow. “You manifest chaos, dude.”
“I manifest art.”
“You manifest sleep deprivation.”
They both go quiet as another burst of thunder shakes the glass in the windows. The fire’s mostly gone now—just glowing embers. The room is cold. The couch isn’t doing Gerard any favors. He groans again. Then sighs. Then sighs louder, for dramatic effect.
Ray makes a noise like he’s trying to smother himself with the pillow.
“…Fuck this,” Gerard mutters suddenly, throwing the blanket off and swinging his legs over the side of the couch.
Ray doesn’t respond right away—too busy being a lump under the covers. Gerard pads across the creaky wooden floor barefoot, arms crossed tight over his chest. The room flashes again—lightning—and for a second he sees Ray sitting up, squinting at him through half-lidded eyes.
“You okay?” Ray croaks.
“No,” Gerard grumbles. “I’m gonna explode.”
Ray makes a questioning grunt. Gerard sits down on the edge of the bed. Ray blinks at him in the dark, confused, curls flattened on one side of his head. “Are you having, like, a breakdown right now?”
Gerard flops back onto the mattress before he can stop himself.
“You invited me to your bed earlier,” he says, half into the pillow.
Ray stares at the ceiling. “I did not. I offered to swap.”
“Semantics.”
Ray sighs, pulling the blanket up higher. “You’re such a weirdo.”
“I’m cold.”
“You stole a blanket.”
“It was ineffective.”
They’re quiet again.
The storm continues outside, wind howling through the trees, rain slapping the windows like it’s got a personal vendetta. In here, it’s dark. The only light comes from the occasional white flash of lightning that makes both of them flinch slightly every time.
Gerard shifts under the blanket, trying to make room. But there isn’t much. The bed is barely a full. They’re hip-to-hip now. Shoulder-to-shoulder. And both of them know it.
Ray lets out a breath. “You know this bed is, like, for tiny ghosts, right? We’re gonna die.”
“I’m already dead,” Gerard mutters. “Dead and gay and cold.”
Ray snorts. Another flash of lightning. Another low rumble of thunder rolling through the valley. Then silence. Gerard closes his eyes. Neither of them moves. Lightning flashes again. It lights up the cabin in stark white, then plunges them right back into darkness.
Gerard sighs. Loud. Obnoxiously loud.
It’s not subtle.
“Ugh,” he groans into the blanket. “This is stupid. The storm is stupid. This bed is stupid. I’m stupid.”
Ray mumbles next to him, voice low with sleep. “Storms aren’t personal, dude.”
“This one is,” Gerard mutters. “It’s homophobic.”
Ray lets out a small snort. Another flash of lightning. Gerard exhales sharply. “Fuck this. You wanna talk about something? I need, like—a distraction. Or I’m gonna start screaming.”
Ray shifts. The mattress dips a little. Gerard feels it. He rolls over. Now they’re face to face. In the pitch black. In this tiny-ass bed.
Gerard blinks at the sudden closeness, even though he can barely make out Ray’s silhouette—just the shape of him in the dark, the warmth of him under the shared blanket, his breathing close.
“…Uh,” Gerard says intelligently.
Ray props his head on his hand, elbow sinking into the mattress.
“Sure,” he says, like it’s nothing. “What do you wanna talk about?”
His voice is soft. Curious. He sounds like he actually means it.
Gerard tries not to die.
Because Ray is obnoxiously pretty. Even with half his face hidden in shadow. Even with hair falling into his eyes and his shirt all wrinkled and his expression so open, so present.
It’s intimate in a way Gerard is not emotionally prepared for at four in the fucking morning.
So. He ignores it. Shoves it down like he does with every other terrifying feeling. And starts talking.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “We could talk about—um. Tour. Or, like. That time Mikey passed out in a Denny’s.”
Ray makes a quiet noise that might be a laugh.
“Or—or we could talk about how Frank keeps threatening to start a ska side project and I’m terrified he’s serious.”
Ray hums. “He is.”
“I know. He made a presentation.”
Gerard keeps talking. And he doesn’t stop. He goes on about Frank’s dumb ska obsession. About their old tour van that used to stall in the rain. About how he once saw someone wearing a My Chem shirt at a CVS and immediately ran out before they noticed him.
It’s nonsense, really. Distraction tactics. But Ray keeps listening. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tease. Just watches him, eyes soft and sleepy and fucking intense, like Gerard is the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.
Gerard shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “I don’t know why I dragged us out here,” he admits eventually. “I mean—I do. But also I don’t. I thought it’d help. I thought I’d feel better. More focused. More—me, maybe. And now I’m here and I just feel like a mess with cold toes.”
Ray nods, still propped up on one elbow. “You don’t seem like a mess.”
“That’s because you’re in love with me,” Gerard says without thinking.
Silence.
Gerard’s eyes go wide.
Ray blinks.
“I meant that ironically.”
Ray’s voice is calm. “Did you?”
Gerard curls tighter under the blanket.
“Maybe.”
The silence after ”Maybe” hangs heavy in the air. Ray doesn’t say anything right away. He just keeps looking at Gerard. On his side, stupidly calm, hair pushed behind one ear. Focused in a way that makes Gerard’s stomach flip like always.
Gerard’s heartbeat is way too loud now. Thudding behind his ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out. He tries to recover. To keep going. Anything to not drown in whatever this is.
“Anyway,” he mumbles, “I mean, it’s not like—like I planned this. Like some grand gay awakening cabin getaway. That would be weird, right? Super weird. Ultra—”
He looks up. Ray is continuing to stare at him. Their eyes lock. And this time… it holds. Not for a second. Not a glance. It’s long. It’s way past “normal best friend” and well into the realm of dangerously quiet tension. Ray’s mouth is slightly parted like he might say something—like he’s been thinking it—but he doesn’t. He waits. And Gerard, overwhelmed, staring at his face—his pretty fucking face—says the only thing his short-circuiting brain can come up with.
“…Do you wanna…”
A pause.
“…Do anything?”
He hears it leave his mouth and immediately wants to throw himself into the storm outside. But it’s too late. The words are out there. Hanging between them.
Ray isn’t reacting yet… but he suddenly slowly shifts his weight onto his elbow again. Looking at him. His expression doesn’t twist into shock or horror. He just… breathes.
Gerard panics. “I meant—like—not, like, a thing thing. Not, like, a weird thing. Like just—like. You know. Talking. Or—like. Kissing. Or—not kissing. Or—”
Ray’s voice is low. Quiet. Dead serious.
“What if I said yes?”
Gerard stops. His mouth is slightly open. Brain completely wiped.
“…To which part?”
Ray lifts a hand. Reaches out. And tucks a strand of Gerard’s messy hair behind his ear.
“I don’t care,” Ray murmurs. “As long as it’s with you.”
Gerard’s eyes search Ray’s face as if he’s waiting for a trap to snap shut. Ray’s fingers are still brushing behind his ear. His voice echoing in Gerard’s head.
As long as it’s with you.
Gerard laughs. It’s nervous. Breathy. Fragile.
“Wait—wait, like. You mean that? Like actually? Are you—are you saying yes? To me? Or the kiss? Or—or what part are you saying yes to because—because I say dumb shit all the time, like all the time, and sometimes it sounds flirty but it’s not flirty but sometimes it is flirty and I don’t—Ray, are you saying yes like ‘yes let’s kiss’ or like—yes ‘let’s hold hands’? Or is this like a ‘yes but in a platonic bandmate closeness way’ because I can’t tell anymore—”
Ray leans forward.
Gerard’s mouth keeps moving. “Or maybe you’re just like, being polite because it’s raining and you’re pretty and I’m kind of like, melting down right now and that’s making this way worse and—”
Ray kisses him. Right in the middle of a sentence. Open-mouthed. And Gerard just—stops. He goes still. Ray’s hand settles gently on Gerard’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek, guiding him, steadying him—but Gerard? Gerard does not know what he’s doing. Like, at all. He kisses back immediately, but it’s chaotic. Like he’s never done it before. Too much lip. No rhythm. His mouth opens too wide for a second, like he forgot how human anatomy works. He kind of bumps Ray’s nose on accident and then panics in the middle of it.
Ray pulls back just barely, lips brushing Gerard’s, fucking amused.
“You don’t know how to kiss,” he murmurs.
Gerard looks absolutely horrified.
“Shut up,” he hisses, eyes darting everywhere but Ray’s face. “That was, like—warm-up. That was—experimental. That was—”
Ray cuts him off with another kiss. Softer this time, slower. Gerard melts into it with a tiny, embarrassing sound he’ll deny later. Their noses bump again—but now it feels like something. And when Ray pulls back this time, Gerard’s eyes are half-lidded, mouth open like he’s trying to remember where he is. Ray brushes a thumb across his lower lip.
“You good?”
Gerard whispers, dazed:
“No.”
Ray smiles.
“Wanna try again?”
Gerard nods a little too fast. His breath is already shallow, heart stuttering in his chest.
Ray kisses him again. And again. And this time, Gerard really tries. He angles his face better. Tries to match the pace. He lets his lips part a little more gently—tries not to open too wide or move too fast. He mimics what Ray’s doing but it’s like he’s learning a new instrument and the strings are cutting his fingers. He keeps messing it up. Keeps forgetting to breathe.
Ray doesn’t seem to care. His hand moves to the side of Gerard’s face. He tilts him just a little, guiding him without force, without pressure. He’s leading, clearly, and Gerard is just—following. Pathetically. Eagerly. And when Ray hums softly against his mouth, Gerard nearly folds in on himself, he whines. And that’s when it starts getting needy.
Ray deepens the kiss just slightly. Mouth slanted more purposefully now. Not rough, but sure. Gerard clutches the blanket with one hand, the other twitching like he wants to touch back but doesn’t know how.
Ray pulls back just enough to murmur, “You okay?”
Gerard nods again, messy, dazed.
“Use your words,” Ray says softly, thumb brushing Gerard’s cheek.
“I’m—fine,” Gerard says, voice cracking halfway through. “I’m just. I’m trying. I don’t—I don’t know what I’m doing, okay?”
Ray smiles—gently. Not teasing. Not mean. Just kind.
“I know,” he says. “It’s okay.”
He leans in again, kissing Gerard’s jaw now, slower. Gerard flinches a little, then shivers. The pressure of Ray’s mouth there, just under his ear—it makes something spark behind his ribs. He lets out another soft sound, half-choked.
Ray’s hand moves, resting lightly on Gerard’s waist. Not gripping. Just there.
“I’m gonna touch you a little,” Ray whispers. “You good with that?”
Gerard nods. Breathless. “Yeah. Y-Yeah—yes.”
His voice cracks again and he covers his face with both hands.
“I sound like a fucking loser.”
“You sound like someone who’s into me,” Ray exhales, kissing behind his ear now.
“I am,” Gerard says, muffled into his palms.
Ray grins into his neck. His hand slides up under Gerard’s hoodie, warm fingers tracing over soft skin, careful and slow. The touch makes Gerard jolt slightly—more from nerves than anything else. He grabs a fistful of Ray’s shirt without meaning to.
Ray pauses. “Too much?”
“No,” Gerard breathes. “It’s—I just don’t. I’m not used to—any of this.”
Ray nods. “That’s okay.”
He kisses him again. This time lower, just under the jaw. Then again, dragging his mouth down to the base of Gerard’s throat.
Gerard’s whole body curls a little like he’s trying to keep it together—like he doesn’t know what to do with how good it feels. His fingers twist tighter in Ray’s shirt. His legs shift. He wants to crawl out of his skin and stay here forever all at once.
He’s too into this. Too into Ray.
Ray kisses his way back up to Gerard’s mouth. Hovers there.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to know everything.”
Gerard’s eyes flutter open. He looks up at Ray.
“I really, really like you.”
Ray touches their foreheads together.
“I know.”
Then kisses him again. Ray’s hands keep moving—slowly, gently, but more. Under Gerard’s hoodie now, across his waist, fingers splayed over soft skin. His touch is careful, steady, but with every minute that passes it gets a little needier.
Gerard’s a disaster. He’s squirming. Whimpering, honestly. His legs keep shifting, restless, and his hands—shaky at first—start finding purchase too. Grabbing at Ray’s shoulders, his arm, his waist, he doesn’t know where he wants to touch but needs to do something.
Gerard feels the pressure between them. Ray’s cock, hard, through his pants, pressed right up against his thigh where he’s practically got Gerard pinned to the mattress.
Gerard’s voice is fucked already. “Oh my god, I can feel it—”
Ray pulls back just enough to glance down at him, breathing hard. “Yeah?”
“You’re a fucking pervert,” Gerard huffs, cheeks red, voice cracking as he shifts against him again. “You’re getting off on this—on me—”
Ray’s mouth quirks up in a lazy grin. “You’re the one who asked if we wanted to ‘do anything,’ remember?”
Gerard’s mouth opens—then shuts. Ray dips his head, kissing him again, slow and hot, his hand moving down to Gerard’s hip. He palms it once, firm, and then guides Gerard’s leg over his own.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
He shifts them, positions Gerard so he’s straddling one of Ray’s thighs. Gerard’s legs shake a little as Ray settles him there, steady hands helping him grind forward, cock trapped under his boxers, pressing down against Ray’s thigh like he needs it.
Gerard moans—high and soft and embarrassingly desperate—and buries his face against Ray’s shoulder.
Ray just exhales, voice warm at his ear.
“Good?”
Gerard nods. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, fuck—”
Ray flexes his thigh a little under him. Gerard gasps, hips bucking down automatically. He grips Ray’s shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt.
“You can move,” Ray says, voice low. “However you want.”
Gerard whimpers and he does. He starts grinding down in little jerks, breath stuttering, face flushed and buried against Ray’s neck. Every time he moves, it sends sharp, dizzy sparks through his whole body. He’s already leaking into his boxers.
“I didn’t know you could be this—fucking needy,” Ray says, half-laughing into his ear. “You look like you’re gonna cry.”
“I might,” Gerard pants, voice breaking. “I might, okay—shut up.”
Ray leans back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His curls fall forward.
“You’re so fucking hot, I swear.”
Gerard’s hips are moving without thinking now, rhythm messy, grinding down into Ray’s thigh. His boxers wet at this point, his face buried in Ray’s shoulder, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. Ray is barely holding on. He’s panting against Gerard’s ear, hands tight on his hips, helping him move, guiding him through every motion, but his grip keeps faltering. He presses up against him without meaning to—hips twitching, cock straining against the fabric of his pants as Gerard whimpers and gasps and rubs himself raw on his thigh.
“Jesus, Gee, you sound—fuck, you sound so good…”
Gerard chokes on a moan, hips stuttering. “Don’t say shit like that, I’m—fuck—I’m already—”
“You’re close?” Ray murmurs. His voice is warm, deep, coaxing, but shaky now. “Yeah? You’re doing so fucking good. I got you.”
He presses his hand flat against Gerard’s back, stroking there softly. “So good. You’re perfect.”
Gerard lets out the most pathetic sound Ray’s ever heard—somewhere between a sob and a whine—and Ray nearly cums from that alone. But he holds it. Barely. And then—Ray shifts.
“Come here,” he whispers, already pulling Gerard up, hands sliding beneath his thighs. “I wanna—fuck—just let me—”
Gerard doesn’t protest, lets Ray move him, position him, flip him over slowly onto his side. He trembles a little, back now pressed to Ray’s chest, breath catching hard when Ray’s hand slips under the blanket and settles on his stomach. The other hand snakes around his hip, palm broad and warm, pulling him closer.
Ray’s cock—hot, heavy, and rock hard—presses right between Gerard’s ass cheeks, only the thinnest layers of cloth between them now. His hips jerk forward instinctively, grinding into Gerard’s backside.
Gerard gasps, entire body tensing. “Oh my god.”
Ray bites his lip hard, trying to stay calm, but he’s already panting against Gerard’s neck.
“Tell me you’re okay,” Ray whispers, voice almost hoarse. “Tell me you want this.”
Gerard nods immediately. “I want it. I want it—I’m fine—fuck—please—”
Ray groans, deep in his chest, and ruts forward again—grinding his cock between Gerard’s cheeks, the friction already so intense it makes Gerard arch back against him, thighs trembling.
“Fuck, Gee,” Ray hisses, hand dragging down to grip Gerard’s hip, guiding him into the motion. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”
Gerard whines again—soft, desperate, totally humiliating—and Ray loses it a little. His thrusts grow rougher—messy now, out of rhythm, heat and sweat building under the blankets as he presses into the curve of Gerard’s body. Gerard shudders. His legs twitch. His boxers are soaked.
“I can feel you,” Gerard gasps. “Oh my god—Ray, I can—fuck, you’re hard, you’re so—”
“I know,” Ray pants. “You’re so fucking pretty, Gerard. You sound so good—you’re making me—fuck—don’t stop.”
He keeps moving. Keeps grinding into him. One hand pressing flat against Gerard’s belly, the other fisted in the blanket now, holding himself back by a thread. Every grind of Ray’s cock against him pushes Gerard closer—makes him cry out softly, biting back whimpers into the pillow as Ray ruts between his cheeks.
Ray’s chest is flush against Gerard’s back, legs tangled under the blanket, hips working in slow, needy thrusts. Ray buried his face in the crook of Gerard’s neck, curls up to Gerard’s skin. Every time he exhales, it’s a warm pant straight against Gerard’s throat. His mouth is open, biting down on soft gasps, like he’s trying so hard to stay quiet but can’t.
Gerard’s shaking in his arms, back arching with every roll of Ray’s hips.
“Ray,” he breathes out, voice cracking, “fuck, Ray—your cock—”
Ray groans against his neck. His thrusts get rougher for a second—not faster, just deeper, like he wants Gerard to feel every fucking inch of him.
Gerard starts fucking talking. Saying stupid, stupid things between moans.
“No one better fucking find out about this,” he gasps, hips twitching. “Not—not Mikey, not Frank—swear to god if they find out—”
Ray laughs and bites lightly at Gerard’s shoulder through his hoodie. “You think they’d be surprised?” he murmurs. “You moan my name like this and think Frank’s not gonna know?”
“I’m serious,” Gerard hisses, legs kicking a little as Ray grinds into him harder. “We take this shit to the grave, I mean it. I’ll fake my death if I have to—fuck, don’t do that again—”
Ray does it again, rolls his hips just right, cock sliding up perfectly between Gerard’s cheeks, pressure hitting him just there, and Gerard lets out the loudest sound yet—a cracked, drawn-out moan that makes Ray curse into his skin.
“You’re the one that asked to do something,” Ray growls, mouth at Gerard’s ear now. “You started this. You came over here in your boxers and asked to do something, remember?”
Gerard whines, throwing his head back against Ray’s shoulder. “I didn’t know it would feel like this—”
“You didn’t think I’d fuck you through your boxers until you sobbed?”
“No,” Gerard whimpers, gripping the sheets, voice cracking completely. “I didn’t think you’d be so good at it—”
Ray moans… his hips jerking harder, grinding into Gerard, he can’t help it anymore. His hands grip Gerard’s hips tighter, pulling him back, helping him move, matching the rhythm. He buries his face deeper into the crook between Gerard’s neck and shoulder, breath ragged, losing it.
Gerard pants, almost laughing, voice shaking with every word:
“Swear to god—swear to god, Ray, if Frank hears me sounding like this I’m gonna throw myself into the fucking storm—”
“I need to feel you.”
Gerard jerks. “Wh—what?”
Ray grinds into him again. “Inside.”
Gerard chokes.
“Oh my god—”
“I want you,” Ray pants, hands sliding up Gerard’s sides, pushing the hoodie higher. “I wanna fuck you. I need to.”
“Whoa—whoa, wait—” Gerard practically yelps, voice a messy squeak. “You’re—you wanna what? Like—right now??”
Ray kisses behind his ear. “Only if you want it.”
Gerard’s brain is melting. He nods instinctively, then panics mid-nod. “Wait, fuck, I mean—I—I don’t—fuck—what do we even do?? I’m—I don’t have anything—”
Ray’s already pulling back just enough to reach under the blanket, shifting slightly.
“We’ll use spit,” he mutters, eyes glazed over, voice lower now. “Just—just for now. Just a little. I want to feel you, baby.”
“Baby?!”
Ray laughs—like he’s not about to change Gerard’s entire life.
“You’re so cute,” he speaks casually, already nudging Gerard’s boxers down with shaking hands.
Gerard squirms, clutches the sheets, eyes wide. “Okay wait—wait wait wait—hold on, you’re—oh my god. Ray—Ray, you’re really gonna—”
Ray huffs out a breath, needy now, and leans down to spit into his hand. Gerard watches it happen and makes the stupidest noise he’s ever made.
Ray grins and then his fingers, wet now, are slipping between Gerard’s thighs, so gently, pushing lower, until they find—
“AH—” Gerard yelps, hips jerking. “OH. OH my god. I’m—you’re really—”
Ray kisses his shoulder, soothing. “Relax.”
“I can’t relax you’re—you’re about to stick your fingers in my ass—”
“And you’re dripping for it,” Ray mutters, kissing lower now. “You’re soaked. You’ve been humping me for almost an hour. Don’t pretend you don’t want it.”
Ray slides a finger in. Slowly. Gerard whines out, legs trembling, whole body seizing up.
Ray shushes him, so soft. “That’s it. That’s okay. Just like that.”
And Gerard—embarrassed, overwhelmed, aching—can barely breathe. He’s really doing this. He’s getting fingered by Ray in a cabin during a thunderstorm, though… the worst part? It feels so fucking good.
Ray’s finger is deep inside him now… fucking confident—and Gerard is trying so hard to keep still, but it’s useless. He’s trembling. Whining. Flushed head to toe. His thighs twitch every time Ray moves, every time he crooks his finger just right, brushing over something that makes Gerard’s eyes roll back into his skull.
“You’re doing so good,” Ray murmurs, kissing the side of Gerard’s neck. “Fuck, Gee.”
Gerard groans into the pillow, face burning. “Rude.”
Ray huffs a laugh. “What?”
“You’re being mean,” Gerard whines, muffled. “Stop bullying me.”
“I’m not bullying you,” Ray says, and immediately pushes in a second finger.
“That’s bullying,” he cries, face twisted in disbelief. “That’s, like—textbook harassment!”
Ray grins against his neck. “You’re taking it so well, though.”
Gerard huffs and writhes. “You’re so rude. I’m trying my best and you’re—you’re doing that thing where you act all nice but say mean shit.”
Ray’s fingers move again, scissoring now, working him open while Gerard’s hips twitch forward like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Is it mean,” Ray murmurs, “if it makes you moan?”
Gerard lets out the most dramatic whimper yet, burying his face in the pillow. Ray keeps going, twisting his fingers just slightly, dragging them along that spot again—and Gerard chokes out a high, breathy cry, the sound ridiculously pretty.
“Oh my god,” Ray groans into his neck. “That fucking voice, are you kidding me?”
Gerard kicks weakly. “I’m gonna sue you.”
Ray kisses his shoulder, then thrusts his fingers in harder, just once.
“Rude—”
“You’re leaking all over me,” Ray says, voice warm and steady, like it’s a compliment. “I think you like it when I’m rude.”
Gerard shakes his head violently, but his hips push back into Ray’s hand anyway. Pathetic. Hungry.
“You do.”
Gerard whimpers again. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re letting me finger you while you say that.”
Gerard groans, face smashed into the pillow. Ray’s free hand wraps around his waist, holding him close, hips pressing forward again—cock hard and dragging against Gerard’s ass through his pants, grinding slow with every thrust of his fingers.
“You still good?” Ray murmurs.
Gerard can barely breathe. “Y-Yeah. I’m—fuck—yeah, I’m good, I’m—”
Ray’s fingers slide out slow. Gerard gasps when they leave him—empty now, hole fluttering, clenching around nothing—and his whole body twitches like he misses it.
“You’re okay?” Ray murmurs.
Gerard nods, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah—fuck—yes.”
Ray shifts behind him, pulling back just a little. Gerard hears the soft rustle of fabric—Ray shoving his pants down. Then the unmistakable sound of him spitting into his hand again.
Gerard shudders, he doesn’t even see it happen—but he feels it. The first warm drag of Ray’s cock as it presses against his ass, thick and hot, sliding between his cheeks slowly, sticky precum smearing through the mess already there.
“Yeah? You feel that?”
Gerard whines into the pillow, nodding hard.
Ray stills.
“Nope.”
He tightens his arm around Gerard’s waist. Doesn’t move his hips.
“You don’t answer,” he says calmly, “I don’t move.”
Gerard whimpers. “Ray—”
“You feel how hard I am for you?” Ray breathes, cock twitching between Gerard’s cheeks.
Gerard hesitates, humiliated. “I—yeah. Yes. I feel it.”
“You like that?”
“I—fuck—yes, I like it—please, just—please—”
Ray thrusts once—just once—his cock grinding between Gerard’s ass cheeks without pushing in yet.
Gerard moans, voice cracking.
“You want it inside?” Ray growls now, hot at his ear. “Wanna feel me split you open like that? Want me to fill you up?”
Gerard squeaks, half-sobbing. “Yes, oh my god, Ray, please—please—”
Ray presses his cock down harder. Right against his hole. But still doesn’t push in. Gerard’s legs kick.
“Ray—!”
“Say you need it.”
“I need it—fuck—I need your cock, I need it so bad—”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I fucking mean it,” Gerard nearly shouts, writhing against him. “I need you, I need you inside me, I’ve never needed anything so bad—”
Ray exhales, breath shaking.
“Good boy.”
And pushes in. Ray breathes hard through his nose as he pushes in—slow, so agonizingly slow. Gerard makes this broken sound, all breath and high-pitched desperation, clutching the pillow as Ray inches deeper.
“Fuck—” Gerard gasps, legs twitching. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Just like that,” Ray mutters, low against his ear. “So fucking good, Gee.” He bottoms out with a soft groan, hips flush against Gerard’s ass, his cock fully sheathed inside—throbbing, warm. Gerard can’t breathe. His toes curl. His face is buried in the mattress. Every inch of him is on fire. And Ray doesn’t move yet. He just holds him. Breathing in his scent, hand splayed over Gerard’s stomach.
“You ever think about this?” Ray murmurs, voice rough and too close. “’Cause I have. A lot.”
Gerard whines helplessly. Ray grinds his hips just the slightest bit. Enough to make Gerard gasp.
“I used to think about this all the time,” Ray continues, panting softly now. “Backstage. Hotel rooms. Practice sessions. Watching you bend over to grab your mic. Thinking how nice it’d be to pull you aside, make you stay late. Fuck you over a table…”
Gerard is speechless. His whole face is red, mouth open, drooling into the pillow. Ray smiles against his neck, kisses it gently. Then keeps talking.
“Used to wonder what you’d sound like,” he says, voice lowering. “If I touched you like this. If I got to fuck you like this. You always looked so tense. So needy. Like you just needed someone to—take care of you.”
“Jesus,” Gerard croaks, trying not to lose it. “Ray—”
“You’re even better than I imagined,” Ray whispers, slowly rolling his hips—just a little. “Pretty.”
Gerard moans, he tries to cover his face with his hands, but Ray grabs them, lacing their fingers together tight over Gerard’s chest.
“Nuh-uh,” Ray murmurs. “Let me see.”
And he starts moving. Ray’s hips roll forward again. Gerard lets out this involuntary whimper, jaw slack, breath stuttering. His whole body jolts with each thrust—sensitive, raw, already nearly crying.
“Y—you talk too much,” he mumbles, voice weak.
Ray smiles, teeth brushing Gerard’s neck. “You like it.”
“I don’t,” Gerard lies immediately, moaning halfway through the sentence. “You’re—ngh—such a dick—”
Ray thrusts in just a little harder. Gerard squeaks.
“I knew it,” Ray says, smug and soft. “You like when I talk to you like this. When I tell you what I think about.”
“I don’t—!”
“You like when I tell you how good you feel,” Ray murmurs. “How tight you are. You’re squeezing me so hard, Gee. You’re so wet, you know that?”
“Fuck—”
Gerard tries to twist away, but Ray grinds into him, deeper, makes him tremble.
“Come on,” Ray whispers, breath hot against Gerard’s ear. “Tell me what you think about.”
“I don’t—I can’t—Ray—”
“You ever fuck your fist thinking about a cock up your ass?” Ray keeps going. “Thinking about me? My hands on you, fucking you?”
Gerard sobs into the pillow. Ray just hums, “bet you did. Bet you’ve done it more than once. Bet you got yourself off fast, trying not to say my name.”
“I—I didn’t—!”
“You’re such a liar,” Ray says sweetly, hips still moving. “You came up with this whole cabin idea. Just so we could be alone.”
“I didn’t think this would happen!”
“But you wanted it to.”
Gerard’s face burns.
Ray kisses the back of his neck. “Didn’t you?”
“…yeah,” Gerard whispers, barely audible.
“Say it louder.”
“Yes. Fuck. I wanted it. I—fuck, Ray—”
“Good boy,” he says, voice all rough praise. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
Ray’s cock slides deep again, and Gerard lets out the quietest, most desperate noise into the pillow.
Ray keeps fucking him slow—spooned right behind him, one hand gripping Gerard’s hip, the other curled up under his chest, splayed flat over his heart. Their legs tangled under the blanket. Skin sticky. Breath ragged. Sweat running down Ray’s neck as he murmurs low filth into Gerard’s ear.
“You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted this,” Ray groans softly, hips rolling deeper, pushing all the way in until Gerard’s shaking again. “Backstage, tour bus, every fucking time you sprawled out somewhere like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”
Gerard’s face is red, twisted, lips parted around broken sounds. “R-Ray—fuck—”
Ray kisses the back of his neck. Doesn’t stop moving.
“I used to imagine it would be like this,” he breathes. “You bent over, clinging to the sheets, moaning into a pillow ‘cause I was too deep. You whimpering like this. Begging me not to stop.”
“I never begged,” Gerard gasps, eyes fluttering.
“You’re about to.”
He fucks into him deeper—harder—and Gerard shakes, a cracked little sob slipping from his lips before he can stop it. Ray groans out, teeth grazing his ear now. “You always acted so loud, so cocky. But the second I touched you, you melted. Started grinding on my thigh. Got my fingers in you and you almost cried.”
Gerard tries to hold onto the edge of the mattress—anything—but he can barely think. Barely breathe. Ray’s cock is dragging over that spot inside him over and over, every slow push making his toes curl, his eyes roll back, his words dissolve into whimpers.
“You wanna know what else I thought about?” Ray says, voice low and wrecked now, breath hot on Gerard’s ear. “Late nights on tour. Hotel showers. I’d jerk off thinking about what your hole would feel like.”
Ray thrusts deeper again, fucking him through it.
“I used to imagine pushing you down on your hotel bed, holding your legs open, making you take it while you bit your lip to keep quiet,” Ray pants. “Couldn’t stand the way you looked when you got bratty. Wanted to shut you up with my cock so fucking bad.”
“Oh my—oh my god—” Gerard sobs, mouth open. Ray leans in, licks over his neck. He grinds in again and Gerard breaks. His whole body tenses, his thighs clench, and he lets out a high, cracked moan as he shudders against Ray.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m cumming—!”
Gerard cums hard into the mattress, moaning Ray’s name into the pillow—high, desperate, ruined.
Ray keeps moving, though. He thrusts through it, slower, watching Gerard fall apart in his arms. And when Gerard’s body starts to go slack, twitching, soaked through with sweat and release. He starts fucking him harder. Gerard’s barely breathing, the aftershocks rolling through him like after a car crash. His whole body limp, stomach sticky, thighs trembling where Ray’s holding him open from behind.
Ray fucks him deeper now, hips snapping forward with more force, each thrust punching little breathless gasps out of Gerard’s throat.
“R-Ray—fuck—fuck, wait, wait, I just—” Gerard slurs, fingers scrambling for the pillow, trying to breathe. “I—I just came—”
“I know,” Ray says, hoarse. “I felt it.”
He fucks in again, and Gerard screams into the mattress. His cock is still hard—leaking, twitching, overstimulated where it’s trapped between his belly and the sheets. Ray keeps him close, one arm braced tight around his waist, the other sliding down to grip his thigh, holding it, keeping him open. His palm is so wide, covering half of Gerard’s shaking leg, anchoring him there while he fucks him.
Gerard whimpers, tears in his eyes now, mouth open, drool on his cheek. The sound of Ray’s hips slapping against him fills the cabin, echoing under the low crackle of dying firewood and the storm still thundering outside. Everything’s hot and loud and wet, Ray stays right there—pressing kisses to Gerard’s shoulder, his neck, his cheek.
His hand slips from Gerard’s thigh to his stomach—pressing down right there.
“Oh my—oh my god—Ray—”
Gerard’s cock twitches helplessly—leaking another hot spill of cum into the sheets without even being touched. He sobs, voice cracking.
“F-fuck—I’m—I’m cumming again—”
Ray’s pace stutters now—more desperate. He’s close. It’s obvious. His breath is coming faster, his hips jerking harder, rhythm falling apart as he fucks into Gerard’s sloppy, overstimulated hole like he’s chasing something he’s been starving for. Gerard’s gone. Just gone. Soft moaning, slurring Ray’s name, fucked out and pliant, barely holding on. And Ray’s voice—still soft, even now—is right at his ear:
“You’re gonna make me cum,” he pants. “You’re gonna make me fucking cum, Gerard—Jesus—been thinking about this for years—years—”
Gerard whimpers, nodding weakly. “D-Do it—fuck—cum in me—cum in me, please—”
Ray’s hips jerk forward hard as he cums—deep inside—his whole body shuddering as he spills into Gerard’s hole, breath catching, arms tightening around him as if he’s trying to hold him inside. They freeze there. Just breathing. Ray’s body heavy against Gerard’s back. Gerard limp and soaked and wrecked in every way.
Ray goes to kiss the side of his face. Breathless. Still Ray.
“…Holy shit.”
Gerard lets out a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a wheeze. Then:
“Why do you talk so much when you fuck.”
Ray grins, kisses him again, and mutters:
“Blame you. You wrote the script.”
They stay like that. Ray’s chest rising and falling against Gerard’s back. His cock softening, still inside, keeping Gerard full.
Gerard’s the first to speak to ruin the quiet.
“I swear to god,” he pants, voice raw and hoarse, “we are not telling anyone about this.”
Ray hums. “Okay.”
“Like, not Frank, not Mikey, especially not—”
“Sure.”
“If this ever comes up, I’ll deny it. I’ll sue you. I will sue you for emotional damages.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Ray. This never happened.”
Ray kisses the back of his neck.
Then calmly says, “You’re still full of my cum.”
Gerard whines, face collapsing into the pillow, red all over again.
“Oh my god, why would you say that?!”
Ray finally shifts, pulling out slowly—gently—and Gerard gasps, whole body twitching. There’s a hot, wet slide, and then a drip that’s way too audible. Gerard lets out the most offended noise of his life.
“Fucking gross. Oh my god—I lost my virginity to this—to you—”
Ray snorts—quiet and amused.
“I thought it was sweet.”
“You’re a menace.”
Gerard flops dramatically onto his stomach, groaning into the pillow. “I lost my virginity to a guy who keeps emergency sharpies in his cargo shorts.”
Ray is already moving. Calm. Efficient. Like he just finished changing a tire, not fucking his bandmate into a religious experience. He tugs his pants back up. Adjusts himself with one hand. Hair a mess, shirt clinging to his chest. Then—wordlessly—he walks over to his bag in the corner. Gerard’s still face-down, arms splayed, legs weak. There’s cum dripping down his thighs. His hoodie is bunched up under his ribs. He looks like someone dragged him out of a car crash and dumped him on the bed.
Ray crouches, rummaging in his bag with zero urgency.
Gerard peeks over his arm. “What are you doing? You’re not—you’re not just gonna leave me here to die, right?”
“I’m getting the baby wipes.”
“…You brought baby wipes?”
Ray shrugs. “For emergencies.”
Gerard makes a sound like his soul is leaving his body. “I hate you.”
Ray walks back over with the small packet in one hand, towel in the other. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, peels back the blanket, and gently spreads Gerard’s thighs again—like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Gerard yelps. “Wait—wait! Okay never mind.”
“You’re fine, Gee,” Ray says casually, cracking the wipe open.
“Yeah, thanks, dude…”
Ray hums and starts cleaning him up. Soft swipes over sensitive skin. Careful around the mess. Patient, even when Gerard flinches and grabs the pillow again to muffle a whimper.
“You’re twitching,” Ray says softly.
“I told you I was a virgin!” Gerard hisses, face buried. “You just—you kept going! You were all ‘you can take it’ and now I’m gonna walk like a fucking wounded deer for a week.”
Ray wipes him again. Then pats him dry with the towel, all business.
“You did great.”
“I didn’t know dicks could do that,” Gerard mutters. “Like—multiple orgasms? From one person? While I’m crying? You’ve been holding out on me.”
Ray tosses the used wipe into the small trash bin and stands. Gerard lays there. Destroyed. Clutching a pillow to his chest. Ray leans down, presses one soft kiss to the back of his neck.
“You wanna go again later?”
Gerard chokes. “Ray.”
Ray disappears briefly right after—off into the quiet of the cabin, footsteps soft over the floorboards. Gerard hears the closet open. A drawer, maybe. Something rustling. And then Ray comes back. Same pants. New shirt. Definitely new boxers. Gerard can tell. He’s curled under the blanket, arms hugging the pillow, hoodie bunched around his ribs. His thighs still ache. His soul might be floating somewhere above the cabin.
Ray walks over to where Gerard’s half-dead on the mattress, holding a small pile of clothes. Wordlessly, he kneels down again, places one hand on Gerard’s hip.
“Let me help.”
Gerard just mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow. Possibly a death threat. Possibly marriage vows.
Ray tugs the ruined boxers down with the care of someone handling old vinyl. Then pulls the new pair up—soft, stretchy, black. Something Gerard probably packed without thinking, now unreasonably grateful for.
Gerard groans as Ray helps ease them over his hips.
“I can’t believe I’m being dressed after sex,” he mutters. “Like a Victorian invalid.”
“You earned it,” Ray says, tone dry.
Gerard flops flat again, dramatic as ever. “I’m gonna feel that tomorrow.”
Ray stands again, stretches once—spine popping—then climbs back into bed like he never left. He tugs the blanket back up over both of them and settles on his side, facing Gerard.
Another crack of thunder rolls through the woods.
Gerard sighs, he waits a beat. Then pulls himself closer—slow and sleepy, hoodie sleeves covering his hands—until he’s tucked right against Ray’s chest.
Ray’s arm curls around him instantly, natural and warm. For a moment, they just breathe. Then—Gerard speaks.
“Never thought I’d fuck you,” he says.
Ray huffs a quiet laugh into his hair. “That makes two of us.”
“No,” Gerard says, pulling back slightly to look at him. “No. You seriously fantasized about this?”
Ray raises a brow. “…Yeah.”
Gerard’s eyes narrow. “Like. For real?”
Ray nods once. No hint of shame.
“You were always throwing yourself around in tight jeans,” he says, tone casual. “Yelling in my face.”
Gerard gapes. “I was not—”
“You absolutely were,” Ray murmurs, reaching up to brush a piece of hair out of Gerard’s face. “You’ve always been hot, Gee.”
“Shut up.”
Ray exhales, soft. Gentle.
“I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me.”
Gerard peeks out from the edge of the blanket. “Why not?”
Ray shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re you.”
“And?”
“And I’m not,” Ray says simply. “I’m… steady. Background noise. Guitar.”
Gerard blinks. Then shifts a little closer.
“You’re literally the only reason any of this holds together,” he mumbles. “You’re the bones of the band. The fuckin’ spine.”
Ray tilts his head. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Gerard hesitates. Then—quiet:
“You think I’d let just anyone fuck me through two orgasms and clean me up after?”
Ray snorts. “No, I think you’d kick them out of the cabin and cry into your hoodie.”
Gerard gasps. “Wow. Okay. You’re not allowed to be hot and mean.”
“Then you’re in trouble,” Ray says, pulling him back in.
Outside, thunder hits again. Gerard presses his forehead to Ray’s, breath warm, body still aching—and lets himself rest. Just for a little while.
Just like this.
——
The light hits Gerard first.
Gentle and gold through the cabin window. Dust floating in it. The fire’s long out, the room colder now, but the blanket’s wrapped around him tight. He blinks slowly. Feels the weight of his own body. The ache in his thighs. His lower back. His entire ass.
“Oh my god,” he whispers into the pillow.
He doesn’t move yet. Just lays there, stiff as a corpse, mind slowly replaying every unholy thing that happened between sunset and blackout.
His hips twitch. A tiny whimper escapes him. Still fucking sore. Still… leaking. Because of course Ray fucked him stupid and then tucked him into bed like a gentleman, but did he actually clean him out properly?
Nope.
Gerard shifts a little, wincing.
Disgusting.
He groans into the blanket. And then—he finally turns his head. And sees him. Ray.
Asleep.
Dead to the world.
One arm curled up under his head. The other draped loose over the edge of the bed. His shirt’s twisted from the way he must’ve tossed around. A little bit of his stomach is showing. His curls are a mess—pushed back from his face, some falling across his cheek. His mouth is slightly open, lips parted, soft little breaths coming out. He’s snoring. Not loud. Just enough to make Gerard insane.
Gerard stares.
Longer than he should.
Longer than any sane person should.
And all he can think is:
There’s no fucking way I fucked this man.
He blinks.
There’s no fucking way I fucked this—this—angel-faced, snoring, soft-ass, gorgeous motherfucker—
His brain fully shuts down for a second. And then comes back online only to panic.
This is Ray. RAY.
My bandmate. My guitarist. One of my oldest fucking friends.
We shared Lunchables. We’ve peed in the same Gatorade bottle on tour.
And now Gerard’s laying in a bed in a cabin in the woods, sore, leaking, while Ray snores softly beside him like he didn’t whisper insane fantasies into Gerard’s ear for an hour last night while rearranging his guts.
Gerard rolls over. Buries his face into the pillow. And muffles a scream. Lays there for another thirty seconds. Processing. Face half-smashed into the pillow, one eye peeking out, staring at Ray like he’s some ancient god of ruining people gently.
He whispers, “Jesus fucking Christ,” to himself.
Then peels back the blanket. The air is cold. His thighs are stickier than he remembered. The boxers Ray helped him into last night are clinging in all the worst ways. He winces. Sits up. Immediately regrets it. His back cracks, hips sore, and his ass—
“Oh my fucking god,” he hisses, grabbing onto the bedframe for support. “This is a hate crime.”
He glances at Ray before he drags his hoodie down to cover his stomach, hobbles slowly off the mattress, and puts one foot on the floor. His knees buckle. He grabs the bedside table. Catches himself. Breathes.
This is fine. He’s fine. Just casually full of yesterday’s dick and decisions.
He limps. One hand against the wall. The other tugging at his hoodie like that’ll protect his dignity. The cabin floor creaks under his weight. The sun is too bright. Everything smells like wood, sweat, and his own fucking shame. He makes it to the tiny bathroom like a soldier crawling home from war. Shuts the door softly. Locks it. Then stares at himself in the mirror. He slaps the counter.
“I am a grown-ass man,” he whispers. “I’m gonna clean myself up, and then I’m gonna pretend I’m emotionally stable, and then I’m gonna drink seven cups of coffee and never bring this up again.”
He opens the cabinet. And gets to work.
—
Gerard comes back into the room. Finally showered, finally in clean clothes—though “clean” is a strong word when his shirt’s inside out and he still smells vaguely like sweat and regret. But it’s fine. He’s not dripping anymore, not leaking, not clutching his ass.
He’s good. Except he’s not. Because—Ray’s awake. Sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like some sleepy cartoon bear. Hair an absolute disaster. Curls everywhere. Soft. Stupid. His cheeks flushed from the warmth of the blanket and sleep, face all squished like it forgot it used to be sexy. Like it wasn’t buried in Gerard’s neck less than eight hours ago, muttering filth while rutting him into the mattress.
Gerard… stares. Dumbfounded. Struck by the sheer Ray Toro-ness of it all. He walks over slowly, processing it. Still waiting for the panic to set in.
Ray glances up, squints at the light—then does something really fucking unfair. He tries to fix his hair. Half-heartedly. Just pushes a hand through it and sighs like he knows it’s useless.
Gerard loses composure for the 47th time in 12 hours. He stands next to the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Just… lifts a hand and tugs at one of the curls. Gently. Softly. Pulls and watches it bounce back.
Ray doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t even flinch. Just sort of… leans in. Like a dog soaking up affection. Head tilting. Shoulders slumping a little. His big stupid arms lift—and before Gerard can ask anything, he’s being pulled in.
Ray hugs him. Simple. Casual. Like it’s normal.
Like they didn’t ruin their friendship last night. Like Gerard didn’t lose his virginity to him and cry about it a little. Like none of it’s terrifying.
Gerard inhales, slowly.
“…Can you, uh,” he mumbles into Ray’s shoulder, “Can you make something? For breakfast. Not me. I’ll burn the fucking cabin down. You, though. You can cook, right?”
Ray hums. Doesn’t respond in words. Just leans in more. Rests his forehead against Gerard’s neck. And fuck—he’s warm. His curls tickle. His arms don’t loosen.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Gerard mutters. “This is weird. You’re being weird. Stop being sweet. I’ll throw myself into the lake.”
Ray finally speaks. Quiet, rough voice:
“…I like when you play with my hair.”
“…Shut the fuck up,” Gerard says, barely audible.
But his fingers are already in Ray’s curls again. Gerard keeps playing with Ray’s hair. Standing by the bed like some lovesick idiot. Tugging a curl. Twisting another around his finger. Letting it slide loose just to watch it spring back.
Ray shifts closer. Not in a subtle way either—he’s full-on leaning forward now, arms dragging Gerard into his chest again, like he’s planning to wear him around.
Gerard makes a noise. Half-annoyed. Half-flustered.
“Ray,” he mutters, squished against him. “I thought I asked for food, not… a goddamn cuddle pile.”
Ray hums. Arms not moving.
“Ray, I’m starving.”
“Mm.”
“I—seriously, I’m gonna faint. My ass is already bruised. You’re trying to kill me.”
Ray finally answers, voice low and lazy and way too close to Gerard’s ear.
“In a sec.”
Gerard whines. A little pathetic breathy sound that escapes before he can swallow it.
Goddammit.
Now one of Ray’s hands is sliding under Gerard’s shirt, palm pressing flat against his lower back. Just resting there. Just being warm and steady and completely unfair.
Gerard presses his face to Ray’s neck.
“Why do you keep touching me like that,” he mutters.
Ray shrugs. “You’re squishy.”
“That’s so rude.”
“Soft, then.”
Gerard lets out the most defeated groan of the morning. Not pulling away. Buried in Ray’s chest like he belongs there.
“…I’m seriously gonna pass out,” he mumbles again. “Like. Please. You have two minutes to make eggs or I’m crawling outside and eating grass.”
Ray finally loosens his hold.
“Okay. Fine.”
Gerard perks up. Pulls back a bit to look at him. Ray meets his eyes. Smiles a little. Then leans in and presses a soft, way too affectionate kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Gerard chokes on air.
Ray stands up like nothing happened. “Give me ten,” he says, stretching his arms and yawning like a bear coming out of hibernation.
Gerard stands there. Frozen. Brain soup.
“…I said two minutes,” he mutters weakly.
Ray’s already in the kitchenette. “Then you better help.”