Chapter Text
Gee loves being on antidepressants—or, well, she appreciates what they do for her. She appreciates that she doesn’t contemplate walking into traffic just because her favorite Smiths CD got scratched beyond playability. She appreciates that she can shower at least semi-regularly (enough that Frank doesn’t pretend to choke and gag every time she sits in the same row as him in the van), and that getting out of bed means more hours to actually talk to people instead of just wallowing through the witching hour alone.
What she appreciates less is that she hasn’t been able to get herself off in three fucking months. Sure, the doctor had said decreased sex drive was a potential side effect, but Gee didn’t think she was swearing off orgasms for the rest of her life.
Now, it’s the rare motel night. Frankie is hogging the shower as usual, individually shampooing every strand of hair on his head or whatever it is he does in there, and that’s fine. It’s more than fine, actually, because that means Gee has the chance to finally spread out on the nasty full-sized mattress and shove her hand inside her panties and work at her clit—and work and work and fucking work, because Christ knows nothing else is working, and the complete lack of arousal from between her legs is almost enough to make her hurl a threadbare pillow across the room and scream.
Her fingers. Pretty boys’ mouths. Pretty girls’ mouths. Toys. Nothing makes it fucking feel and she wants to get the frustration fucked out of her body, but that wouldn’t do jackshit and she’s back at square fucking one.
After damn near half an hour, she finally gives up and falls lax against the pillows with a groan. Her clit might’ve given up on her, but at least she has the handle of vodka that lives in her go-bag. A twinge of guilt pulls at the edges of her consciousness—she knows Brian is worried about how far she’s been going lately, she knows Frankie will smell it on her whenever he’s finally done in the shower—but nothing overpowers the siren call of easy, fluid joy that follows the burn down her throat.
By the time Frank saunters out of the bathroom naked as the day he was born to whip Gee’s ass with a towel, she’s far enough gone that she doesn’t even worry about never coming again in her life. She’s got her band, she’s got some booze, and she’s got a message to deliver. That’s a hell of a lot more than she had even a year ago. She’s not about to take that for granted just because she’s a little sexually frustrated.
With the twin distractions of vodka and Frank, she can just about believe it, too.
If there’s one thing everyone knows about Frank, it’s that he’s clingy—asleep, awake, and any state in between. So, it’s no surprise when Gee wakes up the next morning with what feels like a sweaty little animal glued to her back. She stays as still as possible while she fumbles for her phone, only to be faced with a black screen. Drunk Gee always decides charging her phone is Morning Gee’s problem, and Morning Gee has so many bones to pick.
“Mmm, Frankie,” she groans, throwing an arm behind her in an attempt to jolt him awake. Fuck, her arm feels like it weighs a million pounds. “Time’zit?”
The only response she gets is muffled grumbling and halfhearted wriggling behind her. She rubs clumsily at her eyes and tries again. “C’mon, man—”
Before she can say any more, he shoves further against her with a stuffy, sleepy noise and throws a leg over her hip. The movement pushes her over almost onto her front with Frank half on top of her, and she abruptly becomes aware of three things:
1. Frank is hard.
2. She needs to piss, like, an hour ago.
3. For some godforsaken reason, her libido has chosen now of all times to send a dull thrum of arousal through her gut.
Gee freezes. Maybe if she just stays very, very still, then Frank will roll off her without being any the wiser. A twinge from her bladder reminds her of exactly what the problem with that plan is, and she almost whimpers as she clamps her thighs together. She’s seen all the guys piss in bottles on the road or whatever, and god knows they’ve seen her paint herself with her own vomit, but something in her mind absolutely recoils from the idea of Frank waking up and seeing how close she is to wetting the bed like a child. No, she realizes, it would be so much worse than wetting the bed—she’ll share anything and everything with her band, but she is not going to piss on Frank, what the fuck.
She doesn’t realize how far she is down an over-thinking spiral until Frank shifts even closer and she’s forced back into her body. His weight on top of her is solid and almost feverish from the blankets. It presses her down into the mattress, and the push of the firm surface against her bladder makes it ache. The sensation blooms downward, tingling and hot and shameful, and oh, Christ, she can’t wait anymore but she can’t do anything about it and she’s just going to die here in this disgusting little motel bed but only after making it even more disgusting—
“Gee?” Frank’s voice is even scratchier than usual, nasal and stuck in his throat like he needs a cough and a cigarette to sound like himself again. The familiarity of it—Frankie, this is Frankie, her best fucking friend—finally jolts her into motion. She scrambles out of the bed, nearly pitching face-first onto the grimy carpet before she manages to stagger for the bathroom instead. The door slams shut harder than she’d intended, but she’s too preoccupied to wince at the noise. All she can think about is finally, finally getting that sweet relief, so good it makes her shiver a little.
Only when she stands to wash her hands does she realize exactly how bizarre her behavior must have seemed to Frank. Jesus, bolting for the bathroom like that was as good as saying to his face that she’d almost pissed herself. She groans, splashes water over her face, and scrubs at her mascara-encrusted eyes. If it were Ray or Mikey, maybe even Otter, they’d probably pretend it never happened. Chalk it up to weird girl shit (or, in Mikey’s case, just weird Gee shit).
But Frank? Frank is an equal opportunity asshole when it comes to teasing the absolute shit out of his friends. It’s something Gee usually loves about him, but if she walks out there with leftover panic still sizzling in her veins and Frank starts ribbing her between high-pitched little giggles, she thinks she might actually commit the kind of violence she writes into her songs.
But when she finally works up the guts to venture into the bedroom again, Frank has rolled over so his back is facing the bathroom door and his face is hidden from her. He’s clinging to one of the sad, saggy motel pillows as tightly as he’d been clinging to Gee a few minutes before. She fights down a giggle, another very different wave of relief coming too fast on the heels of the first for her to process.
With her worries settled, Gee climbs back into bed. There’s no response from Frank, so she settles with her back to his, the warm solidity of his body as reassuring as seeing his face or holding his hand.
She shouldn’t have worried, she tells herself as she drifts back to sleep. It’s Frankie—of course, things can never really be weird between the two of them.
As it turns out, things can actually get really fucking weird with Frank.
Okay, it might not be weird for any other pair of friends, but for them? This is fucking weird. It’s weird that Frank always seems to be a step too far away to rest her arm or chin on, that they haven’t fallen asleep tangled up together in the backseat of the van. Christ, he hasn’t even touched her during their shows, even when she swaggered up to him and got a fistful of fauxhawk. That kind of thing usually gets him writhing on the ground, or throwing himself halfway across the stage at least—but this time he just keeps his head down, lets her drag him back and forth without putting up any fight.
And that’s just…wrong. Whether it’s people’s expectations of him or the entire concept of God, Frank’s default mode is fighting. Watching him fold under her touch like they’re magnets polarized the same direction isn’t just wrong for them, it’s wrong for Frank.
Her first thought is that he’s succumbing to yet another bout of mystery illness with a hundred symptoms and no actual cure. Fuck knows it wouldn’t be the first time. Some days, it seems like all it takes is for Frank to look at a piece of chicken on someone else’s plate and spend the rest of the night puking his guts out. But that would only make sense if he were being like this with everyone—and judging by the way he’s teetering on the edge of face-planting into Otter’s drum kit, that doesn’t seem to be the case. It isn’t like Frank is being subtle about it either. You can’t go from waking up all tangled in each other to barely even touching and not be obvious about it.
The final straw comes one night (morning? It was dark when they climbed in the van, anyway, but hell if she knows when that was). Gee isn’t the best at self-restraint when she isn’t stressing over fucking up a friendship and her band all at once, but tonight she’s spectacularly trashed even by her standards. The second her ass hits the floor of the van, she groans and tips over. She’s aiming to lie flat on the mat—sweet, sweet horizontality, her one true love—but instead her face hits denim. Bony denim. She wrinkles her nose and tries to focus on whatever is keeping her somewhat upright, but she can’t quite parse what she’s looking at.
Fortunately, the scoff above her gives her a better hint. “C’mon, Gee,” Frank’s voice wafts down from above, “stop fucking around.”
“’M not fuckin’ around.” Gee lets her weight fall more heavily forward against Frank’s leg until she wobbles and loses her balance. Her head ends up smacking right up against the inside of his thigh and she’s about to whine when she realizes Frank actually makes a pretty good pillow. “Warm,” she mumbles, shuffling nearer and nuzzling further into him. He smells boyish and sweaty here and a crazy part of her brain wants to lick his jeans, feel the drag of the fabric against her tongue and see how smell and taste fit together.
Her train of thought is derailed (further) by the heel of Frank’s palm pushing against her forehead more firmly than he’s touched her in days. “Knock it off.”
Squinting up through the greasy hair falling in her eyes, Gee lets her head loll back so it’s resting against Frank’s other thigh and she can pout up at him. “’M not doin’ anything.”
“You’re not—” Frank laughs, but she can feel how his thighs tense—not like he’s laughing, but like he’s bracing himself. “Fuckin’ look at you, motherfucker, your face is in my dick.”
And that? Oh, Gee can spend plenty of time in her own world ignoring other people’s bullshit when she wants to, but this bullshit in particular stinks to high fucking heaven.
“That’s fuckin’ rich,” she snaps, “coming from the guy who was fuckin’ dry humping me in his sleep like a week ago.”
Frank’s thigh, once such a cushy pillow beneath her head, jerks forward and sends her toppling over into the van door. The hard plastic of the handle jams against her temple and she whines and clutches at her head. “Motherfucker, what are you—?” The words die in her throat as she realizes how loudly her voice is ringing out. In fact, other than the hum of the wheels on the road and the van’s asthmatic air conditioning, her voice is the only sound in the cabin.
“Shut the fuck up.” Frank’s voice is low and icy, freezing the buzz right out of Gee’s veins. All that’s left is the nausea and the feeling that she’s grasping at the reins of a body that isn’t quite hers at the moment.
Everything beyond Frank’s furious face is difficult to make out, spinning around behind his head like the world is on a turntable with a particularly experimental DJ at the helm. Still, she’s distantly aware of the weight of every pair of eyes in the van.
Shit.
She grasps for the door and misses a couple times before she levers herself upright. “Frankie—”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Gee,” Frank snaps. “Can’t you just shut your goddamn mouth until you’re sober?”
“You—” Gee bubbles up with impotent, directionless rage. Like hell Frank of all people gets to tell her she’s talking too much when she’s drunk. Fuck’s sake, he talks more than this when he’s sober.
But Frank is standing—or, well, standing as well as he can in a moving van—and shoving past her toward the backseat. Gee pulls a face at his retreating back, but her stomach twists in on itself and tries to climb up her throat. Yeah, Frank gets angry—that’s part of who he is, the passion shining through in every emotion, positive or negative—but it’s not often that he doesn’t even want to be around her.
With a groan, she lets her body finally tip over and flop onto the floor. It doesn’t bring nearly as much relief as she wants it to.
The sleeping arrangement is, by all accounts, stupid as fuck. But they’re miles and miles out from the next rest stop, Brian is so sleep-deprived (and drunk) that he almost drove headfirst into a median, and this state park has a small parking lot right off the main road they can use. Christ knows they sleep in the van plenty, but the fact that they aren’t even moving adds insult to injury. Still, Gee knows better than to argue with Brian when he gets that particular set to his mouth and that pulsing vein in his temple. Add to that the fact that they’re traveling with The Used’s team and they also vote for Plan: Get Murdered In a State Park, Gee doesn’t have any reprise. Either way, with this much vodka and Xanax in her blood, she’ll find a way to pass out soon enough even without a real mattress.
There’s just one hitch in her plan: she needs to piss and there’s nothing but woods around for miles.
Gee pours herself out of the van door and narrowly resists falling into a puddle on the blacktop. “This is such bullshit,” she whines. “You guys can just piss on a tree or fuckin’—wherever, like you don’t even have to plan this shit, but I have to get my whole ass and pussy out in the fuckin’ forest just to take a goddamn leak, fuck, man—”
“Just go over there.” Mikey waves at the stand of trees beyond the rough edge of the parking lot. “And if someone mugs you, scream or whatever.”
“‘Scream or whatever,’” Gee gripes back at him. “Easy to say before my fuckin’ throat gets slit by a serial killer.”
“What the fuck kinda serial killer is hanging out in the woods in fuckin’ Delaware?” Frank pipes up. They’re the first words he’s spoken to Gee since the disaster conversation earlier, and his voice is sharper than it usually is when he teases her. Still, she takes it as a net positive that he’s at least talking to her.
She’s still drunk enough that her hands move faster than her thoughts. Before she knows it, she’s grabbing Frank’s elbow, saying, “Come watch so I don’t get fuckin’ mauled by a bear,” and dragging him toward the trees.
“Do they even have bears in Delaware?” she hears Frank mutter, but he’s still trotting along after her as she stumbles through the underbrush. “Christ, you want me to watch you piss? Is this some kinda fetish for you?”
“What the fuck?” Gee’s face burns hot and she pulls up short. It’s dark and both of them are still pretty far beyond tipsy, so it isn’t too surprising when Frank stumbles into her and they topple like dominoes. It’s only by some miracle that they stay upright—well, that and the fact that Gee walks backward directly into a tree trunk. “Fuckin’ hell, Frank, what was that?”
“What was what?” Frank grumbles. “You’re the one who stopped walking.” He sounds like he’s still pissed at her, but one strong, warm hand is still latched onto her shoulder to keep him upright.
“Yeah, because you said—” Gee flails her hands at him. The moonlight that manages to pick its way through the canopy lets her make out Frank’s irritated expression, and hopefully he can do the same. “Why the fuck would you say that? About it being a fetish?”
Frank’s eyes narrow. “Oh, so you can tell everyone about my dick but I can’t even make a joke with you anymore?”
“Will you just—!” Gee huffs and shoves uselessly at Frank’s shoulders. Her arms feel like overcooked noodles and all she accomplishes is making Frank scoff. “It’s not like I started it.”
“What, so I started it?” Frank says incredulously. “You can’t be serious, I was fucking asleep—”
“You’re the one who stopped!”
“Stopped what?”
Gee could strangle him. “Touching me, dipshit.”
“Fucking—” She can practically see the gears in his head grind to a painful halt. “What?”
“You!” She shoves at him again with exactly the same effect. “We don’t hug or—or lean on each other, or sleep with each other—” They’re close enough she can hear Frank’s breath catch in his throat, but she presses on. “Christ, Frankie, you don’t even react when I mess with you onstage. What’s the fuckin’ point? What did I even do?” Her throat tightens around her next words. “Do you—do you not want to play with us anymore?” With me? goes unspoken.
“Do I not—” Frank gives his head such a violent shake that he staggers slightly in place. “You fucking ran out on me like I was diseased or some shit, but you wanna act like this is my fault? Fuck, Gee, what was I supposed to think?”
“Ran out on you?” Gee repeats incredulously. “When?”
Frank lets out a strangled, mirthless laugh. “Don’t make me say it. You said it just fine on your own earlier.”
Earlier? Gee scowls and shoves the heels of her hands against her eyelids until violet and gold burst like bruises in her vision. Fuck, she wishes she hadn’t gone for those last few vodka and Red Bulls. “You—Frankie, what?”
“Frankie,” he spits back, like Gee has called him a slur instead of the pet name they all use. “What, you want me to say it? You think I deserve it, to be fuckin’ humiliated or something? You want to punish me?”
“Punish—? How can I want to punish you, I don’t even know what you’re fucking talking about!” Gee snaps.
“For fuckin’—shit, how’d you say it? Dry humping you in your sleep?”
Frank hurls the words at her like they’re so heavy it costs him, but they bounce off the inebriated haze around Gee’s mind. It’s only after a few moments that she places the words as her own from their earlier conversation—fight, really, even if she doesn’t want to say it—in the van.
She balks. “What? Why would I care?” When Frank can’t do anything but stare at her open-mouthed, she continues, “I mean, even if I hadn’t literally walked in on you getting head in the Eyeball house, you know you get morning wood when we sleep together in the van, right? Like, your dick and I are acquainted, it’s not new—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Frank says, but he sounds slightly winded. “Then—then why did you run?”
“I—” Gee always feels warm when she drinks, but she swears her cheeks are actually aflame right now. “No reason.”
“Bullshit,” Frank says immediately. “You don’t get to do that to me and then act like—”
“Do what?” Gee demands. “You’re the one who acted like we weren’t even fuckin’ friends anymore, what the fuck did I do?”
“You ran.” Frank leans closer, pressing her back against the tree until the bark feels like it’s digging between her very ribs. “And I know I’m a piece of shit, but I’m not a fucking creep.”
“I know.” Finally, the pieces start to fall clumsily into place. “Shit, Frankie, I know you aren’t. That’s not why—”
“Then why? What was I supposed to think?”
“It wasn’t about you!” Gee finally bursts out. “It was—Jesus, I ran to the bathroom after. It’s not that hard to piece together, is it?”
Frank laughs again, the kind she recognizes as angry and uneasy but trying to cover for it. “I don’t know, I thought I pieced it together just fine when you felt my dick and couldn’t stand to be in the same fucking bed as me. But sure, Gee, tell me what’s so fucking obvious.”
“You weren’t—it was—I needed to piss!” she hisses, voice lowered as if they aren’t in the goddamn woods without anyone to hear them.
“You—” Frank stops short and narrows his eyes. “Are you fucking shitting me?”
Embarrassment makes Gee’s cheeks feel hot and tight like an infection, and it festers into irritation. “You’re yelling at me, why would I be shitting you!”
“Why would you—? We’ve pissed in front of each other before! Why would I fucking care?”
“Because I—” Gee swallows hard around the painful, humiliated lump in her throat and mutters, “I thought I was gonna piss on you.”
There’s a horrible beat of silence where all Gee can hear is the hollow rustle of the night wind and the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears. And then, Frank laughs.
Gee’s stomach drops like it’s turned to lead and crushes everything beneath it on the way, leaving her legs numb and heavy. Fuck, this is what she gets for trying to force the issue. It’s what she always does, pressing and prodding and trying to mold the world into the shape she wants, even though she’s just some stupid drunk with delusions of grandeur, a mediocre vocalist who thinks that makes up for the thousands of other failings she can never outrun—
“Gee?” Frank’s voice is gentler than it’s been in days. That’s probably the only reason it registers through the panicked chatter of her thoughts. “Hey, don’t—aw, shit, I’m not laughing at you, sweetheart.”
The pet name makes Gee choke on the combined anxiety-relief-annoyance-joy that wells up in her chest. She hiccups on it, then throws her arms around Frank’s neck and fuck, fuck, she’s crying, she hates crying in front of her boys.
But Frank hauls her in and presses closer at the same time, sending their combined weight stumbling back against the tree until Gee is sandwiched between them and can barely take a full breath. Then again, it’s not like she’s doing great at breathing anyway, with the way her chest keeps hitching on each sob.
Frank’s hands are warm like always as he clutches tight at her waist with one and cradles her head with the other. “Shhh, shh, shh,” she distantly registers, “hey, it’s okay, Gee, it’s okay, baby, shh.”
“It’s fucking embarrassing,” she moans against Frank’s hair. For once, she wishes she weren’t taller than him so she’d be able to bury her face in his shoulder without getting a crick in her neck. “Like, shit, I’m twenty-six and I almost wet the bed like a fuckin’ child.”
Frank’s giggle sounds impossibly loud right in her ear. “I mean, you’ve definitely barfed on yourself in front of us too, so—”
Gee groans and squeezes him tighter around the neck until he makes a squeak of protest. “Not helping, Frankie.”
“What I mean is—” Frank wriggles in her death grip, but he only manages to slot their bodies even closer together. Their legs are staggered so they’re practically interlocked, and she can feel the heat of his body from the rips in her jeans to his warm breath against her neck. “You don’t gotta be embarrassed, okay? That’s just, like, natural bodily functions and shit, y’know?”
“Well—!” It sounds so reasonable when Frank says it like that, Gee has to flounder for a few seconds to come up with a counterargument. “So is morning wood, you fuckin’ dweeb.”
Even though everything is washed blue in the night, she knows just by the way Frankie’s body tenses and he splutters that he’s blushing. “That’s different, okay, you fucking know it is—”
“Yeah, sure, because it’s literally unconscious—”
“You think your bladder goes offline just because you’re asleep? Like, huh, guess that entire handle of vodka will just hang out in here indefinitely until we can deal with that awake—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Gee’s voice cracks with the effort of not laughing right in Frank’s face. It’s Frankie, if she laughs, he’ll think he’s won.
Even without her breaking into a full-out laugh, Frank is entirely too smug. “Oh, yeah?” he taunts. “Make me.”
Maybe it’s the booze and pills. Maybe it’s the relief of knowing she still has her best friend and her band. Maybe it’s the heavy blanket of nighttime that makes the movements of her own body feel abstract, like art to be analyzed rather than actions she can control. Maybe it’s just the warmth of Frank’s body all along hers, the hot puff of his breath, the familiar musk of his deodorant and sweat and discount detergent.
Whatever the reason, Gee kisses him.
It’s a clumsy shove of her mouth against his, already open so she can feel the smooth edge of his teeth and the cold-wet-sticky tease of his inner lip. It’s messy and off-center, and it immediately pulls a whimper out of Frank that makes her want to tear him apart with her teeth.
“Gee—” His fingers scrabble at her, pulling at her hair and digging into her love handles. “Fuckin’—what? Oh, Christ—”
She grabs a fistful of his hair to drag his head to the side and mouths at the scorpion inked into his neck. Shit, how could she have doubted? Frank had left himself no way out, had practically signed his life over to this band by branding it into his fucking skin. No wonder he was scared of putting her off, of making her want to let him go—
Well. Clearly, she needed to make a point to him.
“Frankie,” she gasps, her lips bumping against the shell of his ear. He shudders against her, then draws back just enough to crash their mouths back together. She’s seen him kiss before. She knows he throws himself into fucking just like he does anything else, a whirlwind of sweat and spit and bitten-off curses.
She knows this, but being on the receiving end of it is something else entirely. Both his hands are scrabbling desperately at her ass and thighs now and his hips buck forward without any real rhythm. “Fuck, Gee,” he grits out, his voice thin and strained. Shit, he sounds strung out already, like she’s been teasing him for hours instead of kissing him for a few minutes. When he rocks forward again, all the breath leaves Gee’s body in a rush—both because he’s shoving her up against the tree with his thrusts and because she can feel the hard line of his cock against her hip.
Their lips part with a slick noise and Frank pants, “Lemme touch you? Fuck, please, I gotta, say I can—”
Arousal like Gee hasn’t felt in months seizes her guts and twists them up in almost painful pleasure. Christ, even jerking off hasn’t felt as good as Frank’s sweet pleading sounds. It’s all she can do to give a jerky nod and mumble, “Fuckin’—do it already.”
Almost before the words are out of her mouth, Frank’s hands are slipping down between her legs. He cups her through her pants, the heel of his hand firm against her clit and making her entire body twitch. He drags his fingers roughly against the seam of her jeans and she can feel how the soaked fabric of her boxer briefs slides wetly against her. Jesus, did he really do that to her?
“Don’t tease,” Gee gasps. She tries to clamp her thighs down around Frank’s wrist—maybe she can hold him in place and grind against his hand until the pleasure peaks—but his hand is gone before she can. “Fucker—”
Frank lets out a high, breathless giggle. “I got you, I got you,” he babbles, his fingers tearing at the fly of her jeans. “Shit, you’re so pretty, Gee, so warm, I gotta feel—”
And then his hand shoves down the front of her underwear. It should be too rough, the way his callused fingers brush over her clit, but she’s so wet they practically glide.
Frank’s face drops to her shoulder and he moans brokenly like he’s buried his cock inside her instead. “Oh, fuck,” he whimpers. “You’re so wet, what the fuck—” His hips buck forward against her and it presses his hand deeper, sliding his fingers between her folds where’s she’s so overheated and sensitive it almost tickles, almost feels like she has to—
Fuck.
Gee tenses up and tries to dredge up the puddle her brain has melted into. Frank had laughed about it earlier, but she really, really, really doesn’t want to piss all over both of their jeans and then have to go back to the van. “Frankie,” she tries to warn, but it comes out breathy and high-pitched.
A ragged groan catches in Frank’s throat and he pushes her up against the tree so hard she chokes. He does it again, then lets out a sound that’s almost a sob as his entire body shakes against her. His fingers mercifully still even as his hips rock back and forth unevenly, and she can barely register the pulse and twitch of his cock through their jeans.
“Frankie?” she asks, feeling winded. “Did you just come?”
Frank lets out another groan, but it sounds distinctly unhappier as he slumps against her. “Fuck, sorry, fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to—Jesus, let me make it up to you—”
His fingers draw back to rub at her clit, and suddenly she remembers what she’d been trying to say before Frank started making the hottest noises she’s ever heard.
“No!” she yelps, grabbing at his arm so fiercely it’s probably going to bruise. “Fuck, stop, I gotta piss.”
After a moment of shocked worry, Frank’s expression melts back into playfulness. He obediently removes his hand from her pants and examines the strings of slick that stretch between his spread fingers. “You and your piss,” he teases. “Is it just something about my dick that does this to you?”
Gee rolls her eyes and circles around to the other side of the tree for a little more privacy. She walks slightly hunched over, just in case. “I already had to go before you decided to jump my bones in the middle of the woods, dumbass.”
“It didn’t seem like a problem when you were humping my hand.” The self-satisfied grin is obvious in Frank’s voice.
Warmth floods Gee’s cheeks, but she finds herself smiling anyway. Fucking Frankie. “Just consider it payback for the morning wood. Now,” she adds before he can start protesting, “shut the fuck up and let me piss in peace.”
And just like that, things feel…not normal, exactly. But they don’t feel weird. At least, not any weirder than baseline for a couple of weirdo best friends in a weirdo band.
When Gee finishes up, she rebuttons her jeans and tries not to grimace at how damp her boxer briefs feel. That was one thing about getting turned on that she hadn’t missed—the aftermath.
The walk back to the van is quiet. Gee thinks it’s an easy silence until Frank grabs her wrist just before they leave the cover of the trees. “Hey,” he says quietly, eyes downcast. “I really am sorry about…y’know.”
Gee blinks at him. As far as she’s concerned, they already hashed out their apologies before the whole hands-down-pants thing. “I don’t know, actually.”
“Coming like that. So fast.” He looks up, and oh God, it’s the puppy eyes. “Can I make it up to you sometime? I mean,” he continues hastily, “not that you have to. I’m not gonna be one of those douchebags who thinks you owe me just because we did this once or anything—”
Gee cuts him off with a laugh and laces their fingers together. “Frank Iero,” she teases, “he’s not like other guys.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he responds automatically, but he gives her hand a squeeze. After a moment, he says more quietly, “So…we can do this again?”
Gee can’t stop the smile that splits her face. “Fuck yeah, we can.”