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Three people.
Now four.
Four people offered Gerard a water as they snaked through the linoleum maze, searching for a bathroom. Their sleeve made contact with their forehead in an effort to block the cascade of sweat, but the fabric was already soaked. Someone was following him. Not their bodyguard, either. They'd shaken him off earlier, against his advice. But they didn’t care. They didn’t need water.
Water would do nothing but add to the ammunition. The formidable heat–Frank charmingly coined as ‘Southern hospitality’–had wrung Gerard out, leaving them to scrape together whatever energy they had left just to make it through the rest of the set. He was going to have a word with his guitarist. But right now, Gerard needed to find a quaint spot to throw up. Somewhere where no-one would ask “Are you alright?” Somewhere to evacuate the drink that had done more harm than good.
They wondered if it would be teal coloured. By the time they slammed the stall door closed, locking with razor sharp dexterity–something they’d utterly lost just thirty minutes ago when they couldn’t make sense of up or down on the stage–the colour didn’t really matter.
“It’s gonna be hot.”
They were warned. Frank offered a chance to change the set list. Gerard had only glanced at it. No big deal, they’d done this before. Frank then threw several pity glances from under his lop of hair during Long Live. Gerard resented that. Don’t pity me, I’m doing just fine, the vocalist’s immediate thoughts. But if Frank noticed that something was off, surely the audience would see it.
As the time passed, and the heat accrued, it was evident the situation was far from fine.
When the band changed for B-Stage, Frank comforted his singer.
“I believe in you.”
Gerard’s stomach lurched as they scanned the songs due. Not a moment’s respite. Just high tempo, breath-stealing hits. The guitarist lay a soft hand on Gerard’s shoulder. He was always cocooned in nylon these days. The man only knew cold now. Meanwhile, Gerard was burning up.
It was a struggle. A fun struggle, however–the best kind of struggle. But a dance on the edge of danger. Gerard tried to spit out the notes, throat tightening in protest. Frank threw him those pitiful glances once again. The show ended with a successful run-through, but not without consequence.
Southern Hospitality. It was like breathing through a straw.
Conversely, their throat widened easily as it welcomed their pale fingers. The tacky cavern that housed the talent that made him. Their other talent was far more taboo. They hoped no-one would be around to hear it. He'd lucked out in this empty bathroom.
Gerard coughed at first. His knee joints clicked as he fell into a crouch. They used to kneel, but hands on the toilet rim was much easier to achieve when you were drunk off your ass and paid no mind to germs. Gerard’s nausea had increased tenfold even with the refreshing open arms of the backstage building. The AC had a pungent smell to it, and the stark temperature change didn't help.
His finger grazed the back of his throat, and everything came out. And everything felt better. They stayed like this for a while. It was a mechanical affair; nothing to worry about. The contents of his stomach didn’t turn out as neon as they hoped, even with the flashy colour of the berry Gatorade.
Gerard cleared their throat and wrapped the toilet paper around his fingers, not before pausing to watch the wet gleam catch on each knuckle. The refracted light was like a spark, a reminder of some unwelcome deja vu.
Another wave, and Gerard’s muscles worked involuntarily, cleansing their mistake with a guttural retch once again into the toilet bowl. They dug their fingers into clumps of sticky hair. The walls of the toilet stall began to cave in. Taboo existed in the shadows beneath him. A malevolent reminder they were walking a very thin line between a mechanical worry, a medical problem, and a gross fetish.
Gerard looked at the blue liquid in the ceramic. Microscopic bubbles popped one by one.
…
“Gerard?”
The familiar voice hit like a slap, and Gerard nearly jumped clean out of their skin. He wiped his face in a panic, too humiliated to flush and announce exactly what he’d been doing in there.
“Uhh, the cars are leaving now.” Frank’s sounded like he knew he’d interrupted something. “Um, I’ll be right outside–”
Gerard stumbled out, eyes down, but they couldn’t avoid the allure of the reflection of the aftermath. Red-rimmed, watery eyes. Frank caught it, too. He was well aware.
Still, he played the same card as everyone else. “You lost something in there?”
Gerard flung their hands on Frank’s shoulders. Their voice croaked, and it may have sounded solemn; Gerard was far from sad. Exerted, sure. But swimming with nausea and hands recently down their throat was a better deal than soaking in sweat on stage.
“Let’s get outta here. I’ll follow you.”
Without a word, Frank pulled Gerard’s arm over his shoulder.
-
The ride home could have been 5 minutes, or 5 hours. Gerard tried squinting at their phone to distract from the dizzying world passing them by. A few messages traded with Frank, though they couldn't say if they added up to anything coherent. All processing power had run dry back on the stage. Everything was at maximum–every light, sound and smell cranked to a hundred. It was a miracle they’d made it to the hotel in one piece.
Unfortunately, the safety of a hotel room was put on hold. The crisp sheets and custom climate were behind an impenetrable barricade. Gerard fumbled their pockets. Nada. Their bag yielded no results either.
“Oh, man…”
It wouldn’t be difficult to fix the situation, but they were running on fumes. As they hurried sweaty fingertips into the keyboard to ask for help, the help arrived before they’d pressed Send.
At the end of the hallway, Frank whistled. His familiar face poked from the corner, waggling a finger towards Gerard. Gerard had no time for games. Frank nodded his head again.
“I can’t get in–” Gerard whispered, but before he could finish, his guitarist had his palm flat to Gerard's back, chauffeuring them into another room. Once they were inside, Frank kicked away the bag holding the door open. It was smaller than the other rooms. Warmer, too. Typical for Frank.
“I’m gonna go downstairs.” Gerard mumbled.
“You’re gonna sit down.”
Frank slid Gerard’s bag from their shoulder and rolled the mini-suitcase away without a word. Then he adjusted the light, but even the luxury of amber-glowing dimmers was overbearing. Gerard wanted a cold, dark cavern–a place the sun couldn’t reach. He wanted fingers on cool tiles dragging over rubber grout, cradling ceramic to shed the sickness from outside in.
Gerard clutched their chest. It was dryer now, but the feeling was wrong. Prickly heat crawled from their back to their neck. The shirt needed to come off. But the present company was making that difficult.
Frank finished adjusting the lights and the temperature–probably cranking up the heat–and handed Gerard a small, blue bottle.
“Whatever you’ve had, it’s not enough. You gotta top up. The light’s kinda fading from your eyes.” Frank couldn’t feign the seriousness for long. He smiled as Gerard took the bottle.
“Did we plan this? My head’s all… screwed up.”
“Just drink.”
There was no time to argue. All they wanted to do was remove everything and compare body heats with his dearest. But by the time Frank was on his knees, unlacing Gerard’s boots, the narrative started to turn. Gerard took little sips just to humour his friend.
Frank had spent all night looking out for them. Though, he was half to blame. It was his duty to correct his mistake, but this whole shoe thing felt a little bit… Biblical.
“It’s not gonna be pretty, Frank.” Gerard grimaced, forcing a smile. “I think I got it…”
“No, it’s all good.”
Gerard’s gaze fixed to the fingers pulling their shoes off, but there was no focus. The world was stitched together with shadow and light. A more pressing matter was the flip his stomach kept making, a warning that the Gatorade was doing more harm than good. The nauseating sweetness stuck in each corner of his mouth, like an ambrosial caulk. Gerard swished their tongue behind their molars, searching for a spot that wasn’t dry and sweet.
The socks came off, and Frank frowned, the same look he gave when a guitar string would snap.
“How are you still… in that fuckin’ jacket?” Gerard attempted to divert the unpleasantness.
Frank stood, quickly unzipping it and throwing it across the room. “What jacket?”
A reluctant half-giggle was all Gerard could muster, though it was poorly timed. The dopamine hit got cross-wired, and Gerard’s stomach lurched. They buried their fingers into the indents on the Gatorade lid that they’d been fidgeting with the entire time, but the distraction was half-baked. Frank could see right through it. He held out a hand.
“You’ll feel better soon.”
Gerard groaned. Their tongue was too big for their mouth. Anger surged quicker than politeness.
“I’d feel better if you turned on the fuckin’ AC!”
“Tryna give me attitude while I’m helping you? Come on.”
His stupid gesture was nothing but a ruse. Gerard knew that they grossed Frank out. The help was too little too late. The set list was a sick game and Frank was doing damage control doused in candy-flavoured fuel.
Gerard pushed Frank’s hand out of the way and the guitarist made some exclamation about ‘having it your way.’ Stumbling into the bathroom, Gerard’s fingers searched for a light before they fell into the rim of the toilet bowl.
Frank was considerate enough to close the door, but Gerard called out before it clicked shut.
“Keep it open.”
Gerard’s knees dug into the floor. He could smell bleach.
The ritual commenced. But he wasn’t expecting a voyeur.
Frank had seen Gerard throw up before. But they weren’t sure if he’d seen the self-inflicted version. It was purely a way to feel better. Mechanical. But Frank’s hovering body and soft, supportive interjections of “Fuck, that’s gross,” and “Damn, it’s really that easy for you,” were both distracting and encouraging. Gerard didn’t have the sense of mind to tell him to shut up, but when Frank took out his phone, something sparked in them.
“Are you taking a video?”
“No!” Frank was insulted. “Like hell I wanna see this again.”
“Why not?”
“Jeeze–I mean this with all the love in my heart Gerard, but what the hell is wrong with you?”
Gerard hacked a blue glob into the ceramic.
The silence split opinion before Gerard realised it would be for their own greed. A video wouldn’t serve as a lesson, but something to have for later. He wanted to see himself in this position. Even Frank knew why, deep down–but it was unspoken.
They wrapped their finger inside their mouth, moving past the tongue and the molars to find the sweet spot. A preliminary gag, maybe there was nothing left. A tear streamed down Gerard’s cheek. The way it rolled into their mouth, salt matching sweet, was all so familiar.
Frank grew braver and leaned in. In Gerard’s periphery, Frank’s hands were at the level where Gerard’s nose almost kissed the toilet seat.
With fingers in the shape of a gun, they made one more attempt. An echoing retch. Frank winced, but his body moved fast. A pair of hands pulled back Gerard’s hair. It hurt. Frank wasn’t gentle–but the hair was no longer tickling in ways that made them murderous.
“Come on. If you’re gonna reject my help, don’t half ass it.”
Without a word, Gerard’s other hand searched their belt buckle, pulling it undone. Present company would need to leave soon if they were going to shower peacefully, but something had them both solidified there, like concrete monuments. Frank wasn’t going to leave. If he wasn’t going to leave, he was going to bear witness. And Gerard needed a witness.
“Motherfucker...”
“What, are you gonna piss yourself too?”
“No–Achk!” Gerard hacked. They just felt tighter in their jeans, is all.
Gerard’s tongue searched their mouth again, which had fallen wide open. Everything was open. Their buckle and fly hung undone. Eyes watery and vulnerable. If only someone had taken a picture.
Frank brushed back Gerard’s hair. “Are you done? God, this is so gross.”
“Yeah.”
A final nod, and Frank helped his friend up. The blue acid disappeared down the drain. The complimentary plain white toothbrush with plain white toothpaste was shoved into Gerard’s mouth. Their hands skated across the tiles on the wall, looking for something to counteract the heat. Frank stood in front. He apologised for something, but it was lost to the ringing in Gerard’s ears.
Their fingers moved from the tiles to Frank’s shirt.
“You’re still wet.” Gerard slurred through the toothbrush. Their fingers then pinched Frank’s bare arm. Cold. He was a mystery.
Bubbly fluoride filled the sink, and Gerard slouched against the tiles. Frank’s intensity wasn’t helping. The rims of his irises were so dark against the green, stark in the lurid light of the hotel bathroom. They were both waiting for an illusion to shatter.
Frank closed the gap first. The pressure was measured with guilt. He hooked his finger ever so gently into Gerard’s belt loop, nothing more.
“Maybe a cold shower..?”
“Thought we were gonna do this together.”
“Do what?”
Gerard motioned fingers into their mouth.
“What? What are you talking about? You’re–you know I can’t.”
“Show me.”
“I’ve shown you before! How many times we played that shitty game…” Frank rolled his eyes, tutting with the motion. He opened his mouth–wide, letting a strained vowel out–and stuck his middle finger. His whole hand might have been there. It pulled Gerard back to an old memory. Twenty years back, to those stupid competitions they used to run in parties and tour vans.
“See. Nothing.” Frank shrugged. “I’m like a snake.”
Gerard closed the gap between them. “Open again, I just wanna–“
“Woah, you’re not my dentist.”
“I just wanna look.”
Frank reluctantly stuck his tongue out, and Gerard pushed it back with his thumb. A guiding hand pulled Frank’s jaw down. Gerard hadn’t felt the sensation of a beard between his fingers in a few years. It suited Frank, in a way, but his years were only a costume at this point. The Frank in front of him right now was the same young, starry-eyed hopeful who’d do anything Gerard asked.
Though, Frank’s teeth were in better condition.
Gerard looked, or tried to–his vision swam with white spots, too scattered to hold focus. Looking wasn't working. The singer reached inside Frank’s throat without hesitation. Frank made a sound, a mock protest, but his body said otherwise. It leaned in, swallowing Gerard's hand up to the knuckles.
Their pale fingers hit the roof of Frank’s mouth. He coughed a little, but Frank seemed unharmed.
“Huh. I thought you woulda learned by now.”
Gerard pulled out, and Frank twisted his jaw, removing his hand from his friend’s hip. Gerard resented that. He cupped Frank’s head and pulled it back.
“Like–not even like this?”
Frank winced again, opening up involuntarily this time. Gerard’s knuckle grazed Frank’s teeth when they realised their hands were unwashed. He was trading stomach acid straight into his best friend’s mouth. The room warmed up as Frank writhed underneath. A delicate tickled turned into a small struggle when Gerard added a third finger.
“Stop tryin’ to be a hero…”
Frank’s chest heaved, but he was standing strong. He made a pleading noise that exhumed buried memories from years gone. Pushing past the soft palate, Gerard’s fingers searched for the trigger.
“Come on! You’re sick all the time. You never even tried? Do I need to go deeper?”
The taste was sure to be unpleasant. Stomach acid, toothpaste, sweat. For what felt like forever, there was nothing but wet sounds and brave rasps. Finally, Gerard’s heart skipped as Frank squeezed his eyes shut. He then lurched forward.
“Oh, now you’re gonna…”
With a spasm, Gerard pulled away as Frank’s diaphragm squeezed a pathetic dribble of bile onto Gerard’s shirt sleeve. It wasn’t quite what they expected.
Their lips brushed against Frank’s damp ear. They felt the vibration of the retch travel through his own arm, sending shivers throughout.
“Guess it has its uses.”
Then Gerard’s vision blurred at the edges. Water sustained life, and Gerard had expended a bottle of Gatorade, plus extra. They pulled their hand out, and Frank coughed toward the floor, sputtering. Gerard left him there in the bathroom, but not before running a hand down his back.
-
A bomb ticked away somewhere in that double room. The suspense swelled until it filled every corner. Frank had gotten away with the ruthless setlist. Between Frank’s shower and the raiding of the mini-fridge, Gerard was immobile. They changed their shirt, but mostly lay flat on their back, staring at the ceiling. Heading for a shower was a monumental task. Sips of cold water didn’t soothe the burning in their throat. And the light banter didn’t soothe the feelings beneath the surface.
Gerard wasn’t sure why they were here, in this room–but the energy to move and deal with the situation was left behind somewhere. Maybe they transferred it down Frank’s throat. They finally braved standing up to adjust the thermostat, when Frank chimed in.
“Don’t make it cold.”
Frank was perched on the end of the bed, soda in hand, eyes red.
“Then take your sweater off!” Gerard whined. “If it's gotta be eighty degrees in here, you could at least act like it.”
“Seventy-eight.”
Gerard tutted. It was an effort to stand. As they swayed back towards the bed, they motioned towards Frank. Take it off. Frank owed them that much.
The hoodie came off with a little difficulty, since there were more layers beneath. Eventually, with a little help, Frank’s tattoo-covered torso was revealed. It was different to backstage lighting.
Gerard touched Frank’s skin again. Cold. “You’re more dead than I am.”
“Sometimes feels that way, for sure.” Frank giggled, tossing his clothes aside.
Gerard didn’t need the polite front. It was hot. Their brain was on fire. His friend needed to give up the act.
Frank cleared his throat, and Gerard almost apologised. Then, he spotted something on Frank’s arm.
“Is this one–it’s not trad, is it?”
They leaned over, thumb and forefinger around Frank’s bicep, twisting the flesh to inspect something. It could have been the heatstroke talking, but it did look new. Gerard spent a lot of time sneaking glances at Frank’s skin as they hurried out of costume into plain clothes. There was never enough time to soak it all in.
“Uhh–kinda. It’s from last month.” Frank blubbered, eyes averting Gerard’s as he talked about the new ink.
Gerard pressed his feet into the floor, anchoring himself. They moved their gaze from the tattoo and locked it onto Frank's eyes instead, paying little mind to the story spilling from his mouth. Their hand reached upwards, clammy skin sliding over Frank’s flesh to rest in the crook of his neck. They pressed their thumb down, and Frank’s voice hitched.
“Right, right.” Gerard affirmed, but they weren’t listening. He just wanted to watch Frank slowly panic. The same way Frank’s ruthless song choices drained the colour from Gerard’s face.
“Y-yeah. Um, it’s kind of–are you feeling alright? I’m actually getting kinda…kinda cold.”
“That’s crazy, cos I’m fuckin’ hot as shit.” Gerard slurred, thumb reaching into the damp curls of Frank’s hair.
Frank stiffened as Gerard’s knee slid between his legs. “Yeah. I guess you are…”
The bomb ticked away and Frank pierced the mood by lifting his soda can to his lips. Gerard snatched it immediately.
“Motherfucker, that’s the last sip–!”
There was a warning. There had been hours of warning. But Frank still flinched, nonetheless, when Gerard detonated the bomb. They held the sickly sweet excrete of syrup and carbon under their tongue, and leaned into Frank’s mouth. Cutting him off, Gerard exchanged the liquid between them as their lips landed. A shared communion. Bubbles soured on their tongue, spreading like the prickly heat that had Gerard’s head in a swim. The illusion shattered. Gerard could breathe a little easier.
Frank groaned at first, fingers digging deep into the duvet beneath him. He swallowed the gift from Gerard, and they pulled apart. A trail of spit connected them, lips glistening.
Nothing was said. Eyes darted back and forth.
Gerard buried their hands deep in Frank’s cold skin. His meat spilled between Gerard’s fingers, and they envied his core temperature. The exchange was clumsy–Gerard was unwell, but Frank wasn’t in sprightly condition, either. He didn’t know where to put his hands–where he was allowed to put his hands. Their mouths met again, open and airy kisses to start with. Frank’s grip eventually wound its way to Gerard’s back where he tugged at the shirt (that most likely belonged to him.)
Tiny gasps filled the space between them, and Gerard braced themselves, growing woozy by the second. Frank’s tongue gently intruded, so soft-mannered, the complete opposite to how Gerard invaded his throat. They shared their secret, suspended on a tightrope. Frank’s hands moved down to Gerard’s hips, subsequently their jeans. Fingers fumbled for sensation–Gerard, searching Frank’s skin for a new cold spot, and Frank, looking for another reason to say sorry. It was hidden beneath too many layers. He started with the first layer, a flat palm against Gerard’s open zipper. The soft mound underneath awoke eagerly. Frank broke from the kiss to meet his best friend in the eye. He couldn’t read them. Never could, really. He just waited for their move.
Gerard leaned down to resume the make-out, but their tongue was coarse and dry. This wasn’t how they remembered it. The friction so beautifully crafted up until now was stalling dangerously. Gerard felt drunk with sensation, some of it good, most of it overwhelming. The room was heating up. Frank’s beard tickled Gerard’s face, and sweat formed around their brow, to which Frank would be the unfortunate recipient.
But Frank didn’t seem to care.
With a tortuously slow movement, Frank pulled Gerard from their jeans. They weren’t hard, but not soft either. A sloppy kiss used to do the job, but they’d exercised that so many times, and Gerard wasn’t young any more.
“It’s like I said, Frank… young man’s… game…” Gerard panted to try and get himself off the hook, but Frank persisted.
“I know.” Frank spat on the head of Gerard’s dick, running a thumb over it. “Let’s do it together.”
The sentence was a knife’s edge. Gerard was enamoured by Frank’s devotion to fulfilling his promise from earlier that day.
Frank’s face contorted as he opened his jaw to maximum. Three fingers entered, swirling around his tongue. He scraped a pool of soda-tinged saliva, pulling it to the fullest extent of his tongue. He coughed, and Gerard responded below. Frank continued searching his mouth, wishing it was Gerard’s–but he had to do something.
As Frank ran his wet fingers over Gerard’s cock, his vocalist let out stuttering gasps. They dug their tiny nails into Frank’s skin, leaving half-crescent moons deep in black, grey, red and yellow ink.
Frank needn’t be so polite. Gerard didn’t instruct him, but made it known by grabbing a fistful of his hair, and pushing Frank down the length of their dick. At half-hardness, it still took up enough space in Frank’s mouth to have his eyes water. Gerard made a guttural noise as they swayed forward and back, feet digging into the ground that wanted to fall from under them.
“Yeah…”
There was time to spare. Perhaps they should have spent more time kissing. Perhaps Gerard should have known Frank would hover around, too cowardly to make the first move. Momentum built slowly. It was a marathon, not a sprint. Frank was delicate once again, rather than devouring Gerard.
“Come on–”
Gerard’s thumb peeled back Frank’s lip. He inserted two fingers into Frank’s mouth, which was filling slowly. Gerard wanted to see that filthy tattoo he had on the inside–wanted to see it obscured with liquids.
“You’re being so fuckin’ careful. Tryna get me off, or put me to sleep?”
There it was. The first splutter. Frank’s throat protested.
“You can do it, Iero. I believe in you.”
Gerard hooked their finger around Frank’s mouth one last time before pulling it out to squeeze the base of their dick. Blood pulsated downwards. It was most needed elsewhere, though. Gerard’s head was not thinking straight–it was easy enough to give in, and to pretend this was all a heat-fuelled fever dream tomorrow morning.
It was proving difficult to reach full hardness, but each of Frank’s stifled coughs ripped through Gerard. Their eyes widened and fixed to the hungry lips around his cock, so desperate to prove something. Gerard tilted their head back, unleashing a moan into the ether as they recalled Frank’s pathetic attempt at throwing up in the bathroom.
“Are you even trying?” Gerard whined.
Frank’s head made its way up and down, and Gerard’s fingers worked their way into their own mouth, considering a thought so gross, so perverted, that even Frank wouldn’t be able to brush it off.
Gerard opted to softly suck on his fingers until they stopped tasting like Frank and started tasting like sweat. Even with every pulse, Gerard just couldn’t get it up all the way.
“Fuck. Just–I need to, I’m almost–” Gerard panted. “It’s ‘cos I’m weak. I can’t stand–”
With a stumble forward, they braced their knee on the bed. Frank pulled off, and took a breath. He suddenly changed his tune and grabbed Gerard’s wrist, shooting a stern look. His chest rattled as he made his demand.
“Then stop being a bitch, and fuck me.”
The shift hit Gerard square in the chest. No more playing nurse, no more hovering. Bitch. A provocative choice. And Gerard’s body agreed.
They moved together, although not without a few hitches. Bones were fragile, things were heavier than before. Both of them lost their shorts, but Gerard’s sweaty shirt remained. Frank inched backwards and pulled something from the drawer. As Gerard wrapped a hand around their girth, Frank was busy fidgeting with something.
“You always bring that shit with you?”
“Mind your own business, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”
Gerard fell forward, nose pressed into Frank’s knees that were either side of him. He smelled like coconut. His skin was still cold, yet a trail of sweat trickled down the back of his thigh. It had been a long time since Gerard was here.
“Wow. Not even listening to me.”
To whatever avail, Gerard was too bothered to be thinking about Frank arming himself with lube and condoms and making demands. It was about to be Gerard’s business. Frank was being awfully bold for someone about to get fucked in the ass.
“Frank, it’s too hot.” Gerard buried their face into the back of Frank’s thighs, watching his friend’s finger circle his hole. The guitarist breathed heavily. Gerard’s eyes flicked up and down, inspecting Frank’s untouched cock, somehow oozing and standing to attention so easily, poking the bottom of his stomach.
The sight was tantalising. Gerard wasn’t sure if it would be more enjoyable if they were more sound of mind. Perhaps the delirium was adding to the spectacle. Gerard had always gotten off on altered states, whether mind or body. Frank’s body was an altar to altered states.
As Frank’s lube-covered finger slowly went in and out, Gerard eyed up the meat he’d sorely missed. They whispered into a tattoo.
“...Fuckin’...pretty.”
Without warning, Gerard took a bite of the soft underside of Frank’s thigh, burying their teeth into some nameless shape that meant something to his friend once.
“Ah–fuck–” Frank tilted his head back, the arch in his back following.
It was apparent Frank could be made delirious, too. Gerard rose up, and lazily pumped a trail of lube onto their dick. They became distracted by its iridescent shine. Underneath their unruly hair, Gerard’s eyes froze onto the gel. Their makeup, though barely there, was still in form enough to make Gerard look like a doll frozen in time. Frank had his work cut out for him.
“You were biting me a second ago.” Frank pulled Gerard by the shirt, his other hand positioning their cock to his ass. Their eyes were heavy and intoxicated. “Let’s do this. So we’re even.”
Frank was such a whore for prepping himself beforehand. For going up on stage and ravaging his guitar and playing the character, no one privy that he’d got himself ready to be filled and pummelled.
Heatstroke had left Gerard raw and dangerously suggestible. But Frank’s invitation was not a spur of the moment affair. It had been building for weeks, months, years. Gerard dug their nails into Frank’s hips, leaving the man hissing and gasping. They slowly entered.
Gerard’s head lolled back with a gasp, their neck delicate like porcelain. A sheen of sweat glimmered in the low light. Frank envied Gerard’s warmth, but then he felt it–and felt it hard.
“Jesus, fuck–”
Gerard inched in slowly, slowly, holding themselves steady. He wanted to spit on Frank’s cock and add to the myriad of filth, but their mouth was bone dry. It was horrible. Gerard focused on the feeling below. Like he was splitting his friend wide open.
Frank looked out of practice, as his arm fell in front of his eyes. Gerard almost stopped and retreated–but this had happened before. It’s how it always happens.
“Can’t back out now, Frank.” Gerard panted as they rocked gently forward again.
“You’re one to talk.”
Frank’s body swallowed them whole, the tightness almost suffocating in intoxicating pleasure. Gerard’s sensitivity, though dampened by the rubber, was at an all time high.
The adjustment settled, and Gerard could comfortably move. Frank’s pain and pleasure threshold were two sides of the same coin. Gerard liked the way Frank’s mouth fell open–it meant he was feeling good. An old habit, one that had been curbed years ago with chewing gum and re-conditioning. They finally got to see it, Frank’s jaw slack, lips in a delicate ‘o’ as Gerard pushed deeper inside.
“When did you…”
“Stop talking.” Frank murmured as he wrapped his calloused fingers around Gerard’s neck. Damp. “Be a good girl, and come here.”
He pulled Gerard in, faces an inch apart as their full length worked deeper. Frank groaned, holding their gaze ransom; he wanted to prove he could take it. Gerard kept their face neutral, but underneath it all, it felt so fucking good.
“Don’t be a hero, Gerard.”
And with that, something snapped. Whether it was the heat turning their brains to powder, or the way their bodies slipped against each other, friction wasn’t part of their physical reality. They melded together, mouths first. The floodgates opened. The delicate moral castle they’d tried to fortify was burning from the inside.
“Fuckin’ crazy-” Frank mouthed into Gerard’s face. There was little time to breathe between kisses–if you could call them that. There was no romanticism. There was love. But it was dirty, guilty love. Confession booth love, love for something that killed you slowly.
“It's your fault,” Gerard breathed as their teeth nibbled the corner of Frank’s earlobe, sending him into knots. “Those fuckin’ songs… I could have passed out.”
“Mhm–,” Frank arched his back as Gerard pressed into him. “Just keep complaining while you fuck me.”
Gerard’s knees trembled, each thrust forward growing heavier. It was laborious, and their shirt began to stick to the small of their back. Gerard’s skin was wet. It was too fucking hot. Even Frank’s face began to shimmer. His dark curls lapped around his damp jaw.
Driven by thirst, Gerard sank his mouth into Frank’s neck. The immediate salt on his tongue was a cascade. Frank pushed his body down, and Gerard was overloaded. In their frustration, Gerard bit down harder, but it just spurred the man beneath him on.
“D-don’t leave… a mark…” Frank whined.
The air was depleting between Frank’s neck and the pillow. Everything felt thick and hot, every breath, every blink. Gerard thrusted slowly, unfamiliar with the rhythm he used to know so well.
“I’ll do what I want.”
Frank’s hand shot to Gerard’s neck. It was so small. He’d slimmed down so much in recent years, it was almost scary. He felt like he could break it if he wanted to.
“Wanna see what they’ll say when I leave a bruise right here?”
It was a real risk. But right now, nothing felt real. Gerard’s mouth curled into a smirk. They wanted to believe Frank, but he was just being cute. Gerard took Frank’s hand and moved it upwards, gently guiding his fingers into their mouth.
Their tongue searched the ridges of Frank’s strumming hand. It wasn’t the same as his fret hand. Frank pushed downward, his face contorting as he tried to find that delectable rhythm from before. Gerard let Frank’s hand go, and pulled Frank’s knees to their chest, hugging them to find the pace again. They both surrendered to it.
Gerard’s movements were sending Frank into a spin, unable to stifle his noises and ‘fuck’s, when the whole thing came to a halt.
“Ugh!”
The prissy singer flopped down, face square into Frank’s pecs.
“I’m–I can’t. It’s too–”
Frank sighed.
“Even if you pass out inside me, I’m not gonna stop.”
Gerard’s cock throbbed inside Frank at his loose threat. It was an overdramatic ploy. Frank steadily rocked his hips downwards.
“I know you want it. I want it too.” Frank’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Or, need it.”
Gerard was possessed. Something urged them on. That same desire, so long ago doused by a moral impediment. The very thing that divided them was the thing that drew them together.
Gerard wanted to fuck the need out of him. So he’d never need it again. One more time, and he’d be fixed. The lazy rolling hips gradually quickened, and Gerard was soon bracing themselves, hand either side of Frank’s pillow, staring down their combatant.
“You need it?”
Frank’s face skewed, eyes hazy with detached yearning. His body accommodated Gerard so neatly. Pleasure and pain radiated in bursts of colour, Frank’s cock throbbed in response. Gerard was so sickened by Frank’s masquerade. Frank was talking about need when Gerard was the one so sick.
Frank nodded. His domineering character easily swayed by something as simple as a big cock.
“You need this? You think Nashville is the right place?” Gerard growled.
Frank’s hand wrapped around his dick, finally allowing himself to take the edge off.
With that motion, Gerard decided it was Frank’s turn to feel overstimulated. They pried Frank’s mouth open with their tongue, luring him with a false sense of security, before shoving in a pair of fingers again.
Gerard rocked forward, aiming to hit the perfect spot, trying to flood Frank with equal pleasure and pain. Their knuckles made their way into Frank’s mouth, pushing it wider open as he looked up with pleading eyes.
“Let’s do this together, then.”
He searched for the button. Frank didn’t have one. His resolve didn’t waver as he emitted pathetic noises around Gerard’s hand. His throat was a cavern of curiosities and Gerard found themselves wondering–how many fingers will it take?
Gerard moved in a certain angle, and Frank tilted his head back. With a smirk, Gerard carefully pushed to try and repeat it. Frank’s body jolted, and he moaned again.
“Oh… there, huh?”
Frank was a quivering mess, still somehow avoiding the damage of having artist fingers down his throat. Gerard soon found a rhythm again, and leant upright. He pressed into Frank’s uvula, and the man spluttered. Gerard released his hand. He’d save it for later.
“Fuck, harder–”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Whatever–fuck–”
Frank’s whimpers increased in cadence and volume, and he watched as Gerard’s pale, wet hand wrapped around his cock. His breath arrived in shallow beats, focus shifted, and his body–which was soft and malleable before–suddenly tensed. He threw his head forward, and tried to get the words out.
“I’m gon… Mh–”
Gerard tilted their head with a smile, hand moving up and down rapidly. They probably looked crazy. They rolled their hips one more time, knowing it was the landing blow. Anticipating the fireworks, Gerard smirked as he watched his friend unravel beneath them.
“Come on...”
The familiar pulse. The thighs trembling. Frank came in stuttery mewls, the head of his dick throbbing. Three chimes. Ropes of cum spilled downward onto Gerard’s hands and the fancy sheets beneath them. Frank’s head fell back as he gasped for air, still tensing. It was different when you hit the prostate. Intense in a way that could not be described. It took a lot of convincing for Frank to try it before.
Gerard pulled out slowly. Their knees were tired and red. Frank was not much better state. His gold necklaces had dug into his neck, his eyes were still red from Gerard’s earlier molestation. Frank was still riding the waves when Gerard left him to his mess.
Peeling off the condom, Gerard stumbled off the bed to the bathroom, but their back slammed into the wall first. His knees trembled as he grabbed the desk for leverage. Frank said something, but it was muffled. A blur shot up from the bed, and stood next to Gerard.
The blur returned with a glass of water. Then a hand to the forehead. Gerard was sick of being touched, at this point. It was all too much. Still, their problem didn’t go away. It radiated at the base of his groin. His skin felt like static, everything was sharp and pointed. They opened their mouth to complain about the heat, but Gerard’s hand instinctively reached out for skin.
“You know, I’m the one who should be feeling this way right now, G. You good?”
Gerard nodded. Like a useless automata, they said nothing, moving only out of routine. Gerard’s hand trailed the nape of Frank’s neck as the guitarist talked softly. Gerard wasn’t listening. The hand on Frank’s neck tensed. He pushed inwards. And pushed.
“Um–you’re sure?”
“Down, boy…”
Gerard pushed him down to his knees and rubbed the head of his cock to Frank’s lips. They’d spent every drop, but they’d agreed to do this together. Frank had already proved earlier he could take it. Although concerned for his lead singer, he knew fair was fair.
Frank’s mouth opened again, although it wasn’t as wet as before. Gerard swished the water around their mouth, forming a small pool of saliva. Gerard opened up, delivering the trail of spit downwards. Their tongue stayed suspended, like an animal trying to cool off.
Inch by inch, Gerard pressed into Frank’s throat. The bubbles of saliva merged with pre-cum and sweat. It must have been noxious. Frank started moving his head up and down, trained well on a few sparse encounters that he’d obviously worn close to his chest.
“I’m too hot, Iero.”
Frank had nothing to say, since he had a mouthful of cock. His eyes started to stream with tears, and Gerard lazily cupped his face.
“Too damn hot.”
Fingers dug into Frank’s damp curls, and Frank was no longer leading the charge. Gerard did what they did best–rocked forward, thrusting deep inside Frank’s mouth like it was just another hole to fuck. Gerard sent another trail of spit downward, but it missed, landing on Frank’s cheek.
Frank was obedient. His throat was doing all the work. It was an incredible testament to the man’s limits. A medical marvel. An altered state. Gerard’s cock was reaching innards no one should be in without a fight, but Frank persisted. Sure, his eyes watered, and he coughed every now and then. But his lips stayed firmly on Gerard.
“Really… you weren’t kidding…”
Gerard’s voice was laboured. Everything was uncomfortable, except for the safety of Frank’s mouth. He was so unwell, so overstimulated that even the lights made noise. And yet, they couldn’t deny their cock leaking into their friend’s mouth. It would be the last song, but with half the voice. They didn’t want to get discovered.
Gerard also wasn’t this vocal, normally. But this wasn’t normal. Gerard wasn’t even sure this was real–maybe they were in a hospital bed, hooked up to IV saline and someone mixed up the bags. Maybe they were on a ketamine high right now.
“Frank, are you even human?”
There was just enough resistance in Frank’s throat for the pleasure to slowly build. Gerard pulled Frank off to allow him a breath, but he turned away and hacked instead. Gerard’s eyes widened at the possibility–had the limit been reached? Maybe it was possible to make Frank throw up.
Instead, Frank wiped his mouth, a stripe of wetness coating his poor unsuspecting tattoos. He returned to the swollen head of Gerard’s cock, and wrapped his tongue around the underside. His fingers followed, travelling up and down the shaft, which was half a workout in itself.
Frank stuck his tongue out lewdly. It was too pornographic. Gerard didn’t need performance.
“Try again.”
Frank’s eyes fluttered, mouth nuzzling Gerard’s length. “I’m sorry, ’m not gross enough for you.”
Gerard hoisted Frank’s head back down to the task at hand. Pushing up from the wall, Gerard anchored themselves, legs spread. Cupping Frank’s cheeks, Gerard slid in and out again.
“You seriously–you can’t, fuck, Frank, this is–”
Gerard bucked forward with a tight whine. Stop trying to be the hero.
“Come on, make a fuckin’ mess–”
Frank’s face was buried in their stomach.
He spasmed. His nose flared as his body rejected it.
There it was.
Frank’s shoulders rose, and Gerard pulled off, immediately tugging at their dick as they watched Frank cough and splutter all over the floor. It wasn’t anything to sing home about, just a small stream of watery acid. Gerard was already the limit–every sensation in every nerve, pulling them in every uncomfortable direction. The sight was too much. Gerard wanted to hold onto it forever.
There was nothing normal about the way Gerard reached orgasm. With girlish moans, Gerard’s fever ran hot, skin blotchy and red as their fingers squeezed tightly, savouring the image of Frank hitting his limit. Frank coughed again, hands searching for the trash can, in case of an emergency.
“Oh, fuck–“
Coiling at the base of their core, pulses of pleasure intertwined with sick perversions that they kept behind a sacred lock and key. Gerard pulled Frank from their scramble to have him take the load one last time.
Frank’s lips parted, barely quick enough to take the spurts of white liquid that painted the back of his throat. It felt so fucking good. It all looked so fucking gross. It was perfect.
Gerard froze, each wave a spike in intensity. Their head throbbed equally. A headache was inevitable, but it was almost too soon. Gerard emptied themselves into Frank, who finally pulled off. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb.
“What? No trash can?” Gerard panted, slouching against the wall, squeezing the last drops onto Frank’s face.
“If anything’s gonna make me vomit, it’s that.” Frank sniped, skewing his face in disgust. “God. It’s so–”
“Bitter?”
“I don’t know why. I eat good.”
Frank spat into the trash, and Gerard extended their hand to help him up. Unfortunately, they completely underestimated their physical wellbeing–Gerard tumbled down. Their knees buckled, and Frank caught them by the shoulder.
“Fuck, G. How the hell do you survive in LA?”
“We don’t… I don’t–I don’t do any of this in LA. I’m indoors with the fuckin’ AC on.”
“You’re not fucking only when you’re sick? That’s when it’s the best…”
Gerard tuned Frank out again, but their body twitched at the thought of plugging Frank up under the comfort of a heated blanket.
Frank hoisted Gerard up one more time to chaperone them to safety. Gerard perched on the bed, like they’d done hours ago. He was glad they didn’t have to indulge in the post-coital embrace. It wasn’t their thing–not their style, not for years. Other times were appropriate, but there was a meter of physical closeness that was so easily filled these days. Frank waltzed over to Gerard’s sorry state at the edge of the bed.
Except this time, Frank didn’t offer a Gatorade.
A white rectangle. Plastic. Gerard’s clammy fingers left smudge marks all over it.
“What’s this?”
“Wow, you’re really out of it.” Frank couldn’t help but notice Gerard’s flushed skin and tired eyes. He tried to regain composure. “Uh–it’s, uhm, the key to your room. You dropped it in the bathroom back at the arena.”
Frank whipped a towel around his neck, and threw one to Gerard.
“Welcome to stay, welcome to leave. But if you can’t walk, I’d probably say don’t take a shower. You might slip and fall.” Frank made a dumb playing dead face, and headed to the bathroom. “Or, you can take one with me!”
Gerard wondered when they’d invent sheets that could also clean and wash someone.
“Honestly Iero, I’ve kinda had enough of you.”
Frank laughed from the echoey shower.
“Hey, Frank.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
The shower faucet turned on, the noise like razors to Gerard’s ears.
“Ohh. You’re gonna make me puke for real now!”
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