110
this is what happens (when you use tape to hold your pants together)
My Chemical Romance/Placebo (Gerard Way/Brian Molko)
2,743 words. Third person. Um. PG-13? Such crack, what the fuck.
Gerard thinks that Brian Molko is kind of an asshole. A tiny, British asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. Gerard doesn’t actually mind, because, well. Gerard is kind of an asshole himself.
Also, he thinks that they wear the same size pants.
Which is maybe why Gerard is thinking about it at all.
+
They’re only about a quarter of the way through the tour when it starts. Gerard looks up and finds Brian Molko staring at him with the slightly glazed look of someone intimately familiar with the pull of drugs, but not currently on anything. Gerard blinks slowly and raises an eyebrow. Brian Molko raises one back at him. Brian Molko is evidently the kind of person who must be referred to by first and last name at all times, at least in Gerard’s brain.
“Hm?” Gerard says, and wishes for a cigarette.
“You do realize that your pants have holes in some rather intimate places, yes?” Brian Molko asks, his voice dry, drawling out the words. His accent is a tinge of color on the edge of his words, sharpening them just slightly. His eyebrow is sharp like his words.
“Well, yeah,” Gerard says, “I do actually look at my pants before I put them on.” Well, sometimes.
Brian Molko just makes a noise that sounds half like agreement and half like amusement, and turns on his heel, walking back to his own dressing room. Gerard is kind of confused. He’s also pretty sure this means Brian Molko has been looking at his crotch.
He’s not actually sure that he minds.
+
“Dude, guys, Brian Molko talked to me today,” he says, after post-show-showering, curled up on the couch with his sketchbook. He’s been drawing pants for the past half an hour. At least he’s not drawing anyone in them. Just floating zombie pants - which isn’t actually necessarily that much better.
Bob grunts and Ray doesn’t even bother to look over. Frank glances up from his cell phone and then back down. Gerard really misses Mikey.
“Seriously, you fuckers, how is this not at all interesting?”
“Maybe because people on tour tend to, I don’t know, talk to each other?” Frank asks, fingers pressing into the keys of his phone fast enough that Gerard knows he’s texting. Frank is actually one of the fastest texters Gerard knows. If he ever draws Frank as a superhero, he’s pretty sure that’ll be his superpower.
“Well, yeah, but -” Gerard starts, but Frank cuts him off with a smile, wide and goofy like he is when he’s trying not to actually laugh.
“Also, Mikey says that there’re worse people to have a tour crush on. At least Brian Molko is pretty.”
Gerard snorts, and wonders how much Frank would miss his phone if Gerard happened to accidentally break it.
+
At the next venue, Gerard watches Placebo from the side of the stage. He almost laughs when Brian Molko looks over and recognizes him offstage. He does a quick double-take, but doesn’t stop singing, just pulls his guitar up close to his chest and wraps his arms around it, pushing his hips forward. He really is tiny.
Frank comes up behind him, standing on his tiptoes to prop his chin on Gerard’s shoulder, fingers holding onto the crooks of Gerard’s elbows for support. Gerard leans back slightly, balancing his weight on his heels.
“Mikey is kind of right,” Frank says. “Also, I think he’s actually older than you, which seems like it’s probably a plus.”
“Okay, no, shut up, I’m really not that much older than you.” Frank laughs, and Gerard can feel it against his back, the sharp point of Frank’s chin.
+
“What’s with that dude from Placebo actually watching the show tonight?” Matt asks two shows later, and Gerard almost chokes on his coke, coughing up liquid he’s accidentally inhaled. Bob manhandles the back of Gerard’s neck, large, calloused palm against Gerard’s skin, peering down at him until Bob’s sure that he’s not actually dying.
“What?” Gerard asks when he finally manages to start breathing again. Matt looks even more confused than before.
“Uh,” he says, “y’know, the singer? He was standing offstage.” His voice is a question, kind of did I miss something?, and he did, but, well.
Gerard blinks a few times, but he can’t actually be that surprised that he hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t tend to notice anything, really, that doesn’t consist of the show and the audience and, sometimes, his band.
“Oh,” he says, and his voice is sounds a little faint. He’s kind of confused, again. He doesn’t really like it, much.
Frank starts giggling, then, from the couch across the room, curled up into a small ball of tattooed skin and energy. Gerard shoots him a look, but Ray claps him on the back of the shoulder in a congratulatory way, and he loses his balance.
Sometimes he really hates his band.
+
Gerard doesn’t bump into Brian Molko - at least, not accidentally. They’ve managed to avoid contact with each other so far mostly because it’s not necessary that they actually see each other at all, except from across the venue. Perks of working on a big tour. This does mean, though, that if Gerard does, in fact, seek Brian Molko out, it will be incredibly obvious that he’s done so. Gerard just has to figure out if the effort will gain him points or not.
It’s a gamble either way, but Gerard knows that Brian Molko sought him out first, and that the favor probably bears response.
He does know that it means something when he walks up and Brian Molko, sitting outside his van talking to Stefan, quirks his mouth at his band mate, who walks off without a word and with quite a large smile on his face. Gerard wants to ask what was that about? but it’s probably as obvious as he thinks it is. Brian Molko leans back against the side of the van, one leg pulled up to his chest, an arm casually wrapped around it. He smiles in the wide, blissed out way he has, but he doesn’t say anything. After a few moments of silence, Gerard sits crossed-legged on the ground, facing him, and says,
“Nice show.” It’s a bland compliment, and Brian Molko just shrugs. The gravel is digging into the backs of Gerard’s thighs, and he wonders if Brian Molko even cares that his pants are going to be dirty when he stands.
“Those are the same pants, aren’t they?” Brian Molko asks, his voice mild in a way that makes Gerard immediately wary for a reason he isn’t entirely sure of. He shifts slightly in place, but nods.
“Yeah,” he says, “notice the crotch duct tape.” The sweat from his thighs tends to wear at the adhesive enough that he has to replace the tape every four shows or so. It looks a little worse for wear at the moment, frayed and curling up at the edges, leaving sticky residue on the worn cotton fabric. He wonders if his skin is visible, yet.
“Indeed,” Brian Molko says, something in the tone of his voice just a little too innuendo-laden to make Gerard feel completely comfortable. “Can’t say it’s exactly easy to miss.” Gerard laughs, because, yeah. Especially with Frank sticking his fingers through the hole, onstage. Which, while less awkward than it could be, still restricts his movement, somewhat.
“Do you, like, particularly like these pants or something?” Gerard asks, actually genuinely curious. Brian Molko seems to sense this, and he chuckles, leaning his head back and exposing his throat. Gerard pretends not to look, glancing down at his shoes.
“I think we’re probably around the same size,” he says, by way of an explanation. Which, if it is one, Gerard is a little too slow to catch up with.
“I dunno,” he says, still game, despite the avoidance, “I’d think you’d be a size or two smaller.” What with being tiny and British. Not that the being British has anything to do with pants size, especially not with girls pants, but the two sort of go hand and hand in Gerard’s brain.
“We could always test the theory,” Brian Molko says, raising his finely pointed eyebrows. There are definitely easier ways to get Gerard out of his pants, if that is the goal. Asking nicely, for one. Or, possibly, making out with him. Still, points for originality.
“I dunno. I think your band might kill me if I accidentally gave you the plague or something. These pants have been through a lot, and much of it without the benefit of a Laundromat anywhere in the surrounding area.”
Brain Molko just smiles his mild smile, and shrugs one shoulder, a gesture of indifference. The hair on the back of Gerard’s neck stands up, but Gerard refuses to be quite that easy.
+
Gerard gets out of the shower, post show, and can’t find his pants. Later, he thinks that he probably should have expected it.
“Hey, guys, guys, have you seen my pants?” he asks, and it’s not that he doesn’t own more than one pair, just that this pair is his favorite and, notably, he wears them almost every day.
“Nope,” says Bob, popping open a can of soda, “haven’t seen them.”
“But I left them right there,” he says, pointing to his bunk, “and now they’re gone, and how did none of you see this happen.”
“Gerard,” Ray says from the table, pulling his headphones down off one ear, “I think you overestimate how much your pants mean to this band as a whole.” He looks at Gerard for a long moment, then he puts his headphones back on.
“And maybe you should put some clothes on before arguing with us,” Frank says, goofy grin firmly in place, “because, I mean, not that I don’t enjoy seeing you in a towel, Gee, just. Don’t you feel at all vulnerable?”
Bob snorts. “That was a weak threat, man. If you’re gonna imply it, you might as well say it.”
“Fine,” Gerard says, “clothing myself now.”
There’s really sort of no way that they have no idea what happened, but Gerard is pretty sure that wherever his pants have gone, it won’t take him long to figure it out.
+
It doesn’t.
He almost doesn’t go to watch the show at all. He doesn’t want to seem too invested, so going every night might be a bad plan. But then Bob starts to laugh, and Frank looks away, his entire body vibrating, and he knows that something is up.
“What did you do?” he asks them, and wonders if the look on his face is as horrified as he actually is. “Seriously. Seriously, guys. What.”
Bob just waves him off, still laughing, and Frank isn’t really coherent enough for human speech, so Gerard just gives up, and goes to watch the show. He closes the door a little too loudly, and manages to jar his arm doing so. Still, he thinks that his point is made.
He’s totally not prepared, kind of at all, to see Brian Molko stalking onstage wearing his pants. His favorite pair of pants. He’s pretty sure that this counts as theft, and if he could look away from the curve of Brian Molko’s throat, he’s pretty sure that he’d be angry about it.
But Brian Molko is running his fingers down the inside of his own thighs, and that effectively puts an end to that particular possibility. Gerard swallows, and he can see the flash of skin that means the tape needs to be reapplied, and he wonders if Brian Molko is wearing underwear. Gerard wonders if he’s ever going to be able to wash those pants again.
He supposes he’s going to have to get them back, first, in any case.
+
The first thing Frank says when they are all back on the bus again is,
“Dude, I asked Mikey if it was okay, first,” like Mikey’s opinion is all that matters. How did Mikey manage to take control of the band while being absent from it? Or, at least, control of Frank.
“You let Brian Molko steal my pants?” Gerard asks, his voice more incredulous than he actually is. He’s not really that surprised that they let it happen - he probably would’ve, had he been them.
“Yep,” Bob says.
“They’re just pants, Gee,” Ray adds. His voice is sage and calm. Gerard has to stop underestimating Ray.
“But they’re my pants,” Gerard complains.
“Then go ask for them back,” Ray says, rolling his eyes. Ray is altogether too collected for this shit.
Unfortunately, Gerard is actually a little frightened to ask for them back. All he can think about is if Brian Molko is still wearing his pants, and, well.
It’s kind of a really pleasing image, but Gerard is pretty sure that Brian Molko could beat him up without that much effort expended.
+
Gerard thinks that he’s kind of a wuss. Mostly because the thought of talking to Brain Molko and asking for his pants back just makes him really, really want a cigarette.
It might also be the fact that he hasn’t smoked in almost two hours, but there’s really no way to tell. In either case, he excuses himself from the bus with a venomous look over his shoulder, mostly directed at Ray. He can understand Bob and Frank turning against him - it’s kind of their thing - but Ray? Ray is a betrayal.
He lights his cigarette, closing his eyes at the first, blissful inhale. A fortifying breath. He lets white smoke trickle out of his mouth, exhales the remainder, and lets out a sigh. Really, it just comes down to this - if he wants to get his pants back, he’s going to have to go talk to Brian Molko again. And not molest him. Or, actually, maybe molest him, since that might very well be the purpose of the theft. Of course, Brian Molko couldn’t have just asked. It’s not like Gerard would say no to that.
Asking is just above some people, he guesses. He takes another drag on his cigarette.
+
Which is sort of how he ends up with his back pressed against the wall of Brian Molko’s bus, Brian Molko’s hands on his shoulders, and Steve the drummer staring at them with a look somewhere between mild surprise and resigned humor.
“Um,” Gerard says, “hi.” Brian Molko presses his thigh between Gerard’s legs, and Gerard makes a sort of ungainly squeak.
“Hi,” says Steve the drummer.
“Please leave,” says Brian Molko. He’s still wearing Gerard’s pants, and Gerard is totally going to have sex with Brian Molko wearing his pants, what the hell.
“Sure,” says Steve the drummer, shrugging. He stands, grabs his can of soda off the table, and leaves, winking at Gerard over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Dude,” Gerard says, “your drummer just winked at me.” Brian Molko makes a mmhm noise, a sly smile spreading across his face, pressing his thigh up and Gerard really doesn’t care anymore.
“Your trousers really are very comfortable, you know,” Brian Molko says, leaning closer, his lips trailing over Gerard’s jaw. Gerard can feel the sharp prick of Brian Molko’s teeth against his skin, and he lets his mouth gasp open, fingers fisting in the fabric of Brian Molko’s white shirt, wrinkling the fabric.
“Okay, Brian Molko,” he says, voice too breathy to sound very decisive. “Let’s do this shit.”
Brian Molko laughs against his skin, breath tickling the side of his face, but nowhere does he protest. Gerard slides his fingers down to hook into the belt loops of his pants, and pulls him in.
+
Okay, so, it’s not very romantic. It’s also not very surprising.
Gerard comes back to the bus with a sizable hickey on his collarbone, another on his hipbone, more than a few well exercised muscles, and a pair of triumphantly returned pants.
“Ah,” says Bob. He’s biting his lip to keep from laughing, but Gerard is relaxed and loose and doesn’t really care.
“Fuck you,” Gerard says mildly.
“Or something,” says Frank. Ray snorts.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Gerard announces, completely ignoring Frank, who is still surgically attached to his cell phone. “So I’m going to forgive all wrongs.” He pauses momentarily, thinking, and then adds, “But seriously, if I wake up without pants, one of you will die.”
My Chemical Romance/Placebo (Gerard Way/Brian Molko)
2,743 words. Third person. Um. PG-13? Such crack, what the fuck.
Gerard thinks that Brian Molko is kind of an asshole. A tiny, British asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. Gerard doesn’t actually mind, because, well. Gerard is kind of an asshole himself.
Also, he thinks that they wear the same size pants.
Which is maybe why Gerard is thinking about it at all.
+
They’re only about a quarter of the way through the tour when it starts. Gerard looks up and finds Brian Molko staring at him with the slightly glazed look of someone intimately familiar with the pull of drugs, but not currently on anything. Gerard blinks slowly and raises an eyebrow. Brian Molko raises one back at him. Brian Molko is evidently the kind of person who must be referred to by first and last name at all times, at least in Gerard’s brain.
“Hm?” Gerard says, and wishes for a cigarette.
“You do realize that your pants have holes in some rather intimate places, yes?” Brian Molko asks, his voice dry, drawling out the words. His accent is a tinge of color on the edge of his words, sharpening them just slightly. His eyebrow is sharp like his words.
“Well, yeah,” Gerard says, “I do actually look at my pants before I put them on.” Well, sometimes.
Brian Molko just makes a noise that sounds half like agreement and half like amusement, and turns on his heel, walking back to his own dressing room. Gerard is kind of confused. He’s also pretty sure this means Brian Molko has been looking at his crotch.
He’s not actually sure that he minds.
+
“Dude, guys, Brian Molko talked to me today,” he says, after post-show-showering, curled up on the couch with his sketchbook. He’s been drawing pants for the past half an hour. At least he’s not drawing anyone in them. Just floating zombie pants - which isn’t actually necessarily that much better.
Bob grunts and Ray doesn’t even bother to look over. Frank glances up from his cell phone and then back down. Gerard really misses Mikey.
“Seriously, you fuckers, how is this not at all interesting?”
“Maybe because people on tour tend to, I don’t know, talk to each other?” Frank asks, fingers pressing into the keys of his phone fast enough that Gerard knows he’s texting. Frank is actually one of the fastest texters Gerard knows. If he ever draws Frank as a superhero, he’s pretty sure that’ll be his superpower.
“Well, yeah, but -” Gerard starts, but Frank cuts him off with a smile, wide and goofy like he is when he’s trying not to actually laugh.
“Also, Mikey says that there’re worse people to have a tour crush on. At least Brian Molko is pretty.”
Gerard snorts, and wonders how much Frank would miss his phone if Gerard happened to accidentally break it.
+
At the next venue, Gerard watches Placebo from the side of the stage. He almost laughs when Brian Molko looks over and recognizes him offstage. He does a quick double-take, but doesn’t stop singing, just pulls his guitar up close to his chest and wraps his arms around it, pushing his hips forward. He really is tiny.
Frank comes up behind him, standing on his tiptoes to prop his chin on Gerard’s shoulder, fingers holding onto the crooks of Gerard’s elbows for support. Gerard leans back slightly, balancing his weight on his heels.
“Mikey is kind of right,” Frank says. “Also, I think he’s actually older than you, which seems like it’s probably a plus.”
“Okay, no, shut up, I’m really not that much older than you.” Frank laughs, and Gerard can feel it against his back, the sharp point of Frank’s chin.
+
“What’s with that dude from Placebo actually watching the show tonight?” Matt asks two shows later, and Gerard almost chokes on his coke, coughing up liquid he’s accidentally inhaled. Bob manhandles the back of Gerard’s neck, large, calloused palm against Gerard’s skin, peering down at him until Bob’s sure that he’s not actually dying.
“What?” Gerard asks when he finally manages to start breathing again. Matt looks even more confused than before.
“Uh,” he says, “y’know, the singer? He was standing offstage.” His voice is a question, kind of did I miss something?, and he did, but, well.
Gerard blinks a few times, but he can’t actually be that surprised that he hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t tend to notice anything, really, that doesn’t consist of the show and the audience and, sometimes, his band.
“Oh,” he says, and his voice is sounds a little faint. He’s kind of confused, again. He doesn’t really like it, much.
Frank starts giggling, then, from the couch across the room, curled up into a small ball of tattooed skin and energy. Gerard shoots him a look, but Ray claps him on the back of the shoulder in a congratulatory way, and he loses his balance.
Sometimes he really hates his band.
+
Gerard doesn’t bump into Brian Molko - at least, not accidentally. They’ve managed to avoid contact with each other so far mostly because it’s not necessary that they actually see each other at all, except from across the venue. Perks of working on a big tour. This does mean, though, that if Gerard does, in fact, seek Brian Molko out, it will be incredibly obvious that he’s done so. Gerard just has to figure out if the effort will gain him points or not.
It’s a gamble either way, but Gerard knows that Brian Molko sought him out first, and that the favor probably bears response.
He does know that it means something when he walks up and Brian Molko, sitting outside his van talking to Stefan, quirks his mouth at his band mate, who walks off without a word and with quite a large smile on his face. Gerard wants to ask what was that about? but it’s probably as obvious as he thinks it is. Brian Molko leans back against the side of the van, one leg pulled up to his chest, an arm casually wrapped around it. He smiles in the wide, blissed out way he has, but he doesn’t say anything. After a few moments of silence, Gerard sits crossed-legged on the ground, facing him, and says,
“Nice show.” It’s a bland compliment, and Brian Molko just shrugs. The gravel is digging into the backs of Gerard’s thighs, and he wonders if Brian Molko even cares that his pants are going to be dirty when he stands.
“Those are the same pants, aren’t they?” Brian Molko asks, his voice mild in a way that makes Gerard immediately wary for a reason he isn’t entirely sure of. He shifts slightly in place, but nods.
“Yeah,” he says, “notice the crotch duct tape.” The sweat from his thighs tends to wear at the adhesive enough that he has to replace the tape every four shows or so. It looks a little worse for wear at the moment, frayed and curling up at the edges, leaving sticky residue on the worn cotton fabric. He wonders if his skin is visible, yet.
“Indeed,” Brian Molko says, something in the tone of his voice just a little too innuendo-laden to make Gerard feel completely comfortable. “Can’t say it’s exactly easy to miss.” Gerard laughs, because, yeah. Especially with Frank sticking his fingers through the hole, onstage. Which, while less awkward than it could be, still restricts his movement, somewhat.
“Do you, like, particularly like these pants or something?” Gerard asks, actually genuinely curious. Brian Molko seems to sense this, and he chuckles, leaning his head back and exposing his throat. Gerard pretends not to look, glancing down at his shoes.
“I think we’re probably around the same size,” he says, by way of an explanation. Which, if it is one, Gerard is a little too slow to catch up with.
“I dunno,” he says, still game, despite the avoidance, “I’d think you’d be a size or two smaller.” What with being tiny and British. Not that the being British has anything to do with pants size, especially not with girls pants, but the two sort of go hand and hand in Gerard’s brain.
“We could always test the theory,” Brian Molko says, raising his finely pointed eyebrows. There are definitely easier ways to get Gerard out of his pants, if that is the goal. Asking nicely, for one. Or, possibly, making out with him. Still, points for originality.
“I dunno. I think your band might kill me if I accidentally gave you the plague or something. These pants have been through a lot, and much of it without the benefit of a Laundromat anywhere in the surrounding area.”
Brain Molko just smiles his mild smile, and shrugs one shoulder, a gesture of indifference. The hair on the back of Gerard’s neck stands up, but Gerard refuses to be quite that easy.
+
Gerard gets out of the shower, post show, and can’t find his pants. Later, he thinks that he probably should have expected it.
“Hey, guys, guys, have you seen my pants?” he asks, and it’s not that he doesn’t own more than one pair, just that this pair is his favorite and, notably, he wears them almost every day.
“Nope,” says Bob, popping open a can of soda, “haven’t seen them.”
“But I left them right there,” he says, pointing to his bunk, “and now they’re gone, and how did none of you see this happen.”
“Gerard,” Ray says from the table, pulling his headphones down off one ear, “I think you overestimate how much your pants mean to this band as a whole.” He looks at Gerard for a long moment, then he puts his headphones back on.
“And maybe you should put some clothes on before arguing with us,” Frank says, goofy grin firmly in place, “because, I mean, not that I don’t enjoy seeing you in a towel, Gee, just. Don’t you feel at all vulnerable?”
Bob snorts. “That was a weak threat, man. If you’re gonna imply it, you might as well say it.”
“Fine,” Gerard says, “clothing myself now.”
There’s really sort of no way that they have no idea what happened, but Gerard is pretty sure that wherever his pants have gone, it won’t take him long to figure it out.
+
It doesn’t.
He almost doesn’t go to watch the show at all. He doesn’t want to seem too invested, so going every night might be a bad plan. But then Bob starts to laugh, and Frank looks away, his entire body vibrating, and he knows that something is up.
“What did you do?” he asks them, and wonders if the look on his face is as horrified as he actually is. “Seriously. Seriously, guys. What.”
Bob just waves him off, still laughing, and Frank isn’t really coherent enough for human speech, so Gerard just gives up, and goes to watch the show. He closes the door a little too loudly, and manages to jar his arm doing so. Still, he thinks that his point is made.
He’s totally not prepared, kind of at all, to see Brian Molko stalking onstage wearing his pants. His favorite pair of pants. He’s pretty sure that this counts as theft, and if he could look away from the curve of Brian Molko’s throat, he’s pretty sure that he’d be angry about it.
But Brian Molko is running his fingers down the inside of his own thighs, and that effectively puts an end to that particular possibility. Gerard swallows, and he can see the flash of skin that means the tape needs to be reapplied, and he wonders if Brian Molko is wearing underwear. Gerard wonders if he’s ever going to be able to wash those pants again.
He supposes he’s going to have to get them back, first, in any case.
+
The first thing Frank says when they are all back on the bus again is,
“Dude, I asked Mikey if it was okay, first,” like Mikey’s opinion is all that matters. How did Mikey manage to take control of the band while being absent from it? Or, at least, control of Frank.
“You let Brian Molko steal my pants?” Gerard asks, his voice more incredulous than he actually is. He’s not really that surprised that they let it happen - he probably would’ve, had he been them.
“Yep,” Bob says.
“They’re just pants, Gee,” Ray adds. His voice is sage and calm. Gerard has to stop underestimating Ray.
“But they’re my pants,” Gerard complains.
“Then go ask for them back,” Ray says, rolling his eyes. Ray is altogether too collected for this shit.
Unfortunately, Gerard is actually a little frightened to ask for them back. All he can think about is if Brian Molko is still wearing his pants, and, well.
It’s kind of a really pleasing image, but Gerard is pretty sure that Brian Molko could beat him up without that much effort expended.
+
Gerard thinks that he’s kind of a wuss. Mostly because the thought of talking to Brain Molko and asking for his pants back just makes him really, really want a cigarette.
It might also be the fact that he hasn’t smoked in almost two hours, but there’s really no way to tell. In either case, he excuses himself from the bus with a venomous look over his shoulder, mostly directed at Ray. He can understand Bob and Frank turning against him - it’s kind of their thing - but Ray? Ray is a betrayal.
He lights his cigarette, closing his eyes at the first, blissful inhale. A fortifying breath. He lets white smoke trickle out of his mouth, exhales the remainder, and lets out a sigh. Really, it just comes down to this - if he wants to get his pants back, he’s going to have to go talk to Brian Molko again. And not molest him. Or, actually, maybe molest him, since that might very well be the purpose of the theft. Of course, Brian Molko couldn’t have just asked. It’s not like Gerard would say no to that.
Asking is just above some people, he guesses. He takes another drag on his cigarette.
+
Which is sort of how he ends up with his back pressed against the wall of Brian Molko’s bus, Brian Molko’s hands on his shoulders, and Steve the drummer staring at them with a look somewhere between mild surprise and resigned humor.
“Um,” Gerard says, “hi.” Brian Molko presses his thigh between Gerard’s legs, and Gerard makes a sort of ungainly squeak.
“Hi,” says Steve the drummer.
“Please leave,” says Brian Molko. He’s still wearing Gerard’s pants, and Gerard is totally going to have sex with Brian Molko wearing his pants, what the hell.
“Sure,” says Steve the drummer, shrugging. He stands, grabs his can of soda off the table, and leaves, winking at Gerard over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Dude,” Gerard says, “your drummer just winked at me.” Brian Molko makes a mmhm noise, a sly smile spreading across his face, pressing his thigh up and Gerard really doesn’t care anymore.
“Your trousers really are very comfortable, you know,” Brian Molko says, leaning closer, his lips trailing over Gerard’s jaw. Gerard can feel the sharp prick of Brian Molko’s teeth against his skin, and he lets his mouth gasp open, fingers fisting in the fabric of Brian Molko’s white shirt, wrinkling the fabric.
“Okay, Brian Molko,” he says, voice too breathy to sound very decisive. “Let’s do this shit.”
Brian Molko laughs against his skin, breath tickling the side of his face, but nowhere does he protest. Gerard slides his fingers down to hook into the belt loops of his pants, and pulls him in.
+
Okay, so, it’s not very romantic. It’s also not very surprising.
Gerard comes back to the bus with a sizable hickey on his collarbone, another on his hipbone, more than a few well exercised muscles, and a pair of triumphantly returned pants.
“Ah,” says Bob. He’s biting his lip to keep from laughing, but Gerard is relaxed and loose and doesn’t really care.
“Fuck you,” Gerard says mildly.
“Or something,” says Frank. Ray snorts.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Gerard announces, completely ignoring Frank, who is still surgically attached to his cell phone. “So I’m going to forgive all wrongs.” He pauses momentarily, thinking, and then adds, “But seriously, if I wake up without pants, one of you will die.”