A March Wedding
Title: A March Wedding
Author: fastbetty31
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
Rating: NC-17
POV: Gerard's
Summary: We follow Gerard and his emotions surrounding Frank's wedding.
Warnings: Angst and homosexual sex. Situations with and mentions of wives.
Disclaimer: Not real. I own no one and have earned nothing from this.
Author Notes: Although it's fiction, let's pretend that all I've written happened exactly like I've described. For Patty.
I either can't understand it, or refuse to. There's no need for it. They're already married. Her asking for a wedding is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. It's like she only asked for it, demanded it, just to rub it in my face, or my own wife's face. What more after this will she ask of him? To leave Jersey? To finally have a baby? For the band to break up? As it is I notice the two of them looking at Frank and me awkwardly - when we leave a bathroom together, or when he crawls out of my bunk when either make a "surprise" visit to the tour bus. Mine has yet to address the relationship Frank and I have. I don't know if she's ever talked to him about us, he would never tell me even if she had.
I was devastated when he told me he was going to officially marry her, over a year ago. He came into my bunk one night with guilt on his face and a fidgeting nervousness that I now associate with his feelings for her. When he told me that she brought him a marriage license, one that he only needed to sign, one that he only had to sign, I didn't feel my eyes well up, but I did feel the one single tear that fell down the side of my face, over my cheek and onto my lap, absorbed away quickly but not unnoticed by him. And when he was later on top of me, his ass wrapped tightly around my cock, our hands held together, I only knew I was crying when he leaned over and licked my face from my chin to my cheek.
"I'll always love you," he whispered into my ear trying to reassure me.
I shook my head and grabbed his hips in my hands, forcing him back down onto me as I pushed myself up into him, making him moan against my face.
"But you're marrying her," I said off to the side as he sucked on my neck, his mouth hot and wet against me, his hips rocking slowly, lovingly back and forth over me.
"I'll always love you," he said again, like if I had missed it the first time.
I hadn't.
We're at home now in Jersey and it's the night before their big day. I caught myself pacing earlier, nipping at the skin on the side of my nails. If she's noticed my worry she hasn't said anything about it. She took my suit out, hanging it conveniently on the coat rack. She's trying to find something for herself to wear. She's asked my opinion on a few outfits and each time I had to be snapped back into reality. My mind isn't on her, it's on him. I wonder what he's doing right now? I want to call him, hear his voice, cross my fingers that he tells me he still loves me more than her. But I'm afraid I might hear happiness in his voice.
"They're already married, I don't see why you're so upset," she says with hurt in her voice.
I swing around quickly to look at her. She has two dresses in either of her hands holding them in front of herself. I'm not even sure what she said before that I had ignored, what she said that might have tipped her off. It has to be written all over my face - my own hurt and discomfort. We might have not know each other that long but she already knows me well.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. I know you still and always will love him but it's just a wedding, they were already married," she harshly reasons.
And I know she's right, we both know she's right. It seems like nowadays she's never wrong. I hate that.
I can only walk away from her. It's not her fault, it's my own, but I can't have this conversation with her, not now. We agreed the night we got married, right before the minister was found, we agreed that what Frank and I have will never end. I went to Frank's bunk that night before we said I do. I told him plainly that her and I were going to get married. I reminded him of my fear of dying alone. I had finally found a woman that loved me for me, that was willing to devote her life to me, that was accepting of my lifestyle and knew it included him. He didn't cry the way I did, he knew better than anyone my fear and was surprisingly happy for me. It confused me and made me wonder if he had actually fallen in love with his own wife, if she had finally gotten to him.
And when I was knelt between his legs, his hard cock inches from my face I looked up at him right before I wrapped my lips around him. He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.
"Nothing will ever come between us," I reassured him.
"I know," he said, his body leaning back, his hand going to the back of my head as he brought me closer to him.
I could still taste him on my tongue when I later kissed her. And as she tilted her head to the side so we could deepen our matrimony kiss he was there in my line of sight, a small smile on his face. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He's a good man, so much more understanding than me. He knows my reasons for marrying. He knows I needed her to continue living. We both know that what we have could never be conventional. He knows that I didn't do it because he had. He knows I didn't do it for the reasons he did - because he felt he owed it to her. Because being together for over 5 years should end in a marriage, according to him. Because she devoted all that time to him. Because they created so much together in all those years that the right thing to do was to marry her.
It was the right thing to do.
And I need someone to sit by me as I lie dying.
Why it couldn't be each other that filled those positions I'll never understand. I guess those spots are reserved - ingrained in us, to be filled by females. We're told early on that only a female can do those kinds of things for us. I would have been willing to prove society, our family and friends, him - I would have been willing to prove them all wrong.
I hate that driving in my own car seems so foreign to me. Driving alone. It's like I've never done it before. I feel like I stole the car I'm in as erratic as I'm driving. I hate being so lost, so confused. It's just a wedding. They were already married. I don't know why it's bothering me so much.
I have to get it together. Tomorrow he expects me to stand beside him and right now I don't think I can. I can't.
I want to call him, I need to. So I will. I have to pull over, if I hear a smile in his voice, a chaotic pleasantry that all weddings create, if I hear it... the plans they made, the guests they invited, her stupid dress, their fucking cake. If I hear it I just might veer to the opposite side of the road, a head on collision with some unsuspecting innocent person, another victim of my existence.
"What are you doing?"
"Do you really want to know?" He asks softly, affectionately.
"No."
"Then you shouldn't ask."
"I need to see you," I don't mean for it to sound so desperate but that's how I feel, I can't mask it no matter how hard I try. I feel so ashamed of myself. It's just a wedding. They're already married.
"Then come over."
"Nah," I stare off as if he can see me.
His sigh makes me feel like he's given up, like I'm bothering him. He's spent so much money, they have, together, just to let everyone know how much they love each other. I don't think it's the amount of money you spend on your wedding that reflects how you feel towards one another but she does. And if that's really the case then what does it say that my wedding took place back stage, cost twenty-five dollars, consisted of us wearing hand painted novelty tees and that we drank alcohol free champagne? Does it mean I only love my wife that much, and not as much as Frank's thousand dollar tux or her seven thousand dollar dress, or their tens of thousands of dollars worth of fucking catering or... I can't go on about it. I've heard so much about it this last week it's enough to make me throw up.
I toggle between just hanging up and begging him.
"Just let me come pick you up for a bit?" My voice cracks and I know he has to by now feel my tension.
"What's wrong," he whispers, his own voice now seeming forced.
I don't answer, and together we hold our phones to our ears in silence. It seems like forever that I hear him breathing, the loneliness of just me in my car on the side of the road consuming me.
"Come get me then," he says, and I swear I hear the agitation in his voice, only this time it's stemmed from me.
I feel ridiculous so I hang up. He knows I'm on my way, so there's no need to tell him.
I sit in front of his house and stare at it. I imagine the lights in his second story on, each bedroom illuminated, his kids looking out of their separate windows, yelling through the house that Uncle Gee is here. I see her rolling her eyes, I see him tense up, I see the kids running down the stairs and to the front door, waiting for the little gifts I'll bring them all the time. Favors so that they will like me - love me. Favors that will piss her off, that will get her to make that false smile I'm already well aware of. That's the smile she will give each of her children when they show her what I've given them. Favors that are doused in manipulation and dripping with deceit.
I'll just wait here till he notices I'm outside. I know he's waiting inside by the front door, his fingernail in his mouth, his other arm draped over his abdomen protectively. His tee shirt tight and his pants riding low, the thick leather studded belt wrapped around him only for fashion. His tennis shoes will be dirty and his socks, I'm sure won't match. His hair mussed and curling around his neckline, his jewelry adorning him in a pure punk rock style. I love him, and everything about him.
The man running towards my car is not Frank. With his dress pants and cardigan sweater - his dress shoes and clean cut hair style - this is not him. If he wore a scarf and gloves I would have to question the man beside me. Ask him what he's done with my boyfriend. The visible tattoos tell me that it's him, or a version of him that I think I might grow to loathe.
"We had dinner with her parents tonight, we were going over the arrangements for tomorrow, sorry."
I'm not sure exactly what he's sorry for, for being with her, with them, for not calling me all night, for being dressed the way he is - but I drive off staring ahead of me, unable to look at him.
He turns to his left and looks between us, out the back window. I look to see what he's doing and come face to face with his scorpion, my scorpion. The fact that he's looking to see if she's followed him outside, the fact that he obviously didn't, again, tell her that he was leaving with me is taken over by the memory of that tattoo. The memory of him and me lying in the back of the tour van, his head on my lap as I drew that scorpion on his neck. The memory of him later that evening, while I had a meeting with our tour manager, sneaking off to the tour tattoo guy and sucking him off in exchange to get what I had drew permanently inked into his skin. I love him. I loved him then and I love him now.
"Take I-18 out passed Harrington Estates. Go north, you know, towards that old billboard that's almost in the road out there?"
It's a question that I don't have to answer, when he sees me pull onto the interstate he knows I'm going the way he's asked.
I want to pull over on this highway and slide him into my lap, kiss him from his neck to his bare chest, hold his hips while he bounces in my lap. Listen to him tell me over and over again how much he loves me, how she'll never to be able to give him what I'd be giving him - my cock, my love. But I know he wants to show me something so I continue to where he's directed me, exiting the freeway and heading towards that billboard.
"Turn into there."
"It's a dirt road."
"Just do it, you'll see."
I pull up to an old farm, and before I put the car in park he's already jumped out.
With his arms out-stretched he spins around, "Do you like it?"
I close my car door and look around. It's dark but I can see the outline of a main house, an old barn, land that stretches miles in all directions.
"It looks serene, is it yours?" I knew the answer before I even asked.
"Yup, just signed for it today. Cost me a few million but all that land over there," he points off to the south, "that's all mine. I feel so responsible, so..."
Married?
I want to tell him that he even looks that way but to avoid fighting with him I walk over towards the barn.
"You know I've always wanted to live on a farm," he says, unable to mask his excitement.
"I know."
It's a wedding present for her and I can't help imagining her making this her home. My sigh is so loud it echos in the old barn. He walks over to me, wraps his arms around my waist, trying to place his chin on my shoulder, his head dipping back.
"Do you like it?"
"Does it matter... it's hers," I say looking down at him out of the corner of my eye then away.
He grips me tighter and forces me to walk over to a place we can sit down, the front of his knees pushing the backs of mine. It's a typical barn, and I know he's always talked of owning a farm but I never thought he would buy one. I figured a high rise condo in New York, off Central Park - that's where we would live - him and me. I feel like a snob when he sits on the dirty platform in his nice clothes and I stand awkwardly beside him.
"Come here."
I reluctantly sit next to him, I don't want to be such an asshole but I can't help myself.
"I don't understand why you're so upset, it's only a wedding?"
I can't help jumping up and walking away from him. I pace as I try to find the right words to say, but as always end up sounding deranged.
"I know! I keep fucking telling myself that same bullshit - Lyn just told me the same thing and I walked out on her. I don't know. I really don't - I do know if I did we wouldn't be here."
"Get back over here."
He lies back, his hands in the air as he gestures to me to lie with him. I snuggle into his neck and breath against him, and even with the strong scent of his cologne I can still smell the dank odor of our surroundings. He's staring up at the ceiling of his own building, I know his mind is on that. On the fact that he's on his own property, how happy she's going to be tomorrow when he presents it to her. I sigh again. He pushes me away from himself so he can look into my face.
"I love you, you know," and he bends down to kiss my lips.
When he draws away, setting the back of his head back down on the wood, looking back up to the ceiling, he says, "Between the two of you I'm being stretched at both ends, I feel like both my arms are a mile long."
"I'm sorry," and before I can stop myself I sit up, leaving him lying alone. I cup my hands between my open legs and hang my head, wanting nothing more than to leave this place that I feel I'm trespassing on.
"Let's go," he says, getting up and walking towards my car, not waiting for me or my response.
As much as I want to I can't help what I'm doing. Even with him confessing to me about being stressed over her and me I still can't stop myself.
I see him sitting back in the passenger's side, on his phone, as I finally make my way back. I wait outside respectfully, leaning against my side, my back to him, till he's done. I can hear him, even through the glass, talking to her. Making excuses as to why he didn't tell her he was leaving - with me. Trying to convince her it's not as big a deal as she's making it out to be.
I can do nothing but smoke.
When I hear his car door slam behind me I say without turning to him, "Do you have to go home?"
"No."
"Do you want to show me the inside of your house?"
"Yeah, come on."
We both know it's code for, 'Let's find a quick place to fuck so you can hurry and get back to her so she can shut the fuck up.' Or maybe it's just me that thinks that.
I follow him, standing closely behind him at the front door as he tries a few different keys. I can't help leaning into him and placing a small kiss on his neck. I want to tell him I'm sorry but I think I already have tonight. When he leans back into me, the front door unlocked and swinging open, I know he's forgiven me, like he always does. I can't help how I feel about him, he has to understand that. And when he turns and pulls me into his new house, his mouth attaching to mine, his hands gripping my open jacket, his tongue sliding inside my mouth - I know he understands.
It's him who walks backwards, it's him who slams the door behind me, it's him who starts to fall to his knees, his hands undoing my pants. I replace his hands with my own wanting him to get his own open. I don't know if he's hurrying so he can get back home just that much quicker, or because he, like me, needs it so badly. My mind forces me to think it's the latter and when he takes my cock in his mouth my notion is almost confirmed.
I fuck his face, I can't help myself. My hands caress the top of his head, my palms rubbing over his hair, my fingers twisting in it as he works his mouth over me. I don't deserve it - what he's doing. It should be me on my knees, his cock sliding over my tongue, his hands in my hair pulling it, punishing me.
When I drop to my knees those are my intentions, to make amends, to have him cum on my face.
"Fuck me," he whispers in my ear, then takes his sweater off.
The man lying naked before me is my boyfriend. With his bright eyes and inked skin, his legs bent and spread, his socks still on, and not matching... this is him.
With my pants still around my ankles I fall onto him. He opens his mouth expecting me to kiss him but I turn my head and spit in my hand. I now have no interest in niceties as I imagine her furniture around us, crowding and suffocating me. I want to humiliate him, the way I'm feeling. Bury myself deeply inside him, make him still feel me tomorrow when he's standing beside her, reminding her with two words that he still does.
I coat my cock, bite my lip, and quickly push into him. Even when he's arched his back off the floor, his head turning side to side as I force myself through his tightness, I still can't stop myself. I can only bury my face in his neck, hold him down with my weight as I try to pretend I'm not hurting him, and that he's not letting me.
"I'm sorry," I say against his neck, "I can't help myself."
"It's alright," he barely gets out, his voice strained, wetness caused from the burn he's feeling falling down the side of his face, over his temple, wetting my cheek in it's procession.
But I can't be stopped, and as I pull my cock back from him I find myself forcing myself back inside him harder, lifting his leg with my arm higher, hiding my guilt in his neck deeper.
"Let me bend over?" He asks me.
"I need to see your face," I whisper to him and finally look into his eyes, getting up on my knees, still fucking him roughly. His leg dangling loosely off my upper arm, my knees being scraped from the floorboards under them. I'll rub them tomorrow when I hear for the first time out loud that he promises to love her, to cherish her. When he kisses her, toasts to her. I'll run my hands over them when they're announced as Mr. and Mrs. Iero. I'll remember tonight.
I grab a fist full of his hair and pull his head up to meet my mouth. I kiss him, temporarily unashamed that his cock is flaccid between us, his tight, dry ass milking me, my cock skin being pulled back and forth. And yet he opens his mouth for me, letting me lick inside it.
"Then let me get on top, Gerard," he says against my mouth.
When he says my name I stop. I lie over him, kissing his face and down his neck, down his chest as I lick one of his nipples. I'm satisfied with I've done so I roll us over. I know he wants to get off, and I want him to also. So his cheeks can be flushed, his hair a mess, before he has to go back to...
He sits still on top of me and even in the dimness of his new house I see what I translate as disappointment, or maybe it's my shame taunting me because my cock is still hard, and deep inside him. I drape my arm over my eyes.
"I thought you needed to see my face," he says as he leans over me, removing my arm from my face and taking my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the back of it.
I love it when he hold my hands and rides my cock. I wish he'd do it now but I know what he wants from me.
We go from fucking to making love and I still can't look at him. I close my eyes and feel him grind down on me. He clears his throat, spits in his hand, and raises off of me. When he wraps his wet fist around me, stroking me more slick than I did previously my guilt attacks me again. I want to hide my face again but reach for his hand instead.
He kneels on either side of me sitting back on my cock and waits for me to thrust up into him, the way he likes it.
"Come on, Gerard," he says gripping my hand tighter as he reaches for the other, raising himself up and down, rolling his ass around, his now hardening cock hitting my stomach on his down stroke.
When I push my hips up off the floor, giving in to what he wants, he leans his body over me. Letting go of my hands, he lays one of his palms flat on the floor beside my face. Then raises my shirt up and starts to jack himself off.
"Fuck me Gerard, just like that man," he says. Every word panted out as he hovers over me, his lips loose as his mouth hangs open.
Fuck, I love him.
I bite my lip, grab his thighs, and push my hips off the floor. I fuck him good and watch as his face gets gradually closer to mine, as he works his hand over himself. When his open mouth is over mine I feel him shoot his load on me. Hot and wet and fucking beautiful.
He wipes his hand over my stomach gathering his cum and raises off my cock. Sitting on my thighs he starts to jack me off, his body visibly weak. And still I ask him.
"Ride me right, Frankie."
I sit up and grab his hand, bringing it to my mouth and taste him. He watches me, his eyes closing and opening softly with every lick of my tongue, my cock between us begging for a release. He gets back on me, my cock sliding effortlessly into him. I lean back on one elbow as he pushes off of his knees. His hand goes between us trying to find more of his cum for me taste. He brings his fingertips to my mouth and we stare at each other as I open my mouth for him. Then he does it, just the way I like it, just the way I need it.
Our hands join together and I'm again flat on my back. He grinds down on me, rolling his hips and tightening his ass - just for me. When he squeezes my hands in his, bringing them together, holding them to his chest as he bounces on my cock, I'm cumming. My head tilts back and he feels me cumming so he slows down. My moaning echos off the emptiness around us.
He leans over me, still clutching my hands to his chest, still riding me slowly and places small unwarranted kisses on my face. Over my cheeks, over my eyes, over my forehead, licking the sweat from there that I've managed to work up.
"Don't worry, Baby," he says against my mouth, squeezing my hands tighter in his as he shakes them between us, "this will never end."
And I'm undeserving, but convinced.
And as my wife and me dress for the occasion she appeases me with silence. Pretending that the moping she sees doesn't exist.
And as we all stand beside him, my brother's hand comfortingly in mine, I try to smile.
And as he says I do I feel it like a knife through my heart.
And as they say their name and she looks directly at me, I battle with the lump in my throat. My sunglasses masking the welling in my eyes.
And as I'm asked to give an impromptu toast by her I look down at my knees. The celebrates staring at me, waiting for my comforting wishes. I place my palms on my knees and rub them back and forth, feeling the burn.
"I truly hope he one day makes you as happy as he makes me."
Or not.
Author: fastbetty31
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
Rating: NC-17
POV: Gerard's
Summary: We follow Gerard and his emotions surrounding Frank's wedding.
Warnings: Angst and homosexual sex. Situations with and mentions of wives.
Disclaimer: Not real. I own no one and have earned nothing from this.
Author Notes: Although it's fiction, let's pretend that all I've written happened exactly like I've described. For Patty.
I either can't understand it, or refuse to. There's no need for it. They're already married. Her asking for a wedding is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. It's like she only asked for it, demanded it, just to rub it in my face, or my own wife's face. What more after this will she ask of him? To leave Jersey? To finally have a baby? For the band to break up? As it is I notice the two of them looking at Frank and me awkwardly - when we leave a bathroom together, or when he crawls out of my bunk when either make a "surprise" visit to the tour bus. Mine has yet to address the relationship Frank and I have. I don't know if she's ever talked to him about us, he would never tell me even if she had.
I was devastated when he told me he was going to officially marry her, over a year ago. He came into my bunk one night with guilt on his face and a fidgeting nervousness that I now associate with his feelings for her. When he told me that she brought him a marriage license, one that he only needed to sign, one that he only had to sign, I didn't feel my eyes well up, but I did feel the one single tear that fell down the side of my face, over my cheek and onto my lap, absorbed away quickly but not unnoticed by him. And when he was later on top of me, his ass wrapped tightly around my cock, our hands held together, I only knew I was crying when he leaned over and licked my face from my chin to my cheek.
"I'll always love you," he whispered into my ear trying to reassure me.
I shook my head and grabbed his hips in my hands, forcing him back down onto me as I pushed myself up into him, making him moan against my face.
"But you're marrying her," I said off to the side as he sucked on my neck, his mouth hot and wet against me, his hips rocking slowly, lovingly back and forth over me.
"I'll always love you," he said again, like if I had missed it the first time.
I hadn't.
We're at home now in Jersey and it's the night before their big day. I caught myself pacing earlier, nipping at the skin on the side of my nails. If she's noticed my worry she hasn't said anything about it. She took my suit out, hanging it conveniently on the coat rack. She's trying to find something for herself to wear. She's asked my opinion on a few outfits and each time I had to be snapped back into reality. My mind isn't on her, it's on him. I wonder what he's doing right now? I want to call him, hear his voice, cross my fingers that he tells me he still loves me more than her. But I'm afraid I might hear happiness in his voice.
"They're already married, I don't see why you're so upset," she says with hurt in her voice.
I swing around quickly to look at her. She has two dresses in either of her hands holding them in front of herself. I'm not even sure what she said before that I had ignored, what she said that might have tipped her off. It has to be written all over my face - my own hurt and discomfort. We might have not know each other that long but she already knows me well.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. I know you still and always will love him but it's just a wedding, they were already married," she harshly reasons.
And I know she's right, we both know she's right. It seems like nowadays she's never wrong. I hate that.
I can only walk away from her. It's not her fault, it's my own, but I can't have this conversation with her, not now. We agreed the night we got married, right before the minister was found, we agreed that what Frank and I have will never end. I went to Frank's bunk that night before we said I do. I told him plainly that her and I were going to get married. I reminded him of my fear of dying alone. I had finally found a woman that loved me for me, that was willing to devote her life to me, that was accepting of my lifestyle and knew it included him. He didn't cry the way I did, he knew better than anyone my fear and was surprisingly happy for me. It confused me and made me wonder if he had actually fallen in love with his own wife, if she had finally gotten to him.
And when I was knelt between his legs, his hard cock inches from my face I looked up at him right before I wrapped my lips around him. He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.
"Nothing will ever come between us," I reassured him.
"I know," he said, his body leaning back, his hand going to the back of my head as he brought me closer to him.
I could still taste him on my tongue when I later kissed her. And as she tilted her head to the side so we could deepen our matrimony kiss he was there in my line of sight, a small smile on his face. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He's a good man, so much more understanding than me. He knows my reasons for marrying. He knows I needed her to continue living. We both know that what we have could never be conventional. He knows that I didn't do it because he had. He knows I didn't do it for the reasons he did - because he felt he owed it to her. Because being together for over 5 years should end in a marriage, according to him. Because she devoted all that time to him. Because they created so much together in all those years that the right thing to do was to marry her.
It was the right thing to do.
And I need someone to sit by me as I lie dying.
Why it couldn't be each other that filled those positions I'll never understand. I guess those spots are reserved - ingrained in us, to be filled by females. We're told early on that only a female can do those kinds of things for us. I would have been willing to prove society, our family and friends, him - I would have been willing to prove them all wrong.
I hate that driving in my own car seems so foreign to me. Driving alone. It's like I've never done it before. I feel like I stole the car I'm in as erratic as I'm driving. I hate being so lost, so confused. It's just a wedding. They were already married. I don't know why it's bothering me so much.
I have to get it together. Tomorrow he expects me to stand beside him and right now I don't think I can. I can't.
I want to call him, I need to. So I will. I have to pull over, if I hear a smile in his voice, a chaotic pleasantry that all weddings create, if I hear it... the plans they made, the guests they invited, her stupid dress, their fucking cake. If I hear it I just might veer to the opposite side of the road, a head on collision with some unsuspecting innocent person, another victim of my existence.
"What are you doing?"
"Do you really want to know?" He asks softly, affectionately.
"No."
"Then you shouldn't ask."
"I need to see you," I don't mean for it to sound so desperate but that's how I feel, I can't mask it no matter how hard I try. I feel so ashamed of myself. It's just a wedding. They're already married.
"Then come over."
"Nah," I stare off as if he can see me.
His sigh makes me feel like he's given up, like I'm bothering him. He's spent so much money, they have, together, just to let everyone know how much they love each other. I don't think it's the amount of money you spend on your wedding that reflects how you feel towards one another but she does. And if that's really the case then what does it say that my wedding took place back stage, cost twenty-five dollars, consisted of us wearing hand painted novelty tees and that we drank alcohol free champagne? Does it mean I only love my wife that much, and not as much as Frank's thousand dollar tux or her seven thousand dollar dress, or their tens of thousands of dollars worth of fucking catering or... I can't go on about it. I've heard so much about it this last week it's enough to make me throw up.
I toggle between just hanging up and begging him.
"Just let me come pick you up for a bit?" My voice cracks and I know he has to by now feel my tension.
"What's wrong," he whispers, his own voice now seeming forced.
I don't answer, and together we hold our phones to our ears in silence. It seems like forever that I hear him breathing, the loneliness of just me in my car on the side of the road consuming me.
"Come get me then," he says, and I swear I hear the agitation in his voice, only this time it's stemmed from me.
I feel ridiculous so I hang up. He knows I'm on my way, so there's no need to tell him.
I sit in front of his house and stare at it. I imagine the lights in his second story on, each bedroom illuminated, his kids looking out of their separate windows, yelling through the house that Uncle Gee is here. I see her rolling her eyes, I see him tense up, I see the kids running down the stairs and to the front door, waiting for the little gifts I'll bring them all the time. Favors so that they will like me - love me. Favors that will piss her off, that will get her to make that false smile I'm already well aware of. That's the smile she will give each of her children when they show her what I've given them. Favors that are doused in manipulation and dripping with deceit.
I'll just wait here till he notices I'm outside. I know he's waiting inside by the front door, his fingernail in his mouth, his other arm draped over his abdomen protectively. His tee shirt tight and his pants riding low, the thick leather studded belt wrapped around him only for fashion. His tennis shoes will be dirty and his socks, I'm sure won't match. His hair mussed and curling around his neckline, his jewelry adorning him in a pure punk rock style. I love him, and everything about him.
The man running towards my car is not Frank. With his dress pants and cardigan sweater - his dress shoes and clean cut hair style - this is not him. If he wore a scarf and gloves I would have to question the man beside me. Ask him what he's done with my boyfriend. The visible tattoos tell me that it's him, or a version of him that I think I might grow to loathe.
"We had dinner with her parents tonight, we were going over the arrangements for tomorrow, sorry."
I'm not sure exactly what he's sorry for, for being with her, with them, for not calling me all night, for being dressed the way he is - but I drive off staring ahead of me, unable to look at him.
He turns to his left and looks between us, out the back window. I look to see what he's doing and come face to face with his scorpion, my scorpion. The fact that he's looking to see if she's followed him outside, the fact that he obviously didn't, again, tell her that he was leaving with me is taken over by the memory of that tattoo. The memory of him and me lying in the back of the tour van, his head on my lap as I drew that scorpion on his neck. The memory of him later that evening, while I had a meeting with our tour manager, sneaking off to the tour tattoo guy and sucking him off in exchange to get what I had drew permanently inked into his skin. I love him. I loved him then and I love him now.
"Take I-18 out passed Harrington Estates. Go north, you know, towards that old billboard that's almost in the road out there?"
It's a question that I don't have to answer, when he sees me pull onto the interstate he knows I'm going the way he's asked.
I want to pull over on this highway and slide him into my lap, kiss him from his neck to his bare chest, hold his hips while he bounces in my lap. Listen to him tell me over and over again how much he loves me, how she'll never to be able to give him what I'd be giving him - my cock, my love. But I know he wants to show me something so I continue to where he's directed me, exiting the freeway and heading towards that billboard.
"Turn into there."
"It's a dirt road."
"Just do it, you'll see."
I pull up to an old farm, and before I put the car in park he's already jumped out.
With his arms out-stretched he spins around, "Do you like it?"
I close my car door and look around. It's dark but I can see the outline of a main house, an old barn, land that stretches miles in all directions.
"It looks serene, is it yours?" I knew the answer before I even asked.
"Yup, just signed for it today. Cost me a few million but all that land over there," he points off to the south, "that's all mine. I feel so responsible, so..."
Married?
I want to tell him that he even looks that way but to avoid fighting with him I walk over towards the barn.
"You know I've always wanted to live on a farm," he says, unable to mask his excitement.
"I know."
It's a wedding present for her and I can't help imagining her making this her home. My sigh is so loud it echos in the old barn. He walks over to me, wraps his arms around my waist, trying to place his chin on my shoulder, his head dipping back.
"Do you like it?"
"Does it matter... it's hers," I say looking down at him out of the corner of my eye then away.
He grips me tighter and forces me to walk over to a place we can sit down, the front of his knees pushing the backs of mine. It's a typical barn, and I know he's always talked of owning a farm but I never thought he would buy one. I figured a high rise condo in New York, off Central Park - that's where we would live - him and me. I feel like a snob when he sits on the dirty platform in his nice clothes and I stand awkwardly beside him.
"Come here."
I reluctantly sit next to him, I don't want to be such an asshole but I can't help myself.
"I don't understand why you're so upset, it's only a wedding?"
I can't help jumping up and walking away from him. I pace as I try to find the right words to say, but as always end up sounding deranged.
"I know! I keep fucking telling myself that same bullshit - Lyn just told me the same thing and I walked out on her. I don't know. I really don't - I do know if I did we wouldn't be here."
"Get back over here."
He lies back, his hands in the air as he gestures to me to lie with him. I snuggle into his neck and breath against him, and even with the strong scent of his cologne I can still smell the dank odor of our surroundings. He's staring up at the ceiling of his own building, I know his mind is on that. On the fact that he's on his own property, how happy she's going to be tomorrow when he presents it to her. I sigh again. He pushes me away from himself so he can look into my face.
"I love you, you know," and he bends down to kiss my lips.
When he draws away, setting the back of his head back down on the wood, looking back up to the ceiling, he says, "Between the two of you I'm being stretched at both ends, I feel like both my arms are a mile long."
"I'm sorry," and before I can stop myself I sit up, leaving him lying alone. I cup my hands between my open legs and hang my head, wanting nothing more than to leave this place that I feel I'm trespassing on.
"Let's go," he says, getting up and walking towards my car, not waiting for me or my response.
As much as I want to I can't help what I'm doing. Even with him confessing to me about being stressed over her and me I still can't stop myself.
I see him sitting back in the passenger's side, on his phone, as I finally make my way back. I wait outside respectfully, leaning against my side, my back to him, till he's done. I can hear him, even through the glass, talking to her. Making excuses as to why he didn't tell her he was leaving - with me. Trying to convince her it's not as big a deal as she's making it out to be.
I can do nothing but smoke.
When I hear his car door slam behind me I say without turning to him, "Do you have to go home?"
"No."
"Do you want to show me the inside of your house?"
"Yeah, come on."
We both know it's code for, 'Let's find a quick place to fuck so you can hurry and get back to her so she can shut the fuck up.' Or maybe it's just me that thinks that.
I follow him, standing closely behind him at the front door as he tries a few different keys. I can't help leaning into him and placing a small kiss on his neck. I want to tell him I'm sorry but I think I already have tonight. When he leans back into me, the front door unlocked and swinging open, I know he's forgiven me, like he always does. I can't help how I feel about him, he has to understand that. And when he turns and pulls me into his new house, his mouth attaching to mine, his hands gripping my open jacket, his tongue sliding inside my mouth - I know he understands.
It's him who walks backwards, it's him who slams the door behind me, it's him who starts to fall to his knees, his hands undoing my pants. I replace his hands with my own wanting him to get his own open. I don't know if he's hurrying so he can get back home just that much quicker, or because he, like me, needs it so badly. My mind forces me to think it's the latter and when he takes my cock in his mouth my notion is almost confirmed.
I fuck his face, I can't help myself. My hands caress the top of his head, my palms rubbing over his hair, my fingers twisting in it as he works his mouth over me. I don't deserve it - what he's doing. It should be me on my knees, his cock sliding over my tongue, his hands in my hair pulling it, punishing me.
When I drop to my knees those are my intentions, to make amends, to have him cum on my face.
"Fuck me," he whispers in my ear, then takes his sweater off.
The man lying naked before me is my boyfriend. With his bright eyes and inked skin, his legs bent and spread, his socks still on, and not matching... this is him.
With my pants still around my ankles I fall onto him. He opens his mouth expecting me to kiss him but I turn my head and spit in my hand. I now have no interest in niceties as I imagine her furniture around us, crowding and suffocating me. I want to humiliate him, the way I'm feeling. Bury myself deeply inside him, make him still feel me tomorrow when he's standing beside her, reminding her with two words that he still does.
I coat my cock, bite my lip, and quickly push into him. Even when he's arched his back off the floor, his head turning side to side as I force myself through his tightness, I still can't stop myself. I can only bury my face in his neck, hold him down with my weight as I try to pretend I'm not hurting him, and that he's not letting me.
"I'm sorry," I say against his neck, "I can't help myself."
"It's alright," he barely gets out, his voice strained, wetness caused from the burn he's feeling falling down the side of his face, over his temple, wetting my cheek in it's procession.
But I can't be stopped, and as I pull my cock back from him I find myself forcing myself back inside him harder, lifting his leg with my arm higher, hiding my guilt in his neck deeper.
"Let me bend over?" He asks me.
"I need to see your face," I whisper to him and finally look into his eyes, getting up on my knees, still fucking him roughly. His leg dangling loosely off my upper arm, my knees being scraped from the floorboards under them. I'll rub them tomorrow when I hear for the first time out loud that he promises to love her, to cherish her. When he kisses her, toasts to her. I'll run my hands over them when they're announced as Mr. and Mrs. Iero. I'll remember tonight.
I grab a fist full of his hair and pull his head up to meet my mouth. I kiss him, temporarily unashamed that his cock is flaccid between us, his tight, dry ass milking me, my cock skin being pulled back and forth. And yet he opens his mouth for me, letting me lick inside it.
"Then let me get on top, Gerard," he says against my mouth.
When he says my name I stop. I lie over him, kissing his face and down his neck, down his chest as I lick one of his nipples. I'm satisfied with I've done so I roll us over. I know he wants to get off, and I want him to also. So his cheeks can be flushed, his hair a mess, before he has to go back to...
He sits still on top of me and even in the dimness of his new house I see what I translate as disappointment, or maybe it's my shame taunting me because my cock is still hard, and deep inside him. I drape my arm over my eyes.
"I thought you needed to see my face," he says as he leans over me, removing my arm from my face and taking my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the back of it.
I love it when he hold my hands and rides my cock. I wish he'd do it now but I know what he wants from me.
We go from fucking to making love and I still can't look at him. I close my eyes and feel him grind down on me. He clears his throat, spits in his hand, and raises off of me. When he wraps his wet fist around me, stroking me more slick than I did previously my guilt attacks me again. I want to hide my face again but reach for his hand instead.
He kneels on either side of me sitting back on my cock and waits for me to thrust up into him, the way he likes it.
"Come on, Gerard," he says gripping my hand tighter as he reaches for the other, raising himself up and down, rolling his ass around, his now hardening cock hitting my stomach on his down stroke.
When I push my hips up off the floor, giving in to what he wants, he leans his body over me. Letting go of my hands, he lays one of his palms flat on the floor beside my face. Then raises my shirt up and starts to jack himself off.
"Fuck me Gerard, just like that man," he says. Every word panted out as he hovers over me, his lips loose as his mouth hangs open.
Fuck, I love him.
I bite my lip, grab his thighs, and push my hips off the floor. I fuck him good and watch as his face gets gradually closer to mine, as he works his hand over himself. When his open mouth is over mine I feel him shoot his load on me. Hot and wet and fucking beautiful.
He wipes his hand over my stomach gathering his cum and raises off my cock. Sitting on my thighs he starts to jack me off, his body visibly weak. And still I ask him.
"Ride me right, Frankie."
I sit up and grab his hand, bringing it to my mouth and taste him. He watches me, his eyes closing and opening softly with every lick of my tongue, my cock between us begging for a release. He gets back on me, my cock sliding effortlessly into him. I lean back on one elbow as he pushes off of his knees. His hand goes between us trying to find more of his cum for me taste. He brings his fingertips to my mouth and we stare at each other as I open my mouth for him. Then he does it, just the way I like it, just the way I need it.
Our hands join together and I'm again flat on my back. He grinds down on me, rolling his hips and tightening his ass - just for me. When he squeezes my hands in his, bringing them together, holding them to his chest as he bounces on my cock, I'm cumming. My head tilts back and he feels me cumming so he slows down. My moaning echos off the emptiness around us.
He leans over me, still clutching my hands to his chest, still riding me slowly and places small unwarranted kisses on my face. Over my cheeks, over my eyes, over my forehead, licking the sweat from there that I've managed to work up.
"Don't worry, Baby," he says against my mouth, squeezing my hands tighter in his as he shakes them between us, "this will never end."
And I'm undeserving, but convinced.
And as my wife and me dress for the occasion she appeases me with silence. Pretending that the moping she sees doesn't exist.
And as we all stand beside him, my brother's hand comfortingly in mine, I try to smile.
And as he says I do I feel it like a knife through my heart.
And as they say their name and she looks directly at me, I battle with the lump in my throat. My sunglasses masking the welling in my eyes.
And as I'm asked to give an impromptu toast by her I look down at my knees. The celebrates staring at me, waiting for my comforting wishes. I place my palms on my knees and rub them back and forth, feeling the burn.
"I truly hope he one day makes you as happy as he makes me."
Or not.