(no subject)
Because I have nothing of interest to update about (...I kid you not, the most interesting thing that's happened this week is that my brother and I had a fifteen-minute long discussion about pubes, all the while calling them 'poobs'. Don't ask me, ok. I turn into a twelve-year-old boy around my brother, who is eighteen but acts twelve.) so have some totally self-indulgent Frank/Gerard + Brendon domesticity fic! It's part of a much, much bigger piece, but it works on its own (I think).
"You know what," Frank says, coming out of the kitchen, one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a dripping whisk, "I fucking hate cake."
Gerard mutes the TV and leans back against the couch, trying not to laugh. "You don't mean that."
Frank looks resolute. "I do. Cake is the fucking epitome of evil, ok."
Gerard stands and stretches, tugging up the loose gray sweatpants he's been wearing for at least three days. "I kinda doubt it's all that bad." He drops a kiss on Frank's nose on the way to the kitchen, but stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of the splattered cupboards, counters, floors, and... "Is there cake batter on the ceiling?"
Frank brushes past him and heaves the whisk into the sink, waiting until the clamor dies down before he answers. "The recipe says to whisk it until it's not lumpy anymore, but I have whisked the shit out of that motherfucker and it still looks like somebody puked in my mixing bowl."
Gerard wrinkles his nose and braves a look into the bowl. "Appetizing visual," he says, but Frank's not totally wrong. The batter is runny and lumpy and vaguely cement-colored.
"This wouldn't be happening," Frank says, crossing his arms and jutting out a hip, "If I had an electric mixer."
Gerard avoids eye contact and grabs a pile of bills from the countertop. They're only slightly spattered. He 'hmmm's and 'ahh's a little bit before he tosses them back down, still avoiding looking at Frank. "I'm gonna go shower."
Frank catches him at the door. "Oh no. No way, buddy. I've been talking about getting a new mixer for like three months, and you're gonna come with me to fucking get one."
Gerard's whole posture slumps. "Fraaaaank," he says, wheedling. "You know I hate Target. That lady in housewares keeps trying to set me up with her daughter, no matter how many times I tell her I'm unavailable."
"To be fair, you gave me the same line like two days before we hooked up."
"Yeah, but I actually wanted to hook up with you, I was just being dumb."
Frank's eyes go comically wide. "Gerard Way? Being dumb? You must be joking."
Gerard rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Make all the jokes you want, I'm not the one who jerked off and moaned oh, Gerard in a bus full of people."
"Well that'd be kind of weird if you did." Frank leans against the doorframe and grins. "Not that it wouldn't be kinda hot, though."
Gerard presses up against Frank, matching his pose. "Mmm?"
Frank nods. "Weren't you saying something about a shower, you grubby asshole?"
--
Half an hour and a blowjob each later, Gerard throws on a new set of pajamas and curls up in bed.
"Gerard! Come on, seriously, I wanna get there before six or I won't have time to make the cake before the party." Frank pokes his head in the bedroom door, eying Gerard. "You didn't really think sucking my dick was going to get you out of going to Target, did you?"
Gerard looks hopeful. "Maybe?"
Frank grabs him by the wrist and hauls him out of bed, tossing a pair of jeans at him. "You're good, but you're not that good."
--
By the time Gerard agrees to go, works up the motivation to get dressed, and gets them to the store, it's just after five and the rush of people stopping to pick up things on their way home from work makes navigating the aisles a little like ballroom dancing, if the dancers were all crabby and prone to shoving and the steps were more like one two three one two three and jump out of the way of that oncoming cart two three and avoid the avalanche of two-for-one canned meat product two three.
"We couldn't have just bought a cake?" Gerard asks, narrowly avoiding getting trampled by a large man in a leather vest.
"You are the worst big brother ever," Frank says, scowling at a woman who'd inadvertently poked him in the side with her umbrella. He doesn't notice Gerard's face falling.
"You think that?"
Frank's about to reply with something sarcastic, but he notices Gerard's stricken face. "God, no! What the hell, Gee, no way. I was kidding. You're like the best big brother in the world. Mikey's lucky to have you."
Gerard tries for a smile, but he's obviously still worried.
"Come on. I'll go get the mixer and you can check out the art supplies."
Gerard's face brightens, and to Frank, that makes it worth the hassle of trying to figure out kitchen appliances by himself.
--
They all look the same. Every damn one of the mixers on the shelf looks like it...would mix stuff. There's a couple that come in black, one in red, and they all have different specs on the boxes that make them sound like some high-tech piece of equipment. Frank doesn't know, maybe they are. The mixer he and Gerard had had been inherited from Frank's mother when she'd gotten a new one, and all Frank knew was that it spun around and mixed stuff when he pressed a button. He has no idea if any of these are that simple, or if he's going to have to go back to school for a degree to operate them.
"Can I help you with anything?"
Frank's startled out of his intense scrutiny of the mixers by an amused voice. It belongs to someone wearing a red vest with a nametag that reads "Brendon Urie-nation". Frank reads it aloud.
Brendon Urie-nation fidgets and grins uncomfortably. "I'm the new guy."
Frank nods wisely. "Been there. Unfortunate last name, man."
Brendon grins, real this time, wide and bright. "It's cool. I won't be the new guy forever. So what are you looking at?"
Frank gestures to the mixers. "I've got this birthday party tonight, and I'm trying to make a cake. But I have no fucking clue if any of these just mix things, or if they like, mix things and walk your dog and please your lover."
Brendon doesn't stop grinning. "Do you need one that walks your dog and pleases your lover?"
Frank 'pshaw's. "Fuck no. I just need one that mixes and that's it."
Brendon leans forward and peruses the boxes carefully, finger to his lips. Finally he grabs one and hands it over. "This should be what you're looking for. Plugs in, three speeds, detachable pieces for easy cleaning. Sound right?"
Frank nods, tucking the box under his arm. "Thanks man, seriously. I've been needing one of these for three months; if I'd known how painless it was gonna be, I'd've come sooner."
Brendon shrugs. "I only started a couple weeks ago, so maybe it would've been super painful with someone else."
Frank cedes the point, inclining his head. He's about to reply when the intercom crackles to life and there's a round of laughter before someone says, "Brendon Urination, please report to the service desk, Brendon Urination, to the service desk."
Brendon goes red to the tips of his ears and looks like he would like nothing more than for the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him down into the pits of Target Hell. Unfortunately for him, it's probably just about the same amount of terrible as not-Hell Target.
"I should, uh." Brendon starts, motioning toward elsewhere. Frank's chest twists in remembered humiliation, and he puts a hand out.
"Hey, you busy tonight?"
Brendon flushes even harder, and Frank catches himself. "No, no, I mean, not like. I'm not trying to ask you out, dude, I've got a boyfriend. But that birthday party tonight, there'll be a lot of cool people there, you should come."
Brendon looks like he just won the lottery, or got told the guys on the intercom have come down with a flesh-eating disease. "Yeah? I don't want to crash or anything-"
"No, seriously, it'd be really cool if you came. We can give you a lift or something if you need it, what time do you get off?"
Brendon shakes his head, and that bright smile is back in place, his cheeks starting to return to their normal color. "I've got a ride, but yeah, ok. Thanks." He looks genuinely grateful.
Frank gives him the address and thanks him again for the help with the mixer, and goes to find Gerard.
--
The cake's in the oven and the presents are wrapped, and Frank really has nothing better to do than lounge around on the couch, draping himself all over Gerard while he tries to watch cartoons.
"I can't believe you randomly invited some guy to my brother's party," Gerard says, not for the first time.
Frank shuffles a little closer to Gerard, almost in his lap, and rests his head on Gerard's shoulder. "The kid was having a rough day, Gee, come on. He looked like he needed a break."
Gerard's not really upset, and they both know it, but he's still not over getting dragged out of bed to go buy a mixer. And he didn't even get any new art supplies out of the deal, because Target's idea of an art supply section is easels for five-year-olds and finger paints.
"Well, he better not invite all his friends or something."
Frank snorts, sliding full into Gerard's lap and tucking his face into the crook of Gerard's neck. "The kid looked like he didn't have a whole lotta friends, so I wouldn't worry about it."
Gerard turns to press his lips against Frank's cheek, or ear, or whatever part of him he can reach, not really kissing, just resting them there. "That's kinda harsh. He could be super popular for all you know."
"Anyone who gets called 'Brendon Urination' over an intercom and doesn't go looking for a fight probably has some experience dealing with getting shit on. This kid had some experience."
Gerard drags his hands up Frank's sides, earning a giggle that tickles the side of his throat. "That was him? I heard that."
Frank nods, wrapping his arms around Gerard's neck and settling in. "It was invite him to the party or go find his co-workers and punch them in the face, I figured you'd prefer not to get banned from Target."
Gerard makes a sound of indignation, tucking his fingers up under Frank's shirt and skirting them over his ribs. "I'm not the one that would get banned, my friend. And then what would you do for small appliances?"
"Probably go to Wal-Mart," Frank says, kissing his way up Gerard's neck. "Or bribe you with sexual favors to get them from Target for me."
"Hmmph," Gerard says, but he's already tipping his head back to give Frank more room to kiss. "As if I would be swayed by your sexual favors."
Frank snaps his hips against Gerard, and Gerard's breath catches. "What was that about my sexual favors?"
Gerard turns his head to the side and catches Frank's lips with his own, locking his arms around Frank's back and tugging him in close. "Nothing at all."
"You know what," Frank says, coming out of the kitchen, one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a dripping whisk, "I fucking hate cake."
Gerard mutes the TV and leans back against the couch, trying not to laugh. "You don't mean that."
Frank looks resolute. "I do. Cake is the fucking epitome of evil, ok."
Gerard stands and stretches, tugging up the loose gray sweatpants he's been wearing for at least three days. "I kinda doubt it's all that bad." He drops a kiss on Frank's nose on the way to the kitchen, but stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of the splattered cupboards, counters, floors, and... "Is there cake batter on the ceiling?"
Frank brushes past him and heaves the whisk into the sink, waiting until the clamor dies down before he answers. "The recipe says to whisk it until it's not lumpy anymore, but I have whisked the shit out of that motherfucker and it still looks like somebody puked in my mixing bowl."
Gerard wrinkles his nose and braves a look into the bowl. "Appetizing visual," he says, but Frank's not totally wrong. The batter is runny and lumpy and vaguely cement-colored.
"This wouldn't be happening," Frank says, crossing his arms and jutting out a hip, "If I had an electric mixer."
Gerard avoids eye contact and grabs a pile of bills from the countertop. They're only slightly spattered. He 'hmmm's and 'ahh's a little bit before he tosses them back down, still avoiding looking at Frank. "I'm gonna go shower."
Frank catches him at the door. "Oh no. No way, buddy. I've been talking about getting a new mixer for like three months, and you're gonna come with me to fucking get one."
Gerard's whole posture slumps. "Fraaaaank," he says, wheedling. "You know I hate Target. That lady in housewares keeps trying to set me up with her daughter, no matter how many times I tell her I'm unavailable."
"To be fair, you gave me the same line like two days before we hooked up."
"Yeah, but I actually wanted to hook up with you, I was just being dumb."
Frank's eyes go comically wide. "Gerard Way? Being dumb? You must be joking."
Gerard rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Make all the jokes you want, I'm not the one who jerked off and moaned oh, Gerard in a bus full of people."
"Well that'd be kind of weird if you did." Frank leans against the doorframe and grins. "Not that it wouldn't be kinda hot, though."
Gerard presses up against Frank, matching his pose. "Mmm?"
Frank nods. "Weren't you saying something about a shower, you grubby asshole?"
--
Half an hour and a blowjob each later, Gerard throws on a new set of pajamas and curls up in bed.
"Gerard! Come on, seriously, I wanna get there before six or I won't have time to make the cake before the party." Frank pokes his head in the bedroom door, eying Gerard. "You didn't really think sucking my dick was going to get you out of going to Target, did you?"
Gerard looks hopeful. "Maybe?"
Frank grabs him by the wrist and hauls him out of bed, tossing a pair of jeans at him. "You're good, but you're not that good."
--
By the time Gerard agrees to go, works up the motivation to get dressed, and gets them to the store, it's just after five and the rush of people stopping to pick up things on their way home from work makes navigating the aisles a little like ballroom dancing, if the dancers were all crabby and prone to shoving and the steps were more like one two three one two three and jump out of the way of that oncoming cart two three and avoid the avalanche of two-for-one canned meat product two three.
"We couldn't have just bought a cake?" Gerard asks, narrowly avoiding getting trampled by a large man in a leather vest.
"You are the worst big brother ever," Frank says, scowling at a woman who'd inadvertently poked him in the side with her umbrella. He doesn't notice Gerard's face falling.
"You think that?"
Frank's about to reply with something sarcastic, but he notices Gerard's stricken face. "God, no! What the hell, Gee, no way. I was kidding. You're like the best big brother in the world. Mikey's lucky to have you."
Gerard tries for a smile, but he's obviously still worried.
"Come on. I'll go get the mixer and you can check out the art supplies."
Gerard's face brightens, and to Frank, that makes it worth the hassle of trying to figure out kitchen appliances by himself.
--
They all look the same. Every damn one of the mixers on the shelf looks like it...would mix stuff. There's a couple that come in black, one in red, and they all have different specs on the boxes that make them sound like some high-tech piece of equipment. Frank doesn't know, maybe they are. The mixer he and Gerard had had been inherited from Frank's mother when she'd gotten a new one, and all Frank knew was that it spun around and mixed stuff when he pressed a button. He has no idea if any of these are that simple, or if he's going to have to go back to school for a degree to operate them.
"Can I help you with anything?"
Frank's startled out of his intense scrutiny of the mixers by an amused voice. It belongs to someone wearing a red vest with a nametag that reads "Brendon Urie-nation". Frank reads it aloud.
Brendon Urie-nation fidgets and grins uncomfortably. "I'm the new guy."
Frank nods wisely. "Been there. Unfortunate last name, man."
Brendon grins, real this time, wide and bright. "It's cool. I won't be the new guy forever. So what are you looking at?"
Frank gestures to the mixers. "I've got this birthday party tonight, and I'm trying to make a cake. But I have no fucking clue if any of these just mix things, or if they like, mix things and walk your dog and please your lover."
Brendon doesn't stop grinning. "Do you need one that walks your dog and pleases your lover?"
Frank 'pshaw's. "Fuck no. I just need one that mixes and that's it."
Brendon leans forward and peruses the boxes carefully, finger to his lips. Finally he grabs one and hands it over. "This should be what you're looking for. Plugs in, three speeds, detachable pieces for easy cleaning. Sound right?"
Frank nods, tucking the box under his arm. "Thanks man, seriously. I've been needing one of these for three months; if I'd known how painless it was gonna be, I'd've come sooner."
Brendon shrugs. "I only started a couple weeks ago, so maybe it would've been super painful with someone else."
Frank cedes the point, inclining his head. He's about to reply when the intercom crackles to life and there's a round of laughter before someone says, "Brendon Urination, please report to the service desk, Brendon Urination, to the service desk."
Brendon goes red to the tips of his ears and looks like he would like nothing more than for the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him down into the pits of Target Hell. Unfortunately for him, it's probably just about the same amount of terrible as not-Hell Target.
"I should, uh." Brendon starts, motioning toward elsewhere. Frank's chest twists in remembered humiliation, and he puts a hand out.
"Hey, you busy tonight?"
Brendon flushes even harder, and Frank catches himself. "No, no, I mean, not like. I'm not trying to ask you out, dude, I've got a boyfriend. But that birthday party tonight, there'll be a lot of cool people there, you should come."
Brendon looks like he just won the lottery, or got told the guys on the intercom have come down with a flesh-eating disease. "Yeah? I don't want to crash or anything-"
"No, seriously, it'd be really cool if you came. We can give you a lift or something if you need it, what time do you get off?"
Brendon shakes his head, and that bright smile is back in place, his cheeks starting to return to their normal color. "I've got a ride, but yeah, ok. Thanks." He looks genuinely grateful.
Frank gives him the address and thanks him again for the help with the mixer, and goes to find Gerard.
--
The cake's in the oven and the presents are wrapped, and Frank really has nothing better to do than lounge around on the couch, draping himself all over Gerard while he tries to watch cartoons.
"I can't believe you randomly invited some guy to my brother's party," Gerard says, not for the first time.
Frank shuffles a little closer to Gerard, almost in his lap, and rests his head on Gerard's shoulder. "The kid was having a rough day, Gee, come on. He looked like he needed a break."
Gerard's not really upset, and they both know it, but he's still not over getting dragged out of bed to go buy a mixer. And he didn't even get any new art supplies out of the deal, because Target's idea of an art supply section is easels for five-year-olds and finger paints.
"Well, he better not invite all his friends or something."
Frank snorts, sliding full into Gerard's lap and tucking his face into the crook of Gerard's neck. "The kid looked like he didn't have a whole lotta friends, so I wouldn't worry about it."
Gerard turns to press his lips against Frank's cheek, or ear, or whatever part of him he can reach, not really kissing, just resting them there. "That's kinda harsh. He could be super popular for all you know."
"Anyone who gets called 'Brendon Urination' over an intercom and doesn't go looking for a fight probably has some experience dealing with getting shit on. This kid had some experience."
Gerard drags his hands up Frank's sides, earning a giggle that tickles the side of his throat. "That was him? I heard that."
Frank nods, wrapping his arms around Gerard's neck and settling in. "It was invite him to the party or go find his co-workers and punch them in the face, I figured you'd prefer not to get banned from Target."
Gerard makes a sound of indignation, tucking his fingers up under Frank's shirt and skirting them over his ribs. "I'm not the one that would get banned, my friend. And then what would you do for small appliances?"
"Probably go to Wal-Mart," Frank says, kissing his way up Gerard's neck. "Or bribe you with sexual favors to get them from Target for me."
"Hmmph," Gerard says, but he's already tipping his head back to give Frank more room to kiss. "As if I would be swayed by your sexual favors."
Frank snaps his hips against Gerard, and Gerard's breath catches. "What was that about my sexual favors?"
Gerard turns his head to the side and catches Frank's lips with his own, locking his arms around Frank's back and tugging him in close. "Nothing at all."