Bandslash Fic: Mysterious Ways (MCR, Frank/Gerard, NC17)
Title: Mysterious Ways
Fandom: Bandslash; MCR
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Length: 2500 words
Summary: "Work with me here, yeah? The game...is like a metaphor."
Thanks to zeplum and audrarose for beta duties. *hugs*
Mysterious Ways
by Sori
"We're doing shots," Frank says, opening up his bag and pulling out, one by one, a long row of shot glasses. He starts lining them up on the small, round hotel table between them.
"Have you forgotten the recovering part of recovering alcoholic?" Gerard asks, eying the growing line of glasses. He's not all that concerned, not really, this is Frank who Gerard can pretty much trust more than he can trust himself. "Wait, is that one from Toledo?"
"Dude, yeah. Toledo. Best fucking town ever." And Frank is maybe the only person in existence who can actually say that with anything resembling a straight face. Frank's always possessed a strange love of Ohio.
"Right." Gerard shrugs and settles more comfortably into the stiff hotel room chair. He's probably going to be here awhile. "So. Shots."
Frank grins, completely ignoring Gerard and instead, bobbing his head in tune to his own silent music. Zeppelin, Gerard guesses, after awhile. It feels like a Zeppelin sort of beat.
Gerard watches Frank's hands as he starts to pour out the shots, 35 Gerard counts, so far. He's not sure when Frank started collecting shot glasses, but there can be no other explanation, because there's Toledo (because there's always a Toledo), but there's also San Francisco (two, actually, one with Alcatraz and one with the Golden Gate), and Denver, Seattle, Dallas, Atlanta, Jersey and more than a few with lettering in languages he only vaguely recognizes.
He's never before seen a row of 35 shot glasses filled with Red Bull, but apparently there's a first time for everything.
"So, the rules are," Frank is saying, and Gerard is looking up, trying not to reach out and steal a glass. He fucking loves Red Bull.
"What rules? I thought we were doing shots?"
"Yeah, a drinking game involving shots. You are just not that dumb, Gee." But Frank's grinning and shoving a glass toward him with the knuckle of his "W".
Gerard reaches out and pulls the shot glass closer, letting his fingers brush across the lettering, just a slow, slide of skin. "So, the rules are-?" He prompts, trying not to stare at how the red and orange and black of the letters collide in the lines, clashing but somehow still working perfectly.
Frank pulls his own shot closer. "Rules," he says, glaring Gerard into silence. "I ask you a question, you answer the question, and then you drink."
Gerard waits for a second, because there's got to be more, otherwise, "That's sort of a really lame game, isn't it?"
"Work with me here, yeah? The game...is like a metaphor."
That got Gerard's interest. At least, enough for him to ask, "For what?"
Frank sighs, loudly, and shakes his head. "Okay, maybe not so much a metaphor. Maybe more like a symbolic representation." Even Frank doesn't sound too sure of that one, but Gerard still nods his head. He can do symbolic representation.
Or he's pretty sure he can, at least.
"Fuck, fine. I have things that I want to ask you and I'm cleverly disguising my questions under the guise of a drinking game. So, seriously, shut the hell up, pick up your glass and fucking drink already. I'm about to get you smashed on caffeine."
Gerard picks up his shot and tosses it back with a grimace. He gulps down another few for good measure. "Cheers," he says when he's licked the last trace of Red Bull from his lips.
"I knew there was a reason I picked you." Franks slides his chair around the table, settling next to Gerard. He knocks into the table and two glasses go tumbling over, splashing Red Bull all over. "You so owe me a question for that drink." He grins happily, and even though Gerard knows it's not alcohol, knows that he can't explain the stupid grin and the weird flutter in his stomach as alcohol induced, he can't deny the feelings.
"Ask." Gerard waves his hand toward Frank grandly.
"Your favorite color isn't really black, is it?"
And, okay, that was unexpected. Gerard shakes his head. "Would you believe me if I said pink?"
"Actually, yeah. I think I would." Frank snorts into his own shot. "Except, that I sort of know that it's not."
Gerard lifts another shot glass, Germany this time, and salutes Frank with the glass.
"My turn," Gerard says, swallowing the last drop.
"Yeah, not so much," Frank says, lining the empty shot glasses back up and refilling them from one of the full cans of Red Bull sitting on the table.
"We don't take turns? Because I think that almost defines the idea of game playing." Gerard pushes a glass toward Frank and he's already got a dozen questions lined up ranging form really, truly embarrassing to absolutely mortifying. Even by Frank standards.
"My game, my rules." Franks shrugs and he's probably trying to look contrite, but mostly he just looks gloating. "Turn taking is highly overrated in competitive game play."
"I hate you," Gerard says. "Truly, deeply hate you," because, wow, his questions are genius and now he'll never get to reap the benefits. Especially considering that the best Frank's coming up with is:
"So, boxers or briefs?"
There's just no way that Frank is even serious, as if he is ever serious, but whatever.
"I refuse to answer that on principle," Gerard says, tossing back four shots of Red Bull in quick succession.
"Briefs, briefs, briefs," Frank chants, and Gerard sort of has to wonder if Frank was slipping some Red Bull shooters while Gerard was taking a shower earlier.
"I'm going to boycott the game if your next question has anything to do with my favorite food."
"Enchiladas. Like I even have to ask." Frank rolls his eyes and magically pulls out a can of Pringles from somewhere in the bag at his feet. Gerard eyes the bag, tries to psychically convey his need for those vegan gummi bears they bought two states back.
"Do you believe in love?" Frank asks, and maybe, maybe, that's an almost decent question. Or it'd be an almost decent question if Gerard manages to drink another five or six shots and get some gummi bears.
He settles for the Pringles, ignoring Frank's bitching when he tips over the entire container and steals all the chips that are left.
"I'm an artist. Of course I believe in love."
Frank rolls his eyes and chugs back another shot. "Aren't artists supposed to be jaded, cynical, and lovelorn or something?"
"You remember the story where I woke up one morning wanting to be a musician so that I could save lives? Don't be a dumb shit." Gerard snorts and fills up another row of glasses.
He'd forgotten how much he always loved the whole ritual of shots-tiny cups and stupid toasts, and the inherent coolness factor in tossing back huge gulps of liquid. He can even appreciate the tangy sting of Red Bull instead of the alcoholic burn of tequila now.
Gerard will take his victories where he can get them.
"Seriously, Gee, you sort of suck at being a suffering artist. I think you've totally lost your emo cred."
Gerard flips him the bird. "Fuck you," Gerard says, but he's pretty sure he's grinning stupidly at Frank.
But Frank's still watching him, like he's waiting for something. "So, not so jaded?" Frank asks, and he's serious this time, and Gerard's never been good at not responding to serious Frank so he says, "Not so jaded, no."
Somehow, Gerard thinks that maybe he just answered a question that he didn't even know he was being asked.
Then, of course, Frank asks, "Who's the last person you had sex with?" and Gerard decides that Frank's mind is still a scary, scary place that can't be trusted.
"It hurts my artistic soul to talk about love and random hookups in the same conversation." At least, that's what Gerard tells Frank because, seriously, Frank sometimes deserves shit like that.
"Yeah, right," Frank says. "Be still my bleeding heart."
Gerard kicks him hard in the shin and laughs when Frank doubles over, rubbing his leg and muttering, fucking hurt, asshole.
"Anyway, considering we pretty much live together on a bus, you probably know the answer to that question," Gerard says, and it's totally true. He can name the last five people Frank's had sex with, and that even includes the ones that he didn't bring back to their bus.
That maybe sounds sort of stalkerish, but mostly it's just a fact of their lives. Doesn't matter that he can't tell you who Ray has been having sex with, although that's probably just because Ray and sex is almost a twice-daily occurrence.
"Well, duh. It was the sound tech...the one from HIM, like four weeks ago."
Gerard looks at Frank carefully. He pushes back from the table and goes to sit down on the bed. It takes a minute, but he shoves some pillows behind his back and finally gets comfortable. Frank's still sitting at the table, eyebrows raised.
"Well?" Frank asks.
"Well?" Gerard asks. "If you already know who I last slept with, why are you even asking?"
"I'm polite like that," Frank says with a perfectly straight face. Gerard's got to hand it to him, he's not sure that even he could have delivered that line quite so perfectly. Then Frank ruins it by giggling. Gerard blinks at the sound.
Frank stumbles up from the table and flops down on the bed next to Gerard. He sits cross legged, facing Gerard, close enough that their knees are touching and there's only inches separating them. The space between them feels heavy, Gerard thinks, like the moments between chorus and verse in concerts when Frank starts to inch closer and Gerard can't do anything but finish closing the distance.
"It was the sound tech from HIM," Gerard says, rolling his eyes back and letting his hand reach out and settle on Frank's knee. "It was three weeks ago. Since you asked so politely and all."
Franks laughs a little and he moves his hand enough that his thumb can stroke along the back of Gerard's fingers, smooth, unhurried motion, back and forth. Gerard can't look away.
"Are you planning on sleeping with anyone else?" Frank asks, slowing the motion of his thumb and wrapping his fingers around Gerard's loosely.
"Like, ever?" Gerard says, looking up and catching Frank's eye. And, oh, maybe, just maybe, they were getting close to wherever Frank was taking them.
"More like, in the near future." Frank's tongue peeks out, rubs restlessly across his bottom lip.
Gerard has no idea how to even answer the question. It's not like he plans these things, not like he even could plan these things, mostly they just happened. But it's Frank asking and Gerard's got to find an answer somewhere. "Maybe," Gerard says.
"Fair enough," Frank says, winding their fingers together tightly and tugging until Gerard has to shift closer on the bed.
"Is that what you wanted to know?" Gerard asks; he can't seem to help himself, because this seems like a whole lot of something for a question that Frank would normally ask over coffee. Or a cigarette. Has asked before, actually. More times than Gerard can even remember.
"Not so much, no."
Frank shifts closer, until the space between them vanishes, and Gerard's left with Frank-all heat and movement and almost too much of everything, and Gerard startles when Frank lets his lips wander slowly across Gerard's cheek, soft, small touches that are a lot less than most of their thousands of touches on stage, but is still somehow a whole lot more than Gerard's ever felt before.
And then Frank's climbing up and over and into his lap, sharp edges poking Gerard in the stomach and legs and, fuck, Frank's licking into his mouth, tongue and teeth and Gerard's hands are coming up and wrapping around Frank's waist, pulling him, nudging him closer until they're both moaning, breathing words and names and sounds into each other's mouths.
Gerard slides down the headboard, bringing Frank with him, letting their bodies tangle together full length, and Frank's whispering into Gerard's mouth, "Now? Can you have sex now? Because I can totally help you with that," and he's pushing up Gerard's shirt and tugging down his pants, and thank god for guitar player fingers that can move in opposite directions, all speed and efficiency and different notes all at once, because Gerard's not sure he can last even one more fucking minute.
"Wait, wait. Clothes," Gerard's saying, and he's desperate, pushing Frank away enough that he can get hands in between them, going right for Frank's fly and tugging it down. And, okay, maybe it's not all suave, and maybe Frank's not going to be thinking hello, Gerard the sex god, but Gerard's still getting the best lay of his life and who cares if he'll never manage to get his clothes more than partially undone.
"Gerard," Frank breathes into his mouth, and he's thrusting his hips down into Gerard, and it feels like need, sweet and bitter and urgent and crazed, and so good Gerard's groaning, "Frank, Frank," because right now there's nothing else, no one else, and Gerard should maybe worry about that except, not now, later, much later maybe.
But really, definitely, not now.
Frank's fingers are wrapped in his hair, and he's trailing small, biting kisses across Gerard's neck, and when Frank comes, he bites down hard enough on Gerard's shoulder that he knows there'll be a mark, knows that in a few hours, tomorrow, he'll remember the sound Frank makes, and the way his whole body clenches tight, the way he pulls his head up, keeps his eyes open, and looks right at Gerard like he can't imagine looking anywhere else. Gerard feels the world white out around him when he comes.
Afterwards, Frank flops down, their legs tangled together, his head pillowed on Gerard's chest, and when Gerard bitches about dead weight, Frank just laughs and says, "Just wait, you fucker." It sounds more like a promise than a threat.
Gerard's arm goes a little numb and he wiggles around, enough that Frank leans up, holding himself off Gerard with an elbow.
"One more question," Frank says, rubbing his thumb softly along Gerard's bottom lip.
Gerard winds his fingers through Frank's hair and tugs him down, closer and closer, until their lips are just touching, so close they're sharing the air between them. "I think we ran out of Red Bull," Gerard whispers.
"Yeah? Doesn't matter, we've always been rule breakers anyway." Gerard can feel Frank's lips turn up into a smile.
"So, ask," Gerard says, licking softly into Frank's mouth.
Frank pulls back just enough that Gerard can see his eyes, see that every question has been leading up to this one.
"Do you think you can fall in love again?" Frank asks, and Gerard nods slowly, not hesitating.
Frank rewards him with a kiss, quick brush of his lips, a gentle teasing touch of his tongue. "Do you think you can fall in love with me?" He asks.
Gerard pulls him closer and says, "I have a secret to tell you," then he lets his lips brush against Frank's ear and he whispers his words softly.
Frank smiles and says, "I so knew that."
The title comes from the U2 song of the same name.
Fandom: Bandslash; MCR
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Length: 2500 words
Summary: "Work with me here, yeah? The game...is like a metaphor."
Thanks to zeplum and audrarose for beta duties. *hugs*
Mysterious Ways
by Sori
"We're doing shots," Frank says, opening up his bag and pulling out, one by one, a long row of shot glasses. He starts lining them up on the small, round hotel table between them.
"Have you forgotten the recovering part of recovering alcoholic?" Gerard asks, eying the growing line of glasses. He's not all that concerned, not really, this is Frank who Gerard can pretty much trust more than he can trust himself. "Wait, is that one from Toledo?"
"Dude, yeah. Toledo. Best fucking town ever." And Frank is maybe the only person in existence who can actually say that with anything resembling a straight face. Frank's always possessed a strange love of Ohio.
"Right." Gerard shrugs and settles more comfortably into the stiff hotel room chair. He's probably going to be here awhile. "So. Shots."
Frank grins, completely ignoring Gerard and instead, bobbing his head in tune to his own silent music. Zeppelin, Gerard guesses, after awhile. It feels like a Zeppelin sort of beat.
Gerard watches Frank's hands as he starts to pour out the shots, 35 Gerard counts, so far. He's not sure when Frank started collecting shot glasses, but there can be no other explanation, because there's Toledo (because there's always a Toledo), but there's also San Francisco (two, actually, one with Alcatraz and one with the Golden Gate), and Denver, Seattle, Dallas, Atlanta, Jersey and more than a few with lettering in languages he only vaguely recognizes.
He's never before seen a row of 35 shot glasses filled with Red Bull, but apparently there's a first time for everything.
"So, the rules are," Frank is saying, and Gerard is looking up, trying not to reach out and steal a glass. He fucking loves Red Bull.
"What rules? I thought we were doing shots?"
"Yeah, a drinking game involving shots. You are just not that dumb, Gee." But Frank's grinning and shoving a glass toward him with the knuckle of his "W".
Gerard reaches out and pulls the shot glass closer, letting his fingers brush across the lettering, just a slow, slide of skin. "So, the rules are-?" He prompts, trying not to stare at how the red and orange and black of the letters collide in the lines, clashing but somehow still working perfectly.
Frank pulls his own shot closer. "Rules," he says, glaring Gerard into silence. "I ask you a question, you answer the question, and then you drink."
Gerard waits for a second, because there's got to be more, otherwise, "That's sort of a really lame game, isn't it?"
"Work with me here, yeah? The game...is like a metaphor."
That got Gerard's interest. At least, enough for him to ask, "For what?"
Frank sighs, loudly, and shakes his head. "Okay, maybe not so much a metaphor. Maybe more like a symbolic representation." Even Frank doesn't sound too sure of that one, but Gerard still nods his head. He can do symbolic representation.
Or he's pretty sure he can, at least.
"Fuck, fine. I have things that I want to ask you and I'm cleverly disguising my questions under the guise of a drinking game. So, seriously, shut the hell up, pick up your glass and fucking drink already. I'm about to get you smashed on caffeine."
Gerard picks up his shot and tosses it back with a grimace. He gulps down another few for good measure. "Cheers," he says when he's licked the last trace of Red Bull from his lips.
"I knew there was a reason I picked you." Franks slides his chair around the table, settling next to Gerard. He knocks into the table and two glasses go tumbling over, splashing Red Bull all over. "You so owe me a question for that drink." He grins happily, and even though Gerard knows it's not alcohol, knows that he can't explain the stupid grin and the weird flutter in his stomach as alcohol induced, he can't deny the feelings.
"Ask." Gerard waves his hand toward Frank grandly.
"Your favorite color isn't really black, is it?"
And, okay, that was unexpected. Gerard shakes his head. "Would you believe me if I said pink?"
"Actually, yeah. I think I would." Frank snorts into his own shot. "Except, that I sort of know that it's not."
Gerard lifts another shot glass, Germany this time, and salutes Frank with the glass.
"My turn," Gerard says, swallowing the last drop.
"Yeah, not so much," Frank says, lining the empty shot glasses back up and refilling them from one of the full cans of Red Bull sitting on the table.
"We don't take turns? Because I think that almost defines the idea of game playing." Gerard pushes a glass toward Frank and he's already got a dozen questions lined up ranging form really, truly embarrassing to absolutely mortifying. Even by Frank standards.
"My game, my rules." Franks shrugs and he's probably trying to look contrite, but mostly he just looks gloating. "Turn taking is highly overrated in competitive game play."
"I hate you," Gerard says. "Truly, deeply hate you," because, wow, his questions are genius and now he'll never get to reap the benefits. Especially considering that the best Frank's coming up with is:
"So, boxers or briefs?"
There's just no way that Frank is even serious, as if he is ever serious, but whatever.
"I refuse to answer that on principle," Gerard says, tossing back four shots of Red Bull in quick succession.
"Briefs, briefs, briefs," Frank chants, and Gerard sort of has to wonder if Frank was slipping some Red Bull shooters while Gerard was taking a shower earlier.
"I'm going to boycott the game if your next question has anything to do with my favorite food."
"Enchiladas. Like I even have to ask." Frank rolls his eyes and magically pulls out a can of Pringles from somewhere in the bag at his feet. Gerard eyes the bag, tries to psychically convey his need for those vegan gummi bears they bought two states back.
"Do you believe in love?" Frank asks, and maybe, maybe, that's an almost decent question. Or it'd be an almost decent question if Gerard manages to drink another five or six shots and get some gummi bears.
He settles for the Pringles, ignoring Frank's bitching when he tips over the entire container and steals all the chips that are left.
"I'm an artist. Of course I believe in love."
Frank rolls his eyes and chugs back another shot. "Aren't artists supposed to be jaded, cynical, and lovelorn or something?"
"You remember the story where I woke up one morning wanting to be a musician so that I could save lives? Don't be a dumb shit." Gerard snorts and fills up another row of glasses.
He'd forgotten how much he always loved the whole ritual of shots-tiny cups and stupid toasts, and the inherent coolness factor in tossing back huge gulps of liquid. He can even appreciate the tangy sting of Red Bull instead of the alcoholic burn of tequila now.
Gerard will take his victories where he can get them.
"Seriously, Gee, you sort of suck at being a suffering artist. I think you've totally lost your emo cred."
Gerard flips him the bird. "Fuck you," Gerard says, but he's pretty sure he's grinning stupidly at Frank.
But Frank's still watching him, like he's waiting for something. "So, not so jaded?" Frank asks, and he's serious this time, and Gerard's never been good at not responding to serious Frank so he says, "Not so jaded, no."
Somehow, Gerard thinks that maybe he just answered a question that he didn't even know he was being asked.
Then, of course, Frank asks, "Who's the last person you had sex with?" and Gerard decides that Frank's mind is still a scary, scary place that can't be trusted.
"It hurts my artistic soul to talk about love and random hookups in the same conversation." At least, that's what Gerard tells Frank because, seriously, Frank sometimes deserves shit like that.
"Yeah, right," Frank says. "Be still my bleeding heart."
Gerard kicks him hard in the shin and laughs when Frank doubles over, rubbing his leg and muttering, fucking hurt, asshole.
"Anyway, considering we pretty much live together on a bus, you probably know the answer to that question," Gerard says, and it's totally true. He can name the last five people Frank's had sex with, and that even includes the ones that he didn't bring back to their bus.
That maybe sounds sort of stalkerish, but mostly it's just a fact of their lives. Doesn't matter that he can't tell you who Ray has been having sex with, although that's probably just because Ray and sex is almost a twice-daily occurrence.
"Well, duh. It was the sound tech...the one from HIM, like four weeks ago."
Gerard looks at Frank carefully. He pushes back from the table and goes to sit down on the bed. It takes a minute, but he shoves some pillows behind his back and finally gets comfortable. Frank's still sitting at the table, eyebrows raised.
"Well?" Frank asks.
"Well?" Gerard asks. "If you already know who I last slept with, why are you even asking?"
"I'm polite like that," Frank says with a perfectly straight face. Gerard's got to hand it to him, he's not sure that even he could have delivered that line quite so perfectly. Then Frank ruins it by giggling. Gerard blinks at the sound.
Frank stumbles up from the table and flops down on the bed next to Gerard. He sits cross legged, facing Gerard, close enough that their knees are touching and there's only inches separating them. The space between them feels heavy, Gerard thinks, like the moments between chorus and verse in concerts when Frank starts to inch closer and Gerard can't do anything but finish closing the distance.
"It was the sound tech from HIM," Gerard says, rolling his eyes back and letting his hand reach out and settle on Frank's knee. "It was three weeks ago. Since you asked so politely and all."
Franks laughs a little and he moves his hand enough that his thumb can stroke along the back of Gerard's fingers, smooth, unhurried motion, back and forth. Gerard can't look away.
"Are you planning on sleeping with anyone else?" Frank asks, slowing the motion of his thumb and wrapping his fingers around Gerard's loosely.
"Like, ever?" Gerard says, looking up and catching Frank's eye. And, oh, maybe, just maybe, they were getting close to wherever Frank was taking them.
"More like, in the near future." Frank's tongue peeks out, rubs restlessly across his bottom lip.
Gerard has no idea how to even answer the question. It's not like he plans these things, not like he even could plan these things, mostly they just happened. But it's Frank asking and Gerard's got to find an answer somewhere. "Maybe," Gerard says.
"Fair enough," Frank says, winding their fingers together tightly and tugging until Gerard has to shift closer on the bed.
"Is that what you wanted to know?" Gerard asks; he can't seem to help himself, because this seems like a whole lot of something for a question that Frank would normally ask over coffee. Or a cigarette. Has asked before, actually. More times than Gerard can even remember.
"Not so much, no."
Frank shifts closer, until the space between them vanishes, and Gerard's left with Frank-all heat and movement and almost too much of everything, and Gerard startles when Frank lets his lips wander slowly across Gerard's cheek, soft, small touches that are a lot less than most of their thousands of touches on stage, but is still somehow a whole lot more than Gerard's ever felt before.
And then Frank's climbing up and over and into his lap, sharp edges poking Gerard in the stomach and legs and, fuck, Frank's licking into his mouth, tongue and teeth and Gerard's hands are coming up and wrapping around Frank's waist, pulling him, nudging him closer until they're both moaning, breathing words and names and sounds into each other's mouths.
Gerard slides down the headboard, bringing Frank with him, letting their bodies tangle together full length, and Frank's whispering into Gerard's mouth, "Now? Can you have sex now? Because I can totally help you with that," and he's pushing up Gerard's shirt and tugging down his pants, and thank god for guitar player fingers that can move in opposite directions, all speed and efficiency and different notes all at once, because Gerard's not sure he can last even one more fucking minute.
"Wait, wait. Clothes," Gerard's saying, and he's desperate, pushing Frank away enough that he can get hands in between them, going right for Frank's fly and tugging it down. And, okay, maybe it's not all suave, and maybe Frank's not going to be thinking hello, Gerard the sex god, but Gerard's still getting the best lay of his life and who cares if he'll never manage to get his clothes more than partially undone.
"Gerard," Frank breathes into his mouth, and he's thrusting his hips down into Gerard, and it feels like need, sweet and bitter and urgent and crazed, and so good Gerard's groaning, "Frank, Frank," because right now there's nothing else, no one else, and Gerard should maybe worry about that except, not now, later, much later maybe.
But really, definitely, not now.
Frank's fingers are wrapped in his hair, and he's trailing small, biting kisses across Gerard's neck, and when Frank comes, he bites down hard enough on Gerard's shoulder that he knows there'll be a mark, knows that in a few hours, tomorrow, he'll remember the sound Frank makes, and the way his whole body clenches tight, the way he pulls his head up, keeps his eyes open, and looks right at Gerard like he can't imagine looking anywhere else. Gerard feels the world white out around him when he comes.
Afterwards, Frank flops down, their legs tangled together, his head pillowed on Gerard's chest, and when Gerard bitches about dead weight, Frank just laughs and says, "Just wait, you fucker." It sounds more like a promise than a threat.
Gerard's arm goes a little numb and he wiggles around, enough that Frank leans up, holding himself off Gerard with an elbow.
"One more question," Frank says, rubbing his thumb softly along Gerard's bottom lip.
Gerard winds his fingers through Frank's hair and tugs him down, closer and closer, until their lips are just touching, so close they're sharing the air between them. "I think we ran out of Red Bull," Gerard whispers.
"Yeah? Doesn't matter, we've always been rule breakers anyway." Gerard can feel Frank's lips turn up into a smile.
"So, ask," Gerard says, licking softly into Frank's mouth.
Frank pulls back just enough that Gerard can see his eyes, see that every question has been leading up to this one.
"Do you think you can fall in love again?" Frank asks, and Gerard nods slowly, not hesitating.
Frank rewards him with a kiss, quick brush of his lips, a gentle teasing touch of his tongue. "Do you think you can fall in love with me?" He asks.
Gerard pulls him closer and says, "I have a secret to tell you," then he lets his lips brush against Frank's ear and he whispers his words softly.
Frank smiles and says, "I so knew that."
The title comes from the U2 song of the same name.