fic
The Keeper Of The Keg
Gerard/Frank | 13,450 words
NC-17 - Jacob Anderson is a complete douchebag, but when you're sixteen and still haven't been to a big house party, there's something fucking wrong. So Frank says yes when Dewees asks him to go and then he says hello to Jacob by comparing the size of his house to his mom's ass, just on principle.
Jacob Anderson is a complete douchebag, but when you're sixteen and still haven't been to a big house party, there's something fucking wrong. So Frank says yes when Dewees asks him to go and then he says hello to Jacob by comparing the size of his house to his mom's ass, just on principle.
It turns out to be worth it in the end, because right now, at approximately two-thirty am on a Saturday night (or Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it), his bicep is satisfyingly stained with a big purpling bruise, and Frank is high as fuck. He brought his own pot, of course, because good luck trying to score anything halfway decent from the likes of these fucking chumps. He's sat on the kitchen table, knees spread around the keg, legs cold and numbing in his jeans. Everything's blurry around the edges, and people swim in and out of his vision like shadows, like vague outlines of what they're supposed to be. Like ghosts.
It would probably freak Frank the fuck out if he wasn't drunk off his ass, too. As it is, the noise of rowdy inebriated teenagers is strangely soothing. He's pretty sure ghosts don't sound like that. They probably, like, make haunting noises. Wooooo and shit.
"Dude, the fuck you talking about?" Dewees's voice is distinctly un-ghostly, slurred and obnoxious from the floor.
Frank snorts, "Your face," and then giggles at his own lame response. He is really not on his top game right now. "Oh man, I am so wasted. So wasted. I'm a total waste right now."
"Your life is a total waste," Dewees grunts, foot suddenly connecting with Frank's calf, and Frank yelps when his bare knee connects with the keg in a sharp flash of coldfuckcold! Why the fuck does he have to rip the knees of every single pair of jeans he owns to shit, again? "You wanna, like, go?"
Frank tries to look down at him. He's slouched against the cabinets, legs sprawled out across the tiles, seemingly unconcerned with the grumbling people shuffling and stepping over him trying to get into the kitchen. Giggling again at some dumbass blonde chick's annoyed orange face, Frank says, "Dude, naw, not yet." He's been playing Keeper Of The Keg for a little while, but so far that pretty greasy dude hasn't come over. A few stupid jock types, some raised-eyebrowers, and a random tall guy in a dress, but no pretty greasy dude.
"It's not faaaair," Frank whines, mostly to himself, and Dewees obligingly ignores him. Yeah, Frank's probably moaned to him enough tonight. Like, Dewees is a buddy, but Frank gets there's only so many times you can listen to your best friend bitch about how they've had a big gay self-revelation only to realize they have absolutely nobody to experiment with. Like, wow, it sucks so hard, and not in the literal sense Frank would like; he's just been flailing around and confused and figuring it out for so long that now he's finally realized that yes, he does indeed like cock he just has no patience left. Frank knows what's what now, okay, and he's done waiting. He just wants to touch a dick already.
"No," Dewees says, and the disgusted look on some approaching neanderthal’s face confirms Frank has indeed just said that out loud.
Frank pulls the most grotesque face he can at him until he slowly turns and shuffles back the way he came. No beer for the homophobe, yay! Gleefully, Frank turns back to Dewees, "Not you, dickbag, don't fucking flatter yourself." The keg totters a little as he kicks a leg in his general direction with a deliberately childish, "Ewwww, no way! I wouldn't wanna catch something."
Dewees smacks Frank's foot away, flipping Frank the bird. "Fuck you, asshole, it was your mom that gave me it in the first place," and Frank's laughing so hard several people follow Neanderthal homophobe out of the kitchen, shooting Frank dirty looks as they go. Frank happily makes blowjob gestures at them. Maybe he can get thrown out before three am.
"Fuck," Dewees moans, "M'so drunk. I don't wanna pass out here, man, I want my fucking bed."
The awww, diddums is thrown off Frank's tongue by the sudden emerging of a certain pretty face from the crowd. Fuck, yeah. He's black-haired and pale and kind of dirty looking, and Frank guesses that must be his type because god damn Frank would hit that. Like, sure, technically he doesn't even know what hit that means yet, but he knows he would anyway. He's feeling all fucking tingly and shit.
Greasy dude shuffles through the kitchen door, holding a paper cup awkwardly against his chest and looking slightly alarmed, twitching every time someone gets too close. Frank guesses he must have finished that little bottle of vodka he was trying to hide in his jacket pocket earlier, taking sips in the corner of the living room when he thought no one was looking. His tastes must have turned to good old-fashioned beer now, because he's coming this way.
Shit, he's coming this way. Greasy dude edges gingerly around some dickhead in a wifebeater and then suddenly his wide eyes land on Frank.
And get wider.
And-- oh. Yeah. Frank should probably take his fist away from his mouth now. Dewees is still talking, fucking reciting poetry about going home and jacking off in bed with a bowl of Lucky Charms or something, and it isn't doing anything for the dude's caught-in-the-headlights look.
Frank flails his foot in Dewees's space again, catching him in the ribs. "You want beer?" he asks over Dewees's threat-filled spluttering.
Greasy dude visibly hesitates, his eyes darting between Frank, Dewees and the keg. Booze is booze though, and after a moment he says slowly, "Yeah," and steps up.
Frank internally fistpumps. "Gimmie your cup," he says, and after another pause the dude hands it over, looking a little wary, like he thinks Frank's going to spit in it or something. "Don't worry," Frank reassures him. "I'm Keeper Of The Keg, this is what I do."
"Hah," greasy dude actually laughs, thick and kind of croaky in his throat. "Sounds kinda like, er," he trails off, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.
"What? Noooo, come on, what?" Frank maybe sounds a little too eager, but whatever, he's too high to care. "I'm gonna put a fucking -" The dude's smile is kind of dorky and lopsided, shy from behind his hair, and wow, what's the word Frank's searching for? He fills the cup while he thinks. Oh yeah. "Toll! I'm putting a toll on your beer. I'm the keeper, so you have to tell me."
"Fuck," greasy dude says, making a weak grab for the beer, but Frank holds it out of reach with a grin. "Fuck," he repeats, sighing. "Okay, just that. It sounds kind of like Tolkien. Or a D&D villain, or something. The Keeper Of The Keg." He sounds almost nervous as he says it, fingers fidgeting.
Frank stares. And then stares some more. The dude coughs, eyes down, and Dewees snorts so loud Frank wants to deck him, except he's too busy staring at pretty nerdy dude. "Wow, okay. Fuck that, I'm changing the toll price," the words flow easily from Frank's mouth even as his stomach knots up, "now you gotta kiss me."
"Uh," greasy pretty nerdy dude says, and Frank does kick Dewees then, right in the fucking curve where neck meets shoulder, because wow, he does not need his stupid fucking - fucking guffawing right now, okay.
"Oh my god, you are such a fag," Dewees spits through his laughter, lunging away from Frank's foot when he goes for a second blow and spilling his fucking beer all over the floor. "Oh, shit! I swear to god, Frankie, if I wasn't too drunk to move you'd be on your fucking ass right now, fuck."
"Huh?" Frank's still laughing at the beer slowly spreading over the floor, the shrieking girls falling over their high heels to avoid it, but greasy dude is looking down at Dewees, eyes narrowed. "Hey, that's. That's not cool, dude, you shouldn't say that."
"What?" Frank and Dewees say at the same time.
"Fag," the dude says quietly. His pupils are blown but his expression is suddenly serious, mouth set in a tense little pout. "It's not. Not a nice word."
"Yeah, well, Frank isn't a nice person," Dewees says with exaggerated tragedy, clutching dramatically at his chest. "I mean, first he assaults me with his feet, and then he murders my beer! And his mom gave me the herp."
"Fuck off," Frank tries to say, but it kind of dies in his throat because - because what, pretty greasy nerdy dude is suddenly all up in his space. Like, looming. "Uh," Frank says; he's really pretty and also really strongly tobacco-scented and then he's got a hand up against Frank's face and he's-- oh. Oh man, he's fucking kissing him, lips wet and hot, pressing close. The keg wobbles a little when Frank flails, free hand grabbing at the dude's jacket, the other hovering in mid-air behind himself so he doesn't fucking spill beer everywhere, moving on autopilot because fuck if he knows how to handle this. His mind is spinning and all there is is heat, and spit, a sloppy hint of tongue and a solid, crowding body between his thighs.
God, yeah. This is awesome. This is what Frank has been waiting for. He's pretty much ready to go for the dick-touching right fucking now, but hot pretty nerdy awesome-kisser pulls back. "Your toll," he whispers, face still all up near Frank's, hot-breathed and long-lashed, sort of out of focus. Frank keeps his grip on his jacket. He feels a little unsteady. His ass is sort of numb. "Now give me my beer."
"Beer," Frank repeats dumbly.
"Oh my god," Dewees voice anguished voice is kind of fuzzy and faded in the background. There's shuffling around them, some agitated mumblings.
Pretty awesome-kisser dude says, "Small minded idiots." His hands are on Frank's hips. When did that happen? His hands are really warm, too, spanned wide over Frank's t-shirt.
"Uh-huh," Frank says.
The dude smiles again, but Frank's pretty sure there's nothing shy about it now. "So your name is Frank, yeah?" His teeth are tiny and white. There's stubble on his jaw, peppering his neck. Frank nods. "I'm Gerard. Uh, beer?"
"Oh," Frank says. "Sure." He hands it over and greasy - no, Gerard - drains it in one go, throat rippling in front of Frank's face before he tosses the cup carelessly over his shoulder. Jesus. Frank would really, really like to touch his dick right about now. Also the rest of him, but mostly his dick. It's kind of crazy how much he wants it. He's not even nervous - or, okay, mostly not nervous, but through the pot-fuzzy vision and the low burn in his gut and the semi-boner in his pants he knows Gerard is hot as fuck, and that's kind of all he can concentrate on right now.
"Frank, I love you, man, but I'm not getting my head kicked in for you," Dewees says, apparently on his feet now; there's the vague impression of his badly shaved hair moving around behind Gerard's head. "I'm just gonna go, um. Over there. Just. Come find me later, okay? When you're not, uh, yeah."
"Yeah," Gerard agrees, like Frank can't fucking say it himself. Like he isn't this braindead, wordless mess from just a fucking kiss. It's not like he's never done that before. Well, okay, never with a really hot, pretty, nerdy, awesome-kissing dude in front of a whole audience of stuck-up homophobic douchebags, but--
Fuck it. "You're really hot," Frank breathes. "Um."
Gerard laughs easily, licking his lips a little. Frank can't believe he thought this dude nervous, or shy, or anything other than, like, blowing Frank's fucking mind. "Thanks," he says. "But maybe we should, uh, go somewhere. Else."
Frank's heartbeat kicks up a notch, and he barely manages to cling to the last tattered remains of his self-restraint against the part of his mind that's yelling dick-touching! Dick-touching! He manages to nod again, and Gerard grins, taking him by the hand and tugging him gently off the table. Frank very deliberately does not rush; his ass is still kind of numb, his fucking legs don't want to cooperate, and the glimpse of people's variously horrified faces doesn't help his head rush when he gets upright.
Frank can't help but laugh as Gerard leads him out the kitchen, "Did you see their faces? Oh my god," but Gerard doesn't look back, just tightens his fingers around Frank's, leading him carefully through the people standing around in the living room, out into the hall. Frank swallows hard, suddenly a lot more nervous than he was a minute ago. Gerard seems to know exactly where he's going, and - oh, apparently it's right here, the closet under the stairs.
"Spiders," Frank blurts out, but Gerard's already pulled him inside, shutting the door after them and pressing Frank up against it, kissing him again, just like that. Everything feels weightless for a moment, suspended in the dark; it's pitch fucking black but Gerard's mouth is hot and sloppy, tasting like beer and spit, messy and wet and completely awesome. "Mmph," Frank moans appreciatively, grabbing handfuls of Gerard's jacket, gut full of heat, and Gerard presses close, closer, until suddenly his thigh is between Frank's legs.
"Oh fuck," Frank breaks away to pant, and Gerard makes this noise, low and rumbling in his throat. Frank feels his hair brush his face and then his mouth is on Frank's neck, thigh pressing up hard and firm up against Frank's dick and oh fuck, that feels good. This is already better than jerking off. He tries to tell Gerard that, but his hips are running ahead of him, rutting up against Gerard's thigh. He could get off like this so easily, just rub himself off until he came in his pants, but Gerard's breathing hard in his ear and rocking his thigh up and fucking groping every inch of him, and Frank's just--
"I wanna, wait," Frank gasps, pushing blindly at Gerard's chest, eyes blinking uselessly in the dark. "Can I just-- fuck, can I just touch your dick already, I want -"
Gerard's hands falter, and there's a long, dragging moment where everything slows down, stops, stretching into the blackness. "Are," he says slowly, "Are you? Oh, wow, really?" Frank's mind is spinning with confusion, panic rising in his chest, but before he can freak out, Gerard laughs, low and not unkind. "Frank. You've never done this before, have you?"
Oh shit. "I," Frank starts, but then there's Gerard's teeth dragging over Frank's neck, the slippery-wet hint of his tongue tracing the shell of Frank's ear.
"It's okay, we won't stop," he whispers soothingly, hands sliding up Frank's arms. "It's just - god, I'd just never have guessed, the way you were in the kitchen, I mean, I'm not. I don't do this much myself, really, but you just--"
"You kissed me," Frank gets out.
"Yeah," Gerard murmurs, lips moving against Frank's throat. "Yeah, I did, but you didn't stop me. You asked me to, in front of everyone. You didn't give a fuck who saw, and that's. Fuck, I can't even," His voice is rambly and nasally in Frank's ear, surrounding, sinking into Frank's consciousness. Through the dark and the veil of need everything seems a thousand times louder, sharper - hotter, and Frank is so turned on he can't even think.
"Come here," Frank growls, and then they're kissing again, heavier, more desperate. Frank can't fucking get enough, and he doesn't even know what he's doing. It's just touch and need, grabbing for everything he can get. It's another warm, moving, pressing presence, another heavy breath and - oh shit, yeah, another hard dick, right up against Frank's hip, hot and straining in Gerard's jeans.
"Oh, that, yeah," Frank grunts mindlessly, hands frantic and ineffective at Gerard's waist. He's soft and sweaty and there are too many fucking clothes in the way, and Gerard getting his hands up under Frank's t-shirt isn't helping anything. Frank jerks and swears when Gerard clamps down hard on his nipples, hips bucking hard against Gerard's thigh, shit, shit--
He chokes out a noise and Gerard's thigh is gone. Frank's whine is muffled by Gerard's tongue. "You gonna come for me already?" Gerard says breathlessly against Frank's mouth, knuckles suddenly nudging Frank's stomach - fucking unbuckling his belt and pulling Frank's jeans open, oh god. "Before I even get my mouth on your cock?"
"Fuck," Frank gasps. Air hits Frank's thighs; his jeans are around his knees and Gerard's hands are on his lower back, sliding under the waistband of his boxers, fanning fingers over Frank's ass and squeezing. Frank grabs behind himself for Gerard's wrists, hears himself saying, "No, fuck, I can't," because jesus christ, even the idea of Gerard sucking him off is making him stupidly close. "Can you just--"
"What? What do you want, Frank?" Gerard practically purrs, this fucking low dragging sex voice that Frank didn't think people actually did outside of porn, what the fuck. "You want me to touch you? Want my fingers in you?"
"Nggh?" Frank says, but Gerard makes that noise again like Frank actually answered, hands pulling away from Frank's grasp. All Frank hears is slurping, sloppy noises and then Gerard's sweaty palm is spreading over Frank's ass, spit-slick fingers pressing firmly into the crease, sliding wetly over Frank's asshole. He doesn't even tease him, just fucking goes for it, slides one right up inside - all deep, sudden pressure and Frank gasps and shivers because wow, what? He's experimented himself, sure, but it's never been like this, never been this good. Gerard fucking knows exactly where to touch him, exactly how to crook his finger to make Frank jerk, dick leaking against his stomach until the fabric of his boxers is sticking to his skin.
"God," Frank pants, and then, "Oh god, mother of fuck," when Gerard works another finger in, the stretch sweet and sharp, twinge of pain making his spine arch. Gerard's other wrist is sweaty - or, no, it's Frank's palm, damp to the air when Gerard lets go of his ass, sliding around to push Frank's underwear down, wrapping around his cock. "Oh, shit."
"Mmm," Gerard hums, all throaty and satisfied against Frank's shoulder. "So fucking hot," and Frank is suddenly really glad for the darkness, because he's almost certain he would not want Gerard to see the face he's making right now. Glad and disappointed all at once, because wow, he wishes he could see it, those pale fingers wrapped around his cock, the way it must look sliding through Gerard's fist, his hips riding Gerard's fingers. Gerard's hand is wide and warm and sure, god, he knows exactly what he's doing, thumb smearing through the precome Frank's leaking everywhere, stroking slow and firm until his whole hand is slick with it - making the slide easy, making Frank's fucking toes curl in his sneakers.
Frank moans, loud, head hitting the door with a thud. His hips are twitching, rocking forwards and back like he can somehow get more of this, like he could even take it if he could. He's grabbing at Gerard's arms, pinned in place by Gerard's body and the hand on his cock and the fingers in his ass; fuck, this is what he's been missing out on, all this time he's spent bitching when he could have just been doing this.
Frank pretty much wants to do this for the rest of his life, except Gerard's jacking him faster, fucking him with his fingers and running his mouth off in Frank's ear - stuff Frank can't even understand, he's too far gone - but he can hear the heat in Gerard's voice, knows instinctually it's just pure, awesome filth, and Frank's going to come.
"Yeah?" Gerard's hands slow and Frank makes a choked, protesting noise, but Gerard's drawling, "Thought you wanted to touch my dick?" and oh, fuck yeah, Frank does.
"Yes, yeah." Frank's scrabbling for Gerard's belt again; he's clumsy and useless and in the end Gerard just does it for him, fingers sliding out, belt clicking loud and metallic in the dark. Frank's panting, reeling from the edge of orgasm, but then he hears Gerard's zipper come down, the rustle of denim, and he's too turned on to think about it.
"Come here," he says again, and shoves his hand inside Gerard's jeans.
...And finds nothing but bare, hot, sweaty skin.
"Oh my god," Frank says.
Gerard presses close, breath hot on Frank's face. "Laundry day," he says, weirdly sheepish after all that bravado. "Uh."
"Oh my god," Frank repeats. Fuck, Gerard was going commando. That's really hot, and Frank's head is spinning. He's really doing it. He's touching a dick. He's touching Gerard's dick. And it's - "You're fucking big."
Gerard laughs breathily, licking teasingly at Frank's bottom lip. "Y'dont-- you don't have to say that, Frank. I'm already getting you off."
Frank wants to protest, because wow, Gerard really is fucking big, thick and hard and leaking in Frank's hand, skin smooth and pulsing - but he's too busy marveling at the way it feels. It feels exactly like Frank thought it would - like a dick, like his own - only it's not his own, it's someone else. It's Gerard, this random pretty, greasy nerd who Frank just met, who apparently gets off on hormonal teenage virgins throwing themselves at him in public.
And it's weird, doing this to someone else, like everything's back to front. But Gerard makes a little moany encouraging noise when Frank strokes experimentally, his own hand back on Frank's cock in response, tipping their foreheads together so Frank can hear him - feel his little hitches of breath against his face when Frank does something just right.
"Wow," Frank breathes. "Oh, wow."
"Yeah," Gerard agrees, free hand sliding up Frank's sweaty neck, cupping his skull. It's fucking hot in here, stifling and endless in the dark. The only sounds are their breath, the rustle of their arms working, and the dull buzz of the party they left behind.
"Fucking limbo," Frank gasps, and Gerard kisses him clumsily, moans into his mouth as the pace speeds. Frank's breathing hard, doing his best to mimic Gerard, but he can feel the edge coming, his balls drawing up, heat twisting up tight in his stomach - and Gerard's hips are moving, fucking hotly into Frank's fist as he pants against Frank's face. "God, Gerard, I can't--"
"You're good," Gerard groans, fingers twisting in Frank's hair, mouth dragging sloppily over Frank's jaw, hand fucking relentless on Frank's cock. "Yeah, just - ah - just like that. God, Frank, gonna make me come."
"I am? I mean, fuck yeah, I am, I'm gonna," Frank's babbling and he knows it, but he can't make himself stop. He's mindless, gone - and when Gerard twists his wrist on the next stroke and yanks hard on Frank's hair, he's done. Frank comes, hard, with a noise he didn't even think he was capable of making. Through the white noise in his ears he hears Gerard swear appreciatively, and then not so appreciatively when Frank goes limp. His hand disappears from Frank's cock and then suddenly there's slick, dirty, fucking porno noises: the sound of Gerard jerking off with fingers wet with Frank's come.
"Holy fuck," Frank says weakly, but he can't just stand here and listen, not after all this. He grabs for Gerard's hand, folding his own palm over Gerard's sticky knuckles so they can bring him off together, hands moving in sloppy sync. Gerard moans, thick and desperate and gorgeous, and when he comes Frank can feel it, hot and dripping over their entwined knuckles.
Fuck, this is the greatest night of Frank's life. Gerard's face is still smushed in Frank's shoulder; he's slumping and kind of heavy, both of them breathing hard, sweaty and reeking of come. The world is still lurching, and Frank's buzzing from head to toe.
"God," Frank sighs happily, and salutes a fond goodbye to his dick virginity. His hand is still covered in come. Well. Gerard can't see it, Frank reasons. Slowly, he brings his hand to his mouth, licks a little, curious. It tastes like come, thick and gloppy and not all that pleasant, but Frank digs it anyway. He can't wait to try sucking Gerard's dick sometime.
Gerard makes a choking kind of noise. "Fuck," Frank giggles with realization. "Sorry. Kind of lose my filter when I'm trashed. And everything else, actually."
"Oh," Gerard says. There's a long pause, and then he peels himself away, his warmth and weight disappearing into the dark. Frank tries not to feel too disappointed. "So you. You want to see me again?"
"Yes?" Frank says, and then realizes it's true. God, it's really true.
The silence stretches. There's the rustle of clothes, a clink of a belt like Gerard is pulling his jeans up. "Um."
"Wait, now you go shy on me? Come on, man." Frank wipes his hand on his own jeans like an afterthought, like, Gerard's come is on your hands! You touched a dick! Shyness has no place here! He doesn't say that, though. He doesn't feel quite as good as he did a few minutes ago.
"M'not, I just." There's shuffling sounds; slow, tense breaths. "I just. God, I just have to go, I'm sorry."
"What?" Frank says, but Gerard's already opening the door, making Frank stumble forwards, still off-balance with his jeans around his knees. The sudden bright light streams in like a flash of lightening, hitting Frank in the eyes; he curses and rubs at them but by the time they've adjusted, Gerard is long gone. "Shit," Frank says, rushing to pull up his own pants, but his heart is already sinking.
There's nobody greasy or pretty in the hall, or the living room, or by the keg. There's nobody waiting outside. It's just the same stupid people that were there before Gerard. Frank finds Dewees asleep on the stairs and kicks him in the head.
"Fuck," Dewees groans, blinking up at him blearily. "Frank? Ugh, the fuck, man?"
"Come on," Frank says dully. "We're going."
"Wow, finally," Dewees says, clawing at the stair railings until he finally manages to get himself upright, grumbling and clutching at his head. "Ow, motherfucker. So?"
"So, nothing," Frank says, shoving Dewees down the stairs. "Fucking nothing at all."
*
Frank doesn't care. He really doesn't. People do it all the time, this casual sex thing. They go to parties and they get drunk or high and they hook up with strangers in closets and then they never speak to each other ever again. Frank just forgot about that fact of life, or something.
Thankfully, he and Dewees aren't a pair of chicks, which means Dewees doesn't pester him about the details. Frank thinks he knows it didn't go too well, though. Maybe it was the kick to the head, or maybe it was when Frank said he didn't fucking want to talk about it, in that tone that was just daring Dewees to try, and see how far it got him. It doesn't matter, though, because by Sunday night, Frank's convinced himself he's over it. Like, he had his gay dick-touching experience, and it was-- it doesn't matter. The point is, he can move on now.
Monday rolls around too quickly. Frank feels vaguely sick in the morning, but nobody calls him a fag. At least, no more than usual. Not in any way other than it's just the easiest insult to throw at the short kid with the shitty fauxhawk that doesn't give a fuck who sees him jumping on Dewees by his locker. Nobody says it with intent, like it's coming from a place of knowledge. Frank's kind of amazed, considering the whole world and its dog must have seen him necking with Gerard in Jacob's kitchen. Maybe the people who saw don't go to his school. Frank can't recall any of their faces from memory, probably woudn't recognise them even if saw them. They all look the fucking same anyway. Gerard was the only one who looked like he'd been beamed in from outer space.
...But Frank doesn't want to think about him. He's over it.
And school may suck, but at least it keeps him busy. Jacob may be responsible for the bruise on Frank's arm, but he was flanked by his cronies when he gave it to him. It's an entirely different story here in the hallways; Jacob's a Sophomore like Frank, and most of his friends are older, which means in the classes they have together, Jacob doesn't have backup. Frank relishes his revenge in the form of spitballs and noogies. He doesn't need to fuck the fucker up to prove his point. Although he totally could.
He's still tense, though. But then suddenly it's Wednesday and there's still nothing, and Frank starts to let himself think that maybe - maybe, nothing's going to happen. That everything will just carry on as normal.
He's not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed.
On Thursday his mom works late, and Dewees comes over. Frank had been avoiding it as casually as he could, but the motherfucker is used to being at Frank's practically every night, so he knew he couldn't keep it up.
"This weekend," Dewees says from the floor at the end of Frank's bed. "There's a party over in Bloomfield." He pauses, and Frank can hear the grin in his voice, "A friend of Jacob's."
"Eh," Frank says. He's lolling on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I dunno, I'm getting kind of bored of crashing douchebags' little get-togethers." Dewees can't see his finger quotes, so he makes sure to stress it. He has legitimately heard one of those lame-asses say that.
"Dude," Dewees says incredulously. "Since when do you get bored of fucking around with assholes?"
"Wasting my weekends on fuckheads like that?" Frank says, a little sharper than he meant to - but fuck it, he has a point. "I'm surprised you actually want to, fucking hell. You got a boner for Jacob or something?"
"Not me, man. Boners are your department." Dewees snorts with laughter at himself, giggles floating up from the end of the bed, like he thinks he's totally fucking hilarious.
"I'll shove my boner in your mom's department," Frank snaps, and the giggles taper off. Frank immediately feels stupid, but his gut is still fluttery with annoyance. He's been unusually quick to lose his temper the past few days. Even getting back at Jacob didn't help much.
"Okay," Dewees says finally. "Are you going to tell me what's up your ass or what?"
Frank grits his teeth. "Nothing's up my fucking ass." His mind unhelpfully flashes related images at him, but Frank doesn't feel like making the obvious joke. He likes things in his ass, so fucking what. Dewees can go suck a fucking turd.
He very deliberately does not think about Gerard.
"Whatever," Dewees sighs. "I dunno what went on with you and creepy goth dude, but you need to fucking get over it. Your little fag drama is really starting to get on my tits."
Maybe it's the words, or maybe it's the way he says them. Maybe it's nothing to do with Dewees at all, but Frank's scrambling up and throwing himself off the bed anyway. He catches a glimpse of Dewees' wide, surprised eyes before they're crashing together onto the floor, Frank landing on top with a satisfying thud. And then they're rolling around, grunting and swearing as they wrestle to pin each other down. Dewees is bigger and stronger than him, but Frank fights dirty, and he's bony in places where Dewees is soft. When Dewees tries to get him in a headlock, Frank digs his fingernails hard into his ribs, throwing him off with a swift knee to the thigh when he jerks back and swears.
And they're laughing, kind of, but then Dewees grabs Frank by the hair and suddenly they're not anymore, shoves getting harder, fists less restrained. Suddenly, they're thrashing around on Frank's bedroom floor for a reason Frank can't remember. He just knows he feels so angry he wants to smash something, even if that something happens to be his best friend.
"Frank!" Dewees eventually yells, trying to restrain him, Frank thinks - grabbing for Frank's wrists. "Frankie, come on, man!" He manages to get his weight on top of Frank, pinning him down on his back; Dewees' face is flushed and his eyebrows are scrunched up, and something about his expression makes Frank feel instantly, abruptly shitty. He lets himself go limp, breathing hard. Dewees looks down at him warily. "Are you gonna sock me if I let go?"
"Maybe," Frank growls, but he stays still when Dewees moves away, holding his hands up like Frank's aiming a gun at him.
"Seriously Frank, the fuck is your problem?"
Frank lets his breath huff hard through his mouth, back to staring at the ceiling. "Nothing."
"Yeah, right," Dewees scoffs, thudding back on his ass against the side of Frank's bed. "I know you're pissed off because your little homo rendezvouz didn't go how you wanted, but don't fucking take it out on me."
Frank's stomach is twisting. His whole body is still buzzing with adrenaline, but he grits his teeth. He knows he deserved that. He inhales deeply, exhales in a harsh sigh, trying to calm down. After a long moment, heartbeat finally slowing, he snorts a little. "Did you just say homo rendezvous? Like, really? I thought I was the fag?"
Dewees suddenly looks a little sheepish. "Look, Frank. I didn't, uh. I didn't mean that."
"What?"
Dewees rolls his eyes, looking hulking and uncomfortable. "When I called you a fag. Like, I know I rip on you and shit, but y'know I don't really give a fuck what you do with your dick, right? I'm just," he trails off, apparently at the limit of his ability to express an emotion other than total scuzzy dickhead, which is what he usually rocks.
Frank feels strangely touched. He doesn't even want to laugh at Dewees' stupid awkward face. "It's okay," he says, and it is. He already knew that, really. Dewees is an asshole, but he isn't that kind of asshole. "Sorry I whaled on you."
Dewees visibly relaxes, grinning a little. "S'okay. Not like it hurt," and wow, that didn't take long. Frank sits up and punches him lightly in the arm, like, okay, and that's that. Frank's always liked that about Dewees, about their friendship. It's refreshingly simple. "So, like, are you -"
"I'm fine," Frank says quickly. "Just got, like. Carried away."
Frank can tell Dewees doesn't believe him, but he keeps his fucking mouth shut. Frank would never tell him, but sometimes he's really glad they are friends.
*
They end up going to the stupid party. It's just as suicide-worthy as Jacob's, if not worse. Frank thinks he sort of recognises a few faces, mostly by the way they're looking at him. And of course, Jacob himself, who doesn't seem too pleased to see Frank, for some reason. Usually Frank would be all over it - fucking around with people, stealing beer, claiming his usual spot in the kitchen - but the thing is, he can't stop seeing Gerard's fucking face everywhere. Everywhere he looks, people with dark hair, dark jackets. They're all talking to each other, though, guffawing and hooting at each other's pathetic stories and unfunny jokes like a pack of ugly hyenas. Everyone who's here, looks like they should be here. Like this is where they belong.
Their natural habitat, Frank thinks snidely.
With the exception of him and Dewees, of course. But even then, Frank's always thought Dewees could fit in here, if he wanted. He's just that kind of guy - the kind that people just like. He's funny, a little bit weird, but only in the sort of way where people want to know him. He's a character. Frank has too much of a chip on his shoulder to be a character and he knows it; his form of funny and weird is laced with sarcasm and that makes people uncomfortable. People want to feel like you're laughing with them, not at them.
Frank doesn't give a shit. He wouldn't try and fit in here if you paid him. He's only here because he had nothing better to do, not because he thought there might be a chance Gerard would show up. Because even if he did, it's not like it would matter. Gerard made that pretty clear when he ran away from Frank like Frank had the fucking herp.
Fuck it, Frank has pretty much given up pretending he's entirely over it. It's just-- he just can't stop replaying those fuzzy moments before Gerard opened the closet door. It won't arrange itself right in his mind. He just sees endless darkness, vague memories of fumbling hands. Gerard's stuttering voice saying, "God, I just have to go, I'm sorry."
That, and how it had felt when Gerard touched him.
Frank feels himself flush. Right here, sat on the steps of the front porch of a house filled with fucking chumps from his high school, he's blushing thinking about some greasy-haired douchebag he doesn't even know. Frank finishes his cigarette in an angry puff of smoke and immediately lights another one. He's really got to get around to scoring again soon. Dewees is still inside somewhere, probably hooking up with that empty-headed brunette in the sparkly top - Frank doesn't care. He's tempted to just leave, go home and fall into bed and--
Except, he can't just go. Frank can take the half-hour walk alone in the dark, no fucking problem, but Dewees was pissed before they arrived.
"For fuck's sake," Frank spits under his breath, and stomps inside to find him.
That turns out to be easier said than done, because he is indeed in brunette bimbo land; Frank only finds out that they're locked in the bathroom together by chance. He just happened to be passing when Dewees apparently threw up on her. (Even if she hadn't shrieked like the building was coming down, he would have recognised Dewees' retching anywhere).
They kind of have to leave after that, because brunette bimbo's boyfriend comes to see what's going on. Frank would usually call being chased down the street by an angry football player the sign of a good night, but when he gets home and falls into bed, Frank just feels, like, deflated.
Maybe Gerard had a reason he left. Like, a reason other than he realized he'd just hooked up with a stupid little kid and now had to deal with them throwing themselves at him like a pathetic character in one of those hideous romcoms Frank's mom likes. Maybe he had to get home to feed his dog. Maybe he left the goddamn oven on.
Or maybe Frank is just a fucking idiot. God, he feels so embarrassed when he remembers it. How he blurted out that he wanted to see Gerard again so soon; even Frank knows you're supposed to wait, play it cool or whatever, so you don't freak them out. Frank doesn't know how old Gerard is - hell, he doesn't know anything about him, not really, just knowing what his mouth tastes like and his hands feel like isn't knowing him - but he's got to be at least a couple of years older than Frank. If only going by the way he was, how in control he was. He probably does that all the time, Frank thinks. Just drags boys off into closets and kisses them like that and says that filthy shit in their ears--
You want me to touch you? Want my fingers in you?
Under the covers, Frank rubs his fingers lightly against his hipbones. He can feel how his eyebrows have screwed up, how his gut has tightened, because he just - he just doesn't understand. He doesn't get why Gerard didn't say anything, even if it was just to tell Frank no. He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about it. He thinks about touching Gerard, how his cock had felt in his hand, and wishes not for the first time it hadn't been so fucking dark, because now he has nothing. No pictures in his mind, nothing to really make him feel like it was real. It's just vague memories of touch, sound, sensation. When Frank closes his eyes as he thinks about Gerard's fingers in his ass, it feels exactly the same.
The covers ruck up over Frank's bare chest as he eases his hand inside his boxers. This is mostly why Frank realized he had to stop pretending this isn't a big deal; it's been a week since Gerard touched him now and Frank has touched himself every night since. It's conflicting, frustration laced through every nerve even as he feels himself getting hard thinking about it. It almost feels like he's jerking off to a dream, sometimes - like the whole thing is just some lame fantasy he made up - and that only makes him angrier. All he has, is that pretty fucking face and the lingering sound of Gerard's voice. Frank doesn't even know his last name. He doesn't know anything at all.
He feels his mouth curl into a snarl as he strokes himself roughly, curving his palm over the leaking head of his cock to ease the slide. It's always the same. At first he feels pathetic, like this is just insult to injury, but then it gets to the stage where he's digging his heels into the mattress and fucking his fist as he thinks about Gerard's fingers sliding up between his ass cheeks, Gerard's wet fingertips stroking over his hole and sliding inside. How Frank had felt the stretch through his whole fucking body, from his thighs to the tips of his toes. And when Gerard had done that thing, curved his fingers that way and made Frank's knees jerk and his spine buckle, clutching and gasping desperately into the dark.
That's never happened before. Frank has never been able to do that to himself. Gerard, a stranger, this random fucking nerd from a high school house party, can work Frank's body better than Frank himself can.
"Fucking fuck," Frank spits into the empty room, free hand thumping hard into the mattress as he jacks himself faster, harder. Maybe he just wasn't good enough. He remembers when he came, that complete bleaching of his senses - how Gerard had practically had to finish himself off, for fuck's sake. He remembers how his fingers had felt, sticky and clumsy over Gerard's own; christ, it's no fucking wonder he bolted, Frank barely even touched him. Maybe he should have tried to suck Gerard off, instead, or made him come first before he let him touch Frank. Just done something, anything more than flail around in the dark like the pathetic little virgin he was, and just take it.
Maybe he should have really taken it. He didn't have condoms on him and he doubts Gerard did either, but he was that fucked up--
Frank would have let him. As soon as he thinks it he knows it's true. It's fucked up and disgusting and wrong, fucking dangerous, but he would have let Gerard turn him around and fuck him bare. He would have let him come in his ass; fuck, just the thought of it is enough to make Frank grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut and come all over his own hand, his underwear, the insides of his thighs.
He kicks the covers away from his heated skin and lays there panting for a while, hand still inside his soaked boxers. He doesn't feel good. He just feels dirty, violated. Violated by his own fucking brain.
And really, he hopes he never sees Gerard again. Because if he did, he doesn't know what he'd do. Whether he'd kiss him stupid, or punch his fucking lights out.
*
Time passes. Frank stops going to parties. Well, those kind of parties, at least. Dewees gets friendly with the right people (Frank always knew he had it in him) and by his seventeenth birthday, Frank Iero has his very own fake ID. Not that it always helps, because he still looks about thirteen years old and he knows it - but it turns out that the bouncer at The Monroe club is very suseptible to friendly pursuasion. The first time Frank blows him in the alley behind the club is a rush like nothing else he's experienced - fucking terrifying but also completely exhilerating, and hot in a way he's almost ashamed to admit to himself. A way that suggests he liked being used like that.
After that, he gets even more careless, and his luck with school finally runs out. Every cloud has a silver lining, though; Frank supposes he kind of owes Jacob and his posse for jumping him on his way home, because it's what finally persuades his mom to get him a car. She might as well have handed Frank an all-access life pass that said "Freedom!" on it in giant shiny letters. Or, alternatively, "Sex!"
Holy shit, Frank has a lot of sex. Blowjobs in bathrooms, alleys, dudes' houses (never, ever Frank's house - even if his mom isn't in, it just doesn't sit right with him) and, occasionally, Dewees' house, when he's too wasted to notice or care what Frank's getting up to in the next room.
The first time Frank fucks a guy he lasts about a minute, but it's okay, because he's always younger than them. He's still got his stamina.
He thinks about Gerard occasionally, but it's distant. At first, he kept an eye out in the clubs, paid a bit more attention than he should have to anyone with a vague resemblance - but after a while, he gets over it.
He still jerks off to him sometimes, though. But only sometimes.
*
Two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, Frank moves out. His new apartment is shitty, but it's close to where he works at the convenience store and, most importantly, it's Frank's. It's Frank's own place, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants in it. He's not quite sure he's mastered this whole adulthood thing yet, but he's got things to fill his days and in the evening he's got a place to fill other things, so he thinks he's doing alright. He fucks up sometimes; a few months later he gets himself fired and almost arrested for punching some homophobic douchebag in the face, and one time he messes up on his budgeting and has to live on toast and raw carrots for a week (yeah, he goes home for a dinner a few times, whatever) but it's okay. He's figuring it out.
The main and most awesome thing is that Frank gets his first tattoo. A Halloween jack-o-lantern on the back of his neck. It hurts like a bitch and it costs an entire week's worth of wages, but it's so worth it. And after his first time in the chair, Frank kind of can't stop. By the time he's nineteen, he's wearing almost every penny he's earned from every shitty job he's had since leaving school.
Frank gets a boyfriend a few months after his birthday. His new favorite club has gigs every Friday and Frank meets him in the pit when they barrel into each other. His name is Kyle and he's really hot and funny and fun to be with and awesome in bed - everything he should be, Frank supposes, and he likes him a lot - but he keeps expecting to feel something more, and it just never happens. They break up after six months, and if he's honest, Frank doesn't feel too sad about it. He feels bad, because he doesn't know what his deal is, but he doesn't feel sad.
He doesn't think much about Gerard anymore. Or at least, he doesn't until after he says goodbye to Kyle.
It's another year later before Frank runs into him.
PART 2
Gerard/Frank | 13,450 words
NC-17 - Jacob Anderson is a complete douchebag, but when you're sixteen and still haven't been to a big house party, there's something fucking wrong. So Frank says yes when Dewees asks him to go and then he says hello to Jacob by comparing the size of his house to his mom's ass, just on principle.
Jacob Anderson is a complete douchebag, but when you're sixteen and still haven't been to a big house party, there's something fucking wrong. So Frank says yes when Dewees asks him to go and then he says hello to Jacob by comparing the size of his house to his mom's ass, just on principle.
It turns out to be worth it in the end, because right now, at approximately two-thirty am on a Saturday night (or Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it), his bicep is satisfyingly stained with a big purpling bruise, and Frank is high as fuck. He brought his own pot, of course, because good luck trying to score anything halfway decent from the likes of these fucking chumps. He's sat on the kitchen table, knees spread around the keg, legs cold and numbing in his jeans. Everything's blurry around the edges, and people swim in and out of his vision like shadows, like vague outlines of what they're supposed to be. Like ghosts.
It would probably freak Frank the fuck out if he wasn't drunk off his ass, too. As it is, the noise of rowdy inebriated teenagers is strangely soothing. He's pretty sure ghosts don't sound like that. They probably, like, make haunting noises. Wooooo and shit.
"Dude, the fuck you talking about?" Dewees's voice is distinctly un-ghostly, slurred and obnoxious from the floor.
Frank snorts, "Your face," and then giggles at his own lame response. He is really not on his top game right now. "Oh man, I am so wasted. So wasted. I'm a total waste right now."
"Your life is a total waste," Dewees grunts, foot suddenly connecting with Frank's calf, and Frank yelps when his bare knee connects with the keg in a sharp flash of coldfuckcold! Why the fuck does he have to rip the knees of every single pair of jeans he owns to shit, again? "You wanna, like, go?"
Frank tries to look down at him. He's slouched against the cabinets, legs sprawled out across the tiles, seemingly unconcerned with the grumbling people shuffling and stepping over him trying to get into the kitchen. Giggling again at some dumbass blonde chick's annoyed orange face, Frank says, "Dude, naw, not yet." He's been playing Keeper Of The Keg for a little while, but so far that pretty greasy dude hasn't come over. A few stupid jock types, some raised-eyebrowers, and a random tall guy in a dress, but no pretty greasy dude.
"It's not faaaair," Frank whines, mostly to himself, and Dewees obligingly ignores him. Yeah, Frank's probably moaned to him enough tonight. Like, Dewees is a buddy, but Frank gets there's only so many times you can listen to your best friend bitch about how they've had a big gay self-revelation only to realize they have absolutely nobody to experiment with. Like, wow, it sucks so hard, and not in the literal sense Frank would like; he's just been flailing around and confused and figuring it out for so long that now he's finally realized that yes, he does indeed like cock he just has no patience left. Frank knows what's what now, okay, and he's done waiting. He just wants to touch a dick already.
"No," Dewees says, and the disgusted look on some approaching neanderthal’s face confirms Frank has indeed just said that out loud.
Frank pulls the most grotesque face he can at him until he slowly turns and shuffles back the way he came. No beer for the homophobe, yay! Gleefully, Frank turns back to Dewees, "Not you, dickbag, don't fucking flatter yourself." The keg totters a little as he kicks a leg in his general direction with a deliberately childish, "Ewwww, no way! I wouldn't wanna catch something."
Dewees smacks Frank's foot away, flipping Frank the bird. "Fuck you, asshole, it was your mom that gave me it in the first place," and Frank's laughing so hard several people follow Neanderthal homophobe out of the kitchen, shooting Frank dirty looks as they go. Frank happily makes blowjob gestures at them. Maybe he can get thrown out before three am.
"Fuck," Dewees moans, "M'so drunk. I don't wanna pass out here, man, I want my fucking bed."
The awww, diddums is thrown off Frank's tongue by the sudden emerging of a certain pretty face from the crowd. Fuck, yeah. He's black-haired and pale and kind of dirty looking, and Frank guesses that must be his type because god damn Frank would hit that. Like, sure, technically he doesn't even know what hit that means yet, but he knows he would anyway. He's feeling all fucking tingly and shit.
Greasy dude shuffles through the kitchen door, holding a paper cup awkwardly against his chest and looking slightly alarmed, twitching every time someone gets too close. Frank guesses he must have finished that little bottle of vodka he was trying to hide in his jacket pocket earlier, taking sips in the corner of the living room when he thought no one was looking. His tastes must have turned to good old-fashioned beer now, because he's coming this way.
Shit, he's coming this way. Greasy dude edges gingerly around some dickhead in a wifebeater and then suddenly his wide eyes land on Frank.
And get wider.
And-- oh. Yeah. Frank should probably take his fist away from his mouth now. Dewees is still talking, fucking reciting poetry about going home and jacking off in bed with a bowl of Lucky Charms or something, and it isn't doing anything for the dude's caught-in-the-headlights look.
Frank flails his foot in Dewees's space again, catching him in the ribs. "You want beer?" he asks over Dewees's threat-filled spluttering.
Greasy dude visibly hesitates, his eyes darting between Frank, Dewees and the keg. Booze is booze though, and after a moment he says slowly, "Yeah," and steps up.
Frank internally fistpumps. "Gimmie your cup," he says, and after another pause the dude hands it over, looking a little wary, like he thinks Frank's going to spit in it or something. "Don't worry," Frank reassures him. "I'm Keeper Of The Keg, this is what I do."
"Hah," greasy dude actually laughs, thick and kind of croaky in his throat. "Sounds kinda like, er," he trails off, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.
"What? Noooo, come on, what?" Frank maybe sounds a little too eager, but whatever, he's too high to care. "I'm gonna put a fucking -" The dude's smile is kind of dorky and lopsided, shy from behind his hair, and wow, what's the word Frank's searching for? He fills the cup while he thinks. Oh yeah. "Toll! I'm putting a toll on your beer. I'm the keeper, so you have to tell me."
"Fuck," greasy dude says, making a weak grab for the beer, but Frank holds it out of reach with a grin. "Fuck," he repeats, sighing. "Okay, just that. It sounds kind of like Tolkien. Or a D&D villain, or something. The Keeper Of The Keg." He sounds almost nervous as he says it, fingers fidgeting.
Frank stares. And then stares some more. The dude coughs, eyes down, and Dewees snorts so loud Frank wants to deck him, except he's too busy staring at pretty nerdy dude. "Wow, okay. Fuck that, I'm changing the toll price," the words flow easily from Frank's mouth even as his stomach knots up, "now you gotta kiss me."
"Uh," greasy pretty nerdy dude says, and Frank does kick Dewees then, right in the fucking curve where neck meets shoulder, because wow, he does not need his stupid fucking - fucking guffawing right now, okay.
"Oh my god, you are such a fag," Dewees spits through his laughter, lunging away from Frank's foot when he goes for a second blow and spilling his fucking beer all over the floor. "Oh, shit! I swear to god, Frankie, if I wasn't too drunk to move you'd be on your fucking ass right now, fuck."
"Huh?" Frank's still laughing at the beer slowly spreading over the floor, the shrieking girls falling over their high heels to avoid it, but greasy dude is looking down at Dewees, eyes narrowed. "Hey, that's. That's not cool, dude, you shouldn't say that."
"What?" Frank and Dewees say at the same time.
"Fag," the dude says quietly. His pupils are blown but his expression is suddenly serious, mouth set in a tense little pout. "It's not. Not a nice word."
"Yeah, well, Frank isn't a nice person," Dewees says with exaggerated tragedy, clutching dramatically at his chest. "I mean, first he assaults me with his feet, and then he murders my beer! And his mom gave me the herp."
"Fuck off," Frank tries to say, but it kind of dies in his throat because - because what, pretty greasy nerdy dude is suddenly all up in his space. Like, looming. "Uh," Frank says; he's really pretty and also really strongly tobacco-scented and then he's got a hand up against Frank's face and he's-- oh. Oh man, he's fucking kissing him, lips wet and hot, pressing close. The keg wobbles a little when Frank flails, free hand grabbing at the dude's jacket, the other hovering in mid-air behind himself so he doesn't fucking spill beer everywhere, moving on autopilot because fuck if he knows how to handle this. His mind is spinning and all there is is heat, and spit, a sloppy hint of tongue and a solid, crowding body between his thighs.
God, yeah. This is awesome. This is what Frank has been waiting for. He's pretty much ready to go for the dick-touching right fucking now, but hot pretty nerdy awesome-kisser pulls back. "Your toll," he whispers, face still all up near Frank's, hot-breathed and long-lashed, sort of out of focus. Frank keeps his grip on his jacket. He feels a little unsteady. His ass is sort of numb. "Now give me my beer."
"Beer," Frank repeats dumbly.
"Oh my god," Dewees voice anguished voice is kind of fuzzy and faded in the background. There's shuffling around them, some agitated mumblings.
Pretty awesome-kisser dude says, "Small minded idiots." His hands are on Frank's hips. When did that happen? His hands are really warm, too, spanned wide over Frank's t-shirt.
"Uh-huh," Frank says.
The dude smiles again, but Frank's pretty sure there's nothing shy about it now. "So your name is Frank, yeah?" His teeth are tiny and white. There's stubble on his jaw, peppering his neck. Frank nods. "I'm Gerard. Uh, beer?"
"Oh," Frank says. "Sure." He hands it over and greasy - no, Gerard - drains it in one go, throat rippling in front of Frank's face before he tosses the cup carelessly over his shoulder. Jesus. Frank would really, really like to touch his dick right about now. Also the rest of him, but mostly his dick. It's kind of crazy how much he wants it. He's not even nervous - or, okay, mostly not nervous, but through the pot-fuzzy vision and the low burn in his gut and the semi-boner in his pants he knows Gerard is hot as fuck, and that's kind of all he can concentrate on right now.
"Frank, I love you, man, but I'm not getting my head kicked in for you," Dewees says, apparently on his feet now; there's the vague impression of his badly shaved hair moving around behind Gerard's head. "I'm just gonna go, um. Over there. Just. Come find me later, okay? When you're not, uh, yeah."
"Yeah," Gerard agrees, like Frank can't fucking say it himself. Like he isn't this braindead, wordless mess from just a fucking kiss. It's not like he's never done that before. Well, okay, never with a really hot, pretty, nerdy, awesome-kissing dude in front of a whole audience of stuck-up homophobic douchebags, but--
Fuck it. "You're really hot," Frank breathes. "Um."
Gerard laughs easily, licking his lips a little. Frank can't believe he thought this dude nervous, or shy, or anything other than, like, blowing Frank's fucking mind. "Thanks," he says. "But maybe we should, uh, go somewhere. Else."
Frank's heartbeat kicks up a notch, and he barely manages to cling to the last tattered remains of his self-restraint against the part of his mind that's yelling dick-touching! Dick-touching! He manages to nod again, and Gerard grins, taking him by the hand and tugging him gently off the table. Frank very deliberately does not rush; his ass is still kind of numb, his fucking legs don't want to cooperate, and the glimpse of people's variously horrified faces doesn't help his head rush when he gets upright.
Frank can't help but laugh as Gerard leads him out the kitchen, "Did you see their faces? Oh my god," but Gerard doesn't look back, just tightens his fingers around Frank's, leading him carefully through the people standing around in the living room, out into the hall. Frank swallows hard, suddenly a lot more nervous than he was a minute ago. Gerard seems to know exactly where he's going, and - oh, apparently it's right here, the closet under the stairs.
"Spiders," Frank blurts out, but Gerard's already pulled him inside, shutting the door after them and pressing Frank up against it, kissing him again, just like that. Everything feels weightless for a moment, suspended in the dark; it's pitch fucking black but Gerard's mouth is hot and sloppy, tasting like beer and spit, messy and wet and completely awesome. "Mmph," Frank moans appreciatively, grabbing handfuls of Gerard's jacket, gut full of heat, and Gerard presses close, closer, until suddenly his thigh is between Frank's legs.
"Oh fuck," Frank breaks away to pant, and Gerard makes this noise, low and rumbling in his throat. Frank feels his hair brush his face and then his mouth is on Frank's neck, thigh pressing up hard and firm up against Frank's dick and oh fuck, that feels good. This is already better than jerking off. He tries to tell Gerard that, but his hips are running ahead of him, rutting up against Gerard's thigh. He could get off like this so easily, just rub himself off until he came in his pants, but Gerard's breathing hard in his ear and rocking his thigh up and fucking groping every inch of him, and Frank's just--
"I wanna, wait," Frank gasps, pushing blindly at Gerard's chest, eyes blinking uselessly in the dark. "Can I just-- fuck, can I just touch your dick already, I want -"
Gerard's hands falter, and there's a long, dragging moment where everything slows down, stops, stretching into the blackness. "Are," he says slowly, "Are you? Oh, wow, really?" Frank's mind is spinning with confusion, panic rising in his chest, but before he can freak out, Gerard laughs, low and not unkind. "Frank. You've never done this before, have you?"
Oh shit. "I," Frank starts, but then there's Gerard's teeth dragging over Frank's neck, the slippery-wet hint of his tongue tracing the shell of Frank's ear.
"It's okay, we won't stop," he whispers soothingly, hands sliding up Frank's arms. "It's just - god, I'd just never have guessed, the way you were in the kitchen, I mean, I'm not. I don't do this much myself, really, but you just--"
"You kissed me," Frank gets out.
"Yeah," Gerard murmurs, lips moving against Frank's throat. "Yeah, I did, but you didn't stop me. You asked me to, in front of everyone. You didn't give a fuck who saw, and that's. Fuck, I can't even," His voice is rambly and nasally in Frank's ear, surrounding, sinking into Frank's consciousness. Through the dark and the veil of need everything seems a thousand times louder, sharper - hotter, and Frank is so turned on he can't even think.
"Come here," Frank growls, and then they're kissing again, heavier, more desperate. Frank can't fucking get enough, and he doesn't even know what he's doing. It's just touch and need, grabbing for everything he can get. It's another warm, moving, pressing presence, another heavy breath and - oh shit, yeah, another hard dick, right up against Frank's hip, hot and straining in Gerard's jeans.
"Oh, that, yeah," Frank grunts mindlessly, hands frantic and ineffective at Gerard's waist. He's soft and sweaty and there are too many fucking clothes in the way, and Gerard getting his hands up under Frank's t-shirt isn't helping anything. Frank jerks and swears when Gerard clamps down hard on his nipples, hips bucking hard against Gerard's thigh, shit, shit--
He chokes out a noise and Gerard's thigh is gone. Frank's whine is muffled by Gerard's tongue. "You gonna come for me already?" Gerard says breathlessly against Frank's mouth, knuckles suddenly nudging Frank's stomach - fucking unbuckling his belt and pulling Frank's jeans open, oh god. "Before I even get my mouth on your cock?"
"Fuck," Frank gasps. Air hits Frank's thighs; his jeans are around his knees and Gerard's hands are on his lower back, sliding under the waistband of his boxers, fanning fingers over Frank's ass and squeezing. Frank grabs behind himself for Gerard's wrists, hears himself saying, "No, fuck, I can't," because jesus christ, even the idea of Gerard sucking him off is making him stupidly close. "Can you just--"
"What? What do you want, Frank?" Gerard practically purrs, this fucking low dragging sex voice that Frank didn't think people actually did outside of porn, what the fuck. "You want me to touch you? Want my fingers in you?"
"Nggh?" Frank says, but Gerard makes that noise again like Frank actually answered, hands pulling away from Frank's grasp. All Frank hears is slurping, sloppy noises and then Gerard's sweaty palm is spreading over Frank's ass, spit-slick fingers pressing firmly into the crease, sliding wetly over Frank's asshole. He doesn't even tease him, just fucking goes for it, slides one right up inside - all deep, sudden pressure and Frank gasps and shivers because wow, what? He's experimented himself, sure, but it's never been like this, never been this good. Gerard fucking knows exactly where to touch him, exactly how to crook his finger to make Frank jerk, dick leaking against his stomach until the fabric of his boxers is sticking to his skin.
"God," Frank pants, and then, "Oh god, mother of fuck," when Gerard works another finger in, the stretch sweet and sharp, twinge of pain making his spine arch. Gerard's other wrist is sweaty - or, no, it's Frank's palm, damp to the air when Gerard lets go of his ass, sliding around to push Frank's underwear down, wrapping around his cock. "Oh, shit."
"Mmm," Gerard hums, all throaty and satisfied against Frank's shoulder. "So fucking hot," and Frank is suddenly really glad for the darkness, because he's almost certain he would not want Gerard to see the face he's making right now. Glad and disappointed all at once, because wow, he wishes he could see it, those pale fingers wrapped around his cock, the way it must look sliding through Gerard's fist, his hips riding Gerard's fingers. Gerard's hand is wide and warm and sure, god, he knows exactly what he's doing, thumb smearing through the precome Frank's leaking everywhere, stroking slow and firm until his whole hand is slick with it - making the slide easy, making Frank's fucking toes curl in his sneakers.
Frank moans, loud, head hitting the door with a thud. His hips are twitching, rocking forwards and back like he can somehow get more of this, like he could even take it if he could. He's grabbing at Gerard's arms, pinned in place by Gerard's body and the hand on his cock and the fingers in his ass; fuck, this is what he's been missing out on, all this time he's spent bitching when he could have just been doing this.
Frank pretty much wants to do this for the rest of his life, except Gerard's jacking him faster, fucking him with his fingers and running his mouth off in Frank's ear - stuff Frank can't even understand, he's too far gone - but he can hear the heat in Gerard's voice, knows instinctually it's just pure, awesome filth, and Frank's going to come.
"Yeah?" Gerard's hands slow and Frank makes a choked, protesting noise, but Gerard's drawling, "Thought you wanted to touch my dick?" and oh, fuck yeah, Frank does.
"Yes, yeah." Frank's scrabbling for Gerard's belt again; he's clumsy and useless and in the end Gerard just does it for him, fingers sliding out, belt clicking loud and metallic in the dark. Frank's panting, reeling from the edge of orgasm, but then he hears Gerard's zipper come down, the rustle of denim, and he's too turned on to think about it.
"Come here," he says again, and shoves his hand inside Gerard's jeans.
...And finds nothing but bare, hot, sweaty skin.
"Oh my god," Frank says.
Gerard presses close, breath hot on Frank's face. "Laundry day," he says, weirdly sheepish after all that bravado. "Uh."
"Oh my god," Frank repeats. Fuck, Gerard was going commando. That's really hot, and Frank's head is spinning. He's really doing it. He's touching a dick. He's touching Gerard's dick. And it's - "You're fucking big."
Gerard laughs breathily, licking teasingly at Frank's bottom lip. "Y'dont-- you don't have to say that, Frank. I'm already getting you off."
Frank wants to protest, because wow, Gerard really is fucking big, thick and hard and leaking in Frank's hand, skin smooth and pulsing - but he's too busy marveling at the way it feels. It feels exactly like Frank thought it would - like a dick, like his own - only it's not his own, it's someone else. It's Gerard, this random pretty, greasy nerd who Frank just met, who apparently gets off on hormonal teenage virgins throwing themselves at him in public.
And it's weird, doing this to someone else, like everything's back to front. But Gerard makes a little moany encouraging noise when Frank strokes experimentally, his own hand back on Frank's cock in response, tipping their foreheads together so Frank can hear him - feel his little hitches of breath against his face when Frank does something just right.
"Wow," Frank breathes. "Oh, wow."
"Yeah," Gerard agrees, free hand sliding up Frank's sweaty neck, cupping his skull. It's fucking hot in here, stifling and endless in the dark. The only sounds are their breath, the rustle of their arms working, and the dull buzz of the party they left behind.
"Fucking limbo," Frank gasps, and Gerard kisses him clumsily, moans into his mouth as the pace speeds. Frank's breathing hard, doing his best to mimic Gerard, but he can feel the edge coming, his balls drawing up, heat twisting up tight in his stomach - and Gerard's hips are moving, fucking hotly into Frank's fist as he pants against Frank's face. "God, Gerard, I can't--"
"You're good," Gerard groans, fingers twisting in Frank's hair, mouth dragging sloppily over Frank's jaw, hand fucking relentless on Frank's cock. "Yeah, just - ah - just like that. God, Frank, gonna make me come."
"I am? I mean, fuck yeah, I am, I'm gonna," Frank's babbling and he knows it, but he can't make himself stop. He's mindless, gone - and when Gerard twists his wrist on the next stroke and yanks hard on Frank's hair, he's done. Frank comes, hard, with a noise he didn't even think he was capable of making. Through the white noise in his ears he hears Gerard swear appreciatively, and then not so appreciatively when Frank goes limp. His hand disappears from Frank's cock and then suddenly there's slick, dirty, fucking porno noises: the sound of Gerard jerking off with fingers wet with Frank's come.
"Holy fuck," Frank says weakly, but he can't just stand here and listen, not after all this. He grabs for Gerard's hand, folding his own palm over Gerard's sticky knuckles so they can bring him off together, hands moving in sloppy sync. Gerard moans, thick and desperate and gorgeous, and when he comes Frank can feel it, hot and dripping over their entwined knuckles.
Fuck, this is the greatest night of Frank's life. Gerard's face is still smushed in Frank's shoulder; he's slumping and kind of heavy, both of them breathing hard, sweaty and reeking of come. The world is still lurching, and Frank's buzzing from head to toe.
"God," Frank sighs happily, and salutes a fond goodbye to his dick virginity. His hand is still covered in come. Well. Gerard can't see it, Frank reasons. Slowly, he brings his hand to his mouth, licks a little, curious. It tastes like come, thick and gloppy and not all that pleasant, but Frank digs it anyway. He can't wait to try sucking Gerard's dick sometime.
Gerard makes a choking kind of noise. "Fuck," Frank giggles with realization. "Sorry. Kind of lose my filter when I'm trashed. And everything else, actually."
"Oh," Gerard says. There's a long pause, and then he peels himself away, his warmth and weight disappearing into the dark. Frank tries not to feel too disappointed. "So you. You want to see me again?"
"Yes?" Frank says, and then realizes it's true. God, it's really true.
The silence stretches. There's the rustle of clothes, a clink of a belt like Gerard is pulling his jeans up. "Um."
"Wait, now you go shy on me? Come on, man." Frank wipes his hand on his own jeans like an afterthought, like, Gerard's come is on your hands! You touched a dick! Shyness has no place here! He doesn't say that, though. He doesn't feel quite as good as he did a few minutes ago.
"M'not, I just." There's shuffling sounds; slow, tense breaths. "I just. God, I just have to go, I'm sorry."
"What?" Frank says, but Gerard's already opening the door, making Frank stumble forwards, still off-balance with his jeans around his knees. The sudden bright light streams in like a flash of lightening, hitting Frank in the eyes; he curses and rubs at them but by the time they've adjusted, Gerard is long gone. "Shit," Frank says, rushing to pull up his own pants, but his heart is already sinking.
There's nobody greasy or pretty in the hall, or the living room, or by the keg. There's nobody waiting outside. It's just the same stupid people that were there before Gerard. Frank finds Dewees asleep on the stairs and kicks him in the head.
"Fuck," Dewees groans, blinking up at him blearily. "Frank? Ugh, the fuck, man?"
"Come on," Frank says dully. "We're going."
"Wow, finally," Dewees says, clawing at the stair railings until he finally manages to get himself upright, grumbling and clutching at his head. "Ow, motherfucker. So?"
"So, nothing," Frank says, shoving Dewees down the stairs. "Fucking nothing at all."
*
Frank doesn't care. He really doesn't. People do it all the time, this casual sex thing. They go to parties and they get drunk or high and they hook up with strangers in closets and then they never speak to each other ever again. Frank just forgot about that fact of life, or something.
Thankfully, he and Dewees aren't a pair of chicks, which means Dewees doesn't pester him about the details. Frank thinks he knows it didn't go too well, though. Maybe it was the kick to the head, or maybe it was when Frank said he didn't fucking want to talk about it, in that tone that was just daring Dewees to try, and see how far it got him. It doesn't matter, though, because by Sunday night, Frank's convinced himself he's over it. Like, he had his gay dick-touching experience, and it was-- it doesn't matter. The point is, he can move on now.
Monday rolls around too quickly. Frank feels vaguely sick in the morning, but nobody calls him a fag. At least, no more than usual. Not in any way other than it's just the easiest insult to throw at the short kid with the shitty fauxhawk that doesn't give a fuck who sees him jumping on Dewees by his locker. Nobody says it with intent, like it's coming from a place of knowledge. Frank's kind of amazed, considering the whole world and its dog must have seen him necking with Gerard in Jacob's kitchen. Maybe the people who saw don't go to his school. Frank can't recall any of their faces from memory, probably woudn't recognise them even if saw them. They all look the fucking same anyway. Gerard was the only one who looked like he'd been beamed in from outer space.
...But Frank doesn't want to think about him. He's over it.
And school may suck, but at least it keeps him busy. Jacob may be responsible for the bruise on Frank's arm, but he was flanked by his cronies when he gave it to him. It's an entirely different story here in the hallways; Jacob's a Sophomore like Frank, and most of his friends are older, which means in the classes they have together, Jacob doesn't have backup. Frank relishes his revenge in the form of spitballs and noogies. He doesn't need to fuck the fucker up to prove his point. Although he totally could.
He's still tense, though. But then suddenly it's Wednesday and there's still nothing, and Frank starts to let himself think that maybe - maybe, nothing's going to happen. That everything will just carry on as normal.
He's not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed.
On Thursday his mom works late, and Dewees comes over. Frank had been avoiding it as casually as he could, but the motherfucker is used to being at Frank's practically every night, so he knew he couldn't keep it up.
"This weekend," Dewees says from the floor at the end of Frank's bed. "There's a party over in Bloomfield." He pauses, and Frank can hear the grin in his voice, "A friend of Jacob's."
"Eh," Frank says. He's lolling on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I dunno, I'm getting kind of bored of crashing douchebags' little get-togethers." Dewees can't see his finger quotes, so he makes sure to stress it. He has legitimately heard one of those lame-asses say that.
"Dude," Dewees says incredulously. "Since when do you get bored of fucking around with assholes?"
"Wasting my weekends on fuckheads like that?" Frank says, a little sharper than he meant to - but fuck it, he has a point. "I'm surprised you actually want to, fucking hell. You got a boner for Jacob or something?"
"Not me, man. Boners are your department." Dewees snorts with laughter at himself, giggles floating up from the end of the bed, like he thinks he's totally fucking hilarious.
"I'll shove my boner in your mom's department," Frank snaps, and the giggles taper off. Frank immediately feels stupid, but his gut is still fluttery with annoyance. He's been unusually quick to lose his temper the past few days. Even getting back at Jacob didn't help much.
"Okay," Dewees says finally. "Are you going to tell me what's up your ass or what?"
Frank grits his teeth. "Nothing's up my fucking ass." His mind unhelpfully flashes related images at him, but Frank doesn't feel like making the obvious joke. He likes things in his ass, so fucking what. Dewees can go suck a fucking turd.
He very deliberately does not think about Gerard.
"Whatever," Dewees sighs. "I dunno what went on with you and creepy goth dude, but you need to fucking get over it. Your little fag drama is really starting to get on my tits."
Maybe it's the words, or maybe it's the way he says them. Maybe it's nothing to do with Dewees at all, but Frank's scrambling up and throwing himself off the bed anyway. He catches a glimpse of Dewees' wide, surprised eyes before they're crashing together onto the floor, Frank landing on top with a satisfying thud. And then they're rolling around, grunting and swearing as they wrestle to pin each other down. Dewees is bigger and stronger than him, but Frank fights dirty, and he's bony in places where Dewees is soft. When Dewees tries to get him in a headlock, Frank digs his fingernails hard into his ribs, throwing him off with a swift knee to the thigh when he jerks back and swears.
And they're laughing, kind of, but then Dewees grabs Frank by the hair and suddenly they're not anymore, shoves getting harder, fists less restrained. Suddenly, they're thrashing around on Frank's bedroom floor for a reason Frank can't remember. He just knows he feels so angry he wants to smash something, even if that something happens to be his best friend.
"Frank!" Dewees eventually yells, trying to restrain him, Frank thinks - grabbing for Frank's wrists. "Frankie, come on, man!" He manages to get his weight on top of Frank, pinning him down on his back; Dewees' face is flushed and his eyebrows are scrunched up, and something about his expression makes Frank feel instantly, abruptly shitty. He lets himself go limp, breathing hard. Dewees looks down at him warily. "Are you gonna sock me if I let go?"
"Maybe," Frank growls, but he stays still when Dewees moves away, holding his hands up like Frank's aiming a gun at him.
"Seriously Frank, the fuck is your problem?"
Frank lets his breath huff hard through his mouth, back to staring at the ceiling. "Nothing."
"Yeah, right," Dewees scoffs, thudding back on his ass against the side of Frank's bed. "I know you're pissed off because your little homo rendezvouz didn't go how you wanted, but don't fucking take it out on me."
Frank's stomach is twisting. His whole body is still buzzing with adrenaline, but he grits his teeth. He knows he deserved that. He inhales deeply, exhales in a harsh sigh, trying to calm down. After a long moment, heartbeat finally slowing, he snorts a little. "Did you just say homo rendezvous? Like, really? I thought I was the fag?"
Dewees suddenly looks a little sheepish. "Look, Frank. I didn't, uh. I didn't mean that."
"What?"
Dewees rolls his eyes, looking hulking and uncomfortable. "When I called you a fag. Like, I know I rip on you and shit, but y'know I don't really give a fuck what you do with your dick, right? I'm just," he trails off, apparently at the limit of his ability to express an emotion other than total scuzzy dickhead, which is what he usually rocks.
Frank feels strangely touched. He doesn't even want to laugh at Dewees' stupid awkward face. "It's okay," he says, and it is. He already knew that, really. Dewees is an asshole, but he isn't that kind of asshole. "Sorry I whaled on you."
Dewees visibly relaxes, grinning a little. "S'okay. Not like it hurt," and wow, that didn't take long. Frank sits up and punches him lightly in the arm, like, okay, and that's that. Frank's always liked that about Dewees, about their friendship. It's refreshingly simple. "So, like, are you -"
"I'm fine," Frank says quickly. "Just got, like. Carried away."
Frank can tell Dewees doesn't believe him, but he keeps his fucking mouth shut. Frank would never tell him, but sometimes he's really glad they are friends.
*
They end up going to the stupid party. It's just as suicide-worthy as Jacob's, if not worse. Frank thinks he sort of recognises a few faces, mostly by the way they're looking at him. And of course, Jacob himself, who doesn't seem too pleased to see Frank, for some reason. Usually Frank would be all over it - fucking around with people, stealing beer, claiming his usual spot in the kitchen - but the thing is, he can't stop seeing Gerard's fucking face everywhere. Everywhere he looks, people with dark hair, dark jackets. They're all talking to each other, though, guffawing and hooting at each other's pathetic stories and unfunny jokes like a pack of ugly hyenas. Everyone who's here, looks like they should be here. Like this is where they belong.
Their natural habitat, Frank thinks snidely.
With the exception of him and Dewees, of course. But even then, Frank's always thought Dewees could fit in here, if he wanted. He's just that kind of guy - the kind that people just like. He's funny, a little bit weird, but only in the sort of way where people want to know him. He's a character. Frank has too much of a chip on his shoulder to be a character and he knows it; his form of funny and weird is laced with sarcasm and that makes people uncomfortable. People want to feel like you're laughing with them, not at them.
Frank doesn't give a shit. He wouldn't try and fit in here if you paid him. He's only here because he had nothing better to do, not because he thought there might be a chance Gerard would show up. Because even if he did, it's not like it would matter. Gerard made that pretty clear when he ran away from Frank like Frank had the fucking herp.
Fuck it, Frank has pretty much given up pretending he's entirely over it. It's just-- he just can't stop replaying those fuzzy moments before Gerard opened the closet door. It won't arrange itself right in his mind. He just sees endless darkness, vague memories of fumbling hands. Gerard's stuttering voice saying, "God, I just have to go, I'm sorry."
That, and how it had felt when Gerard touched him.
Frank feels himself flush. Right here, sat on the steps of the front porch of a house filled with fucking chumps from his high school, he's blushing thinking about some greasy-haired douchebag he doesn't even know. Frank finishes his cigarette in an angry puff of smoke and immediately lights another one. He's really got to get around to scoring again soon. Dewees is still inside somewhere, probably hooking up with that empty-headed brunette in the sparkly top - Frank doesn't care. He's tempted to just leave, go home and fall into bed and--
Except, he can't just go. Frank can take the half-hour walk alone in the dark, no fucking problem, but Dewees was pissed before they arrived.
"For fuck's sake," Frank spits under his breath, and stomps inside to find him.
That turns out to be easier said than done, because he is indeed in brunette bimbo land; Frank only finds out that they're locked in the bathroom together by chance. He just happened to be passing when Dewees apparently threw up on her. (Even if she hadn't shrieked like the building was coming down, he would have recognised Dewees' retching anywhere).
They kind of have to leave after that, because brunette bimbo's boyfriend comes to see what's going on. Frank would usually call being chased down the street by an angry football player the sign of a good night, but when he gets home and falls into bed, Frank just feels, like, deflated.
Maybe Gerard had a reason he left. Like, a reason other than he realized he'd just hooked up with a stupid little kid and now had to deal with them throwing themselves at him like a pathetic character in one of those hideous romcoms Frank's mom likes. Maybe he had to get home to feed his dog. Maybe he left the goddamn oven on.
Or maybe Frank is just a fucking idiot. God, he feels so embarrassed when he remembers it. How he blurted out that he wanted to see Gerard again so soon; even Frank knows you're supposed to wait, play it cool or whatever, so you don't freak them out. Frank doesn't know how old Gerard is - hell, he doesn't know anything about him, not really, just knowing what his mouth tastes like and his hands feel like isn't knowing him - but he's got to be at least a couple of years older than Frank. If only going by the way he was, how in control he was. He probably does that all the time, Frank thinks. Just drags boys off into closets and kisses them like that and says that filthy shit in their ears--
You want me to touch you? Want my fingers in you?
Under the covers, Frank rubs his fingers lightly against his hipbones. He can feel how his eyebrows have screwed up, how his gut has tightened, because he just - he just doesn't understand. He doesn't get why Gerard didn't say anything, even if it was just to tell Frank no. He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about it. He thinks about touching Gerard, how his cock had felt in his hand, and wishes not for the first time it hadn't been so fucking dark, because now he has nothing. No pictures in his mind, nothing to really make him feel like it was real. It's just vague memories of touch, sound, sensation. When Frank closes his eyes as he thinks about Gerard's fingers in his ass, it feels exactly the same.
The covers ruck up over Frank's bare chest as he eases his hand inside his boxers. This is mostly why Frank realized he had to stop pretending this isn't a big deal; it's been a week since Gerard touched him now and Frank has touched himself every night since. It's conflicting, frustration laced through every nerve even as he feels himself getting hard thinking about it. It almost feels like he's jerking off to a dream, sometimes - like the whole thing is just some lame fantasy he made up - and that only makes him angrier. All he has, is that pretty fucking face and the lingering sound of Gerard's voice. Frank doesn't even know his last name. He doesn't know anything at all.
He feels his mouth curl into a snarl as he strokes himself roughly, curving his palm over the leaking head of his cock to ease the slide. It's always the same. At first he feels pathetic, like this is just insult to injury, but then it gets to the stage where he's digging his heels into the mattress and fucking his fist as he thinks about Gerard's fingers sliding up between his ass cheeks, Gerard's wet fingertips stroking over his hole and sliding inside. How Frank had felt the stretch through his whole fucking body, from his thighs to the tips of his toes. And when Gerard had done that thing, curved his fingers that way and made Frank's knees jerk and his spine buckle, clutching and gasping desperately into the dark.
That's never happened before. Frank has never been able to do that to himself. Gerard, a stranger, this random fucking nerd from a high school house party, can work Frank's body better than Frank himself can.
"Fucking fuck," Frank spits into the empty room, free hand thumping hard into the mattress as he jacks himself faster, harder. Maybe he just wasn't good enough. He remembers when he came, that complete bleaching of his senses - how Gerard had practically had to finish himself off, for fuck's sake. He remembers how his fingers had felt, sticky and clumsy over Gerard's own; christ, it's no fucking wonder he bolted, Frank barely even touched him. Maybe he should have tried to suck Gerard off, instead, or made him come first before he let him touch Frank. Just done something, anything more than flail around in the dark like the pathetic little virgin he was, and just take it.
Maybe he should have really taken it. He didn't have condoms on him and he doubts Gerard did either, but he was that fucked up--
Frank would have let him. As soon as he thinks it he knows it's true. It's fucked up and disgusting and wrong, fucking dangerous, but he would have let Gerard turn him around and fuck him bare. He would have let him come in his ass; fuck, just the thought of it is enough to make Frank grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut and come all over his own hand, his underwear, the insides of his thighs.
He kicks the covers away from his heated skin and lays there panting for a while, hand still inside his soaked boxers. He doesn't feel good. He just feels dirty, violated. Violated by his own fucking brain.
And really, he hopes he never sees Gerard again. Because if he did, he doesn't know what he'd do. Whether he'd kiss him stupid, or punch his fucking lights out.
*
Time passes. Frank stops going to parties. Well, those kind of parties, at least. Dewees gets friendly with the right people (Frank always knew he had it in him) and by his seventeenth birthday, Frank Iero has his very own fake ID. Not that it always helps, because he still looks about thirteen years old and he knows it - but it turns out that the bouncer at The Monroe club is very suseptible to friendly pursuasion. The first time Frank blows him in the alley behind the club is a rush like nothing else he's experienced - fucking terrifying but also completely exhilerating, and hot in a way he's almost ashamed to admit to himself. A way that suggests he liked being used like that.
After that, he gets even more careless, and his luck with school finally runs out. Every cloud has a silver lining, though; Frank supposes he kind of owes Jacob and his posse for jumping him on his way home, because it's what finally persuades his mom to get him a car. She might as well have handed Frank an all-access life pass that said "Freedom!" on it in giant shiny letters. Or, alternatively, "Sex!"
Holy shit, Frank has a lot of sex. Blowjobs in bathrooms, alleys, dudes' houses (never, ever Frank's house - even if his mom isn't in, it just doesn't sit right with him) and, occasionally, Dewees' house, when he's too wasted to notice or care what Frank's getting up to in the next room.
The first time Frank fucks a guy he lasts about a minute, but it's okay, because he's always younger than them. He's still got his stamina.
He thinks about Gerard occasionally, but it's distant. At first, he kept an eye out in the clubs, paid a bit more attention than he should have to anyone with a vague resemblance - but after a while, he gets over it.
He still jerks off to him sometimes, though. But only sometimes.
*
Two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, Frank moves out. His new apartment is shitty, but it's close to where he works at the convenience store and, most importantly, it's Frank's. It's Frank's own place, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants in it. He's not quite sure he's mastered this whole adulthood thing yet, but he's got things to fill his days and in the evening he's got a place to fill other things, so he thinks he's doing alright. He fucks up sometimes; a few months later he gets himself fired and almost arrested for punching some homophobic douchebag in the face, and one time he messes up on his budgeting and has to live on toast and raw carrots for a week (yeah, he goes home for a dinner a few times, whatever) but it's okay. He's figuring it out.
The main and most awesome thing is that Frank gets his first tattoo. A Halloween jack-o-lantern on the back of his neck. It hurts like a bitch and it costs an entire week's worth of wages, but it's so worth it. And after his first time in the chair, Frank kind of can't stop. By the time he's nineteen, he's wearing almost every penny he's earned from every shitty job he's had since leaving school.
Frank gets a boyfriend a few months after his birthday. His new favorite club has gigs every Friday and Frank meets him in the pit when they barrel into each other. His name is Kyle and he's really hot and funny and fun to be with and awesome in bed - everything he should be, Frank supposes, and he likes him a lot - but he keeps expecting to feel something more, and it just never happens. They break up after six months, and if he's honest, Frank doesn't feel too sad about it. He feels bad, because he doesn't know what his deal is, but he doesn't feel sad.
He doesn't think much about Gerard anymore. Or at least, he doesn't until after he says goodbye to Kyle.
It's another year later before Frank runs into him.
PART 2