It Came From Within 1/3

[turps33]

“And then she asked if she could tie me up.”

“And?” Frank prompts when it seems like that’s where Mikey is ending his story. “What kind of bullshit ending is that? What did you say?”

Mikey’s slumped into the corner of the couch, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, he gives Frank a look like he should know the answer already and then says, “I told her, ‘yes’.”

“Of course you told her yes.” Frank takes a long drink of his beer, holding the bottle in one hand as he points the neck toward Mikey. “What if she’d like, tied you up and killed you? It happens all the time. My mom’s friend’s cousin got their throat slit that way.”

Mikey’s eyes are half closed and he pulls up his feet, the springs of the couch protesting as he shifts, placing his legs over Frank’s lap. “It was only my hands, I could have kicked the knife away.”

“Well if it was only your hands....” Frank rubs his knuckles over one of Mikey’s skinny shins and curls up his legs so he’s jammed into his own side of the couch. “I’m hungry, you need to order pizza.”

“Fuck off,” Mikey says easily. “There’s Chinese in the fridge.”

“From five days ago.” Frank wedges his beer between his thighs and gropes for the remote, so he can turn over the TV. He scrolls through the channels, stopping on an infomercial for a steam cleaner. “We should buy one of those.”

Mikey yawns, says, “No point, we’ve already got you.”

~~~~~

That night Frank dreams of Mikey tied up.

Rope around his wrists and ankles, naked and spread-eagled on his bed.

When he wakes the next day Frank strips his sheets and tries not to blush when he hears Mikey move in the next room.

~~~~~~

It’s not that Frank thinks Mikey is unattractive. He’s got no hesitation in admitting that under the grease and dirt and questionable hygiene, Mikey is pretty hot. It’s just nothing that Frank thinks about often.

Mikey’s his room mate, his band mate, one of his best friends and while, sure, those factors don’t actually rule out sexual attraction, it’s never previously come into play. Which is why this is so weird now. Frank’s about out of his mind, and feels like he’s thirteen again, when unexpected boners were a staple of life.

It’s embarrassing is what it is, and what’s worse is Frank’s dealing alone. It’s not like he can tell anyone. Just the thought of opening his mouth and admitting these new feelings -- feelings about Mikey -- is enough to make him want to jam his head in a door.

It doesn’t help that Mikey’s apparently decided to embark on some kind of sexual journey of discovery and adventure, and is intent on sharing every detail with Frank. Details he gives while being so very Mikey, with his stupid hair and stupid clothes and no actual concept of personal space.

Like now, when Frank’s pouring out cereal and Mikey stands behind him, drapes himself against Frank’s back and grabs a handful of Fruit Loops from the bowl as he says, “I got fucked in the ass last night.”

“As opposed to being fucked in the ear?” Frank replies, his heart jumping under his level tone of mild interest mixed with sarcasm. Ineffectively batting at Mikey’s hand he adds, “You getting fucked isn’t new.”

“She used a dildo, a fucking huge one,” Mikey’s got his arm wrapped loose around Frank’s neck, and is eating the Fruit Loops individually, crunching in Frank’s ear. “She fucked me open with it and then added her fingers, just slid everything in together. It felt like I was taking a horse cock.”

“I’m disturbed that you even thought that,” Frank says, but he’s also fucking turned on. Not by the horse cock thing -- because really, no -- but the thought of Mikey being fucked open so wide, fingers and dildo sliding into his ass. It’s all too easy to imagine, and Frank bites at the inside of his mouth, his whole body hot as the weight of Mikey’s body presses Frank’s dick against the edge of the counter. “You’ll be feeling that when you next take a shit.”

“I think I could take more.” Mikey holds out his hand and makes a tight fist. “I’d need a fuck load of lube, but, yeah.”

Frank shrugs, his knees locked as he battles to stay upright and not groan. “It’s your asshole, just don’t come running to me if you get an anal prolapse.”

“I’ll add it to the roommate code,” Mikey says, and takes another handful of Fruit Loops, fitting little loops at the end of each finger. “We need to go, if we’re late they’ll eat all the pizza.”

“It’s you talking about ass fucking,” Frank points out, and sighs when he looks at his watch and sees that yeah, they are going to be late. Not that Frank’s about to take any blame, if it wasn’t for Mikey he’d have eaten by now and be ready to leave. “And I’m still eating my dinner.”

With no warning Mikey shoves two of his fingers into Frank’s mouth, scraping the Fruit Loops off onto his tongue. “So eat.”

Mikey’s fingers taste like hairspray and sugar, which is all kinds of gross.

Frank wants to suck them and never let go.

~*~*~*~

Frank knocks at Ray’s door and then kicks it for good measure, ensuring that the people inside know that they’re there. It’s fucking cold in this hallway and Frank’s huddled inside of his coat, hat pulled low over his ears and scarf up over his nose.

Hopefully Ray’s got the heat on, because Frank’s about frozen, and Mikey’s little more than a walking bundle of clothes.

“I told you, stop kicking to get in.” Ray’s talking as he opens the door, but Frank ignores his protests, pushing his way inside when he sees Ray’s t-shirt and bare arms.

“It’s fucking freezing out there,” Frank announces, and starts to peel off some outer layers. “You fucker’s should have come to us, it’s two against three.”

“Those aren’t odds in your favour,” Ray says, busy re-locking the door. “And last time you fed us dried up carrot sticks.”

Frank shrugs out of his coat, and hangs it up on the hook. “I offered you the leftover Chinese.” And it’s not like there’s ever much choice in Mikey and Frank’s fridge, not when their staple diet is take out, coffee and cereal. Really, it was a miracle that there were even any carrots to offer.

“Your place sucks.” Matt’s lying on the floor on his belly, game controller in his hands and attention solely on the TV where he’s taking out Mario with a well-timed firebomb.

“Fuck you,” Frank says, but takes no offense, because it’s not like what Matt’s saying is actually wrong. “Our apartment's awesome.”

“For a low rent shit-hole,” Matt counters, and Frank grins as he balls up his gloves and throws them at Matt’s head.

“My fingers have gone numb.”

Frank turns his attention to Mikey and sees that he’s fumbling with his scarf, revealing more of his face with each clumsy rotation. The cold has left Mikey’s nose bright red and Frank’s duty bound to make some joke, but any Rudolf comment fades on his tongue when Mikey holds up both hands and flexes his fingers.

“You’ve got zombie hand, awesome.” Gerard appears to the background noise of the toilet flushing, and the total absence of any tap being turned on. Crossing the room in a few steps he takes hold of Mikey’s hand, cradling it between both of his own. “Can you feel that?”

“Sort of.” Mikey stares at his hand and wiggles his fingers. “That’s fucking weird.”

“You’re weird,” Matt says, taking the insult when Frank lets it go, too transfixed by Mikey’s long fingers, how his knuckles are red and his nails bitten down. Which is okay, it’s fine that Frank notices those things, just his brain is some kind of bastard traitor and he’s imagining those fingers elsewhere -- shiny with lube and sliding into Frank’s ass.

Frank’s asshole clenches and his dick stands up and takes notice and he needs some kind of time out, where he doesn’t have to see Gerard rub Mikey’s hand or imagine what it’s like to be fingered by Mikey.

“I need. Bathroom.” Showing considerable restraint, Frank hurries into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Turning the lock he takes a moment to just breathe, jumping when Ray suddenly yells.

“There’s more paper in the vanity and use the fan after.”

“Whatever,” Frank yells back, and is about to sit on the toilet, when he recoils, seeing the piss on the seat and droplets darkening the mat. It’s yet more proof Gerard is disgusting, and Frank rips off a section of toilet paper, wiping the seat before he sits down.

From here he can hear the others talking, a low drone of sound that’s cut in four distinct layers, Frank’s easily able to distinguish every one of his friends, even without the actual words. It’s why he knows it’s Gerard that makes Mikey laugh, sudden and loud, and why Frank’s reminded of things he’s finally started to push back. Frustrated, Frank groans.

“Frank, you okay?”

It’s Gerard asking the question. It sounds like he’s right outside the door and Frank lets his head drop back so it thumps against the wall.

“Frank,” Gerard says again, and this time he rattles the door handle. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay.” Frank keeps his head back, his eyes closed as he thinks of a lie, because there’s no good way to say this is all about Mikey. That Frank’s groaning because he’s some kind of sexual deviant who is becoming obsessed with Gerard’s kid brother.

“You didn’t eat that fried rice in your fridge did you?” Gerard asks, sounding suspicious. “Because that shit was green last week.”

Frank screws up his face, because seriously, he’s not some kind of moron who eats sentient rice. “No, I didn’t eat it. I’m just taking a dump.”

“Good.” Gerard still sounds dubious and it’s no surprise when suddenly he’s talking to Mikey, the two of them whispering in some kind of Way shorthand that Frank has issues deciphering even when he can see and hear them both fully. Right now he’s got no chance, so he’s unprepared when there’s a rattling sound and then the door suddenly pushes open and Mikey appears.

“I brought you some water.” Mikey’s holding a glass which he hands over to Frank, then sits, balanced on the edge of the tub. “Ray said milk would be better but that shit curdles in your stomach.”

Frank grips the glass, and looks from Mikey to the door. “I locked that.”

“It’s got a trick lock,” Mikey says, frowning at Ray’s display of bath products. “It’s easy to open if you know what you’re doing.”

Frank files that away for later and says, “You broke in.”

“I was bringing you water.” Mikey says it as if it’s the most normal thing ever to break into a bathroom that someone is using. Hell, to Mikey it probably is, and when he looks at Frank there’s no guilt evident at all. “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Frank says, and hopes that Mikey believes him. “Probably trapped gas.”

Mikey gives Frank a long look and pushes himself up, says, “That’s the worst. I’ll save you a seat.”

He leaves then, the lock dropping into place behind him, and Frank groans again. Silently this time, as all sexual thoughts are pushed to one side to make room for the kind that have more meaning. For thoughts of someone who brings water when there’s cups in the bathroom and makes no comment when he finds Frank sitting on the toilet, his jeans pulled up and still fully fastened.

~*~*~*~

Frank’s fingered himself before.

Of course he has, he’s got a close and awesome relationship with his own body.

Knees bent, heels pushed into the covers, Frank slips his lube-slick finger into his ass.

And it’s good, it is, but he knows with someone else it has to be better.

~*~*~*~

Waking up is never easy. Frank hates the inevitable moment when he has to finally get up, leaving behind warm covers and soft blankets for an icy floor and rooms just that side of too cold.

Long practice lets him roll out of bed, a blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, slithering against the floor as Frank hurries toward the bathroom, needing to piss, and drink coffee and if there’s actually anything edible, grab something for breakfast.

Kicking at the door, Frank hitches his blanket up at the front and heads for the toilet, pushing his boxers to one side as he aims and pisses, only sprinkling his blanket a little. All the time Frank’s eyes are half closed, sticky at the corners, and he rubs them with the back of his hand.

Not risking a glance in the mirror, Frank rinses his hands, taking a moment to enjoy the warm water, then makes for the kitchen. Inevitably it’s a disaster zone, the counters cluttered and takeout cartons piled up on top of the trashcan. Grimacing as he walks through something sticky, Frank stands on one foot, rubbing the sole of the other against the blanket as he flips open the lid of the coffeemaker and removes the old grounds.

Carefully, he sets them inside an empty noodle carton and grabs a new filter, efficiently putting it into place before adding coffee and water. That done, Frank rests against the counter, yawning as he contemplates braving the fridge.

On one hand, he’s hungry, on the other, he has to be really hungry to face the furred something that lurks at the back. Frank knows it used to be rice, but at this point it resembles a ball of green fluff. Which is cool, but also fucking gross and Frank’s not sure if he’s up to risking looking inside.

Thankfully, it seems that he doesn’t have to. Frank watches the door when he hears someone fumbling with the locks from outside. It’s either the most inept burglar ever, or Mikey coming home late.

Another lock clicks open and then, finally, Mikey’s walking inside, bringing the cold in with him. It’s seeped into his coat and hat, waves of frosty air creating a freezing halo as he shuts the door and takes a moment to just shiver.

“I’m making coffee.” Wrapped in his blanket, Frank can afford to be magnanimous, especially when Mikey’s nose is bright red and his eyes watering, his shoulders and the bottom of his pants soaked through with snow. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Good.” Mikey’s voice is muffled under the layers of his scarf. Starting to unwind it, he leaves wet footprints when he hangs up his coat and puts his mittens on one of radiators that never provide enough heat. Down to two layers, Mikey wipes under his nose with his hand, and eyes the coffeemaker as he heads toward Frank.

Frank watches him walk, taking in how Mikey’s movements are stiff and how he holds himself carefully as if weighing each step. It’s like he’s frozen beyond just the outside and Frank says, “Tell me you didn’t walk home?”

Mikey shakes his head, and stands next to Frank. “Got a ride. And I got spanked last night.”

“Well that explains it,” Frank says slowly, and stares at Mikey, trying to understand how he can so casually drop something like that into conversation. But of course as always the answer is because he’s Mikey, it’s just what he does. “So what, this is one of the things that you’re trying?”

Frank’s got no choice but to ask, even if he doesn’t he knows Mikey’s going to provide the details and at least this way Frank can keep charge of the conversation. Or that’s what he tells himself as Mikey arranges himself so he can look at both Frank and the dripping coffee.

“The pain thing, yeah,” Mikey says, like he’s discussing the change in the weather. “I mentioned liking it and they suggested starting with spanking.”

Instantly Frank’s got multiple questions. Who ‘they’ actually are, are they trustworthy, does Mikey know the fuck what he’s doing, and especially, the pain thing. But what Frank hears himself saying is, “They spanked you with their hand?”

“At first.” Mikey reaches past Frank, elbowing him out of the way. “There’s enough for one mug.”

One mug that by rights should be Frank’s, but he’s frozen in place, unable to stop picturing Mikey bent over some stranger’s knee, his pants down and their hand raised. It’s something Frank never thought he’d imagine, but now that he has he can’t seem to stop, and he pulls the blanket around himself more securely, needing more details. “Your stories suck, what do you mean at first?”

Frank’s trying not to sound too eager, like all he’s doing is showing interest like the awesome friend that he is. Which he seems to have achieved as Mikey fills his mug, coffee hissing as it hits the warming plate before Mikey slots back the jug. He takes a drink and then says, “They used their hand first, and after that a paddle.”

“A paddle,” Frank repeats. His face feels hot and his stomach clenches and he’s not sure if he’s turned on or wanting to punch someone for daring to hit Mikey. “Like a boat paddle?”

“ A smaller version, yeah.” Mikey’s cradling his mug in his hands and his mouth is screwed up to one side. “It was good, more intense than a hand.”

Now Frank knows he’s turned on, any anger draining as he takes in Mikey’s expression and how his cheeks have flushed red as he darts out his tongue, licking at his lower lip.

“I didn’t think I’d get to the end, but you settle into it.” Mikey ducks his head, as if caught in some memory, something that leaves him more at ease in himself than Frank’s seen for a while. Then he looks up and and says, “But next time I want something padded to bend over, the table was too hard.”

Frank knows he’s blushing, he can feel his face burning and turns to get his own mug, hiding the fact that he’s so obviously turned on. It’s like Mikey’s uncovered some hidden love of kink that Frank didn’t even know that he had, and the image of Mikey over someone’s knee is replaced with Mikey bent over their kitchen table, his ass bare and reddened. It’s like Frank’s own personal porno, but one that’s starring his best friend.

“You’re going to do it again?” Frank asks, relieved that at least he sounds normal.

“Fuck yeah.” There’s a brief pause and then Mikey adds, “Next time I’m going to try flogging, or a cane.”

Frank keeps his back to Mikey, taking refuge in forced humour. “You’ve always bitched when I tried to hit you with a stick.”

“Because it wasn’t the right kind,” Mikey says in reply.

~*~*~*~

Frank readily admits to both his turn-ons and fantasies.

He likes tits and asses and dark eyes, to imagine sex outdoors or being blown on the stage as the audience screams out his name. He likes to hold people down or settle in for make-out sessions that can go on for hours, or to jerk off to thoughts of blow jobs and being fucked and eating a girl out.

Frank also likes porn, from the most vanilla to stuff that he's watched by mistake -- and the extreme stuff that wasn't a mistake in the slightest.

What he doesn’t do is fantasise about Mikey. At least, Frank didn’t -- lately it’s been an everyday thing and yet again Frank’s escaped to the shower, one hand against the wall and his body angled away from the plastic curtain that’s spotted with mold.

Frank’s holding his dick, jerking himself off as he pictures Mikey bent over their table, Mikey’s body tense as Frank stands behind him ready to spank. Frank groans and fucks his own fist, imagining the slap of skin against skin, the sounds Mikey would make with each smack of Frank’s hand.

It’s a turn on Frank never expected, and that it’s focused on Mikey only gives it more edge. One where Frank’s never wanted to physically hurt him, but now he can’t help thinking of doing just that. Being the one who uses his hand, or is in charge of the paddle, making Mikey come apart with each hit. At least that’s what Frank imagines would happen, they haven’t talked enough to be sure, and he’s not about to ask.

Which is another reason Frank shouldn’t do this, he hasn’t got a clue about this kind of kink, and stumbling into it blindly would be wrong, but somehow he can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like Mikey’s words are seared into Frank’s brain, and as hard as Frank tries to push them away, it’s never enough.

“I’m coming in.”

It’s the only warning Frank gets, and he stills, clasping his dick as the bathroom door opens and Mikey walks into the room. It’s like he’s torturing Frank deliberately, only the thin curtain between them as Frank watches Mikey’s shadowy figure stand over the toilet and pull down his zipper.

“They’ll be here soon,” Mikey says, starting to piss. “You need to go out and buy more beer.”

“You need to get it.” Minutely, Frank moves his hips, so fucking hard and turned on that even that tiny movement leaves him weak-kneed. It doesn’t help that Mikey’s right there, his hand on his own dick and Frank’s the biggest pervert alive, and also lives with the most oblivious idiot ever as Mikey shakes off and gives his hands a perfunctory rinse at the sink.

It means he’s standing even closer, enough that all Frank has to do is reach out and touch. He moves his hips once again, so close that he’s sure he’s about to come with Mikey standing right there.

“You drank the last bottle.” Mikey’s leaning forward, peering at himself in the mirror and Frank’s mostly sure he can’t see how Frank’s rubbing his thumb over the head of his dick, or hear when Frank bites back a gasp, his hips jerking forward.

“We’d still need more than one bottle, asshole,” Frank manages to say, and he tightens his grip, fucking his hand in tiny, barely there thrusts. “And more chips.”

“You ate all of those too,” Mikey says, and turns to the side, his hand raised as if he’s about to pull back the curtain. “It’s fucking freezing out there.”

Frank’s heart is thundering and he keeps his head under the spray, water hitting his dick and sliding over his slick fingers. On an out breath he says, “Sucks to be you.”

“I hate you.” Mikey’s apparently adjusting his glasses, and the realisation hits hard. Relief and adrenalin combining with the images Frank keeps in his head and he’s trying his best to hang on, to not actually come when Mikey’s standing so close.

“I hate you too,” Frank says in reply, and he’s the biggest creep ever, barely able to stay still until, finally, Mikey leaves the room.

As soon as the door shuts behind him Frank’s gives up his control, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he speeds up his pace. His head down, mouth open, water dripping from the end of his nose, Frank reaches out with his free hand, his fingers slipping against the wall with its layer of soap scum.

Frank’s panting for breath, his hips and hand working together, the room filling with steam once again and making him sweat. And he’s close, so close, his balls tight and his whole body hot as he drags the heel of his hand of the head of his cock, the pressure enough to leave Frank feeling off-balance.

Another hard stroke and Frank groans, lost in the feel of his own hand and he’s going to slip and break his neck, be found naked and spent on the floor with come on his belly, but Frank doesn’t care. All he cares about is needing to end this, tightening his hand just that little bit more, pornographic images in his mind and saying Mikey’s name.

Frank snaps his hips forward and finally he’s coming, his eyes closed and water cascading over his back before swirling away down the drain as Frank slumps forward, glad of the support of the wall as his legs shake and he strokes his cock gently, shuddering at this last, almost too much, touch.

~~~~~~

Finding Gerard sprawled on their couch isn’t new, but it does feel awkward, especially when Frank’s only wrapped in his towel, his still sensitive dick a reminder of what he’s been doing.

It doesn’t help that Frank’s got no idea how long that Gerard’s been there. For all Frank knows he came in when Mikey was leaving, and has been there all the time while Frank was jerking off to the thought of spanking his brother.

At that thought Frank’s dick twitches again, and he tries to adopt a normal expression, one that conceals the fact he’s a wannabe brother spanking pervert.

“Are you okay?” Gerard’s sitting up, looking concerned. “If you’re still sick we don’t have to write.”

Which, great, obviously Frank’s inner pervert is shining through bright. Trying again, he thinks of something that’s safe. Puppies and good music and the feeling he gets when he walks onto stage -- anything that’s not Mikey’s ass.

“I’m fine.” Frank studies Gerard’s expression, and while he does seem uncertain it doesn’t look like he’s going to throttle Frank with his own towel, which surely he’d do if he’d heard what Frank had just said. “Just cold.”

“Then you should get dressed,” Gerard says, like Frank’s some kind of moron and it’s not Gerard’s fault that Frank’s standing freezing at all. “And I’ll pick the movie.”

“I thought we were writing.” Frank doesn’t make it a question, there’s no need, he knows that while officially this is a meet up to discuss songs for the new record, in reality it’s more touching base and friends hanging out.

Gerard drops to the floor, and knee walks to the stack of DVDs that teeter in a pile next to the TV. “I have been.”

Frank hesitates, wanting to ask questions about what Gerard’s been writing, but mostly Frank needs to get dressed. He takes a step toward his bedroom and warns, “No picking out shit.”

Gerard’s reading the backs of the DVDs, as if he didn’t know each blurb off by heart. At Frank’s words he looks up, making no attempt to hide his grin, “I won’t pick shit if you don’t jerk off again, hearing it once today is enough.”

Frank’s whole body is burning, and when Gerard says nothing else --- thank fuck -- he tries to school his expression. Because while getting heard jerking off isn’t new, the Mikey thing is a whole other matter.

Deciding to brazen it out, Frank starts to unfasten his towel, letting it drop so he’s showing most of his thigh and the top of his pubes. “There’s no need to front, I know you want some of this.”

“Yeah, no,” Gerard says, pretending to shield his eyes. “I don’t want to see that shit.”

“If I had self esteem issues you’d be fucking them up right now.” It’s a statement Frank’s using to distract, and also, to mess with Gerard. His smile hidden, Frank watches as Gerard’s eyes widen and he drops his hand and takes a breath, obviously about to launch into some kind of apology.

“You’ve got a very nice dick, a fucking awesome one I’m sure, it’s just....”

“You don’t trust yourself not to molest me, I know how it is.” Frank rests the flat of his hand over his dick, petting it as he says, “The Frankfurter gets them all.”

Gerard sits back on his heels, any concern wiped away. “Bastard, I know you don’t call your dick the Frankfurter.”

“I could.” Frank’s grinning now, enjoying the joke but also relieved that Gerard’s attention has been directed elsewhere.

Gerard goes back to looking through the DVDs, putting almost every second one aside. “Tell me how that works out for you.”

In reply Frank heads for his room.

~*~*~*~

Frank’s used to Mikey coming home late. Often he doesn’t come back at all and that’s fine. He’s a grown man who can look after himself, and it’s not like Frank ties himself to their apartment either. But when Mikey’s been gone overnight with no contact at all, Frank does start to worry.

Checking his phone once again, Frank’s considering contacting Gerard when there’s the sound of a key in the lock, and then finally, Mikey appears.

He looks fine, wearing the same clothes he went out in and is cradling a takeout cup of coffee in one hand, while keeping his other tucked deep in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s also shivering, snow melting into his hair and shoulders and the lenses of his glasses spotted with water.

“Told you to take your coat.” Frank’s all too aware he sounds like his mom, but what he said stands, Mikey should have taken his coat, even if he was getting a ride from some unknown-to-Frank person.

Mikey toes off his shoes and kicks them into the corner, “I only walked a few blocks, I wanted some coffee so I got dropped off at Coffee Bean.”

“As opposed to getting dropped off at home and not freezing to death.” Frank gives into impulse, rolling his eyes as he adds, “We’ve got coffee here, enough to bathe in the stuff.”

“That would be fucking awesome.” Mikey’s standing in place, lit up in a way that can only mean he’s working out some insane plan that’ll only lead to disaster. It’s a plan Frank’s putting a stop to right now, because he’s a fan of insane plans, he fucking loves insane plans, except when they involve his apartment, and no doubt Mikey being treated for first degree burns.

“You’re not filling the tub with coffee.” And that’s something Frank’s never imagined himself saying, but experience with the Way mindset means it does have to be said.

Mikey shrugs. “It would have got cold anyway.” Draining his coffee he throws the empty cup into the sink and then sits next to Frank, dropping down hard so the sofa creaks and dips at one end. “I’ve got something to show you.”

As statements go it’s ominous, and Frank turns a little to the side, preparing himself as he says, “What?”

“I tried something last night.” Mikey glances at Frank and then trails off, as if unsure what to say. “With someone I met at a club.”

Again Mikey stops talking, and Frank’s too impatient to wait, needing to know what’s got Mikey so unusually reticent. “So, what was it?”

Frank's expecting Mikey to say something out of the box, like he's tried sounding or sploshing or the thousand other things Frank's thought of in the last few weeks. What he doesn't expect is Mikey to simply say, "I had my picture taken."

"That's it?" As confessions go it's anti-climactic and Frank doesn't get how having your picture taken can be sexual at all. Unless.... "Tell me you didn't take pictures of your dick."

"No," Mikey says, and while Frank believes the denial, there's something else there, something that Mikey isn't saying. "At least, not really."

The ‘not really’ is worrying, and Frank’s already thinking damage control, even as he demands, “Just tell me already.”

Mikey pats the pocket of his hoodie and then takes out a slim envelope from inside. “No dick pictures, just erotic photography.”

“Erotic photography.” Frank feels like he’s turned into some kind of parrot, but it’s all he can say as he tries to reconcile the idea of erotic photography with Mikey, who barely suffers having his picture taken and has an aversion to showing much skin. “The fuck?”

“It’s sort of like voyeurism.” Mikey’s picking at a burn hole on the arm of the couch, thumb nail clicking over the melted material. “But being watched by a camera and not people.”

“So it’s voyeurism without being seen.” In Mikey logic it makes sense, but it still doesn’t explain why photos, something that doesn’t seem like Mikey at all.

“I wanted to know how it felt, to be in the spotlight alone,” Mikey says, and he picks up the envelope, opening the flap with a swipe of his fingers. “So I had a few drinks, and it was weird, in this super intense way.”

Frank’s measuring Mikey’s words, ensuring he’s okay with what actually went on and hasn’t been coerced in some way. When Frank’s sure that he sounds fine, that this actually was Mikey’s choice, Frank turns his attention to the photographs, trying his best not to appear too eager to see. “Are you going to show me or not?”

“Oh sure.” Mikey pulls out the photos, handing them over to Frank. “They’re not very good though, and you can’t tell that they’re me.”

Frank doesn’t agree. In fact, he disagrees strongly, enough that it’s taking him all his willpower to look calmly at each photograph and not visibly react. Simply put, the photographs are hot and even more so because of the subject. Swallowing, he takes in the top image, one that’s so blatantly Mikey, even if all you can see is the curve of his back as he sits forward, his head bowed and in shadow, his knees pulled up tight to his chest.

The next is simpler, Mikey’s hands and lower arms only, his wrists bound together with thick rope. Frank wants to take in every detail, but he’s wary of lingering too long, always aware that Mikey is watching.

Mikey leans in, cold still lingering as he points at the image. “That rope fucking tickled, it’s why I prefer cuffs”

“Cuffs are badass,” Frank says, and doesn’t think about Mikey in handcuffs, metal dull and hard and encircling each wrist. At least, that’s what Frank plans, the reality is it’s all he can imagine, until he sees the last picture.

“Fuck.” Frank can’t help the soft exclamation, his heart racing as he looks at Mikey stretched out on a bed, his fingers white where he’s gripping the headboard and one leg bent to the side. It’s a position that allows a glimpse of his dick, dark in shadow and only enough to be teasing, and a stark contrast to the rest of his body, his back an expanse of pale skin, and his ass turned bright red.

“That’s one of the last pictures.” Mikey’s still leaning in close, his head close to Frank’s. “Luc’s got fucking big hands.”

“You still do that?” Frank hopes he sounds normal, a casual question about spanking between two friends. “The spanking shit.”

“Sometimes.” Mikey sits upright, grimacing as he pushes his damp hair away from his neck. “”I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me up later.”

“Sure,” Frank says, distracted as he lines up the photographs, lingering and making sure they’re perfect as Mikey stands, the envelope fluttering to the floor as he yawns and heads for his room.

Frank looks up, watching how Mikey’s walking, matching the slight stiffness to the pictures Frank’s holding. Pictures Frank should have given back. And Frank will, later, when Mikey’s had the sleep that he needs.

~*~*~*~

Frank keeps the photographs tucked under his mattress.

Despite being careful within days they’re all curled at one corner, Frank’s finger and thumb leaving their mark. Pinching as Frank works his cock with one hand, and holds the photos with the other.

Mikey never asks where they’ve gone.

Frank never tells him.

~*~*~*~

The problem is, as much as Frank has this thing, it’s a thing that can go nowhere.

Frank likes Mikey -- a whole fucking lot -- and he’s hot in a way that Frank wishes wasn’t true. At least sometimes, when Frank’s burning his fingers on the stove because Mikey cracked his neck or is doing something that shouldn’t be hot and yet is.

It’s like Frank’s carrying a bomb of newly discovered sexual feelings, one that’s on a hair-trigger and keeps exploding. Which sucks, because right now Frank’s on a 5 frantic jerk offs a day habit, and it’s leaving him with a dick like an elephant’s trunk, all chafed and slightly swollen.

What Frank needs is to go cold turkey, remind himself that Mikey’s off limits and then go find himself someone more appropriate to ogle, like Orlando Bloom or the girl who works at the deli.

Of course knowing that is one thing, actually doing that is a different matter.

It doesn’t help that Mikey’s always there, zombie-like first thing in the morning and then sprawled out on the couch as they watch TV late through the night. They go to shows together and travel together and turn up at band meetings as one unit.

The only time they’re apart are the times Frank goes out with his own friends or visits his mom, and it’s driving Frank slowly insane. It’s why he focuses in on the bad parts. That Mikey’s managed to plug the shower drain with his hair yet again and that the dishes have been left for days and the rice fuzz in the fridge seems to be gaining in size hourly.

It’s better to think about that and not fixate on Mikey’s hands and how they’d look encircled with cuffs, or how he’d sound when Frank would spank him or how Mikey’s due in any moment and will no doubt tell Frank all about his night.

“Seriously, is it so hard to pick up a mug?” Frank mutters, rescuing an empty mug that’s half hidden under a pile of magazines. Taking it into the kitchen he adds it to the rows of other empty mugs and considers washing them up, or leaving them to fester, which would be a better option. But that comes along with the risk of Mikey actually using one of the fetid mugs, or a repeat of the day he actually drank from a jar.

Really, he’s all kinds of gross and Frank shudders as he uses a spoon to pick up some mouldy something> from inside one of the mugs.

“Fucking gross fucker,” Frank says, and catapults the mould so it hits the overflowing stack of garbage in the trash can. For a moment it looks like the whole pile is about to collapse, and Frank takes a wary step back, relieved when things settle.

Making a mental note to demand Mikey actually takes out the trash, Frank holds his breath and opens the fridge, snatching out a cold bottle of beer. Hitting it open on the scarred side of the counter he takes a drink, looking at his watch when he hears someone start to open the door.

Like some kind of deviant Pavlov’s cock Frank’s dick twitches and he palms it through his pants, a restraining touch only as he takes another drink and goes to claim the side of the couch that comes without exposed springs in the corner.

When Mikey comes inside he brings in a blast of cold and the sickly scent of alcohol and fast food. Shrugging out of his coat he hangs it on the nail in the wall and then pulls off his hat, resulting in a combination of flat hat hair and sticking up tufts that Frank’s mostly sure isn’t intentional.

Making no attempt to hide his amusement, Frank says, “Good night?”

“It got interesting,” Mikey says, swaying a little as he pulls a wrapped package out of his coat pocket. “I got you a burrito.”

“Give it here.” Suddenly starving, Frank catches the burrito that’s thrown his way, the foil wrapper unrolling as he does so. Looking at the beans on his lap and squished between his fingers, Frank says, “Have you been eating this?”

“Only the outside.” Mikey lowers himself down next to Frank and starts to take off his boots, his movements slow and deliberate. Instantly Frank’s attention is pulled to Mikey’s back, where his t-shirt has pulled up, exposing only pale skin where Frank expected to see at least touches of red. Surprised, Frank tears off a piece of the tortilla and waves his hand in Mikey’s direction.

“You didn’t.... You know.”

Thankfully it seems Mikey does know, and he keeps on unfastening his boots, working at the knotted laces as he says, “I hooked up with someone else.”

Frank scoops up a handful of beans, eating them off of his fingers as he waits, sure that Mikey will add more details. Because that’s just what he does, be an over-sharing, cock-teasing bastard.

“Two someone elses,” Mikey says casually, and pulls off his boot. Wiggling his toes he peels off his sock, throwing it to one side without looking. “One of them fucked me and I sucked the other one off.”

“At the same time?” Frank manages to ask, relieved he sounds normal despite the white-hot fireworks going off inside of his head.

Mikey nods, and he’s still leaning forward, curled so the back of his neck is exposed. “It was good, all I could do was relax and take it.”

Glad that Mikey’s not looking, Frank closes his mouth before he starts drooling. He also crosses his legs, hiding his boner that lately has been hard-wired to Mikey

“You’d better be using protection,” and god, Frank sounds like his mom, but it’s a worry that’s lurking behind the initial reaction of hot.

Mikey pulls off his second boot and sock, looking at Frank through his hair that’s fallen forward in wet clumps. “I’m not stupid.”

Frank meets Mikey’s look with one of his own, because yeah, Mikey’s not stupid, but Frank still had to ask.

“Yes, I used it,” Mikey says, sounding long-suffering. Sitting up straight, he cracks his knuckles and neck and then slumps so he’s listing against Frank. “It was good, like giving up control, you know?”

Frank does know, to an extent, and he thinks of how it feels when he’s playing on stage, his mind on nothing but music. It’s his step back from the real world and while he’s never achieved that with sex, he can see how the similarities would work.

“We went to their apartment, it was close to the club so we walked.” One handed, Mikey tears off a piece of tortilla, shaking off any filling. Chewing, he lies heavy against Frank and then says, “They shoved their tongues in my ass, both of them taking turns to open me up.”

It’s an abrupt jump from walking to ass licking and Frank’s got his mouth shut, clamping back the groan that’s trying to get out.

“They were good at it too, like they’d done it together before,” Mikey says, his head against Frank’s and mouth far too close to Frank’s neck. “One of them held my leg up and Jack started with the licking and it was weird at first because I’d been sweating and that had to taste fucking gross but he was super into it.”

Frank’s in hell. He knows that he is because Mikey’s breathing against his neck and he won’t stop fucking talking, saying stuff that should be filthy but all Frank can do is try to sit still and not give in to the urge to jerk himself off right now.

“Then they finger-fucked me together,” Mikey says, like he’s telling Frank they’d had chips followed by pizza. “I didn’t think I could take it at first but they went slow, the dildo I’ve been using probably helped too.”

“You’ve been using a dildo?” Frank’s voice cracks and he thinks this isn’t the detail he should be focusing in on, but it’s something he needs to know and now that he’s comfortable Mikey will be minutes from sleep.

“Hmmmm, yeah.” Mikey’s breathing is slowing and he tucks up one knee. “I’m tired.”

“Then go to bed, ass,” Frank says, and gives Mikey a push. “You don’t want to sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t,” Mikey agrees. Sluggish, he stands, stumbling as he makes for his bedroom, wiggling his fingers at Frank before going inside.

As soon as he’s gone Frank’s jumps to his feet, almost running to his bedroom as he opens his pants.

~*~*~*~

Searching Mikey’s room is approaching a level of crazy that should leave Frank feeling embarrassed.

Reaching under the mattress and opening drawers he keeps telling himself to back off, to go do something else before Mikey comes back and finds Frank rummaging through his underwear like some kind of stalker. Which Frank is, but it’s all Mikey’s fault. He knows Frank, and that means he knows he can’t casually mention using a dildo without Frank wanting to see.

Of course the right thing to do would be to ask. Mikey would have showed him, probably given too many details as always and Frank could have gone on with his life with nothing worse than cementing his reputation as a nosy best friend. Instead he’s given in to impulse and is kneeling on the floor, an avalanche of damp tissues falling onto his hand as he opens the bedside cabinet drawer.

Inside there’s Mikey’s spare glasses, strips of painkillers and yet more crumpled up tissues, and at the back, a dildo. It’s black and huge and Frank’s reaching out to touch before he pulls back his hand and slams the drawer shut.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank sits on the bed, his head in his hands because this really is going too far. Frank needs to get out of the apartment and get some fresh air, and he needs to do that now.

~~~~~

“I need to join creepy-over-sexed-anonymous,” Frank announces, pushing past Ray and into the warmth. “Or be chemically castrated.”

“I’d recommend the first.” Ray shuts the door and holds out his hands, taking Frank’s scarf, gloves and hat as Frank pulls each item off. Hanging them to dry on the back of a chair Ray says, “Any particular reason?”

“Fucking, Mikey,” Frank says, fumbling with his coat zip, his fingers frozen and numb.

“Ah,” Ray says, as if that explains everything and Frank yanks at the zipper, glad that Ray understands.

“He’s been telling you too?” Frank yanks at the zipper again, snow falling from his shoulders when finally his coat falls open. Slipping it off, Frank goes to hang it up on the hook by the door. “He keeps telling me shit, like describing how he’s been getting spanked and tied up, and fuck, last night he told me about getting his ass licked and then fucked by two guys. He’s like a fucking porno and I think my dick’s going to drop off.”

Ray’s not replying, and Frank stands perfectly still, his hand still clutching his wet coat, realisation setting in as he says slowly, “You didn’t mean his sex thing, did you?”

“I thought he’d blocked the drain again,” Ray says, and when Frank turns he sees the tail end of Ray’s pained expression before he adopts sympathy instead. “He’s telling you about his sex life?”

“All the fucking time.” There’s no point Frank hiding that fact, he’s already spewed out the details and even if Ray didn’t know he’ll still listen. That’s one of the things that make him so awesome and Frank kicks off his shoes and then drops onto Ray’s couch, needing somewhere comfortable to tell his sordid story. “He’s on this fucking sexual journey of adventure, and he keeps coming back and sharing all the details. Being fucked, some girl tying him up, he even got his picture taken, he never gets his picture taken but apparently it’s different when he’s tied up and naked.”

Frank can’t seem to stop himself talking, even when Ray’s sympathetic expression falters a moment and he obviously hesitates before sitting next to Frank. “So Mikey over-shares sometimes, that’s not new.”

“I know that.” Frustrated, Frank pulls out his wallet, opening it up and looking behind old receipts, cards and pictures of his family before finding one of the photographs he’s hidden of Mikey. “Look.”

It’s not Frank’s favourite, that one’s at home, in easy reach of Frank’s bed. But this one should get the message across and Frank shoves the picture toward Ray. “This is one of the tame ones.”

Ray takes the photograph, his brow furrowed. “I hope he’s being careful with those ropes, they could fuck up his wrists and his playing.”

Frank stares, because how’s it possible Ray can bypass the point so completely? “He’s being careful, but that’s not the point.”

“And should you even have it?” Ray goes on, ignoring Frank completely. “What if some fan sees it and knows that it’s Mikey?”

This isn’t how Frank saw it going at all and he’s seconds away from shaking Ray until he actually understands. “It’s Mikey’s hands, no one will recognise him from them, and even if they did Gerard would probably run with the aesthetic.”

“Oh fuck no, don’t even think that.” Ray’s frowning, his mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m not wearing a collar on stage, and leather chaps chafe when I’m playing.”

Frank grins, delighted Ray’s left himself so open for teasing. Except, thinking of Ray in a collar leads to thoughts of Gerard introducing some kind of band uniform and Frank’s left imagining Matt drumming in leather, Gerard in a harness and Mikey....

“Fuck.” Frank curls up, hands over his boner and head full of images of Mikey wearing a cock cage, a dark leather collar snug to his neck, the ring glinting as he plays on stage. “I hate you.”

“I’m assuming that’s not caused by me.” Ray’s not smiling, but he does sound amused because he’s a traitorous, insensitive bastard and Frank really does hate him.

“I should go rub one out on your bed,” Frank says, and regrets it within seconds when his dick loves that idea -- a lot.

Ray does grin then. “Sorry, my bed has a no strange sperm policy, but if you want to go to the bathroom I’ll pretend I can’t hear.”

It’s tempting, in the way that Frank’s dick feels like it’s going to explode. But if he gives in now he’s on a slippery slope where he’ll end up jerking off behind stages and in gas station bathrooms and probably be one of those creepers who keep their hands down their pants when walking around.

Frank doesn’t want to be that creeper. He can’t be, and he gives his dick a soft stroke and then says, “I don’t know what to do.”

Ray’s smile fades and he pats Frank’s knee. “Start by telling me what your problem is.”

“This.” Frank indicates his crotch, wondering when Ray became so clueless and blind. “I’ve got a hard on for Mikey. All I have to do is look at him and I pop a boner.”

Ray stares at Frank, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “Is it like the hard on you get for Legolas or for the things Mikey’s doing, or is it Mikey himself?”

As conversations go this has to be one of the most embarrassing ever. Not because of the boners, that kind of discussion is nothing unusual and Frank’s got no issues with mentioning morning wood, or even using it to poke the unsuspecting in the ear.

The same goes for turn-ons. But discussing fucking someone’s tits while crammed in the back of a van for countless boring hours is in no way comparable to sitting on Ray’s sofa and admitting how Frank wants to spank Mikey, or watch his face when Frank ties him up and fucks him with a dildo.

“What he’s doing,” Frank eventually says and considers leaving it at that, but Ray’s remaining quiet, waiting for more and Frank adds, “And Mikey himself.”

Ray doesn’t seem surprised, just nods slightly and says, “And you don’t want that?”

It’s a good question, but it’s one Frank’s not sure he can answer. Sexual activities aside, it’s Mikey who’s the focus of all Frank’s new feelings, but as far as Frank knows it’s an attraction that’s ruled by his dick.

Not that Frank’s ever going to find out. “”I want to stop almost creaming my pants every time that I see him.”

“I’d say avoid him for a while but considering you’re joined at the hip that won’t work.” Ray sits back, his legs crossed as he examines the photograph he’s still holding. “And you should get rid of this.”

It makes sense, getting rid of something that’s only helping with Frank’s obsession. It’s why he holds out his hand and says, “I’ll give it back to Mikey.”

And knows that he’s lying even as he says it.

~*~*~*~

As soon as he wakes Frank knows that he’s sick.

Long experience has made him a master of warning signs, recognising the tickle in the back of his throat and the hitch in his breathing as he rolls out of bed.

At first he tries to deny the inevitable, dressing in extra layers and starting to make himself breakfast, but every bite of toast tastes like sawdust and even his coffee looks unappealing. Mug clutched in his hands, Frank keeps it close to his mouth, not drinking but breathing in the warm heat.

“You should have stayed in bed.”

Frank startles and opens his eyes, surprised to see Mikey standing watching. He’s dressed in his sleep clothes, ratty sweat pants low on his hips, a blanket held around his shoulders and his glasses have slipped to the end of his nose. Mikey pushes them back with his finger, yawning as he takes shuffling steps closer.

In the short time he’s been awake Frank’s head has started to ache, and each breath is raspy as he sets down his coffee, knowing he’s not going to drink it. Frank rubs at his eyes and says, “I’m fine.”

“For a creature of the undead.” Mikey’s close but makes no attempt to actually touch, Instead he just looks, and then turns, grabbing Frank’s abandoned coffee before heading for the sofa. “It’s too early.”

“It’s after eleven,” Frank says, watching as Mikey takes the side with the exposed spring and grabs the control, switching on the TV. “And you shouldn’t drink that.”

“I thought you were fine.” Mikey tucks up his legs and starts to channel surf, stopping on an episode of Jerry Springer. Watching for a moment he announces, “It’s an episode about baby daddies, and I just used your toothbrush, I’m already exposed.”

“It was yours first.” Frank pushes himself up, his hand against the counter for balance. “Aren’t they all about baby daddies?”

Mikey points the remote at Frank and then back to the TV. “That and adultery, remember, we saw that one where the grandma cheated with her daughter’s husband and then married the dog.”

“I’d have married that dog, it was fucking awesome.” Frank drops down heavily next to Mikey, wheezing from walking the short distance. “I wouldn’t wear the dress, though.”

“Wasn’t it a boy dog?” Mikey’s opening and then tugging at his blanket, arranging it so it’s covering Frank too. “I suppose if you’re marrying a dog, gender clothing expectations are irrelevant.”

Cold, Frank shivers, pulling the blanket closer and tucking himself against Mikey’s side. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, Mikey too bony for actual easy lounging and the couch dips in the middle, throwing Frank off-balance. His eyes closing he rests his head against Mikey’s chest, knowing he needs to go out and get meds. But not yet, right now all Frank’s going to do is watch some TV, the arguments and screaming washing over him as he slips into sleep.

~~~~~

“Frank, you need to drink this.”

Frank groans, batting his hand toward Mikey.

“Open your mouth and then swallow.”

Mikey’s not going away, and there’s a feel of something against Frank’s lips, tablets and then a straw slipped into Frank’s mouth.

“Drink, Frank.”

Frank does, the water cool against the crushed glass that’s lining his throat.

Then he sleeps once again.

~~~~~~~

“Mikey?” Frank’s voice is little more than a rasp, painful to hear and feeling even worse when he actually speaks. His body aching and chest tight, Frank tries to wiggle out of the blanket, so hot that it feels like he’s burning.

“You’re awake.” Mikey kneels at the side of the couch, helping Frank get himself free. “You left me watching Jerry alone.”

Frank would say that he’s sorry, but he’s too busy trying to roll onto his side, stretching out as best as he can.

“I bought you your meds, Gerard came over and watched you so you didn’t die in your sleep.” Mikey throws the blanket over the back of the sofa and touches Frank’s face with the back of his hand. “You feel a bit cooler.”

Frank doesn’t feel cooler. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, sweat-damp and miserable as he tries to sit up. “I’m sick.”

“No shit.” Mikey steadies Frank, ensuring he’s sitting upright “I got that cough medicine you like, and some tissues.”

Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, recognising the aftertaste of medicinal cherries. “You gave me cough medicine?”

“I poured some in your mouth,” Mikey says, perfectly blasé. “It was open so I took the opportunity.”

It’s all too easy to imagine what Frank would have looked like, his nose red and mouth open, and no doubt drooling. Wiping his nose on his hand, Frank watches as Mikey reaches for the remote and turns up the volume. “You’re dressed.”

“I am,” Mikey agrees. Still holding the remote he goes to the kitchen, coming back with two mugs held in one hand, his fingers through both of the handles. “I made you tea.”

Frank holds out his hand, beyond the point of caring if the mugs are dirty inside. “With honey and lemon.”

“Two squeezes of bear.” Mikey hands over the tea, and then sits next to Frank, perched on the edge of the couch. “If you’re hungry I bought soup.”

“Maybe later.” Frank takes a sip of his tea, enjoying the warmth and cloying sweetness

Getting himself comfortable, Mikey sits back, balancing his mug of coffee against one of his knees. “Your mom said to call if you’re dying, otherwise she’ll see you on Sunday.”

Frank’s eyes are heavy and he stifles a yawn, feeling sluggish and dry-eyed. “She called?”

Mikey nods. “This afternoon. I answered your phone.”

Frank inclines his head slightly, grimacing at the resulting dull ache. It feels like his brains are liquid inside of his head and he struggles to make sense of the time, sure last time he looked it was well before lunch. “It’s late?”

Mikey takes a drink of his coffee and then puts it down on the floor, taking Frank’s mug when he starts to let it list to the side. “Nearly ten.”

“You’re here.” That’s something else that doesn’t make sense, Frank vaguely remembering Mikey telling how he was meeting up with some guy. Not that Frank can remember who or where, just he knows Mikey shouldn’t be here now.

“I cancelled, told him something more important came up.”

Frank sniffs and wipes his nose on his hand. “You mean me, right?”

Mikey holds up his arm, letting Frank settle in close so they’re sitting in a clammy, over-heated, sweaty huddle on one side of the couch. “You and Jerry, and a fuckload of baby daddies.”

“No dogs?” Frank asks, watching the screen through his lashes, and then, “If I marry that dog you have to be bridesmaid.”

Mikey rests his hand on Frank’s arm, sounding serious as he says, “As long as there’s no butt bows.”

Frank smiles and closes his eyes.

~*~*~*~

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