Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Frank Iero sighed heavily as he pulled into a parking spot close to the door of the club. Rain misted down, slicking the pavement, pulling the lurid purple and turquoise of its neon sign into a gleaming puddled reflection. On rainy asphalt the neon became an abstract swirl that he was itching to photograph.

He thought of his camera and gear gathering dust in the garage, nearly as dusty as the guitars displayed on the wall of what his wife called his “man cave.” The stupidly hetero phrase made him wince, although it was cavelike: a dark nook lined with a sagging couch, an old flat screen, vintage horror movie posters, and sports memorabilia. He hosted infrequent game nights there. Game nights in the Frank cave consisted of a few guys coming over to eat chips, drink beer, watch sports, and talk shit about their near-mythic glory days.
Those guys, coworkers and a few dads from the neighborhood, would shit themselves if they saw him here, cowering in his fucking Range Rover at a gay strip club. His wife would be on the phone with her father and his lawyer within a minute, plotting Frank’s demise.
He was out of place, or maybe he wasn't, maybe places like Fairytails were havens for the frustrated middle-aged man. He'd driven into the city, avoiding the joints near home where he might be recognized, but his nerves were still shredded with the image of his boss or father-in-law cruising by.

He popped a Tums from the container in his pocket, his stomach still sour from lunch, a big client meeting where he’d politely stuffed himself with the subpar pasta they’d catered in. He chased it with a swig of water and sighed again. He’d never felt less horny, less into giving attention to whatever Brazilian-waxed twinks were shaking their asses in there. He'd had to do something though, had to get away from the Jersey burbs and the 2500 sq ft brick two-story and the in-laws and the neighbors' stories about golf and lawn care, escape his wife’s pinched eyebrows and disappointed frown. An NYC gay bar was about as good as he could manage on a Thursday night, and at least he could get drunk in a faraway setting.

He heaved himself out of the driver’s seat, feeling about 70 years old with his twisted stomach, aching spine, popping knees, and dad paunch. He looked ruefully back at the vehicle that was as anonymous as his house and job. The backseat that had never been littered by crayons or Cheerios because his youngest had always been chauffered around by the nanny.
His kids deserved better than a broken-down yes man who’d given up on life.
Christ, he needed a drink.

The blond twink at the door, with silver booty shorts and pierced nipples, whose eyes lit up when Frank walked in, didn’t see all that. Stress hadn’t ruined his handsomeness yet, and he’d come straight from work in the sharply tailored suit that was his uniform. The suit and the tattoos that peeked out from it, remnants of a wild youth, spoke of money and danger. In Fairytails, Frank Iero was a head turner, dad bod and all.

“Hey there honey,” the blond cooed, running a hand along his forearm. “Let me get you a nice booth near the stage.”

“Not too close,” Frank bit out, trying to conceal his nerves. “I like my privacy.”

“Of course, sir,” his host smirked, now certain he was escorting a crime lord to the dark leather-upholstered booth.

He was starting on his second semi-decent scotch when he finally started to relax. The booth was dimly lit and comfortable, the room smelled of leather and citrusy body spray, and the dancer leaving the stage had been a sight, unwrapping hot pink spandex from his body as he did a dirty grind to Lil Nas X.

Not Frank's type of music really, but he dug the vibe, and the small crowd around the stage was hyped, dollar bills flying from their hands. He wasn't ready to dance on a pride parade float with his ass hanging out of denim cutoffs just yet, but there was a camaraderie here that made him long to leave his life behind for good. There were places, strange and wonderful, he could go, people who would accept him. Frank considered himself bisexual, but the dull prison of his marriage had made him ache for a more exciting life that he'd never really gotten to experience.

A good Catholic boy who'd fronted a punk band in high school and shortly after, he'd abided by his parents' wishes to finish college and pursued a psychology degree. He'd met Angela, his wife, there, had knocked her up after a wild house party. A good Catholic herself, she was determined to keep the baby, and Frank felt obligated to marry her. He thought they might have even been in love for awhile, but her overbearing father, who had put him to work as a sales rep for his growing business, and the second child that followed, frayed away at that love till it was a threadbare blanket that barely kept him warm. Angela was always away with her reality show reject girlfriends, while their youngest was constantly being shuttled to and from activities by a virtual stranger. Sex had consisted of perfunctory, increasingly infrequent handjobs for a couple years now, usually with him fantasizing about getting head from whatever hot guy was starring in the romcom they had playing in the background.

He'd had experiences with guys when he was younger, drunken messy encounters in the bathrooms of punk clubs or parties. He'd never dated a guy, and while politically he supported gay rights, he couldn't quite shake the angry voices of the nuns and relatives from his youth.The sharp sting of guilt that had accompanied his youthful adventures had made the pleasure even more intense in the moment, but he was sick for days afterwards. He'd puked after his first time with a male classmate, handjobs in the woods on the outskirts of a bonfire party.
And he found women beautiful, so Angela had felt like his savior in the beginning, his reprieve from a life of stress and guilt and sin.

Frank savored the smoky burn of the scotch, letting it sit on his tongue before he swallowed. Yeah, he'd fucked up alright. Maybe if he hadn't gotten married, had gone to therapy about the Catholic shit...He shook his head and let another mouthful of liquid bliss trail down his throat to his stomach.

The DJ announced the next dancer with a bombastic, "Now for your pleasure, gentleman, welcome the oh so dirty G to the stage!"

To the raunchy throb of Xtina's "Dirrty," a pale, black-clad figure prowled onto the stage. Vinyl-look booty shorts, fishnet tank top, platform combat boots, and fucking KNEE PADS, all black. Strands of chin-length dark hair peeked out from the studded leather cap that was jammed on his head, and Xs of black electrical tape covered his nipples. His routine was insane and intense, his slimly muscled form moving from a choreographed swagger to a kneeling grind to acrobatic flips on the pole so quickly and smoothly that Frank leaned forward in his seat, mouth hanging open. The crowd of suits near the stage was howling, pinwheeling singles in the direction of G's extremely juicy looking ass.

Frank wished he were closer, wanted to see G's face. All he caught under the shadow of the cap brim was a perfectly pointed nose, a chiseled jaw, and a small pink pout that sparkled with gloss. G stuck his tongue out and licked the length of his forearm and over the palm of his hand, grinning and swinging his hips as the suits hooted their approval. He looked like he was having the time of his life, and Frank wanted him suddenly and intensely the way he'd never wanted anyone. He was getting hard in his fucking boxers for this guy.

G didn't remove any clothing at all, he teased the audience, running his hands down his torso and over his own ass and thighs, dropping to his knees again and grabbing the sizeable bulge in his shorts, hips rolling lasciviously. He sank into a backbend, running his hands up under the tank top and pushing it up to reveal pale smooth tummy, then trailing back down to yank down the front of his apparently stretchy shorts as he worked his hips into another grind, showing off his pelvic girdle, the wet looking material of the shorts stretched almost to bursting over his package. When G licked his lips as the crowd screamed, Frank groaned quietly, pressing the heel of his hand against his aching dick for a moment's relief.

The song ended too soon, and G raked up the cash, strutting offstage with stacks of twenties fanning out of his waistband. The stage exit was right by Frank's booth, and G's head swiveled in his direction as he sauntered down the runway. He actually paused and did a double take, curling his fingers into a little wave and putting an extra swing in his hips. Frank's mouth went dry, but he raised his nearly-empty glass to the dancer and inclined his head, his stomach swooping as those glossy pink lips turned up in a smirk.

A Daisy-Duked waiter stopped by to see if he wanted a refill, soft brown eyes falling in disappointment when Frank asked about G.

"Yeah, G," he rolled his eyes. "He's hot, everyone wants a piece. But he comes in once every couple weeks, clears a couple grand every time, doesn't do private dances, barely says a word to anybody. Nobody knows shit about him, could be royalty or a superhero for all we know."

A crisply suited bouncer suddenly materialized at Daisy Duke’s side, whispering in his ear, aiming a sharp, impersonal look at Frank. The waiter huffed and laughed wryly, shaking his head.
“Speak of the devil,” he drawled. “It’s your lucky day, I guess. Just follow Steve.” He pointed at the block of muscle, and Frank rose from the booth without thinking.

“G has requested that you join him in the private room,” Steve murmured in a surprisingly soft voice, and arched an eyebrow, seeming to give Frank a window to back out.

Frank felt like his mouth was full of too much spit, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. His stomach fizzed with anxiety, his nerves frayed. He had no choice but to follow the thick but expensive smelling cloud of cologne that Steve travelled in, slinking back to whatever awaited him in the dark of the backstage VIP. Slouching towards Bethlehem, he mused. He just hoped that he wouldn’t be expected to carry on a conversation.

Steve opened a door at the end of a shadowed, plushly carpeted hallway, and Frank glimpsed the luxurious leather armchair and the small sofa within, dimly lit by glowing overhead lamps. He entered, following the bouncer’s silent hand gesture, and the door closed behind him. Hoping he wouldn’t have a heart attack before G appeared, he sank into the armchair, noticing the table beside him and the glass of amber liquid that sat atop it. He picked it up and sniffed. It was the same scotch he’d been drinking, and he had a small sip, willing it to relax him.

As if on cue, G slipped into the room through a velvet-curtained backstage entrance, a vision of graceful smoothly-muscled paleness. The cap was gone, and his hair was black, or dark brown, the back shorter and the front chin length, the haircut accentuating his gorgeous bone structure. And jesus, he was gorgeous. Doe eyes, framed by long lashes and a smudge of eyeliner, sparkled flirtatiously at him.

Frank exhaled harshly. Was he fucking in love already?

G wore the same outfit otherwise, though he’d done away with the knee pads and removed the tape from his nipples, and Frank saw that they were pale pink and puffy, crisscrossed by fishnet.
He sank gracefully into Frank’s lap, the small of his back against the arm of the chair.

“Hey sugar,” he purred. “What’s your name?”

He took a deep breath and managed to say “Frank,” with a confidence that belied the shiver in his gut and the blood surging into his cock.

G’s lips curved into a glossy smirk and he glanced down almost shyly. Maybe it was an act, maybe not, but it was working.
“I noticed you outside,” he said. “Did you like the way I dance?”

“You could say that.” Frank returned the smirk. Going with G’s shy act made it easier to fake an assertive yet flirty tone.

G smiled as he regarded the floor. He seemed flustered. Maybe he really was shy. The waiter had said he didn’t do private dances.
He looked back up, his face falling into a sultry mask that Frank figured was his stage persona.
“Good,” he said. “Because I want to dance for you again…just for you.” He trailed a fingertip down Frank’s arm, slow and sexy.

Frank raised his eyebrows, and the cockiness worked. G bit his lip, and his blush was convincing. When rose gracefully from his lap, Frank clocked the growing bulge in his shorts. Those things couldn’t lie.

“I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me,” he replied smoothly, inwardly cringing. Maybe that was too much, but G's blush deepened as he turned and sauntered over to the sound system in the corner, selecting a song on some kind of device.

The room filled with a sultry downtempo beat, and G swung his hips as he walked back over. Turning his back to Frank, he was presented with the vision of that heavenly ass encased in slick shiny black, the shorts creeping up between his juicy cheeks as he swayed to the music.
The smoky sigh of a female voice accompanied the music as G arched his back, glancing back at Frank as he caressed his own hips and torso before turning to face him again.
He leaned over to whisper in Frank’s ear, supporting himself on the arms of the chair. Frank was suddenly dizzy with the scent of tobacco, skin musk, and a light, heady floral that seemed to be G’s smell. He smelled like sin, like sex and candy and stolen kisses in dark, dusty bookshops.

“You can touch me…a little,” he whispered, and the sound shot straight to Frank’s groin, prompting memories of inconvenient hardons in church, his adolescent brain stuffed with the pornography of imagination.
“Like this.” And brought Frank’s hand to his hip, where it stayed, gripping lightly.
“Just to hold on, see? And I can touch you…more.” He pulled back, trailing his hand down the front of Frank’s suit jacket.

Frank smirked, squeezing G’s hip, his mouth going spitless as those dark, curled eyelashes fluttered against G's cheeks, and his cock visibly flexed, testing the give of those little shorts. Frank wondered how wet he was getting. G’s arms rose above his head, moving like willow branches on a gentle breeze, body writhing to the beat, lips moving almost imperceptibly to mouth the lyrics of the song.

Bad blood and ghosts wrapped tight around me
Nothin' could ever seem to touch me
I lose what I love most
Did you know I was lost until you found me?

He climbed onto Frank’s lap then, pale thighs gripping his trouser-covered legs, and arched backwards, sinking into a backbend, a wilting flower, the long strands of his hair nearly brushing the floor. Frank was struck breathless. He gripped G’s thighs firmly, telling himself he was just preventing the dancer from falling, and he marveled at the iron flex of muscle, the smoothness of hairless skin. G rolled back up with effortless grace, rising up on his knees and trailing his hands over his chest, belly, inner thighs, those huge liquid eyes nailing Frank down.

A stroke of luck or a gift from God?
Hand of fate or devil's claws?
From below or saints above?
You came to me

He pressed his body close to Frank’s torso, and his need was obvious then, but he was without shame as he cupped Frank’s jaw with a cool hand and lifted his face to meet his gaze, continuing to sing along lowly with the smoky-voiced singer. And then he sank into his lap, pressing their groins together, and Frank smothered a groan as G rolled his hips to the music, his cock throbbing against Frank’s, separated by thin layers of fabric.

"Careful," Frank said thickly. "You're about to go past the point of no return."

G quirked a full, perfectly shaped eyebrow and thrust forward harder, causing them both to gasp. “I’m going exactly where I want to go, Frank.” His tone was assured, but Frank felt the tremor in his thighs, heard his heartbeat pounding as loud as his own.

“Thought you didn’t do private dances,” Frank continued, voice gone deep and husky, sliding his hands up to cup that full perfect ass. Just supporting, not groping.

“First time for everything,” G whispered in his ear. “What do you do, Frank? You’re in a designer suit and you have tattoos on your neck and hands. Are you a gangster? Want me to be your gun moll?” He rotated his hips faster, lips pressing wetly against the scorpion on Frank’s neck.

Frank imagined the glitter of his lip gloss transferred there and his cock twitched in his trousers. Fuck, this absolute succubus was going to make him come in his boxers like a kid.

And he laughed, almost panting. “I’m afraid it’s nothing that sexy.” He gripped G’s ass tighter, and G gave a quiet moan, whimpering as Frank thrust his hips forward. “And you…you gorgeous creature…where did you come from?” he marveled, feeling like someone else, divorced from his body, eons away from the suburban burnout who’d walked through the door an hour earlier.

G giggled, then pulled his hips away, to Frank’s cheated groan. “That’s a tale for another day,” he said lightly, his voice a low hum in his ear. “Want to suck you off, Frank,” he murmured, sliding out of Frank’s grasp and falling fluidly to his knees.

He reached for his zipper, face flushed, eyes bright with desire, his brow cocked in an unspoken question.

Frank nodded, then exhaled “Fuck yes,” just in case G didn’t get the picture.

He smirked, eyes twinkling as he undid his trousers, leaning forward as he pulled his throbbing length from folds of cotton and wool.

“Mmm,” he hummed, dark-honey eyes flashing as he lowered his head and lapped a bead of precum from the tip, his tongue twining sinfully around the crown before he sucked it into his mouth, as if sucking on a sweet.

“Holy fuck,” Frank breathed, bolts of pleasure shooting up his thighs, into his gut, his balls, his cock the swollen red culmination of his hunger.

G glanced up at him again before sinking down, sucking Frank all the way into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as he moaned around his mouthful.

“Jesus, you’re good at that,” Frank panted, threading his hands through G’s dark hair, marveling at its softness. G whimpered as Frank tugged it away from the scalp, guiding him off and then back onto his dick. G’s fingertips dug into Frank’s thighs then, and he opened his mouth wider, drawing a deep breath through his nose as he sank down further, sucking Frank into the opening of his throat. He bobbed his head up and down, to the point of gagging, and then pulled off again, drool leaking from the corners of his plush pink mouth.

He sat back, gasping, jerking Frank slowly, lips swollen, tears spilling from his eyes. “Want you to come in my mouth. Can you, Frank?” he said sweetly, and Frank nodded dumbly, cock twitching in G’s fist, and he honestly didn’t know if he could get back into the wet heaven of his throat before he spilled. G released him and he thrust between those soft lips with a groan, hips pushing forward until he hit the back of his throat again, and he was a wreck, bucking and moaning as his cock pulsed, coming his brains out, pulling out for the last of it and gasping as he jerked himself feverishly, watching the last few spurts of cum decorate G’s waiting tongue.

G closed his eyes as he swallowed, licking his lips with relish. He ground his palm against his hardness, looking up at Frank demurely as he kitten-licked his cock clean. He was the picture of debauchery, his face a beautiful ruin, his hair a tangled mess over his eyes, as he writhed at Frank’s feet, hips stuttering forward towards his own pleasure.

“Let me,” Frank insisted, leaning forward and batting G’s hands away.

“No, no, you don’t have to—” G cried out, but Frank was quick, pulling his beautifully thick pink cock out of the clinging spandex, barely managing to get a hand around it before it pulsed and spurted in his grasp, a whine uncurling from G’s throat as he sank his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Fucking beautiful,” Frank breathed, jacking G slowly until he stopped twitching, his body going limp, face pressed hotly into Frank’s arm as he tried to catch his breath.

He tilted G’s chin up, making him watch as he licked the cum from his hand, and G grinned, dazed, full cheeks flushed red. He pulled him forward, catching his soft, baby pink lips in a kiss that tasted of them both, and G melted into it for a moment before breaking the kiss, becoming flustered as he tucked himself back into his shorts and rose on shaky legs.

Frank felt a twinge in his gut. “Sorry if that’s not allowed, but—" he gestured broadly between them, trying to indicate the intimacy of what had just taken place.

G made a noncommittal noise and waved him off as he pulled his outfit back into order and ran fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it.
“It was fun, yeah?” he cooed, eyes glittering, the stage mask in place once again. “And by the way, sugar, that one was on the house.” He winked.

Frank sputtered as he extracted his hand from his jacket pocket, where he’d been reaching for his wallet. The haze of lust that had lent him confidence had dissipated, and he was lost and unsure again.

G strode towards the velvet curtain, then paused and looked back at Frank. “Give me 15 and meet me out back, yeah? You just go back out in the hall and the exit’s right there.” He twitched his head towards the door, and Frank nodded.

“Sure,” he managed, before G slipped through the velvet and was gone.

Frank’s mind raced, as his heartbeat slowed. He went for the nearly untouched whiskey beside him, downing it in one as he tried to process what had happened. He’d just gotten head from the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, who happened to be a stripper, who supposedly didn’t make a habit of this sort of thing. He had to have an angle, though, right? Most likely he thought Frank was sugar daddy material. This was why he didn’t dance regularly; he had a string of men paying his bills.

He briefly contemplated what that might be like. How much would he be expected to contribute? Would Angela notice? (Of course she would.) Say that somehow he got the money issue to work. Would it be worth it, to have no doubt amazing sex with that gorgeous creature, knowing he was being used as an income source? Unequivocally, it would. In fact, it might be a better scenario than having a male partner or friend with benefits. It would be sordid and secretive, skating up to the edge of illegal. The perfect vessel for his guilt and self loathing.

Could he go through with it, though? If he left Angela, her father would ensure he’d get next to nothing, especially if his proclivities came to light. He’d be out a job, too, and with that family’s connections, he’d probably have to move out of state to get work. He was 40 years old. It was too late to start over. But maybe he could have this, at least for a little while. Set up a fake investment account or something for G’s upkeep. It would keep him sharp to stay ahead of the inevitable trainwreck for as long as he could. And while he did, he would have those lips, that ass, that voice purring his name.

Frank sucked in a deep breath as his cock stirred again, then laughed at himself. If he met G out back, the guy would probably tell him to fuck off after five minutes of conversation. He wouldn’t seem half so appealing when he wasn’t under the mood lighting of the club. Maybe he should forget about it, sneak out the front door, go the fuck home, pretend this was all a wet dream.

He sighed, opened the door, and turned left, drawn to the hellish red neon of the EXIT sign. Might as well have been ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

G’s back was to him, and a plume of smoke rose above his head into the chilly night, nicotine and breath intermingled. He glanced back over his shoulder at the bang of the door, favoring Frank with a crescent grin of a smile.

“Started to think you bailed on me, sugar,” he said, facing away and stuffing his free hand into his jacket pocket. He was wearing dark skinny jeans, an Iggy pop tee, black Converse, and a lived-in leather jacket. He’d brushed his hair, the smooth longer ends framing his exquisite face again. He looked like a fucking runway model, or a pre-Raphaelite angel. He belonged in Vogue or the Louvre. And he was here, in the back alley of a strip club.

“Not a chance,” Frank quipped, faking confidence again. Where did it come from? Maybe so much charisma rolled off G that he’d absorbed some in his wake. He reached into his jacket for the leather-and-sterling cigarette case that had been a birthday gift, and G’s eyes perked up.

“Bum one? This is my last.” He crushed the butt under his shoe and plucked a fresh cigarette from Frank’s hand with long slender fingers. Frank lit it with the blue flame of his heavy monogrammed lighter, G cupping his hand against the glow, a lock of hair falling over his eye. Now he was a 40s Hollywood starlet.

“Thanks.” G straightened up and regarded Frank, those doe eyes heavy lidded. He took a drag of his cigarette, the hand gesture flamboyant, exhaling smoke with casual drama as he swayed in place, radiating such cocksure sex appeal that it could have been part of his stage act. If ever an incident of a fully clothed man smoking could be slutty, this was certainly it. Frank nearly moaned at the sight.

“So, not a crime boss, huh? What is it then, maybe a five-star chef? Those boys do like their tattoos.”

Frank exhaled his own smoke and laughed, shaking his head. “Try again.”

G inched closer, and grasped Frank’s hand with his cool delicate fingers. “Halloween?” He arched his eyebrows. “And hopeless romantic, huh?” His eyes were dark beneath lowered lashes, and Frank felt a burning in his gut that had nothing to do with his ten thousand different medical conditions.

“Souvenirs of a misspent youth, my friend,” Frank smiled. “I was a bit of a hellraiser in my day.”

G returned the smile, his full cheeks dimpling. Christ, Frank was a goner.
“Friend?” G smirked. “I think we’re a little more than friends at this stage…and a little less, too. I also think you’ve got a little more hellraising in you,” he said, rubbing his thumb slowly over the tattooed knuckles.

“Maybe so,” Frank allowed. “Can I ask what your name is now, or are we still using G?”

G laughed, the sound surprisingly high pitched and completely delightful, and resumed his slutty smoking. “It’s nerdy. It’s awful,” he gestured dramatically. “Gerard.”

Frank didn’t know why that made him feel giddy, made butterflies and rainbows swirl around in his stomach, but he did. “Gerard,” he said lowly, relishing G’s blush. “I like it.”

“I like you,” Gerard said, the bluntness of the statement surprising Frank but seeming to come naturally. He regarded Frank through lowered lids again, soft lips pluming smoke.

“I’m really not what you think,” Frank finally said, stamping out his finished cigarette, not planning to light another. “Boring job, comfortable life, house in the suburbs, and I really don’t do this sort of thing. Like ever.”

“I don't do this sort of thing either, believe it or not," he said with a rueful laugh. "I suppose you probably don't. And I don't blame you either. I mean..." he gestured at the club behind him, cigarette tracing a ladder to the stars.

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, I guess." Frank smiled, although his heart was positively full of doubt. Gerard was a temptress, a snake in the garden, though he had an angel's beauty. "And what do you do when you're not seducing middle-aged men? What's the mystery behind Gerard?"

Gerard’s responding laugh was almost a cackle, showing all his teeth, and Frank’s stomach swooped at the joyous sound of it and the somehow adorable tininess of his teeth. Obscenely sexy AND cute, huh? Fuck me.

“Not a big mystery,” he said. “I write, mostly comics, do covers and art myself sometimes. I started doing this”—he jabbed his cigarette towards the back of Fairytails—"to pay for art school, and I like it. I like performing. It’s hot. I like the attention,” he shrugged, flushing and looking down. “I don’t need to do it anymore, but as long as it’s fun, I come in once or twice a month. I avoid the dancer drama and still reap the rewards.” He favored Frank with a lazy smile and a last seductive drag of his cigarette.

“Well well well,” Frank said softly. “You are a mystery, though. Unexpected depths.”

Another shrug, and Gerard flipped his butt onto the ground, scuffing the toe of his Converse against the asphalt, biting back a grin. “Not really. What I’d really love to do, though, is combine what I do in there with visual art. Do a gallery installation, something really shocking and weird. I never considered doing performance art, but I suppose that’s what it would be. I don’t know how it’d be received, though. Grant Morrison writes some really subversive shit, but I don’t think I’ve paid my dues enough to get away with marrying porn and fine art in public, which is basically what I want to do.”

He rocked back and forth, his posture hunched, avoiding Frank’s gaze.

“I think that sounds fucking amazing, honestly,” Frank assured him, and their eyes locked again. “You should do it. Don’t do the safe thing. I’m living proof that you should never do the safe thing.” He barked out a laugh, scratching his head.

He let his eyes wander over Gerard, drinking in the sculpted planes of his face, the downward quirk of his mouth, the shadows framing the naked intensity of his eyes. He thought of the puddled neon reflection out front that had made him itch for his camera, before he'd met this divine being. Something clicked into place then, as mundane and monumental as the tumbler of a lock turning for the proper key.

"This might sound weird, but what if it wasn't performance art?" Gerard's brow furrowed at the question. "What if you were the subject, and the artist too, of course, but what if this was a photo exhibit? Maybe incorporate some video, too. Like...a collaborative effort, maybe?"

Gerard licked his lips thoughtfully and crossed his arms, regarding Frank. "You wouldn't happen to be a photographer, would you, Frank?"

He snorted. "Used to be, I guess. Among other things."

"See," Gerard smiled, quietly triumphant. "Hidden depths. I knew it. You're an artist, too."

”Eh.” Frank gave a dismissive wave and shoved his hands in his pockets, his suit suddenly uncomfortable, ill-fitting, something constructed for another man.

Gerard stepped closer, into the heat coming off Frank's body, and trailed a fingertip lightly down his chest. "You caught my eye tonight, Frank, but now I'm even more curious about you. I'd planned for you to take me home and fuck me tonight."

Frank sighed raggedly, lost in the golden depths of those eyes. He was completely bewitched, would move heaven and earth to have this man under him, on top of him, however he wanted him.

"But..." Gerard continued, sliding a delicate hand over his shoulder and down his arm, squeezing his bicep lightly. "...how about you take me out for coffee and pancakes instead, and we can talk about porn and art and what kind of photos you might take of me."

"I--I really can't," he blurted, feeling the weight of the suit and the late hour and the demands of tomorrow pulling at him. "I have to--"

"Don't do the safe thing," Gerard said, his voice like silk, cupping Frank's chin to bring their lips together in a soft kiss. "Maybe you should follow your own advice this time."

Frank licked his lips. Gerard tasted like tobacco and creme brûlée, the remnants of his lip gloss. He might as well follow this delicious fallen angel straight to hell, if that's where he wanted to take him.

"Ok," he said simply, then pressed his hand against the small of Gerard's back, the t-shirt warm and slightly sweaty under his fingers. He drew him flush against his body for a deeper kiss, opening his mouth with his tongue, not pulling away until he whimpered, breathless and starry-eyed. Frank smirked, pleased with these results, and squeezed Gerard's hip lightly before releasing him.

"I know a diner--" he began.

"No fucking way am I taking diner recommendations from a Jersey boy," Gerard said, falling in step with him as they circled around to the front of the club and the waiting Range Rover. "I know the perfect spot."

Chapter Text

Frank slid back into the Range Rover in pre-dawn darkness, having just squired Gerard from the diner to his home, a third floor walk-up in an old, not-quite-hip neighborhood. There had been no invitation to come up or push for more than a sweet, clinging goodnight kiss. Gerard had been fizzing with caffeine and inspiration, itching to go to work, night owl mode activated. Their conversation in the diner had consisted mostly of Gerard's stream of consciousness babble about Catholic art, homosexuality during the Renaissance, William S. Burroughs, and a history of sex workers and strip tease from the Bible to the Roaring Twenties. Frank had occasionally interjected thoughts, his heart squeezing in his chest when he imparted facts or observations that were new to Gerard. His eyes lit up as if Frank were the setting sun, and he dazzled him with a flash of tiny teeth, remarking "of course! I never thought of it that way?" or "I didn't know that...I'm so glad I met you, Frank" with a genuine grin that made Frank want to wedge his body into heavy armor and battle the entire Eastern seaboard for just one more chance to see that smile again.

Between those moments, Gerard had talked and swilled coffee and somehow made a plate of blueberry pancakes disappear, and Frank had listened, soaking up every raise of his eyebrows and downward quirk of his lips, sipping his café au lait and picking at a single pancake and veggie sausage patty. The food was good, but what he was starved for was the man in front of him, who somehow still stood out in the motley assortment of 3 am New Yorkers: drag queens and club kids and stylish elderly couples and harried, rough-looking workmen. In the garish sea of cotton candy hair and glitter and Dickies and Italian wool, Gerard still shone diamond-bright.

"Art is supposed to destroy constructs, challenge us, light a fire in our minds. It's not a mirror, it's a hammer. But I also kinda just want to shock people," he smirked, twirling his syrupy fork to point at Iggy Pop's face erupting from his t-shirt. "Maybe I'm a wannabe rock star," he shrugged, licking the dripping fork with a total unawareness of the lewdness of it all. "All of this has been done, you know. It's not that original, it's pretentious, but maybe all artists are, and anyway-"

"It hasn't been done by you," Frank said gently. "No one's seen anything like you before."

Gerard blushed and dipped his head, long black locks falling into his eyes.

"Maybe that's how it'll be different," Frank continued. "You're the rock star who wants to burn down the world, you're the one wanting to smear yourself with blood and guts and cum and call it art. And I'm the creep taking pictures of it, making it glamorous, or obscene, or pathetic. Maybe that voyeuristic element is what will—"

"--make it transcendent," Gerard finished, maybe more poetically than Frank would have, but he nodded, lost in his dazzling gaze.

"I think you're right, Frankie. Fuck, am I glad I met you." Gerard blushed harder and bit his lip, reached across the table to trail soft, pale fingers over the back of Frank's left hand. Frank tried not to visibly shiver as the touch electrified his body. The fact that he'd gone from Frank to Frankie within the space of an hour was making him lightheaded. "Too bad somebody else snagged you first."

Frank chuckled nervously, then caught Gerard's fingers with his own, threaded them together and squeezing lightly before releasing them. "I--look, it's...complicated. But I'm not...as snagged as you might think."

"I really am lucky then," Gerard smiled, his voice low and smooth, golden-green eyes flashing at Frank before focusing shyly back on his plate.

"Let me get this," Frank gestured to the table, pulling out his wallet. He could tell the night was at an end, that Gerard was ready to greet the dawn fucking or sketching, but it couldn't be the former for him, not yet anyway.

"I still have to be a little careful," he blurted out as the waitress approached with his card and receipt.
"For now, anyway. But I'm...committed to this. I'm not going to back out, or freak out, whatever happens. Promise."

Gerard nodded, eyes twinkling, shredded a strip off his paper napkin. "I get it, Frankie. It's okay. so...do I just text you? I'm assuming calls aren't that...ideal right now."

"Sure, sure. Texting is fine. We can talk sometimes, but I’ll need to initiate that.”

"I'll try not to blow up your phone too bad," Gerard smiled, and there was a little bit of hurt, a little sting of uncertainty in his eyes, but Frank knew Gerard was resilient, and he was counting on his capricious attention span to keep him distracted. The pain and longing should be Frank's alone to carry, a stony burden on his back.

Frank pulled into his own driveway as the sky was beginning to lighten, stomach twisting in a knot as his situation weighed on him. There it was, home: the thousands of bricks that shored up the four walls of his life. He imagined walking inside to a disaster; a chandelier dropping on his head, crystals shattering to dust on the polished hardwood as it all caved in, crushing him, falling down around him. He wasn’t even in the same world anymore. Gerard and his magic didn’t exist here.

He hadn’t been surprised by the absence of texts or calls from his wife. She’d still be asleep now, and he could sneak into his man cave and curl up on the couch, pretend to be sick. He texted his boss (up all night sick, still have a fever, won’t be in) and sighed as he exited the car, all of his being wishing he’d stayed with Gerard. Damn the consequences. The house was dark and still, smelling of furniture polish and the sage oil Angela liked to burn. He tiptoed upstairs, brushed his teeth and quickly pissed in the guest bathroom, and sank into the comfortably worn sofa, pulling a throw blanket over himself after toeing his shoes off. He was quickly pulled under by exhaustion, but as sleep claimed him he was smiling, seeing Gerard’s eyes.

“Frank! Frank!” A voice was braying way too closely to his ear, and someone was shaking his shoulder.

“What the fuck,” he grumbled, cracking one eye open to see Angela hovering over him, dressed and coiffed in her upper-class Jersey mom finery already, her fruity-vanilla perfume a bit sickening this early.

“What’s going on with you? You didn’t go to work? Are you sick?” Her thin gold-ringed hand came down on his forehead, and it was ice cold, but it always was. “You got a fever.”

“What time is it?” He burrowed down further in the blanket, willing her to go away and let him go back to sleep.

“Just after noon. You didn’t come home last night neither.”

He sighed heavily. “Yeah, I did. It was really late, and I was feeling sick, so I didn’t want to bother you in case I kept needing to puke.”

She crinkled her perfectly rhinoplastied nose. “You’re hungover then?”

“No. I had a couple drinks after work, went to a movie, then went to a diner afterwards. Think something I ate made me sick.”

“Well you better call the doctor if you’re not better by tonight. Remember I’m going to Miami with the girls this weekend, so you’ll have Max.”

“How could I forget,” Frank groaned. Spending the weekend with his 13-year-old son usually meant working from home, on standby in case of emergency. Maybe he’d get dinner with him, if he wasn't spending the night with friends. Their eldest, the love child, was a sophomore at Columbia. Cate was already fully out of the nest, her bedroom repurposed as an extra guest room. They saw her on holidays and their annual summer trip to Cape May.

“Anyway, I’m going to lunch. You want me to pick you something up?”

“No….thanks.” He rolled over so his back was to her, pressing his face into the well-Febreezed couch cushions.

“Alright, well. There’s ginger ale downstairs if you need it.”

“Got some in the fridge.” He withdrew his arm from its blanket, pointing to the dorm fridge next to the couch. “Have a nice lunch.”

“Uh-huh,” she huffed, finally leaving, and he heard her heels clicking down the hall and down the stairs.

Frank wondered how the fuck was this his life, as the heater clicked on and he dozed to its comforting hum.

He awakened to the clatter of activity downstairs, his wife's voice rising above the din. He was hard, and he also had to piss. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, reaching for his phone. Almost 6pm. His head was fuzzy with sleep, and his mouth was dry and felt full of sawdust. Six text banners from Gerard filled his screen, and he grinned, his insides all shivery just at seeing the "G." He made a mental note to disable banner notifications for now.

As he trudged to the bathroom, tendrils of his dream emerged, blurry images clearing up with each increment he came awake. Gerard's face, bright and animated and beautiful, smiling at him, then turning away, his luscious mouth falling open in pleasure. Frank shuddered as it hit him full force. They'd been walking down some street together, and the sky opened up, drenching them. They ran into a nearby church for shelter, and it was suddenly a vaulted-ceiling cathedral, and Gerard had been pressed up against stained glass, more beautiful and holy than any saint, and Frank had been on his knees, tracing the shape of his erection with reverence, the dream ending before he could get his pants open.

He took down his own pants now, squirting some of the hand lotion on the counter into his palm, sighing with relief as he got a slick hand around himself. He gazed ahead, the pastel swirl of the shower curtain becoming a window into his dream, and he let his dream self get Gerard's pants down. His memory supplied the approximate size and shape of his cock, and the zephyrous whimpers that echoed like music in the cathedral. His orgasm hit as he imagined Gerard thrusting deep into his throat and spurting down it, unable to control himself. Frank hissed at the pleasure, trembling and exalted, till he came down and was back in his body, his hands coated with cum and desert-pear scented lotion, his bladder throbbing savagely. He washed his hands, pissed, washed his hands again, and took a quick shower, changing into the sweats and hockey jersey he kept in there.

Dinner was routine; a light pasta dish with vegetables from Angela’s cousin’s eatery two blocks over. Two glasses of pinot grigio for his wife, a beer for Frank, Max chattering about Japanese class and soccer camp and his friend’s new pit bull pup, Frank spinning a story about his miraculous recovery from whatever kept him out of work today. It was routine, but not as comfortable as it usually was. Normally Frank bore the family ritual with tuned-out tolerance of his wife’s complaints and genuine interest in his kid's day, but now he found himself tuning out the whole thing. The world had changed. Or, perhaps, he had changed, and was simply seeing the world differently.

He stepped out onto the screened-in back deck afterwards, Max shut away upstairs with homework, the wife watching some shitty movie while instagramming and probably spending more of his money on Amazon. Not really his money, though. His money would be gone so fast if he split.

He sighed, deep breath in, taking in the smoky night air, calmed by cricket song. He hit his vape, letting the THC filter through his bloodstream, relaxing him even before the high hit, just because he knew it was coming.

Finally, finally, he could give Gerard’s texts his full attention. His heartbeat sped up, blood rushing south just at the thought of the man.

I know you’re probably asleep, but I’m amped. So many ideas brewing. I’m going to pull an all nighter. Or all-dayer. Haha. Need more coffee.

So I’m fucking storyboarding this shit. Good thing I’m used to comics. This is going to be a-fucking-mazing. I think.

So I know a place we could probably shoot most of this. My friend lives in a loft, it’s like a renovated warehouse/studio. Really amazing space. Great energy. The studio part is ginormous and we could set up little sets or whatever for our shoot.

Not gonna lie, I’m having a little trouble planning this out. The trouble is in my pants. Haha. I’ve never really written or drawn anything super porny, besides, like, weird fanfic when I was younger. It’s a problem, Frank. I have a REALLY BIG problem. Wish you were here ;)

Fuck I can’t concentrate anymore. You need to get over here. Text me when you’re up. I’m going to jerk off and crash. I may not be up till dark idk. I’m on vampire time lol.

Fraaank I think I need your mouth on me. I’m in bed naked and I’m about to fucking explode. Wish I could send you a pic. Plz text me back asap or just get your ass over here. Wish I could leave my door unlocked so you could wake me up properly. Xoxo G <3

Frank suppressed a groan at the image of Gerard gloriously naked and tangled in bedsheets, stroking himself. Or sleeping sweetly, lips parted, the sleepy little hums he might make if Frank were there to wake him. He’d slide under the sheets as quietly as he could, rain soft kisses down his neck and collarbone, lick his way down, cover his throbbing arousal with more gentle kisses until he felt him stir awake. Perhaps Gerard would prop himself up on his elbows and gaze down at Frank, eyes sleepy and heavy-lidded, bucking his hips up with a whine till Frank sucked him fully into his mouth.

wish I could be there to wake you up, too, he typed with a harsh sigh. you have no idea.

text me back when you get up. sadly I can’t escape for the night but I should be able to see you tomorrow if you’re free. fam is going out of town, and I’ll be alone this weekend.
alone and at your disposal. ;)

He saw no need to elaborate further on his family. Angela would be in Miami, and Max, he’d learned, would be at a friend’s family’s lake house. He felt no guilt at his luck. It wasn’t like he’d be sneaking around, after all.

glad you’ve been inspired, can’t wait to see what you’ve drawn, whenever it’s ready.
btw you are welcome to send any sort of pics you’d like. xo frank

He thought about adding a heart, as Gerard had done, but it seemed a bit much. He’d already promised to be at his disposal, surely that would convey his eagerness.

Frank snuck back inside to grab another beer and returned to the deck, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the chair to his left. It was serene out here, if a bit chilly. The air wasn't as oppressive as that inside the house. He'd just hang out here till it got too cold.

He'd just hit his vape again when Gerard texted back. Frank couldn't hide the grin as the banner flashed across his screen.

Hey Frankie, I just woke up I dreamed about you ; )

oh yeah? was it a good dream?

Mm hmm

Frank was about to ask for further details when he received a block of text.

I was giving you a lapdance at the club, in one of the booths, but there was no one else there. You started fucking me while I was on your lap, then all of a sudden the place was kinda full, and waiters kept coming by, and I had to try to keep a straight face so they wouldn't know. Then suddenly we were in the diner, but I was sitting beside you, and you were trying to jerk me off under the table, but the same thing happened, we kept getting interrupted, and... woke up like this

His phone pinged with a photo attachment notification, and Frank clicked on it, his hand nearly trembling.

Gerard had sent a selfie from a high angle, his face in the foreground, eyes heavy lidded, sleep-puffy lips half-smiling. From there the pale expanse of his torso trailed down to his cock, flushed deep pink, filled with blood and pointing rigidly towards his navel, black sheets bunched up just beneath.
Frank's mouth filled with spit.

jesus christ, he typed clumsily, looks like u need a hand babe

Want your hands, Gerard replied
Fuck I want your hands on me, your tattoos, fuck

you're touching yourself, aren't you? Frank palmed himself through his sweats, achingly hard again.

Yes
You want me to take a video? I'II do it for you

fuck yes. wanna see you get off thinking about me

Ok Frankie. I'll send it as soon as I'm done x

Frank was sweating, and he furtively glanced around, as if all their neighbors might be peering over the fence. He adjusted his pants and pulled his jersey down in case he ran into anyone inside, and reentered the warmth of the house. It was just as quiet as before, the odor of tomato sauce and garlic lingering in the air. He found his earbuds on the granite-topped desk in the kitchen nook.

Locking himself in the half bath at the end of the hall, Frank flipped the switch for the exhaust fan and turned the water on low before popping his earbuds in.

He barely had a chance to glance at instagram before another text came over.

Here you go, Frankie. Hope you like it. ;)

Frank bit his lip, suppressing a groan. Gerard had gotten done so fast. The knowledge was dizzying, sparking his nerves with arousal and sizzling the few brain cells he had left. This was the second time in the space of a few hours that he'd be getting off to this man, and not once had Gerard left his thoughts.
He was utterly consumed with the memory of silky black hair and smooth pale skin, those sweet succulent lips and the honeyed glow of his eyes. He felt completely unhinged.

give me a few minutes, babe, got to be sneaky. ;)

Take your time xx
I'm getting coffee and a shower.

Frank grinned like an idiot, got comfortable on the toilet lid, and propped his phone up on the vanity.

Gerard had set his phone up somewhere between his legs, perhaps on a tripod or a stack of books, Frank had no idea. He was sprawled out on a mound of pillows, knees bent and spread wide. The camera was almost at his eye level, and he was biting his lip, looking directly at Frank through lowered lashes as he ran his hands down his torso to his grinding hips. His cock was swelled to bursting, an inflamed dark pink, his smooth, soft lower belly wet with precum. He brought his right hand up, licking it obscenely, getting it slick with spit, before wrapping it around himself, the stroke firm and slow. A desperate whine filled Frank's ears, and his dick twitched in his pants as he gripped the counter. He wasn't going to touch himself till it was over, didn't want to distract from a second of Gerard.

He was bucking his hips up harder now, hitting a shaky rhythm, cupping his tightly drawn balls with his left hand and massaging them lightly. He spread his legs wider as his hand sped up, his fist twisting on every downstroke, thumb grazing the swollen wet head of his cock. Harsh gasps came from Gerard's bitten-red lips as he thrust up once, twice, three times more, a husky moan ending in "Fraaaaank" uncurling from his throat, his body arching up off the bed, bowstring-tight, head fallen back against the pillows and eyes screwed shut as his orgasm hit, arcs of cum streaking the now flushed and damp skin of his torso.

"Oh fuuuck, " Gerard groaned as he plummeted into the throes of aftershock. He shuddered with pleasure, the muscles in his abdomen and inner thighs visibly jumping. Frank, nearly panting himself, knew his toes were curling under the sheets. He let go of his cock, and it gave one last twitch before beginning to soften. Gerard dragged his fingers up through the mess on his stomach and brought them up to his mouth, delicately licking the cum away as he looked into the camera, into Frank, with bleary-fucked out eyes.

When his hand was clean, he gave a little giggle and sat up, waggling his fingers at the camera before leaning over to shut it off. Frank closed his eyes, feeling feral. How could this seductive creature writhe in such cinematic ecstasy one second, then transform into an absolute cutie pie the next? He was gone.
Fucking done for.

He shoved all thought away as quickly as he shoved his sweats and briefs down, barely needing to fist his dick before he was spurting all over his hand. He felt his back arch, gritting his teeth against the blistering pleasure.

you are a demon, Frank texted after he washed his hands, suppressing a laugh at his sweaty, red-faced, flyaway-haired image in the mirror.

and thank you. that was unbelievably hot. YOU are unbelievably hot. New Jersey's poet laureate over here.

Ping. Another selfie. Gerard was freshly scrubbed, bright-eyed and pink cheeked and unbearably adorable, holding up a mug emblazoned with the Count from Sesame Street.

Cheers, Frankie. Glad you liked it ;)
And YOU are also unbelievably hot. I can't wait till tomorrow

same
Frank grinned at his screen. His heart was lighter. His house and the world around him no longer existed. It was just him and Gerard, tethered together in a limitless daydream.

They texted for a bit longer, then he trudged up to bed, slipping quietly under the sheets next to his wife, dead to the world in her nightly medicated haze. Their king-sized bed could have easily fit another body or two between them. They hadn’t curled together in that gap in five, seven, ten years, he couldn't remember. Frank had long thought it an impassable gulf, perhaps a void, in the shape of the people they used to be. He’d carried that same void within him for just as long, but he no longer felt so empty.

Angela was already gone when Frank swam out of sleep into consciousness Saturday morning. She'd texted him a Notes reminder with her hotel info and Max's school and soccer practice schedule for Monday. She'd be back Monday night, and his son would be back tomorrow evening.
He shuffled downstairs in the same getup he'd gone to bed in. He shared a bowl of cereal with Max, glad to have a little time with him, then shoved his feet into a pair of slides and grabbed his keys. Max, still small for his years, clambered into the backseat with his backpack, eyes glued to his phone for most of the ride to the lake.

Frank put Danzig on, the self-titled first album, and smothered an elated grin when his little guy showed a grudging curiosity.
“I can show you how to play this riff when you get back, if you want,” he said casually.

“Really?” Mildly surprised eyes, so like his own, looked back at him in the rearview.

“Sure thing, little man,” he said, and the kid rolled his eyes and laughed, returning to the dopamine lure of his phone

Frank blinked away rising tears. If he were closer to his son, maybe he could endure this life a little more gracefully. But he’d always followed Angela’s lead when it came to the kids, and that had usually meant inserting them into ceaseless extracurriculars and social events. They were both gregarious and had taken well to the constant activities and distractions, and it did seem to be setting them up for success. Frank couldn’t relate, though. They hadn’t been kids for long, had given away their childhood magic so readily. He knew most kids wanted to be grown, wanted the approval of their parents and peers, so that didn’t really surprise him. He couldn’t help but feel that Angela had been desperate to steer them away from the restless whimsy that plagued her husband and prevented him from fitting in.

Soon enough, the suburbs gave way to a grimy little one strip-mall town, and then the homes stretched further apart and increased in size. The air even smelled sweeter, he thought. When he drove back after dropping Max at his friend's massive lake house, he took his time, stopped at a mom & pop joint for a milkshake, savoring the quiet morning breeze. If they’d lived out here, away from the nearby bustle of the city and the neighbors and family right on top of them…if if if.

Frank pulled back into his driveway, his heart sufficiently sunken again. He tossed the remainders of the shake into the outside bin and let himself in to shower.

He didn't know what to wear to see Gerard. He'd met him in a rather impressive suit, but that wasn't him. He usually bummed around the house in sweats and sports jerseys, wore nicer jeans and button-downs for casual social events. He wanted to look cool, though, and he flicked through the racks of old band tees in his closet. (Fuck keeping them folded in drawers, what a pain in the ass THAT was to sort through.)

He settled on dark-wash jeans and a faded Cure shirt, topped with a flannel. The look was kinda Cool Dad Who's Trying Too Hard, so he exchanged the Cure for a plain white v-neck, adding a charcoal gray hoodie. He'd caught that his tattoos turned Gerard on, so showing off more ink couldn't be a bad thing. He filled a backpack with a couple extra t-shirts, boxers, socks, toothbrush and deodorant, and condoms and lube. He felt the strangest inclination to bring a guitar, but quashed it.

on my way, he texted. see you soon xo
Gerard’s reply came within seconds.

<3 <3 <3 I'm all stocked up on coffee and Diet Coke. We can get pizza tonight! Can't wait to see you xxx

Frank grinned like an idiot as he locked up the house and climbed into the Range Rover, and the smile didn't leave his face the entire trip. He blasted the Misfits, feeling free and not a day over 25. If this was a midlife crisis, he was all in.

Gerard had insisted on meeting him outside his building so he didn't get lost, but when Frank saw his lean, striking silhouette on the sidewalk, smoking and rocking from side to side the way he had outside of the club, he realized Gerard was just excited to see him too. His stomach did the swoopy rollercoaster thing again, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.

Frank snagged a parking spot just down the block, and crossed traffic to Gerard's side of the street. In daylight, he saw that his apartment was over a coffee shop/bakery. How apropos.

Gerard's face lit up when he spotted him, and he dropped his cigarette, crushing it beneath his Converse. Frank's heart caught in his throat at the sight of him. He was dressed much the same as he had been Thursday night. A colorful yet faded Bowie tee, extremely tight and worn black jeans, and the leather jacket. Long black strands of hair fell over his eyes, grazing the exquisite cut of his jaw. The golden late-afternoon light made his skin and eyes glow. His beauty had not been exaggerated by stage lights or starlight or whiskey. He was a work of art, all on his own.

"Hey," Frank said profoundly when he got within six feet of Gerard, raising his hand in awkward wave.
Smooth, his inner voice snarked.

Gerard cheeks pinked and he lunged forward. Frank expected an armful of Gerard to collide with him, but he froze and bounced on his heels instead, tucking his hair nervously behind his ear. If anyone else had done that, if FRANK had done that, it would have looked insanely oafish, but Gerard managed to make his awkwardness look graceful and intentional.

"Hey Frankie." He gave a small smile before looking down at the pavement.

Frank was frozen as well, too painfully aware of their situation to be affectionate with Gerard in broad daylight.
Night had lent them a magical anonymity. Now they were two men in a public space, two men who had been (fornicating, his mind supplied) sexually intimate, and he felt like everyone could tell. He knew the city was more progressive than his neighborhood and the people he surrounded himself with, but he imagined someone driving by and screaming "Fag!" at any moment. There was that, and there was the fact that he and Gerard had been really intimate, in the flesh and even more so over the phone, texting each other with a familiarity that belied reality. He was captivated by Gerard but didn't really know him yet. Maybe the phone had tricked him into thinking he did.

"So, you wanna see my place?" Gerard pointed to the doorway to the left of the coffee shop, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Or like, just hang out?" He tilted his head to the side like a quizzical cat.

"Yeah, sure. I mean yeah, we can go to your place," Frank laughed, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulders. "That was the plan, right?"

"Yeah?" Gerard smiled, eyebrows lifting, his eyes questioning, unsure.

“OK, let's go," Frank added a weight of certainty that he didn't quite feel to his voice, and trailed slightly behind Gerard. "So are you down here all the time? It figures you'd live over a coffee shop."

"Not as much as you might think. I'm such a homebody, and that means I try to even avoid walking downstairs. But they sell their own roast there, by the bag, so they keep me kinda stocked. Don't tell them, but I still like Starbucks better. I’ll leave my house at least once a week for a fucking PSL.”

"I’m guessing you mean pumpkin spice and not NFL seats,” Frank teased. “OK, I promise not to tell the people in the coffee shop I've never been to that you're cheating on them with Starbucks," he laughed, following Gerard upstairs, and when that high-pitched giggle floated down to him, it felt easy between them again.

Gerard was three flights up (the couple who owned the coffee shop occupied the second floor), and Frank reminded himself to add some cardio to his workout schedule, which mostly consisted of bench presses and squats in his garage to keep his muscles up.

“Welcome to my lair," Gerard intoned in a dramatic Lugosi voice as he flung the door open.

Frank fell in love with it instantly. The living area/kitchen was cozy but not NYC-standard tiny. The floors were wide, scuffed dark wood planks, paint-stained here and there. A cushiony sunset-orange sofa dominated the room, the coffee table before it littered with books, notebooks, sketch pads, colored pencils, and several coffee mugs.
There were art prints and movie posters hung on the olive-green walls (they almost match his eyes, Frank marveled), a sketchbook and ripped-out drawings on the tiny dining table, and a large canvas propped up on the massive H-frame easel in the corner by the window. Half the painting looked nearly finished. The right half.

Frank stood before it, taking in the wash of bright yellows and oranges that framed the silhouette of a woman in armor.

"Joan of Arc," Gerard said softly, coming to stand beside him. "One of my favorite muses."

"It's amazing." Frank replied honestly. "I didn't know artists worked like that, though, or is the other half going to be something else?"

"I don't always work like that," Gerard scoffed. "I just do what feels right. I think the other half will be darkness, her other side wandering through like a desolate landscape. With skulls and shit maybe. Or it could just be flames. Not sure yet."

“I fucking love your place," Frank enthused, drinking in Gerard's shy but pleased grin. "It's so...homey. But like, unique and artsy too. It even smells homey." And it did. It should be a cologne. Old wood, old books, a touch of leather, the heady aroma of oil paint, and Gerard's scent of coffee, tobacco, and that light, ethereal perfume he wore.

"It smells like I don't clean," Gerard laughed. "But life's too short, you know? As long as I have clean dishes and clean clothes, who cares about dust."

"Right," Frank agreed, thinking of Angela's obsession with appearances and the housekeeper/nanny who was at their home five days a week. He slid his backpack off his shoulders, setting it down on one of the three mismatched chairs around the dining table.

"So, uh, it's just this room, and the bedroom down that way, and the bathroom to the right." Gerard waved his hand towards the short, dark hallway.

Frank was suddenly hit with the looming knowledge of Gerard's bedroom and bed, and what might happen there. The things he brought. He willed himself to not get hard already, tried to avoid even looking at Gerard. The air grew heavy with tension, and Frank's nerves were fraying.

"Do you want to eat now, or you want to go ahead and look at my ideas?" Gerard piped up, visibly flustered.

"I couldn't eat now," Frank said honestly. "But if you're hungry?"

"No, Frankie," Gerard murmured, trying to catch his eyes. "You want a drink?"

He exhaled heavily; just now aware he'd been holding his breath. "A drink would be great. You said you had Diet Coke?" Gerard was already halfway to the fridge.

"Ta-da!" An ice-cold can was thrust into his hand, and Gerard popped the top of his own soda.

"You know, Frankie," he continued, talking over Frank's attempt to thank him, "you seem kind of nervous? Are you alright? I don't want this to be--there's no pressure here. For...anything. I just wanted to show you my ideas. And….spend time with you." Gerard's eyes were wrecking him, enormous and hopeful and slightly bruised.

"I'm sorry," Frank sighed. "I'm sorry." He sat down his drink and pulled Gerard to him, his eyes misting up at the way Gerard just melted bonelessly into the hug. He felt so good to hold, so warm and alive and soft, despite his leanness, so Frank held on, till the embrace was just this side of crushing. He smacked a kiss onto his neck and Gerard gave a pleasant little squeak, and Frank released him then, though he held tight to his hand.

Gerard's cheeks were rosy, his lips red and smiling, those long dark lashes just a little wet as well.

"I'm just a fuckup," Frank said lightheartedly. "I'm not used to this. My life is so routine, and I guess you swept me off my feet, sorta. I don't know how to act about it really. Even if it was just the art, that's a huge shift for me. Let alone the other stuff."

Gerard gave a breathless little laugh at that, but his gaze was warm and understanding.

"So, I'm sorry. And in advance too. For however weird I might be while I try to figure out how to navigate all this." (Fling? Affair? What the fuck is 'all this' actually? he wondered, but didn't voice the question.)

Gerard squeezed his hand, eyes sparkling and color high. "I can deal with weird. I'm the queen of weird. It's only hard to handle if you go quiet and don't tell me if something's bothering you. I know I come off as a genius and all," he smirked, "but I'm pretty fucking dumb when it comes to, like, emotional interaction. If I like you, I like you, it's all upfront. I'm not a mind reader, Frank. And I like you. A lot."

Frank felt himself heating up, and he reddened from his plunging neckline to his forehead. "I like you a lot too, Gerard. I've just got a lot of...stuff. Being closeted all my life, toxic masculinity bullshit, all that."

"And I don't have that kind of past, really," Gerard returned. "My family was really supportive of me being artsy and weird and kinda queer. I was so strange in school I even confused the bullies, so they left me alone. I've been lucky. But I'll give you a learning curve, okay? Just try not to overthink it. I know we just met the other night, but it seems like when we ignore the bullshit and just go with the flow, things could kinda fall into place. Serendipity." Frank melted at his crooked little grin.

"Yeah, you know, you're right. All right, Miss Serendipity, want to show me your ideas now?" Frank rubbed his hands together.

Gerard beamed and yanked a chair out for Frank, legs scraping horribly against the hardwood, and plopped down next to him. He pressed himself tight against Frank’s arm, leaning into his space to flip his large sketchbook open. Frank inclined his head, breathing his scent in deep. It was a little different today, now there was a coconut shampoo or hair product in the mix. And he was wearing his perfume again. Dizzy, he snaked his arm around Gerard and tugged him just a little bit closer.

“Ok, just let me show you and kinda word vomit at you before you say anything. So, a friend of mine has a studio in the neighborhood, it’s like this really cool industrial warehousey space. Really high ceilings. Anyway, I was thinking we could shoot there, just like build sets, you know? For this one I was thinking we could shoot it at Fairytails, but it would be just as easy there. All we’d need is like, an armchair and some nice lighting.”

The sketch was of a longhaired man, presumably Frank, sitting in an armchair, back to the camera. Smoke from a cigar hung in the air. Gerard had roughly sketched himself out, wearing panties and the Xs over his nipples, dancing for Frank. Behind Gerard was an enormous stained-glass window, the refracted light casting colored beams over his body.

“That’s me?” Frank pointed.

“Yeah, sugar. Thought we could get in one kind of anonymous cameo. Anyway, it’s not only social commentary, it sums up how we met, and like, the mental stuff we have going on. Trauma. You know? And this next piece would be my POV. Well, not mine, but shot from the side. Your face could be in shadow, or cropped out entirely. We really only need to see a body, and like your hands obviously.”

Stripper Gerard was kneeling before Frank in this sketch, a tattooed hand raking back his hair from his face, holding him still as Gerard’s lips closed around the barrel of his gun. It was no metaphor either, he was literally sucking on a pistol. His eyes were closed, face streaked with tears.

“So, this is bringing a heavier element in. It was kind of a joke that the guys at the club thought you were some kind of crime lord when you came in, but you know it happens. Anyway, this is a part of the story too. Fucking Catholicism and organized crime, hell the Church is a bastion of organized crime, and I’m not talking about the mob either, you know. Just…corruption to the extreme. And it’s also a commentary on violence being sexualized, like, you can pull so much from this image.”

Gerard flipped another page, raking his hair back from his face. “So we’re continuing the religious imagery, and it’s juxtaposed with an art reference and a literary reference.” Gerard had drawn himself draped delicately across an altar, nude, the stained glass window still casting its rays, and there was a bank of dripping candles lit behind him.

“This is based on a Henry Wallis painting, The Death of Chatterton, about a writer who killed himself. He was holding rejection letters in the painting,” Gerard laughed. “But I’ll be holding a Bible. I thought about being dressed like a priest, but that would be too many clothes, and I think it would be better if there were like a shadowy priest figure in the background. You could play him or we could photoshop it in or get Geoff to do it. He’s the guy who rents the studio. Oh and Chatterton had drunk poison in the painting reference, so I thought I could be holding a goblet too, poisoned communion wine, or it could be fallen to the floor, and I’d have wine stains on my mouth. And maybe like, streaks of cum on me too. We could try it both ways.”

Frank bit his lip, willing himself to stay quiet per Gerard’s wishes. He loved the concepts so far, could see them fully imagined in his head, but he was overwhelmed by Gerard’s physical closeness and the imagery spread before him. He didn’t know if he could survive this little presentation without jumping his bones, let alone the shoot itself.

“So the next one, the death of Saint Sebastian. He was tied to a cross and shot with arrows, and this will be referencing the Botticelli painting. Obviously with some differences to make it more psychosexual.”

Frank knew the piece, and Gerard had sketched himself bound to the X shape of a St. Andrew’s cross instead of the milder image of the painting.

“You know how people use clothespins in BDSM, I was thinking we could do like, metal clothespins instead of arrows, or those bulldog clips. It’ll hurt like hell, but it’ll look amazing. And I’d rather do that than needles,” Gerard shuddered. “There should be cum on me instead of blood, too. Lots of it. We’ll probably need to use something fake so it doesn’t dry up, like there’s that cum lube. Anyway, these are the four main pieces I have in mind. Obviously we can add on to this. Maybe we can go full blasphemy and do a Christlike crucifixion, I don’t know, I feel like that might have been overdone. But these would be huge pieces, we’d fill them in with smaller pieces, maybe close ups from these scenes, or just little blasphemous sexual scenes, like a close up of me jacking off with a rosary wrapped around my hand, you know, shit like that. Anyway, what do you think?”
Gerard dipped his head and caught Frank’s eye, practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes gleaming, the sleepy shafts of sunset pouring through the windows turning them a warm, translucent gold.

Frank laughed nervously, sure he was about a hundred shades of red, wondering if Gerard could see through the wood of the table to the wood in his pants. “I mean, it’s crazy, it’s obscene, but I expected that, I guess? I feel like it could get me assassinated or put on some Vatican hit list. But, it’s also as brilliant as I expected. You sure you want to do this, babe?”

He cursed himself for the “babe,” but Gerard grinned wide, showing his teeth and some of his gums, all crinkly nose and batted lashes. Frank fancied that he was melting into the floorboards, he was so dazzled by this creature. When Gerard really, really smiled, it was accompanied by an angel choir and heavenly rays of light.

“I’m really, really sure, Frankie.” Gerard squeezed his hand. “I haven’t been so sure, so pumped about something in a long time. And this show will just be the beginning. I’ve got fucking comic ideas now, darker stuff than I’ve done before. Think Constantine meets The Punisher, with like street hustlers and bombing the Vatican. I don’t know, it’s a jumble in my head right now. I’ve got a notebook—”

Frank surged forward, threading his fingers through those silky black locks and pulling Gerard's face to him, stopping his words with a hot, hungry kiss. Gerard’s eyes widened, and he flapped his hands in surprise before he surrendered, leaning into Frank and wrapping his arms around his waist.

Frank shivered as their tongues touched, a little jolt of electricity shooting down his spine. He deepened the kiss, chasing Gerard's shaky, muffled moan, pulling back a moment later to slide their wet lips together again, nipping at Gerard's pouty bottom lip.

"Fuuuuck," Gerard swore, his breath hot against Frank's neck. "I wondered when you were going to shut me up."

Frank smirked and pulled him flush against his body, feeling his rapid heart and quickened breath and the hard, hot pulsing shape in his jeans.

"Wanna give me the rest of the tour now?" he murmured.

Gerard pried himself away, holding loosely onto Frank's hand, hair falling in his darkened eyes, the black slash of his brows so stark above them, lips curling in a delicious little smile. Frank was breathless with lust.
How was this man real? He was an erotic vision sent to earth specifically to tempt and torment. When Gerard looked at him like that, aloof and otherworldly, he wanted to fall to his knees in worship. And when he made himself vulnerable, let the soft light within him glow out of those doe eyes, Frank was driven to return the torment, to wrestle cries of pleasure from his throat, to wreck and ruin him, then wrap him up in his arms and kiss him until the world fell away.

He was pulled down the shadowed hall into the bedroom, where he got a few seconds to drink in the purple walls and overflowing bookshelves before Gerard began nuzzling his neck, stringing wet little kisses along his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. He stripped Frank of his hoodie and dropped it to the floor, running his slender fingers over his arms, trailing fire in their wake.

"Fuck, you're covered," he gasped, biting his lip. "So hot, Frankie."

Frank went in for another kiss, finally getting his hands on that amazing round ass, caressing and kneading as Gerard groaned and ground his hardness against Frank's hip. He got his hands under the black denim thighs and hoisted Gerard up, snickering as he squealed and wrapped his thighs around his waist.

"God, I didn't know you were so strong," Gerard gasped as Frank flung him onto the silvery faux fur blankets and climbed atop him, one arm circling his slightly sweaty back and the other cradling his head, his mouth immediately seeking the artful curve of his neck and bruising his pale skin with burning kisses.

"You like being manhandled, hmm?"

Gerard nodded, eyes screwed shut and hair a mess already, clawing at Frank's shoulders and rutting shamelessly against him as he continued to mark him with his lips and teeth.

"Please," Gerard whined, not sure what he was begging for.

Frank pulled away and looked down at him, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet, eyes heavy lidded and blazing under his feathery sweep of lashes. He held his gaze as he ground his own arousal against Gerard's, biting his lip as Gerard threw his head back, keening, thrusting up against Frank. He felt Gerard's thighs tremble around his waist and he extricated himself, not wanting him to come yet.

"Mmmnnn," Gerard pouted, rolling over to try to mount Frank's thigh and get himself off.

Frank laughed and pushed him onto his back again, pinning his arms down.

"Look at you," he breathed. "You're so close, aren't you baby? About to burst."

Gerard whined and nodded, shoving his hips up at nothing, and Frank stared at his crotch, amazed. The tight denim was seriously stressed as his hard cock tented it out, and the lack of room in his pants meant his dick was trapped directly under his fly, unable to fully expand. The tip of it pushed the bottom of his belt buckle up, almost flipping it horizontal. Frank had never seen such a wondrous sight.

"God, you're so fucking hard. And those pants are so fucking tight," he breathed, cupping the warm shape with his hand.

"Please," Gerard begged, tears threatening to overflow his pretty eyes. "Please help me, Frankie, I can't take it anymore." He moaned helplessly, hips undulating under the light pressure of Frank's hand.

"It's so uncomfortable, isn't it, baby?" He teasingly traced the ridge of his erection with a light fingertip as Gerard nodded fervently, a broken sob wrenched from his throat.

"Do you think you could come like this?" He pressed the belt buckle down with his thumb, giving Gerard some more friction. He was rewarded with a ragged cry, and Gerard bucked his hips up, his head thrashing back and forth on the bed.

"No!" he wailed. "It's too tight...it...hurts," he mumbled, so far gone he had no words to describe the sensation. Frank's touches were too light, the jeans too binding for his cock to even swell to full hardness.

"Almost like a chastity cage," Frank mused. Gerard nodded, frowning as tears streaked his face, and Frank quickly undid his belt, not wanting to prolong the torment any further. He got Gerard's fly down, tried to wiggle the jeans down over his hips, but they weren't budging much. He shoved down Gerard's bright green briefs to release his cock as much as possible, smiling as it plumped out to its impressive full size, twitching against his belly. Gerard rolled his hips up, whimpering, and Frank dove all in, sucking the throbbing length into his mouth, not caring as Gerard wailed and thrust deeper, unable to control his need.

Frank rubbed his thumbs over Gerard's hips in reassurance, trying to relax his throat. It had nearly been decades since he'd had a dick in his mouth, and for all he cared this was his first time. His eyes rolled up in his head, intoxicated by the hot heaviness filling his mouth, the taste of skin and salt, the slight bittersweet of the pre-ejaculate that was leaking steadily into his mouth.

Gerard moaned, propping himself up on his elbows, soclosesoclosesoclose, but wanting to see those tanned, tattooed hands dig into his hips, Frank's eyes closed in reverence, lips stretched wide around him and that sexy inked throat working as he swallowed.

"Please, I, oh Frank please, I-" Gerard gasped as Frank's eyes flew open, staring right at him, a sleepy hazel green.
He moaned low in his throat, vibrating around the cock in his mouth, and Gerard cried out, tossing his head back as he thrust up, again and again and again, his body going stiff and arching off the bed as he came down Frank's throat.

Frank gagged a little on the last thrust, Gerard was that deep inside him, but he focused on swallowing instead of the claustrophobic choke, shuddering as he felt Gerard pulse and twitch through his orgasm, the hot jets of cum shot shooting out so quickly he barely got a taste. He was dimly aware of rutting against the bed throughout, a few shaky seconds away from his own climax. He held Gerard in his mouth until he began to soften, swirling his tongue gently around to get every last drop of ejaculate, Gerard's whimpers echoing around him, his belly shuddering with each wrecked breath beneath his hands. He found the weight of a warm and soft dick in his mouth comforting, and he imagined he could almost fall asleep with Gerard tucked away inside him.

He was too afire with lust to feel sleepy though, and hellbent on unleashing his desire. He intended to make Gerard feel thoroughly and utterly pleasured if it was the last thing he did.

So, Frank didn't stop. He lifted his head up, catching Gerard's drowsy gaze as he licked his lips. "So good, baby," he slurred, pressing a kiss just below Gerard's navel.

Gerard giggled breathlessly. "Fuck, Frank. I think my soul left my body." He ran a trembling hand through Frank's hair. "Now why don't you climb up here and fuck my mouth?”

Frank's cock twitched with interest at the offer, and his eyes fell closed at the mental image. But he shook his head.

"Nope."

“What—” Gerard bit his lip in confusion, brow furrowed as he watched Frank, who was now (with surprising success) tugging his jeans over his hips, down his legs, and onto the floor. Frank slid up his body, strong callused hands slipping under Gerard’s soft, threadbare tshirt. He gasped as rough-textured thumbs teased his nipples into hardness, and his head fell back languidly as Frank took his mouth in a molten kiss.

“I’m not even close to being through with you,” Frank said when he broke the kiss, eyes drilling deep into Gerard’s. He was pinching his nipples now, twisting slowly until Gerard was keening and arching up off the bed. He tugged the shirt over his head, maintaining eye contact as he drew his index finger over his semi-hard cock.

Gerard hissed at the sensation. “Still-still sensitive, Frankie.”

“But you’re getting wet,” Frank murmured, seeing the little glistening trail of precum. He swiped his finger through it, dragged his finger over Gerard’s rose-petal lips, his own mouth falling open as Gerard’s tongue swiped out to lick it, and then suck Frank’s finger into his mouth.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?" Gerard mumbled before releasing his finger. "It could be your dick instead, but you have to be stubborn,” he pouted, but his pupils dilated, his breath hitched as Frank shook his head firmly and lowered his mouth to the stiff peak of his nipple.

“I told you, it’s not playing out that way,” Frank countered smoothly as he sucked the pebbled flesh into his mouth, scraping it with his teeth.

“Fuck yes,” Gerard whined, writhing against the man. “Do your worst, Iero.”

Frank grinned, and set about his complete ravishment of Gerard Way. He poured his soul into it, all the years he’d been dead and yearning, intent on repaying Gerard for every time he’d looked at him and felt his feet leave the ground, blessing him with fevered kisses and branding him with his teeth and nails. Gerard opened to him like a flower, sucking up every illicit drop of pleasure and begging for more. No part of him was left untouched. Frank flipped him onto his front, tangled his hand into his hair while sucking and biting the back of his neck, dragging blunt nails down his spine, sliding down to sink his teeth into that ripe ass, spreading him open and licking the treasure inside until he was dripping wet with Frank’s spit and his own sweat, begging for Frank’s cock. Frank ignored him and pushed him onto his back again, kissing and tonguing over the red furrows that crisscrossed Gerard's hips, temporary tattoos from his skintight jeans. He raked his nails down his hamstrings and calves as he sucked sweet inner thigh flesh into his mouth, licked a stripe over his balls and sucked them both inside. Gerard came again, crying out with shock at the sudden spontaneous jolt, and Frank licked him clean, crawling up his body to drool cum into his mouth as he kissed him slow and soft and deep. He quaked, near sobbing as Frank held him close, murmuring nonsense into his mouth, against his ear.

He shoved Frank weakly away, rolling him on his back, and pulled at his t-shirt, yanking the neckline down to lick a swath over his chest piece and wetly mouth at his nipples. Frank groaned and managed to assist Gerard as he attempted to wrestle him out of his shirt and jeans.

“Fucking Christ, Frankie, look at you,” Gerard breathed, trailing his fingertips reverently over the stories written on Frank in ink, stories of a life unlived. He dug a condom and lube from under the blankets, rolling it onto him with shaky hands, and Frank reached up to help, barely able to take his eyes from Gerard’s face, flushed red and thoroughly fucked over. Gerard leaned forward, pale thighs trembling around Frank, his eyes manic and intense, brow furrowed as he worked himself open, needing little prep after the way he’d been tonguefucked. He eased down slowly, and Frank groaned deep in his chest, pinned down by Gerard’s eyes. The pleasure was nearly unbearable, and Gerard writhed atop him in an exquisitely obscene dance. He tossed back his head, droplets of sweat flying from his black locks like diamonds, stroking his own cock as he chased a third climax.

“God, god, god,” Frank swore, thrusting hard up into him, emptying himself completely, his field of vision studded with stars and his ears ringing softly. He perceived nothing but the ecstasy of Gerard, an angel enraptured, a demon enthralled, his cries fuzzy in Frank’s ears as he spilled over the swallows on his belly, the webbing on his chest.

Gerard wilted against him, fluids squelching between their bodies, and Frank wrapped him in a snug embrace, his throat suddenly tight, his eyes full of water. He’d sought solace here, and he’d found it. He’d found the magic of Gerard lighting up as he revealed new pieces of his story, as he was possessed by inspiration, as he came alive under Frank’s touch. But he’d found sorrow, too, and the night bloomed towards bittersweet dawn, reminding him each second of its end. It was nearly Sunday, and he knew the few hours they'd spend together tomorrow would fly by with surreal speed, and his other life would reclaim him.

They joked and laughed and kissed and snuggled. They ordered a fantastic pizza from down the street and ate it in bed, straight out of the box, watching a horrible monster movie on SyFy, their laughter easy, even as it wounded Frank’s heart. He fervently agreed when Gerard said excitedly “Let’s stay up all night!” and he made them coffee, which they drank, at 2am, with a shared bowl of ice cream. Maybe if they didn’t go to sleep, the night would stretch on, into exquisite eternal darkness, where they could love and play and curl up together in neverending bliss.

The coffee didn’t keep them awake or halt time in its tracks, nor did the movies, nor did Gerard’s seemingly limitless supply of energy. They dozed off as zombies staggered onscreen, wrapped around each other, unaware that the night was over.

Chapter Text

2002

Frank was pretty sloshed when the guys dragged him from the club to the tattoo parlor. It was two blocks away, a seedy joint frequented by bikers, but then the club was seedy too, a 200-capacity box held together by plywood and graffiti. He'd been making an idiot of himself in the pit there since high school, and his band had graced the stage dozens of times over the past few years. Only fitting that it host his bachelor party. The party had consisted of thrashing around to a local hardcore act, catching elbows and spit and spilled beer, not to mention severely battered eardrums, while the guys fed him shot after shot.

He was happy, sweaty, and reeking of booze when he reeled into the harshly lit shop and grinned at the sole artist, a raggedy-bearded dude with a permanent scowl and heavily muscled arms crawling with prison tats.

"Anything you want under $50, Frankie," Hambone said grandly, sweeping his arm towards the wall of flash, pinups and pirate shit mostly.

"You guys are the best," he laughed. "You don't gotta do this." He knew they could barely afford it.

"Bullshit! It's your big night. You're turning all respectable and shit on Sunday."

"No fucking way," Frank laughed. "I'll never fucking be respectable, I can promise you that."

Hambone cocked his head and squinted at the kid, a short scrappy punk with an orange fauxhawk and a lip ring, beer-soaked Black Flag tee clinging to his skinny ribs. "You know what, I think you're right, lero," he snorted, clapping his friend on the back.

Frank grinned at himself in the mirror a couple hours later. He’d be getting hitched with a freshly inked scorpion on his neck, too high to be hidden by his suit jacket. He figured Angela's dad wouldn't mind, and Angela would probably think it was hot. He already had the piercings and other tattoos, and that hadn't ever been brought up as an obstacle when his soon-to-be father-in-law had offered him a job.

It wasn't a rebellion, so much as a reminder to himself.

Every time he looked in the mirror he'd remember this warm spring night, the gutter magic of sharing music with his friends and bandmates...it was everything that mattered to him. He could get through this year or two, deal with the insane reality that he was going to be a dad, show up at the job that would help his little family out so much, and still hold onto this, onto Frank fucking lero. He'd have the band and music on the weekends, and when he and Angela were a little more stable and settled and had some money saved, then he could come back to the music full time if he wanted. Angela was still finishing her degree; they'd planned for him to be a stay-at-home dad while she pursued a career in counseling or social work.

Life had thrown him a curveball with the baby, but he wasn't afraid, any more than any other young dad-to-be. He made his own fate, his own future, and the future was bright as fuck.

The church wedding and reception in his in-laws' sprawling backyard came and went, and the year flew by, he and Angela besotted with each other and soon little baby Cate. He felt good. Normal. He'd fit in ok at the job, his gregarious nature winning over clients despite his unconventional look. He was a favorite with the older guys at the company, who quickly treated him like a favorite son. And he even had the energy to hang out with the Pencey guys most weekends, a Friday night gig here, a Sunday practice there. They were writing songs; a new album was coming together. He was making enough at the job that they could afford better gear, a new guitar. Hell, he had even started looking to upgrade his duct-taped-together Toyota.

His 21st birthday was approaching, and his favorite way to celebrate his birthday, once he'd grown past the trick or treating stage, was to play a gig, and Pencey was booked on Halloween night.

Two weeks before Halloween, when Cate had just turned three months old, Angela told him her parents were planning a birthday party for him at their house. The guys didn't mind postponing the show, and they hadn't been headlining anyway, so it was no skin off the venue's back.

The party was a neighborhood blowout, his in-laws' massive backyard strung with thousands of fairy lights that flickered like fireflies in the trees. Long trestle tables covered with snowy white cloths were decorated with tiny carved jack o'lanterns and laden with mouthwatering dishes from a family catering company, traditional Sicilian fare and so, so much wine. Outdoor heaters kept the autumn chill away, and a DJ and dance floor were set up on the sweeping flagstone terrace at the back of the house. It was basically a rehash of his wedding reception, though he and Angela had had much more input with that event.

There was a champagne toast at midnight, and Frank's father-in-law, an imposing figure with sharp eyes and sharper suits, was beaming for once as he steered Frank around the side of the house, the rest of the guests trailing behind.

A gleaming black Range Rover was parked at the head of the circular drive. Windows tinted black. polished wheels glinting silver. The sharp man in the sharp suit bared all his teeth in a face-stretching grin, dangling the keys in front of Frank like a parent trying to distract a crying baby.

"You've had a good year, kid. You deserve it."

He dropped the keys in Frank's palm, dark eyes waiting. Frank felt his wife press to his side, lacing her fingers through his other hand.

"Wow, just...wow," Frank stammered. He wanted to add “thanks for the gangstermobile." It was funny, Angela would laugh, his friends would laugh, but his friends weren't here, and he didn't think the sharp man would laugh.

"Thanks, Mr. Lombardo," he managed. "I don't know what to say."

"You're a good kid, Frankie." He was drawn into a crushing, Armani-scented side hug. He peered down at him, his eyes unreadable.  "I was a hellraiser in my day. Maybe I didn't have the tattoos and all, but I was a wild one. Hungry. I think you're hungry too, you just gotta be careful what you develop an appetite for. Have your fun on the side, you know. The music, whatever. As long as you keep your eye on what's important." Both their eyes flicked to Angela, who was talking over her shoulder to some cousins.

"Absolutely, sir."

The man had never corrected his "sirs," had never urged him to call him Dad or even by his first name. Frank had just figured they were old-fashioned, but maybe it meant something else, too.

The business trips had come next. First, Hawaii, which had him so dazzled at his fortune to see such an exotic location that he endured a two-day conference with ease. The sales conferences and trips became frequent, and as Frank was their ingenue and star seller, he was sent, at first with Gary, a 50something cousin who always had him cracking up, and then alone. His suits increased in price, and he retired his piercings without anyone suggesting it first. He'd taken them out that first morning in Hawaii when he'd checked himself out in the bathroom mirror, thinking it made him all stealthy and incognito to show up like a charming normie. He'd fully intended to put them back in when they flew back to Jersey, but he'd tossed the silver hoops in the trash. He was a dad now, right?

The Lombardos always booked him in four-star hotels with plush carpets and sumptuous beds and heated bathroom floors. He got hit on a lot, by bartenders and hotel staff and other lonely travelers in elevators. Usually women, sometimes men. He remembered what Mr. Lombardo had said about appetites and having fun on the side. That wasn't going to be him.

Every time he ignored the ache in his groin and heart when a cute guy with bright eyes and a chiseled jaw flashed him a smile, he felt like it was a test, and he was passing with flying colors. He rewarded himself with a new tattoo each trip. Keep The Faith was the last of 2002, a florid script that flowed over the back of his neck, above the old jack o' lantern he'd gotten when the band was still together. It was inked on him in Atlanta at the end of his third trip in two months.

The Range Rover was soon parked in the driveway of a 2500 square foot house that was about a mile from Angela's parents. Cate was on a wait list for a prestigious preschool. The band had started working on another project, and none of them had expressed more than mild disappointment when Frank said he had to quit Pencey for good. He bought a new guitar without thinking, a white Les Paul. He wrote little songs on it for Cate, his heart overflowing as she cooed at him with her gummy grin.

His father-in-law still did not correct him when he called him Sir.

 2022

Frank stared at the faded arachnid that hugged his neck with less than a full complement of legs. He rubbed his hand across the scruff on his face, scratching over the few silver and white hairs that poked through now. Twenty years. A lifetime, nearly. Long enough for a child to be born and grow to adulthood, long enough for a boy who was almost a man to grow into middle age.

He was staring down the barrel of another birthday. A week till Halloween. If he'd been able to conceive of 41 at 21, he would have imagined himself settled, happy, surrounded by a loud family and friends. Maybe he'd still have the band, maybe not, but they'd still be in each other's lives, stitched together in a haphazard patchwork quilt that was fondly stained with spilled beer and cigarette burns.

He couldn't have imagined the isolation of being surrounded by family and sort-of friends yet being anonymous in his own life, a second-rate stand-in who barely cast a shadow. He used to think being alone was the worst thing he could imagine, when he'd crawled, puppyish, all over his buddies and girlfriends and half his audience as a kid, his heart spewing fierce love all over everyone in an endless volcanic eruption.

Being lonely when you weren't alone. That was it, that was the worst thing.

Frank filled the sink with hot water, bent over to let his pores soak up the steam. It was warm but refreshing. Cleansing.

He'd woken up with Gerard tangled around him at noon, and it was dark in the blackout-curtained bedroom, the air still thick with sex, the sheets reeking of them. It was the best thing Frank had ever smelled. They'd kissed lazily, deliciously, cotton-mouthed and bleary-eyed, morning wood pressed together. Frank had rolled Gerard onto his back, one strong arm slid under his shoulder blades, fingers snagged in his baby-fine hair, licking and nipping at his neck, raising the sweetest whines from his throat.

He'd wrapped his other hand, dripping with lube and precum, around both their cocks, and the urgency of his arousal combined with the pressure of a full bladder was almost too much. He felt every slickened drag of his cock-head against Gerard's, and when Gerard cried out beneath him, squeezing his thighs around Frank's waist, bucking up harder into his grip, he detached his mouth from his neck and sat up, watching with his mouth agape as Gerard came apart. Those eyes wide and latched on his in the dim light, the flash of teeth sunk into his lip, the furrow between his brows as his ecstasy crested, eyes falling closed and head thrown back, filling Frank's ears with breathless little gasps. He'd dimly heard his own shout as he came all over them both, wincing with each brutal jolt of pleasure.

He'd lowered himself down, trying not to fully collapse on Gerard, wrapping him tight in his arms and shoving his sweaty face into the crook of his sweaty neck as they both shook through the aftermath.

"So good, Frankie," Gerard whispered in his ear, and Frank's spine tingled. He wanted to wiggle in delight, his skin all shivery with gooseflesh.

Gerard had rolled them over and rubbed his face all over Frank like an affectionate kitten, nuzzling into his neck, his hair, his chest, stamping his skin with wet little kisses. He wiped their jizz-sticky torsos off with a corner of sheet, grinning madly.

"These sheets are fucked," he said happily. "Guess we should probably shower, huh?"

They'd pissed (not together, at Frank's insistence), showered (together, at both their insistence), and dressed, Gerard pairing yesterday’s jeans with no belt and a fluffy hot-pink sweater. Frank couldn't stop a lovesick simper from creeping across his face every time he glanced at Gerard. The hot pink played off the black of his hair and brows and made the natural color in his cheeks and lips bloom so dramatically that he resembled a boyishly androgynous Snow White. He stared at him so hard in the mirror when they were brushing their teeth that Gerard cackled and rolled his eyes at him, even as he blushed so deeply that his neck nearly matched his sweater.

The pedestal sink in Gerard's bathroom was almost too small for them to share, but they made it work, and Frank's heart twisted at the simple domesticity of the act. It was a throwaway task that became an intimate ritual when you were doing it with a person you loved.

Frank's internal monologue, when it wasn't bitter self-loathing, was all melodramatic Gerard-gushing. He was smitten, bowled over, intoxicated, bewitched. But it was only then, seeing the mint foam ring Gerard's lips and drip down his chin, that he knew it was real. It was something enormous and aching and deep, so intense he could never let it go, even if it hurt them both. And it would, he knew. It surely would.

They'd skipped downstairs and filled their stomachs with lattes and Nutella-stuffed cornetti. Gerard had rambled for a bit about his Joan of Arc painting ("The Flaming Maiden," he was calling it now) before they settled into a real discussion about the project.

They'd left each other with hazelnut-flavored kisses against Frank's car, Gerard so snuggly and warm in his arms, his fluffy sweater soft as rabbit fur.

Try as his black little heart might, he couldn't even feel melancholy at their parting, not at the sight of those rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, not with his head filled with plans and mutual promises.

As he'd driven off, he'd felt light and airy, reborn, and he hummed a melody that wanted to be a song.

The melody came back to him now, as the mirror fogged up from the steam, and Frank smiled as the picked up the razor, the blade whisking away brown and grey stubble as the song bloomed inside him.

He hightailed it to his man cave after shaving, dug a battered notebook out of the coffee table drawer, and snatched his Les Paul from the wall without thinking. He kept his guitars tuned, the task was muscle memory, a complete afterthought, but he was glad of the habit as he sat down to play.

He used to write on an acoustic, but it felt right to start this one on his favorite child. Writing again on an instrument purchased at a bright and hopeful time felt natural. Good. The song was bright as well, nothing like the seething-with-rage-and-heartbreak shit he used to write.

It started out with an urgent, almost percussive riff, a strumming heartbeat that built up and exploded into a dazzling jangle. He'd definitely want to add some distortion. It flowed out of him almost effortlessly, and he played through the same progression twice before scribbling shit down on paper. A third run-through, and he turned his phone on to record.

The bite of the strings into his fingertips had felt rough and strange, but it was a discomfort he welcomed, like a retired bodybuilder picking up the iron again and getting the endorphin rush from newly torn muscle. The fourth time through, he was grinning like an idiot, humming along, belting nonsense words.

He saw a flash from the corner of his eye and whipped his head around to see Max standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised and a small smile on his face. The kid had been napping after he'd picked him up, passed out on his bed to a YouTube video with explosive colors and an annoyingly strident host.

"Hey man," Frank grinned, settling back against the couch cushions with his guitar on his lap. "Come on in.”

"What band is that? It was kinda cool." Max perched on the arm of the couch.

"Ah, you flatter me," Frank laughed. "You just witnessed your old man writing a song, dude."

Eyebrows raised again.

"Yeah. Probably the first one since you were a baby."

"Nice." He got an actual grin in return. "Are you gonna start a band?"

"Dunno, maybe. Maybe if I start writing other stuff."

"Weren't you in a band when you and mom got married?"

"I was," Frank nodded.

"What was it called?"

The sun set as Frank told Max all about Pencey Prep, the wild shit (or, well, the PG-13 version of wild shit) that happened at their shows, even put the album on. Max had wrinkled his nose and said that the song that Frank had just written was a loooot better than anything on there, and Frank agreed, his heart quietly warm. He ordered takeout and they ate it there together, watching Pacific Rim.

It was the best night he'd had with his family in years.

Frank called off work again Monday, and it was really no big deal, he'd rarely done so in the past and could do most of his job from home. He made a note to himself to bring up the idea of permanent remote work when he went back in. He could frame it as needing to spend more time with his family, although he knew the request would be viewed as weird, and Angela and her father might possibly hate it. He suspected that his presence at the office was an optimum way for the man to keep an eye on him, and an optimum way for Angela to have her own days free.

He didn't want to be under Mr. Lombardo's thumb anymore, and he needed free time to work on Gerard's project (and work on Gerard, his inner sex demon purred). He imagined setting up his job as remote but not doing it at home, taking his laptop with him to Gerard's to answer emails & client calls, and wondered what fallout might result from that.

Monday was as blissful as the day before, though in a quieter way. He made omelets for himself and Max, took the kid to school, played guitar for a couple hours, and texted with Gerard. It was mostly business, details of the studio space and set building, but sprinkled with enough heated flirtation and adorable selfies that Frank was left aching by late afternoon.

you’re gonna be the death of me, he replied to one such selfie, sunlight slanting through the window and illuminating the lovely curves of exposed clavicles and pectorals in a deep v neck tee, as well as Gerard's luscious pout peeking out from under long strands of hair, lips parted and wet, the tip of his tongue barely visible, tucked into the corner of his mouth.

miss you bad, he added

Me too Frankie <3 <3

Wish I could see you more

We could be like the great artistic collaborators of history

Like Frieda Kahlo and Diego Rivera

Rimbaud and Verlaine

You know

But without the violence and stuff

Frank grinned at his phone, and the butterflies escaped their cage and fluttered wild and free. He didn’t know if those artists had been collaborators or not, but they’d definitely been lovers, even married.

o’keeffe and stieglitz were less problematic, he responded, after a brief sweaty hesitation

Yeah, you're right :)

And a painter and photographer, rather spot on

Frank swallowed hard, grinning dopily at his phone. Gerard was now texting a rapid-fire rant about the reception of O'Keeffe's iris paintings and how her other works were always overlooked, but he was distracted and dazed by Gerard's intoxicating freeness, how easily he'd opened himself to Frank, how he let some people into his heart and mind with utter abandon and a seeming lack of self-preservation, how to everyone else he was an enigma that only seemed familiar because of the sparkle of his eyes and the brightness of his smile.

He picked Max up from soccer practice at five, and they went to a diner near Frank's old neighborhood.

The kid seemed charmed by the grungy interior and the coarse-looking patrons, mostly older biker types and a few younger punk kids with battle vests and choppy haircuts dyed Kool-Aid colors. After phenomenal grilled cheeses and an Oreo shake for Max, Frank took him to a nearby record shop, frequented by the same punk kids who Max stared at with admiration.

He breathed in the dusty worn nostalgia of the place, smiled to himself as he imagined a life that was more like this every day. A single dad whose kid wants to hang out with him, wants to know the real Frank, actually thinks he's kind of a cool guy. He wondered what Max would think of Gerard. Would love him instantly, probably. He imagined Angela's reaction and had to smother laughter behind his fist, turning it into a fake cough.

She was back when they got home.

He sensed her before he saw her, her chaotic energy that almost seemed to make the lightbulbs sizzle, her sharp fruity perfume, the haphazard pile of luggage at the foot of the stairs and the shopping bags full of expensive junk.

She rounded the corner of the kitchen island, waving to Frank and Max with a jangle of gold bracelets and a terse smile as she yammered to someone on her cell about people named Teresa and Johnny, who he thought might be friends of hers. Or, hell, relatives, who knew.

Frank's lip twitched up in an attempt at a smile, but he faltered. His stomach churned with dread and his neurons began firing warnings, stirring up a quiet panic. He'd felt distant from his wife for years, had felt mildly annoyed by her for the past two or three, but this was the first time he felt actual revulsion. He didn't think she was a bad person, and he still respected that she was the mother of his children, but it had never felt so violently wrong before that he was here, that he was with her.

Maybe all it had taken was a tiny glimpse of real happiness for him to wake up and realize it was ok for him to say no to this, that there was still time, always more time, to say yes to something else. If a couple of rolls in the hay with someone who truly saw him, and one day of fun with his kid, changed his mindset so fundamentally, where the hell had he really been these past 20 years, and why had it taken so long to get himself back?

That was he felt when he was around Gerard, vital and seen, reborn anew, caught up in his effervescent energy. But his eyes stung with tears as Max ran up to hug his mom.

A small, hurt part of himself also wanted to forget, wanted some pill, some drug to make him forget about Gerard and the last couple weeks so he could keep on drifting down this chosen path, dissatisfied but at peace with his place in the world. It told him he was insane to fall so hard so fast, that he was delusional and living in a dream world, that he was sick for breaking his marriage vows, especially with a man.

He couldn't face this change without also finding the roots of his pain, learning their shape and texture before he ripped them out of himself, and he thought it might kill him to do that. Wouldn't it be easier to keep doing the safe thing, wasn't it absolutely crazy to have given up two decades of his life going down a path that wasn't meant for him? How the fuck could he start over, face this world fresh and raw, worn out and beaten down by time and age. It was nothing for a 20-year-old to take the plunge into a new life, a new identity. Hadn't he jumped straight into marriage and fatherhood with the rubbery spine and blazing energy of youth? Now he had to crawl out of the hole that a much younger man had dug, him with his aching back and weak knees and burning stomach.

"You guys have fun?" Angela was off the phone now and spared him a glance before Max started in about the lake house and soccer practice and the diner and the record store. Thankfully, he didn't mention anything about the song.

He stood there grinning as Max narrated the weekend, ignoring the buzz of the phone in his pocket that was Gerard.

When Max was shut away in his room with homework, and Angela was in the bath with Under the Tuscan Sun on her ipad, Frank curled up under his blanket, grabbed a beer from the minifridge, and turned on ESPN for background noise as he got back to Gerard.

12 missed messages. Three photos. One video. Was it Pavlovian that his dick twitched every time he got a photo notification from Gerard, or was it sick and perverse, since Gerard took photos of the oddest shit, and they also happened to be collaborating on an art installation?

The first photo was of a smiling rat of a dog, white and gray spotted with floofy white fur sprouting from its head...and only its head...like a lion's mane. It wore a purple collar with a jeweled heart-shaped tag, engraved with "Lady Marmalade."

This little lady was outside the starbucks near the studio, Gerard texted

Her owner was wearing leather pants and a studded vest if you can believe it. Didn't want to take a picture though cause that would have been rude

The next photo was a blurry capture of a nude headless mannequin painted with kaleidoscopic beams of light.

And the next, a smiling selfie, a disembodied mannequin hand cradling Gerard's reddened cheek, his eyes warm and glowing.

Fuck it, I took a video, you have to see this shit

And then a 2-minute video, Gerard's phone panning shakily around dusty piles of junk heaped against the exposed brick wall of the studio space. Two worn but classic looking leather armchairs that would have been at home in a library, or the VIP room of Fairytails. A St. Andrews cross with shackles already attached at the top and bottom of the X, assorted candelabra and candles, a cardboard box that looked to be stuffed with Church paraphernalia. The panning paused and Gerard flipped the camera around with nauseating speed, eyes bright and animated, biting his lip.

"Saved the best for last. Look what we found, Frankie." His tiny teeth flashed before the view jerked over to an enormous stained-glass window, a classic cathedral shape, propped against the wall. Panes of red and yellow and green and blue and violet, glinting under lamplight. This must have been what had painted the mannequin so many different colors.

"Can you believe it?" Gerard's voice spiraled up to an excited pitch. "It's perfect, right? No saints on it or anything but maybe that's best, we don't want to pull too much focus from me."

The camera flipped again, and Frank's chest ached at that familiar smirk. He needed to be there to kiss his cheek and wrap his arm around him as they inventoried their props.

"Talk to you soon, Frankie." Gerard's voice softened. His thick lashes fluttered, moth wings.

He held the phone further away to blow him a kiss.

Several hours later and miles and miles away, Frank held out his hand to catch it.

He'd insisted that he didn't want another party this year, had suggested going to the movies as a family, maybe eating at his old diner. Angela had given him a puzzled look and informed him, after a phone consult with her dad, that they would do a low-key family dinner at the cousins' restaurant. Frank's stomach churned, thinking of the whole pack of them yapping and talking all over each other, of Mr. Lombardo's sharp eyes on him, of an impersonal toast and maybe even a deeply uncomfortable private conversation in the back, reminding him of his responsibilities. He sensed another business trip looming, likely with supervision this time.

He planned to spend as much of the weekend as he could with Gerard. They would be shooting most of the day Saturday, but the anticipation of intimate moments and sleeping next to his lover again, and yeah, birthday sex, made him shudder with frustrated desire. He felt like he was burning up from the inside, and he fed his lust-hot turmoil by watching sleazy 90s movies about torrid affairs and forbidden passion, read erotica about priests forsaking their vows and married men lured into lives of sin by tempting twinks. He vowed that he wouldn't be a cliché, the middle-aged man whose head was turned, who uses and discards his true love before going back to his family. Scary as it would be, he couldn't do that.

You're coming Friday night, right?  Gerard texted midweek.

try my best <3, Frank responded, his stomach swooping as it did every time Gerard texted

It would just make more sense, we'd lose so much time if you don't get here till Saturday afternoon, you know the hours I keep lol

And

I want you in my bed for at least two nights in a row

I know it's YOUR birthday but i feel a little selfish ;)

trust me babe, two nights with you is the best birthday present I could hope for

two hundred might be better though <3

Two thousand, Gerard replied

Two hundred thousand

two billion 999 million

but that's the best I can do

Frank chuckled at himself.

Gerard replied with an assortment of emojis, and Frank sat down to dinner with Angela and Max, waiting till there was a break in school talk and Max's hard pitch for a horror movie marathon with his lake house friends.

"If you get your history project done by Friday night, it's ok by me," Angela relented. "But only if they pick you up and drop you back Sunday afternoon. It's your father's birthday dinner."

"I know!" Max chirped.

"Speaking of the weekend," Frank said casually, spearing salad with his fork, "I'm working on a photography project in the city on Saturday."

"A who?" Angela did a double take, eyes cartoonishly wide.

"This artist friend of mine, I'm shooting pictures of their work for their portfolio." He'd wanted to aim for something vaguely resembling the truth.

"What artist friend?"

"You remember the guys in Pencey? Well one of their friends owns a studio downtown, and one of his friends is the artist. I've been messing around with my camera some, so I said I'd do it."

"Their work? This artist a guy or a girl?"

"Oh," Frank scoffed. "Guy. He's a comic book artist but is doing a showing of paintings soon."

"Huh." The lines between Angela's carefully shaped brows smoothed out at confirmation of Gerard's sex. "You having a midlife crisis, Frankie? Messing around with the guitar, now photos?" So Max had said something about him playing after all. 

Frank barked out a laugh, his gut twisting uncomfortably at her now-unfamiliar use of his nickname.

"Well, I'll be at Johnny and Teresa's party anyway, you know they always have that Halloween blowout."

"Oh yeah." Frank now remembered their two-blocks-over neighbors, who hired caterers and designers to equip their lavish Halloween bashes.

"What time are you headed over? I was thinking of getting an early start.“

"I'll probably be home till three or four, going to get all dressed up at theirs. Teresa has a makeup artist. you know. I'll be here when Max gets picked up, anyway."

"Ah, cool." So if he disappeared in the wee hours Saturday morning (Friday night to Gerard), he wouldn't be missed?

Not that he'd be missed, anyway.

Sneak away he did, jolting awake at 1am from a nap on the man cave couch and grabbing the backpack he'd filled and stashed in the closet. He slunk downstairs on quiet tiptoes, navigating his way in the dark.

Gerard had texted him around 11, just as he was crashing. He was reclining in the tub, lit candles ringing his bare shoulders, and his beauty was unearthly in the candle glow. He was a divine thing, a holy relic with luminescent eyes that seemed to drink in Frank's very soul, and Frank intended to give him all the worship he deserved.

Ready for u xx, was all he said

Frank’s heart squeezed with longing, and his cock begin to stir, but he was so wrung out that he passed out holding his phone, staring at his beloved.

on my way to you now baby, he texted now, safely ensconced in the Range Rover, and he grinned at the answering Frankie!! <3 <3 before he pulled out of the drive, not flicking on his headlights till he was a few houses down.

Gerard buzzed Frank up when he arrived, not wanting to put on more clothes or get cold, and when he answered the door, Frank saw why.

The curves and lines of his body were hugged by a wine-colored velvet slip dress, or nightgown perhaps, topped by a light, silky black robe that trailed past the dress hem. Candlelight glowed behind him, the coffee table cleared off and flickering with dozens of tea lights and half-melted stubs of pillar candles. Gerard's eyes lit up, the burgundy of the dress bringing out the green in them. His lips parted, no doubt to chirp an enthusiastic greeting.

Frank shoved his way in before Gerard could make a sound, pulling him flush to his body with an arm around his waist, lips claiming him firmly and immediately, a muffled squeak caught in Gerard's throat. He dropped his duffel full of equipment with a thud and threaded his fingers through slippery-smooth, recently washed hair, cradling Gerard's skull like a precious thing as he opened his mouth with a deep, slow, questing kiss. Tears pricked behind his closed eyes, feeling small and saddened beneath the enormity of his love.

Gerard broke the kiss, grazing Frank’s neck with the tip of his pointy little nose, breathing in deep.

"Frankie," he whispered quietly, slender arms enfolding him, gripping with surprising strength.

"Missed you," Frank choked out, blinking away tears as Gerard's embrace tightened. He pressed a kiss to the warm pulse of his throat and gently stepped out of the hug, lifting Gerard's arms up and drinking him in.

"You look fucking beautiful, is that new?"

"What, this old thing?" Gerard purred, batting his lashes and popping his hip out dramatically.

He ran his hands over his velvet-covered torso, beaming at Frank with barely contained joy. "I love the way this feels, I wish the inside were velvet too. I like to wear it around fall, when it starts getting colder. Makes me feel like a cozy vampire." He cackled at himself and led Frank by the hand to the couch.

He slid off his backpack before he sat down, spotting the tray on the table, steaming mugs and a little plate stacked with macarons and brownies from Gerard's favorite bakery.

"Hot chocolate, not coffee," Gerard said. "Since it's so late. Well, I put a little espresso powder in for flavor, but nothing too crazy."

"Honey, you shouldn't have," Frank grinned, trying to drag Gerard into his lap.

Gerard squealed and kicked his feet, nearly sending lit tea lights flying.

They shared their drinks and pastries in quiet contentment, the silence broken only by occasional murmurs about the events of the week.

Gerard was over the moon about the song, and demanded Frank play it for him.

"It’s called Joyriding," Frank explained before he hit play on the video. "I really came up with it driving away from you last time. It’s…about how you make me feel, I guess. No lyrics yet, but—“

He was cut off by Gerard tackling him, accidentally slamming a bony elbow into his ribs as he peppered his face with kisses.

Frank chuckled, leaning into the attack, squeezing Gerard till he withdrew and sat back up, eyes enormous and glossy.

"Geoff has a little recording studio above the art studio, you know," he said excitedly. "Maybe he can show you that tomorrow too."

"Shit, really?" Frank stared off into space, sipping his hot chocolate, which actually had a LOT of espresso in it.

"Something to think about, yeah?" Gerard studied Frank's profile with cautious optimism, full of hope for his lover but not wanting to scare him off with too many possibilities.

"Yeah," Frank breathed. "I never—" his voice caught in his throat, and he favored Gerard with a warm smile. "It seems like so much is changing, so fast..."

"Too fast?" Gerard squeezed his hand, dark brows pinched together with worry.

"I don't know. I don't think so. I think-maybe I've been stagnant for so long, all these walls up, that one little brick taken out of the wall was bound to unleash a flood. I think...it was probably inevitable."

Gerard laughed a little, his brow smoothing out. "I think you're right. And…it's going to be okay, Frankie. I think it’ll all be okay."

"Promise?" Frank smirked at Gerard's fervent nod. "I've been thinking about the show though. About whether or not to use like an alias or stage name or whatever."

"Yeah? Maybe you should. I mean, there's your—situation, and of course your burgeoning music career. Maybe you don't want to be saddled with the pornographer label."

Frank laughed lightly. "You don't think it'll affect you? Won't all the little nerds be shocked and aghast when they find out enigmatic author Gerard Way modeled for sacrilegious smut? What if they found out about the stripping too?"

Gerard threw back his head, cackling brightly. "It might boost my sales, actually. Comic book nerds are pervy little fuckers. And hell, Grant Morrison did some topless photos with their dick almost out."

"Oh yeah?" Frank teased, poking his finger into Gerard's side. He enjoyed teasing him about his little crush on Morrison.

"I’ll show you," Gerard proclaimed, face flushed red as he pulled up the images on his phone.

Frank whistled at the sight of the legendary author in a hipshot pose, clad only in white bikini underwear (which, insanely, was emblazoned with the words "Worship Here") and a leather jacket, their erect penis clearly visible under the fabric. "Goddamn. “

"Right?" Gerard laughed shakily, twirling an errant strand of hair.

"You have this saved to your phone, don't you Gee?" Frank guessed, arching an eyebrow.

"Duh." Gerard rolled his eyes, his nonchalance convincing despite his blush. Yeah, it was embarrassing, but he also didn't give a fuck.

"Surprised you didn't try to get in their pants at one of the cons," Frank continued poking.

Gerard's look was haughty and pointed, an almost-glare, but he was really too kittenish to look threatening.

"I met them. And they were really friendly with me," Gerard allowed. "And of course I was friendly back, when I wasn't completely frozen in terror. But they're twice my age... I don't think they really see me that way. If they even swing that way, that is," he shrugged, popping the rest of his salted caramel brownie into his mouth.

"I can't imagine anyone not swinging your way." Frank said, pulling Gerard close, nuzzling his coconut-scented hair.

Gerard hummed and squeezed Frank's knee. "Oh! I have a gallery picked out... Geoff's friend Amy runs it. It's in Brooklyn. I emailed her the storyboards, but I think she was sold even before that, she knows my work. I was thinking late December, after Christmas? Bank on that extra sacrilege," he laughed. "Or early January maybe. We'll do a Sunday evening opening. The gallery's usually closed then, so anytime really."

"You think we'll be ready then, babe?"

"Well, it's two months. I don't have a day job or any commitments to worry about right now. I'm between books. If we get all the shooting done this weekend and the editing started next week, that gives me a ton of time to arrange prints, framing, all the extras like the prayer cards and candles."

"It seems ambitious," Frank said, feeling a bit queasy. "But we'll see how this weekend goes."

Gerard leaned back into the couch cushions, his smile soft and pleased. "I'm so excited."

"Yeah?" Frank snuggled up to his velvety warmth, breathing in the light earthy sweetness of his perfume.

"Me too." He bestowed a kiss, and then a second, and then a third, to the graceful arc of Gerard's collarbone. "Me too."

Gerard sighed and dragged Frank closer, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as they kissed, and it was sweet and thrilling and faintly chocolatey. Frank moaned as he plunged his tongue into Gerard's mouth, tasting his salty-sweet flavor. Gerard whimpered, rolling his hips against Frank's thigh, already hard, and Frank pulled away, regarding him, radiant and alive, a delicious gift wrapped in red velvet.

Frank slid his hand up a cool, smooth thigh, and Gerard’s breath hitched at the roughened caress.

Under the skirt, black velvet boy shorts were stretched over Gerard’s ample bulge, and Frank sighed harshly, trailing his fingers over the plush fabric, over the pulsing heat beneath.

“Velvet all over,” he murmured, watching Gerard’s eyes go dark as he squirmed beneath his touch, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips obscenely. “You look like Christmas instead of Halloween.”

“Or your birthday present,” Gerard managed, thrusting up against Frank’s hand with a barely muffled groan. “Going to unwrap me?”

“I am,” Frank promised, slowly peeling down the waistband of the shorts, millimeter by millimeter, the languidness of his movements making Gerard’s thighs tremble, making him wet, his soft lower belly shiny with precum when Frank exposed it. He bit his lip, avoiding the immediate impulse to swallow down that luscious pink dick.

“Funny how it’s my birthday, but I really just want to treat you.”

“Funny,” Gerard gasped, eyes heavy lidded and cheeks flushed a hectic red, hips twitching up and cock flexing under Frank’s gaze. “Frankie, please—“

Frank yanked the shorts down over Gerard’s thighs and off his lifted legs, wrapping them around his hand so that he was now gripping Gerard’s cock with a velvet-covered palm.

“Fuuuuck ,” Gerard groaned, eyes rolling back in his head.

“Now you can feel it all over,” Frank said, massaging his cock gently with the soft fabric. “Feel good, baby?”

“Mmmhmm,” Gerard whined, breath coming faster and his forehead dewy with sweat, his thighs spreading wider.

“Good. Good girl.” Frank swallowed Gerard’s ragged cry, the kiss messy and violent, Gerard drooling his salty sweetness onto Frank’s invading tongue.

Gerard shuddered, his balls drawn up tight and his thighs opening wider still as he trembled under the assault of sensation. Frank had worked out a really evil method of twisting and pressure so that the velvet slid soft and smooth against his shaft, without creating friction against the more sensitive head of his cock. The squeeze and the slide had razor-sharp pleasure spiking into his belly all too soon, and he spurted onto black velvet, sobbing into Frank’s mouth, wrapping his legs around his waist as he rode out his orgasm.

“So good, so good baby,” Frank whispered, sliding his mouth over the smooth column of Gerard’s throat, leaving a trail of gentle kisses and wet little nibbles.

“Fucking hell, Frank,” Gerard laughed shakily. He looked utterly debauched and utterly perfect, sunk back against the cushions with wet strands of hair framing his rose-red cheeks, his lips a swollen deep pink, sooty lashes drooping over the dazed glitter of his eyes. He was a fallen angel, a Renaissance painting, and Frank’s heart clenched in yearning. How could he yearn for someone right in front of him, who had given himself to him completely, who was, by every measure, his?

Frank winced as he realized he would never feel like Gerard was actually his…unless he was able to be fully Gerard’s.

Gerard leaned forward, plucking the soiled velvet shorts off his body and drawing Frank into his arms, his gaze tender with concern.

“Hey, you okay Frankie?”

Frank exhaled into the sweet-smelling dip of Gerard’s shoulder, kissing him softly.

“Perfect,” he sighed. “Always perfect with you.”

Gerard cradled his head against his chest, stroking his hair, and Frank vowed not to give into the tears that were threatening to crash over him. He sat up, he gently raked the sweaty mass of Gerard’s hair off his face, and kissed his lips.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, and they did, and their bodies tangled together in passion once more before they slept, and though he longed to cry out “I love you I love you I love you” as Gerard writhed against him, he kept silent. They drifted to sleep in the afterglow, fingers laced together, and it was almost perfect, almost love.

Frank was instantly bowled over by Geoff, this tall lanky dude with a wide gap toothed grin, swooping down on him after running downstairs to greet them. He took a cautious step back, not sure if he was going to be tackled, but Geoff stopped short and tossed up his hand in greeting when Gerard introduced them.

"Welcome to the imaginatorium, Frank." He swept his long arms out majestically, and Frank was already in love with the high ceilings, long narrow windows, and exposed brick of the studio. He now spotted one shadowy corner that had a twin bed squeezed in between brick pillars, a laundry sink, and a couple of cabinets topped with a microwave.

"Oh, that's for if people need a place to crash while they're working on something. There's even a scary little bathroom back behind there."

"It's really fucking scary," Gerard laughed. "It's like a vertical concrete coffin. There's a toilet and a drain in the floor and a really shitty shower head. No curtain either. Looks like something out of the SAW movies."

Geoff shrugged under his well-worn flannel. "Better than nothing. So let's run upstairs real quick and I'll show you the studio, Frank. Gee told me you're writing some songs. That's fucking awesome, I do some singer-songwriter stuff myself." His voice carried behind him as he led them up a narrow metal winding staircase.

Frank wondered what this building used to be, then found himself hooked on the thread of Geoff's monologue. His nonstop ramble reminded him of Gerard, but his delivery was practiced and no nonsense. He sounded like a teacher.

During the short walk upstairs, he discovered that Geoff had indeed briefly taught middle school English, gave guitar lessons now, had been two years ahead of Gerard at SVA, had collaborated with him on a comic that he was now working on a movie pitch for. Frank had known about the comic and them going to school together, but not about the movie pitch.  He raised his eyebrows at Gerard.

"That's a really recent development," Gerard laughed, "Like, he just talked me into going forward with it two nights ago recent. And don't worry Frankie, I'm not going to even look at anything about it till like March."

"Probably won't happen," Geoff said brightly. "Not with the scandal you two are about to create." Gerard rolled his eyes and snorted. 

"But I thought we should give it a try before I write the script and shoot it myself."

Frank laughed.

"He's dead serious," Gerard grinned. "He minored in film and as you can probably tell, he knows every indie artist in the five boroughs."

Frank shook his head, following along as they cut through Geoff's small but charmingly decorated living area.

"This used to be a second bedroom kind of? I had to wall it off better and put on a door, and of course acoustic tiling and everything," Geoff explained as he opened the door to the studio.

It was larger than Frank expected, though still tiny, but outfitted with more than just bare bones equipment. Frank figured Geoff's apparently vast network of colleagues had contributed.

"So when and if you're ready, this might be a good place for you, especially if it's just acoustic stuff. You want to put a band together, it might be more of a challenge, but we could record different parts separately, which is how it's done anyway usually, although normally you can fit the whole band in the studio," he grinned.

"Thanks, man," Frank scratched his head. "This is...it's a really good space."

And it was. The entire building seemed to hum with a welcoming, radiant energy that was warming despite the lack of insulation. Geoff's vivid blue eyes, latching onto everything they saw and creating a story of it, matched the energy, and he saw the same force alive in Gerard. Maybe it was just the energy of creative people who lived unbound lives, who were doing exactly what they wanted to do, Frank mused.

After another few stories about Geoff's musical pursuits (he sometimes hosted live shows in the art studio space), he ushered them back downstairs and left them to their work, slipping out the front door with remarks about meeting some friends just in from London.

"So Geoff's basically a superhero, huh?” Frank laughed.

"Right?" Gerard beamed. "I don't know where his energy comes from. I do, though, I guess. It's the same intensity I get when I'm focused on finishing a painting or a book. He's just able to spread it everywhere. Or rather, he's unable to devote it to just one project at a time. Somehow it works for him though."

"You really lucked out; he must have been one hell of a mentor." Frank smushed Gerard to his side, kissing his soft cheek.

"Yeah," Gerard laughed. "He helped me out so much. I mean he's only a couple years older than me, but he had so much more life experience, art experience, everything. I owe him a lot. Between you and me though, it was utter hell working on that comic together. Some days he'd show me ten pages he'd done on a totally divergent storyline, some days I'd show up to meet him and find out he was in fucking Vancouver or somewhere."

He shook his head and bit his lip, now looking around at the studio space, his perfect profile caught in a slant of sunlight, eyes sweeping over their pile of props before circling back to Frank. A quiet excitement glowed there, flashing gold.

"Ready?" he chirped, bouncing on his heels now, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

"Fucking ready," Frank agreed, and they got to work.

For the next two hours, they built their sets from the array of props, set up lighting equipment, cleared random junk out of the way, did test shots with Gerard still in the black sweatpants and oversized flannel he’d thrown on that morning.

They took five to stretch and gobble down energy bars and vitamin water, and then Frank stood in the middle of the space, hands on hips like a conquering emperor surveying his domain.

"Everything looks good to me, I think, if you wanna get ready now Gee? I'm still feeling good about doing the altar first."

Gerard nodded, cheeks pinking. "I have to visit the SAW bathroom," he said, grabbing up his wardrobe bag, the wardrobe mostly consisting of panties and electrical tape.

“No rush," Frank replied, attaching his new lens to his trusty old Nikon. He could have rented one, glass was expensive as fuck, but he'd wanted to splurge for the occasion, and this $3000 fucking lens was like a fine champagne to toast his new beginning.

Gerard emerged moments later, flushing red from his cheeks to his sternum when he caught Frank's eye. He was nude, carrying the bag strategically in front of his crotch. Frank giggled at the sudden attempt at modesty. His bare skin gleamed, and Frank caught the soft almond scent of his body lotion. There was a faint bit of eyeliner or shadow defining his eyes, and his lips looked plump and dewy, slicked with a tinted balm. The small amount of makeup would add a nice touch to photos, though they needed only light and shadow to bring out Gerard's magnificent bone structure.

"Ready," he announced with a smirk, dropping the bag out of sight behind a screen and crawling onto the altar (liberated it from a now-demolished New Jersey church) with serpentine grace.

Time passed in a hallucinatory blur, and Frank felt razor sharp and weightless, homed in on each shot, intuiting the best light, the best angles without thinking, his eyes soaking up the blasphemous pornography, the sacrilegious psychedelia of the sets and his model, his mind a grainy whir of background noise as he snapped shot after shot. Gerard was merely another prop, a mass of limbs to arrange on the altar just as he arranged the candles and communion chalice.

The spell was broken only between set switching, when they both stretched and guzzled water. When he was strapping Gerard to the St. Andrews cross, he noticed the toll it was taking on him. He was vibrating like a live wire, flushed pink and half aroused, eyelids drooping, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

"Doing okay, Gee?" he murmured. "We can take a longer break, no problem."

"N-n-no," Gerard stuttered out, biting his lip as Frank produced the silver clover clamps that would be attached to his nipples. His cock plumped out further when the cool metal hit his skin, and he shivered.

“I’m okay, just…you know." He laughed shakily, blushing harder when Frank met his eyes.

"Yeah, I see that now," Frank smirked. He pinched his left nipple taut to fasten the clamp onto it, and Gerard keened, pressing his body into Frank, shaking with arousal.

"Jesus, baby," Frank breathed, his own cock tenting his pants. "You're so sensitive, aren't you?"

Gerard gasped as the second clamp was attached, rubbing against Frank's side shamelessly now.

Frank kissed his neck lightly, inhaling the scent of his lotion and the musk of his skin, his scent blooming deeper in his excitement. Then he stepped away, leaving Gerard to pant in his restraints, his cock inflamed and fully hard, crowned with a liquid pearl of precum.

"Just like that, babe," he whispered, stepping back to retrieve his camera. Gerard gazed up at the ceiling with the beatific look of the martyred saint, and Frank snapped away, his own arousal forgotten as he worked quickly to capture the obscene beauty before him.

"Let's try it with cum now, hmm?"

He grabbed up the tube of cum lube and striped Gerard's torso with it, grinning as he shivered away from it, his erection not waning.

“Fuck you, that's cold,” he laughed, breathing hard as his skin broke out in goosebumps.

"Not too cold, though, huh," he said, lightly gripping Gerard's cock, swiping his thumb over the wet throbbing head of it.

"F-f-f-uck, Frankie, you're gonna fucking kill me," he moaned, thrusting his hips forward.

Frank snickered and released him, stepping back to his tripod.

"You better fuck me after this shot. Like right after," Gerard grumbled, pink lips pouting.

"Maybe," Frank hedged, waiting for Gerard to compose his face.

The pout stayed, and the shot definitely looked like an eyeroll rather than a divine appeal to Heaven.

Frank snickered at him, and Gerard's face relaxed into a pleased little smile, and the shoot continued without further incident.

“Alright, one more down," Frank announced, satisfied with the previews he clicked through in his camera.

"Thank fuck," Gerard groaned. "Come get me out of these things."

Frank stepped forward and kissed his cheek, running his thumb over Gerard's wrist just over the top of the cuff.

"These things?" he asked. "Or these things?" Now he ran his other thumb over the reddened erect bud of Gerard's right nipple.

" Ah, ah," Gerard gasped. "Both, please.”

"I don't know," Frank murmured. "I kind of like you like this, Gee."

He brought his left hand down to his other nipple, teasing them both at once, pinching lightly between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently on the chain that connected the clamps.

Gerard wailed, hips bucking forward, raising his right knee up, trying to get his leg around Frank's waist.

"Fuck, you can fuck me right here, go ahead," he said, whining as Frank released his nipples. He scooped his thighs up and secured them around his waist, fingers dug into the softness of his hips as he claimed Gerard's mouth, devouring him with a wet and messy kiss.

"Yeah, okay, yeah," Frank stuttered out, reaching for the lube again. "Wait. I didn't--do you have condoms?"

“No, fuck it...we're both clean and...fuck it. And I’m-I prepped already." Gerard said, looking down shyly, hair falling over his eyes, nearly concealing his scarlet cheeks.

Frank raised an eyebrow and stroked gently over Gerard's perineum and up to his hole, gasping at the obstruction he encountered.

"Fuck, I need to see this," he said, fumbling at the buckles on the restraint cuffs. "Turn around, babe."

Gerard was panting now as he complied, gripping the cross with shaky hands as Frank spread his cheeks gently and revealed the red jewel that crowned the stainless steel plug inside him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Frank swore, kneading the softly muscular globes of Gerard's exquisite ass as he kissed and then licked and then nipped at the back of his neck. "No wonder you've been hard the whole shoot.“

"Oh-oh God," Gerard whined, shoving his ass back against Frank. "Fuck me, please.”

"Yeah," Frank breathed, grinding his own hardness against Gerard. "Wanna see you though, baby."

He spun him back around and refastened the cuffs with trembling hands, then yanked his own jeans and boxers down below his ass and slicked himself up with the lube, dizzy at the sight of it, knowing his dick would look like that again after he came inside his lover.

"Legs around me again," he requested, and Gerard's thighs were squeezing his sides all too soon.

He reached beneath him and wiggled the plug slowly from his body, watching avidly as Gerard's brow furrowed, eyes screwed shut and lips parted as he moaned out his pleasure. He dropped it on the floor and immediately brushed his cock over Gerard's gaping entrance, groaning as the head popped in right away.

"Ohgodohgodohgod yes come on fuck me," Gerard babbled, insides already rippling around him.

Frank hilted himself with one slow, smooth thrust, and he thought Gerard might crack his ribs with the grip his thighs had on him now.

Frank unwrapped his legs and pinned his thighs against his chest, going up on his tiptoes to fuck him harder, quickly finding a rhythm of slow and brutally deep thrusts.

Gerard's face was streaked with tears, his hair stuck to his cheeks in wet strands as he took Frank's cock with sobbing gasps.

Frank gritted his teeth, trying to hold on. The sound, the feel, the slick heat of him would soon be his undoing.

"So close," he grunted out, feeling the pleasure spike as his balls slapped against Gerard’s cheeks.

"Gonna fucking..cum in you baby."

"God, yes, fuck, please," Gerard babbled, and Frank felt his molten insides spasm, saw his dripping cock flex against his belly.

He reached up and yanked the clamps from Gerard's nipples by the chain, and Gerard clenched his fists and screamed as his climax hit, eyes rolled up to the ceiling like Saint Sebastian as ropes of cum shot over his stomach and chest.

Frank cried out, stilling within him, letting Gerard's orgasm milk his own from him, and at the height of it he went up on his tiptoes again, the pleasure raking his inner thighs, balls, spine as he pumped Gerard full of cum, some dimly primal part of his brain purring and gloating at the way he'd just filled and claimed his mate.

After the Saint Sebastian shoot and its erotic aftermath, they ordered pizza, eating it sprawled on the twin bed in the corner of the studio. Frank was impatient to get back to work, but his body was sluggish from food and his head was all floaty with hormones and endorphins, and Gerard seemed much the same, so after eating they lay there wrapped around each other, just breathing and dreaming, punctuating every murmured word with kisses. There may have been a power nap after.

They still had a couple hours before Geoff was expected back, so Gerard lit another stick of nag champa to set the mood and they got back to it. They mutually agreed the pistol fellatio idea was a bit out of place, and Frank decided he wasn't comfortable with appearing in the photos, even as a shadowed figure, so the lapdance shot was scrapped too, and Gerard didn't mind, agreeing that focusing on the sacrilegious element would make for a more cohesive exhibit.

The new improvised shots made them both giddy with creative pride. What they'd created surpassed the original ideas, and Frank was reminded of writing songs in his Pencey days, collaborating with another musician and having new ideas spring from the fire of inspiration. Thank fuck Gerard had happened to pack a knotted rope flogger in his box of Catholic goodies.

"I did want to give you a lap dance, though," Gerard pouted, kissing Frank with his minty fresh mouth, having gargled with Listerine after the last shot. "Recreate the first night we met."

Frank smiled softly, returning the kiss. "Mmm, let's put a pin in that. It's after two, and I am unfortunately tired and old."

He felt the tip of Gerard’s pixie nose against his scalp as he nuzzled into his hair. "It might be better to do that as part of a birthday celebration, anyway. Lapdance for your birthday. You are coming back after your dinner, right?”

"That's the plan," Frank said, squeezing Gerard's hand in assurance. He'd figured he could sneak out again Sunday night and call out Monday, making the most of this Halloween.

"I'm glad.” Gerard’s eyes twinkled under that incredible sweep of lashes. He’d gotten back into his mismatched sweatpants and flannel, and Frank found him just as stunning as he had been naked and exposed during the shoot, as stunning as he'd been in fishnet and latex when they'd met, in designer denim and leather, in velvet and silk. Gerard Way was one of nature's most perfect creations, not just because of his facial structure or the proportions of his body, but the way his inner beauty shone out from his eyes, as if his soul were a sun.

Geoff returned just as they were gathering up their backpacks and duffels, the door unlocking with a jangle of keys and the chatter of animated voices. His London friends, presumably, a striking blond woman in a severely tailored suit, and an older bearded man in flannel and corduroy, who reminded Frank of an eccentric lumberjack novelist, if such a creature existed.

"Hey, how'd everything go?" Geoff winked before making introductions.

"Amazing," Gerard beamed. "I'll come back sometime tomorrow and clean things up, we're just exhausted."

"Yeah, so exhausted you're bouncing off the walls," Frank snorted.

"It's Starbucks' fault," Gerard grinned. "But yeah, if you want me to clear out any of those props or anything, I can come by."

Geoff squinted at the abandoned set, the cross and altar shoved back against the wall, the altar candles packed away in the lone box of props that sat atop it.

"Don't see any mess, dude," he laughed.

"Well, there's wax on the altar, and things may need...sanitizing. I went over most stuff with Clorox wipes, but like, there's a flogger and stuff in the box that you may not want to touch, we just don't have hands to carry it now, and I don't really want a bunch of creepy Catholic shit in my house anyway—"

"Gerard," Geoff cut in gently."I'll throw the box in the closet and you can get it whenever. Get some rest. Enjoy your Sundays. It's Frank's birthday, right?"

"Halloween, actually," Frank said. "But I'm doing some celebrating tomorrow."

"There you go then. Happy birthday man, and it was great meeting you." He snatched Frank up in a quick hug. "Let me know if you're up for recording..any time!"

"Happy birthday!" Geoff's guests called out, making their way to the wine cooler by the kitchenette.

Finally, they staggered to Frank's car. Well, Frank was staggering and Gerard was practically skipping beside him, vibrating with the recent caffeine infusion.

"I can drive," he volunteered, tucking a stray black lock behind his ear.

"I'd rather not spend my birthday in the ER," Frank teased, sliding in behind the wheel, his spine groaning in relief.

Gerard rolled his eyes but his feeble attempt at keeping a straight face failed, and he burst into shrill cackles. 

Frank grinned and put on the Misfits, and they drove the short distance back under clear cold starlight, Gerard now on a tear about shock rock and horror punk. As he provided detailed biographies of Alice Cooper and Glenn Danzig, Frank was aware that his eyes and body ached, and he was beyond ready for sleep, but he was glowing with a contentment he hadn't felt in years. He felt like he was driving home, that wherever Gerard was would always be home.

When he'd signed his soul away 20 years ago for a cushy new life and a Range Rover, he couldn't have imagined that a newer version of that car would one day be driving him to a strange new destiny.

All these miles just to get back home.

He heard a forlorn guitar twang in his head, a song of battered highways unspooling under empty endless skies.

Song lyrics? He smiled. Would he write a new song every time he was with Gerard?

All these miles just to get back…to himself.

Halloween Eve. Devil's Night. Mischief Night.

It was two pm when he woke up in Gerard's bed, drooling onto his chest, their arms loosely wrapped around each other. A parade of giddiness was marching through Frank's innards, butterflies dancing, wanting to fly out of his mouth and erupt into rainbows and moonbeams. Two days in a row waking up to this shared warmth, to the musky-sweet scent of the sheets they were tangled in, to Gerard's adorable sleeping face, black lashes curled against soft cheeks, pink lips parted slightly, light snores drifting out of him every so often.

"Sleeping Beauty," Frank murmured, pressing a kiss to Gerard's chest.

Gerard grumbled, groaned, and finally blinked his eyes halfway open to see Frank sprawled across his body. His face came alight with a sleepy smile.

"Morning, Frankie." He arched his back, stretching his spine out like a cat, and rolled onto his side, burrowing into Frank's neck, humming happily.

Frank grinned and checked his phone again. The dinner was at 7, so he'd probably need to leave by 6. His eyebrows shot up as a text from Max came through, his stomach heavy with the omnipresent worry of a parent coupled with the low-lying guilt of his current location.

hey dad, happy early bday.

Josh asked if I could stay over tonight too, his mom'll take me to school in the morning

I know your dinner's tonight but I know you aren't really that into it and josh and eric want to shoot a monster movie in the backyard

It sounds dumb but it might be fun

hey yeah that sounds fun as hell, Frank replied, a little bummed out but wanting his son to have more life experiences that didn't center around Angela's family.

did you talk to your mom about it?

yeah, she said to ask you

Frank squinted at the text, surprised Angela hadn't blown his phone up already.

you know about max wanting to stay over at josh's another night?  He texted her.

Yeah, I said to ask you, it's your birthday dinner, I'm fine if he doesn't want to go  

Frank's eyebrows rose. She could be militant about her family sometimes.

it's okay with me, as long as he gets to school ok

and hey the dinner's not even necessary, Ang, l'm too old for birthday parties

besides, I got invited to this halloween party at this artist's loft in the city, there will be a lot of good connections there  

sounds freaky to me, don't know why you need that type of connection anyway

my dad has it planned, so we're doing it, she continued, and he didn't bother to argue

I’ll let max know 

He wasn't surprised when he received no response.

hey bud have fun making the monster movie

really? Awesome

you are the man dad

love you, buddy

love  you too dad, I have a present for you tomorrow!

rad

Frank sighed and flung himself onto his back, dragging his hands over his face.

"Everything ok?" Gerard asked, scooting closer and snuggling against him.

"Yeah, just texting with Max. He wants to stay at his friend's another night. I told him he could, lord knows he should be spared from that boring ass dinner."

"You sure you're okay with it?" His eyes were wide and glossy in the dim afternoon light.

"Yeah, of course. We'll hang out tomorrow..my actual birthday. Just thinking about some other stuff.“

"Can it wait a minute? I'll go pee and get us some coffee. Then we can talk all about it."

"We don't have to stay in bed, I'll go help with the coffee."

"Yes we fucking do have to stay in bed." Gerard smirked, slithering out from under the covers. "My house, my rules.”

"No argument here." Frank grinned, starfishing himself in the middle of the bed.

Gerard giggled and scurried off to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, they were both somewhat refreshed and sitting snug under the covers.

Frank smiled down at his mug. Gerard had topped his coffee with non-dairy whipped cream and decorated the dollop of cream with a heart made of mini chocolate chips.

"I never got the hang of latte art," he said, sipping his own coffee and emerging with a dot of whipped cream on his nose. "I figured that was just as good."

"Even better," Frank pronounced, leaning over to kiss away the cream. Gerard squeaked happily and Frank settled back to drink his own coffee.

"So, what l'm thinking about, is playing hooky from the dinner I guess. I've tried a couple times to get her to cancel it, but it's a no go. There is not even one tiny little microscopic part of me that wants to be there. And...you know..I'm going to have to come clean at some point if I want things to change. I can't keep doing both. And..I want to spend my birthday weekend...all of it... with you."

Gerard smile was pained, and he reached over to squeeze Frank's free hand.

“I would love for you to do that, to be here. And I know you're going to have to take action about your situation, eventually. I just don't know if it's the right time. I don't want you to put yourself under more stress than you have to, Frankie."

"I appreciate that, Gee. But I guess part of me feels.. I mean, this is just so new, I want to spend every minute with you.“

"Me too.” Gerard leaned over to smooch Frank's cheek. "But life happens. I'm still going to be here, pining away in my little tower," he smiled.

"I don't want you to feel compelled to stay here when it creates problems elsewhere. We can take our time with the project, now that we've got all or most of the shooting done. And maybe you need to keep the peace at home so you can keep working on it. I know I seem all easily distracted and adhd, and I am, but not when it comes to the people in my life. I'm in this. I'm not going to forget about you if you have to spend time at home. I could never forget about you."

Frank smirked bitterly. "Cause I'm such a catch? I mean I'm basically the 40 year old virgin here. You're so fucking gorgeous and charming you must have people falling at your feet."

"I don't want people," Gerard said in a small voice. "I just want you."

Frank felt his heart break and bloom at the same time.

"You have me. I just—" he raked his hand through his hair, laughing at the absurdity of it all. "I know people are going to be hurt. Me, my family, you. And I know I need to be true to myself. You've inspired me to be true to myself. I don't know how to balance this project and all my personal stuff. It does make sense to just keep the peace till it's done, then work on the other thing, but Gee, it gets harder every day to keep up the lie. It makes me fucking sick." He sighed harshly. 

"I guess maybe, if I really talk to Angela, I can get her to agree to a break. Just a little time apart so i can breathe, work on our project, see where the music's going. Maybe take time off from work too. Just a little time before I snap and do something that'll hurt everyone unnecessarily."

"I'll be here, whatever you need to do," Gerard murmured, tracing gentle circles on his chest. "I promised you it would be okay, didn't I? I know there might be hard times ahead. But this connection we have is so powerful, I think we can get through anything."

Frank sighed and set his empty cup on the nightstand, cradling Gerard's face in his hands and bringing their lips together. "You amazing, amazing creature. What did I do to deserve you?"

Gerard hummed and deepened the kiss, throwing his leg around Frank's waist. He trailed kisses down Frank's neck, licking over his tattoos. 

"See what you do to me, how you have me every time I think about you?" He rubbed his swelling arousal against Frank's thigh, raising moans from both of them.

"Me-me too," Frank stammered. He gave himself over to it, to Gerard's mouth and hands and body, let himself be carried away by the exquisite pleasure as they lost themselves in fevered kisses and rough caresses and the simmering heartbeat rhythm of their joined bodies.

Frank remembered birthday parties past, the parties that came after he'd handed himself over to Angela's family on a plate.

Angela and her mom always teamed up to print out ridiculously oversized pics of him...usually being ridiculous. Little Frankie behind a drum set at age 9. His high school yearbook photo, looking like a tween boy scout. Holding little Cate up at 23, grinning like an idiot.

Walls and doors hung with tasteful garlands and fairy lights. A multi-tier birthday cake that accommodated his weird stomach issues, usually topped with something uniquely Frank. A New Jersey Devils mascot. A Nike shoe. Once, a bobblehead of him holding a guitar. That had been his 30th, the musician days of his youth far enough in the past that it was kind of a funny joke. Kind of.
Expensive and overwrought celebrations orchestrated by people who loved the person they thought they knew.

Angela's parents had done the same for their wedding anniversary, for awhile. Oversized silly pics of them, their wedding video playing, sappy love songs over the PA, extravagant gifts. The last time had been the year after Max was born. There was no big announcement or decision made to stop those, at least not that Frank had heard. Time was hurtling by faster, they were all busier, drifting apart the way it seemed like most people were, more preoccupied with the daily tasks and routines of life than, well, actually living. Drifting away till you were a faded memory even to people who saw you every day. An inconvenient ghost.

He felt like a ghost now, surrounded by these loud, designer-fragrance-spritzed people in their generically expensive clothing. No balloons, no fairy lights, no cake, no photos, no bobblehead.

41 was a long gleaming table in a posh restaurant owned by Angela's family. It was a bland toast to from her father, followed by a smattering of applause and a "woo!" from a drunk cousin whose name he didn't even know. It was plates of pasta and chicken and eggplant, a cacophonous clanking of forks on china, harsh voices overlapping, speaking a language Frank had never really understood. It was three glasses of bitter chianti burning a hole in his stomach.

He excused himself to the restroom with a plate still half full, thinking about heading down the hallway to the kitchen and out the back door. For a smoke, for a text to Gerard, for a mad dash to anywhere else. He didn't, though. He pissed and washed his hands, glared at his reflection, at the faded scorpion peeking over his shirt collar. For a brief moment his knees went weak under the weight of his regret, and he gripped the counter with eyes squeezed shut, his shallow gasping breaths almost becoming hyperventilation.

He let his ghost drift back to the dining room, and somehow it got him through the meal, and the pleasantries after, and the drive home. There was a ringing in his ears that made a dim part of him concerned, and he said something to Angela about being sick and going to bed.

He shut himself in the man cave, swaddled in sweats and a blanket, his suit lying nearly ripped from his body on the bathroom floor. He checked his phone, eyes glazing over the row of texts from Gerard, supportive chipper words that didn't register. A selfie that he automatically hearted, Gerard in a black velvet catsuit with glittery black ears, eyeliner whiskers on his cheeks, dressed for his friend's party.

He let go of his phone and stared at the back of the couch for awhile before he sank into a restless sleep.

When he shot awake, he was cold, the blanket kicked off. His head felt full of static, his mouth felt full of cotton and graveyard dirt. He stretched towards the mini fridge, fumbling with the door in the dark and swiping at a cold can of something. Ginger ale. Perfect. He took a deep swallow, digging for his phone in a panic. It was almost two fucking am, and he'd planned to meet Gerard before midnight, hang around at the party a bit before they went back home.

Another text from Gerard, a selfie with Geoff, who was a Bela Lugosi Dracula.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN BIRTHDAY FRANKIE, the most recent text read, followed by about a million black hearts and jack o'lanterns

Frank laughed, and it turned into a sob. His hands shook as his thumbs flew over the keys, hot tears on his cheeks.

thanks baby, I took a nap after dinner and just woke up, I'm so sorry

are you home gee, please tell me you're home

Just got home fifteen minutes ago, Gerard replied instantly

You okay Frankie? You want to call me?

no, no, I want to see you if I can

can I please still come over

Of course Frankie

I'm not mad, I know getting away can be tricky

Be careful!! Are you sure you're okay? Did you drink?

couple glasses of wine, it wore off hours ago

I'm just...not in a great headspace and I need to see you

I'm right here. Come over

And I'm sorry baby

It was the "baby" that broke him, and he gritted his teeth, trying to muffle the sobs that choked his throat. 

Gerard stood there in the kitchen, chewing the cherry chapstick off his lips after Frank's text. He'd been worried when he hadn't heard from him tonight, but he knew Frank's mental health was on a rather delicate balance right now, and the dinner must have been hard, so he'd texted I hope you're ok, thinking of you <3 instead of where are you?

Therapy and some serious self-exploration after a string of disastrous relationships in his 20s had taught him that although he was hardwired to overthink (and think the worst), he would be happier if he flipped past irrational doomsday thoughts like they were a sketch that had come out wrong, and start on a fresh page with a new approach. It had become second nature to look at the scary thoughts that bubbled up, shrug, and let them fizzle out rather than give voice to them. Usually those twinges of jealousy or paranoia or insecurity were ghosts of old trauma, and they drifted away from him if he gave them leave to go. If he lashed out at Frank because one of his exes had been a manipulative shit, that ghost could take shape and make a home for itself in his head again.

He'd been completely stunned by Frank's appearance in his life. There was something powerful and dark about him, his heart heavy with deep-buried hurts and an overwhelming hunger. He'd crashed over Gerard like a wave and he wanted to drown in him, and save him too. And yes, one of his problems in past relationships was wanting to rescue troubled souls, but he told himself that this was different, that Frank was going through a genuine rebirth and rediscovery of himself.

He'd wanted to be his muse, a guiding light through the darkness he was facing. He hadn't meant to fall, had wanted to keep things casual until Frank landed wherever he was meant to land. He couldn't help it though, the heavenly melting that made him succumb to those sleepy hazel eyes and that rough but worshipful touch.

And so he gave of himself. Frank needed love. And Gerard was overflowing.

I HAVE SO MUCH LOVE TO GIVE, he scribbled down on a blank page in a nearby sketchpad, a thought bubble rising from the head of a forlorn looking robot that he sketched out quickly, its boxy robot face cradled in its boxy robot hands. He drew a heart on its chest, filled it in with red and yellow until it resembled a glowing light, then went to the bedroom to change.

He thought about leaving the catsuit on, but it was a pain in the ass and not very sexy to peel himself out of, so after maneuvering out of it, he tugged on a pair of black velvet boyshorts similar to the ones he wore Friday night. Of course he had an entire drawer of slutty little bottoms, he was a stripper after all. He topped them with an oversize black sweater with a gaping neckline that revealed a lot of collarbone and shoulder, and a little bit of chest. He shoved the cat ears back onto his head but wiped off the eyeliner whiskers, freshening up with a bit of sparkly purple eyeliner and a swipe of clear strawberry gloss.

He wasn't going to play what he privately thought of as their song, the Garbage song he'd danced to the night they met. The lyrics were rather woeful, too spot-on, so he put on a playlist of 90s trip-hop with the volume turned low, just a little sultry ambience from the speakers that he could switch out to something more fun, like Danzig, if Frank seemed in the mood. 

Frank turned up in a ragged hoodie and ragged hair, eyes bloodshot and an angry groove between his brows. His lips quirked up at the kitty ears, though, and he shoved his face into Gerard's neck before he crumpled entirely. His body shook, and Gerard felt the hot wash of tears over his skin, but Frank made no sound. He held him through it, rubbed soothing circles over his back, rubbed his face against his hair like a cat, and if he could purr to dissipate Frank's stress and calm his spirit, he would. They stood there entwined, Frank matching Gerard's gentle side-to-side rocking without realizing. 

When he pulled back, his face was blotchy but composed, the groove between his brows a faint line again. "Love the kitty suit, Gee," he said. "But could we just lie down maybe?"

"Of course," Gerard smiled, and they curled together on his bed, in sheets that smelled like them. Gerard thought they would sleep, and they did, but some unknown time later, the sky still dark through the window, Frank nudged against him, running hot strong hands over his velvet-clad ass, over his sweater and then under it, stroking until he shivered with arousal and pressed himself against him, breath coming faster. Their lips found each other, Frank moaning as he tasted the lingering strawberry gloss. He broke away and sat up, stripping off his hoodie and then his pants and boxers with clumsy desperation, then loomed over Gerard, kissing him dizzy, the thrust of his tongue leaving him breathless and rutting up against Frank's thigh, the sharp pleasure clawing up his thighs and into his belly already. 

Frank yanked the shorts down over his hips and Gerard lifted his ass to help him, reaching his arm over to the nightstand for the lube. He figured Frank would want to fuck him fast and dirty, and that suited him just fine. He thrust the tube into Frank's hand and spread his legs, rolling his hips up and gasping as he stared up at him in the dark, his face unreadable.

Frank exhaled and slicked up his hand, then reached back behind himself. "Go on, get yourself wet," he choked out, his brow furrowing as he tried to work himself open. "Want to do this--want to feel you in me."

Gerard's cock jumped on his belly and he grabbed Frank by the chin, searching for his eyes. "Are you sure? You--you don't have to, it's--"

Frank used his free hand to pin Gerard's wrist to the bed, and he didn't bother muffling his moan. "I'm really fucking sure, Gee."

Gerard stretched towards the nightstand again, this time to turn on the lamp. "Ok, Frankie. We're doing this right, though." And he plucked Frank's hand away, squirming up to a half-sitting position and pulling Frank into his lap. He reached back behind his balls, trailing two lube-drenched fingers over skin till he found the puckered whorl of muscle. He teased the rim slowly, watching Frank's eyelids flutter and his lips part in bliss. He pulled Frank down for another kiss, sliding their tongues together, tasting inside him as he penetrated him at last. Frank groaned, his hips bucking against the pleasure, and by the time Gerard broke the kiss Frank was more than ready, taking him with ease as his cock dripped onto his stomach. 

"Fuck, fuck yeah," he gasped, squeezing his dick for a moment's relief. He tapped Gerard's wrist, and he withdrew his fingers slowly, wiping them on the sheets and scooting back down in bed till he was flat on his back again, Frank going with him, their lips coming together once more.

He cried out as Frank sank down onto his cock, the tight wet heat sheathing him with excruciating slowness. He trembled, pressing himself back against the mattress, determined not to move until Frank did. 

"Jesus fucking...I had to pick a guy with a big dick, huh?" Frank laughed, and the sound that came from Gerard's throat was a whiny wrecked attempt at a giggle, but the sight of Frank above him, his thick fucking tattooed thighs spread and his cock twitching red and hard and wet against his belly was enough to drive him right to the edge. He threw back his head, eyes rolling up as he keened like an animal in a trap.

"Holy shit," Frank gasped. "Gerard, you--" and he moaned as he lifted himself up, feeling the slick drag of Gerard's cock against every nerve ending inside him, feeling the throbbing heat, and he sank back down, building a slow, clumsy, rhythm as Gerard writhed under him.

"Frankie I can't--not much longer," Gerard growled through gritted teeth, hooking his fingers into Frank's thighs.

"It's ok, I'm, oh fuck, Jesus baby." Frank fisted his cock and leaned forward, his right arm bracing him on the bed as he started to bounce, the room filled with the sound of slapping flesh. "Let go, fucking let go, need you so bad, need your cum, want to feel it, give me everything, need all of you--"

He came with a shout at the first pulse of Gerard's cock within him, at the sight of his face transformed in an agony of bliss, a musical cry spiraling up into a soft scream as he thrust up and up and up into the tight heat of Frank, emptying himself completely, the brutal squeeze of Frank's orgasm milking every last drop. 

Frank gave a low whine as the tremors subsided, lifting off Gerard with a wince and collapsing onto his jizz-sticky chest, feeling desperate and laid bare, a penitent sinner seeking grace. 

Gerard laced their fingers together, bringing Frank's hand to his lips, kissing it with reverence. "Okay, Frankie?" His eyes were warm honey, soft in the lamplight.

"Okay," Frank sighed, hoping Gerard could see all the love, all the peace he brought him, under the scars and lines of pain etched into his skin.

Gerard hummed sleepily, lashes fluttering in a slow blink as Frank made a half-assed attempt at scrubbing the cum off them with his tshirt before curling around him again. Frank reached over to turn off the lamp, smirking a bit as he felt the twinge in his ass, the remaining wetness inside, evidence of love made. He was real. He was here and he was real. Not a ghost.

"Not a ghost," he whispered in the dark, smiling as Gerard sleep-mumbled "...birthday Frankie.”

Halloween.

Gerard was determined to make the most of their precious few hours left, and he dragged a grumbling Frank out of bed at noon.

They showered together, Frank putting his sweats back on and topping them with an old iron Maiden hoodie of Gerard's, oversized enough to fit him well. Gerard chose slightly looser fitting jeans than usual, black and oddly ruched down the leg, with a black Captain Harlock sweater. With teeth brushed and coffee in them, the lingering darkness of the night before seemed to be washed away.

Frank wanted to apologize for his weirdness again, wanted to yank out the bloody roots of his pain while Gerard was here by his side to comfort him, but he shoved that urge down, wanted them to have this day.

The air was crisp and cool, the overcast sky enormous and open above them as they walked through the city. Gerard led him into a comic book shop, a regular bookstore, a record store, and finally, the diner they'd eaten at the night they met.

Frank sucked in a breath when he recognized the place, clenching Gerard's hand tight. "It's—"

"Yeah," Gerard smiled, eyes sparkling.

Frank wanted to leap up in the air and click his heels together, or throw himself to the ground and propose, or something equally dramatic.

It was Gerard who made a move instead, walking him backwards against the brick, pulling him into a close embrace, taking his lips in a gentle kiss that made the world fall away.

He pulled back a little, rubbing the cold tip of his pixie nose against Frank's, then pulled back again, so Frank could see his whole beautiful face, all honeyed eyes and creamy skin and cold-reddened cheeks and plush pink lips.

When he said "I love you, Frankie," in a near whisper, Frank's face scrunched up, and he dimly heard the teary squawk that came from his throat as he lunged forward and buried his face in Gerard's neck, whispering "I love you I love you I love you too" into his ear, craning his neck to kiss that ear and the lock of black hair tucked behind it. Gerard shivered and held him snug, laughing in delight, even as his eyes welled with tears.

And as they strolled into the diner hand in hand, Frank felt like it was really his birthday.

He felt an odd doubling of time as he stared at the strange yet familiar faces of the patrons, artists with elaborate dye jobs, scruffy punk kids and regular joes, and he felt 21 again, with fresh ink on his neck and his whole life before him.

He blinked, and he felt his age again, but he still felt new, watching the love of his life unwrap his napkin and drop his fork on the floor and greet the waitress with a dazzling smile, batting those Bambi lashes as he ordered eggs and veggie bacon and pumpkin pancakes.

And now 41 was sharing a plate of pancakes and bottomless coffee refills. It was walking back out into the crisp autumn afternoon and proclaiming that he needed to jump in some leaves. It was Gerard breaking into an excited dash for a nearby community park and howling with him as they kicked up the orange gold and red leaves that littered the grass. It was Gerard dragging him into another store for "a birthday surprise" and buying two small pumpkins, which they cradled as they walked carefully home. It was jack o' lanterns carved on Gerard's living room floor after he’d changed into a plush skeleton onesie. It was candles flickering through jack o’ lantern grins as they kissed, pumpkin guts still under their fingernails. It was a snapshot that Frank took of Gerard, cozy and comfy in his onesie, holding his pumpkin in his lap, caught in a blink and grinning with his lashes curled against his cheeks.

It was breathing the same air as another haunted soul, feeling the warmth of their love with every breath, every heartbeat they shared chasing the ghosts away.

Chapter Text

Today.

Frank shifted on the wobbly stool, the shredded and worn seat not doing much to cushion his tailbone. Geoff was kicked back in the busted office chair across from him, long legs stretched out so far they almost took up the rest of the room. His Conversed feet, precariously close to Frank's stool, tapped out a nervous melody. 

"Jesus, don't kick me over, man," Frank smirked. 

"I'll try to avoid upending you if you try to get the damn song out already," Geoff grinned.

Frank flipped him off, biting back a tired smile. "Alright," he grumbled, breaking into the one that had kept him up all night. He toed the button on the fuzz pedal Geoff had lent, and bright, dreamy guitar unspooled from the amp, a little distorted, a little shoegazey, a little Smashing-Pumpkins-flavored.

The vocals were a monotonous murmur till he reached the bridge, a shimmering, exuberant clash of chords. Geoff grinned and nodded his head, eyes alight, till Frank began belting.

I remember a time when I felt so unlike me

I remember a time when someone could love me

I remember when I still felt alive

Frank's heart twisted in his chest, shriveled and black and bleeding, letting the anguish out, the strings like razors cutting deep into his white-knuckled grip. He didn't notice as Geoff's face fell, just exorcised his pain, the demons howling in every violent strum and feedback whine. 

He was sweating and breathless when he finished, and his tailbone ached again. Geoff clapped politely as Frank yanked Pansy up and over his neck like she was strangling him and set her gently on the rack. He bent at the waist, trying to breathe through the sudden panic, and Geoff hopped to his feet, his long, cool fingers rubbing soothing circles between Frank's shoulder blades. 

"You ok, man?"

"Yeah," Frank exhaled, standing back up, swiping his face to clean it of sweat and a few bitter tears. 

"Fuck," Geoff said. "That took a turn. Lyrically, I mean. I wasn't expecting it. But I like the subversion of expectations, you know? That's definitely a strong point of yours."

Frank laughed humorlessly, stealing Geoff's chair, stretching out his miserable back. 

"You alright though? I mean it, Frank. I know things are rough right now, but are you ok?"

Another bitter laugh. "Didn't mean to freak you out, man. It's cathartic, you know? I have to do it, to get through...all this. If I am going to get through this."

"You will," Geoff said, and his gentle reassurance made tears prick in Frank's eyes again. Jesus, he was always weepy lately.

"To answer your question, no, I'm not alright. And I wouldn't have said this yesterday, or the day before, but I think I'm going to be."

Two Weeks Ago

From the beginning, Frank's time with Gerard had been charmed, serendipitous, moments scattered like autumn leaves on a shaded lake. Perfect like spiral of pencil shaving spooling out of a sharpener, when everything else in his life was broken-off stubs.

He psyched himself out about it every waking moment. It was just the chemical reaction to new romance blinding him to reality. It was just his brain making a new and untested relationship feel like a respite from an older and more complicated one. It was an addiction, a self destructive compulsion that placed sinful pleasure above adult responsibility.

And each moment of doubt seemed to be undone and wiped away by a text from Gerard, a joke or a sweet sentiment or just a snapshot of his beautiful face, radiant and gleaming. Frank heard his voice when he played guitar now, each note filled with a warmth and richness he'd never heard before. He saw him in these November sunsets, cinnamon and gold and scarlet and purple. He felt the ghost of his touch upon waking, soft fingers linked with his, warm graceful arms round his neck.

He knew he didn't deserve to claim that happiness while he was lying to his family and himself. He didn't deserve Gerard at all, and was probably doing nothing but causing him pain, racking up trauma for a future therapist to deal with. Ending it would probably be best, but even he wasn't stubborn enough to close the door on such an amazing creative partnership. If they got through this show, he'd make a decision then.

For now, they had work to do. He'd waited for a night when Angela was out and Max was at a sleepover. It was too soon to risk another visit, but he was at his laptop with Gerard on speaker, finger poised to share the photo files with him. He held his breath, butterflies flapping madly up into his throat, and hit Send.

"Ok, got it!" Gerard chirped. Then, a few seconds later: "Oh Frankie," his voice softly stunned.

Frank grinned so hard his cheeks hurt, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"These don't even need to be edited. Fuck. Fuck. You're amazing. I didn't even know--"

"Thanks, babe," he chuckled, clicking through to his favorites.

Gerard was in sweats and a baggy, threadbare Crow longsleeve, curled on his orange sofa, laptop open on the coffee table. They were beyond all expectation. Frank was a fucking master at depth of field, at using light and shadow. He shot with a painter's eye, not a documentarian eye. His photos were as good as any Caravaggio in a museum.

He could scarcely believe that he was seeing himself in these pieces. In the Saint-Sebastian-meets-BDSM shot, he looked carved from marble, stained-glass eyes slanted up towards heaven. He could see every pore on his face and every hair of his brow, yet the stark contrast of the darkness behind him and the fractured light hitting his skin rendered him both artificial and otherworldly, plasticine beauty and holy relic.

This was how he'd felt when he'd danced for Frank, the detachment of a deified rock star mixed with the lurid rawness of the need to be fucked and claimed by the stranger who gazed at him with such longing.

He gnawed on the ends of his bitten-short fingernails, stomach churning with the knowledge that this was how Frank saw him, a divine object of adoration. He craved Frank's love, and couldn't deny that he hungered for that admiration, too. The way Frank worshipped his body with his own, pulling him apart with a rough tenderness, was damn near addictive. 

But Gerard was just Some Guy. A chubby kid with bad hygiene who'd slacked off in his parents' basement far too late into his 20s. Who'd excelled in art school, sure, but who'd failed or been dissatisfied in every job he'd held after. Who skipped meals, killing his appetite with coffee and cigarettes until he was in stripping shape and able to supplement his slacker dilettante lifestyle by shaking ass at a midbrow gay club. 

He needed that fevered glow of Frank's eyes, devouring and claiming him, but he didn't deserve it. Couldn't bear to dwell on the pain Frank dealt with every day, pain that was surely his fault for tempting him away from stability. The only thing he could do was love him, so he did. Despite the ugliness of human nature that he'd seen, cynicism had never really touched him to the bone. Gerard still believed that love could heal all, that even loving something too much was better than facing the naked gloom of life with a cold and bitter heart.

He was startled out of his reverie by the warm rumble of Frank's voice, and he leaned towards the laptop screen, barely aware his eyes were brimful with tears.

"The Flagellant and Communion have to be my faves," he was saying. "Those were such fucking good ideas, Gee."

"They're just your favorite because they were spontaneous," Gerard said tartly, smiling at the screen. "And you came up with the rosary for Communion."

He clicked on one of the shots from that piece. His kneeling form in three-quarter profile, arms behind his back and wrists bound with a rosary. His eyes were closed, lashes curling against his cheeks, mouth open and tongue out, drooling cum and spit in a glimmering string that nearly reached the floor unbroken, a communion wafer resting on his tongue. It was brilliant, but fuck if that cum lube hadn't tasted like shit.

"I really love the straight on profile of that," Frank said. "It's so stark and stylized, could almost see it on a t-shirt."

Gerard snorted. "Maybe we should print some up, wear em at the show."

"Fuck yeah," Frank said, and Gerard could hear the grin in his voice.

"I think the three-quarter one may be better as a piece, though. The communion-slash-blowjob theme really comes across."

"You just want your pretty face visible," Frank teased. "We could always print out both, see what fits the exhibit best."

"Sure. It's only money," Gerard smiled.

He was the more budget conscious of the two, although he had a sizeable rainy day fund from Fairytails tips, and Frank was basically Mr. Moneybags. He didn't want to throw cash at the project haphazardly. He would spare no expense to see it done right, but he would be as selective with spending as he was with the prints they chose and the materials they picked for framing.

"Flagellant is a profile, too," Frank went on. "Could be good to have them side by side at the show."

"It could if I weren't facing left in both."

"True. I could flip it, either one really, but I don't know how I feel about that. Fuck. Do you have that pulled up, Gee? Look at your fucking skin."

"Look at your fucking photo, Frankie. How did you do that? Make skin texture look like stone rather than skin. It's amazing."

"Happy accident of photography, babe. When you shoot low light, long exposure like that, it can make things look--artistic. Sculptural."

Gerard sighed, sinking back into the cushions and sipping his melting but still delicious frappuccino. "Love it when you talk like that, Frankie. Art talk and three-syllable words get me wet."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Frank swore. "We can't ever have a PG conversation, can we?"

"Look what our fucking conversation is about," Gerard laughed, gesturing wildly at the laptop screen. "I'm pointing at my computer screen, by the way."

Frank grinned, his cheeks heating up as he leaned back into his own couch in Jersey, Gerard's words causing his dick to take a definite interest.

The Flagellant had been one of their last-minute brainstorms after having nixed a couple of their original ideas. Gerard had found a rope flogger in Geoff’s box of Church castoffs. A discipline, for penitents to mortify their flesh. Frank had figured they’d wait till the next day and return with some FX makeup to paint welts on Gerard’s back, but he’d gone at it himself, wanting it to look authentic. His pale, sensitive skin had reddened immediately and beautifully, and he’d handed off the flogger to Frank, insisting he deliver a couple of lashes to give him some deeper marks.

Frank shivered now as he remembered kissing Gerard between the shoulder blades, then watching as the frayed, stiff ends of the rope bit into his skin, striping it a deep pink that puffed up into welts beaded with blood. He’d wanted to kiss away the pain, lick away the scattered rubies of blood, enfold Gerard to his chest with that coppery taste on his tongue.

The photo was dark and brutally lovely, as were the others. Gerard was captured from behind, shadows pooling under his upper thighs, blending him away into darkness, the moonglow white curve of his ass, his back a crosshatch of abuse bisected by the textured weave of the rope trailing down from his hand. His face was in profile, chin up, defiant in his belief.

“I think it’s my favorite,” Gerard mused. “The little blood drops shine like jewels. The texture of the rope, the way the shadows swallow me up.”

“Your ass,” Frank cut in, smiling at the tinkling laugh he provoked.

“My ass,” Gerard agreed.

“How’s your back now, baby?”

“Mm, almost back to normal. It may scar, though.” Frank had insisted he shower and slather it with Neosporin right away.

“Absolutely not,” Frank said. “Get some Bio Oil on it or something.”

“Hmm.” Gerard was reclining on the couch now, twirling his hair around a finger. It was well overdue for a wash, and the greasy curl stayed in place when he released it. “I don’t know. I think I like the idea of being scarred from this.”

And though he knew Gerard meant it lightly, didn’t mean that he was volunteering to take on soul-searing trauma, Frank’s heart seized in his chest, and he thought now that their kisses had, from the beginning, been doom-tinged, and flavored with ash.

He fiddled with the guitar pick on the coffee table. He really needed a desk if he was going to edit these photos properly, and the only desks in the house were off the kitchen and in Max’s room. Fuck it, he could edit at work.

The pick, plucked from a bag of 50, had been his birthday gift from Max. He’d found the little Frankenstein doodle he’d made in his songwriting notebook, a little cartoon monster with a square little grimace, and had the picks printed online. They were slime green and glowed in the dark, and he’d definitely gotten choked up when Max had given them to him.

They’d been sitting on the front porch handing out candy in half assed zombie makeup. Max had declared himself too old for trick or treating, but he had a blast jumping out at kids from behind the ornamental cypress tree.

“Happy Halloween, Dad,” he’d said casually around nine-thirty, when the last carload of trick or treaters had driven out of the neighborhood. He tossed a treat bag into the candy bowl Frank held; cellophane patterned with jack o lanterns. Frank expected it to be leftover candy from school, but when he saw the Frankensteins glowing at him, he covered his mouth so Max wouldn’t see his chin wobble.

“I thought about getting your name on the back, too,” Max had said nervously, “but I didn’t know if—”

“Ah, it’s perfect, they’re perfect” Frank had pulled the little guy in for a sideways hug, the metal legs of his lawn chair scraping over concrete. He kissed the top of his son’s head fervently. “I love ‘em, buddy.”

Max had grinned and pulled away, swiping the top of his rumpled head clean of Dad germs.

“Cool. Maybe you could even call your band something to do with Frankenstein, if it wouldn’t be too lame.”

“I would never do anything lame,” Frank had laughed, wiping tears away with the back of his hand.

“Gee,” he choked out, and Gerard couldn’t identify the emotion laid thick in the sound. So, he asked.

“Are you okay, Frankie? I didn’t mean to upset you. I just meant; this is a big deal to me. Meeting you, creating art with you, having you in my life. We can get scarred by happy memories, too.”

“It’s not much of a memento if it’s something you can’t see without a mirror.”

“Well, I’m not much of a jewelry girl,” Gerard smiled. “I’ll take what I can get.”

The mood lightened, they managed to select the photos for the exhibit. Frank pushed gently for the two largest, nearly wall sized pieces to be Communion and The Flagellant, mirroring each other across the room, but it thematically made more sense to have the most lurid and blasphemous shots dominate the space. The Saint would be nearest the entrance, with Communion across the gallery. Gerard dripping with sin and debauchery, all pale skin and wet red mouth.

Eight more scenes were selected to grace the walls in large frames, and Frank volunteered to choose closeups for the smaller pieces that would break up the space, agreeing to let Gerard have final approval before anything was printed. Gerard would get to work on the prayer cards and labels for the saint candles in the meantime.

Frank snuck into bed after midnight, having received roughly a thousand heart and kiss emojis and a selfie of Gerard in his “writer’s kimono,” sky blue silk falling off his shoulder to reveal a blushing semicircle of nipple.

i will definitely have sweet dreams now, he’d texted back

love you, beautiful

He didn’t dream, but slept solid and heavy, snapping awake three minutes before his alarm with sweat beading on his hairline and his t-shirt tag itching his neck. He showered, struggled into a suit, and propped his travel mug in front of the coffee maker downstairs, sucking down a spoonful of peanut butter as it brewed. There was no time for a real breakfast, but he knew he had to make an appearance at the office today.

The front door clicked, and he craned his neck around the wall. It was the housekeeper letting herself in. Frank wanted to leave before Angela returned from dropping Max off at school, if her gabfest with the other moms didn’t turn into an impromptu brunch, which it often did.

He sipped coffee every time his eyelids drooped at work. He stared at emails, replied to a few, scanned a couple spreadsheets, took a call from a Boston client. His skull felt bone dry and emptied out as he performed his job, no thoughts of Gerard or art or even sex as the clock changed numbers. Was this dissociating? He wasn’t quite sure.

Mr. Lombardo leaned against his doorway around four, raised eyebrows pitch black over his sharp dark eyes, despite the silver of his hair.

“Good to see you feeling better, Frank. You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

His tone was thundery, vaguely threatening, though Frank couldn’t pick out the thread of his intent.

“Yeah…back to the old grindstone,” Frank grinned, unable to even bother crafting a story of fake illness that might possibly win over this man.

“Good.” Brusque now, back to business. This, Frank was used to.

“I’m going to need you in Atlanta Thursday and Friday for the Schiller meeting. You’ll fly out Thursday morning, fly back Saturday afternoon. There’s a business dinner Thursday, then you’ll be in consultation most of the day Friday. Gary will be joining you.”

Frank swallowed, the sandwich he’d choked down an hour ago sitting heavy in his stomach.

“All right,” he said, more or less smoothly, the corners of his lips pulling up in a weak smile. “Frank and Gary, on the road again.”

Lombardo coughed out a laugh. “It’s a low stakes meeting, but we need to have our stars out front and center every now and then. Keeps the relationship alive.”

Nausea hit him, sick and green, as Lombardo quirked an eyebrow at him before patting the door frame and moving on down the hall. He felt like the man could see right through him, probably always had.

It was only two, two and a half, three days. It’s not like he’d be missing out on time with Gerard anyway. But his guts churned, and dread dragged its icy fingertips down his spine.

He knew there would be another trip soon after this one, and then another, and another, and they would increase in length. Frank’s vision went staticky as he stared at the blinking cursor on his screen, and his shirt collar strangled him, and the suit was suddenly too tight across the shoulders, the pants scratchy against his waist. He thought of straitjackets, and Harry Houdini.

While Frank was in a whiskey and Xanax haze on the stiff mattress of his hotel in Atlanta, the meaningless cadence of the meeting swirling in his head like white noise, Gerard stood with his hip cocked in the wings at Fairytails, waiting for the Charli XCX number to end and for Tai, his predecessor, to bounce offstage in his sheer sparkly booty shorts.

There was art he could have worked on at home, friends he could have hung out with, but he’d wanted to disappear, find some kind of magic that kept him out of his head. The satisfying sleaze of dancing for strangers, hiding in plain sight but soaking up their desire and admiration, was powerful juju indeed.

He wore a black satin slip dress with a hem that ended slightly below his ass cheeks, slashed up the sides high enough to show pale slices of hip and the sheer floral lace of the black panties he wore beneath. His shapely, well-muscled legs were brutally smooth and gleaming with coconut oil, and four-inch peep toe platforms were strapped onto his feet, revealing the blood colored gloss of his pedicure.

Gerard could do whatever the fuck he wanted here and everyone would eat it up, so he slunk onstage to Chet Baker singing “My Funny Valentine,” hips swaying, unlit cigarette in a long ebony holder between his elegant fingers.

He sank down onto a chair sat in the middle of the stage, sinuous and fluid, spreading his thighs wide and running his left hand up his torso as he gestured with the cigarette in his right, the music swirling around him like smoke.

The hot eyes crawling lustfully over his body, the muttered curses escaping bitten lips, got him worked up as usual, and Gerard rolled his hips, sliding his hand up under the dress and over his groin, dragging the hem up as he went and treating the audience to a flash of his lace-covered boner, giving it a squeeze and grinding his hips again, his red-lipsticked smirk nearly concealed by his inky sweep of hair.

He stood and swayed in a circle around the chair, gripping the seat as he shimmied before it, ass in the air. He dropped to the floor in a split, grinning at the gasp of the crowd, rolling onto his back and draping himself over the stage, legs in the air.

He prowled the floor in a crawl for the rest of the song, pausing now and then to sink low and grind against the stage, or fondle himself with thighs spread. He slid the silk over his head at the end, looking back at the crowd saucily as he snuck a hand down the back of his panties, baring most of his exquisite ass to them. Cash drifted down upon him like snow, and he sauntered offstage with sheafs of green stuffed down his waistband, flicking the unlit cigarette at the crowd and favoring them with a wink.

He stared at himself in the mirror after, and he was rather unruffled for all the rolling around, his hair only slightly mussed and his lipstick unsmeared. He snapped a selfie for Frank, suddenly wishing he’d just stayed home, recorded himself doing the striptease just for him, feeling suddenly sick at the memory of the leers and drooling mouths of the audience, of sharing his desire with them, his lust and heartache framed by the smoky intimacy of that song.

He knew it was silly, and it wasn’t coming from a place of sexual shame or feeling like a possession that shouldn’t be shared. He was missing Frank, that’s all, and it wasn’t that he would be gone for long, it was was how very far away he was when he was not with Gerard. It was a distance that felt nearly unsurpassable, a world where there was no room for him. Or, really, for Frank himself.

He didn’t send the selfie, and he didn’t wash off in the club’s bathroom. He pulled on his sweats and hoodie over the silk and lace, shoved his feet into Converse and walked out the back door, pumps dangling from his fist.

He stared up at the sky, gasping at the stars, tears stinging his eyes at the memory of standing out here with Frank the first night they met, the magic of smoke and starlight that had enchanted them both.

His Uber came before he could light a cigarette, and it was just as well.

Worlds away, Frank texted goodnight baby, I miss you as Gerard cried in the shower, mascara running down his cheeks and lipstick smearing the tiles where his face pressed against them.

Frank blinked at his laptop screen after sending the text, Gerard’s place in his heart a massive, dulled ache. The booze was pulling him down into a sodden stupor where he could possibly sleep. The meds were keeping the gnawing urgency of his need to flee from eating him alive.

He had the file titled Graveyard Smash open, the monster movie Max was working on with his friends. The scene playing was set in a backyard full of fairly realistic foam tombstones, and one of Max’s classmates was running from staggering boys dressed in ripped oversized slacks, their faces caked in oatmeal and corn syrup and latex. He smiled at the melodramatic music that rose as the girl screamed and tripped over a tombstone. It was a synth recorded in the friend’s garage; Max had taught himself to play a little after some Youtube tutorials. Frank wanted to buy him new equipment of his own, but Max assured him he was fine jamming in Josh’s garage every weekend. The spooked look he hid behind teenage apathy made Frank’s gut twist with resentment. Hanging out at Josh’s family’s ritzy lake house was a productive social endeavor in Angela’s eyes. Fucking around with musical instruments was most certainly not.

When sleep claimed him around midnight, Frank’s dreams were fuzzy and frantic. He was running in a cemetery blanketed with monster-movie fog. Cartoon Frankensteins popped up and down behind tombstones like whack-a-moles. Gerard was a ghost, shimmering against the treeline in a filmy white gown, whispering Frank’s name while Max screamed “Dad!!!” as he ran in zigzigs between the rows of headstones, trying to escape something that Frank couldn’t see. His heart hammered in his sleep, and when he finally woke shortly after dawn, he was gasping for breath. He guzzled half a bottle of water and calmed himself down, unlocking his phone. Gerard had sent a dozen kiss and heart emojis, and a miss you too, see you soon xoxo. He sighed and kissed his phone screen, feeling only the slightest bit silly, and closed his eyes again.

When he got back home Saturday night, the house was empty. Max was at the lake, and Angela was at her parents’, some shitty cousin’s engagement party. He unpacked and took a shower, lounged around eating Chinese and playing Netflix roulette, then noodled around on Pansy for a while. When he closed his eyes, he could see an album cover and a track list. He thought he would have at least an EP’s worth of songs soon, and his insides went all shivery when he thought of a new year that broke with his music and their art, Gerard by his side, the phantoms of his haunted present swept neatly away by fantasy.

His face bloomed with a genuine grin when Gerard texted. Excitement about the prints being ordered and chatter about the exhibit escalated, of course, into playful sexting and selfies sent.

Frank was shy and a bit paranoid about exposing himself, even now, but a few texts in the spirit of I want to see how much you want me and please let me see your cock Frankie need it in my mouth so bad resulted in full nudes, and Gerard squealed on his end as Frank’s heavily tattooed torso flashed on his screen, thighs spread, fist loose around his plump cock, the lower half of his chestpiece streaked with jizz. Barely a minute later Frank groaned at the sight of Gerard sprawled against his bed pillows, his belly covered in his own mess and his teeth sunk into his reddened bottom lip.

Frank, lightheaded and dazed, agreed to meet Gerard the following afternoon to look at frames, and when he drifted off, his sleep was calm and dreamless.

They met Callie, who was building their frames, at Geoff’s studio. She was another Friend of Geoff, by way of Amy, the owner of the gallery they’d booked. She was Amy’s girlfriend and she was assembling the massive frames with the same speed and precision that she’d renovated upstate farmhouses.

Gerard was already inside and chattering away with the petite designer when Frank arrived, and when he glanced up at the sound of the door, Frank went breathless at the sparkling smile that lit up his face, the soft glow behind his eyes.

Gerard was gorgeous as usual, wearing a fitted red hoodie under his leather jacket, the color bringing out the roses in his cheeks. Was it always going to be like this? He tried to bite back his own grin, not quite comfortable with appearing as the lovesick schoolboy.

“Hey Frankie,” Gerard chirped. “Come look at these.”

“Hey! Callie.” She said brusquely by way of introduction, shaking Frank’s hand, her grip strong and dry.

“That one looks rad as fuck,” he pronounced, wrapping an arm around Gerard’s waist and squeezing him tightly to him.

She had one of the smaller frames propped up, slightly shorter than Frank, the wood nicked and scarred but carved with ornate vines of curling leaves, with small apples hanging from a few boughs.

“This is the oak from the old church I told you about, dates back to 1921. It’s mostly trim from the sanctuary. Wish I knew who carved it, you don’t really see stuff like this.”

“It’s decadent, just like Frank's pieces,” Gerard murmured, tracing a vine with a fingertip.

“Yeah, I figured it would be perfect for your stuff,” she laughed. “You still want gold, right? Not a nice black gloss?”

Frank frowned, raising his brows to Gerard, who wore the same expression.

“These are so ornate, I think gold would overpower the pieces,” Gerard allowed, chewing on his bottom lip and casting his doe eyes Frank’s way.

Frank exhaled with relief. “Totally. Glad you think so too, babe.”

The corner of Gerard’s mouth quirked up, and he blinked at Frank, lashes casting shadows on his plump cheeks.

“Although,” he scratched his head, “I might be curious to see a distressed look. An antique gold or bronze undercoat showing through a matte black.”

Frank winced, trying not to look horrified.

Callie’s laugh was hoarse and pleasant. “Man, I don’t think I’d do that if you paid me,” she said. “I do enough of that shit on the fucking barn doors that yuppies insist on hanging in their bedrooms.”

“You little shit,” Frank mumbled into Gerard’s neck, breathing in his warm, faintly sweet fragrance. He grinned when he felt his suppressed giggles become a shiver of delight  

“I guess that’s it?” Callie raised her eyebrows, then glanced back at the wall, where slabs of wood leaned, waiting to be fitted together.

“Yeah, I mean, have at it I guess?” Frank said, after Gerard’s confirming nod.

“Thanks,” she grinned, shaking their hands again. “I like to keep things short and sweet if the client’s happy. I’ll have you over for another look when they’re all assembled and I’ve got one painted, shouldn’t be more than another week.”

“Shit. Impressive,” Frank said, having only a vague idea of how much work that would entail.

“Yeah, these are really amazing, Callie. Thank you so much.” Gerard smiled warmly, then allowed himself to be tugged towards the exit.

“Wanna grab some coffee, loverboy?” Frank proposed as they stepped out into the crisp November air.

“I have coffee at my place.” Gerard’s smile was coy as he trailed a finger down the front of Frank’s parka.

“Hmm, sounds delicious,” Frank smirked, lacing their fingers together as they began the six-block trek to Gerard’s apartment.

Safely upstairs with the door locked behind them, flushed and nearly panting from the brisk walk and the way they’d jogged up the stairs, Gerard pressed Frank against the wall, cradling his face with his large, delicate hands and kissing him like they hadn’t seen each other in half a century.

Frank hummed, melting into it, curling his tongue around Gerard’s and drawing it into his mouth, shoving his hips forward with graceless need. He broke the kiss, sucking a bruise into Gerard’s pale throat as he palmed the erection that tented his skinny jeans with the rough urgency of teenage lust.

“F-f-f-uck,” Gerard gasped, rutting against Frank’s hand and scraping his teeth against his neck, his tongue following, hot and wet.

“Need to taste you, Frankie,” he sighed, dropping to his knees and shoving Frank back against the wall by his hips.

He looked up at Frank through his hair as he unzipped him, pupils blown, lips pink and wet and tongue poking at the corner of his mouth. Frank felt the hot tendrils of pleasure snaking up his inner thighs already, and he was barely being touched.

“Jesus, Gerard,” he bit out. “God—oh fuck.” He shoved a fist into his mouth, gnawing on the knuckles, needing to do something before he went insane.

Gerard had pulled his cock from his boxers, licked a stripe up the underside with a dripping tongue, and sucked half his length into his mouth before Frank had even drawn another breath.

He pulled off, frowning, dragging Frank’s arm down. “Wanna hear you,” he grumbled.

“Gee, I fucking, I can’t,” Frank gasped as Gerard went down again, hazel eyes twinkling as he grabbed Frank’s wrists and planted his hands on top of his head. Frank grabbed onto the silky black locks, threading his fingers through them, thighs trembling as Gerard hummed around his mouthful.

“Can I—can I—” he stuttered, moaning as Gerard nodded as best he could, the corners of his lips curling up.

“Oh fuck, I love you,” Frank groaned as he rocked his hips forward, shuddering at the delicious drag of his cock over Gerard’s wet-velvet tongue. He withdrew slowly and thrust back in, his tattooed hands braced against Gerard’s head, fingers snagging his hair as he fucked his mouth.

Gerard whined, dropping his left hand to press against his throbbing dick. His eyes rolled up, nose full of Frank’s clean musky scent, mouth full of his thick pulsing cock. Frank didn’t warn him when he came, just snarled out a cry at the ceiling as his hips bucked roughly, the metal teeth of his zipper scraping Gerard’s chin, cock heavy and twitching on his tongue as he coated the back of Gerard’s throat with cum.

Gerard pulled off, babbling feral nonsense like “god I fucking love you just using my mouth” and “so fucking good, wanna fucking die with your cock suffocating me.”

His voice came out all raspy from his battered throat as he jacked Frank’s wet dick through the last of the aftershocks, his thighs sliding apart on the hardwoods till the crotch of his jeans was about to split, frantically trying to get his own zipper down.

“Gonna fucking cum on your leg,” he gasped, not aware of one word that had escaped his lips, and Frank laughed breathlessly, plucking Gerard’s hand away and sinking to the floor beside him, his thigh muscles the consistency of overdone pasta.

“Let me take care of that, baby,” he soothed as he drew Gerard into his lap and got a hand down his briefs, pulling out his gorgeous pink length, his mouth watering as it pulsed in his loose grip.

“Frankie, I can’t,” Gerard sobbed into his neck as he gripped the furry hood of his parka, rolling his hips forward, slicking Frank’s palm with sticky sweet precum.

“Mmm, that’s it baby,” Frank murmured, tightening his fingers as Gerard fucked his fist mindlessly. One swipe of his thumb over the red, swollen head, and Gerard gave a ragged cry, drooling onto his parka as he spurted over Frank’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Frank sighed, licking and sucking the sweet flesh of Gerard’s neck, inhaling the intoxicating musk that blossomed from his pores when he came.

“Shit,” Gerard laughed when he finally sat up, face flushed hot pink and hair in such messy disarray that he resembled a Tim Burton character. “Sorry about your jacket, Frankie.”

Frank grinned down at the stripes of jizz that had escaped his fist.

“It’ll give my dry cleaner something to gossip about,” he shrugged, surging forward to kiss the giggles from Gerard’s lips.

He pressed him down to the floor with his clean hand, holding eye contact as he licked the messy one clean, smirking at Gerard’s moan.

“Don’t even think I’m done with you yet,” he glowered as he tugged Gerard’s waistband down his thighs and settled between them.

“Fuck!” Gerard squeaked as Frank bent his head to lick his softening dick clean. “Too—too much,” he gasped, his hand fluttering down to try to push him away.

“Hm, guess I’ll have to just go somewhere else,” Frank sighed, sucking kisses into the crease of his thigh and dragging his tongue slowly over his balls, grinning as he felt them twitch.

“Gonna fucking kill me, Frankie,” Gerard whined, hand thrown dramatically over his eyes like a silent movie actress.

The little death came for him again, after Frank had satisfied himself by starring his inner thighs with hickeys and gently suckling his balls till they were once more plump with cum. Frank barely got his lips around his dick before he was shooting into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he hummed drowsily, mouthing at Gerard’s spent cock, eyelids drooping. He wanted to fall asleep like this, with the taste of his lover filling his senses, and wake up in a world where they could have this every day.

Instead, they curled up on the sofa after their legs became functional again, Gerard having shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee, with his wild grin and Edward Scissorhands hair.

“I wish I could stay,” Frank murmured into his mug.

“It’s ok.” Gerard squeezed his hand, sipping his own coffee, rich with cinnamon and hazelnut creamer. “I know you have to get back to the family stuff.”

“Yeah.” Frank winced. “I’m expecting to get ‘volunteered’ for another business trip tomorrow, to be honest.”

“But it’s almost Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how big of a factor that is,” Frank laughed, his thumb lightly caressing Gerard’s palm. “Do you have Thanksgiving plans, babe?”

Gerard frowned at the floor, shifting to tuck his legs under himself. “Usually I go to my parents’. My brother and his wife should be there. I’d love for you to meet them all, but—”

“Probably not a good idea,” Frank finished with a grimace.

Gerard gazed at him, eyes wide and softly wounded, worrying at his bottom lip. Frank wondered if he’d been wrong in how he’d completed his sentence.

“Probably not,” Gerard shrugged. “Things won’t always be like this, though, Frankie.” His gentle smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Gerard rested his head on Frank’s shoulder, nuzzling close. It was a loving gesture, but it also meant he didn’t have to look Frank in the eye.

“I know,” Frank said quietly, ruffling Gerard’s hair and finishing his coffee.

“I went to the club Friday night,” Gerard said, and his voice was as flat and smooth as a river stone. “I danced, I mean.”

Frank’s heart clenched in his chest, and it felt like jealousy.

“I was bored, I guess. There were other things I could have done but being onstage, the attention, used to always make me feel better.”

“But it didn’t this time?”

“It was a bad idea,” Gerard laughed shakily, voice trembling with tears. “I just missed you, and being there, where we met, the memories were so strong…it just upset me.”

Frank stroked his hair, tears springing to his own eyes, giving Gerard space to tell his story.

“That’s all, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes and reached for his phone on the coffee table. “I took a selfie. I guess I was too upset to send it.”

Gerard unlocked his phone and showed Frank the portrait of himself, all red lips and inky hair and dusky eyelashes and black silk, smirking at the camera with sad eyes.

“Beautiful,” Frank murmured, gently cradling his jaw and bringing his chin up for a slow, sweet kiss. “You’re so beautiful, Gee, inside and out. I wish I could have seen you. What was the song?”

“’My Funny Valentine,’” he grinned ruefully, tears studding his lashline again. “I was trying to get all creepy cabaret with it. It was fun, and then it really wasn’t, and I booked it out of there as fast as I could.”

Frank kissed him again. “It will get better, I promise,” he whispered into Gerard’s hair, pulling the soft warmth of his body against him one more time.

Sunday night passed as well as could be. After a silent dinner, he enjoyed a pre-bedtime snack with Max in his man cave, both laughing about Graveyard Smash and talking synths in hushed tones while Angela was yapping loudly with her mother on the phone downstairs. He exchanged goodnight texts with Gerard, and for the first time in ages, took one of Angela’s Trazodones to try to get some goddamn sleep before putting on that fucking suit again Monday.

The suit arrived at the office, presumably with himself in it, although he still felt medicated, untethered from his body. He killed time with several cups of coffee and an old Stephen King on his Kindle app.

Sometime after lunch, Lombardo appeared, just as he’d predicted. This time, his offer was four days in Vegas, alone, the week before Thanksgiving. Frank agreed, daydreaming about taking Gerard with him, not even clocking the man’s clipped tones and suspicious eyes.

He went home to another silent dinner, and as soon as Max bounced upstairs to do homework, Angela rose, heels clicking on the tiles as she walked slowly to Frank. He was scrolling through Instagram, paying her no mind until the chair beside him scraped across the floor and she perched upon it. A scrawny hand, bronze with spray tan and weighed down with gold and jewels, rested on his arm. He stared at her fingernails, filed and glued and glossed into perfect almond shapes with dagger-sharp tips. They were polished an opalescent white, like little mother of pearl knives.

“Dad says you’re slated to go to Vegas next week,” she said brightly, her deep brown eyes nearly as dark as her father’s. He’d once found her eyes warm, and sweet as chocolate. Now they were cold, starless voids.

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” he responded with false cheerfulness, itching to pluck her hand away.

She smiled, her bleached and veneered teeth nearly blinding. “So maybe me and Max could come along, like as an early holiday trip. Maybe we can even talk Cate into it. It’s been a long time since we were all together.”

The half a salad he’d picked at became a small, hard stone in his stomach.

“Ah, that would be great,” he hedged, and it would be great to have the kids along. But his gut twisted. This wasn’t a genuine offer. He knew when Angela was up to something, but he was seldom the target of her schemes, and the possibilities were nauseating.

“You guys might get bored, though. I have a lot of meetings scheduled, and a conference. You wouldn’t see much of me.”

“It’s Vegas, though,” she laughed. “No way we’d get bored, so much fun to be had there.”

He stared at her, waiting for the plot twist. Those cold black eyes piercing him.

“You’d know about having fun, wouldn’t you, Frankie.” It wasn’t a question.

“Huh?” he sputtered, feeling the impending vertigo of a very long fall.

“Who the fuck is Gerard Way?”

He pushed himself back from the table, dragging his hand through his hair, pacing, scalp and armpits gone damp with sweat.

He turned and looked at her, sitting there with arms crossed, a triumphant smirk twisting her features.

“I guess you already fucking know,” he spat. “So can we skip the Lifetime movie gotcha moment?”

She barked out a laugh at the ceiling. “Sure, sure, Frankie. I’ll spare you the interrogation. I knew something was going on, Dad had a friend follow you. From the looks of the way you were hanging all over the guy, you’re not just collaborating on some art project.”

Angela rose, three-inch heels putting her above his eye level. She sneered down at him, surrounding them both in a cloud of sugary sweet perfume that made him gag.

“Can’t believe you’re a fucking faggot,” she seethed, her glossed lips splitting in a skeletal grin. “Even worse, a pathetic middle-aged faggot who’s fucking a stripper. Or is he fucking you? Don’t answer that one, you’ll make me fucking puke.”

He wanted to shove her, bang her head against the wall till she shut her goddamn mouth, and also scream “he’s not just a stripper!” as if that even fucking mattered. He backed up instead, rubbing his hands over his face.

“What the fuck…what the fuck happened to you?” His voice was as much a scream as a whisper. “What made you so hateful and petty? You’re fucking sick.”

“You, calling me sick?” she laughed. “Nothing happened to me. I grew up. You didn’t. I thought you’d buckle down after Max, but you never did, did you Frankie? Always mooning over the old days, pretending that you were still a punk rock kid who was above his responsibilities. I shoulda listened to my whole goddamn family about you. Jesus. My dad thought the money would be enough to make you lock in and act like a man, but you aren’t, are you? You’re not a fucking man at all.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Frank was laughing now, hysteria bubbling up in his throat. He crossed the kitchen for a bottle of water and downed half of it in a gulp. “I know this isn’t just me. I know you’re fucking around too.”

“Congratulations on not being a total dumbass,” she snorted. “Yeah, I got someone else. Be together a year in March. And guess what, Frankie? My parents know him and treat him like one of the family already. And as soon as you’re out of here, he’s gonna slide in to take your place like you were never even here.”

Frank turned away, his face twisted in pain, breath coming in pants. “Guess he’s a real man, huh?”

“Damn fucking straight. And Max is gonna love him, gonna love having a real dad showing up for him instead of some loser weirdo with his head in the clouds. And you won’t be here, because this is not your world. You got that? This is my world. My house, my money, my kids. Daddy’s gonna write you a nice fat check to fuck off to the city to suck dick or whatever you’re doing, and you’re never gonna show your face around us again.”

“You’re not keeping me away from the kids,” he spat, face flaming red.

“Cate can do what she wants, she’s of age,” Angela shrugged. “But you can kiss Max goodbye, I won’t have you warping his brain with your sick shit even more than you already have. And good luck with Gerard, cause no stripper is gonna keep your washed-up broke ass around.”

“You can’t keep Max from me,” Frank said, his voice gone icy cold and much calmer than his jittering nerves. “And I don’t want your Daddy’s fucking money.”

“Suit yourself. You’ll probably be singing a different tune tomorrow. Now why don’t you pack up your shit and get out. And you better take everything you need, because Frankie, it’ll all be gone tomorrow.”

“Fucking bitch,” he swore, shoving past her and stomping upstairs.

“Worthless fucking cocksucker!” she called back, her voice bright, sparkling, and vicious.

His only thought on his way to the bedroom was please don’t let Max have heard that please please please.

A half hour later, there was one duffel bag, one suitcase, two guitars and an amp on the landing, ready to be loaded into the Range Rover. The vehicle was paid off, and he would run the fucking bitch over with it if she tried to take it, too. Four pairs of jeans, three pairs of sweats, over a dozen band shirts and hoodies, mixed in with flannels and sweaters. Three pairs of Nikes, one pair of Docs, assorted toiletries, his laptop, baby pictures of Cate and Max, fliers from his band days, a few Stephen King paperbacks and the copy of Catcher in the Rye he’d had since high school. The sole mementos of one man’s life. Twenty years stuffed into two bags.

He left every suit on its hanger, every piece of Gucci and Armani tucked away in his closet. They didn’t belong to him.

He knocked on Max’s door. It wasn’t even ten, he knew the kid wasn’t asleep.

After a brief silence, he opened the door, announcing: “Coming in, bud.”

Max was on his bed, a textbook cracked open to his left and his laptop open in front of his crisscrossed legs. His head was nearly swallowed by gigantic headphones, the Beats Frank had gotten him last Christmas, and Frank breathed a sigh of relief that was cut short by Max raising his head, letting his dad see the red eyes and tearstained cheeks.

“Aw, buddy,” Frank said softly, feeling his heart split in two.

He sat, thr bed dipping under his weight. “You heard?”

Max nodded, sniffling. “I knew it was gonna be bad when it happened, and I knew something was gonna happen, but I didn’t know you guys hated each other so much.” His voice broke on that last, and Frank let the tears fall from his own eyes.

He was seized with a desperate desire to grab his son and whisk him away with him, keep him safe from that cannibalistic fucking family and Angela’s determination to snuff out his light. It was only the knowledge that they would not hesitate to report him for kidnapping and ensure he never saw Max again that stopped him.

So, he pulled his son to his chest and rocked him as they both tried not to cry and both failed, rocking him as he had when he was three days, six months, two years, five years old, soothing him from the minor aches and pains that little children who were loved incurred, cursing himself for being the cause of his own child’s trauma.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Max,” he muttered, sniffing his tears away and steeling himself, letting his son cry it out.

“Where are you going?” Enormous eyes, so like his own.

“A friend’s, a hotel, I don’t know.”

“You’ll be happier now,” Max said quietly, with a child’s clumsy wisdom. “Don’t worry about me a lot, Dad. I’ll be okay. I’m not quitting music or movies.”

“You fucking better not,” Frank laughed through his tears. He wanted to add “don’t be like me,” but didn’t want to dish out any more pain and doubt to the kid than he already had.

“You’re smarter than I ever was, Max Iero. But I’m still gonna worry about you.”

That got him a small smile, and he dug around in his pocket and withdrew a small brass key.

“I opened a PO Box at the post office near Josh’s house,” he said, voice hushed. “The number’s on the key. I know you can get there on your own, maybe every couple weeks. We can send each other messages that way, in case your mom gets too nosy with your phone, or I’ll just send you little things to let you know I’m thinking about you, alright?”

“I can be stealthy with it,” Max grinned, impish and so reminiscent of his teenage self that Frank was close to tears again.

“I’m gonna fight for you, ok? We’ll be hanging out in grungy diners and record stores all you want.”

Max’s smile was a little mournful, and Frank stopped himself from making any more promises, knowing he might not be permitted to keep them.

“I love you, buddy. I love you so much.” He hugged him once more, planting fierce kisses on top of his head.

“Love you too, Dad. Text me when you get to where you’re staying tonight, okay?”

“Promise,” Frank swore. He kissed his first two fingers and flipped Max a peace sign, then turned his back and left, before he lost his courage.

He dragged his shit downstairs, down the driveway and into the Rover. He stalked up to the front door, where Angela stood with her arms crossed, glaring, yanked his house key from the ring, and dropped it at her feet.

“That was pointless,” she laughed. “You know I’ll have the locks changed tomorrow.”

“Yeah yeah. See ya, you miserable bitch.”

Her shrill laughter followed him down the drive, and he peeled out, roaring down the road and stopping at a cul de sac a block away. He put the car in park and did two necessary things. The first was sign up with another cell provider who would port his number over. He could get all that squared away after he got to where he was going, knowing she would remove him from the family plan asap, but not until she’d spent a couple more hours gloating on the phone to whoever would listen. 

The second thing he did was scroll through his contacts until he reached the Gs, his stomach twisting when he saw the G 🖤, and then scrolled past it.

He held his breath as he rang Geoff Rickly.

Five minutes later, he was on his way to Geoff’s studio. He rolled down the window despite the November chill, Misfits blasting.

Somewhere over the George Washington Bridge, he tossed his wedding ring out the window, aiming for the river below, but not caring where it landed.

Gerard paced his apartment. Well, paced as much as he could in the hallway from the bedroom to living room, behind the couch and back again.

It had been three days since he’d gotten Frank’s text, and all his responding texts and calls had gone unanswered. A frantic voice mail to Geoff brought a phone call that at least reassured him that he was okay. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, he was expected for family dinner, but he didn’t see how he could go with half his hair ripped out and his whole body fizzing like static from next to no sleep and a near fatal dose of caffeine. He’d texted Mikey, but couldn’t face calling him yet, unspooling the whole pathetic story of how he’d fallen for a closeted married guy who was now ghosting him. A closeted married guy who he’d been silly enough to bare his entire soul and body to, let him photograph it, book a gallery to exhibit it.

The show was booked for December 18, just in time for Christmas. The frames were almost done and so were all his little projects. Boxes of saint candles affixed with illustrated prints of Frank’s photos; his naked body strung to a cross and covered with cum, his face flushed in ecstasy, a communion wafer resting on his drooling tongue. Prayer cards that blasphemously resembled tarot cards in how the titles of each artwork appeared. The Flagellant, The Saint. Frank had wanted to call that one Saint Gerard. The boxes were stacked neatly in Geoff’s studio, where Frank was now hiding.

He read the text again.

angela found out, her dad had me followed

she kicked me out but I have a place to stay

i’ll call you when I’m in a better headspace, I just can’t now

i’m sorry

i love you

f

“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Frank said to Geoff, eyeing the shadowed corners of the art space warily. They were filled with boxes of pieces for the show and stacked with the finished frames that were waiting to be carted off to the gallery.

It was his third day here after fleeing Jersey, and it wasn’t the best idea, but it’s not like he had anywhere else to go but Gerard’s, and he hadn’t been able to do that, didn’t think he’d be able to face him until he’d exorcised a few demons. Geoff had been kind enough to let him use his room upstairs while he stayed at his girlfriend’s, and Frank had only come down for takeout delivery. It being Thanksgiving week, he thought he would have some time before he had to confront Gerard.

“You can’t keep him on the hook forever,” Geoff said lightly. “He’s worried, Frank.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Yeah. The morning after you got here, actually.” Geoff regarded the floor, scratching the back of his neck. “I let him know you were alright, that you were staying here.”

At Frank’s stricken look, he continued. “He’s been my friend for years, Frank. I had to tell him something. Besides, he figured you were either here or in the Hudson River anyway.” After another beat, a quiet “He loves you.”

Frank slumped down into worn sofa cushions. “I don’t know why,” he snorted. “I’m a total fuckup. Over the hill fucking loser. A fucking coward who didn’t have the balls to be himself, to leave before his kid got hurt. And I’ve been fucking up his life with my drama. An old piece of shit using him as some kind of tool, some kind of toy, to figure myself out. He should hate me. I do.”

Geoff winced and leaned over to squeeze Frank’s arm. “Shut the fuck up, man,” he said with a warm smile. “You know you’re full of shit. And if you don’t, then maybe you should talk to someone about it. I know someone, in fact—”

“Course you do,” Frank cut in with a bitter little grin. “You know everybody.”

“And they’re much more qualified than me to help you with this stuff. There’s one way I can help you, though.” He lifted his chin in the general direction of the upstairs studio. “Let’s go make some fucking music, huh?”

“Sure, let’s fucking do it.” Frank stood and stretched, reaching skyward till stiff vertebrae gave satisfying cracks. This was the medicine he needed right now, guitar strings cutting into his fingers, screaming out his pain into a mic. “I think I have an idea about—”

Both their heads swiveled comically at the knock on the studio’s steel door. It echoed in the cavernous space like a death knell.

Geoff threw up his hands and favored Frank with a rueful smile before he crossed the floor in long-legged strides to let Gerard in.

Something in Gerard crumpled at the sight of Frank, and he wasn’t even aware of the tears streaming from his eyes. He was surprised he still had juice enough left in his body to cry.

Frank was unshaven, some of his stubble glinting silver, and his hair hung lank and greasy around his face. His eyes were red and swollen, but dry. Blank. Empty. They cut away from him as he approached.

“Frankie,” he cried, feeling desperate. He lurched forward a few more steps, aching to touch him, but not wanting to overstep any more than he already had. This was what you did, though, when you loved someone, right? You searched for them in the dark, you wanted to hold them and lift them up when they were low. You wanted to carry some of their burden, so they didn’t have to shoulder it alone. He needed Frank to see that.

A sob escaped his throat as he reached for Frank, his hand twitching away at the last moment. Frank’s hands were stuffed into his pockets, and he was staring sullenly at the floor. He did not want comforting, not yet.

“I can let you guys have the room if you want to—” Geoff began, hesitant.

“No. Thanks.” Frank said curtly, raising his eyes at last, looking only at Geoff, not Gerard.

“Gee, I told you I needed some space,” he said, letting his vision blur so that all he saw was a fuzzy image of the doorway over Gerard’s shoulder.

“I guess I thought three days would be enough.” Gerard stared his feet, finding it almost funny to see a teardrop plop down onto the dirty toe of his white Converse. “I want to be here for you Frankie, help you get through this. I love you,” he whispered, and the whisper was a tiny, fragile thing that floated in the air between them, and then was gone.

Frank’s jaw clenched, and stomach acid boiled up into his esophagus. “I know.” He tried to say it gently, but it came through gritted teeth and sounded utterly heartless. “I just need to face some things about myself and try to start—I feel like you would be a distraction more than a help. Like I would lose myself in you, the way I lost myself for the past twenty years. That I wouldn’t fix it or work on things, just so I could stay lost.”

Gerard recoiled, even as he tried to calm his mind, tried to tell himself that Frank didn’t see him as merely an object to help or distract, that he was upset, that he couldn’t see that he could heal with someone by his side, that he was worthy of love and care even if he was falling apart.

“You…why do you think I would just be ok with that, Frankie? Why do you think I wouldn’t be there to support you while you work on things, that’s what partners do, right? I’m not some siren trying to lure you away from reality, or—” Words were just falling out of his mouth, and he was trying to reach for the communication tools he’d learned in therapy, but they were beyond his grasp right now, smothered by the stuttering beat of his bleeding heart.

“I know, I know,” Frank cut in. “What I’m saying…I’m saying I can’t have a partner right now. It isn’t fair to you. I need to focus on working through this, in the hope…in the hope that you’ll be there when I’m ready.” His voice broke on the last word, but his eyes remained dry.

“Frank—” Geoff said gently, but Frank held up his hand to stop him.

A great shuddering gasp was torn from Gerard, a sound like something silky and frail being ripped down the center.

“It keeps going over and over in my head,” Frank continued. “What Angela said. I knew she was cheating too, and she said that guy was going to step right in after I was gone, like I was never even there. Like I was never even there. I’m all hollow, like a ghost. I don’t even feel real most of the time. The only time—you made me feel real. And I fucked up your life because of it, because I was using you to fill up that hollow space. I left my child. And now I’m leaving you. I have to figure out who I am, figure out how to be real by myself, before I can fully be with someone else. I’m sorry, Gerard.”

Gerard covered his face, bent at the waist with the force of his grief, hearing wails echo and bounce off the ceiling, not realizing they were his. When he stood, shaky as a newborn colt, Frank was looking him in the face for the first time tonight, and his features were drawn with a bone deep sorrow.

He took in Gerard’s beautiful, enormous eyes, so wet and wounded, mossy green as a deep forest floor. His lips, red and trembling, scored with worried teeth marks. His smooth skin, blotchy from crying and sodden with tears. He had to look, had to witness the pain he was causing someone so beloved to him, so that he could own it, like he owned everything else he’d ruined. And maybe, someday he could put a smile on that face again.

“I can’t—I can’t,” Gerard sobbed, running blindly for the door. Geoff followed, shooting Frank a dark look.

“I have to make sure he gets home ok,” he mumbled, leaving Frank alone in the studio. Frank nodded, then sank back onto the couch, covering his face with calloused palms.

Frank passed his Thanksgiving Day in the studio writing, putting lyrics to the melody that had come to him the morning after his first night at Gerard’s, remembered playing him the demo, their bodies curled around each other on the sunset colored sofa. Geoff was away with family. He hoped Gerard was, too.

Two days later, back to today, Geoff was at the mixing board while Frank laid down vocals.

“…this is not the end for us!”

The scream came from his gut, came from every hurt place inside of him. Geoff nodded, eyebrows raised, and Frank removed his headphones, satisfied with the effort.

“Another one in the can,” Geoff said. “You sure you don’t want to do a full album?”

“Nah. Six songs feels right. Hey listen, I’m going out for a while, want me to pick up food or anything?”

“Chinese would be great, get my usual. I’ll go over these tracks and make some notes while you’re out. Whatcha up to?”

“Tattoo appointment,” Frank grinned. “It won’t take long, though, it’s just a little one.” He sucked in a deep breath, tried for casual. “Oh, and could you text me the number of that therapist you know?”

Geoff tried and failed to hide his smile. “I’ll get in touch with them for you, Frank, give em your number to set up an appointment.”

“Rad. Love you, brother.” The Frank who descended the stairs looked lighter, and years younger.

“Love you too, you beautiful man!” Geoff called with a grin.

Frank began the six-block hike to the tattoo shop. Six blocks, the distance to Gerard’s place, but he was headed in another direction today. He’d sold the Range Rover and pocketed a nice amount of cash for it, enough money to get him a start somewhere. A car was just a nuisance in the city, anyway. Maybe he wouldn’t settle down here, but he could always buy a shitty little car to get him out if needed, like the Toyota he’d had before he sold his soul.

The bell over the door jingled as he entered, and it was a much cleaner and more modern place than the Jersey biker joint where he’d gotten the scorpion, but he felt nearly as young and alive as he had that night. And he was getting a neck piece again. Three short words inked over his throat chakra, down to the dip of his collarbone, a half hour of buzzing pain as a new story was etched into his skin.

The Frank he saw in the mirror afterwards was older and puffier, yes. But his eyes were alight with purpose, and his heart beat steady as he drew in a deep breath. This wouldn’t be the end of him. He knew he could get better, get stronger, fill up the hollow places so that he could give back to those he still so desperately loved.

His fingertips ghosted over the new ink, barely grazing the clear dressing, the words his purpose, his mantra, his way back to himself.

LET

LOVE

IN.

Chapter Text

The night before the exhibit, Gerard was curled up on his window seat, snug in his skeleton onesie and fluffy socks, watching as a few tiny snowflakes fluttered onto the street below. He sipped a mug of hot chocolate that had only a little espresso powder added, no whipped cream. Whipped cream was only fun if there was someone there to kiss it off your nose.

So close to Christmas, he felt like he should be listening to mournful-sounding 1950s carols, like a heartbroken leading lady, gazing at the holiday that was happening outside of her snow globe of picturesque melancholy.

He snorted a laugh at himself. He hadn’t been alone here until this week. He had a dim memory of Geoff walking him home that horrible terrible Thanksgiving Eve, tucking a blanket around him on the couch and bringing him tea and cuddling him as he wept. He promised to call Mikey, and Geoff hadn’t left until he was on the phone with him. Mikey had swooped in all heroic; picking him up, packing a bag for him, and driving to their parents’ house.  

He'd made a swollen-eyed appearance at Thanksgiving dinner, then retreated to the familiar cave of his basement bedroom. Mikey had gamely played the role of vengeful sibling, cursing Frank’s name for a day or two before he brought down two bowls of tomato soup and saltines, and worked on building Magic decks with him until the bowls were empty.

“I’m still pissed at Frank,” Mikey said, frowning as he plucked stray forest cards from the black deck he was assembling, sliding them across the bedspread to Gerard. “But both you guys did some not so smart things…with the best of intentions. And you really love each other. Humans are dumb, we fuck good things up or go about them the wrong way.”

“I know,” Gerard sighed, and Mikey’s heart warmed as his brother’s eyes lit up for the first time in three days. “Hey, Primeval Titan!” He held up the green card in triumph.

“It’s up to Frank,” he relented. “I wish he hadn’t taken it as far as a breakup, it doesn’t make sense, and it hurts and I don’t know if I can get over it if he decides not to come back. But also… I do understand it, from his perspective. And I can’t do much about it other than wait. And go to therapy,” he smiled wryly.

“And play Magic and watch trashy horror movies with your kid brother,” Mikey grinned.

“And eat junk food and sleep ten hours a day,” Gerard added, sliding a swamp card to Mikey.

“And not shower and listen to your most depressing Smiths and Pumpkins playlists.”

“And buy a shit ton of clothes and makeup online to fill the void.”

“And call me at three am rambling about bullshit and smoking half a pack till the sun comes up,” Mikey continued. “And—”

They each continued supplying the varied ways in which Depressed Gerard filled his hours, each claim becoming bolder and bolder until Gerard’s “And put an ad on Craigslist saying I need six guys to gangbang me…and go through with it.”

At that, Mikey covered his ears, trying and failing to avoid laughing.

Gerard cackled alongside him, the laughter and the love filling him just enough to chase the cold away.

The weeks had passed with ups and downs. Mikey had gone back home a few days later, and Gerard reconnected with his old therapist, helped his dad rake leaves, helped his mom bake holiday treats. He still glanced at his phone before bed with a sinking heart, the silence from Frank as loud as church bells.

But he’d made it back here, had tied the few remaining loose ends of the exhibit together, sent out the invitations, approved the promo copy. He dreamed of Frank showing up and catching his eye across the gallery, like something from a rom-com. He would march right over and kiss him, claim him, and never let him go again.

But he didn’t expect it. Or, truly, think it. And though his heart ached down to his toes, he accepted it, with hard-won serenity.

Though there were no mournful carols playing, Gerard hummed quietly, smiling as the snowfall thickened, and sang a few notes about men living in peace.

Frank had just finished the zoom call with his new therapist when Geoff burst in, bringing a cold draft with him. He had Starbucks, and mail.

He sucked in a deep breath when Geoff passed him the thick creamy envelope.
Frank Iero was written on it, in Gerard’s hand, no address, which means he’d handed it off to Geoff.

He knew they hung out sometimes, thought he could smell Gerard’s sweet scent on him every now and then. After the breakup, when Geoff had let him know that Gerard was safe, back home with Mikey, he’d asked for radio silence on the matter.

He doubted his choice every moment.  He reached for his phone to text Gerard any time he saw something funny or read something interesting. And he ached to his bones to hold him again, to feel him melt against his body, soft and warm and real, to bury his nose in the smoky silk of his hair, see those amazing eyes light up for him.

He still cried sometimes, but his tears were silent and wistful, a steady leak of yearning, not the grief-stricken sobs that had torn his throat raw those first couple weeks.

His therapist had backed up his decision, which lightened the load a little. Told him he was basically a teenager, and it was okay to go it alone awhile, grow into his new life a little bit, before he was ready to fully plunge into a life with someone else. She’d cautioned that that didn’t have to mean fully cutting ties with Gerard, just having time and space to focus on himself. When she suggested that Frank might find himself curious to experience other men, that it could be healthy to live out the youthful need to sample other flavors before choosing a favorite, Frank had laughed and shook his head.

“Stranger things have happened, I guess, but I can’t imagine ever wanting anyone else. We fit together so perfectly, I just…” He’d trailed off, swallowing against a lump in his throat, feeling himself warm all over, till his eyes glowed with it.

“He’s your first love,” she’d smiled gently, and Frank had blinked back tears.

He thought he’d loved Angela, and he had, in some ways, but he’d loved the idea of her more. He didn’t know if it was possible to really love someone you had to hide yourself from.

“Yeah,” he’d laughed. “And I’m pretty sure I want him to be the first, last, and only, too.”

By the time Geoff was passing him the envelope with his name on it, Frank was mostly at peace with himself. He was processing his thoughts and emotions more maturely. Beyond the trauma of being closeted his whole life, and his disastrous coming out, there was grief of losing Max, the enormous guilt of walking out on his son, and even guilt for involving Angela in his life of self-deception. He didn’t know if she was capable of change at this point, of breaking free of her family’s toxic influence, but he would do everything in his power to stay in Max’s life.

His hands shook a little when he tore the envelope open and pulled out the thick glossy cardstock within.

The words were stark black on a white background, printed over an embossed relief of Gerard, bound in profile, from Communion. It was all in white, a silhouette only, but Frank would have recognized that profile, that posture, anywhere.

They hadn’t yet had a title for the show when they’d parted ways, and Frank swallowed thickly, his rapid blinking not halting the hot rush of tears. There was no world where he wouldn’t have recognized those song lyrics, from the night they met, from Gerard’s dance.

Geoff had quietly dropped a steaming oat milk latte and a pastry on the coffee table and was in the kitchen, sorting through his own mail as Frank opened the invitation.

Frank shuddered and finally exhaled, wiping his sweatshirt sleeve over his damp cheeks.

The date and time, along with the name and address of the gallery, was printed on the bottom. Frank flipped it over, and there was a purple post-it stuck to the back, a note written in Gerard’s dramatic chicken scratch.

“Even if we can’t be together, I hope you can be there. You deserve to celebrate this—G”

He sighed, peeling the post-it off, fanning the invitation card anxiously. He was not above taking a furtive sniff of the post-it, but it only smelled like paper.

“So you gonna go?” Geoff dropped a stack of junk mail into the garbage and took a sip of his coffee without glancing at Frank.

“What the hell,” Frank said, and when Geoff fixed him with a brilliant grin, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

The gallery was blindingly white: the walls, ceiling, the blue-white glare of frosty bulbs overhead. Frank was in black, had splurged on some nice trousers and dress shirt, and a fine wool jacket on which snowflakes were still melting as he entered the space.

Guests in tailored finery and designer streetwear circled the space, clutching glasses of red wine or sparkling water, their voices a church-quiet murmur. A white-lacquered Saint Andrew cross dominated the entryway, fitted with black-coated restraints. Gerard’s “prayer cards,” small prints of Frank’s photos, the titles embellished on them with gothic lettering, hung from the chains on ribbons, also black. He nearly winced away from the pieces on the walls; Gerard’s mouth, Gerard’s eyes, Gerard’s flesh, pale and smooth or pink and glistening, raw and framed in black, presented for consumption.

The altar they’d used in the shoot was the centerpiece of the far room, its surface decked with flickering candles. Saint candles, labeled with prints from the collection. Saint Gerard, looking skyward in rapture, dripping cum.

The altar cast a warm glow on the piece that dominated the wall; Communion, the colors so rich and saturated against the surrounding darkness that it looked wet, like paint not yet cured. Gerard, all snow white and petal pink and rose red, bound and kneeling, the texture of the communion wafer on his lurid drooling tongue like paper, his inky eyelashes like spiders legs caressing his cheeks.

Frank stood before it, biting his lip to prevent his mouth from falling open. He did that. He did that. Captured this decadent beauty, this sinful display, and the piece seemed to pulsate, smoldering with shame and rage and hurt like it was his own heart.  

And then Gerard was there, staring at him over the altar, perhaps ten feet between them, and Frank recoiled, then steadied himself before he stumbled backwards over his own feet.

Gerard’s beauty was terrifying. Frank had forgotten how large his eyes were, how the color of them dazzled, not quite gold, not quite green, not quite brown. How they seemed lit from within by the radiance of his very soul. How soft and vulnerable they could be, soft like his skin and his crooked pink lips. He was drawn in, and breathless.

“I knew you would come.” A tiny smile lifted his cheeks, and his voice was small, high, musical.

“I didn’t.” The words came out cracked and awkward, his held breath gushing out in a puff of laughter.

“New tattoo,” Gerard marveled, touching his own neck lightly.

“New hair,” Frank returned, his eyes tracing the vivid red locks that framed Gerard’s jawline just so. He was in black, too: a velvet gown, floor length, with dramatic bell-shaped long sleeves. It was tailored expertly to his body, and a wide band of matte silk, encrusted with intricate jet beadwork, circled his waist. He moved in the gown as if carried on the wind, and Frank forgot his self-talk, his journaling, his rehearsed and prepared speeches. He simply wanted him, quietly and deeply. His heart ached with it, the blood in his veins sang with it.

“What do you think?” A swing of his long, elegant arm, velvet sweeping the air to indicate the entire exhibit.

“I think,” Frank said slowly, looking him in the eyes finally, deep and unwavering. “I think it’s perfect. You did amazing, Gerard. We did something…great,” he finished lamely.

Gerard ducked his head, crimson hair falling into his eyes.

“If you feel like talking--” Frank continued, feeling clumsy and oafish.

Gerard held up a hand. “Later?” His tone was sweet, and a glimmer of hope shone in his eyes, but he glanced away quick.

“Later,” Frank confirmed. “I should mingle. And take a look at everything. But maybe when things are winding down, we could grab a smoke.”

“Sure.” Gerard’s glance was lightning quick and lightning bright, and Frank bit himself again, this time the inside of his cheek, the sensation distracting him, making him swallow back any flood of words that would undo this progress towards maturity. “Sure, Frankie.”

His heart leapt into his throat at hearing his nickname in that sweet voice again, but Gerard dashed off without a backwards glance, towards a group of leather clad women gathered around The Flagellant.

He wandered from piece to piece, blurring his vision so he missed the totality of Gerard that was showcased, focusing on the details of shadow and light and texture. He gulped down cold sparkling water, the bubbles filling his stomach and throat unpleasantly, and he exchanged casual words with the patrons, concealing internal eyerolls at the overly wrought interpretations of pretentious academics. He went over songs in his head, let his own melodies swirl around him in a protective fog, already dreaming ahead to the show scheduled for next weekend, just him and a guitar and a mic in Geoff’s studio. It was the beginning of something, borne out of the violent delights hung on the gallery walls.

Speaking of the devil, Geoff jogged towards him, all suited up and crisp looking, and Frank couldn’t help but grin at the high-beam blaze of his baby blues.

“You did fucking amazing, man.”

Frank leaned into the crushing one-armed hug, knew that Geoff was expressing his approval of everything, not just the exhibit.

He exhaled, depositing his empty glass on a circling waiter’s tray. “Thanks, man. I’m glad I came.”

“I knew you would,” Geoff said lightly. “You’re a classy guy, Frank Iero.”

Frank snorted, and swept his arm towards the piece before them, Gerard stripped naked and bound to a bondage cross, covered in various fluids.

“The classiest.”

Geoff snickered and sipped his drink, and then Frank caught a flash of crimson over his shoulder, a hazel eye blinking at him.

“Hey um, I should go—” He inclined his head towards Gerard, and Geoff glanced back and bit back a smirk.

“Sure thing. Good luck, buddy.” He squeezed his shoulder, eyes warm and sincere.

“Yeah,” Frank whispered, wishing for another glass of fizzy water to occupy his hands and parch the sudden arid desert of his mouth.

Gerard flicked his eyes towards the side door that opened on an alley, and Frank nodded, catching up to him.

The snowfall had ceased save for an occasional dance of tiny flakes that clung to the deep red flame of Gerard’s hair, glittering there like jewels. Their boots crunched through the icy crust of snow, and Frank fell in love all over again, with this snow angel trailing black velvet wings against a backdrop of the temporary magic that blanketed the city.

“You wear that better than Morticia Addams ever could,” he couldn’t help but say, plucking a cigarette from the pack he’d stashed in his breast pocket.

“Don’t blaspheme.” Gerard raised an eyebrow, although his cold-reddened cheeks blushed deeper, and the corners of his lips quirked up. “Angelica Huston is beyond compare. Can I have one? I don’t have any pockets, and I left my bag inside.”

Frank nodded, marveling at how those long, delicate fingers performed the simple gesture of holding a cigarette with such grace. He lit both their smokes and pocketed the lighter.

“Well, you make the dress your own, then. And the hair is amazing, Gee.”

A flash of grin before Gerard clamped his lips together in circumspection.

“Thanks. You look nice, too. And I do love the tattoo. Nick Cave, right?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of my mantra now. I really think I’m doing better, Gee. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry—sorry for how it all went down.”

Gerard nodded swiftly, staring at the ground so that his hair concealed his face from view. He looked up at the cold clear sky, the cold hard stars like diamonds pinned to velvet, tears clinging to his lashes. He took a drag and exhaled, wrist cocked dramatically, the smoke from his lips climbing heavenward.

“I’m sorry, too. And I’m proud of you. Geoff’s told me…well not a lot, but I know how hard you’ve been working. So I’m proud of you. Proud of us.” He gestured towards the gallery, then looked back at Frank, eyes naked and wet and soft and enormous.

“So am I. And Gerard…I’m sorry about how things went last time we saw each other, but everything before…I don’t regret one second of it. Of us.”

Gerard nodded, blinking away tears as he took another drag.

“So did Geoff mention I have a show Friday?” Frank teased, stubbing out his cigarette against the brick of the gallery and pocketing the butt to dispose of inside. He was evolving, damn it.

“He might have.”

“You got anything going on that night?”

“Actually, yes. I kind of planned on stalking my ex and lurking in the shadows of this gig he’s playing. Dipping out without saying anything then going home alone to eat ice cream in my sweatpants.”

“Sounds like a kickass time. What kind of ice cream?”

“Hmm, probably chocolate fudge brownie. Maybe strawberry cheesecake.”

“You have excellent taste.”

“Don’t I?” He dropped his butt onto the snow, giggling as Frank bent over to pick it up.

“I also have two spoons,” he said when Frank stood and met his eyes again.

Frank held his breath, and Gerard shuttered the twinkle of hope that had flared in his eyes, staring down at his feet again as he plucked at the hem of his sleeve.

“Sorry, that was presumptuous, I didn’t mean it like—”

“Ice cream sounds amazing,” Frank said firmly, stepping close enough to feel the warmth of Gerard’s body, to catch the scent of his perfume. Something soft and warm tonight, like cream and honey in ginger tea, drank before a crackling fireplace.

Gerard sucked in a breath, his hand fluttering towards Frank’s shoulder and then falling back by his side.

“But I want my own pint,” Frank grinned, and Gerard laughed in relief.

“Of course! Maybe we’ll have popcorn and ice cream after, and watch a movie, a shitty horror movie or something.”

“And we’ll probably just end up talking over it,” Frank smiled. “Look at us, huh? Sharing a smoke in an alley under the stars. Back to the beginning.”

His mind flashed back to Gerard, untouchable and perfect, an elegant goth nymphette in his black hair and black vinyl, Frank’s ancient schoolboy heart throbbing dumbly in his palm from the very start.

Gerard sighed, and Frank’s chest seized at the tremble in his pouty pink lips. “Frank, you don’t have to—I mean I still. I still. But I want to give you your space.”

“And I appreciate it,” Frank said, finding the courage finally to touch, to smooth the errant strands of scarlet against Gerard’s cheek, to cup his jaw briefly.

“This past month has been hard, but it’s been what I needed. And I still need a little space, a little room, and a lot of slowness. We both do, I think.

I’ve been journaling a lot, and I didn’t exactly write out a speech or anything, but I’ve rehearsed so much in my head, if I ever got to talk to you again and you granted me the gift of listening, I wanted to tell you all this stuff, about things I’ve learned in therapy, about plans I have for myself, the kind of man I want to be.”

“Yeah?” Gerard asked softly, and his eyes shimmered with tears, the color of them enhanced, refracting, green then gold then amber, kaleidoscopic.

“Gee, all of that is important, and I want us to talk about it, and work through it, if you still…but beyond all that, I just want you to know—” He glanced up at the sky, blinking back his own tears, the stars falling upon them both, light as snowflakes.

He grasped Gerard’s hands, looking down at that smooth ivory skin cradled by his rougher hands, scarred and ink-stained as they were. Their eyes met, and Gerard tumbled into the golden-green gleam of them, into the warm radiance of Frank’s love.

“Gee, you’re the love of my fucking life, ok?” Frank’s voice cracked like worn leather, but he found he didn’t care. “And I’m ready for my life to start again. With you.”

The tears fell then, streaking the face powder that dusted Gerard’s cheeks, running down the ruddier flesh of Frank’s.

Gerard nodded, laughing through the tears, pressing his forehead to Frank’s, not breaking eye contact.

“We’ll take it slow, yeah? Do our own things, go on dates, no rush, no pressure.”

“Perfect,” Gerard murmured. “I’m working on a new book, so you might have to actually pry me out of the house once in a while anyway.”

Frank smiled, rubbing his nose against Gerard’s pixie nose. Gerard gave a delighted little squeak and ducked his head to kiss the new letters on Frank’s throat. Frank crushed him to him then, and for a moment they were caught in a snow globe, two lovers robed in black, embracing as each chilly gust of wind snagged the arms of skeletal trees beneath jet black sky.

“How about we say our goodbyes and go get some coffee?” Frank murmured, pressing lips to the cold shell of Gerard’s ear.

“Mmm, good plan. I know a really good diner,” Gerard whispered back, and Frank heard the smile in his voice.

They shared a plate of pancakes, blueberry this time, and Frank remembered their first night here, how enraptured he’d been with Gerard but how out of place he felt otherwise, surrounded by colorful night owls who looked like extras from an edgy indie drama. Now he was one of them, a certified artist celebrating an auspicious public debut, sitting here with his gorgeously flamboyant muse. Watching Gerard talk out of the corner of his mouth, waving around his syrupy fork with the same theatrical flair with which he handled a cigarette, he felt utterly content. For the first time in his life, he was filled with a quiet satisfaction. He was still a work in progress (hell, wasn’t everyone?) but he knew himself now, knew what he needed, had a pretty good idea of how to go about getting it. Perhaps he would never get that storybook moment of having accomplished everything he wanted to accomplish, perhaps true fulfillment was about finding the right path and having the courage to take it, not whatever prize might lie at the end of it.

He walked Gerard to his door at the end of the night, and they kissed softly, nuzzling cold noses together, and Frank walked back to Geoff’s alone, hands in his pockets, not even caring to hide the cheesy grin that stretched his cheeks.

When he woke the next morning, he smiled at Gerard’s text, a photo dump of sketches for his new book (“Shhh they’re a secret!” he warned), and frowned at Angela’s, acid searing his empty stomach.

He’d texted her a few days ago about the show Friday. He wanted Max to be there, and he knew the possibility of that was rather dim, despite the polite icy calmness which defined their communication these days. She was no doubt still gloating in her victory and basking in her new relationship. He’d asked for nothing more than joint custody and felt optimistic about at least getting visitation rights, and he had been so far successful at never taking her rage bait, hoping to make the journey to that as short as possible.

You will NOT be seeing Max on Friday you fucking freak, she’d texted, and sent a photo of the ad for the exhibit that had run in the Village Voice. It was the same copy as the invitations, nothing more, but of course she’d found out more anyway.

Theresa went by to check it out and she said it was fucking porn, GAY PORN

That’s fucking illegal and maybe instead of worrying about your shitty little concert with your faggot friends you should worry about EVER seeing my son again because I will try my damnedest to make sure that never happens

Frank blew out air through gritted teeth, and his phone shook in his hands. He knew that anything he said would stoke the flames, but he couldn’t say nothing.

it’s art, it’s not illegal

there was only nudity, not sex

it’s your call about Friday but I’m sorry that he won’t be able to see me play

I hope we can work out something better in the future

He hated the tone of it, hated how cowed and apologetic it made him feel, but he knew it would look better for him if it ever happened to be used as evidence.

So he sent it, screenshot the convo, and turned his phone face down, knowing it would ping again soon.

No chance I’m letting my kid WHO IS A MINOR around a pornographer and whatever fucking deviant queer crowd he hangs around in

GO FUCK YOURSELF 🙂

He just laughed, took another screenshot, and put his phone on silent. Anxiety burned his stomach, but his thoughts weren’t racing and frantic like they would have been a few weeks ago. He would see Max again, and things would be ok somehow. So he sent a good morning text to Gerard, ran his fingers through his sleep-crazed shock of hair, and picked up his guitar.

Friday night, he had a new song written, and he sat on the tailbone-crushing stool in the corner of Geoff’s studio that functioned as a stage and sang it.

He sang it to Gerard, who stood in the center of the modest crowd, beautiful and glowing with his flaming hair and glittering eyes; he sang it to Max and Cate; and most of all, he sang it to himself.

Gerard swayed where he stood, close enough to have a good view but not close enough to be a distraction. He wanted to hide himself a bit, knowing he was likely to become a bawling mess. Live music, well, music that moved him, anyway, usually gave him chills, had him enraptured and shivering, had tears streaking his face with emotional overwhelm. And that was music from strangers or casual friends. He had no idea what a Frank Iero show might do to him.

He'd worn his skintight black jeans, a paint-splattered faded tee, and his leather jacket, his fingertips and nails stained with ink and pigment in cerulean and fuchsia and orange, accidental makeup from his mad sketching of the colorful teenage superheroines who were populating his new book. He was finally wearing his art, on his hands, his clothes, even his new hair color was an extension of his artistic vision. When he’d dyed his hair it felt like a battle flag streaming from his skin, and he was declaring war on a world that was afraid of art, afraid of loud voices raised in protest, afraid of love that didn’t look like it had been purchased from a catalog. He was more determined than ever to follow his own visions, to wield art as a weapon that defended the frailest and most beautiful parts of humanity from those who wanted to crush them underfoot. Seeing Frank at the exhibit, standing before him now, feeling the sorrow and love that unfurled achingly from his throat, he was finally sure that Frank was ready to fight with him, at his side.

So he let himself shiver and gasp at the warm grain of Frank’s voice, bite his lip and melt when it ascended into a Danzig-y howl, smile through the hot tears that flowed when it cracked in yearning. He would go as slow as Frank needed, would be as patient as he wanted, but he was all in. And when the set was over, he clapped, laughing in glee, shrieking like a teenage girl when Frank winked at him with a dazzling grin. He wanted to see that smile every day for the rest of his fucking life.

And he didn’t hold back from darting forwards on his tiptoes, calling out “Frankie!” as he reached for Frank’s cardigan sleeve, Frank snickering at him as he kicked the stool over in his haste. Gerard swallowed his laughter, kissing him hot and urgent in front of the thirtyish people gathered there.

Frank broke the kiss, and his eyes glowed, the love in them shining deep as an enchanted forest pool.

There was chatter around them, friends coming up to congratulate Frank, but for a moment they were the only souls on Earth, and they were gazing at each other under a starry sky behind a strip club, and they were holding hands as they jumped through autumn leaves on Halloween, and they were kissing as snow fell outside the gallery of their sold out show.

The spell was broken when Geoff nudged Frank’s shoulder and babbled in his ear about vinyl vs CDs, and whether to use the live version of the new track he’d just recorded or smash it out in the studio and get it on the EP. Gerard left Frank with a kiss on the cheek and flounced off into the crowd to catch up with a few people, knowing they would meet up again at the end of the night for a romantic goodbye, that they would never truly part again.

Frank finally cracked open his laptop when everyone filtered out around 3, intent on getting the lyrics down for Geoff tonight even though it would still be several weeks before the album was pressed, and another after that before he mailed two copies, three days before the release date. One to Cate at Columbia, and one to Max’s PO Box.

Track 7 is for you and Cate, he scribbled on the note he included with Max’s copy. Hope you like it, my guy. Love you always.

They’d done something different with it in the studio, he and Geoff, and instead of just him and his acoustic, the song began with somber notes from an organ, like a drowsy Sunday morning, his voiced hushed before the guitar and drums came in.

I took a walk through the city one night
Saw some faces but I didn't want to be found
Her alley's juxtaposed with her lights shinin' so bright
That crowd camouflage ain't never let me down
I took a drive through the country one night
Saw the river beds all dusty and dry
Her banks were parched and the heavens went dark
And the clouds, they began to cry
Here's what they said


A new day's comin', a new day's comin'
A new day's comin' for us
But don't be sad, leave your past in the past
Let that new day wash all over us

I took a trip to the back of my mind
And saw a man I didn't recognize
I know I got some bad comin'
I can't get hung up on that
Just put my chips in and let it ride
Take that ride


A new day's comin', a new day's comin'
A new day's comin' for us
But make no mistake
Yeah, we've had some bad breaks
But that new day is bound to come for us
Baby, I'll get by

A new day's comin', a new day's comin'
A new day's comin' for us
And a new day's comin', a new day's comin'
A new day's comin' for us
But don't be sad, leave your worst in the past
Let that new day barrel over us

Two Years Later

“It’s me, babe!” Frank called out as he let himself in, grinning. He always yelled out a greeting when he knew Gerard would be there, and it never got old to him. Gerard had come running, kisses at the ready, the first dozen or so times, then went through a phase of sassing him about it, answering “nobody cares!” or “dammit, I was hoping it was my other boyfriend.” Now he got a delightful mixture of the two if Gerard wasn’t busy, a shower of kisses accompanied by a sarcastic, or sweet, or sometimes pornographic, remark.

Gerard poked his head around the half-wall that separated the kitchen from the entryway, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. “Hello, lover,” he intoned in a throaty drawl, pursing his lips ridiculously.

Frank laughed and smacked the pink pout with his own lips, then threaded his fingers through Gerard’s now shorter, still candy-apple-red locks. The kiss deepened into a sweet dance of lips and tongue, and Gerard hummed when he pulled away, smiling with satisfaction.

“How’s Geoff?” he asked, turning his attention back to the chickpea curry he’d just pulled out of the oven. Frank wrapped an arm around him from behind, squeezing lightly as he reached into the cabinet for the deep black bowls Gerard liked to use for the dish. He spooned equal portions of rice into the bowls from the cooker and slid them to Gerard, who topped the rice with curry and then plain Greek yogurt.

“Talked my ear off as usual,” Frank laughed. “Wouldn’t shut up about the new book. It sounds amazing, though.”

“It is,” Gerard smirked. “He sent a copy for me to read, wants me to have a blurb on the back. I’m halfway through already.”

“You secretive little shit,” Frank snarked, squeezing a glorious, generous handful of jeans-clad ass. Gerard had filled out a little after Frank had moved in, his lifestyle of coffee-and-cigarette-fueled painting/writing benders having been reshaped into more sane working hours and regular meals. Usually Frank was the cook, if they didn’t get takeout, but Gerard got domestic around the holidays, and the few meals besides pancakes that he’d mastered were favorites of Frank’s. “How generous of the renowned author of Saints For Girls to grant his time and words to one of us lowly mortals.”

Gerard frowned and flicked a spoon at him, a dollop of yogurt landing on Frank’s cheek. Gerard burst into giggles and moved to lick it off. Frank backed away, cackling as Gerard gave chase, and let him pursue him around the tiny apartment, until he crashed his shin into the coffee table and flopped onto the sofa with a grimace.

“Got you,” Gerard grinned, and Frank groaned, holding his hands up in surrender as Gerard climbed at atop him and licked his cheek clean. He kissed the tip of Frank’s nose for good measure, and then curled up next to him, watching as Frank rubbed his shin.

“I’ll live,” Frank said, right as Gerard’s brows were knitting together in concern. “Maybe we should talk about looking for a house again, or at least a bigger apartment. We clearly need lots of room to have zoomies in, plus with a house there are no neighbors downstairs to hit their ceilings with brooms whenever we get too loud.”

“Which is daily,” Gerard said. “Get up, old man. Let’s go eat and talk about it.” He tugged Frank up from the couch, and they sat down to dinner.

Gerard’s apartment was beautiful, and the walls seem imbued with the magic of home. With Geoff’s studio so close by, neither of them really felt the lack of space if they needed it to work on anything. Frank had considered moving upstate to a cute little cottage with a cute little yard, enough space for dogs and enough room for them each to have a studio, maybe even in a separate outbuilding.

He was loving city life, though. There was endless inspiration all around them, all the time, in the cold dim grey of dawn and the heady dark pulse of midnight. They had a nice circle of friends, and being surrounded and supported by people of every gender identity and orientation was a balm for Frank’s soul. Going downstairs for coffee or walking to “their” diner was something he felt like he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He could see Gerard as a handsome bohemian with long hair, smile lines wreathing his perennially beautiful face, holding his hand as they strolled down the street together, his own hair grayer, his back maybe a little stooped, Gerard supporting him as they passed the window they’d kissed at that first Halloween, where Gerard had first told him he loved him, and they’d slip through the door and sit down at their table, still holding hands as they waited on pancakes.

He was sure that this magic would follow them wherever they landed. When he’d first dragged his tired heart and weary soul through Gerard’s door, they’d spent days and nights worshipping each other’s bodies, curled up so close as they nested, spending hours watching movies or shitty tv, wrapped so tightly around each other they couldn’t tell where Frank started, or Gerard began. Those moments were like hourglass sand, slipping through the fingers but filling up their hearts.

He'd moved in last summer. The flame of Gerard’s hair matched the scorching bliss of their honeymoon phase, where it seemed they’d spent weeks in bed, fucking and snuggling and kissing and kissing until their dNA must have combined ten times over from how often they’d bathed in each other’s scents and skin and fluids. He’d worshipped those ruby strands, marveling at its glimmer as it slipped through his fingers or wrapped around his fist. It was so perfectly Gerard, a flaming banner that heralded the fiery phoenix of his soul.

They even had a honeymoon of sorts, two weeks in the California desert, Gerard like a sunkissed siren, producing a series of neon-loud paintings that resembled propaganda posters for a punk rock candy-colored dystopia. It was every bit an indulgence of their O’Keeffe/Stieglitz fantasy, the painter and the photographer, and Frank produced art as well, haunting black and whites of mountains and animal skulls, jagged shards of rock against sky, bone against sand. He wrote songs about heartbreak and car crashes.

They spent their last three nights on the coast, Gerard indulging Frank’s romantic Scorpio sensibilities with moonlit walks in the sand as the ocean roared at them, though he drew the line at fucking on the beach.

The domestic bliss had been punctuated by work, and lots of it. Frank’s EP had garnered some attention, and he’d put together a band that had regular gigs at dive bars and coffee shops. A full-length record was in the works. He didn’t abandon photography, either, taking local gigs as a concert photographer, and doing another exhibit with Gerard, this one far less pornographic and Joan of Arc inspired, featuring some of Gerard’s paintings and some of Frank’s photographs of him as a genderbent saint. Gerard’s new graphic novel followed, centered around a transgender teenage girl who had visions from Saint Joan, as well as other saints Gerard had invented. He completely did away with Catholic mythology and reimagined saints as divine superheroes who aided the book’s heroine in her battles for justice on behalf of youths both living and dead. It was one of the most brilliant things Frank had ever read, and the comics world had agreed. Gerard had turned it into a series, and Netflix was calling.

Frank was sometimes overcome when he looked at Gerard, his chest aching with the enormity of his love and pride. Gerard was even worse, dissolving into tears when Frank played a new song for him, struggling to keep his composure when he watched him at a live show. He’d learned to be less self-deprecating, and was proud of his own abilities and achievements, but Frank simply amazed him, the way he’d done a complete 180 on his own life, slipping out of the poison embrace of his past, shaking off the fear and becoming a fucking rock star at 43.

“So, houses…” Frank began after he’d shoveled a few mouthfuls of curry down his throat. “I’m only sort of serious. I would love to stay put, this feels like home to me, but—”

Gerard threw up his hand. “Stop right there. I have a sort of surprise for you, not my doing, but maybe the universe has a huge fucking Christmas gift for us both. The Romanos are selling their shop.”

“Shit, really?” Frank scratched his head. The Romanos owned the coffee shop on the first floor, and the apartment in between them.

“Yep, they’re retiring, moving upstate to be closer to their grandkids.”

“Holy shit.” Frank gulped Diet Coke too fast and choked on it.

Gerard laughed as he patted his back. “Don’t make me a widow for Christmas, babe.”

Frank glowered at him, then drew in a shaky, sputtery breath, trying to keep his face stony as he flipped Gerard off. Not so long ago, that would have been too dark a comment to register as silly. Not so long before that, it was too close to his own thoughts, in those maddening days when he’d been trapped in a Jersey suburb, wearing someone else’s clothes, someone else’s life. He rarely thought of that man anymore, that almost-ghost drifting through a not-life in a sorrowful daze.

“That means their apartment is for sale too?” he raised his eyebrows.

“Mm-hmm,” Gerard nodded with a satisfied smirk. “And we can afford it. It’s a lot, but you know we can. We’d have the whole building, Frankie. A house, or a townhouse anyway, which is just as good. I know there’s no yard, but—”

“Fuck the yard,” Frank laughed, surprised at the tears springing from the corners of his eyes. “Neither of our lazy asses want to take care of a yard. Let’s do it, baby.”

Gerard nodded, a sunny smile lighting his face. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.” They kissed over the small expanse of table, Gerard whispering “love you” against his lips.

“It’ll be a shame to lose the shop, and it is a good spot for a retail space, but I was thinking…what if we put the studios on the first floor? We could each have pretty big spaces for music and art, and maybe if we feel like it in the future, we could open it up for other people to work in, students or just other artists.”

“Sounds fucking awesome, Gee. Then the living/dining area and a huge fucking kitchen on the second floor. Bedroom on top.”

“Or all the living space on the second floor, office and cat room on the third.”

“No fucking way,” Frank laughed. “I mean, you can have your cat, as long as I get a dog, but we cannot squeeze everything onto the second floor. Bedroom, office, and guest room on top?”

“I guess.” Gerard rolled his eyes, then forked another mouthful of curry into his mouth, eyes twinkling at Frank.

Frank leaned forward, kissing the yogurt from the corner of Gerard’s chewing mouth, and squeezed his hand. “I’m so fucking happy, baby.”

Gerard squeezed back. “Me too, Frankie. I love you.” He brushed the tip of his nose against Frank’s, smiling into his cheek, eyelashes kissing his brow.

“Love you too, Gee.” He cupped Gerard’s jaw in his hand, stamping wet kisses on his cheeks, nose, and forehead till he was giggling breathlessly.

Frank had thought before that there was no certain moment that could define a happy, fulfilled life, no point where you could say “ah yes, this is it” and retire to some cozy chair before a fireplace, reflecting on the perfect and complete contentment you’d finally achieved. And he still didn’t believe that, but if he used to think that life was mostly misery, punctuated by occasional bright spots along what was at best a journey of growth, then now he thought that each day was a gift, and his journey with Gerard was like skipping down a forest path, collecting little treasures along their way. Even the harder days, the dull days, were brightened by the nearly unbearable ecstasy of freedom. He was free to create, to live, to love as he wished. He’d given that gift to himself, and he still wasn’t used to it, still sometimes giggled and kicked his feet when he realized he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He could work on music, or explore the city, or veg out in front of the TV. Every fucking day was Christmas.

And the blessing of Gerard, added to that…Frank knew he was the luckiest motherfucker on earth, and maybe even in the entire galaxy, possibly the known universe itself. Even if it were possible to go back in time and relive his youth more authentically, he wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Hard-won freedom and this perfect love, this beautiful partnership, was the gift of a lifetime, and he’d choose it any day, aching bones and tattered heart and all.

“I just picked up some cannolis for dessert,” Gerard piped up, pink cheeked and sparkly eyed. “From downstairs. I decided not to subject you to my baking.”

“Hm, my black little atheist heart might start believing in God after all.” Frank chuckled, digging his phone from his jacket pocket.

Max had texted, a selfie, holding up a hideous fake zombie head dripping with gore.

my latest creation muhahaha

He hadn’t seen Max for months after moving out. Angela’s mouth had buried any fantasies she may have had of the vindicated divorcée. They each had proof of adultery on the other, and he had a camera roll of screenshots of her profane insults and threats. Thanks to his personal guardian angel Geoff Rickly, Frank had a good lawyer, one who wasn’t cowed by the hollow intimidations of his ex-father-in-law.

After the fallout from the Below/Above exhibit died down, his lawyer let him know that Angela wasn’t finding single motherhood particularly appealing, and although Max was still doing well in school, he would not speak to her boyfriend, a 30-year-old crypto-trading meathead who had moved in two weeks after his departure.

So it had all been wrapped up last June, a no-fault divorce with primary residential custody granted to Angela, and Frank granted visitation rights of every other weekend.

As he’d anticipated, Max adored Gerard, and with his blossoming interest in film and horror movies, the three of them geeked out terribly on their weekends, rotting their brains with movie marathons and vintage horror retrospectives at the local theater, trips to a horror con and the Museum of the Moving Image.

Gerard was unreasonably giddy about taking him on a tour of SVA in spring, and Frank’s heart swelled to near bursting at the idea of Max going to school a short train ride away. He decided to save the news about the house for his next visit.

awesome dude, he texted back

so you ready for tomorrow?

hell yeah!

are we hanging at geoff’s

we’ll see what happens, gonna do the tree thing tomorrow though

ok

I might bring some decorations for you

rad

but no zombie heads on top

how bout a severed foot

why not

that is sarcasm btw

i am rolling my eyes so hard i can see the gelatinous insides of my brain

gross

you’ll be ready at 11 then?

yep

see u tomorrow

night bud

love you lots

love u too dad

Frank pocketed his phone, grinning. He’d bought Max his own synth for his birthday and kept it at Geoff’s studio. They dedicated one day a month just to hanging out jamming together, and Frank’s head spun at the idea of having his own studio just downstairs, of Max being 18 in two years and free of the custody arrangement.

He was grateful that he and Angela somehow hadn’t managed to fuck the kid up beyond repair, and he made damn sure that Max had access to therapy, that he knew he could tell Frank anything, and that he knew just why his father was so eye-rollingly insistent on open and heartfelt communication.

He didn’t truly understand, despite the homophobic and otherwise backwards principles of his mother’s family. Most of his peers were open-minded enough that questions of sexuality or identity were no big deal. Frank felt about 350 years old when he’d explained the circumstances of his youth to his son, and it seemed like a bygone era, like homophobia had vanished from time along with rotary telephones and steam powered cars. He knew that was far from reality, but he was glad that his son lived with the innocence of his generation, that he himself now lived in a pleasantly progressive bubble of his own making, where his closest friends were colorful freaks who had escaped their own society-imposed cages.

He sighed and sipped his drink, wondering what the fuck was taking Gerard so long, when he turned to see him sashaying to the table, dessert on the tray along with a can of whipped cream.

Gerard’s hips were swaying so sinfully because he was wearing four inch heels, patent leather ankle boots left over from his Fairytails days. They pushed his ass up and out, made each step graceful with care. He was topless, and at first Frank thought the shoes were the only garment he wore. The tray concealed the emerald green satin thong, overlaid by a sheer glitter-dusted miniskirt, slit to the hips, in matching green.

Frank bit his lip, couldn’t resist sliding a hand up the back of Gerard’s smooth thigh, cupping it lightly, his index finger stroking the crease between thigh and buttock. Gerard drew in a breath, eyes fluttering closed.

“Is the whipped cream for the cannoli, or for you?” Frank said, all low and husky, and Gerard shivered, nipples pebbled hard already. Even after living basically on top of each other for over a year, Frank still made him come unraveled so easily.

“Taster’s choice.” Gerard said lightly, his slow smirk a delicious invitation.

Frank growled and shot up from his chair, pulling Gerard down for a kiss, licking into the cool sweetness of his mouth. He’d been sampling dessert already, and Frank grinned against those plush rosy lips.

“Bedroom,” he ordered, whistling as Gerard turned tail and complied, strutting like a runway model down the hall, and Frank was mesmerized by the rhythmic bounce of that ripe round ass.

Gerard sauntered into the bedroom as if following choreography, as if surrounded by music and a cheering crowd, and he bent over the foot of the bed, heels planted on the floor, ass swaying to an imaginary beat as he looked back at Frank over his shoulder and gave him a saucy wink.

“Gonna be the death of me, baby,” he murmured, running his palms over the creamy skin of his thighs, his ass, his back, gripping the short strands of his crimson hair and plunging his tongue into his mouth, kissing Gerard dirty and wet and breathless.

“Fuck, Frankie,” Gerard panted, rubbing his cheek against Frank’s hand, eyes heavy lidded and heated. He closed his lips over Frank’s thumb and sucked it into his mouth, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he moaned.

“Yeah? Definitely gonna fuck you, you pretty little slut. Right after I eat my dessert.” He slapped Gerard’s ass so hard it stung his palm, and Gerard cried out around his thumb, lips falling open, wet with drool.

“You like that?”

Frank knew he did, but the asking was part of the fun, and Gerard nodded his assent as he moaned again, rubbing his face into the comforter, and this was why their bedding was black, to hide the occasional makeup stains.

Frank licked and nipped at Gerard’s neck, moaning at the delectable give of flesh, the heady sweetness of scent that was warm skin and sandalwood and almond lotion and Gerard’s addictive pheromones.

“Stay just like this,” he whispered against the curve of his ear, and Gerard hummed, shivering, swinging his hips a little in anticipation.

Frank trailed his hands down Gerard’s back again, scraping with his nails, lifting the sheer scrap of skirt and dragging his short blunt nails over the tender skin of his ass, admiring the reddened handprint on the left cheek.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathed, squeezing double handfuls of firm, plump flesh.

He gripped the waistband of the thong for leverage and smacked Gerard’s right cheek, smiling as the white skin pinked instantly. Gerard cried out, rolling his hips against the mattress, and Frank sucked in a breath. Gerard was responsive to so many little fantasies and desires, nearly anything that made him the center of attention, and spanking was one they had indulged in far too seldom, Frank was now aware.

He began striking each cheek in succession, his slaps hard and swift, but without a lot of force behind them. Gerard liked a stinging smack more than a brutal hit, and Frank quickly had his ass spanked scarlet, the shade competing with his hair.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” Gerard chanted, pushing his ass back into Frank’s hand, and Frank hauled his arm back, landing a final harsh blow that had Gerard wailing and going up on tiptoes.

“That’s it, that’s it, you took it all, you’re so good for me Gee, my beautiful girl,” Frank soothed, bringing Gerard down with gentle caresses, nuzzling his neck and kissing away the tears that streaked his face.

“Love you, Frankie,” Gerard slurred, lacing their fingers together and rubbing his cheek against their interlocked hands.

“Love you too, Gee,” Frank smiled, pulling him close for a deep, delicious kiss, stroking down his back till he felt Gerard’s drunken post-spank state dissolve into desire once more.

“Back into position,” he said mildly, lifting off the bed and patting Gerard’s ass lightly after he rolled onto his front again, sighing in anticipation.

Frank knelt at the foot of the bed between Gerard’s spread legs, and he caressed the silk-smooth length of each with loving appraisal. He loved every scar and mark that decorated them, seeing them as just that; decoration, not imperfection. He latched onto soft plush inner thigh with his teeth, sucking the juicy flesh into his mouth, for a moment wishing he had fangs to sink into the blue tracery of vein and drink until he was glutted on Gerard’s no doubt sticky-sweet blood. He settled for leaving a hickey instead, satisfied with the bruise blooming under the skin as he drew back, his ears filled with Gerard’s whimpers and his own harsh breath, his cock stiffening in his shorts.

He kneaded Gerard’s plump ass gently, seeing that the skin was red but not bruised or broken, and bestowed soothing kisses and licks all over, blowing lightly over the space his tongue licked wet until he raised gooseflesh, smiling at Gerard’s shiver.

“Best fucking dessert ever,” he whispered under his breath as he pulled the green satin strap of the thong aside and laid eyes on Gerard’s hole, which looked suspiciously wet and a little opened up. He dove right in, licking at the pucker and groaning as he tasted strawberry lube.

“Little fucking slut,” he swore, spreading Gerard’s cheeks firmly and getting the thong out of the way. He took his time then, mouthing wetly over the area, licking him from balls to taint to hole and then flicking the tip of his tongue right against the spread-open rim until Gerard was crying out and pushing back against his face.

He licked his way inside, thrusting his tongue and then fingering Gerard open a little more, hooking his index fingers in, spreading him and finally filling him with a slow push of his tongue, fluttering it against his walls.

Gerard shrieked his pleasure, and Frank felt his thighs quaking around him, felt his own cock throbbing, heavy in his pants, and he withdrew, dragging himself to standing and fumbling at his belt, feeling like he might shoot in his pants before he got them down.

“Was almost gonna, gonna, so close Frankie, please,” Gerard whined, and Frank felt like he might go crazy at the sight of his pale curvy legs splayed apart in those high heeled boots, trembling like branches in the wind, his delicate hands coming up to spread his own cheeks open and display his glistening twitching hole.

“Fuck, fuck, gotta fuck you baby,” Frank muttered, finally getting his boxers and jeans down around his knees and aiming the wet hot pulse of his dick towards the center of all that spread open pink. He pushed in slowly, holding his breath and then releasing it in a shuddery exhale, trying to calm the mad rush of blood that urged him to rut and cum right fucking now.

“Fuuuuuck,” Gerard groaned, his smooth fluttery insides seeming to suck Frank deeper and deeper within.

Frank shoved his hands under Gerard’s chest, squeezing his small handfuls of tit and pinching his nipples tight as he set a rough pace, Gerard wailing, writhing against him with each ram of his cock, the double stimulation driving him mercilessly to the edge, his cock pinned tightly beneath him, wet in its trap of satin.

“Fuck, fuck, you feel so good baby, so good around me,” Frank groaned, and it was quick and rough and dirty, just the way Gerard liked it, He felt so deliciously used, like a whorish fuckhole, and when Frank grunted “gonna come, gonna come inside that tight little hole” he threw back his head, a cry spiraling from his throat, shocks of pleasure jolting his nipples cock balls asshole as he felt Frank swell and pulse inside him, spurting hot and thick, painting his walls with cream.

They both shuddered and shook through the violent extremity of pleasure, locked together, muscles tight and quivering, sweat streaking their bodies. It seemed like a hot breathless eternity, and then they collapsed, panting in sweet exhaustion, Frank slipping out of Gerard and melting beside him, Gerard smiling faintly at the warm rush of cum that followed, and he flopped backwards into Frank’s limp embrace, neither of them minding the fact that they were gross sweaty puddles of goo sealed together by rapidly congealing jizz.

“Wanna be goo with you forever,” Gerard mumbled drunkenly, face split with a dopey grin, and Frank muttered nonsense syllables, throwing his arm around Gerard and drawing him against his sweaty chest as he began to snore already.

He let Gerard sleep in while he made the drive to Jersey, in the vintage 78 Trans Am Gerard had bought himself last year (Frank had nicknamed it "the love machine," to his son's comical horror), and he listened to a Christmas playlist on the way, face split wide with a grin as he sang along to the Ramones.

Max was standing at the end of the driveway, still no taller than Frank at 15, his hair long and prone to flopping over the top of his glasses. He was dwarfed by a massive fur-hooded parka and the hiking backpack in which he stashed all his weekend-with-dad gear.

They traded jokes and insults as Frank relieved him of his backpack and stowed it in the backseat, and Frank’s heart warmed, wondering how he got so lucky to get this kid, who had never turned away from him during the divorce and still seemed to be immune to the “my parents are embarrassing” phase most teens went through. He realized Max’s eagerness to connect was probably a response to how disconnected he himself had been most of the kid’s life, and again wondered what he did to deserve him.

“Hey, you’re up!” Frank smiled when they tumbled through the apartment door. Gerard was more or less awake, fully dressed in jeans and a Ghostface Christmas sweater, HE SEES YOU WHEN YOU’RE SLEEPING emblazoned on it. An actual Santa hat with a pompom was attached to Ghostface’s head.

“Got breakfast,” Gerard announced, pointing to a bag of pastries and a tray of coffee and hot chocolate that steamed on the table. “Hey Max!” he chirped, smiling brightly.

“Hey Gee,” Max grinned, going in for a hug. “Nice sweater.”

“Yours is awesome too.”

Max’s sweater was black, festooned with a massive green cartoonish Cthulu guarding a pile of presents, also wearing a Santa hat. Frank’s was an absolutely hideous creation striped in black, purple, and acid green, dotted with poorly rendered bloody weapons and Freddy, Jason, and Michael Myers heads. Horror Christmas sweaters had become a thing last year, an icebreaker for Gerard and Max’s first-time meeting last November. He’d gone nuts and bought two in all their sizes and made them do a blind pick. Today they’d all agreed to wear the leftover choices.

“Nice hair, babe,” Frank grinned as he leaned in to kiss Gerard’s cheek, ruffling the sleep-rumpled shock of bright red.

Gerard glared, but returned the kiss, working both hands into Frank’s hair and scrubbing at it till it was tangled into a staticky pouf.

Max cackled at them, mouth full of pastry. “You’re gonna have to shave your head now, dad.”

“I was actually going for a look, you know,” Gerard demurred, sipping coffee. “Kind of a deconstructed Morrissey thing.”

“Morrissey fucking sucks and his hair looked like a snap-on Lego piece,” Frank laughed, poking the soft swell of flesh above Gerard’s hip, secretly thrilled at the way the sweater was just a little too small for him now.

“Deconstructed, I said,” Gerard replied tartly, the corners of his lips quirking up.

They’d planned to get their tree at the farmer’s market, which had tons of holiday vendors this time of year. It was an easy five-block walk, and Frank dragged their shopping wagon behind them as they braved the chill.

Last year he’d learned that Gerard was a bit of a sap about Christmas, although he hadn’t put up a tree in his place before. Their first tree together had been the skinniest Fraser fir they could find, and it fit relatively well between the living room windows. They’d trimmed it with blue glass balls and garland and sat on the couch just staring at it with all the other lights turned out, holding hands and sipping hot cider, listening to corny old Christmas songs.

Both of their cheeks had glittered with happy tears, and they hadn’t said anything, just watched the lights, their breathing falling into sync in the quiet, both of them thinking that they never thought they would get this.

Gerard had finally turned to Frank, tucking his hot face into his neck, draping his arms around him. There had been gentle kisses and then deeper ones, each press of lips healing their hearts just a little more.

This year the tree had more decorations, little stained glass suncatchers Max had made, bats and spiderwebs and ghosts. They hung them after a day of browsing the stalls and snacking on holiday goodies, warm cinnamon roasted pecans and handmade fudge and fresh soft pretzels.

The tree was only five feet, so Frank took the honor of ascending their step stool and affixing the star to the top. Gerard had painted it, an abstract in jewel tones that complemented Max’s ornaments. He hadn’t noticed till Gerard pointed it out that the stripes of color were interlocking Fs and Gs.

“Careful dad! You’ve never been this far off the ground before.”

“He likes to feel tall,” Gerard said, and Frank hid his grin while they cackled at his expense. His son and his partner had truly bonded in mutual roastings of him, and though he pretended to bitch about it, it was totally his love language.

The weekend passed as quickly as Max weekends always did. A late dinner of takeout Thai accompanied the good news that Max would have his own room here one day, and he was already browsing for “sick” décor online. He slept on the couch when he stayed here, and it was fine for a weekend, but having his own space was an important step in incorporating him into their household. There was always the possibility that Frank could get extended visits or extra days, that perhaps Max would indeed go to school in the city and be spending much more time with them.

Gerard let them have some one-on-one time Sunday, and they spent it in Geoff’s studio, Frank adding haunting riffs to Max’s dark synth notes. He always recorded these sessions, and maybe they’d do something with them and maybe they wouldn’t, but making music with his kid was a joy Frank had never anticipated.

They all had breakfast at the diner Monday morning. Max’s holiday break started this week, so he didn’t have to be back at a particular time.

Gerard walked back to the apartment after leaving Frank with a maple syrup kiss and Max with a hug, letting them have that cherished drive time together again, and they chattered about silly shit, till Max stunned Frank speechless.

“So when are you guys getting married?” he asked casually, opening up a game on his phone.

Frank laughed, then stammered “uh, um, uh” and fell silent.

“I…don’t know how to answer that,” he finally hedged.

“He would say yes, you know.” Little dings and whooshes of sound from his game.

“I—” Frank laughed, running a hand through his hair. “He didn’t say anything to you, did he?”

“No way,” Max said, and Frank believed him. “I just wanted to let you know, it’s okay if you decide to do that. Like, I’d be okay with it. It would be cool actually.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Frank sighed. “That means a lot. I just don’t know if I’m ready for that, or if I even need that. I don’t think either of us need it, really. We’re together, we’re happy, and it’s forever as far as I’m concerned.”

“It would be sweet, though. And Gerard would go nuts planning and designing everything and getting dressed up in whatever he picked to wear. It would be fun.”

“Now I’m starting to think you’re really the one who wants it,” Frank teased. “You didn’t bring it up to Gee, did you?”

“Uh, nah,” Max said, hunching down further into his parka. “I just said he’d be a kick ass wedding planner and asked if he’d wear a dress if he ever got married. That’s it, I swear. I didn’t say anything specific about you guys.”

“What did he say?” Frank’s stomach swooped a little, and the steering wheel was suddenly slippery in his palms.

“He put on this crazy accent and called me Darling Boy and said his gown would have a twenty-foot train of sapphire encrusted peacock feathers and the wedding cake would be black with a blood fountain of icing inside.”

Frank snickered, a little relieved, and Max joined in.

“His eyes did light up and get all dreamy before he went into silly mode, though.” More dings and coin sounds from the game.

“Oh, great. You’ve done it now, kid.”

“Oh no, am I grounded?” Max pulled a face of comically exaggerated worry.

“You little shit.” Frank dug his elbow into the kid’s shoulder as he pulled into the cul de sac.

“Like, I don’t think it’s a big deal. I don’t think it made things weird. But maybe you should talk to him about it sometime.”

“Maybe I will,” Frank allowed, to shut the kid up more than anything. The topic made him nearly sick with nerves. He and Gerard had pretty much sealed the deal on their current arrangement when Frank moved in, Frank having told him he didn’t know if he could ever tie the knot again, but that Gerard was his always and everything, and Gerard had reciprocated fervently with no hesitation.

In the random discussions they’d had with friends about relationship structure, he'd never gotten any inkling that Gerard favored a more traditional route, though perhaps not one as adventurous as the polyamorous and separate household paths that some of their friends had journeyed down.

Gerard didn’t expect marriage from him, but he also believe it when Max said that his eyes had lit up, that a wedding, a fanciful celebration of their love would make him happy. He knew it would. And maybe now, he was at a place where the dread and nausea he’d attached to the idea of a permanent legal bond no longer mattered. His heart was committed to Gerard forever, and perhaps celebrating that bond in ceremony and ritual and beauty would be something joyous and fantastical rather than the death knell his first marriage had been.

“Maybe I will,” he said again, and he tucked the thought away in a mental back pocket, knowing he would take it out again and mull it over when the time was right.

Frank had wanted to present Gerard with an adorable fluffy kitten on Christmas Eve, imagining squeals of delight so loud they would puncture the sound barrier, but Gerard deserved to choose his feline familiar. When they heard the news about the Romanos selling, they debated putting off any pet adoptions until the sale went through and renovations on the living area were done, but Gerard finally admitted that his kitten fever was overwhelming, and needed very little coaxing to accompany Frank to the animal shelter the next week, five days before Christmas.

“We’re looking at puppies too,” he told Frank sternly as they piled into the Trans Am, the backseat hopefully laden with bags of cat supplies from the pet store, including a leopard print cat carrier. It looked like a purse to Frank, but it had a clear window in front, where according to the photo on the item tag, a bewildered cat face was supposed to peek out.

“A puppy would be a handful,” Frank warned. “But maybe a little senior dog, probably get along with a cat better.”

The shelter was sparkly clean and spacious, decked out with garlands of tinsel and other holiday décor. Clean as it was, it still had an underlying smell that Frank just thought of as an animal smell, like puppy fur and stables, and he felt a sudden longing for a warm and wriggly little canine buddy. He hadn’t had one since his childhood dog had died his second year of high school.

It had started snowing this morning, and perhaps the weather had kept people inside. There were only a few others there, and a volunteer in a blue vest, whose name tag said Beth, approached them.

“Hi Beth, we were hoping to look at the kittens and cats,” Gerard piped up, looking absolutely adorable in his teal peacoat, snowflake-patterned scarf, and trapper hat.

“And maybe small dogs too,” Frank added, stuffing his gloves in his coat pocket.

“Do you live in an apartment or house?”

“A townhouse, three stories,” Gerard said. Frank side-eyed him, smirking a little but saying nothing.

“Any kids or other pets?”

“Nope, just us. Frank’s son visits every other weekend, but he likes all animals. Oh, I’m Gerard, and this is my partner, Frank.” He beamed at Beth, who chuckled at him.

“Nice to meet you. So you’re looking for a kitty and dog?”

“Well, we want both eventually,” Frank said. “We were just hoping to go home with a kitten today, but if we met the right dog, maybe.”

“I’m the cat person; he’s the dog person.” Gerard pointed at Frank. “Though I love all animals really.”

Beth smiled at them. “Well, we only have a few kittens today. It’s not really kitten season. Cats are fertile all year, but they’re much less active in cold weather. You were thinking of a kitten and a puppy? We do have a couple of puppies as well.”

“Maybe an older dog,” Frank cut in quickly. “Something that would maybe be a little calmer and get along with a cat.”

“Hmm.” Beth crossed her arms. “Would you consider an older cat or is your heart set on a kitten?” she asked Gerard.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, we have a dog and cat in the back, we haven’t officially processed them yet, they were just surrendered yesterday. They’re staying in one of the doctor’s offices. They grew up together, and they’re a bonded pair. That means we wouldn’t separate them, it would be harmful to both animals. They’re only two years old, so not little babies, but still young. Both super healthy and sweet.”

“Frankie,” Gerard said softly, those doe eyes going all melty, and Frank was ready to sign the adoption papers sight unseen.

“Can we see them?”

“Sure, follow me,” Beth said brightly, and they followed her through the swinging double doors that led to the kennels and the attached clinic.

“Why were they surrendered?” Frank was prepared to be vengefully angry towards the unknown neglectful owner.

“Sad story,” Beth said heavily, stopping outside a closed office door. “Previous owner passed away, and the surviving relatives couldn’t, or wouldn’t take them. I try not to judge in situations like that. I’d always rather someone surrender a pet so it can find the right home, rather than keep it in a bad circumstance. You know? People tend to think of it as a bad person dumping off a living being they see as an inconvenience, but I choose to look at it as the universe helping pets find the families they were meant to have.”

She flipped through a jangly ring of keys before finding the one that unlocked the door, and she pushed it open, waving them inside.

“I like that,” Gerard smiled at her before ducking into the office.

“Frank!” He tried to confine his squeal to whisper volume, and nearly succeeded.

Frank stepped over to the large kennel in the corner of the office, big enough to contain a small litter tray, a water bowl, and the animals within. A young chocolate lab with a white bib, smiling at him with soft, alert brown eyes, and what looked like a furry cream puff curled into his tummy.

“Oh my god,” Frank grinned, stepping forward to squat before the cage, holding out his hand to the lab, who licked it enthusiastically.

“What are their names?” Gerard squeaked, hoping the cat would wake up.

“Oh, they’re funny. Lotion and Lunchbox. Can you believe it? Lotion is the kitty, he’s a British shorthair mix, and Lunchbox is a chocolate lab, a girl. We haven’t even taken their photos for their little ad yet.”

“Lotion!” Gerard squealed, covering his face with his hands, bouncing on his tiptoes.

“Lunchie,” Frank laughed, scratching the happy-looking dog under the chin.

At the sound of his name, Lotion awakened, blinking, somewhat disgruntled as Lunchbox licked the top of his head.

“He has blue eyes! Oh, he’s gorgeous!” Gerard gushed, and Frank had to agree. The round-faced, cream-colored cat with ice-blue eyes was downright majestic, and Frank imagined he would be aloof and icy as his eyes, until he flopped over on his side and curled his fluffy paws into his body, showing them his belly as he rubbed his head against his canine sister’s chest, the room filling with his rumbly purrs.

“Oh my god,” Gerard giggled, tears springing to his eyes.

Frank rose from his squat, turning to Beth. “If you can’t tell, we’re very interested.”

“I thought you might be,” she laughed. “So I’ll let them out and let you interact with them for a few minutes, to make sure you think they’re a good fit.” She closed the office door, and opened the door to the kennel. “Cats are less skittish if you’re on their level,” she explained, urging Frank and Gerard to sit on the floor.

Lunchbox bounded out of the kennel right away, wagging her tail and putting her paws on Beth’s, then Frank’s, then Gerard’s shoulders, who scrunched his face up as Lunchbox licked his nose.

“You got his approval, babe,” Frank laughed, pulling the excited dog back towards him and rubbing her belly when she collapsed dramatically and rolled in the floor.

Lotion sat in the doorway of the kennel, regarding them all with what seemed to be mild disdain.

“It can take cats awhile to come around,” Beth said. “Even kittens tend to be scared and hide for a day or two when you get them home. And these guys are dealing with the loss of their owner. Usually we advise keeping them in their own room for a couple days, and visiting them in it, sitting on the floor or just hanging out, talk to them or each other, let them get used to your voice and all.”

“I’ll read to him,” Gerard announced. “He looks like a Lord of the Rings guy. Maybe Dune.”

“I’m not worried about it, Gerard can charm anyone,” Frank grinned.

“I…think you’re probably right,” Beth laughed, blushing a little.

Gerard smiled, reaching his hand slowly towards Lotion and letting it hang in the air for him to sniff. “Hi Lotion. I love you,” he said in his tiniest voice, bright and musical as a little bell. What Frank privately thought of as his blueberry voice.

“Oh my god,” Beth squeaked, now reacting to Gerard as if he were the adorable fluffy animal. Frank thought it was about time to get out of here before Beth tried to adopt Gee.

Lotion didn’t shrink from his hand, but gazed at Gerard with curiosity, sniffed his fingers, then walked past him to Lunchbox, a chirpy trill that was definitely not a meow coming from his throat. He rubbed his body against his sister, stretching luxuriously, and Gerard took that opportunity to pet him. Lotion permitted the touch, his tail even perking up when Gerard stroked down towards it. After nudging Lunchbox a few more times, Lotion strolled back into the kennel and stretched all his legs out, yawning wide.

“Oh my god, Frankie,” Gerard sputtered, flapping his hands. “We have to take them home.”

“A hundred percent agreed,” Frank said, stroking the silky top of Lunchbox’s head, who was now resting her chin on Frank’s thigh.

“Alright, so I’ll leave you with them while I get the paperwork started. They’re both neutered and up to date on their vaccines, so they’re basically good to go. We can provide a cardboard cat carrier and a leash, you’ll want to upgrade that later, unless you already have stuff?”

“We have a cat carrier in the car,” Gerard said. “But we can just take them in what you guys have, I don’t want to walk back out there.”

“Don’t blame you,” Beth laughed. “We also have some of their food that was left in the house when—”

“That would be awesome,” Frank said. “We bought all kinds of fancy cat food, but don’t have any dog stuff, or toys or anything.”

“Her chew thingie is in the kennel there,” Beth pointed. “And we have another toy or two we can give you, and a box of puppy pads. She’s housetrained, but just in case.”

“Does she chew stuff up?” Gerard asked. “I’ve heard some dogs like to eat shoes and shit.”

“I honestly don’t know. The relatives didn’t say anything about that, but I guess if you’re worried about the possibility you should store things where she couldn’t get to them. She seems to be a good girl, but there are training classes if needed, pet stores do them in the evening sometimes.”

“She looks like the best girl,” Frank proclaimed. “You would never eat our shoes, would you Lunchie?” he cooed, scratching her head, and Lunchie agreed with a soft bark.

An hour later, they were back home, with a hyperactive Lunchie bouncing around the apartment, smelling everything, and a shyer Lotion staring goggle eyed at the Christmas tree from the safety of the cardboard carrier he arrived in.

Gerard had grabbed a bottle of water and sat crosslegged in the floor before opening Lotion’s carrier, and apparently he planned to camp out there for awhile. He leaned against the sofa, plucking his phone from his coat pocket. After a few moments, he began reading aloud.

“’ Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.’”

“A Christmas Carol?” Frank laughed, keeping his voice hushed. “What happened to Lord of the Rings?”

“This is shorter, and seasonally appropriate,” Gerard declared, and continued reading in a pleasant, even tone.

Frank smothered a laugh, and joined Gerard after leading Lunchbox around the apartment, making sure Gerard’s shoes were in the closet and that the closet door was firmly closed. They’d placed Lotion’s litterbox beside the carrier, and Frank set up another in the bathroom, a large hooded one. Two water bowls were filled on the kitchen floor, and Lunchbox crunched at her kibble for a few seconds before running off to smell another part of her new home. Lotion had a smaller bowl of his own kibble, whenever he was ready to eat.

Shoes and coat off and Lunchbox relatively settled in, Frank microwaved two quick cups of hot chocolate, hitting them with spurts of Redi Wip and a dash of espresso powder. He placed them on the coffee table and sank down beside Gerard, groaning as his old joints creaked.

Gerard paused to smile at him, and Frank caught his lips in a soft kiss. Gerard hummed and leaned into him, kissing back sweetly, deliciously, and they melted into each other, rubbing their winter-cold noses together.

“Happy, Frankie?” Gerard smiled against his cheek.

“Mmhmm, so happy.” Frank nuzzled into his neck, stamping a kiss there for good measure. “Happy, Gee?”

“Mmhmm,” Gerard purred. “Couldn’t be happier.”

They reclined against the sofa, sipping hot chocolate with their fingers entwined, Christmas lights glowing and their new little family gathered around them, and Gerard resumed reading his story to Lotion.

Lunchbox settled down by Frank’s side, chin resting on his thigh and eyes attentively on Gerard, seeming to know she should be quiet and listen now.

Frank drank in Gerard’s perfect profile, the strong jaw, the dainty upturn of his nose, the expressive line of his brow, the errant locks of bright red hair that crowned his head in disarray, nearly long enough to fall into his eyes now. Would Gerard marry him? Would they wed under some enchanted bower, next spring, next autumn? Would a tiara adorn Gerard’s head, or would he leave it bare, and would his hair be the same color? Would he wear a gown, or a suit? What would he want Frank to wear? If Gerard wanted them both in dresses, Frank would do it.

He gazed down at their hands, his tan, scarred, tattooed fingers cradling Gerard’s porcelain skin. His hands were delicate looking, as elegantly drawn as the rest of his body, but also strong, and corded with veins. Would he place a ring upon it? He saw a band of black titanium, and he saw a dainty weave of gold set with an antique gem. One day soon, he would ask Gerard what kind of jewelry he would choose if he were to wear a piece forever. Casually, rhetorical, over dinner perhaps.

Gerard paused in his reading, caught Frank staring and raised his eyebrows, the perfect little curve of his pink lips crooking into a smile. Frank kissed his smile, aiming for the little freckle that graced the plump bottom lip.

“Merry Christmas, Gee,” he whispered. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Frankie. Merry Christmas.” Those gemstone eyes sparkled, that smile showed his tiny crooked teeth, and Gerard squeezed their hands together, turning back to his book.

A song played in Frank’s head, the song Gerard had danced to for him the first night they met, the song Gerard named their first art show after, and he hummed under his breath, low enough that he couldn’t be heard over Gerard’s resonant voice.

“Did you know I was lost until you found me?” he whisper-sang to himself, to Gerard, so softly he was mostly mouthing the words. Gerard had found him, and then Frank had found himself, and today they’d found their family. Frank blinked back tears, let his head fall onto Gerard’s shoulder, and listened.