concealment (for slashfic25, bert_and_gerard)
Bert/Gerard
standalone
R (swearing, drug use)
written August 2006
For bert_and_gerard prompt #2: Fog, and slashfic25 prompt #12: Writer's Choice (fog).
Gerard leans heavily against the nearest table, bracing his arms against the wooden surface and grinning as he watches the room spin around him. It's a slow, hazy spin, the air around him thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke, and it reminds him of walking through mist. Warm air, cold ground -- or is it the other way around? Haha, fuck it, he says to himself with a lopsided grin. It doesn't matter. All he knows is that he likes the cloudy grey-purple fog; it makes him feel hidden. Like a superhero behind a mask.
Holy shiiiit, he thinks, drawing out the vowel of the second word, being this fucked up is really fun. No, more than fun -- it's hilarious. The frown on Frank's face, the slightly dazed deer-in-headlights look on Mikey's, the occasional worried glance from Ray; it's enough to make Gerard double over with laughter. It's not his fault if they're not having fun, is it? It's not his fault they're not dancing or singing or flirting or laughing. It's not his fault they're bored ... and boring.
See, now Matt -- Matt knows how to have a good time. Matt doesn't feel the need to keep an eye on Gerard, like he's some teenage dork at his first party who doesn't know about the spiked punch. Fuck that, Gerard thinks, closing his eyes and sucking the fog into his lungs. I'm the fucking oldest, I know what I'm doing. Don't need fucking babysitters and shit. Hmm ... where the fuck is Matt anyway? Probably getting laid, Gerard says to himself, pulling a face. Lucky bastard.
Taking a deep breath, he stands up straighter and realises he won't regain his equilibrium until he has a drink in at least one hand. So he stumbles through the hallway, towards the kitchen, arms outstretched for extra balance, fingertips brushing against the lightly textured wallpaper. He imagines himself absorbing the haze, which renders him invisible, and exhaling clear air. It makes him feel stronger, more centred, more protected. And he needs that feeling.
When he reaches the kitchen, he's breathing heavily from the effort of standing upright and putting one foot in front of the other. This walking shit -- it's pretty exhausting, he thinks with a giggle. It would have been easier (and more fun) to crawl there on his hands and knees. Gerard leans against the doorway, feeling sweat gathering at his hairline, and wishes he'd thought of it earlier. Or maybe I could fucking lie on the floor and get someone to roll me back ...
"There you are!"
The loud, familiar voice makes Gerard open his eyes -- he doesn't realise he's closed them -- and look up. The voice, directed at him, is the first thing to have broken through the fog for a while. And, surprisingly, he's grateful for it.
Then there's an arm sliding around his shoulder, a sloppy mouth pressing against his cheek before pulling away with a deliberate smacking sound, a wild laugh, the smell of beer, glimpses of long, greasy hair. All Gerard can do, swept up in the drunken whirlwind that is Bert McCracken, is wrap his arm around the younger man's waist and lean against him with another giggle. Because he loves Bert -- he really does. Gerard doesn't know how, but Bert can always slip through the fog to find him.
"Hey," he says, eyelids growing heavy again. "Where ya been?"
Bert's full mouth stretches into a lazy grin. "Where d'ya think? Got us some good shit for later."
"Cool, man, 'cause I'm totally losing my buzz. Foggy. Wanna sleep."
"Fuck that," is the drawled response. "I got plans for you tonight."
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
"Wouldn't you fucking like to know?"
Gerard giggles. "Come on, Bert -- you know I hate surprises."
"Even if it's a good surprise?"
"How do I know it's a good surprise?"
"Oh, it's gonna be good. Trust me."
He pulls a face. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because you're gonna have so much fucking fun, Gee. Seriously." Bert presses his lips to Gerard's briefly, then drags him in the direction of the living room. "C'mon, let's go mingle for a bit, huh?"
Arms around each other, leaning heavily against each other, Gerard and Bert manage to make their way to the living room. It's a slow process -- Gerard is giggling non-stop while Bert sings an impromptu song about a man with three balls -- but they eventually get there. When they do, Gerard sinks down onto the nearest armchair in relief. Bert decides to sit in his lap and wriggle around until he's comfortable.
"Fucking stop that, McCracken! You're crushing my nuts."
"Thought you liked it that way, baby," Bert says in a mock-seductive tone, before Gerard pushes him off the chair, laughing as the younger man hits the floor.
"Dumbass," he says, still laughing. "Now go get me another drink, will ya?"
The response is a raised middle finger and Bert screaming, "Quinn! We need more beer!"
"I meant you, asshole!"
Bert, still sprawled on the floor, lifts his head and raises his bushy eyebrows questioningly. "And you think I care?"
"You should fucking care," Gerard says, sliding out of the chair. With a single movement, he jumps on Bert, whose head snaps back and hits the floor with a thud.
"Ow! Fuck!"
He grins. "Pussy."
"That's it," Bert growls, throwing one leg across Gerard's hips and gaining enough leverage to roll them over. Once he's pinned his friend, Bert grins and wraps his hands around Gerard's pale throat, shaking slightly. "Say sorry."
"For what?"
"Making me hit my head, fucker."
Gerard wrinkles his nose. "Don't wanna."
"It's either that, or -- "
"Or what?"
Bert grins wickedly. His hair tickles the side of Gerard's face as he leans down to whisper in the older man's ear. "Or ... you'll get your punishment."
"Ha," he replies. "Do your fucking worst."
The phrase makes Gerard sound like some kind of action hero, someone recklessly, stupidly brave, but he's not exactly putting himself in danger. Bert, his face delineated and slightly idealised by the fog -- dark red lips turning to rosy pink, stringy hair becoming soft and silky, patches of stubble smoothing away, bloodshot blue eyes fading to crystal -- is the least scary person in the world. Bert's all about appearances: sure, he looks tough, he acts tough, but he wouldn't hurt anyone.
He's also ticklish, so Gerard has a contingency plan if he ever needs it.
But he doesn't need it. Bert's idea of a punishment is to brace his arms against the floor, one to either side of Gerard's head, and lean over until they're staring eye-to-eye. Long, dark swathes of hair fall around his face as the fog closes in around them, and there's no-one else in the world.
"Wanna make out?"
A pause. "That's my punishment?"
"Haven't brushed my teeth in a while," he says with a shrug. Gerard laughs and slides his hands along Bert's back before pulling him in for a kiss.
Their mouths are too wet and alcohol has made their movements rushed and sloppy, but that's not enough to make them stop. Gerard feels his face going red as someone hollers "get a room", but that's not enough to make them stop. Because the voices are growing fainter with every kiss, disappearing in the fog with the blurring faces, until they're the only ones left.
They're breathing harshly through their noses and clumsily groping at shoulders, thighs, asses; pulling flyaway strands of hair out of their mouths during the infinitesimal pauses between kisses; letting small, rumbling moans of satisfaction bubble up from their throats. They're surrounded by the fog and something else, something that cloaks them just as nicely -- it might be drunken lust, or it might be something else. Something more significant. But they're not thinking about that. They're not thinking about anything at all as they lie on a mutual friend's living room floor with lips fused, tongues busy, hips frantic.
Because this is too fucking good to stop.
standalone
R (swearing, drug use)
written August 2006
For bert_and_gerard prompt #2: Fog, and slashfic25 prompt #12: Writer's Choice (fog).
Gerard leans heavily against the nearest table, bracing his arms against the wooden surface and grinning as he watches the room spin around him. It's a slow, hazy spin, the air around him thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke, and it reminds him of walking through mist. Warm air, cold ground -- or is it the other way around? Haha, fuck it, he says to himself with a lopsided grin. It doesn't matter. All he knows is that he likes the cloudy grey-purple fog; it makes him feel hidden. Like a superhero behind a mask.
Holy shiiiit, he thinks, drawing out the vowel of the second word, being this fucked up is really fun. No, more than fun -- it's hilarious. The frown on Frank's face, the slightly dazed deer-in-headlights look on Mikey's, the occasional worried glance from Ray; it's enough to make Gerard double over with laughter. It's not his fault if they're not having fun, is it? It's not his fault they're not dancing or singing or flirting or laughing. It's not his fault they're bored ... and boring.
See, now Matt -- Matt knows how to have a good time. Matt doesn't feel the need to keep an eye on Gerard, like he's some teenage dork at his first party who doesn't know about the spiked punch. Fuck that, Gerard thinks, closing his eyes and sucking the fog into his lungs. I'm the fucking oldest, I know what I'm doing. Don't need fucking babysitters and shit. Hmm ... where the fuck is Matt anyway? Probably getting laid, Gerard says to himself, pulling a face. Lucky bastard.
Taking a deep breath, he stands up straighter and realises he won't regain his equilibrium until he has a drink in at least one hand. So he stumbles through the hallway, towards the kitchen, arms outstretched for extra balance, fingertips brushing against the lightly textured wallpaper. He imagines himself absorbing the haze, which renders him invisible, and exhaling clear air. It makes him feel stronger, more centred, more protected. And he needs that feeling.
When he reaches the kitchen, he's breathing heavily from the effort of standing upright and putting one foot in front of the other. This walking shit -- it's pretty exhausting, he thinks with a giggle. It would have been easier (and more fun) to crawl there on his hands and knees. Gerard leans against the doorway, feeling sweat gathering at his hairline, and wishes he'd thought of it earlier. Or maybe I could fucking lie on the floor and get someone to roll me back ...
"There you are!"
The loud, familiar voice makes Gerard open his eyes -- he doesn't realise he's closed them -- and look up. The voice, directed at him, is the first thing to have broken through the fog for a while. And, surprisingly, he's grateful for it.
Then there's an arm sliding around his shoulder, a sloppy mouth pressing against his cheek before pulling away with a deliberate smacking sound, a wild laugh, the smell of beer, glimpses of long, greasy hair. All Gerard can do, swept up in the drunken whirlwind that is Bert McCracken, is wrap his arm around the younger man's waist and lean against him with another giggle. Because he loves Bert -- he really does. Gerard doesn't know how, but Bert can always slip through the fog to find him.
"Hey," he says, eyelids growing heavy again. "Where ya been?"
Bert's full mouth stretches into a lazy grin. "Where d'ya think? Got us some good shit for later."
"Cool, man, 'cause I'm totally losing my buzz. Foggy. Wanna sleep."
"Fuck that," is the drawled response. "I got plans for you tonight."
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
"Wouldn't you fucking like to know?"
Gerard giggles. "Come on, Bert -- you know I hate surprises."
"Even if it's a good surprise?"
"How do I know it's a good surprise?"
"Oh, it's gonna be good. Trust me."
He pulls a face. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because you're gonna have so much fucking fun, Gee. Seriously." Bert presses his lips to Gerard's briefly, then drags him in the direction of the living room. "C'mon, let's go mingle for a bit, huh?"
Arms around each other, leaning heavily against each other, Gerard and Bert manage to make their way to the living room. It's a slow process -- Gerard is giggling non-stop while Bert sings an impromptu song about a man with three balls -- but they eventually get there. When they do, Gerard sinks down onto the nearest armchair in relief. Bert decides to sit in his lap and wriggle around until he's comfortable.
"Fucking stop that, McCracken! You're crushing my nuts."
"Thought you liked it that way, baby," Bert says in a mock-seductive tone, before Gerard pushes him off the chair, laughing as the younger man hits the floor.
"Dumbass," he says, still laughing. "Now go get me another drink, will ya?"
The response is a raised middle finger and Bert screaming, "Quinn! We need more beer!"
"I meant you, asshole!"
Bert, still sprawled on the floor, lifts his head and raises his bushy eyebrows questioningly. "And you think I care?"
"You should fucking care," Gerard says, sliding out of the chair. With a single movement, he jumps on Bert, whose head snaps back and hits the floor with a thud.
"Ow! Fuck!"
He grins. "Pussy."
"That's it," Bert growls, throwing one leg across Gerard's hips and gaining enough leverage to roll them over. Once he's pinned his friend, Bert grins and wraps his hands around Gerard's pale throat, shaking slightly. "Say sorry."
"For what?"
"Making me hit my head, fucker."
Gerard wrinkles his nose. "Don't wanna."
"It's either that, or -- "
"Or what?"
Bert grins wickedly. His hair tickles the side of Gerard's face as he leans down to whisper in the older man's ear. "Or ... you'll get your punishment."
"Ha," he replies. "Do your fucking worst."
The phrase makes Gerard sound like some kind of action hero, someone recklessly, stupidly brave, but he's not exactly putting himself in danger. Bert, his face delineated and slightly idealised by the fog -- dark red lips turning to rosy pink, stringy hair becoming soft and silky, patches of stubble smoothing away, bloodshot blue eyes fading to crystal -- is the least scary person in the world. Bert's all about appearances: sure, he looks tough, he acts tough, but he wouldn't hurt anyone.
He's also ticklish, so Gerard has a contingency plan if he ever needs it.
But he doesn't need it. Bert's idea of a punishment is to brace his arms against the floor, one to either side of Gerard's head, and lean over until they're staring eye-to-eye. Long, dark swathes of hair fall around his face as the fog closes in around them, and there's no-one else in the world.
"Wanna make out?"
A pause. "That's my punishment?"
"Haven't brushed my teeth in a while," he says with a shrug. Gerard laughs and slides his hands along Bert's back before pulling him in for a kiss.
Their mouths are too wet and alcohol has made their movements rushed and sloppy, but that's not enough to make them stop. Gerard feels his face going red as someone hollers "get a room", but that's not enough to make them stop. Because the voices are growing fainter with every kiss, disappearing in the fog with the blurring faces, until they're the only ones left.
They're breathing harshly through their noses and clumsily groping at shoulders, thighs, asses; pulling flyaway strands of hair out of their mouths during the infinitesimal pauses between kisses; letting small, rumbling moans of satisfaction bubble up from their throats. They're surrounded by the fog and something else, something that cloaks them just as nicely -- it might be drunken lust, or it might be something else. Something more significant. But they're not thinking about that. They're not thinking about anything at all as they lie on a mutual friend's living room floor with lips fused, tongues busy, hips frantic.
Because this is too fucking good to stop.