Crystalline -- for bert_and_gerard, 100colors
Gerard/Bert
Standalone -- a series of vignettes
between PG and R
written December 2006
Even now, he still can't quite work out how it happened.
There are moments -- the occasional scene that shines through his subconscious, sharp and clear as cut glass, reminding him exactly how things ended up this way -- but they're disjointed. They don't follow a pattern, and he thinks they should. He knows they should.
The crystal moments, beautiful as they are, are like beacons in an endless maze of darkness; they illuminate all the obstacles in his path.
The rocks in his stream of consciousness.
***
First there was the overwhelming need to get away from the East Coast; it rose up in him like the beginning of a panic attack, waves of fear that chilled his blood and made his limbs shake. He had to get out, get out before the smog and the haze and the familiarity choked him.
Then there was the guilt. Thirty years old in a few months, more successful in his career than he'd ever dreamed of, and still relying on his parents as much as he had as a teenager. That wasn't right. It wasn't fair on them, for God's sake. They deserved better.
He'd left his apartment after that final, horrible fight, clothes pushed hurriedly into a backpack, and asked them if he could sleep on their couch. Just for one night. His mother had laughed and rolled her eyes, saying he never needed to ask before pulling him into a tight hug. His father had ruffled his hair and asked if he was okay. His eyes had narrowed with concern, the thin skin falling into concertina creases as he whispered, "We love you, son."
That was when Gerard finally burst into tears, his face in his hands, his dreams and plans lying shattered at his feet.
***
It had taken him a while to crawl his way back towards contentment, but after so many bouts of depression (and he figured heartbreak could count as depression -- the symptoms were the same, for fuck's sake), he knew how to cope. Ride it out until you feel strong enough to fight back, his therapist once said, and it was advice he'd understood. It was the Alcoholics Anonymous one-day-at-a-time mantra, phrased in a different way.
And sure, there were still mornings when he woke and grimaced at the thought of a new day -- yet another twenty-four hours living in his skin, seeing his face looking back in the mirror -- but they were becoming rarer, especially after he moved to LA.
He'd fallen in love with Los Angeles during recording. But he hadn't been drawn to the so-called glamour, the bright neon lights of Hollywood. No -- it was the sadness, the artifice, the gaudy tragedy of the world's most famous city that struck a chord in his soul. Lipstick-smeared victims of the American Dream standing on sidewalks. Drunks lolling in gutters. Middle-aged women warped by one too many facelifts. I'm not the only one who pretends, he thought. I'm not the only one who hides behind a smile.
And the anonymity ... Christ, he loved knowing he was the least famous person at his hotel, he loved being dismissed as "some guy from some band" by reporters and photographers. He loved being ignored by teenage girls. It was freedom. Bliss, pure and simple. For the first time in two years, he could almost feel normal again.
Well, as normal as your average exile could be. Calm, reflective, not quite part of the scenery. Skin too pale, accent too nasal, cigarette ever-present on the left side of his mouth. Wryly amused by the pretensions of everyone around him.
Kicked out of his own apartment and living in a hotel under a fake name.
***
When Bert turned up at his room one afternoon, Gerard didn't know how to react. Granted, it hadn't been a great day for him, mood-wise; he'd spent hours just lying in bed channel-surfing. Then there was a knock at the door. Too early for room service, he'd thought, getting to his feet and padding across the room in his pyjamas, scratching his head.
He froze. Bert always had that effect on him; he was the only person who could really throw Gerard off-guard.
"How'd you find me?" was all he said, leaning heavily against the door.
"Your mom," Bert replied, ducking his head under Gerard's braced arm and striding into the room. He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked around calmly before sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed.
"My mom?"
"Mmm. Asked me to check up on ya."
Part of Gerard wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his mother's request, but the rest of him was still frozen, strangely distanced from the scene unfolding in front of him, and he could only manage a faint smile.
"Dude," Bert said after a moment, "how long have you been here?"
A pause. "Couple weeks."
"Have you left the hotel at all?"
Gerard closed the door and scratched his head again. "Can't remember," he said, frowning.
"Fucking dumbass," Bert said, leaping off the bed. "You know I live here. Why didn't you call me?"
"Why would I call you? We're not exactly best friends anymore."
"Yeah, but -- "
"But what?"
Bert looked at the carpet for a second. "Donna told me about -- you know ... "
"So you thought you'd hold some kind of fucking pity-party for me? Go to hell." Gerard walked towards the bed and crawled in, pulling the covers up to his chin. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Just ... go, Bert. Please."
Silence.
Slowly he exhaled, feeling the tension oozing out of him like air from a deflated balloon, and turned onto his side.
He was asleep within minutes.
***
A few hours later, he woke shivering and decided to grab his hoodie. He reached across to switch on the lamp and winced at the sudden brightness. Swinging his legs out of bed, he stood up and wandered over to his suitcase.
It was gone.
Everything was gone. His wallet, keys, cellphone, notebook -- it was all gone. The room was horribly, achingly bare. Someone's broken into my room while I was asleep, Gerard thought, pulling drawers and cupboards open in a vain attempt to find his possessions. His hands started shaking, his breathing sped up, his heart was knocking against his ribs painfully. All he could do was sit on the end of the bed and take a few deep breaths. Calm down, he told himself. Calm.
Then he saw a piece of bright yellow notepaper on the bedside table.
Leaping to his feet, he grabbed the note and opened it, barely noticing the twenty-dollar bills that fluttered to the floor as he read.
Dear Gerard,
I have stolen your stuff. If you want it back, it's at my place. You should have enough cash for a cab.
Love and kisses,
Bert xxx
***
Hailing a cab while wearing Batman pyjama pants and a ratty Misfits t-shirt was embarrassing for Gerard. Realising he was barefoot as he stepped into the taxi was even more embarrassing. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the driver's questioning glances at his appearance, and spent the ride planning Bert's slow, painful death via instruments of medieval torture. Hmm, the Little-Ease and then the rack, definitely ...
The yellow notepaper was still in his hand and he clenched his fist, crushing it. Love and kisses? Kiss my ass, McCracken.
***
They had never been lovers, despite the rumours. There had been drunken make-out sessions, on-stage kisses, flirting for the cameras, but it had never gone beyond that. There were girlfriends and reputations to consider, egos to nurture, careers to focus on, shows to perform, parties to attend. But there had been moments -- glances held for a second too long, silences that became awkward, jokes that stopped being funny, irrational stabs of jealousy -- moments that had made them both wonder what if ... ?
There had been a mutual attraction, but it had never gone anywhere. Bert hadn't been prepared to risk rejection. Gerard hadn't been prepared to risk himself.
Sobriety -- or lack of -- had provided them with the perfect excuse to drift apart. In the first months of Gerard's recovery, it hadn't been a problem. They'd made a deal; Bert wouldn't drink around Gerard, and Gerard wouldn't make fun of Bert when he was hung over. But as the uncomfortable silences and gut-wrenching jealousies increased, so too did the distance between them. Gerard had overcompensated by confirming his heterosexuality and gushing about his girlfriend in every second interview. Bert had overcompensated by fucking scene girls with shoulder-length black hair and too much eyeliner.
The friendship was over before either of them knew it, and they never had to say a word. There were no confrontations, no arguments; perhaps if there had been, they would have healed the breach. But there was only silence, and that proved more damaging than any words could have been.
Bert had been furious -- furious with himself, frustrated by his own shortcomings -- but found it easier to blame Gerard, whose career was suddenly outshining his own. Gerard had tried to be fatalistic, to say nothing and hope for the best, but as he grew stronger, he could only remember Bert's weaknesses.
***
Bert opened the door with a huge smile. "Hey man," he said cheerfully, ushering him into the living room. "What's happening? Wanna drink?"
"No, fucker," Gerard hissed, arms held stiffly by his sides. "I want my stuff."
"Relax, man. It's in the spare room."
"What's it doing in there?"
"Figured you could crash here for a bit, you know," Bert said calmly, walking into the kitchen and opening a bottle of soda. "Ice?"
"You could have asked me!"
"You never gave me a chance. You were too busy being all 'fuck-off-Bert-you-asshole'," he said, handing Gerard a tall glass. "And before you ask, there wasn't any alcohol in Diet Coke the last time I checked."
Gerard paused, then took a sip of his drink. "Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," he murmured.
Bert grinned. "Sorry man, but I had to obey orders."
"Mom?"
"Mmm. Called her again -- she said the best way to get you outta a funk is to scare the shit out of you."
"It worked."
"Yeah, it did," he said with a laugh. "Wish I'd seen the look on your face though."
"You're lucky you didn't. I would've kicked the shit out of you."
"You wish." Bert smiled again, flashing his even white teeth. "So ... you gonna stay for a bit?"
Gerard had the strangest feeling he was being manipulated, and took a deep breath. Finally, he shrugged. "If it's okay with you."
"Fuck yeah it is. I wouldn't ask if I didn't want you to, man. You know that."
***
Bert didn't apologise. To anyone. It was one of his unwritten but often quoted rules, along with don't-mention-my-parents and don't-tell-me-how-to-live-my-fucking-life. His failure to express remorse or regret was rooted in unique logic: "I'm never sorry, so why the fuck should I say it? I'm not a liar."
So Gerard was mildly shocked when Bert actually said the words.
They were sprawled on the couch late one afternoon, watching a campy 1950s sci-fi movie. He'd been staying with Bert for a couple of days, and it hadn't been uncomfortable or awkward; if anything, Gerard could feel his depression lifting. This was partly because of the change in scenery, but mostly because of the company. Bert had always been able to make Gerard laugh with his stupid jokes, random tirades or ridiculous dance moves. He'd always been affectionate enough to hug Gerard when he needed it. He'd always been confrontational enough to argue with Gerard, whether they were discussing music or politics, and they both seemed to thrive on the clash of opinions.
In that respect, nothing had changed, and Gerard was grateful for it. As long as you didn't piss him off, Bert was a terrific friend to have ...
The couch was comfy, but cramped, and Bert leaned against Gerard, resting his head on his shoulder. Gerard grinned and patted the top of Bert's head with a soft laugh; he could picture Bert's smile without seeing his face.
"Gee?"
"Mmm?"
"I'm sorry, man."
He raised his eyebrows. "Sorry for what?"
"You know. Last year. All the shit with you and me." Bert waved his hand expansively, then let it drop back onto the sofa.
"It wasn't all your fault."
"A lot of it was." He sat up and grabbed the remote to mute the TV. "I fucked up. Hell, I fuck up a lot of the time ... "
"So do I," Gerard said softly, running a hand through his hair. They stared at each other for a moment, Bert frowning slightly, then shaking his head.
"Are we cool?"
***
It was a warm night -- he hadn't quite got used to Californian humidity -- and Gerard lay in bed, his eyes half-closed, his limbs heavy, but his overactive brain offered him no respite. Nothing has changed, he thought with a sigh, rolling onto his side and sliding a hand under his pillow. Dammit to hell.
Damn him to hell.
He sat up and swung his legs off the mattress, standing up, then walked over to the window and opened it, pulling the drapes apart and relishing the rush of cool air across his skin. After a moment, he turned back towards the bed and slid between the sheets, pulling the covers up to his chest and sighing again.
The door opened with a muffled creak. Gerard lifted his head off the pillow to see Bert's scruffy silhouette walk into the room, stopping to wave as he recognised him. He didn't bother to switch the lights on; he just walked over to the bed and sat down beside Gerard, who had used his elbows to prop himself up into a half-sitting position.
"What's up?" he asked calmly. Bert shook his head, his face unreadable in the darkness.
Gerard sat up properly and put a hand on Bert's shoulder. He turned, and they stared at each other for a long time, somehow seeing each other more clearly through the darkness. Gerard tried to smile, but Bert shook his head and reached out to run his fingertips along the older man's cheek. Without realising it, Gerard had closed his eyes. And then Bert was kissing him.
It started off slowly -- so slowly -- more of an exploration of lips, of tastes and textures than anything else. Tentative. Only when Gerard started to kiss back, when a surge of confidence and adrenaline made his hand slide around to the back of Bert's neck and draw him closer, did Bert's control waver. The kisses became harder, harsher, more fevered. More desperate. As if this was their one and only chance.
Gerard fell back onto the bed, pulling Bert with him, mouths colliding roughly as their bodies hit the mattress before they settled back into a heated rhythm. When Bert broke away to gasp for air, Gerard pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it beside the bed before letting his hands and lips explore the younger man's chest, sides, back, shoulders. He lifted his head and smiled at Bert, feeling happier than he had in months, and kissed him again. Bert pulled Gerard closer still and kissed back fiercely.
They'd wanted this -- each other -- for years, and they both thought about it as they lay there, semi-clothed bodies entwined on a bed bathed in darkness, lips fused and breathing ragged. They thought about missed opportunities and making up for lost time. They thought about a friendship ruined by lack of intimacy, yet rekindled by physical contact. Maybe, Gerard thought as he dropped kisses all over Bert's panting, grinning face, maybe we were never meant to be friends ...
A cool gust forced its way through the open window, making both men shiver and hold each other more tightly. They stopped kissing and held eye contact for a few moments, trying to work out the other's thoughts as well as their own.
"Tell me to go and we'll pretend this never happened," Bert said quietly.
Gerard didn't hesitate. "Stay," he whispered, pressing his lips to the corner of Bert's mouth. "Stay."
Standalone -- a series of vignettes
between PG and R
written December 2006
Even now, he still can't quite work out how it happened.
There are moments -- the occasional scene that shines through his subconscious, sharp and clear as cut glass, reminding him exactly how things ended up this way -- but they're disjointed. They don't follow a pattern, and he thinks they should. He knows they should.
The crystal moments, beautiful as they are, are like beacons in an endless maze of darkness; they illuminate all the obstacles in his path.
The rocks in his stream of consciousness.
***
First there was the overwhelming need to get away from the East Coast; it rose up in him like the beginning of a panic attack, waves of fear that chilled his blood and made his limbs shake. He had to get out, get out before the smog and the haze and the familiarity choked him.
Then there was the guilt. Thirty years old in a few months, more successful in his career than he'd ever dreamed of, and still relying on his parents as much as he had as a teenager. That wasn't right. It wasn't fair on them, for God's sake. They deserved better.
He'd left his apartment after that final, horrible fight, clothes pushed hurriedly into a backpack, and asked them if he could sleep on their couch. Just for one night. His mother had laughed and rolled her eyes, saying he never needed to ask before pulling him into a tight hug. His father had ruffled his hair and asked if he was okay. His eyes had narrowed with concern, the thin skin falling into concertina creases as he whispered, "We love you, son."
That was when Gerard finally burst into tears, his face in his hands, his dreams and plans lying shattered at his feet.
***
It had taken him a while to crawl his way back towards contentment, but after so many bouts of depression (and he figured heartbreak could count as depression -- the symptoms were the same, for fuck's sake), he knew how to cope. Ride it out until you feel strong enough to fight back, his therapist once said, and it was advice he'd understood. It was the Alcoholics Anonymous one-day-at-a-time mantra, phrased in a different way.
And sure, there were still mornings when he woke and grimaced at the thought of a new day -- yet another twenty-four hours living in his skin, seeing his face looking back in the mirror -- but they were becoming rarer, especially after he moved to LA.
He'd fallen in love with Los Angeles during recording. But he hadn't been drawn to the so-called glamour, the bright neon lights of Hollywood. No -- it was the sadness, the artifice, the gaudy tragedy of the world's most famous city that struck a chord in his soul. Lipstick-smeared victims of the American Dream standing on sidewalks. Drunks lolling in gutters. Middle-aged women warped by one too many facelifts. I'm not the only one who pretends, he thought. I'm not the only one who hides behind a smile.
And the anonymity ... Christ, he loved knowing he was the least famous person at his hotel, he loved being dismissed as "some guy from some band" by reporters and photographers. He loved being ignored by teenage girls. It was freedom. Bliss, pure and simple. For the first time in two years, he could almost feel normal again.
Well, as normal as your average exile could be. Calm, reflective, not quite part of the scenery. Skin too pale, accent too nasal, cigarette ever-present on the left side of his mouth. Wryly amused by the pretensions of everyone around him.
Kicked out of his own apartment and living in a hotel under a fake name.
***
When Bert turned up at his room one afternoon, Gerard didn't know how to react. Granted, it hadn't been a great day for him, mood-wise; he'd spent hours just lying in bed channel-surfing. Then there was a knock at the door. Too early for room service, he'd thought, getting to his feet and padding across the room in his pyjamas, scratching his head.
He froze. Bert always had that effect on him; he was the only person who could really throw Gerard off-guard.
"How'd you find me?" was all he said, leaning heavily against the door.
"Your mom," Bert replied, ducking his head under Gerard's braced arm and striding into the room. He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked around calmly before sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed.
"My mom?"
"Mmm. Asked me to check up on ya."
Part of Gerard wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his mother's request, but the rest of him was still frozen, strangely distanced from the scene unfolding in front of him, and he could only manage a faint smile.
"Dude," Bert said after a moment, "how long have you been here?"
A pause. "Couple weeks."
"Have you left the hotel at all?"
Gerard closed the door and scratched his head again. "Can't remember," he said, frowning.
"Fucking dumbass," Bert said, leaping off the bed. "You know I live here. Why didn't you call me?"
"Why would I call you? We're not exactly best friends anymore."
"Yeah, but -- "
"But what?"
Bert looked at the carpet for a second. "Donna told me about -- you know ... "
"So you thought you'd hold some kind of fucking pity-party for me? Go to hell." Gerard walked towards the bed and crawled in, pulling the covers up to his chin. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Just ... go, Bert. Please."
Silence.
Slowly he exhaled, feeling the tension oozing out of him like air from a deflated balloon, and turned onto his side.
He was asleep within minutes.
***
A few hours later, he woke shivering and decided to grab his hoodie. He reached across to switch on the lamp and winced at the sudden brightness. Swinging his legs out of bed, he stood up and wandered over to his suitcase.
It was gone.
Everything was gone. His wallet, keys, cellphone, notebook -- it was all gone. The room was horribly, achingly bare. Someone's broken into my room while I was asleep, Gerard thought, pulling drawers and cupboards open in a vain attempt to find his possessions. His hands started shaking, his breathing sped up, his heart was knocking against his ribs painfully. All he could do was sit on the end of the bed and take a few deep breaths. Calm down, he told himself. Calm.
Then he saw a piece of bright yellow notepaper on the bedside table.
Leaping to his feet, he grabbed the note and opened it, barely noticing the twenty-dollar bills that fluttered to the floor as he read.
Dear Gerard,
I have stolen your stuff. If you want it back, it's at my place. You should have enough cash for a cab.
Love and kisses,
Bert xxx
***
Hailing a cab while wearing Batman pyjama pants and a ratty Misfits t-shirt was embarrassing for Gerard. Realising he was barefoot as he stepped into the taxi was even more embarrassing. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the driver's questioning glances at his appearance, and spent the ride planning Bert's slow, painful death via instruments of medieval torture. Hmm, the Little-Ease and then the rack, definitely ...
The yellow notepaper was still in his hand and he clenched his fist, crushing it. Love and kisses? Kiss my ass, McCracken.
***
They had never been lovers, despite the rumours. There had been drunken make-out sessions, on-stage kisses, flirting for the cameras, but it had never gone beyond that. There were girlfriends and reputations to consider, egos to nurture, careers to focus on, shows to perform, parties to attend. But there had been moments -- glances held for a second too long, silences that became awkward, jokes that stopped being funny, irrational stabs of jealousy -- moments that had made them both wonder what if ... ?
There had been a mutual attraction, but it had never gone anywhere. Bert hadn't been prepared to risk rejection. Gerard hadn't been prepared to risk himself.
Sobriety -- or lack of -- had provided them with the perfect excuse to drift apart. In the first months of Gerard's recovery, it hadn't been a problem. They'd made a deal; Bert wouldn't drink around Gerard, and Gerard wouldn't make fun of Bert when he was hung over. But as the uncomfortable silences and gut-wrenching jealousies increased, so too did the distance between them. Gerard had overcompensated by confirming his heterosexuality and gushing about his girlfriend in every second interview. Bert had overcompensated by fucking scene girls with shoulder-length black hair and too much eyeliner.
The friendship was over before either of them knew it, and they never had to say a word. There were no confrontations, no arguments; perhaps if there had been, they would have healed the breach. But there was only silence, and that proved more damaging than any words could have been.
Bert had been furious -- furious with himself, frustrated by his own shortcomings -- but found it easier to blame Gerard, whose career was suddenly outshining his own. Gerard had tried to be fatalistic, to say nothing and hope for the best, but as he grew stronger, he could only remember Bert's weaknesses.
***
Bert opened the door with a huge smile. "Hey man," he said cheerfully, ushering him into the living room. "What's happening? Wanna drink?"
"No, fucker," Gerard hissed, arms held stiffly by his sides. "I want my stuff."
"Relax, man. It's in the spare room."
"What's it doing in there?"
"Figured you could crash here for a bit, you know," Bert said calmly, walking into the kitchen and opening a bottle of soda. "Ice?"
"You could have asked me!"
"You never gave me a chance. You were too busy being all 'fuck-off-Bert-you-asshole'," he said, handing Gerard a tall glass. "And before you ask, there wasn't any alcohol in Diet Coke the last time I checked."
Gerard paused, then took a sip of his drink. "Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," he murmured.
Bert grinned. "Sorry man, but I had to obey orders."
"Mom?"
"Mmm. Called her again -- she said the best way to get you outta a funk is to scare the shit out of you."
"It worked."
"Yeah, it did," he said with a laugh. "Wish I'd seen the look on your face though."
"You're lucky you didn't. I would've kicked the shit out of you."
"You wish." Bert smiled again, flashing his even white teeth. "So ... you gonna stay for a bit?"
Gerard had the strangest feeling he was being manipulated, and took a deep breath. Finally, he shrugged. "If it's okay with you."
"Fuck yeah it is. I wouldn't ask if I didn't want you to, man. You know that."
***
Bert didn't apologise. To anyone. It was one of his unwritten but often quoted rules, along with don't-mention-my-parents and don't-tell-me-how-to-live-my-fucking-life. His failure to express remorse or regret was rooted in unique logic: "I'm never sorry, so why the fuck should I say it? I'm not a liar."
So Gerard was mildly shocked when Bert actually said the words.
They were sprawled on the couch late one afternoon, watching a campy 1950s sci-fi movie. He'd been staying with Bert for a couple of days, and it hadn't been uncomfortable or awkward; if anything, Gerard could feel his depression lifting. This was partly because of the change in scenery, but mostly because of the company. Bert had always been able to make Gerard laugh with his stupid jokes, random tirades or ridiculous dance moves. He'd always been affectionate enough to hug Gerard when he needed it. He'd always been confrontational enough to argue with Gerard, whether they were discussing music or politics, and they both seemed to thrive on the clash of opinions.
In that respect, nothing had changed, and Gerard was grateful for it. As long as you didn't piss him off, Bert was a terrific friend to have ...
The couch was comfy, but cramped, and Bert leaned against Gerard, resting his head on his shoulder. Gerard grinned and patted the top of Bert's head with a soft laugh; he could picture Bert's smile without seeing his face.
"Gee?"
"Mmm?"
"I'm sorry, man."
He raised his eyebrows. "Sorry for what?"
"You know. Last year. All the shit with you and me." Bert waved his hand expansively, then let it drop back onto the sofa.
"It wasn't all your fault."
"A lot of it was." He sat up and grabbed the remote to mute the TV. "I fucked up. Hell, I fuck up a lot of the time ... "
"So do I," Gerard said softly, running a hand through his hair. They stared at each other for a moment, Bert frowning slightly, then shaking his head.
"Are we cool?"
***
It was a warm night -- he hadn't quite got used to Californian humidity -- and Gerard lay in bed, his eyes half-closed, his limbs heavy, but his overactive brain offered him no respite. Nothing has changed, he thought with a sigh, rolling onto his side and sliding a hand under his pillow. Dammit to hell.
Damn him to hell.
He sat up and swung his legs off the mattress, standing up, then walked over to the window and opened it, pulling the drapes apart and relishing the rush of cool air across his skin. After a moment, he turned back towards the bed and slid between the sheets, pulling the covers up to his chest and sighing again.
The door opened with a muffled creak. Gerard lifted his head off the pillow to see Bert's scruffy silhouette walk into the room, stopping to wave as he recognised him. He didn't bother to switch the lights on; he just walked over to the bed and sat down beside Gerard, who had used his elbows to prop himself up into a half-sitting position.
"What's up?" he asked calmly. Bert shook his head, his face unreadable in the darkness.
Gerard sat up properly and put a hand on Bert's shoulder. He turned, and they stared at each other for a long time, somehow seeing each other more clearly through the darkness. Gerard tried to smile, but Bert shook his head and reached out to run his fingertips along the older man's cheek. Without realising it, Gerard had closed his eyes. And then Bert was kissing him.
It started off slowly -- so slowly -- more of an exploration of lips, of tastes and textures than anything else. Tentative. Only when Gerard started to kiss back, when a surge of confidence and adrenaline made his hand slide around to the back of Bert's neck and draw him closer, did Bert's control waver. The kisses became harder, harsher, more fevered. More desperate. As if this was their one and only chance.
Gerard fell back onto the bed, pulling Bert with him, mouths colliding roughly as their bodies hit the mattress before they settled back into a heated rhythm. When Bert broke away to gasp for air, Gerard pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it beside the bed before letting his hands and lips explore the younger man's chest, sides, back, shoulders. He lifted his head and smiled at Bert, feeling happier than he had in months, and kissed him again. Bert pulled Gerard closer still and kissed back fiercely.
They'd wanted this -- each other -- for years, and they both thought about it as they lay there, semi-clothed bodies entwined on a bed bathed in darkness, lips fused and breathing ragged. They thought about missed opportunities and making up for lost time. They thought about a friendship ruined by lack of intimacy, yet rekindled by physical contact. Maybe, Gerard thought as he dropped kisses all over Bert's panting, grinning face, maybe we were never meant to be friends ...
A cool gust forced its way through the open window, making both men shiver and hold each other more tightly. They stopped kissing and held eye contact for a few moments, trying to work out the other's thoughts as well as their own.
"Tell me to go and we'll pretend this never happened," Bert said quietly.
Gerard didn't hesitate. "Stay," he whispered, pressing his lips to the corner of Bert's mouth. "Stay."