Silver (for 100colors, bert_and_gerard)
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing, smut)
1980 words
written March 2007
for 100colors prompt 95, silver, and bert_and_gerard quote prompt: "love is just a lazy generalisation for a thousand feelings, and as many situations"
He never imagined it would feel like this.
Then again, he'd never really thought about it when he was younger; it was something he pushed to the periphery, something to think about later. Something he always forgot about, thank God. It was hard enough living from day to day, without picturing himself so far into the future.
These days, he finds it hard to picture himself so far into the past.
Fifty years old.
Gerard hasn't aged so much as faded; his skin doesn't glow the way it used to, all pinkish-white and childish, and his cheekbones are more pronounced, with a certain hollowness in the space beneath them. It's in stark contrast to his soft belly, his thick thighs. He could starve for a week, and his body -- his despised, misshapen body -- would still expand, even as his face grew leaner, more haggard. It's not fucking fair, he says to himself bitterly, frowning at his reflection.
It's been happening for a long time; the fine lines that linger at the corners of his eyes after the smiles end, the coarse white hairs -- why do they always seem thicker than the coloured ones? -- that spring from his scalp like weeds in a garden, two-toned from the black dye he still uses. The bags under his eyes won't lighten, no matter how much concealer he uses or how many hours of sleep he gets. If he leaps out of his chair in excitement, his knees and back will creak from the impact; his weak ankle aches when it's damp. It hasn't been the same since he tore the ligaments in it twenty years before ...
Man, I must have been fucking gorgeous when I was thirty, he thinks, staring at this stranger in the mirror, and wonders where the years have gone.
He reaches out to the shining glass, wishing he could pull the years back and wrap himself in them like a cloak. But if he did turn time backwards, he'd have to change so many other things. Things he's grateful for; things he couldn't live without. People he couldn't live without.
People he won't live without again.
***
It's sporadic, this thing they have. They've never mentioned exclusivity, let alone living together, but somehow it works. Somehow, it means more this way; the times together become more valuable and the times apart become bittersweet, laced with nostalgia. When there are no rules, there are no regrets, and this suits them both.
Bert still lives on the West Coast; he'll head east a few times a year, for a few weeks at a time, and usually stays in a hotel -- officially, at least. In reality, he spends every night (and a fair part of the day) in Gerard's bed, on Gerard's couch, his head on Gerard's chest as they watch TV. It's hopelessly lazy and almost domestic, but it works.
It's quietly, painfully intense, and it's subtle -- the one thing neither of them could be when they were younger. Back then, it was all angry glares and demands for answers, for reassurance. Now it's calmly raised eyebrows and half-smiles. Lovers swaddled in comfortable silences.
And Bert's kisses seem to grow fiercer, more bruising as he grows older, as if he needs to remind himself that he can still express a young man's passion. Because by God, he knows he can feel it.
***
It's been ten years since the day that Bert, fresh from Los Angeles and the failure of his marriage, walked back into Gerard's world. No, walked is the wrong word; he hurtled back, like the unkempt hurricane he was, leaving debris and confusion in his wake. Heads spinning, hearts fluttering.
In return, he brought second chances and unexpected bliss.
Gerard remembers walking to the door casually, coffee cup in hand, to answer the door. Something important had happened -- a war, people being killed, he can't quite recall -- and he'd been watching one of the news channels, looking back over his shoulder at the TV as he headed towards the entranceway and groped for the door handle.
He turned to greet his visitor, a friendly "hey" on his lips ... but his words died as soon as they made eye contact. Bert stood in front of him, thinner, more drawn than Gerard remembered, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, his shoulders sagging. But his grey-blue eyes were as vivid as ever, fixed almost angrily on Gerard's face. He said nothing.
It could have been a few seconds, a minute or two, perhaps longer ... Gerard can't remember how long they stood there. But he remembers Bert's eyes, the tension in his face. The hurt. He remembers wondering if he looked disappointing; he'd gained weight since Bert had last seen him, and his lips were thinner, the crows' feet around his eyes deeper. He remembers the sick feeling in his stomach that accompanied each thought, feeling unattractive and rejected before the question was asked.
"Do -- do you wanna come in?" he said hoarsely, stepping backwards as the heat of embarrassment flooded his cheeks.
***
The smile is the one thing that hasn't changed. Perfectly shaped lips stretched across those big white teeth. Radiating happiness -- silliness. Life. Gerard thinks of his small, yellowish teeth, his thin, girlish smile (even more out of place in his ageing face), and he's relieved he no longer has to look at himself in the mirror.
He's always preferred to look at Bert anyway.
***
"Happy birthday, old man," he murmurs against Gerard's neck, fingers deftly opening the buttons on his shirt.
Gerard's eyes are closed and he smiles, relishing the warmth of Bert's skin against his own. "M'not that old," he says dreamily.
"You're just lucky I like older men, huh?"
"Mmm. Something like that."
Bert's voice gets deeper, more gravelly when he's aroused, and his last words were uttered at a frequency approaching Barry White. Gerard grins at the thought and slides an arm around Bert's shoulders, pulling him down on to the bed.
They're kissing slowly, teasingly, bypassing lips to focus on faces and necks, and Bert's shedding his own clothing as quickly as he can. Gerard, as always, hesitates; he's kicked off his shoes and his pants are undone -- hmm, he's not quite sure how that happened, but Bert's hand is down there and there's no way he's gonna complain about that -- but essentially, he's still fully clothed.
That is, until Bert pushes him on to his back and straddles him. "Up," he says, moving forward to tug at the collar of Gerard's half-opened shirt. Gerard complies -- mostly because he wants Bert's hand back on his cock -- and Bert pulls the shirt over his head, dropping it beside the bed.
A second later, Gerard glances down at himself and cringes. He's half-sitting, half-lying on his back, propped up on his elbows, and his stomach roll is horribly obvious. No, scratch that -- it's just horrible. He's horrible. He's pasty and flabby and ugly and fat and oh my God, he's so old ... Quickly, he crosses his arms over his waist and hugs himself, hoping the gesture will hide his belly. His face is burning as he glances up.
Bert's expression hasn't changed. If anything, he looks as aroused as he always does, eyes and lips dark with lust. Then he smiles and leans down for a kiss, one hand on Gerard's cheek. Gerard kisses back, but doesn't move his arms, and Bert shakes his head.
"Don't," he says, sliding down the bed and gently pulling Gerard's arms away from his stomach. Gerard grits his teeth and closes his eyes again, waiting for the smart-ass comment that could be taken as a rejection. It seems inevitable to him; just a matter of time.
But instead, there's warmth and tingling and the slightest pressure of lips to skin, and he realises Bert is kissing his belly. Nuzzling it. Running his fingers along it. Smiling as he lays his head on it and looks up at Gerard.
"Mmm. Perfect."
"No," Gerard chokes out. "I'm so -- so fat."
"You're full of shit." The words are muffled as Bert lifts his head to kiss Gerard's stomach one more time. "S'beautiful," he says, face moving lower.
***
Gerard remembers the way his eyes shone, not with life, but with anguish, and the way his own heart sank in sympathy. He remembers putting his coffee cup in the sink and saying all the conventional phrases -- "How's it going? Great to see you! Why didn't you call? What are you doing in town?" -- to fill in the silence.
He thinks he might have heard the words before Bert spoke them, but time and hindsight could have warped his memory.
Bert stood in Gerard's kitchen, hands slowly flexing and curling into fists as he glanced around the room. He hadn't said a word, although Gerard knew better than to expect conventional behaviour from Bert.
Still, he was surprised when Bert spoke.
"I can't do this anymore," he said harshly, staring at his knuckles, his voice cracking between the syllables any and more. "I just -- I can't ... "
"What is it?"
He looked up, and his face was more pained than Gerard had ever seen it. "Tell me I have a chance."
"I don't -- "
"Fuck!" Bert threw his hands in the air. "You need me to spell it out? Okay, fine -- I love you, Gerard. Happy now? I love you." He closed his eyes. "I've always loved you."
Gerard took a step backwards, his breath catching in his throat, and leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. Suddenly, it all made sense. It made sense in a way that shouldn't make sense.
And Bert -- Bert was desperate. Demanding. "Do you still love me?"
"I -- I haven't seen you in years," he whispered finally.
***
Gerard takes a sharp breath when he feels Bert's mouth on his cock, one hand still stroking his belly. Something he despised a few minutes ago has become an erogenous zone, a source of such intimacy that it almost hurts to think about.
It's times like these that make him realise just how much he loves Bert. He loved him twenty years ago, when they were young and ambitious and fought the limitations of love as viciously as they fought for success. He loved him ten years ago, when he showed up at his apartment, needy and broken, begging for another chance. And he loves him now.
It's no mean achievement, to make an overweight, middle-aged man feel beautiful. Then again, Bert's never been conventional.
Bert can make Gerard feel things he thought he'd forgotten how to feel; he can take him to heights that should have been consigned to memory long before now. This should be a young man's passion, raw and vital, all-encompassing, and he should be over it by now. But he's not.
Bert makes him feel young again. Bert makes him forget the silver sprinkled through his hair and the bags beneath his eyes.
And when they're making love, there's none of the frantic, rushed fucking of the old days, when the sex was full of anger and lust, teeth clenched at the point of orgasm. No, this is slow and deliciously intimate, hot hands and low moans in the back of their throats, waves of pleasure surging through the blood that leaves them trembling.
"I love you," Gerard whispers as they're lying there, bodies shining with sweat. "I've always loved you."
Bert is drawing circles on Gerard's belly with languid fingers. He smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling like concertina fans. It's easy to forget that he's forty-five.
Calmly, he kisses Gerard's bare shoulder and closes his eyes.
"I know."
Standalone
R (swearing, smut)
1980 words
written March 2007
for 100colors prompt 95, silver, and bert_and_gerard quote prompt: "love is just a lazy generalisation for a thousand feelings, and as many situations"
He never imagined it would feel like this.
Then again, he'd never really thought about it when he was younger; it was something he pushed to the periphery, something to think about later. Something he always forgot about, thank God. It was hard enough living from day to day, without picturing himself so far into the future.
These days, he finds it hard to picture himself so far into the past.
Fifty years old.
Gerard hasn't aged so much as faded; his skin doesn't glow the way it used to, all pinkish-white and childish, and his cheekbones are more pronounced, with a certain hollowness in the space beneath them. It's in stark contrast to his soft belly, his thick thighs. He could starve for a week, and his body -- his despised, misshapen body -- would still expand, even as his face grew leaner, more haggard. It's not fucking fair, he says to himself bitterly, frowning at his reflection.
It's been happening for a long time; the fine lines that linger at the corners of his eyes after the smiles end, the coarse white hairs -- why do they always seem thicker than the coloured ones? -- that spring from his scalp like weeds in a garden, two-toned from the black dye he still uses. The bags under his eyes won't lighten, no matter how much concealer he uses or how many hours of sleep he gets. If he leaps out of his chair in excitement, his knees and back will creak from the impact; his weak ankle aches when it's damp. It hasn't been the same since he tore the ligaments in it twenty years before ...
Man, I must have been fucking gorgeous when I was thirty, he thinks, staring at this stranger in the mirror, and wonders where the years have gone.
He reaches out to the shining glass, wishing he could pull the years back and wrap himself in them like a cloak. But if he did turn time backwards, he'd have to change so many other things. Things he's grateful for; things he couldn't live without. People he couldn't live without.
People he won't live without again.
***
It's sporadic, this thing they have. They've never mentioned exclusivity, let alone living together, but somehow it works. Somehow, it means more this way; the times together become more valuable and the times apart become bittersweet, laced with nostalgia. When there are no rules, there are no regrets, and this suits them both.
Bert still lives on the West Coast; he'll head east a few times a year, for a few weeks at a time, and usually stays in a hotel -- officially, at least. In reality, he spends every night (and a fair part of the day) in Gerard's bed, on Gerard's couch, his head on Gerard's chest as they watch TV. It's hopelessly lazy and almost domestic, but it works.
It's quietly, painfully intense, and it's subtle -- the one thing neither of them could be when they were younger. Back then, it was all angry glares and demands for answers, for reassurance. Now it's calmly raised eyebrows and half-smiles. Lovers swaddled in comfortable silences.
And Bert's kisses seem to grow fiercer, more bruising as he grows older, as if he needs to remind himself that he can still express a young man's passion. Because by God, he knows he can feel it.
***
It's been ten years since the day that Bert, fresh from Los Angeles and the failure of his marriage, walked back into Gerard's world. No, walked is the wrong word; he hurtled back, like the unkempt hurricane he was, leaving debris and confusion in his wake. Heads spinning, hearts fluttering.
In return, he brought second chances and unexpected bliss.
Gerard remembers walking to the door casually, coffee cup in hand, to answer the door. Something important had happened -- a war, people being killed, he can't quite recall -- and he'd been watching one of the news channels, looking back over his shoulder at the TV as he headed towards the entranceway and groped for the door handle.
He turned to greet his visitor, a friendly "hey" on his lips ... but his words died as soon as they made eye contact. Bert stood in front of him, thinner, more drawn than Gerard remembered, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, his shoulders sagging. But his grey-blue eyes were as vivid as ever, fixed almost angrily on Gerard's face. He said nothing.
It could have been a few seconds, a minute or two, perhaps longer ... Gerard can't remember how long they stood there. But he remembers Bert's eyes, the tension in his face. The hurt. He remembers wondering if he looked disappointing; he'd gained weight since Bert had last seen him, and his lips were thinner, the crows' feet around his eyes deeper. He remembers the sick feeling in his stomach that accompanied each thought, feeling unattractive and rejected before the question was asked.
"Do -- do you wanna come in?" he said hoarsely, stepping backwards as the heat of embarrassment flooded his cheeks.
***
The smile is the one thing that hasn't changed. Perfectly shaped lips stretched across those big white teeth. Radiating happiness -- silliness. Life. Gerard thinks of his small, yellowish teeth, his thin, girlish smile (even more out of place in his ageing face), and he's relieved he no longer has to look at himself in the mirror.
He's always preferred to look at Bert anyway.
***
"Happy birthday, old man," he murmurs against Gerard's neck, fingers deftly opening the buttons on his shirt.
Gerard's eyes are closed and he smiles, relishing the warmth of Bert's skin against his own. "M'not that old," he says dreamily.
"You're just lucky I like older men, huh?"
"Mmm. Something like that."
Bert's voice gets deeper, more gravelly when he's aroused, and his last words were uttered at a frequency approaching Barry White. Gerard grins at the thought and slides an arm around Bert's shoulders, pulling him down on to the bed.
They're kissing slowly, teasingly, bypassing lips to focus on faces and necks, and Bert's shedding his own clothing as quickly as he can. Gerard, as always, hesitates; he's kicked off his shoes and his pants are undone -- hmm, he's not quite sure how that happened, but Bert's hand is down there and there's no way he's gonna complain about that -- but essentially, he's still fully clothed.
That is, until Bert pushes him on to his back and straddles him. "Up," he says, moving forward to tug at the collar of Gerard's half-opened shirt. Gerard complies -- mostly because he wants Bert's hand back on his cock -- and Bert pulls the shirt over his head, dropping it beside the bed.
A second later, Gerard glances down at himself and cringes. He's half-sitting, half-lying on his back, propped up on his elbows, and his stomach roll is horribly obvious. No, scratch that -- it's just horrible. He's horrible. He's pasty and flabby and ugly and fat and oh my God, he's so old ... Quickly, he crosses his arms over his waist and hugs himself, hoping the gesture will hide his belly. His face is burning as he glances up.
Bert's expression hasn't changed. If anything, he looks as aroused as he always does, eyes and lips dark with lust. Then he smiles and leans down for a kiss, one hand on Gerard's cheek. Gerard kisses back, but doesn't move his arms, and Bert shakes his head.
"Don't," he says, sliding down the bed and gently pulling Gerard's arms away from his stomach. Gerard grits his teeth and closes his eyes again, waiting for the smart-ass comment that could be taken as a rejection. It seems inevitable to him; just a matter of time.
But instead, there's warmth and tingling and the slightest pressure of lips to skin, and he realises Bert is kissing his belly. Nuzzling it. Running his fingers along it. Smiling as he lays his head on it and looks up at Gerard.
"Mmm. Perfect."
"No," Gerard chokes out. "I'm so -- so fat."
"You're full of shit." The words are muffled as Bert lifts his head to kiss Gerard's stomach one more time. "S'beautiful," he says, face moving lower.
***
Gerard remembers the way his eyes shone, not with life, but with anguish, and the way his own heart sank in sympathy. He remembers putting his coffee cup in the sink and saying all the conventional phrases -- "How's it going? Great to see you! Why didn't you call? What are you doing in town?" -- to fill in the silence.
He thinks he might have heard the words before Bert spoke them, but time and hindsight could have warped his memory.
Bert stood in Gerard's kitchen, hands slowly flexing and curling into fists as he glanced around the room. He hadn't said a word, although Gerard knew better than to expect conventional behaviour from Bert.
Still, he was surprised when Bert spoke.
"I can't do this anymore," he said harshly, staring at his knuckles, his voice cracking between the syllables any and more. "I just -- I can't ... "
"What is it?"
He looked up, and his face was more pained than Gerard had ever seen it. "Tell me I have a chance."
"I don't -- "
"Fuck!" Bert threw his hands in the air. "You need me to spell it out? Okay, fine -- I love you, Gerard. Happy now? I love you." He closed his eyes. "I've always loved you."
Gerard took a step backwards, his breath catching in his throat, and leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. Suddenly, it all made sense. It made sense in a way that shouldn't make sense.
And Bert -- Bert was desperate. Demanding. "Do you still love me?"
"I -- I haven't seen you in years," he whispered finally.
***
Gerard takes a sharp breath when he feels Bert's mouth on his cock, one hand still stroking his belly. Something he despised a few minutes ago has become an erogenous zone, a source of such intimacy that it almost hurts to think about.
It's times like these that make him realise just how much he loves Bert. He loved him twenty years ago, when they were young and ambitious and fought the limitations of love as viciously as they fought for success. He loved him ten years ago, when he showed up at his apartment, needy and broken, begging for another chance. And he loves him now.
It's no mean achievement, to make an overweight, middle-aged man feel beautiful. Then again, Bert's never been conventional.
Bert can make Gerard feel things he thought he'd forgotten how to feel; he can take him to heights that should have been consigned to memory long before now. This should be a young man's passion, raw and vital, all-encompassing, and he should be over it by now. But he's not.
Bert makes him feel young again. Bert makes him forget the silver sprinkled through his hair and the bags beneath his eyes.
And when they're making love, there's none of the frantic, rushed fucking of the old days, when the sex was full of anger and lust, teeth clenched at the point of orgasm. No, this is slow and deliciously intimate, hot hands and low moans in the back of their throats, waves of pleasure surging through the blood that leaves them trembling.
"I love you," Gerard whispers as they're lying there, bodies shining with sweat. "I've always loved you."
Bert is drawing circles on Gerard's belly with languid fingers. He smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling like concertina fans. It's easy to forget that he's forty-five.
Calmly, he kisses Gerard's bare shoulder and closes his eyes.
"I know."