FIC: Something Like a Mystery (Bandslash, Patrick/Gerard, NC-17)
Started: 2 months ago.
Porn muse finally visited: Yesterday.
Done and DONE. These two took way too motherfucking long to jump each other's bones. (I just managed to use to, two and too all in one sentence!) Thanks to sparklewitch for listening to me whine (as ever) and the readthrough. ♥
This, by the way, is the first fic I've finished that is NOT for any kind of challenge/prompt in 3 years and 8 months. Behold, the power of bandom.
Something Like a Mystery
FOB/MCR xover, Patrick/Gerard, NC-17
Set during Warped 2005
~3,900 words
The first time Patrick is ever alone in a room with Gerard Way, he ends up pressed down into a couch while Gerard pushes up Patrick's shirt and strokes his hip, licking his way into Patrick's mouth.
What happens is this.
Mikey and Pete left the bus ages ago under absolutely no pretenses because everyone knows about them, anyway. Frank took off in search of the ever-elusive shower, which, seriously, Patrick wished him luck. And it was fine until Patrick accidentally fell asleep on the couch and blinked his way blearily out of sleep to hear Bob and Ray say something about heading to the back. They have this makeshift studio area set up, which Patrick is completely jealous of, and if the door hadn't just closed behind them, he'd ask them to wait up and let him come, too. Only, he's still kind of sleep-dulled until Gerard sits down next to him and touches his elbow with careful fingers. Patrick's body stiffens involuntarily.
And here's the thing. Patrick has always tried really hard to never be alone with Gerard, because he's nice, right, but he's. Patrick doesn't like being around him without other people, other conversations to hide behind, because he doesn't get Gerard. He's got this idealistic earnestness that doesn't fucking make sense. Who the fuck spends even a few years in the music business and manages to come through so ridiculously positive about what he's doing? Who the fuck can actually say he wants to save people through his music and not sound like he's either A) full of shit or B) fucking retarded? Answer: Gerard Way, ladies and gentlemen.
"Hey, Patrick," Gerard says, soft and sweet, not shaking him like an asshole, just touching his elbow still, four warm points of contact. "You hungry? I hid some pizza in the fridge earlier."
Patrick eyes the door and wonders for a minute if it would be too weird if he just bolted for it, but then he swallows dryly, throat clicking enough to make him wince. "If it comes with water," he croaks, glancing over his shoulder for the first time to see Gerard smiling.
"I can totally do that," Gerard says, and his fingers brush down Patrick's arm a little when he gets up and heads to the tiny fridge. Patrick shifts so that his neck won't be at such an awkward angle, and it happens to make it so he can watch Gerard easier.
Patrick watches the curve of Gerard's back when he leans over and starts tugging beer and water and Red Bull out of the refrigerator, pushing stuff aside until he unearths something wedge-shaped and foil-wrapped. "Here it is," Gerard says, starting to unwrap it. "Wait. Do you eat cheese?" He pushes his hair out of his face, forehead wrinkled. He looks way too worried that Patrick will say no.
"Even if I didn't, I think Warped would be an exception. I don't know how Andy fucking lives on a tour like this."
Gerard tosses him a bottle of water, which Patrick doesn't drop for a change. Precious water. "Half the time I don't know how anyone lives on a tour like this," Gerard says. "Do you want yours microwaved?"
Patrick tries to shake his head while chugging the water, which only results in water spilling down the sides of his chin. Awesome. He wipes the water away and says, "Nah. Cold is good."
Gerard plops down next to him and holds out two slices courteously placed on a napkin. Huh. It's been a while since Patrick's seen a napkin on anyone's bus. "Thanks," Patrick says.
They eat in silence, mostly because, hey, it's food time, but also because Patrick never knows what the hell to say to Gerard anyway. The pizza's okay, though a little heavy on the sauce and way light on crust.
"I miss real food," Gerard mumbles awhile later, around a mouthful of crust. Crumbs tumble down the front of his T-shirt, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"What's this 'real food' of which you speak?" Patrick asks, staring at the trail of crumbs. "I don't think I recall that."
"No shit, right? I want something you can't, like, get delivered. A fucking casserole or something."
"Mm," Patrick hums around his last bite. He meant for that to come out like an agreement, but it came out more like a sex noise. He wads up his napkin and tosses it toward the trash can as a diversion. He actually makes it.
"Nice aim," Gerard says, smiling approvingly. He looks about 12 when he smiles like that. It's impossible not to grin back.
"You have crumbs on your shirt," Patrick says. He doesn't mean to say it, but it comes out anyway.
Gerard peers down and starts. "Wow. I'm really messy, aren't I?" He wipes them off onto the floor with one hand. Better than onto the couch, anyway. God, touring's gross. Patrick finds himself laughing.
Gerard smiles that childish smile again, and says, "You have a really great laugh."
And that's a weird compliment, but Patrick says, "Thanks," anyway, ducking his head before he realizes that hey, that's a lot like what some girls do when you compliment them, and what he and Gerard are doing is a lot like flirting.
"Hey, so." Gerard touches Patrick's arm, just barely, fingers glancing off his skin. "Do you have to work at this?"
Patrick suppresses a shiver and thinks back, trying to figure out what Gerard's asking. "At my laugh?" he asks uncertainly.
"No, I mean, your skin." Gerard's touching him again, wrapping his fingers around Patrick's wrist. "Do you wear sunscreen to keep it this pale or does it just not tan?"
"Oh." Patrick stares at Gerard's fingers, curved like a bracelet, darker than Patrick's skin -- dark by Gerard's standards, but probably not many other people's. "Um. I have to wear sunscreen or I burn really bad. Look like a lobster."
Gerard nods, but he doesn't let go, and this is getting really awkward. Patrick isn't sure if he should pull his hand away or just, like, wait for Gerard to give it back.
"I should probably wear sunscreen more," Gerard murmurs, voice low and eyes still glued to his fingers on Patrick. "I bitch about it when I start getting a tan, but I never remember sunscreen."
"I have some extra if you need it," Patrick says.
"Yeah? That'd be great." Gerard squeezes Patrick's wrist, and that smile comes out again. Patrick blinks and wonders if Gerard can feel his pulse leaping under his grip.
"Let me go get it," Patrick says abruptly, getting up and working his arm out of Gerard's grip probably more desperately than he should.
"Oh. Uh, you don't have to get it now," Gerard says, pushing up from the couch and catching up to Patrick, touching his shoulder lightly, then pulling his hand back and letting it hover uncertainly between them.
Patrick looks toward the door, then back at Gerard, who looks...strange. He's pushing back his hair again, forehead wrinkled and mouth pressed into a moue that makes it look tiny.
"Um," Patrick says, and eyes the door again.
Gerard huffs out a breath and rubs at his forehead. "Did I freak you out? I did, didn't I?"
"No?" Patrick says. He's not quite sure what Gerard's thinking would have freaked him out, because of that whole not-getting-Gerard thing, and if Gerard's not talking about the weird flirtation vibe, Patrick doesn't want to have to explain what did freak him out. Or something like that.
"I did," Gerard says. His mouth twists and he sighs. "Look, Patrick. I like you." Gerard's words start tumbling out fast, without pause, and really, the breath control is pretty impressive, Patrick muses. "But you always seem to be avoiding me like you don't like me, and I want us to be friends, and I'm sorry if I'm talking about stupid shit, but I just want to spend a little time with you so I know what you do like to talk about so maybe you'll like being around me, too."
Patrick's pretty much frozen in place, hand outstretched toward the doorknob, still sort of wanting to run, but there it is. That earnestness, completely straightforward and sweet and naive beyond belief. It sort of makes him want to cringe, because he can't begin to imagine saying something like that to anyone, much less someone he thinks doesn't like him.
Gerard's watching him, waiting, twisting his fingers in the hem of his shirt, and Patrick can't turn away from that.
"I do like you," Patrick says, dropping his gaze to his sneakers, bright blue and scuffed on the sides. "I just...can't figure you out."
"Hey, so we're in the same boat," Gerard says, and he wraps two fingers now in the hem of Patrick's shirt, which Patrick is pretty sure no one's ever done to him before, not even Pete, and pulls Patrick back toward the couch.
It's possibly more awkward now than before, because now it's not just small talk, it's getting-to-know-you talk. And not normal getting-to-know-you talk about their childhoods or hobbies, because they mostly already know that shit. It's not even tour stories, because that's the shit you can tell anyone, whether you know them or not.
Instead, it's a weird combination of them talking about their latest dreams -- the actual ones from when they're asleep -- (Gerard's was about dinosaurs that were trying to learn to play guitar. Patrick's was about going onstage to play new material and not remembering any of it.), and about their least favorite questions interviewers ask (Gerard's is whenever they ask about girls. Patrick's is when they ask really personal shit, like that time he and Pete got asked what their worst childhood memories were, like anyone had a right to know.), and, for whatever reason, pets and how Gerard always wanted a hamster but never did get one.
It gets easier, more natural, as they go along, until they're turned toward each other, Gerard's knees pulled up to his chest and feet tucked under Patrick's leg. It's surprisingly comfortable.
Patrick also learns that Gerard likes to touch. He'd known before from seeing Gerard with his band, but he hadn't known what it's like firsthand. And it's not even like Gerard seems aware of what he's doing -- touching Patrick's knee, resting a hand there or wrapping his hands in the material of Patrick's jeans, tugging at it, or sort of petting Patrick's shoulder at one point. That's all surprisingly comfortable, too.
Patrick isn't sure how much time passes that way. Maybe half an hour, but it seems like more when it's just them.
"Listen," Gerard says, and Patrick kind of has to because Gerard's voice is quieter now, sort of a mumble out of the side of his crooked mouth like Gerard's afraid someone might overhear. "I really do like you, Patrick."
It sounds incomplete. Patrick says, "But?"
"What?" Gerard asks blankly.
"It didn't sound like you were done," Patrick says. His heart speeds up a little, because what? What did he do that Gerard maybe didn't like? " 'I really do like you, Patrick,' but what? You smell bad? I hate your face?"
Gerard lets out this ridiculous, high-pitched giggle and stifles it with his fist. "Sorry," he says, his voice a little thin. "Um, no 'but.' Just. I like you."
"Oh," Patrick says. He feels breathless all of a sudden. "Oh," he says again. He sounds breathless, too.
He just sits there when Gerard shifts, tucking his legs underneath his own body and reaching for Patrick's hat. Gerard shifts the cap, turning it until it's sideways, which has to look ridiculous, but. Gerard's hand cups the back of Patrick's neck, and he leans in. "Is this okay?" he asks, gaze dipping from Patrick's eyes to Patrick's mouth, then rising back up slowly, no way to misinterpret his intent.
Patrick exhales a "Yeah," and meets Gerard halfway.
It's a soft press of lips at first, delicate almost. Gerard's lips are dry, a little chapped, but nice. It gets a lot nicer when Gerard changes the angle and licks into Patrick's mouth, tongue just edging in to sweep across Patrick's top lip. Gerard still tastes a little like pizza sauce, and he smells like. Well, he smells like touring. Too much sweat, not enough clean laundry, not enough showers. Patrick knows he smells the same way.
Their mouths separate a bit, enough for Patrick to let out a shaky breath and pull his glasses off, dropping them somewhere on the floor, before Gerard pushes forward and touches the tip of his tongue to Patrick's, licks it. Patrick sighs into Gerard's mouth, and the kiss shifts from sweet, from tentative, as Gerard surges forward and presses Patrick back, back into the sofa cushions, swinging one leg over until he's straddling Patrick's hips. Gerard pushes up Patrick's T-shirt just enough to get at his hip, stroking it first, then squeezing.
Patrick is so, so hard.
Gerard's hips push down into Patrick's, and it's not until Patrick's hands fly up to palm Gerard's hips, thumbs digging at denim and curling in front of hip bones, that he realizes it's the first time he's initiated any kind of contact.
Gerard's low, pleased "Mmmm" has Patrick tightening his grip, rolling his hips up so that, through all the layers of clothing, he can feel the hard line of Gerard's cock riding against his own.
It's not enough.
He pulls his mouth away from Gerard's with a gasp, and before Gerard drops his head to Patrick's shoulder, panting damply against Patrick's collarbone, he catches a glimpse of Gerard's mouth, swollen and wet and invitingly open. It's. Fuck. Patrick's cock throbs at the sight, wanting in, wanting that mouth stretched around it, sucking sweet and sloppy.
Patrick groans at the thought, feels Gerard shiver before his sharp, clever teeth latch on to Patrick's collarbone through his T-shirt. Gerard's tongue presses through the material while his hips work faster against Patrick's.
"Let me," Patrick starts to say, head swimming and ears buzzing. He manages to pry his hands from Gerard's hips, which is a fucking feat, because feeling the roll of Gerard's hips underneath his palms is fucking hot.
But then Patrick's hands kind of forget to work together, because while he's trying to work his right hand down between their bodies to rip Gerard's jeans open and get his hand wrapped around Gerard's cock, his left hand is palming Gerard's ass, digging in and pressing down, encouraging Gerard to drive his cock harder against Patrick's, making it even more difficult for his other hand to get at Gerard's fly.
Patrick can't seem to get either hand to stop, and he's not even sure if he wants to. Gerard's grunting low and sucking at Patrick's neck by turns, and the hot little "uhn" sound, combined with the friction on Patrick's dick and Gerard's weight on top of him, is driving Patrick closer, closer, but not close enough.
"Let me," Patrick says again, more firmly this time, when his fingers finally brush against the waistband of Gerard's jeans and his thumb smoothes over body-warm metal. He pops the button open and reaches for the zipper, but Gerard grinds down harder, says, "No, no. Like this," breathy, and tries to pull Patrick's hand away.
Patrick resists. He wants to touch damn it. He manages to cup his palm over Gerard's cock, denim scraping against his hand as he rubs, the heel of his hand pressing hard against the head of Gerard's cock. Gerard's grip on Patrick's wrist goes weak, and his mouth goes slack against Patrick's neck.
"Fuck," Gerard groans. Patrick rubs harder, his knuckles and the back of his hand sliding over his own cock while Gerard loses it, bucking his hips frantically.
Patrick wishes he could see Gerard's face, be touching skin when Gerard's breath catches and his hips stutter and he comes in his jeans. Patrick doesn't know if he's imagining he can feel the warmth and wetness spread when Gerard goes heavy and loose on top of him, but he likes the idea.
He flexes his right hand, still trapped between them, and Gerard lets out a whimper that makes Patrick squeeze a little, to see Gerard writhe from the overload. He runs the fingertips of his left hand up the back seam of Gerard's jeans, then back down, just almost innocuously, until his fingers push up a little, and Gerard shudders, says, "ah, ah," fucked out but still turned on enough to push back into it.
"Hey," Patrick manages to say, voice catching roughly as he drags his hand out from between their bodies. His knuckles scrape across his dick, still hard and making it really difficult to be patient. "Hey."
"Mmph," Gerard says, rolling his forehead on Patrick's shoulder.
Patrick drops his hand to the back of Gerard's neck, burrowing under his hair to feel slick skin. He hooks his thumb under the corner of Gerard's jaw and pushes up gently but insistently, until Gerard finally lifts his head enough that Patrick can catch his cheek with a kiss.
Patrick drags his lips across the pale skin, licks at the corner of Gerard's mouth. Gerard opens up for him, moving his mouth and tongue lazily above Patrick's like there's all the time in the world, until Patrick bites down urgently on Gerard's bottom lip, harder than he should, and tastes blood.
Gerard goes still when Patrick holds his lip firmly between his teeth, tugging, lapping at the torn skin and licking away the blood as his hips push up hard, a reminder.
Patrick feels Gerard's eyelashes flutter closed against his skin, and then Gerard's breathing in hard through his nose. Patrick lets Gerard's mouth go, and Gerard says, "Tell me what you want," their lips barely brushing as he speaks.
Patrick trails his hand from Gerard's neck to follow the same path his mouth took. It ends with his thumb rubbing slick across Gerard's lower lip, catching on torn skin. The pleasure of it is perverse.
"I want your mouth," Patrick whispers.
Just like that, Gerard's sliding down, hands dragging down Patrick's sides, coming together at his fly. One hand finally slides inside Patrick's jeans, thumb rubbing up the underside of Patrick's cock as Gerard pulls it through the slit of Patrick's boxers.
Something tightens low in Patrick's belly at the feel of Gerard's hand, fitting tight and perfect, just holding him while Gerard lowers his head.
Patrick pushes up on his elbows and watches, panting. Watches Gerard's tongue when he pushes it out, touching it delicately to the messy head of Patrick's cock. Gerard licks Patrick slowly, until his tongue curls back into his mouth, long enough for Gerard to swallow, taste what was there of Patrick, long enough for the air to feel cool where Gerard's tongue had been hot.
Then Gerard's licking again, still delicate and light, tonguing the slit just barely. Patrick bucks up erratically, his cock rubbing wet, leaving traces of Patrick's pre-come and Gerard's own saliva shining across Gerard's chin and cheek.
Patrick's breath catches at the sight, but Gerard just angles Patrick's cock back at his mouth and finally takes it in. At first he just sucks at the head. Patrick groans, and his hips flex forward, this time held down firmly by Gerard's forearm across Patrick's hips. That's when Gerard pushes down, lips stretching until they meet his fist, and seeing his cock disappearing into Gerard's mouth is enough to make Patrick's legs shake and his cock twitch.
"Shit," Patrick hisses, close, but he desperately doesn't want to come yet.
Gerard's mouth on him makes it impossible to think of anything to pull him back from the edge, though. Patrick's world is reduced to Gerard taking his cock and humming around it, spit sliding down enough so his fist moves easily over Patrick's dick, twisting and squeezing while he sucks.
It's impossible to think of anyone who isn't Gerard, crouched over Patrick, head bobbing, hair tangled in Patrick's fist, while he's trapped in his own jeans, sticky from coming earlier. It can't be comfortable, but Gerard looks intent, content, sucking Patrick down and sliding back up, and fuck.
Patrick lets out a strangled groan when Gerard lifts his lashes and looks up Patrick's body, hand sliding away from Patrick's cock as he takes it deeper. Then Gerard lets go of Patrick's hips, even though he has to know Patrick's control is gone.
Patrick's hips snap up, his hand pulls Gerard's head down, and he fucks into Gerard's mouth, into his throat. Gerard sucks hard, and then Patrick's spilling hot and slick into Gerard's mouth, hips jerking.
Gerard rides it out until Patrick collapses back onto the couch. Patrick moans again when Gerard keeps sucking a little, swallowing Patrick's come and licking him clean.
"Holy shit," Patrick says at last. His voice sounds raw, and fuck, he's glad Gerard's already gone on today, because his voice is going to be shredded.
"No fucking kidding," Gerard rasps, tucking Patrick back into his jeans and zipping him up.
Patrick winces at how used Gerard sounds, even as heat pools in his belly because he was the one to make Gerard sound like that.
Patrick opens his eyes when he feels breath on his cheek, Gerard on his hands and knees over Patrick, just looking at him. Gerard's mouth looks like sin, red and full and shiny with spit and probably come, and it screams "used," too, until Gerard's smiling with it. He doesn't look like anyone who's been used. He looks like someone who got just exactly what he'd been hoping for.
Patrick licks his own lips reflexively, teeth sinking into the bottom one a little before he lets it go, at a loss. What does he say to the guy who sucked him off the first time they were ever alone in a mostly empty bus?
Gerard takes the problem off Patrick's hands by staring, eyes slightly unfocused, at Patrick's mouth. He says, "God, your mouth."
A smile stretches it, and Patrick says, "I was just thinking the same thing," before Gerard silences him with his tongue, Patrick tasting his own come on it, bitter and salty.
Gerard pulls back with a pleased hum and says, "How do you not get fucked all the time?"
"What?" Patrick asks on a disbelieving laugh.
"You. You're unbelievable. The sounds you make, the way you move, the way you laugh, breathe, sing. Everything. I would get down on my knees for you any time you wanted it," Gerard says. He sounds utterly certain, voice fervent and ragged and so goddamn earnest again.
Patrick swallows hard and smoothes Gerard's hair back with one hand so he can see Gerard's face clearly.
A string of things he could say flashes through Patrick's mind. (What is it about you? Or: I don't understand you, Gerard Way. Or: Who are you?) But they come across as accusatory or insulting even in Patrick's mind, nothing like he means them.
Finally, Patrick says, "You aren't like most people at all, are you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer; he already knows. Instead, he wraps a hand in Gerard's T-shirt and pulls him down, kissing him again. Again.
END.
Porn muse finally visited: Yesterday.
Done and DONE. These two took way too motherfucking long to jump each other's bones. (I just managed to use to, two and too all in one sentence!) Thanks to sparklewitch for listening to me whine (as ever) and the readthrough. ♥
This, by the way, is the first fic I've finished that is NOT for any kind of challenge/prompt in 3 years and 8 months. Behold, the power of bandom.
Something Like a Mystery
FOB/MCR xover, Patrick/Gerard, NC-17
Set during Warped 2005
~3,900 words
The first time Patrick is ever alone in a room with Gerard Way, he ends up pressed down into a couch while Gerard pushes up Patrick's shirt and strokes his hip, licking his way into Patrick's mouth.
What happens is this.
Mikey and Pete left the bus ages ago under absolutely no pretenses because everyone knows about them, anyway. Frank took off in search of the ever-elusive shower, which, seriously, Patrick wished him luck. And it was fine until Patrick accidentally fell asleep on the couch and blinked his way blearily out of sleep to hear Bob and Ray say something about heading to the back. They have this makeshift studio area set up, which Patrick is completely jealous of, and if the door hadn't just closed behind them, he'd ask them to wait up and let him come, too. Only, he's still kind of sleep-dulled until Gerard sits down next to him and touches his elbow with careful fingers. Patrick's body stiffens involuntarily.
And here's the thing. Patrick has always tried really hard to never be alone with Gerard, because he's nice, right, but he's. Patrick doesn't like being around him without other people, other conversations to hide behind, because he doesn't get Gerard. He's got this idealistic earnestness that doesn't fucking make sense. Who the fuck spends even a few years in the music business and manages to come through so ridiculously positive about what he's doing? Who the fuck can actually say he wants to save people through his music and not sound like he's either A) full of shit or B) fucking retarded? Answer: Gerard Way, ladies and gentlemen.
"Hey, Patrick," Gerard says, soft and sweet, not shaking him like an asshole, just touching his elbow still, four warm points of contact. "You hungry? I hid some pizza in the fridge earlier."
Patrick eyes the door and wonders for a minute if it would be too weird if he just bolted for it, but then he swallows dryly, throat clicking enough to make him wince. "If it comes with water," he croaks, glancing over his shoulder for the first time to see Gerard smiling.
"I can totally do that," Gerard says, and his fingers brush down Patrick's arm a little when he gets up and heads to the tiny fridge. Patrick shifts so that his neck won't be at such an awkward angle, and it happens to make it so he can watch Gerard easier.
Patrick watches the curve of Gerard's back when he leans over and starts tugging beer and water and Red Bull out of the refrigerator, pushing stuff aside until he unearths something wedge-shaped and foil-wrapped. "Here it is," Gerard says, starting to unwrap it. "Wait. Do you eat cheese?" He pushes his hair out of his face, forehead wrinkled. He looks way too worried that Patrick will say no.
"Even if I didn't, I think Warped would be an exception. I don't know how Andy fucking lives on a tour like this."
Gerard tosses him a bottle of water, which Patrick doesn't drop for a change. Precious water. "Half the time I don't know how anyone lives on a tour like this," Gerard says. "Do you want yours microwaved?"
Patrick tries to shake his head while chugging the water, which only results in water spilling down the sides of his chin. Awesome. He wipes the water away and says, "Nah. Cold is good."
Gerard plops down next to him and holds out two slices courteously placed on a napkin. Huh. It's been a while since Patrick's seen a napkin on anyone's bus. "Thanks," Patrick says.
They eat in silence, mostly because, hey, it's food time, but also because Patrick never knows what the hell to say to Gerard anyway. The pizza's okay, though a little heavy on the sauce and way light on crust.
"I miss real food," Gerard mumbles awhile later, around a mouthful of crust. Crumbs tumble down the front of his T-shirt, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"What's this 'real food' of which you speak?" Patrick asks, staring at the trail of crumbs. "I don't think I recall that."
"No shit, right? I want something you can't, like, get delivered. A fucking casserole or something."
"Mm," Patrick hums around his last bite. He meant for that to come out like an agreement, but it came out more like a sex noise. He wads up his napkin and tosses it toward the trash can as a diversion. He actually makes it.
"Nice aim," Gerard says, smiling approvingly. He looks about 12 when he smiles like that. It's impossible not to grin back.
"You have crumbs on your shirt," Patrick says. He doesn't mean to say it, but it comes out anyway.
Gerard peers down and starts. "Wow. I'm really messy, aren't I?" He wipes them off onto the floor with one hand. Better than onto the couch, anyway. God, touring's gross. Patrick finds himself laughing.
Gerard smiles that childish smile again, and says, "You have a really great laugh."
And that's a weird compliment, but Patrick says, "Thanks," anyway, ducking his head before he realizes that hey, that's a lot like what some girls do when you compliment them, and what he and Gerard are doing is a lot like flirting.
"Hey, so." Gerard touches Patrick's arm, just barely, fingers glancing off his skin. "Do you have to work at this?"
Patrick suppresses a shiver and thinks back, trying to figure out what Gerard's asking. "At my laugh?" he asks uncertainly.
"No, I mean, your skin." Gerard's touching him again, wrapping his fingers around Patrick's wrist. "Do you wear sunscreen to keep it this pale or does it just not tan?"
"Oh." Patrick stares at Gerard's fingers, curved like a bracelet, darker than Patrick's skin -- dark by Gerard's standards, but probably not many other people's. "Um. I have to wear sunscreen or I burn really bad. Look like a lobster."
Gerard nods, but he doesn't let go, and this is getting really awkward. Patrick isn't sure if he should pull his hand away or just, like, wait for Gerard to give it back.
"I should probably wear sunscreen more," Gerard murmurs, voice low and eyes still glued to his fingers on Patrick. "I bitch about it when I start getting a tan, but I never remember sunscreen."
"I have some extra if you need it," Patrick says.
"Yeah? That'd be great." Gerard squeezes Patrick's wrist, and that smile comes out again. Patrick blinks and wonders if Gerard can feel his pulse leaping under his grip.
"Let me go get it," Patrick says abruptly, getting up and working his arm out of Gerard's grip probably more desperately than he should.
"Oh. Uh, you don't have to get it now," Gerard says, pushing up from the couch and catching up to Patrick, touching his shoulder lightly, then pulling his hand back and letting it hover uncertainly between them.
Patrick looks toward the door, then back at Gerard, who looks...strange. He's pushing back his hair again, forehead wrinkled and mouth pressed into a moue that makes it look tiny.
"Um," Patrick says, and eyes the door again.
Gerard huffs out a breath and rubs at his forehead. "Did I freak you out? I did, didn't I?"
"No?" Patrick says. He's not quite sure what Gerard's thinking would have freaked him out, because of that whole not-getting-Gerard thing, and if Gerard's not talking about the weird flirtation vibe, Patrick doesn't want to have to explain what did freak him out. Or something like that.
"I did," Gerard says. His mouth twists and he sighs. "Look, Patrick. I like you." Gerard's words start tumbling out fast, without pause, and really, the breath control is pretty impressive, Patrick muses. "But you always seem to be avoiding me like you don't like me, and I want us to be friends, and I'm sorry if I'm talking about stupid shit, but I just want to spend a little time with you so I know what you do like to talk about so maybe you'll like being around me, too."
Patrick's pretty much frozen in place, hand outstretched toward the doorknob, still sort of wanting to run, but there it is. That earnestness, completely straightforward and sweet and naive beyond belief. It sort of makes him want to cringe, because he can't begin to imagine saying something like that to anyone, much less someone he thinks doesn't like him.
Gerard's watching him, waiting, twisting his fingers in the hem of his shirt, and Patrick can't turn away from that.
"I do like you," Patrick says, dropping his gaze to his sneakers, bright blue and scuffed on the sides. "I just...can't figure you out."
"Hey, so we're in the same boat," Gerard says, and he wraps two fingers now in the hem of Patrick's shirt, which Patrick is pretty sure no one's ever done to him before, not even Pete, and pulls Patrick back toward the couch.
It's possibly more awkward now than before, because now it's not just small talk, it's getting-to-know-you talk. And not normal getting-to-know-you talk about their childhoods or hobbies, because they mostly already know that shit. It's not even tour stories, because that's the shit you can tell anyone, whether you know them or not.
Instead, it's a weird combination of them talking about their latest dreams -- the actual ones from when they're asleep -- (Gerard's was about dinosaurs that were trying to learn to play guitar. Patrick's was about going onstage to play new material and not remembering any of it.), and about their least favorite questions interviewers ask (Gerard's is whenever they ask about girls. Patrick's is when they ask really personal shit, like that time he and Pete got asked what their worst childhood memories were, like anyone had a right to know.), and, for whatever reason, pets and how Gerard always wanted a hamster but never did get one.
It gets easier, more natural, as they go along, until they're turned toward each other, Gerard's knees pulled up to his chest and feet tucked under Patrick's leg. It's surprisingly comfortable.
Patrick also learns that Gerard likes to touch. He'd known before from seeing Gerard with his band, but he hadn't known what it's like firsthand. And it's not even like Gerard seems aware of what he's doing -- touching Patrick's knee, resting a hand there or wrapping his hands in the material of Patrick's jeans, tugging at it, or sort of petting Patrick's shoulder at one point. That's all surprisingly comfortable, too.
Patrick isn't sure how much time passes that way. Maybe half an hour, but it seems like more when it's just them.
"Listen," Gerard says, and Patrick kind of has to because Gerard's voice is quieter now, sort of a mumble out of the side of his crooked mouth like Gerard's afraid someone might overhear. "I really do like you, Patrick."
It sounds incomplete. Patrick says, "But?"
"What?" Gerard asks blankly.
"It didn't sound like you were done," Patrick says. His heart speeds up a little, because what? What did he do that Gerard maybe didn't like? " 'I really do like you, Patrick,' but what? You smell bad? I hate your face?"
Gerard lets out this ridiculous, high-pitched giggle and stifles it with his fist. "Sorry," he says, his voice a little thin. "Um, no 'but.' Just. I like you."
"Oh," Patrick says. He feels breathless all of a sudden. "Oh," he says again. He sounds breathless, too.
He just sits there when Gerard shifts, tucking his legs underneath his own body and reaching for Patrick's hat. Gerard shifts the cap, turning it until it's sideways, which has to look ridiculous, but. Gerard's hand cups the back of Patrick's neck, and he leans in. "Is this okay?" he asks, gaze dipping from Patrick's eyes to Patrick's mouth, then rising back up slowly, no way to misinterpret his intent.
Patrick exhales a "Yeah," and meets Gerard halfway.
It's a soft press of lips at first, delicate almost. Gerard's lips are dry, a little chapped, but nice. It gets a lot nicer when Gerard changes the angle and licks into Patrick's mouth, tongue just edging in to sweep across Patrick's top lip. Gerard still tastes a little like pizza sauce, and he smells like. Well, he smells like touring. Too much sweat, not enough clean laundry, not enough showers. Patrick knows he smells the same way.
Their mouths separate a bit, enough for Patrick to let out a shaky breath and pull his glasses off, dropping them somewhere on the floor, before Gerard pushes forward and touches the tip of his tongue to Patrick's, licks it. Patrick sighs into Gerard's mouth, and the kiss shifts from sweet, from tentative, as Gerard surges forward and presses Patrick back, back into the sofa cushions, swinging one leg over until he's straddling Patrick's hips. Gerard pushes up Patrick's T-shirt just enough to get at his hip, stroking it first, then squeezing.
Patrick is so, so hard.
Gerard's hips push down into Patrick's, and it's not until Patrick's hands fly up to palm Gerard's hips, thumbs digging at denim and curling in front of hip bones, that he realizes it's the first time he's initiated any kind of contact.
Gerard's low, pleased "Mmmm" has Patrick tightening his grip, rolling his hips up so that, through all the layers of clothing, he can feel the hard line of Gerard's cock riding against his own.
It's not enough.
He pulls his mouth away from Gerard's with a gasp, and before Gerard drops his head to Patrick's shoulder, panting damply against Patrick's collarbone, he catches a glimpse of Gerard's mouth, swollen and wet and invitingly open. It's. Fuck. Patrick's cock throbs at the sight, wanting in, wanting that mouth stretched around it, sucking sweet and sloppy.
Patrick groans at the thought, feels Gerard shiver before his sharp, clever teeth latch on to Patrick's collarbone through his T-shirt. Gerard's tongue presses through the material while his hips work faster against Patrick's.
"Let me," Patrick starts to say, head swimming and ears buzzing. He manages to pry his hands from Gerard's hips, which is a fucking feat, because feeling the roll of Gerard's hips underneath his palms is fucking hot.
But then Patrick's hands kind of forget to work together, because while he's trying to work his right hand down between their bodies to rip Gerard's jeans open and get his hand wrapped around Gerard's cock, his left hand is palming Gerard's ass, digging in and pressing down, encouraging Gerard to drive his cock harder against Patrick's, making it even more difficult for his other hand to get at Gerard's fly.
Patrick can't seem to get either hand to stop, and he's not even sure if he wants to. Gerard's grunting low and sucking at Patrick's neck by turns, and the hot little "uhn" sound, combined with the friction on Patrick's dick and Gerard's weight on top of him, is driving Patrick closer, closer, but not close enough.
"Let me," Patrick says again, more firmly this time, when his fingers finally brush against the waistband of Gerard's jeans and his thumb smoothes over body-warm metal. He pops the button open and reaches for the zipper, but Gerard grinds down harder, says, "No, no. Like this," breathy, and tries to pull Patrick's hand away.
Patrick resists. He wants to touch damn it. He manages to cup his palm over Gerard's cock, denim scraping against his hand as he rubs, the heel of his hand pressing hard against the head of Gerard's cock. Gerard's grip on Patrick's wrist goes weak, and his mouth goes slack against Patrick's neck.
"Fuck," Gerard groans. Patrick rubs harder, his knuckles and the back of his hand sliding over his own cock while Gerard loses it, bucking his hips frantically.
Patrick wishes he could see Gerard's face, be touching skin when Gerard's breath catches and his hips stutter and he comes in his jeans. Patrick doesn't know if he's imagining he can feel the warmth and wetness spread when Gerard goes heavy and loose on top of him, but he likes the idea.
He flexes his right hand, still trapped between them, and Gerard lets out a whimper that makes Patrick squeeze a little, to see Gerard writhe from the overload. He runs the fingertips of his left hand up the back seam of Gerard's jeans, then back down, just almost innocuously, until his fingers push up a little, and Gerard shudders, says, "ah, ah," fucked out but still turned on enough to push back into it.
"Hey," Patrick manages to say, voice catching roughly as he drags his hand out from between their bodies. His knuckles scrape across his dick, still hard and making it really difficult to be patient. "Hey."
"Mmph," Gerard says, rolling his forehead on Patrick's shoulder.
Patrick drops his hand to the back of Gerard's neck, burrowing under his hair to feel slick skin. He hooks his thumb under the corner of Gerard's jaw and pushes up gently but insistently, until Gerard finally lifts his head enough that Patrick can catch his cheek with a kiss.
Patrick drags his lips across the pale skin, licks at the corner of Gerard's mouth. Gerard opens up for him, moving his mouth and tongue lazily above Patrick's like there's all the time in the world, until Patrick bites down urgently on Gerard's bottom lip, harder than he should, and tastes blood.
Gerard goes still when Patrick holds his lip firmly between his teeth, tugging, lapping at the torn skin and licking away the blood as his hips push up hard, a reminder.
Patrick feels Gerard's eyelashes flutter closed against his skin, and then Gerard's breathing in hard through his nose. Patrick lets Gerard's mouth go, and Gerard says, "Tell me what you want," their lips barely brushing as he speaks.
Patrick trails his hand from Gerard's neck to follow the same path his mouth took. It ends with his thumb rubbing slick across Gerard's lower lip, catching on torn skin. The pleasure of it is perverse.
"I want your mouth," Patrick whispers.
Just like that, Gerard's sliding down, hands dragging down Patrick's sides, coming together at his fly. One hand finally slides inside Patrick's jeans, thumb rubbing up the underside of Patrick's cock as Gerard pulls it through the slit of Patrick's boxers.
Something tightens low in Patrick's belly at the feel of Gerard's hand, fitting tight and perfect, just holding him while Gerard lowers his head.
Patrick pushes up on his elbows and watches, panting. Watches Gerard's tongue when he pushes it out, touching it delicately to the messy head of Patrick's cock. Gerard licks Patrick slowly, until his tongue curls back into his mouth, long enough for Gerard to swallow, taste what was there of Patrick, long enough for the air to feel cool where Gerard's tongue had been hot.
Then Gerard's licking again, still delicate and light, tonguing the slit just barely. Patrick bucks up erratically, his cock rubbing wet, leaving traces of Patrick's pre-come and Gerard's own saliva shining across Gerard's chin and cheek.
Patrick's breath catches at the sight, but Gerard just angles Patrick's cock back at his mouth and finally takes it in. At first he just sucks at the head. Patrick groans, and his hips flex forward, this time held down firmly by Gerard's forearm across Patrick's hips. That's when Gerard pushes down, lips stretching until they meet his fist, and seeing his cock disappearing into Gerard's mouth is enough to make Patrick's legs shake and his cock twitch.
"Shit," Patrick hisses, close, but he desperately doesn't want to come yet.
Gerard's mouth on him makes it impossible to think of anything to pull him back from the edge, though. Patrick's world is reduced to Gerard taking his cock and humming around it, spit sliding down enough so his fist moves easily over Patrick's dick, twisting and squeezing while he sucks.
It's impossible to think of anyone who isn't Gerard, crouched over Patrick, head bobbing, hair tangled in Patrick's fist, while he's trapped in his own jeans, sticky from coming earlier. It can't be comfortable, but Gerard looks intent, content, sucking Patrick down and sliding back up, and fuck.
Patrick lets out a strangled groan when Gerard lifts his lashes and looks up Patrick's body, hand sliding away from Patrick's cock as he takes it deeper. Then Gerard lets go of Patrick's hips, even though he has to know Patrick's control is gone.
Patrick's hips snap up, his hand pulls Gerard's head down, and he fucks into Gerard's mouth, into his throat. Gerard sucks hard, and then Patrick's spilling hot and slick into Gerard's mouth, hips jerking.
Gerard rides it out until Patrick collapses back onto the couch. Patrick moans again when Gerard keeps sucking a little, swallowing Patrick's come and licking him clean.
"Holy shit," Patrick says at last. His voice sounds raw, and fuck, he's glad Gerard's already gone on today, because his voice is going to be shredded.
"No fucking kidding," Gerard rasps, tucking Patrick back into his jeans and zipping him up.
Patrick winces at how used Gerard sounds, even as heat pools in his belly because he was the one to make Gerard sound like that.
Patrick opens his eyes when he feels breath on his cheek, Gerard on his hands and knees over Patrick, just looking at him. Gerard's mouth looks like sin, red and full and shiny with spit and probably come, and it screams "used," too, until Gerard's smiling with it. He doesn't look like anyone who's been used. He looks like someone who got just exactly what he'd been hoping for.
Patrick licks his own lips reflexively, teeth sinking into the bottom one a little before he lets it go, at a loss. What does he say to the guy who sucked him off the first time they were ever alone in a mostly empty bus?
Gerard takes the problem off Patrick's hands by staring, eyes slightly unfocused, at Patrick's mouth. He says, "God, your mouth."
A smile stretches it, and Patrick says, "I was just thinking the same thing," before Gerard silences him with his tongue, Patrick tasting his own come on it, bitter and salty.
Gerard pulls back with a pleased hum and says, "How do you not get fucked all the time?"
"What?" Patrick asks on a disbelieving laugh.
"You. You're unbelievable. The sounds you make, the way you move, the way you laugh, breathe, sing. Everything. I would get down on my knees for you any time you wanted it," Gerard says. He sounds utterly certain, voice fervent and ragged and so goddamn earnest again.
Patrick swallows hard and smoothes Gerard's hair back with one hand so he can see Gerard's face clearly.
A string of things he could say flashes through Patrick's mind. (What is it about you? Or: I don't understand you, Gerard Way. Or: Who are you?) But they come across as accusatory or insulting even in Patrick's mind, nothing like he means them.
Finally, Patrick says, "You aren't like most people at all, are you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer; he already knows. Instead, he wraps a hand in Gerard's T-shirt and pulls him down, kissing him again. Again.
END.