Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's so dark he can barely see a few seconds ahead. Gerard half expects the road to disappear out from under them, and that fear might be the only thing standing between him and falling into sleep's sweet embrace right now.

Which is good, considering he's got the falling-to-pieces steering wheel in his hands. The texture is awful, grainy yet somehow slimy, but it takes them from gig A to gig B and the disgust keeps his neurons firing, so, really, he should be thankful.

Everyone else is asleep. It's a little past four in the morning and it's about the time of year where the sun doesn't rise until eight. Frank's sitting shotgun, snoring way too softly for a guy who smokes as much as he does, a mountain of hoodies and shirts cocooning him to make up for the lack of blankets or pillows. Gerard doesn't look over at him, because there's the issue of the road possibly disappearing if he does, but he's slept like that enough to know.

A few hours ago, Frank had been ranting about his latest government conspiracy- something about mind control experiments in Canada- and Gerard had been nodding along, appreciating the company. Distracting him. Without Frank there to focus on, it's just him and his least favorite companions: his thoughts.

There's the easier ones to ignore. Let go of the wheel. Pull it right. Down. Drive them into a ditch, a tree- if they weren't alone on the road, he's sure he'd be tempted to steer them into oncoming traffic. Tragically, it's just them, trundling along some lonely backroad without too many stop signs -a pre-interstate highway, if Gerard had to guess- accompanied only by trees, trees, and more trees. But those don't bother him, not anymore. Not as much.

Touch yourself, right here, when nobody's watching is still effective. No one's watching. No one would know. Just a hand, over his jeans, rolling his hips in time to the staticky melody of a pop song he can't name. Just do it, it'd keep him awake, it would let off some tension, he could ride the high of it all the way to the next gas station when someone else can take over driving and he can clean himself up in the bathroom.

It's stupid, but maybe it's just because it's late and Gerard is bored and he knows the others sleep like the dead, but he finds himself dropping his left hand to his lap and holding his breath. He doesn't think. Doesn't dare look away from the road, even though it suddenly feels as if there are millions of eyes all around him, staring, waiting with bated breath to see what he'll do next.

Nothing. Frank doesn't leap up, shrieking that he's a pervert, no one's coming to arrest him or kick him out of the band. Not that he thinks Frank would- he'd probably reach across the dash to help him out.

That- well. Gerard's hand, the one on the wheel, flexes. The rubber-plastic abomination squeaks under his grip. Frank would do it, just because- well. Well.

Frank's attracted to women, mostly, but he's also attracted to... energy. Anger. When Gerard is up, Frank looks at him like he'd get on his knees right there, wherever, whenever, if he asked. Because that's what Frank's into, the rage, the energy, the manic-high he gets into when he's on stage. Frank would jerk him off just to know he's doing something wrong the same way he'd put a molotov through a politician's window if Gerard happened to know where one lived. It's a protest, a display, a- a demonstration of principle.

He's not into Gerard, though. Not him. When he's down, when his anger's festering, rotting instead of burning, Frank looks at him like he's just another guy in the band. Just Mikey's weird older brother who, sure, is talented, but not worthy of worship. It's a tough pill to swallow- Gerard's always wanted to be wanted, and he has that now, right? Except it feels hollow, fake, like it's a lie he's telling and everyone's believing.

Frank snuffles in his sleep, and Gerard startles- and bites his lip, because when, exactly, in his pathetic reverie had he become hard? The friction sends goosebumps up his arms, and- he wants, he's actually going to- Gerard strains his peripheral vision, but notices no movement. Frank's breathing evens out into snores once more, and he relaxes.

His fingers curl, properly cupping his cock through his jeans. Fuck. Gerard blinks hard, keeping eyes on the road, counts in, two, three, out, two, three. Okay. Okay.

It's an awkward position, but Gerard shifts his hips, hand still- subtle, marked only by the rustling of fabric. In the dark, no one would be able to tell, even if he- they woke up. It's enough pressure, enough friction, to work.

So he turns the music up, just a little, just enough to cover any tiny sounds. Gerard's has plenty of practice keeping quiet, but a buffer won't hurt. And he braces his arm against the door, so his arm doesn't get tired. And glances over at Frank, a reflex, just checking-

And suddenly both of his hands are on the wheel, because Frank is looking back at him. For a moment, Gerard plans to just keep his eyes straight ahead, pretend nothing at all happened, nope, nothing, just innocently... touching his dick, whatever, totally normal.

Unfortunately, Frank does not agree with these plans.

"Don't stop on my account." His voice is thick with sleep, but amused. Gerard wishes the engine would explode, or a random tree would fall through the windshield, irreparably shattering his skull and hopefully killing him instantly. He pictures it. Clings to the vision of it- how peaceful, how quiet, how simple.

Fabric rustles. Something falls to the footwell. "I'm serious. Keep going."

"No." That should be the end of it. Frank's a lot of things, but he's not someone who would ignore a no. Not a serious one.

"You were fine doing it when I was asleep. Is it because I can see you? Cuz I can stop seeing you, I just- if you really don't wanna, that's fine, I just want you to-" He takes a break. Thinking? "Want you to feel good."

Gerard's hands are steady on the wheel. His breathing is steady. His heart, though, is probably sitting at a cool hundred and sixty beats per minute, and he can feel it in his temples. This is- Gerard will overthink this later. He'll pick apart why none of this is real later.

Because it sounds an awful lot like Frank wants him to keep going. Verbally. And not in a bro-code, don't-ask-don't-tell way.

"No peeking?" He tries to smile, like it's a joke, but it's not. At all. If Frank sees him- if Frank sees him, he won't like what he sees. Gerard is down.

"Cross my heart." Frank shifts again, and Gerard sees out of the corner of his eye that he's pulled his beanie down over his eyes. He doesn't say anything, doesn't know Gerard has seen, and that sends a little warmth to his bloodless fingertips.

He drops a hand. Frank's breathing doesn't stutter, and Gerard relaxes, shifts his hips, adjusts his grip until he's back in that place where he can. It's good. The dark, the quiet, but the fantasy is gone, because Frank is very awake.

Blind, but awake.

Gerard wonders if he can hear it when his breath catches, when his hips twitch up. Wonder's what he's thinking- and that's a slippery slope, because Gerard is nothing if not imaginative.

He imagines that Frank likes it. Likes what he's hearing, wants to listen in, to touch. That, for some reason, Frank finds a doughy, smelly, greasy guy like him hot. Not Gerard Way, lead singer of My Chemical Romance, the realization of their collective dreams, but just- him.

He imagines Frank kissing him, and not caring that Gerard doesn't brush his teeth as often as he should, that his skin is gross and oily.

He imagines Frank touching him, his waist, and not minding that there's too much flesh there, flabby and pale. His hair, not minding that it's so greasy it almost looks wet. His dick is another thing. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but he's not- he can't imagine Frank getting past everything else and deciding, yeah, I actually want to have sexual relations with this heap of dirty laundry masquerading as a person.

He can imagine the pieces, but not the whole. But if he skips everything else, and imagines- imagines a gas station bathroom and Frank's hand down his pants, and that's it. No more contact, just friction, because that's all he'd ever get.

That could happen. That could be real. And maybe, if he showered, and brushed, and flossed, and took his vitamins or whatever a good, hygienic person does, Frank would touch him. That's easier- idealized Gerard, who's lost a little weight, gained a little confidence. Maybe Frank would touch him then.

Maybe he'd kiss Gerard's neck, that spot an inch below his ear. Maybe he'd play with soft, clean hair. Maybe he'd grab Gerard's hips and pull him close, and there wouldn't be anything squishing that shouldn't. Maybe he'd like that Gerard- not the performer, not whoever he is now, but... someone else, someone better.

Maybe it's ego, but the thought of Frank gripping his hips- those calloused, vice-like fingertips digging into bone- catches. Then there's Frank on his knees, framed above a flat, toned stomach, kissing bruises on his hipbones, eyes dark and heavy and wanting, and Gerard arches his hips up, just a little, and sighs hard through his nose.

Empty, fizzling. Falling off the peak almost as soon as he's reached it.

Gerard just feels gross, and now there's cum pooling in his jeans, and Frank is still awake to notice his shame. After a few seconds, Gerard realizes Frank probably doesn't even know he's done.

"Uh, all clear." Both hands on the wheel. Don't look.

More rustling. "Was it... good?"

Gerard considers lying. But there's some spiteful part of him that doesn't want Frank to leave this... encounter... under the impression that he'd been kind, letting Gerard jerk off under his watchful ears.

"Not really."

"Oh." Frank goes very, very still. And silent. "I'm s-"

Something moves in the back, and they both freeze. Gerard doesn't continue, and, once it becomes clear someone's woken up, Frank turns back to the window.

Gerard refocuses on the road. It's as if it never happened, really.

Mostly.