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wordslingingHello! This is nothing new, just me realizing I have some stories posted in comms that I never reposted here and maybe I should do that.
Title: Lived Those Nights Like We Were Dying
Pairing/Prompt: Frank/Gerard, pilots
Rating: R
Warnings: WWII AU, mentions of violence/destruction
Notes: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
no_tags fic exchange in 2010. Title stolen from the Gaslight Anthem, inspiration taken from this picture.
Frank didn't keep a lot of souvenirs from the war. He knows some guys who have whole collections of stuff, bits and pieces of uniforms and weaponry, scrapbooks full of clippings. Frank kept his dog tags and the medal they pinned on him when he got home, and that's about it. He doesn't need anything to help him remember the war. He remembers things whether he wants to or not.
There's only one clipping he saved, and it's not framed on the wall or pasted into a scrapbook. He keeps it folded up in his nightstand drawer, the paper slightly yellowed and starting to tear at the edges. It's a picture of Gerard standing next to his plane looking out into the distance, one hand resting on one of the still propeller blades. He looks serious and determined, jaw clenched, brow furrowed slightly.
Frank remembers when it was taken. Some photographer came out to the base where they were training and took pictures of a bunch of them--Frank posed for one sitting on the ground in front of his plane, and their whole unit did a group shot, Frank kneeling in the front, Gerard in the back with his arms around the guys on either side of him. They were printed in a newspaper back home, and Frank's mom saved as many copies as she could get her hands on, so when he came home it was no big deal for him to steal one and cut it up. But the picture of Gerard is the only one he cut out, the only one he saved.
Not that he really needs a souvenir to remember Gerard, either.
They'd sort of known each other before the war. Frank was friends with Gerard's brother Mikey, and besides, the town they both lived in was too small for them to not know each other. Still, Frank had been a little impressed when he ran into Gerard on the first day of training. Most of them were pilots for the thrill of it, after all. They would've joined up no matter what, but of all the different ways they could have served, they chose flying for a reason. From what he knew about Gerard before the war, Frank wouldn't have expected him to make that choice. Turned out he was good at defying expectations.
Frank thinks he would have kept the newspaper picture no matter what, because it reminds him of why he wanted to be a pilot, and of how things were at the start, what it felt like to be young and brave and idealistic. He'd rather remember that than how things were later on.
But that's not all the picture reminds him of.
They were in Normandy when it happened, not long after the invasion. They were both drunk. Everyone was drunk--the citizens of the little town they were in kept pouring more wine and offering more toasts and calling them heroes. Frank didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a lucky son of a bitch who could just as easily be dead if things had gone just a little differently. But he was alive, and that was something to celebrate.
Gerard got drunk faster and harder than Frank did, and Frank ended up half-carrying him to where they were bunking down. It was just a hayloft, and they were going to have to share it with at least five other guys, but it was clean and dry and, for the moment, empty.
So when Frank got Gerard up the ladder and they collapsed into the hay together, there was no one around to see when Gerard pushed himself up on one elbow and pulled Frank close with a hand on his shoulder and kissed him.
Frank should have pulled away. Should have said something about how drunk Gerard was. Should have done a lot of things. The only thing he did, though, was tangle one hand in Gerard's dirty hair and kiss him back, letting Gerard pull him down.
It was fast and messy, clumsy fingers and too many buttons and a sharp awareness that someone else could walk into the barn any second. Finally they both just shoved their trousers down past their hips and went for it, rutting in the hay like animals. Gerard came first, with a gasp that sounded almost shocked, and Frank buried his face in Gerard's hair to muffle the sound he made a second later.
They cleaned up and buttoned up and lay in the dark together, side by side. Frank dug out his cigarettes, stuck two in his mouth to light them and then passed one to Gerard. They didn't talk much.
It was war. They were lonely and scared and hundreds of miles from home, they'd both been warned to stay away from prostitutes and they both wanted something a little more satisfying than their own hands. It was easy to let it be that. It was easy to let it happen again when they got the chance, and to think of it as something they'd leave behind when they left the war. Until they got home, and Frank realized he was still thinking about Gerard and wondering if Gerard ever thought about him.
Frank sometimes thinks about looking him up. He doesn't know if Gerard's still in Jersey--he used to talk about getting a place in New York City, something like a studio, where he could paint--but Mikey is, and Mikey could almost certainly give Frank an address or a phone number. But every time Frank thinks about actually going through with it, calling Gerard or even going to see him, he loses his nerve.
When they do meet again, it's an accident.
Frank's in Manhattan to catch a show. He's sitting at the bar in a smoky, dimly lit club, a little loose but not too drunk, watching the band onstage. They're okay--he's not sure they were really worth coming into the city for, but now that he's here he might as well relax for a while and enjoy his drink.
That's when he sees him. Sitting in a booth, cigarette in one hand, drink on the table in front of him. There's also a sketchbook on the table, and his hair--longer than when he was in the Air Force--hangs in his face as he bends over it.
He hasn't noticed Frank. Frank could finish his drink, stand up, and leave, and Gerard would probably never know he was here.
Instead, he finishes his drink, stands up, and walks over, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette and sliding into the booth across from Gerard.
"Got a light?" he asks.
Gerard looks up, his face pinched with annoyance, probably about to ask Frank who the hell he thinks he is, inviting himself into someone else's booth. But when he sees Frank's face, his expression goes slack with surprise, and his mouth hangs open for a second.
"...Frankie?" he asks. "Frank Iero?"
"Last I checked," Frank says, and grins at him. "How are you, man?"
Gerard shrugs. "Can't complain." He digs in his pocket for a lighter and flicks it open, holding it out. "You?"
Frank sticks the cigarette in his mouth and leans forward, cupping his hands around Gerard's to shield the tiny flame. He lets their hands touch just a little longer than they need to, and then leans back, exhaling slowly. "About the same. So what've you been up to, Gee? You living here now?"
Gerard nods. "Yeah. Well, in Brooklyn." He smiles a little. "Got my studio."
"Good for you," Frank says. "I'm still with my folks. Saving up for a place of my own, though."
Gerard picks up his drink, swirls the liquid around in the glass for a moment, and then takes a sip. "So you're just in for the evening?"
Frank shrugs. "That's the plan. No reason I've gotta hurry back, though, I told my folks not to wait up."
He keeps his tone neutral, not trying to sound like he's suggesting anything, waiting to see how Gerard takes it.
Gerard takes a moment, finishes his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray on the table. "Well," he says eventually, "want to stop by my place before you head back? You heard me talk about getting it often enough, you might as well see it."
Frank thinks it over for a few seconds, but really, the decision's already made. It was made when he walked over.
Gerard's building is kind of rundown and they have to walk up four flights of stairs, but the apartment he shows Frank into is big and airy and has a view of the bridge. Except for a tiny kitchen and a tinier bathroom, it's all one room, and it looks more like a workspace than a living space. There's plenty of easels and canvases, but not much furniture--a ratty couch near the window, a dresser pushed against one wall, a card table and two rickety chairs. There's not a real bed, even, just a mattress in one corner.
"I'm, uh, not exactly living the high life yet," Gerard says a bit sheepishly.
"I think it's great," Frank says, smiling at him. "Really, it's got character."
Gerard grins. "Thanks." He stands there a moment, shifting back and forth on his feet a little, and then jerks a thumb toward the kitchen. "You want some coffee?"
"Sure," Frank says.
Gerard disappears into the kitchen, and Frank looks around. The place is kind of a mess, clothes and shoes scattered across the floor between the mattress and the dresser, paint tubes and palettes and empty mugs scattered around the rest of the room.
Frank drifts over to look at some of the paintings, listening to Gerard moving around in the kitchen. There are a few easels that aren't draped, and some finished paintings leaning against the wall. There's a lot of stuff he thinks Gerard probably did more for money's sake than art's--flowers in vases and cutesy animal portraits, that sort of thing--but there's also some stuff Frank can tell is pure Gerard, even just going off of what he saw him sketch during the war.
There's one in particular that draws Frank's eye. It's an aerial view of a city, but it's on fire, explosions blossoming in the midst of crumbling buildings, painted in lurid red and black. Frank's still staring at it when Gerard comes back from the kitchen, a mug in either hand.
"Thanks," Frank says when Gerard hands him one, and then looks back at the painting. "Is this...?"
"Dresden?" Gerard finishes for him, and nods. "Yeah."
"Hell of a thing to paint," Frank says, and sips his coffee.
"I know," Gerard answers. "But...sometimes when I can't get something out of my head, it helps to put it down somewhere else."
"Makes sense." Frank's got a journal he uses for the same thing. "So what else gets in your head like that?"
Gerard shrugs. "Other stuff from the war. Dreams I have sometimes." He pauses, glancing sidelong at Frank, and adds, softly, "You."
That gets Frank's attention off the painting pretty quick. There are two spots of color high up on Gerard's cheeks, and he's pretty pale otherwise.
"Me, huh?" Frank asks, and when Gerard nods, he takes a step closer. "You ever paint me?"
Gerard shakes his head. "Drew you. A couple of times."
Frank feels the tips of his ears get warm as he thinks about that. "Yeah? Anything you'd let me see?"
"Maybe sometime," Gerard says, with a hint of a smile now. "I don't show them to just anyone, they're, uh, kind of personal."
They never went about it like this during the war--never eased their way into things, never flirted. Frank likes it. He takes another sip of his coffee, then sets the mug down on the card table as he keeps advancing on Gerard.
"Not sure how I feel about that," he says, even though he knows exactly how he feels about it. "Maybe you better tell me a little more."
Gerard sets his coffee down as well, taking a step forward so they're inches apart. "Nah. I've got a better idea."
Frank beats him to the punch, tilting his head up to press their lips together. Gerard's mouth opens under his and Gerard's hands settle on his waist, and Frank puts his hands on Gerard's shoulders and pushes him backward gently, towards the mattress.
If there were a real bed, he'd just push Gerard down onto it, but it's a little too long of a drop for that. As it is, Gerard stops and kicks off his shoes before moving back to kneel on the mattress, and Frank's got his own shoes off and is about to follow suit when hands on his hips stop him.
"Hang on," Gerard says, and reaches for Frank's belt.
Frank sucks in a breath, reaching to thread one hand loosely through Gerard's hair while Gerard undoes his fly. He's already hard, and once his cock's free Gerard just goes for it, without any hesitation. He's a little sloppy, like maybe he hasn't done this before--Frank sure as hell knows they never did it in Europe--but his enthusiasm and whatever it is he's doing with his tongue make up for that. Frank squeezes his eyes shut and runs his hand through Gerard's hair and down to cup the back of his neck, and stammers out, "Gee--Gee, I'm gonna--"
Gerard pulls off and rests his forehead against Frank's hip, curling a hand around Frank's cock to stroke him through his orgasm. Frank comes hard, knees shaking a little, and Gerard reaches his other hand around to brace him as Frank stands there, swaying back and forth a little and cradling Gerard's head against his hip.
Frank stays like that until his legs get wobbly, then sinks onto the mattress next to Gerard, shoving his pants the rest of the way down and toeing off his socks in the process. Gerard leans in and undoes the buttons on his shirt, kissing Frank's jaw as he does so, and Frank shrugs it off before reaching to return the favor.
This is new, too, both the part where they're getting undressed entirely instead of as little as possible, and the part where they can take their time. They do just that, scooting back on the mattress to lie down together, letting themselves look and touch. It's not the first time they've seen each other naked--not a lot of room for modesty in the military--but it's the first time Frank's been able to put his hands all over Gerard's soft, pale skin and the first time Gerard's been able to trace Frank's tattoos with his mouth. Eventually Frank rolls them over so that he's on top and reaches down between Gerard's legs, and then it's not taking their time anymore, it's Frank stroking Gerard's cock hard and fast while Gerard clutches at his shoulders and makes frantic, desperate noises and comes all over Frank's fingers.
They don't have to get dressed in a hurry afterward, either. They lie together for a few moments, panting, and then Frank sits up and leans forward, digging through the pile of clothes on the floor for his cigarettes and lighter. He flops back down next to Gerard, sticks two cigarettes in his mouth and lights them both, and passes one to Gerard. Gerard takes it, and reaches down with his other hand to retrieve the blanket that's bunched up at the foot of the bed, tugging it over their legs. They lie side-by-side, smoking and not saying anything, and it reminds Frank a little of Normandy even though everything else is so different.
Frank's a little terrified, honestly. Until tonight, it was just something that happened during the war, in the past, over there. This is different--this is happening here and now, and he couldn't run from it if he wanted to.
But even though he's a little terrified, he doesn't want to.
"So," Frank says after a minute or two.
"So," Gerard echoes, and rolls onto his side facing Frank, one hand keeping his cigarette carefully above the blanket, the other tucked under his head. "Wasn't really planning on that. I mean, I figured it might happen if we saw each other again, but I didn't know if you'd..."
He trails off, and Frank nods. "I thought it might happen, but I also thought maybe I'd make a move and you'd turn me down. Guess that's why I didn't look you up for so long." He looks over at Gerard and smirks a little. "And you were drawing dirty pictures of me the whole time. Shit."
"Hey, I never said they were dirty," Gerard protests, coloring a little. "Just...personal."
"So do I get to see 'em now or what?" Frank asks, poking Gerard's leg with his toe under the covers. "I mean, this is pretty personal, right here."
Gerard hooks his ankle around Frank's to trap him, wriggling closer on the mattress. "Maybe later," he says. "I'm comfortable."
Title: Lived Those Nights Like We Were Dying
Pairing/Prompt: Frank/Gerard, pilots
Rating: R
Warnings: WWII AU, mentions of violence/destruction
Notes: Written for the
no_tags fic exchange in 2010. Title stolen from the Gaslight Anthem, inspiration taken from this picture.Frank didn't keep a lot of souvenirs from the war. He knows some guys who have whole collections of stuff, bits and pieces of uniforms and weaponry, scrapbooks full of clippings. Frank kept his dog tags and the medal they pinned on him when he got home, and that's about it. He doesn't need anything to help him remember the war. He remembers things whether he wants to or not.
There's only one clipping he saved, and it's not framed on the wall or pasted into a scrapbook. He keeps it folded up in his nightstand drawer, the paper slightly yellowed and starting to tear at the edges. It's a picture of Gerard standing next to his plane looking out into the distance, one hand resting on one of the still propeller blades. He looks serious and determined, jaw clenched, brow furrowed slightly.
Frank remembers when it was taken. Some photographer came out to the base where they were training and took pictures of a bunch of them--Frank posed for one sitting on the ground in front of his plane, and their whole unit did a group shot, Frank kneeling in the front, Gerard in the back with his arms around the guys on either side of him. They were printed in a newspaper back home, and Frank's mom saved as many copies as she could get her hands on, so when he came home it was no big deal for him to steal one and cut it up. But the picture of Gerard is the only one he cut out, the only one he saved.
Not that he really needs a souvenir to remember Gerard, either.
They'd sort of known each other before the war. Frank was friends with Gerard's brother Mikey, and besides, the town they both lived in was too small for them to not know each other. Still, Frank had been a little impressed when he ran into Gerard on the first day of training. Most of them were pilots for the thrill of it, after all. They would've joined up no matter what, but of all the different ways they could have served, they chose flying for a reason. From what he knew about Gerard before the war, Frank wouldn't have expected him to make that choice. Turned out he was good at defying expectations.
Frank thinks he would have kept the newspaper picture no matter what, because it reminds him of why he wanted to be a pilot, and of how things were at the start, what it felt like to be young and brave and idealistic. He'd rather remember that than how things were later on.
But that's not all the picture reminds him of.
They were in Normandy when it happened, not long after the invasion. They were both drunk. Everyone was drunk--the citizens of the little town they were in kept pouring more wine and offering more toasts and calling them heroes. Frank didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a lucky son of a bitch who could just as easily be dead if things had gone just a little differently. But he was alive, and that was something to celebrate.
Gerard got drunk faster and harder than Frank did, and Frank ended up half-carrying him to where they were bunking down. It was just a hayloft, and they were going to have to share it with at least five other guys, but it was clean and dry and, for the moment, empty.
So when Frank got Gerard up the ladder and they collapsed into the hay together, there was no one around to see when Gerard pushed himself up on one elbow and pulled Frank close with a hand on his shoulder and kissed him.
Frank should have pulled away. Should have said something about how drunk Gerard was. Should have done a lot of things. The only thing he did, though, was tangle one hand in Gerard's dirty hair and kiss him back, letting Gerard pull him down.
It was fast and messy, clumsy fingers and too many buttons and a sharp awareness that someone else could walk into the barn any second. Finally they both just shoved their trousers down past their hips and went for it, rutting in the hay like animals. Gerard came first, with a gasp that sounded almost shocked, and Frank buried his face in Gerard's hair to muffle the sound he made a second later.
They cleaned up and buttoned up and lay in the dark together, side by side. Frank dug out his cigarettes, stuck two in his mouth to light them and then passed one to Gerard. They didn't talk much.
It was war. They were lonely and scared and hundreds of miles from home, they'd both been warned to stay away from prostitutes and they both wanted something a little more satisfying than their own hands. It was easy to let it be that. It was easy to let it happen again when they got the chance, and to think of it as something they'd leave behind when they left the war. Until they got home, and Frank realized he was still thinking about Gerard and wondering if Gerard ever thought about him.
Frank sometimes thinks about looking him up. He doesn't know if Gerard's still in Jersey--he used to talk about getting a place in New York City, something like a studio, where he could paint--but Mikey is, and Mikey could almost certainly give Frank an address or a phone number. But every time Frank thinks about actually going through with it, calling Gerard or even going to see him, he loses his nerve.
When they do meet again, it's an accident.
Frank's in Manhattan to catch a show. He's sitting at the bar in a smoky, dimly lit club, a little loose but not too drunk, watching the band onstage. They're okay--he's not sure they were really worth coming into the city for, but now that he's here he might as well relax for a while and enjoy his drink.
That's when he sees him. Sitting in a booth, cigarette in one hand, drink on the table in front of him. There's also a sketchbook on the table, and his hair--longer than when he was in the Air Force--hangs in his face as he bends over it.
He hasn't noticed Frank. Frank could finish his drink, stand up, and leave, and Gerard would probably never know he was here.
Instead, he finishes his drink, stands up, and walks over, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette and sliding into the booth across from Gerard.
"Got a light?" he asks.
Gerard looks up, his face pinched with annoyance, probably about to ask Frank who the hell he thinks he is, inviting himself into someone else's booth. But when he sees Frank's face, his expression goes slack with surprise, and his mouth hangs open for a second.
"...Frankie?" he asks. "Frank Iero?"
"Last I checked," Frank says, and grins at him. "How are you, man?"
Gerard shrugs. "Can't complain." He digs in his pocket for a lighter and flicks it open, holding it out. "You?"
Frank sticks the cigarette in his mouth and leans forward, cupping his hands around Gerard's to shield the tiny flame. He lets their hands touch just a little longer than they need to, and then leans back, exhaling slowly. "About the same. So what've you been up to, Gee? You living here now?"
Gerard nods. "Yeah. Well, in Brooklyn." He smiles a little. "Got my studio."
"Good for you," Frank says. "I'm still with my folks. Saving up for a place of my own, though."
Gerard picks up his drink, swirls the liquid around in the glass for a moment, and then takes a sip. "So you're just in for the evening?"
Frank shrugs. "That's the plan. No reason I've gotta hurry back, though, I told my folks not to wait up."
He keeps his tone neutral, not trying to sound like he's suggesting anything, waiting to see how Gerard takes it.
Gerard takes a moment, finishes his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray on the table. "Well," he says eventually, "want to stop by my place before you head back? You heard me talk about getting it often enough, you might as well see it."
Frank thinks it over for a few seconds, but really, the decision's already made. It was made when he walked over.
Gerard's building is kind of rundown and they have to walk up four flights of stairs, but the apartment he shows Frank into is big and airy and has a view of the bridge. Except for a tiny kitchen and a tinier bathroom, it's all one room, and it looks more like a workspace than a living space. There's plenty of easels and canvases, but not much furniture--a ratty couch near the window, a dresser pushed against one wall, a card table and two rickety chairs. There's not a real bed, even, just a mattress in one corner.
"I'm, uh, not exactly living the high life yet," Gerard says a bit sheepishly.
"I think it's great," Frank says, smiling at him. "Really, it's got character."
Gerard grins. "Thanks." He stands there a moment, shifting back and forth on his feet a little, and then jerks a thumb toward the kitchen. "You want some coffee?"
"Sure," Frank says.
Gerard disappears into the kitchen, and Frank looks around. The place is kind of a mess, clothes and shoes scattered across the floor between the mattress and the dresser, paint tubes and palettes and empty mugs scattered around the rest of the room.
Frank drifts over to look at some of the paintings, listening to Gerard moving around in the kitchen. There are a few easels that aren't draped, and some finished paintings leaning against the wall. There's a lot of stuff he thinks Gerard probably did more for money's sake than art's--flowers in vases and cutesy animal portraits, that sort of thing--but there's also some stuff Frank can tell is pure Gerard, even just going off of what he saw him sketch during the war.
There's one in particular that draws Frank's eye. It's an aerial view of a city, but it's on fire, explosions blossoming in the midst of crumbling buildings, painted in lurid red and black. Frank's still staring at it when Gerard comes back from the kitchen, a mug in either hand.
"Thanks," Frank says when Gerard hands him one, and then looks back at the painting. "Is this...?"
"Dresden?" Gerard finishes for him, and nods. "Yeah."
"Hell of a thing to paint," Frank says, and sips his coffee.
"I know," Gerard answers. "But...sometimes when I can't get something out of my head, it helps to put it down somewhere else."
"Makes sense." Frank's got a journal he uses for the same thing. "So what else gets in your head like that?"
Gerard shrugs. "Other stuff from the war. Dreams I have sometimes." He pauses, glancing sidelong at Frank, and adds, softly, "You."
That gets Frank's attention off the painting pretty quick. There are two spots of color high up on Gerard's cheeks, and he's pretty pale otherwise.
"Me, huh?" Frank asks, and when Gerard nods, he takes a step closer. "You ever paint me?"
Gerard shakes his head. "Drew you. A couple of times."
Frank feels the tips of his ears get warm as he thinks about that. "Yeah? Anything you'd let me see?"
"Maybe sometime," Gerard says, with a hint of a smile now. "I don't show them to just anyone, they're, uh, kind of personal."
They never went about it like this during the war--never eased their way into things, never flirted. Frank likes it. He takes another sip of his coffee, then sets the mug down on the card table as he keeps advancing on Gerard.
"Not sure how I feel about that," he says, even though he knows exactly how he feels about it. "Maybe you better tell me a little more."
Gerard sets his coffee down as well, taking a step forward so they're inches apart. "Nah. I've got a better idea."
Frank beats him to the punch, tilting his head up to press their lips together. Gerard's mouth opens under his and Gerard's hands settle on his waist, and Frank puts his hands on Gerard's shoulders and pushes him backward gently, towards the mattress.
If there were a real bed, he'd just push Gerard down onto it, but it's a little too long of a drop for that. As it is, Gerard stops and kicks off his shoes before moving back to kneel on the mattress, and Frank's got his own shoes off and is about to follow suit when hands on his hips stop him.
"Hang on," Gerard says, and reaches for Frank's belt.
Frank sucks in a breath, reaching to thread one hand loosely through Gerard's hair while Gerard undoes his fly. He's already hard, and once his cock's free Gerard just goes for it, without any hesitation. He's a little sloppy, like maybe he hasn't done this before--Frank sure as hell knows they never did it in Europe--but his enthusiasm and whatever it is he's doing with his tongue make up for that. Frank squeezes his eyes shut and runs his hand through Gerard's hair and down to cup the back of his neck, and stammers out, "Gee--Gee, I'm gonna--"
Gerard pulls off and rests his forehead against Frank's hip, curling a hand around Frank's cock to stroke him through his orgasm. Frank comes hard, knees shaking a little, and Gerard reaches his other hand around to brace him as Frank stands there, swaying back and forth a little and cradling Gerard's head against his hip.
Frank stays like that until his legs get wobbly, then sinks onto the mattress next to Gerard, shoving his pants the rest of the way down and toeing off his socks in the process. Gerard leans in and undoes the buttons on his shirt, kissing Frank's jaw as he does so, and Frank shrugs it off before reaching to return the favor.
This is new, too, both the part where they're getting undressed entirely instead of as little as possible, and the part where they can take their time. They do just that, scooting back on the mattress to lie down together, letting themselves look and touch. It's not the first time they've seen each other naked--not a lot of room for modesty in the military--but it's the first time Frank's been able to put his hands all over Gerard's soft, pale skin and the first time Gerard's been able to trace Frank's tattoos with his mouth. Eventually Frank rolls them over so that he's on top and reaches down between Gerard's legs, and then it's not taking their time anymore, it's Frank stroking Gerard's cock hard and fast while Gerard clutches at his shoulders and makes frantic, desperate noises and comes all over Frank's fingers.
They don't have to get dressed in a hurry afterward, either. They lie together for a few moments, panting, and then Frank sits up and leans forward, digging through the pile of clothes on the floor for his cigarettes and lighter. He flops back down next to Gerard, sticks two cigarettes in his mouth and lights them both, and passes one to Gerard. Gerard takes it, and reaches down with his other hand to retrieve the blanket that's bunched up at the foot of the bed, tugging it over their legs. They lie side-by-side, smoking and not saying anything, and it reminds Frank a little of Normandy even though everything else is so different.
Frank's a little terrified, honestly. Until tonight, it was just something that happened during the war, in the past, over there. This is different--this is happening here and now, and he couldn't run from it if he wanted to.
But even though he's a little terrified, he doesn't want to.
"So," Frank says after a minute or two.
"So," Gerard echoes, and rolls onto his side facing Frank, one hand keeping his cigarette carefully above the blanket, the other tucked under his head. "Wasn't really planning on that. I mean, I figured it might happen if we saw each other again, but I didn't know if you'd..."
He trails off, and Frank nods. "I thought it might happen, but I also thought maybe I'd make a move and you'd turn me down. Guess that's why I didn't look you up for so long." He looks over at Gerard and smirks a little. "And you were drawing dirty pictures of me the whole time. Shit."
"Hey, I never said they were dirty," Gerard protests, coloring a little. "Just...personal."
"So do I get to see 'em now or what?" Frank asks, poking Gerard's leg with his toe under the covers. "I mean, this is pretty personal, right here."
Gerard hooks his ankle around Frank's to trap him, wriggling closer on the mattress. "Maybe later," he says. "I'm comfortable."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-05-08 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-08 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 04:24 am (UTC)I absolutely love this!
Excuse me while I scurry off to read more of your fic.
:D