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This party is the biggest party Gerard's ever been to. Lights flash endlessly; melon and blue, flickering and wandering. A DJ in the back plays the music, and it sucks, but it's enough to drunken Gerard up. The atmosphere controls him for the night. He's not all there tonight. Hunched over and quiet, he spends most of his days cooped up in areas of his house, and the only reason he's out here is because his brother desperately wanted him to get out of the house (“It'll be fun!” He said, tugging at his shirt for a solid ten minutes until he decided to get up. Definitely on his own terms, not because he was forced). He now has a can of liquor in his hand. He has no idea where Mikey is. He last caught him smoking crack-infested cigarettes. He looked like he was having fun. Gerard's gut squeezes in on itself. It's uncomfortable.
There are so many different people here, too. It's almost overwhelming. Some people are kinkier than others. Most are kinder than Gerard expected, considering he hasn't showered in a solid ten days and he keeps forgetting to brush his teeth. Before coming here, he had to burn his tongue with a listerine strip and hope for the best. He still feels it, combined with an artificial burn that bites at his throat, sticky with alcohol. The eyeliner smeared over his waterline makes it hard for him to blink right. He feels gross. He'd give the world to take off his shirt and jump into the pool, but he's not drunk enough for it. He's not drunk enough for anything but some relief.
Even then, he's sat in the middle of the guest room's couch, surrounded by people resisting the urge to eat each others’ faces off. Suffocating, again. He takes a few sneaky glances. Sweat glistens over peoples’ faces. He taps his foot against the carpeted floor. He wants to go home. He wants to go home badly, because this is the furthest from home he's been in a long while. He's no party animal. He's not even sure why his brother wants him around, and he's not complaining, but he's not over-the-moon either. He wants to look for him. He wants to go home.
He takes another sip of his beer, and he moans quietly with relief when he feels himself getting dizzier than before. The world around him fades and fuzzes. Gerard has never been one for parties. Alcohol is a different story.
Even then, someone does come up to him. They sneak behind him. He can feel it; he's not drunk enough to loosen up enough in case someone does approach him, but he's too drunk to be afraid that the person approaching him might be a murderer. He could use it. Excuse me? a distant voice calls behind him. He turns around, clutches onto his beer can, and relaxes slightly when the person behind him is someone he vaguely recognizes. Barely. He saw him earlier today. He's got hot, glistening lips and eyes that shouldn't look so soft. Not here. Not now. Not when he doesn't have a shot.
“Hey,” Gerard says, and the moment he does, he yearns for a cigarette. Don't let your voice crack. Don't let this be something weird.
“Hey,” the man smiles, “I'm sorry; I saw you from afar and you looked so familiar, have we met before?”
No, is what Gerard wants to say, because that’s the truth, but instead, he furrows his brows and tries to think. If he'd seen this kid in school, he probably wouldn't have been able to stop thinking about him. That's something he knows. In the mall? At a function? No; he hasn't seen him before, and he knows this for one reason alone: he's too pretty to forget.
“Uh, yeah,” Gerard smiles, “I think we have.”
He's not sure why he felt compelled to lie, but he's glad he did, because when Frank smiles again, Gerard can see his pointy teeth when he says: “I knew it! Where was it? I think you work at, like, this grocery store nearby. What are you doing here?”
If there's anything Gerard notices immediately, it's that Frank is almost as shitfaced as him, if not a little more than that. Every time he talks, his voice descends into a slur (something Gerard can manage sober).
“You know what? I just needed a break,” Gerard says, scratching the back of his neck, “Retail is no fuckin’ joke.”
He was talking out of his ass, although he was sure some people in retail were here somewhere, if not at some other party.
“Yeah. Yeah, that makes total sense. What's your name again?”
“Gerard.”
“Gerard,” Frank repeats. He enunciates the name when he says it again. Gurr-rard. “Sick. I'm Frank.”
The beer tastes worse than it did before this conversation. Clutching onto his can of beer, Gerard offers a tight-lipped smile and looks down at his shoes. Fucking idiot.
“You enjoyin’ the party?” Gerard asks, and Frank nearly makes a face at the question. Fair enough. The drinks taste almost as sweet and acidic as battery acid, noises float about (too obscene, too loud), and Gerard has considered sneaking out of this place more than once to catch some food. That was, until Frank showed up. Frank. He looked like his name was Frank, too. He's a greased-up punk with a lip ring for show. Loose shorts, a tank top underneath that leather jacket; yeah, Gerard could get used to this.
“Gerard?” Frank called out over the music. Gerard blinks.
“Sorry, you were saying?”
“Yeah, this party's alright, but I barely know anyone.” Frank says, and Gerard quickly realizes that he was probably repeating himself. Gerard takes a deep breath. Relax. You're an idiot, but relax.
Gerard shrugs, because he can sympathize, but there isn't much to say beyond that. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself (he barely wants to talk in the first place). He offers Frank a polite little smile, a subtle sorry for the lack of response. Frank doesn't even notice.
He takes to looking around. Furrowing a brow, Gerard takes a small glance around the room, wanting to catch a glimpse of what Frank's looking for.
“What's up?” He calls out.
Frank grins and leans in. The corner of his lips stretch out. “The DJ fucking sucks tonight. I know him, too. He's a friend of my friend. Like, a friend who's not that close to my friend, but they're more than acquaintances. Does that make sense?”
Gerard blinks. His stomach hums with a distant worry. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes total sense.”
Frank just nods. Gerard resists the urge to run off, throw up and possibly go back home.
“Listen,” Frank says, leaning in, “I’ve got some weed out back. If you wanna ditch this place and come with me, I think you could use something to relax.”
Gerard sighs with relief. “Suddenly it feels like you've known me for years. Okay, where are we going?”
Frank raises an eyebrow. “Out back.”
Gerard, once again, resists the urge to vomit all over Frank's clothes. A leather jacket and perfectly fine shirt, about to be stained and ruined forever. “Right.”
//
It feels like Frank has been talking for hours up until now. His speech is constantly slurred, constantly, and it almost feels like he's speaking in one breath. Gerard, now calmer, doesn't feel the need to respond to everything he hears, which isn't a lot in the first place. Something about life. Something about eternal life. Something about sex. Sex.
“I'm gay,” Frank confesses, taking a long drag out of his blunt, “my parents don't know it, my friends - kind of know it, like, they suspect it, but they don't know know. I don't know what to do. I mean, I do know what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna keep doing what I always do. Make out with some fuckin’ guy at a shitty party, get out of here one day and live my life.”
“How many guys have you made out with?” Gerard asks. The wind is acting up tonight. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets.
“Tons,” Frank grins, “I had my first kiss in, like, sixth grade. In hindsight, it was pretty fucked up, y'know? He just - like - stuck his tongue down my throat, and I found it fucking disgusting, so I broke up with him a few days later and didn't kiss anyone for a long while after that.”
Gerard cringes. His first kiss hadn't played out so differently, he just liked it.
“I mean, it's fine, you know? I don't really care for it anymore. I've definitely had better kisses over the years. Better fucks. I like to live in the moment, y'know?”
Gerard nods, but when he takes another drag, he really begins to understand what Frank means. In the moment. They're in the moment.
“Yeah.” Gerard says.
Frank looks at him. “So, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What's your, like, thing?”
“Well,” Gerard shrugs, “I'm also gay. I found out when I was eleven, but my first kiss was with a girl. We had no fuckin’ clue what we were doing -” - Frank chuckles - “ - but it was fun. We're still friends, too. We were only thirteen back then. I don't think I've really kissed anyone since. Not in a way that matters, anyway.”
“Huh,” Frank furrows his brows, “that's hard to believe.”
Gerard does so, but he's more accusing. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, I'm not calling you a liar, but I'm not saying you're not cute either. What, are you shy?”
Gerard blinks at him.
“Yeah,” Frank says, “fair enough.”
They sit there for a while, taking drags out of their makeshift blunts. Gerard considers asking him where he got this weed from - it's not great, but it's not bad either - until he realizes he doesn't want to do it alone. Frank thinks he's cute. Frank probably thinks he's nice to smoke with if he's talking so much. He actually likes this more than he could possibly say, and he wouldn't want to smoke shitty weed alone.
“I don't actually work at a grocery store,” Gerard silently admits, “you don't really know me.”
Frank snorts. “Yeah, no shit sherlock. I just remembered the the guy I was talking about had brown hair, and he was - what - fifteen? Poor kid, he looked like he'd been through it. You have the same sad look in your eye. Or, well, when you're drinking, at least.”
“It was the party, I guess.” Gerard shrugs.
“Yeah, I'm sure. It sucks.” Frank scoffs.
Another beat of silence. Hearts racing, unsure of what to say, Frank suddenly asks: “So, how many people have you danced with at this party?”
“None.”
“Seriously? You haven't gotten action from anyone? Like, how many people have you talked to here?”
“Smoking a blunt with you has been the best action I'll ever get in life.” Gerard giggles, but he means it. He hasn't fucked anyone since he was younger than now; sixteen, really.
“Listen,” Frank says, turning directly to Gerard, “when's the last time you've fucked anyone? Done anything?”
“I was sixteen.” Gerard says bluntly. It's been two years since then.
“Okay, and - like - that's gotta fuck with you sometimes, right? You don't forget your first time, sure, I just didn't think anyone would make it their last.”
“It doesn't have to be my last.” Gerard says; a silent suggestion.
Frank smiles. “What, are we in love?”
Gerard shrugs, but he smiles back and says: “I'm a little rusty.”
Frank shuffles slightly closer to him. They don't get much closer than that. “It doesn't have to mean anything if we do end up fucking. You know that, right? I know it's been a while.”
Gerard purses his lips. He'd like it to mean something. The bigger and worse part of him wants it to mean everything. He wants to be ashamed, because he lacks any experience beyond a shitty fuck and an awful breakup, but the weed won't allow it. He looks at Frank. Glistening eyes. Stinking smoke. Maybe he needs this.
“Yeah,” Gerard says, looking right at his lips, “nothing at all.” - Frank breathes out.
When Frank kisses him, Gerard’s face goes hot. He has enough of a mind to push his lips against Franks’, but he panics in a way he hadn't known possible. He doesn't do much. He's too stiff; Frank moves his head, just barely, and when Gerard loosens his jaw into the kiss, he realizes Frank’s lips taste too much like beer. Shitty, warm beer. It works. It all works.
Gerard leans in. He turns to face Frank. The rolled-up piece of paper is loose in between his fingers. Frank isn't holding one anymore; instead, his hands are all over the back of Gerard's head, like he's looking for somewhere to put his hands at a moment like this. He opens his mouth. Gerard licks whatever he can reach. Frank moans, and it's the prettiest noise Gerard has ever heard.
When Frank pushes Gerard up against the wall, he lets him with his hands up against his sides. He's terrified. He's electrified. He's so interested, and the world feels like a distant daze, but he's hyper-aware of Frank's lips against his lips only seconds later. Open-mouthed kisses. Vague bites, like he's grazing his teeth against Gerard's skin. He licks the wounds that form from sucking at the kissed skin. Gerard whimpers, he pants, but he's got his hand in Frank's hair, and he thinks that's all he needs to do to keep Frank going. It's perfect.
Frank's lips attack every little part of his skin. Jaws. Necks. When he nips at a sensitive piece of skin, Gerard moans, and Frank licks at the nips, indirectly apologizing for nothing. Gerard's hand goes straight up against his hair again; he strokes it, fiddles with his locks, spreads apart the mats, tugs on the mid-sections, and Frank drinks up the attention, the affection, the sudden adoration. He's wearing a leather jacket that he shrugs off. Underneath that, he's wearing a tank top. Plain. A shimmer of sweat coats his skin.
“Listen,” Frank breathes out, looking right at Gerard, who can barely hear a thing he's saying under the fuzz: “I'm gonna be straight-up with you, I’m not for that vanilla shit. I want you to hurt me. I mean it. I’m probably gonna enjoy this less if you don't hurt me.”
Gerard blinks hazily. He silently processes how talkative Frank is when he's high on weed. He nods. “Okay.”
Frank sighs thankfully and goes back to kissing Gerard's chest. Gerard isn't wearing any jacket, but a t-shirt he borrowed specifically for today, a shirt he knew he wouldn't have the guts to return after this. Frank wastes no time in undoing Gerard's belt, fumbling and huffing, and it takes little time. Gerard lifts his hips and pulls up his boxers in one swift motion. Frank crawls in between his legs, huffing and red-cheeked, and ducks his head directly towards Gerard's semi. He scoffs.
“Already? Really?” He says, and Gerard huffs out a soft apology in response. Frank just smiles up at him and spits on his hand. When he wraps that very hand around Gerard's cock, Gerard falters quicker than he'd like, far too quickly. His naked cock twitches. He strokes Frank's hair, but barely, for one fleeting second.
Frank’s lips are pink and swollen when he places them against Gerard's tip. Gerard's noises are guttural and confused. Frank seems to like that, because he wraps his mouth around Gerard's cock, barely stretching it out so that everything fits, and Gerard can't help but pet the other's hair again. He keeps his hand placed against the back of Frank's head. Frank presses the flat of his tongue against his slit and starts bobbing his head. He's beautiful, glimmering and covered in sweat and spit. Gerard pushes his head down with a press. Frank moans, encouraging, and takes hold of Gerard's thigh with one hand. With his other hand, he undoes his fly and shoves it down his pants in a frenzy. Gerard holds his cock up. Frank goes lower, carefully, making sure not to choke.
Gerard presses Frank's head down again, and when Frank gags, he's almost worried, but Frank doesn't pull away. He doesn't tap his thigh. He isn't frantic. He's more accepting of this than he has been of the conversation they've had so far. Gerard breathes out a shaky whimper when Frank begins bobbing his head again, but not to his command, just to Gerard's. Gerard's hand guides him steadily. He moans, tilts his head back against the wall and grunts in response to the obscene noises coming out of Frank's throat when he tries to take a breath.
It isn't long before Frank's lower than he was before, low enough so that he's actively gagging at the size down his throat. Gerard feels it. He feels his cock hitting the back of Frank's throat. He feels the spit bubbling around Frank's lips while he sputters; catching Frank off guard gives him feelings he didn't know he could catch. His cock twitches, inches deep down in Frank's mouth, and Frank moans against him, genuine and guttural. Behind him, Frank's hand speeds up. Gerard breathes out. He knew he wouldn't be able to last, not for the life of him, he just didn't expect his orgasm to chase up to him so quickly. He can hold off. He knows the pre-cum is settling in, bitter against the back of Frank's throat, but that's the most he's getting right now, because Gerard would rather die than falter so soon.
Gerard takes a fistful of his hair and wraps it around his knuckles. When he pulls Frank's head back up against his tip, Frank's breath stutters, but Gerard's quick to push him back down with a wince. He sucks in air through his teeth. He repeats these motions, these obscene motions, and watches with something like glee when Frank begins to choke on his tears. He's sobbing. Moaning. Gerard isn't big, he's just good. He's not usually good. The fact that he has the capacity to be good fills his chest with pride. He hates pride. It's addicting.
When he feels Frank's nose directly touching his pubes, he pulls his head back. When Frank's hurried little breaths, adorable and panicked, grow slower, Gerard pushes him back down. It's a cycle. A ritual. He's pathetic for it; not that he wasn't pathetic in the first place, from the moment he stepped into some fucking party. He looks down at Frank, slowly tilts his head back, and gasps sharply when he rolls his hips into Frank's mouth with a spur of cum. Fire licks his stomach. His hips stutter, and Frank gags louder than he has throughout this session. Gerard's eyebrows drill together. He nearly fucking cries from how great it feels.
When he slowly lets go of Frank's hair, his hand falls to his side. Frank takes a moment before pulling himself off Gerard's cock. When Gerard looks down, Frank's hand is no longer down his pants, but it's in the air, barely shaking and wet with cum. Some of Gerard's slips out of his mouth and falls on his chin. Gerard leans in and wipes the cum off, but Frank leans in and sucks it off his thumb effortlessly. His face is red and his eyes look something like glass. It's just about the best thing Gerard's ever seen; the one thing he'll try to remember if he ever needs to jerk off (urgently).
Gerard takes his wrist, puts his finger in his mouth, and licks the cum off. When Frank sticks another finger in his mouth, he practically fucking melts, because Gerard isn't saying a goddamn thing about how awful the taste is. Bitter. Salty. A horrible mix.
“You’re a natural,” Frank says, and his voice is as broken as ever, “there's no way we're not seeing each other again.”
Gerard bites on his fingers and smiles.