frank/gerard story - anti-sex

[cimorene]

Hey, I wrote a second side story within the space of twenty-four hours. This isn't like me, guys, I don't know what's going on.

Anti-sex (4700 words); Frank/Gerard, Pete/Mikey, Frank/Not Mikey.
Sexual content. Set during the Summer of Like, when all Frank wants is to fucking not have sex with Mikey. For my wax_jism ♥ because she looooooooves the MikeyWay even more than the rest of us do.

Anti-sex One night Frank had a disturbingly vivid dream about having sex with Mikey. He woke up not at all turned on but with the guilty consciousness that he had dreamed that he was turned on, technically, because at least in the dream he hadn't had any trouble getting it up. Frank stared at the top of his bunk and experimented with different disgusted faces for a few minutes, but then he decided to forget about it and dragged himself to the kitchen for breakfast and whatever coffee was in the coffee pot, if Gerard hadn't inhaled it all already. By lunchtime the dream about Mikey was still bothering Frank, though. It festered on his conscience like a guilty, embarrassing secret, such as jerking off in your grandmother's bathroom, not that Frank had ever done such a thing. He could hardly look at Mikey's limp brown hair or be accidentally elbowed in the groin while playing Halo by his sharp, knobby elbows without a pang of embarrassment as if he'd come onstage. It was just gross, was what it was. Mikey was like a brother to Frank, although not in the gross way where Mikey's brother was also like his brother, because then Frank would have to start feeling guilty about when Gerard turned him on and that would like, totally put a cap on their stage shows. And it was perverse, because Mikey was twice as tall as Frank, and his hair wasn't even dyed. Frank was becoming as jumpy as Gerard without coffee, or as everyone else when Mikey was behind closed doors with electrical appliances. There was only one thing to do. He was going to have to take the bull by the horns - or, in this case, the horn-rimmed glasses. Maybe they weren't really horn-rimmed, though. What the fuck was horn-rimmed? Was it like, rhino horn? Elephant? So was it ivory? Anyway, they were more like black and white plastic-rimmed, but Frank didn't grab them anyway, so it was a moot point. He went for the elbows. They were easier to reach. "Mikey," said Frank seriously, "I had a dream that we had sex." Mikey said dolefully, "Was it good?" He didn't seem to be grasping the severity of the situation. "The sex was good, but the dream wasn't," said Frank firmly. "Was it a nightmare?" said Mikey, sounding interested. "I've never had a sex nightmare. Gerard has them all the time, though." "No, it wasn't a nightmare!" said Frank, impatiently. "But it was traumatic. It's not going to happen again." "Okay," said Mikey. "Sorry?" Frank didn't feel entirely mollified, but he wasn't sure if Mikey was supposed to be mad at him or what, so he settled for tackling him to the floor of the bus and biting his knees. Mikey slapped his head away and covered his mouth, and Frank licked his palm to make him let go. "That's not really conducive to your anti-sex thing," said Mikey, sounding bored. He was smiling a little, though. He obviously found this funny, the pointy-elbowed fucker. "Who's anti-sex?" said Ray, from somewhere Frank could not see without getting off the floor. "Frank," Mikey explained. "I didn't know that," piped Gerard's honking little duck voice. "That's cool." Frank aimed a kick at Mikey's balls in passing, but he missed. "I'm not anti-sex!" he yelled, and stomped back to the kitchen. Great. Now he was going to be having sex dreams all week, probably. Just as long as they weren't about Gerard, he thought hopefully and completely dishonestly, in the hope that the universe would try to spite him again, and went digging around in the cabinet for some peanut butter and a spoon. Gerard came into the kitchen with a red pillow print going from his eyebrow to the middle of his face, just like a really cool scar. His black jeans that he'd been wearing all week had finally gotten stretched from wearing to that point where they wouldn't stay up on his ass even with his belt, which Gerard usually took off before sleeping now that he was sober. He was hitching them up as he walked, yawning and scratching his ass and surrounded, Frank imagined, by a little halo of wavy green odor lines. If the jeans were falling down that badly it must be at least day eight or so. "Coffee?" said Gerard. "You already drank it all, asshole," said Frank. "I'm making some, and I'm not fucking anti-sex." "I guess that would be pretty ironic, huh?" said Gerard. Frank let Gerard's interpretation of the meaning of "irony" slide. "I," he announced, "am just anti-sex with Mikey." "So am I," said Gerard. "Do we have any Pop-Tarts?" "No," said Frank. "Wait, yes. Did you eat them all? Wait, Mikey's your brother." "I know," said Gerard, in a voice halfway between proud and questioning Frank's intelligence. "You can't be anti-sex. Sex shouldn't even come up." "Oh, whatever," said Gerard. "You can so, especially after Mikey's read you parts of that story. And also, I still would be anyway. Why would you be anti-sex with my brother? He's not your brother." "Because," Frank said, emerging from the cabinet with a box of Cheerios and a box of fossilized Nutri-Grain bars, "I had a sex dream and it grossed me out." Gerard pointed at the Cheerios, but then dived across the table and snatched the Nutri-Grain bars out of Frank's hands too. His eyes were round and sympathetic, as if he'd been listening to Bohemian Rhapsody or was planning to write a song for you. "Was it a nightmare?" he asked, with a creepily intense level of interest that was kind of cute. Frank wanted coffee. He frowned. "It wasn't a nightmare! It was just sex, and it was disturbing that it was sex. It wasn't sex that was, in and of itself, disturbing. In the dream it was just normal. I was disturbed when I woke up." Gerard nodded. "The worst part is the way you don't feel right when you're still dreaming. If you commit murder and you don't even blink until you wake up, what does that mean? But on the other hand, I don't think fucking Mikey would really be that big of a deal. You're no worse than Pete Wentz." The brothers Way: maddeningly casual about disturbing sexual encounters. When you wanted some fucking sympathy they were all Zen, and when you were trying to get some fucking sleep they were having a fucking nervous breakdown or putting a fucking space heater on the edge of the bathtub. "No, but Pete Wentz wants to bone your brother and I don't," Frank pointed out. To his irritation it was starting to sound like he had some giant issues and fucking hated Mikey or something, because they were making it into such a big fucking deal when all he wanted was to not have fucking sex with the dude. "Mikey's like my brother, man! It's just wrong!" said Frank. "Didn't you guys meet when you were in college?" said Gerard. Frank gave up. "Oh, you're right," he said sarcastically. "I'd better go find him and fuck him right now." And stomped off the bus. Why did he have to feel like a pissy little bitch when it was everyone else who was being crazy? Bob found him stubbornly signing t-shirts half an hour later and handed him a Pepsi. Frank signed about fifteen more things, then finally stopped when Bob got that look on his face like he was about to start stuffing Frank's face between the cushions and the back of the couch. "I don't want to have sex with Mikey," Frank explained from his piggyback vantage on the way back to the bus, and moodily tried on Bob's sunglasses and kicked him in the thigh. "Good," said Bob. "I don't want to have sex with some of my best friends," Frank continued, "including Mikey. I don't think it should be such a big fucking deal. It's not like I crapped in his bunk. I wouldn't have sex with you either." "Thanks," said Bob, sounding genuinely grateful. "Anyway," sighed Frank, putting his chin on Bob's shoulder, "he's bony." "You're fucking bony, you little freak," said Bob. "Not like Mikey," Frank insisted, and Bob had to agree that that was true. Gerard had on his headphones, on the bus, and he took them off only to ask Frank if Mikey being like his brother meant he wanted to fight Gerard for the privilege of braving the Fall Out Boy bus to drag him back at night and possibly get an eyeful of Wentz. "No," said Frank, "but it does mean I'll punch Wentz's fucking face if he makes him cry?" "You so won't," said Gerard, wistfully. "I probably wouldn't either." "We're pussies," Frank agreed, "but at least Patrick Stump isn't, like, our mortal enemy. Besides, we'll want to punch him." "But so would Ray or Brian," said Gerard. "Because they fuck Mikey so often," said Frank, and went to off read a comic before Gerard could ask for help to put on his fucking flak vest. The last time Frank had gotten involved with that he'd had mouth-watering afterimages of the freckles on Gerard's shoulder floating around in his mind for hours. By the time they'd gotten offstage and Frank had given up looking for a shower, a hose, or just a bucket of relatively clean water and some soapsuds, even Pete Wentz was involved in making Frank's day as perfectly fucking full of conversation about sex with Mikey as possible. "Hey, what about you fucking Mikey?" he said to Frank later that night, like he might have an issue but wanted to be a big man about it. Unless he thought that pouty face was making Frank want to share. It wasn't. Pete was wearing less eyeliner than usual for once, with the telltale smears and streaks of having sweated it off and not bothered to reapply. Amateur. "Not fucking Mikey," Frank corrected him. "And it's nothing." Pete pretended to look knowing. "If it's nothing about not fucking Mikey, does that mean it's something?" "What?" said Frank. "No. It means I had a dream about fucking Mikey but I really don't fucking want to and we wouldn't be having this conversation if Gerard hadn't managed to get hold of this fucking, like, obsession about it." Pete's face changed again. For someone with such a big, rubbery, expressive face, he could have awfully tiny expressions. That one was gone in a tenth of a second and you'd probably need a microscope to tell what it actually meant. For a second he looked as mysterious as a sweaty, adrenaline-drunk pensive Gerard with his head off in some artistic dream that, when he explained it to you, would end up being something like automatic cream cheese dispenser factories, butterfly removal accidents, and a guy who's actually a transdimensional squid and can see exactly two weeks into the future, but can't talk. "How was it?" said Pete solemnly. "Mikey's like my brother, okay. I really don't want to have sex with him," Frank pleaded. "Yeah, but it was good, right?" Pete waggled his eyebrows. "Sure," Frank sighed. "Okay – it was good-ish." "And you don't really want to, which is even better," said Pete. "It means I don't have to write a bitchy song about you." "That," said Frank, "is, believe it or not, the high point of my day so far." "Really?" Pete looked concerned. Then he dug a squashed mini Snickers out of his back pocket. "Want this? A fan gave it to me like twenty minutes ago. It shouldn't be too melted." Well, at least everything didn't suck. There was no way at all that chocolate could lead to people wanting him to have sex with Mikey. "Thanks!" said Frank, and ripped it open. Mikey was absent from their bus that night, and they all knew what that meant. Frank was kind of bizarrely afraid to go to sleep now, though. After all the talking about it today there was probably an 80% chance of another Mikey sex dream. Frank sighed and rubbed his forehead. He only realized he was rubbing with the hand with a cigarette in it when a piece of hot ash fell off, sifting down right next to the toe of his sneaker. The bus door opened somewhere behind him and sneakers moved across the asphalt. Gerard sat next to Frank on the curb and lit his cigarette from Frank's and sat there smoking in silence while the cicadas buzzed around them at the soothing volume of lawnmowers with gross, pointy little legs. The background cacophony started to seem like silence, though, after a while on Warped tour, and you didn't even notice the distant sounds of shrieks and breaking beer bottles. Besides all that, the only noise – the only sound that came from Frank or Gerard – was the occasional smack of one of them trying to kill a mosquito, and usually failing, because they were fucking pussies. Frank kept expecting Gerard to say "Nobody's forcing you to fuck my brother, you nutjob," or "I was thinking we should wear red eyeliner instead of black tomorrow," or even "If you've got some freaky fucking hard-on about me or some stupid crush left over from when you were a fat stoner and I was an even fatter touchy-feely drunk, you could at least have the fucking balls to tell it to me straight instead of putting on a big show about how much you don't want to fuck my little brother." Of course Gerard said none of those things. Frank was pretty sure he'd been too drunk to ever pick up on Frank's little thing, or to remember the way he got really cuddly after the puking stage when he'd been high, before he'd blacked out or started coming down. Gerard wasn't exactly the most perceptive lead singer on the tour, either. Gerard smoked an entire cigarette before Frank said, "I'm sorry." Gerard shrugged. "You just seemed really freaked, is all. If there's something..." It took a minute for Frank to realize what Gerard was thinking, because he was stuck in that freaky fucking hard-on about Gerard place, but then he recognized Gerard's awkward attempt at mediating, which was something he basically sucked at, except for mediating with Mikey - in which case his superior ability to talk to Mikey (a lot of the time Mikey just wouldn't talk at all to anybody except Gerard, if anything was wrong) outweighed his awkwardness. "No!" said Frank. "Nothing like that. Nothing's going on with Mikey. I don't – no. Never. And we're not fighting, either. It was just a random dream, it didn't even make sense. The rest of it was about woodchucks." "What the fuck does a woodchuck even look like?" Gerard interrupted. "I don't know," said Frank. "In the dream they looked like little beavers. I don't think that's right though." "Oh." "I was just – bad day, I guess," said Frank lamely. "Overreacting." Gerard scratched at the ground with the toe of his shoe and squinted at the horizon. "Hmm," he said. "You know, dreams don't have to mean anything. I mean – they mean something – but it's not necessarily something important, I mean, what is a woodchuck gonna mean, anyway? Two more weeks of spring?" "That's groundhogs," said Frank absently. "The woodchuck probably means you haven't been getting enough sleep," said Gerard, determined not to stop talking until the after-school special was over. When had this become Frank's life? Frank's life was supposed to involve drinking beer and hanging out with cool guys and playing in his favorite band, and biting Gerard's arm onstage when he felt like it. "Or it could mean I heard someone say the word yesterday and forgot." Gerard ignored this suggestion, to all appearances. "And the sex probably means you saw Pete and Mikey making out -" "I did," Frank interjected. Everybody had, at least once. " - and your brain like forgot who the dream was about. Or maybe it was from Pete's point of view." Gerard was silent for a second, but Frank wasn't heartless enough to interrupt when he might actually succeed in distracting him. "Dreaming that you're someone else is the only way you ever get to be them, but if you think about it it's probably easy to forget you weren't you. I mean, you never are, when you're awake. I mean, you're never not." "Hm," said Frank, "yeah, I mean, it's all about associations, right. Associations between people. Pete's short and I'm short, we might as well be interchangeable -" Gerard looked outraged, and Frank hurried on before he could interrupt, " - or it's like, how in dreams you're. You're staring at a, a lake, or a floor, and you're thinking about how far away some other place is and then you're going there – like just zooming in, until you land in some totally different dream and you can go from dreaming about a car chase to being, you know, under the water, it's a completely different story. Or... in bed with Mikey." "You're around each other a lot, your subconscious is bound to be full of him," said Gerard eagerly. He seemed to be excited that Frank was talking this out with him and exercising logic instead of slamming doors and biting people, and he was wearing those stupid fucking shades even though the only lights around were coming from, like, the windows of buses. In that moment Frank found it hard to believe that his subconscious could be full of anyone but Gerard, and that was what really hurt about the Mikey dream. He bit Gerard's shoulder when he felt like it, sure, but he'd never actually felt those little freckles under his tongue. It felt to Frank like he was always reaching out and stopping himself before he reached all the way. When he opened his mouth he was slightly terrified that he would have forgotten entirely what he was going to say. "I know that it doesn't mean anything," though, is what came out. "I knew that, it's just... a little weird to have those dream memories on the top of your mind and like you said, at odds with how you would really react. There's some things you don't want to see, and your brother's dick is just one of them." Gerard rolled his eyes. "I've seen my brother's dick, asshole, and I didn't throw a fit about it, either." "I actually meant your brother, that time, Gee," said Frank. But Gerard was fumbling for another cigarette in that slow way that meant he was thinking. When he was actually going after one, he was pretty fast. "But if you want to say Mikey's your brother, anyway, then all of us are your brothers. I mean, we do say it -" he stopped talking then, and it was probably because of the fact that Frank was making a really fucking weird face. "Um," he said. "Actually." Gerard stared at him in silence, kind of slack-jawed in a dorky way that made Frank fidget with the desire to kiss him all over his stupid dorky face. "Well, there's... brothers and brothers. Mikey is still your brother brother. And if the band is, you know, my brothers, then I kind of feel like Mikey is my... brother-brother, too. Not in the same way as he's yours, I'm not trying to compare it to that, it just feels like... I've known him a while and he's just, well, it's not like your kid brother, it's more like a brother by marriage, you know," and Frank could not believe that actually just slipped out of his mouth and it wasn't even on purpose, because he was honestly thinking about meeting the Ways after he was, like, nineteen, shaking hands with them and sitting down to dinner – he took a breath to hurry into that explanation and thought it was going to explode in hysterical giggles instead, but he found himself just sighing and covering his head in his hands. "Uh," said Gerard. Oh, that was really helpful. Thanks, Gerard. Frank took his hands off his head a little and tried again with, "You know, the first time I went to hang out with him I had to shake hands with your dad? You were at school. I'll never forget sleeping on your Grandma's couch... " but he looked up then and the look on Gerard's face was confused and Frank had no idea what it meant, really, but there was a crease between his eyebrows and his mouth was partly open and it almost looked like Frank had somehow hurt his feelings. "What?" "I guess I don't really," said Gerard, stumbling over every word, "um, want to be like your brother." "I have no fucking idea anymore," said Frank fervently, "if we're even fucking talking about the same thing, or if you're still pissed at me or not, but I really, really, really don't want to be your brother either and I promise, I have never, not for one – not even one single moment, thought that." Gerard was still staring at him, dazed and confused, but kind of closer now because of how Frank was grabbing his shoulder and his hair to make him look at him. His cheeks had gotten sunburned over that summer and Frank could see freckles there too, faintly, underneath, even in the darkness that bleached everything like a sepia picture. Suddenly this thought seemed to shed light on the conversation. "Your freckles," said Frank desperately. "Uh, your sunburn is fading. There's – you have a lot more of them on your shoulders now too." Gerard breathed in and out, once, twice, and the second time Frank could hear the jagged, stuttering edges in it. "Frankie?" he said. "Fuck," said Frank, who had not stopped wanting to kiss him all over his dorky, uncertain face for one millisecond. And he did. Gerard was soundless for long moments, his hands coming up and clenching around Frank's wrists, holding his hands on Gerard's shoulder and on his face, while Frank kissed his freakish pointed nose and his sunburned cheek and the crease in the corner of his nicotine-smelling mouth and then crazily moved away, getting more and more breathless by the second – kissed the corner of his eye and the middle of his forehead and down so Frank's mouth collided with his thumb and he tasted around it, his lip dragging over Gerard's cheek wetly. Then, suddenly, Gerard made a sound, like the beginning of a question, and Frank slid his mouth around the corner of his chin and back to his mouth. That time he couldn't move away because Gerard's hands closed so tight on his wrists, clenching into claws, and he leaned sideways into Frank, and Frank leaned sideways too, their knees tangling up. Soon Frank had his hands full of Gerard's back and his mouth open while Gerard kissed them both breathless, diving back for kiss after wet kiss without taking the time to inhale a real breath, making hungry, soft little sounds. Sand and gravel was digging into the half-healed scrapes on his knees through the big square holes in his favorite pair of jeans, and Gerard was moving his hands restlessly up and down the sides of his neck, under the torn collar of his t-shirt and down his shoulder blades. "You're not anti-sex," muttered Gerard. "No," said Frank quickly, "I'm in favor, completely," and he hadn't realized that was intended as a question, but Gerard shivered and threw one arm around Frank's back, pulling him closer with the sand scraping up his knees until Frank was practically lying in his lap, and somehow shoving the other hand down his pants at the same time. "Oh God," said Frank, "You meant now." "Fuck," said Gerard, pulling at the side of the stuck zipper, "fucking motherfucking cocksucker fucking fuck fuck – ouch, oh," and he sighed in relief when his hand wrapped around Frank's dick, whereas Frank was kind of freaking out, his toes curling in his shoes. He'd forgotten how to talk, just wiggled and sank his teeth into Gerard's neck. Frank was the one getting a hand-job, and he was feeling sort of hair-triggered – God, his nose was full of smell, Gerard was sweaty and gross and hadn't washed his hair and all Frank wanted was to lick him all over – but Gerard was the one who gasped, arching his neck and flopping back gracelessly in the grass and pulling Frank on top of him. "Ughh," Frank said, which was the closest he could come to "Public parking lot on the Warped tour" with most of his brain being roughly jerked in Gerard's sweaty hand. "Hold on," said Gerard, bucking his hips, and then, "Frankie," with a little whimper. All Frank could say was "Oh, shit," and then as he came on Gerard's hand and the front of the black jeans (at least they could probably use a wash anyway after nine days), "Gee, Gee, Gee," and kiss his shoulder and neck, which was the first part he could reach. "Inside, God, before my dick winds up on Buzznet," he muttered into the shoulder of Gerard's sleeveless black shirt. "Mm," said Gerard, "Okay, but your dick is totally invisible when you're lying on top of me here." "But two orgasms in the parking lot is probably pushing our luck," said Frank, and stuffed himself back into his pants – ow, ow – and levered himself up off of Gerard. Gerard caught his hand while he was sitting up and Frank paused, straddling Gerard's thigh, and looked down at Gerard's sweaty death-pale face in the light from the bus windows half a block behind them. It caught in the whites and turned them liquid, the irises pale amber, and Frank leaned over again and pressed his lips carefully to the pink arch of Gerard's delicate top lip. He could feel breath misting his chin, and he whispered, "Gee, it's just, insult to injury, you know – I spend all night obsessed with these little freckles on your shoulder and I end up dreaming about your brother. It's the last thing you want." He felt a little shaky laugh on his mouth, then, and Gerard said, "I dreamed you blew me a few days ago, that night after you dumped your water bottle over my head, and woke up all hot and bothered." Who actually said 'all hot and bothered', except Gerard? Frank kissed him again and murmured, "How was it?" "Your fucking mouth, Frankie," said Gerard, sincerely. Frank scrambled to his knees and his feet and pulled Gerard back to the bus by his hand. "Let's try it." Mikey took one look at Frank when Frank went to drag him off of Fall Out Boy's bus next morning and snorted with laughter. Then he reached up and ruffled Frank's hair affectionately. "You're practically covered in hickies," he said. "It's just one," said Frank guiltily, "and aren't rock stars supposed to have those, anyway?" Mikey raised his eyebrows. "I'm not saying anything. Have all the hickies you want, they can be nice enough, I guess." "Shut up, Mikey Way," said Frank quickly. "Fine, no more about sex," said Mikey, laughing a little condescendingly for someone whose idea of sexual open-mindedness was admitting to his brother, after two weeks, that he and Pete were "something" and leaving it to him to tell the band. "Except this," Mikey added, pulling down his knitted cap over his limp brown hair, "if you make my brother cry for something that you've actually done wrong as opposed to because you gave him a fucking paper flower or something, I'll try to punch you in the nose. I'll probably miss," he explained calmly, "so who knows what could happen. I'm just saying, fair warning." "Okay," said Frank. He hoped that if anyone ever made Gerard cry for some real actual mean reason, including him, they were punched in the nose and it really fucking hurt. Maybe by someone a little fiercer than Mikey, like Pete or even Patrick, but Frank thought better of suggesting it. "So," said Mikey casually, "How was it?" "Beautiful," said Frank firmly. "I cried. And I came to get you because he was so sweet drooling on the pillow." "Ew, shut up," said Mikey, "for fuck's sake, Frank." "I didn't really cry," Frank admitted. "Brother," said Mikey, and pulled his iPod hurriedly out of his pocket and jammed the earbuds in. Frank figured they were pretty much even at that point. He shoved his hands in his pockets and whistled the rest of the way back.

Comments

[stealstheashes.livejournal.com]

This is really awesome. I love how Frank and Gerard are crosstalking about the dream. Oh and the biting. And how Mikey Way threatens Frankie. This left me with a big grin on my face :D.

[cimness.livejournal.com]

Now I am grinning, also! Thanks for leaving me this comment. I'm glad to know you dug things.