A Dangerous Face and an Almost Illegal Taste

Two cities later, too many text messages, too long bus rides. Ryan was hanging around the area backstage, watching the end of My Chemical Romance’s set. He was leaning against the barrier, arms perched on it. Make up from his performance a few hours before still clung to his eyes, lighter but evident. He had opted for jeans and a white tee shirt, however. The day was too hot to wear anything tight-fitting and pseudo-seductive.

Gerard was soaked in sweat when the set wrapped up. Ryan didn’t know why he expected less. He and his band mates were always slick with perspiration following their sets—and Gerard had been up there nearly an hour longer. But, still, Ryan expected the older man to look just as flawless as he had at the beginning of the first song. He almost blushed at how pathetic he sounded in his head.

Gerard’s eyes caught his as he was walking off the stage. He nodded at something one of his band mates was saying and began to walk over to the young brunette. Ryan felt eyes hard on him when Gerard’s destination became apparent. For a moment it looked like Gerard’s brother might say something, but he was tugged away from the scene by two sets of arms.

Another sign.

Ryan was so bad at reading them.

Gerard lit a cigarette, grinning at the younger boy. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“Here’s just fine.” Ryan said, trying to sound vague and . . . oh, hell, he didn’t know. He just didn’t want to be the kid Gerard always seemed to see him as. A baby face, painted eyes, and a guitar that almost seemed too big for his delicate frame didn’t help the fact.

He didn’t see Gerard reach his fingers out until they had already brushed his face, fingertips light against the skin. “Blue. You’re good at that.”

His make up. Gerard was touching his face and complimenting his make up. I’m twenty and I have better pick up lines than that. But it worked, the comment. Ryan’s eyes lowered and his face would have flushed from embarrassment if it weren’t already from the summer heat.

“I guess,” Gerard said, letting his hand almost casually skim down Ryan’s arm as it fell from his face, “I need to come see you guys next show then. Make things even.”

Even. As if it were a debt to pay off. As if Gerard were in debt to him. As if, Ross. The boy’s breathing hitched as Gerard’s eyes held tightly to his. You’re sopathetic. Le Pathetique. It would have been a great song title, but Ryan never wrote about himself. Sure, he wrote about things that had happened to him, his thoughts thickly laced in metaphors. But not solely about himself, not for songs. There was a difference, after all, between being exposed and being nude.

But right now, Gerard’s dark eyes all but undressing him, Ryan couldn’t decide which he was. Ryan bit his lip when he felt Gerard’s hand clasp gently around his wrist, the pad of his thumb gliding over top the boy’s hand. “You okay?” the older asked thickly.

Gerard knew he wasn’t and Ryan knew that Gerard knew that. “I’m fine.” he said, voice barely a whisper. He stifled a whimper when the pressure on his wrist increased, feigning calmness. His teeth let go of his bottom lip. Gerard’s fingernail scraped across Ryan’s skin as the boy’s lips parted softly, breathing arduous. He knew Gerard could feel the hammering pulse in his wrist, knew his eyes must have been drenched in need, knew that he was nearly hard just from this simple touch.

And then Gerard’s cell phone rang.

Immediately, Gerard let go of Ryan’s hand, fishing into his pocket to pull out the mechanical device. “Hello? Yeah, hi.” The older man reached out, letting a few fingers trail down Ryan’s collarbone. “I’ll call you later.” The he left, impassive and all too quickly.

The boy stood there for a moment, lips still slightly parted, barely breathing. His face was still flushed, his heart was still pounding, and he was still growing hard from the memory of Gerard’s hand on his wrist. Too powerful, too hard, too much.

Ryan walked back to the tour bus. Walked back briskly, not being as polite as he should have been while pushing past people, not apologizing when he accidentally ran into that guy that could have easily killed him with two fingers. He walked back to the tour bus, unlocked it with the key in his pocket, stepped inside. It was empty.

Ryan blinked for a moment, hardly daring to believe that he could actually be the only person in the vehicle. “Hello?” he called out quietly. No echo, no response. Ryan’s fingers traced his wrists. “This is a really bad idea.” he said to himself softly.

A very bad idea, but one that wasn’t going away. Ryan’s breathing grew heavy as he recalled Gerard’s hand tight on his wrist, scent of cigarettes—which he’d always detested, faces too close for comfort.

And he’d been trying so hard not to jerk off to the thought of Gerard, to not make his wrist ache over the sneaky bastard. Oh, yes, Ryan knew what Gerard was. And, yes, Ryan was twenty and hopelessly becoming . . . oh, smitten’s the wrong word.

The boy tried to maintain a dignified pace as he walked toward his bunk, but it was absurd and pointless—as everything seemed to be of late. Ryan was hard now, lying down and trying to wriggle out of his jeans. Young and hot-blooded, the feel of just his fingertips on his hips was making him shiver from anticipation, making him painfully aware of his hard cock.

You arenot going to do this. You are not going to jerk off to Gerard Way. You arenot going to do this, Ryan. But he already was. Slowly, reluctantly, clumsily, but he was. His hand was wrapped around his cock, the strokes desperate and angry and deliberate and—

“Oh!” Ryan arched back, head nearly cracking on the wall. He shook his head as he continued to pump his fist, biting his lip to keep from making noise. He did not want Gerard’s name to fall from his lips, just like he did not want that mouth and those damn cigarettes as the image behind his closed eyelids. He shook his head, whimpering and fighting high-pitched moans. Get out!

Ryan’s shirt was sticking to his skin, damp with the sheen of perspiration. His toes hurt, curled up in his green socks. His legs were shaking and occasional moans were escaping from his dry lips. His eyes were screwed tight, his face contorted.

Gerard was above him, one hand holding Ryan’s wrists tight to the bed. Just barely too tight. A smug smile. ‘You’re a sure thing, Ross.’ One hand sliding slowly up his thigh, knuckles dragging across his hipbone. ‘And easy.’ Ryan moaned desperately, eyes begging. An almost patronizing chuckle. Then his fingers . . . one, two, three, four . . . wrapping around his cock and—

“Oh!”

Gerard’s hand was deliberate, almost forceful. The pace was calculated, hammering. Ryan was writhing under his body, head tilted back, moaning. Gerard’s lips pressed to Ryan’s ear. ‘Slut.’

“Fuck!” Ryan’s back arched as he came, violently, shuddering. Stickiness covering his hand and his shirt. The pillow was slightly damp from the sweat that had beaded down Ryan’s neck.

And there was Gerard’s face in the back of his mind, laughing and winking.

Bastard.

Ryan tugged his shirt off angrily, wiping his hand on it and shoving it under his pillow. His mind continued to verbally assault Gerard in any way it possibly could as Ryan grabbed a new shirt and his old jeans, storming into the bathroom to wash the scent of shame away, disgusted with his weakness.

After a fifteen minute shower, scrubbing too hard at his body with a rough washcloth and accidentally getting apple shampoo in his eyes, Ryan pulled his black leather-bound journal from the foot of his bed. He was still angry and was determined to focus all the aggression into something that mattered. He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and a pen from the counter, turning on the television before he sat down on the couch.

Bastard.

Ryan’s pen stabbed the paper maliciously, eyes narrowed as his hand flew across the page. Bastard. Fucking bastard. Eventually, the anger subsided and he was just casually writing, no real emotion tangible on his face. Just Ryan. Writing.

Then, out of no where, he was exhausted. His hand fell to the page, too heavy to lift. His eyes were slowly falling shut as his head turned to rest on the back of the couch. And it was so nice, falling asleep like this. Ryan’s lips were formed in a small smile as he dozed off.

The sight of which, fifteen minutes later, caused his three band mates to fall silent when they opened the bus door. There was a momentary pause during which they all exchanged looks. “. . . Ry?” Spencer asked tentatively, quietly. They all seemed to wait with baited breath, letting out simultaneous sighs of relief when there was no reply.

“His neck’s going to kill him when he wakes up.” Spencer said after another pause, referring to the angle in which Ryan was sleeping.

“I’ll move him to his bunk.” Jon said, pushing past the other two and walking up the steps to Ryan’s sleeping form. Spencer followed, slipping Ryan’s journal from his lap and closing it, setting it on the counter.

“He was writing?” Brendon asked in a slightly choked voice, still in the doorway.

Spencer turned to look at him, expression gentle. “In his journal, Bren. Not lyrics.”

“Oh.”

Ryan had been having trouble with lyrics lately. He hadn’t said anything, but everyone knew and he knew everyone knew. The topic was gracefully avoided at all costs. Listening to Ryan’s reaction at being confronted about writer’s block once was more than enough for anyone. Nobody wants to see a nineteen year old boy crying silently in a corner because ‘the pen works, but the poet doesn’t’. That was how Pete had explained it to the other three, who didn’t understand because how could they. So now matters of lyrics—or rather lack of—and writer’s block weren’t mentioned.

Jon came out of the bunk area. “Should we leave for awhile?”

Brendon and Spencer exchanged a look with each other before nodding. “Probably better to.” Spencer said, walking toward the door. When he passed Brendon, he reached out for his hand and squeezed it. Jon, recognizing a situation when he saw one, snaked his arm around his younger friend’s shoulders.

The three of them walked like that for a few minutes, not saying anything and just thinking it.

“But he’s sleeping. Without pills.” Jon said, squeezing Brendon’s shoulder.

“So soon hopefully.” Spencer added.

“Yeah.” Brendon said quietly.

Soon maybe we’ll have him back.