Chance

Gerard’s head slams against the bathroom door, and honestly if he were in any other situation he would be grossed out of his wits. Gerard wouldn’t exactly consider himself neat, in fact most people would consider him to be a slob, because Gerard, in his entire life, has never touched a broom for any reason other than to pretend he was a witch. No, Gerard is not tidy, but it should never be said that he isn’t clean. Actually, that’s not true either. Gerard really doesn’t shower enough. He’s really rather greasy.

So maybe Gerard isn’t tidy, and maybe he’s not clean either, but even Gerard is a little repulsed by the doors of unwashed men’s bathrooms.

Except on this particular occasion, as he acquaints himself with a door, he’s got Frank’s mouth fucking everywhere and he feels like this is an exception to his usual reaction to public restroom doors and that act of being shoved into them.

“Jesus,” Gerard whispers to himself, because honestly there’s nothing like the feeling of Frank’s mouth on the spot right below his ear, he feels like he’s going to explode into a million pieces or melt or do something else that would entail him no longer existing in one solid form. He never knew the spot under his ear had that effect on him.

Frank sort of sneers, but not sneers in an evil way because no one but actors from Soap Operas and Morgana from BBC’s Merlin actually sneers, more like the kind of sneer a porn star would make when trying to look both alluring and slightly crazy. You know, like if you were a lemon stealing whore.

But oh does Gerard eat it up because his brain is not in control right now, which is a statement that can be said most hours of the day in Gerard’s case. Usually it’s either his stomach, his heart in a Pablo Neruda kind of way, or his dick. Right now, or as his brother would say, as per usual, it’s his dick. It’s also Frank’s dick, which is weird because Gerard’s entire body is practically being controlled by some other guy’s dick. Now to be fair, it is the guy whose dick he’s totally about to suck, but it’s still weird.

“Ngyng,” is what Frank is capable of saying, because while Frank would consider himself to be a sex god, modestly, he’s not actually good at verbalizing anything in this sort of situation, which can make things extremely difficult. Because he really wishes he could tell Gerard how drop dead gorgeous he is right now, but he’d just end up mumbling and it wouldn’t be sexy, it would be weird.

Frank wishes he could tell Gerard that everything about him is intoxicating right now. He’s drunk just thinking about the man, to look at him staggers his breath and twists his stomach. Gerard’s eyelashes are perfect at this angle. His cheekbones have never been more prominent. His jaw and the line that connects it to his neck, is beckoning Frank in, it’s clean shaven with either freakish accuracy or because there wasn’t much there to begin with.

“Fuck,” Gerard groans when Frank gets a knee between Gerard’s legs in exactly the right spot. Gerard’s head rolls back, and he’s just so happy to be here right now. He’s never wanted to be where he is as much as he does right now.

Frank’s mouth is sinful, he almost feels guilty for being the only person whose kissing it. He feels that he doesn’t deserve it. Gerard’s not a very good kisser, he’s never pretended to be. He would say that he ranks in the bottom percent of kissers in this world, but with Frank he feels like a perfect ten. Maybe it’s his enthusiasm, Frank could practically jump off the walls from pure energy, and maybe that’s why Gerard doesn’t feel bad in comparison. Maybe Frank’s lips are just perfect against his.

There’s just something about the way he and Frank fit together. Frank feels like a puzzle piece that’s worn from being in the wrong places, but he’s finally found a place where he fits. He fits into Gerard. The way their hands mold together, the way their lips touch, even the way that Frank’s head fits on his shoulder, it’s almost too perfect. It’s almost too perfect, but in Gerard’s eyes, it’s just perfect enough.

Frank’s got his hands on Gerard’s shoulders, almost on his neck, and they’re so warm, and strong. It feels like he could lift a bus up with one hand, it feels like his strength is infinite, those hands can do anything. His hands are so strong, but gentle on Gerard, like he knows his own strength and chooses not to use it.

Gerard doubts anyone he’s ever dated has ever narrowed in on anything about him so specific as his hands. Gerard always focuses on the little things that make up a whole. He loves Frank’s hands in particular, because their unlike anyone else’s. Frank’s a whole world just waiting to be discovered. There’s a whole world behind those eyes that Gerard can’t ever know enough about.

Gerard isn’t sure where his own hands are. He’s not positive he’s got hands. He’s not sure which limbs he does and not possess. All he knows he has is a dick and mouth and some tingling sensations like a limb that’s fallen asleep. The rest might as well not exist.

But then one of Frank’s hands traces down his arm, and he can feel his arm again, like it’s magically reappeared. Frank’s hand then finds his chest and Gerard can swear he didn’t have one a moment ago. The only parts of him he’s aware of are the parts that Frank touches.

Suddenly, Gerard remembers that those hands are the same ones that had been covered in tattoos. They’re the same ones attached to this entire museum of a man covered in all the artwork Gerard could ever dream to create. It becomes clear in that moment that Frank is not nearly naked enough.

“You should take this off,” Gerard says, tugging on Frank’s collar, and Frank is more than happy to oblige. He pulls his cuffs loose, and Gerard gets started on his buttons. Frank thinks that it’s only fair and tries to get Gerard’s jeans undone when he finds himself in a bit of a kerfuffle.

Gerard tries to undo Frank’s shirt, but someone must have literally sewn the man into the shirt because Gerard absolutely cannot get the first button undone. He tries to just rip it off because Frank’s got a nice body, Gerard feels like he wouldn’t mind showing it off later when his shirt is torn to shreds, but even that doesn’t seem to work. The shirt may very well be glued to Frank.

“Having trouble there?” Frank asks. Gerard hasn’t let up, and Frank’s taken a moment to make fun of Gerard so that Gerard can’t make fun of him.

“The fuck is this shirt made out of?”

“One hundred percent cotton baby,” Frank says, and Gerard snorts at that because of its sheer stupidity.

“Yeah, there you go with the dirty talk,” Gerard says, “what laundry detergent do you use, you sexy beast?”

“Fucking east German laundry detergent, because I’m a man,” Frank says, before laughing at himself until his head falls down onto Gerard’s shoulder.

“That is so hot,” Gerard says, laughing way more than he should, because it’s not funny, and he knows it’s not but for some reason it is. It’s the kind of laugh you have when you’re drunk or when you’re so tired that everything around you becomes hysterical. Neither of those are true now, it just feels like that kind of laugh. Maybe Gerard’s as intoxicated by Frank as Frank is by him.

For some unknown reason, everything about this entire situation is funny and he doesn’t know why, but Frank’s still laughing against his shoulder like it’s the funniest thing in the whole world. Frank’s laugh fuels Gerard’s, because the way it sounds, even echoed off these dirty walls is one that makes his heart swell.

“I can’t get your fucking pants off,” Frank admits which only makes it funnier. Honestly Gerard’s never laughed at a dilemma that only a four-year-old could find themselves in. No one above that age has difficulty undoing a button.

The sound of Frank laughing is one of the best sounds that there is to be heard. Likewise, Frank thinks that Gerard’s laughter provides enough energy to power New York City for a year, maybe two.

“What the fuck are we doing?” Frank asks Gerard when he can finally find the space to breathe. Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel sexy or clandestine or any of the things that it was a moment ago. It’s awkward and it’s kind of smelly and it’s really pretty gross because this is a men’s bathroom, and it’s hilarious.

“We’re being stupid,” Gerard says.

“Incredibly stupid,” Frank replies, smiling, almost beaming at Gerard. Somehow the situation is actually better than it had been a moment ago, because he’s here with Frank and the simplicity in just being with Frank makes it better than being horizontal with Frank. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be horizontal with Frank, but right now it’s just idiotic. That’s not what this is about.

Gerard doesn’t know what he must have been thinking a minute ago, it seems so foreign and long ago to him now. Right now, sex, or honestly anything besides kissing the shit out of Frank is just not appealing anymore, and he can’t remember when it ever was. Laughing with Frank, talking to him, telling him stories, sharing memories, and using bad pickup lines is worth every cent that screwing him in a public bathroom lacks.

There’s got to be nothing in the entire world that is less romantic than an uncleaned men’s bathroom in New York City. A literal actual cave is sexier. His childhood bedroom which still has his Star Wars sheets is more romantic than this. This just isn’t the kind of place that Gerard and Frank should be right now, not when things are going well.

“This isn’t right,” Frank says, and he looks a little nervous about his words, nervous that Gerard’s not going to want to hear them. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful, and I’m honestly crazy about you, but this isn’t right. We may have just met but I feel like I know you pretty well, and people who know each other like that don’t fuck in a bathroom. That’s just not right.”

Gerard understands what he means. People who fuck in public bathrooms are people who met in clubs or at bars, they’re not people who want to know each other for longer than an hour. They’re just people who need a semi-private place to get off. Frank’s right, this is wrong. This isn’t how this should happen.

“I’m not offended,” Gerard says, “you’re completely right.”

Frank looks overwhelmingly relieved when he says that. Frank’s heart would have shattered if Gerard had made it out like Frank owed him something.

Gerard’s hair is a mess, he knows he looks like a long lost brother of Jedward, and his clothes are all askew. The lighting in here is awful, it’s both sterile and dirty like he’s in a surgical room that also doubles as a land pile. Everything about him feels like he’s far worse than par, and yet Frank is standing there glowing with a heart that shines out through his eyes. Frank would probably look perfect even when he wakes up. He probably comes out of the shower with perfect hair. He probably cracks mirrors when he smiles at them from the sheer beauty in his smile.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Frank whispers to him, and Gerard doesn’t believe him for a second, but he appreciates it. He appreciates the fact that Frank could cure cancer with his smile and stop world hunger with his eyes, and with that beauty he can still find it in him to say that Gerard’s gorgeous. He may be completely wrong, but the sentiment is still there.

Gerard leans down, like actually leans down to kiss Frank because he’s an elf, and it’s perfectly innocent compared to the kisses they’d been sharing less than five minutes ago. It’s not that the other kisses were bad, it’s just that this kiss is so good that it makes other kisses feel bad about themselves. When he kisses Frank, Gerard feels as if this is why kissing was invented. So that he could find Frank, and so that Frank could find him.