It’s during one of their coveted hotel nights that Frank finally has enough. Gerard’s wearing his stupid skeleton pajamas, the ones Frank liked until they started to smell like the inside of his high school gym locker. Gerard’s hair is brushing his face in greasy clumps that make Frank’s own skin itch in sympathy.
“Do you want the first shower?” Frank asks.
“Hmm?” Gerard’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, and he looks up from his sketchbook. “Oh no, I don’t need one. You go ahead.”
Gerard’s usual odor isn’t exactly like walking through a rose garden, but Frank can’t remember the last time the guy showered. From halfway across the room, Frank can make out Gerard’s particular brand of dead animal-and-cigarette smoke scent.
“I’m not fucking you like that,” Frank warns. “You smell like rancid ass.”
Gerard sticks his nose under his collar and gives himself a curious sniff. “Oh, well. You go first then. I want to finish this.”
When Frank comes out twenty minutes later, clean and damp and in a considerably better mood, Gerard is fast asleep on his back, the sketchbook resting on his stomach. Frank rolls his eyes and crawls into the other bed. Then he comes up with a plan.
He starts the next morning. Gerard must have realized Frank was telling the truth the night before, because he jumps in the shower before even getting a cup of coffee in him.
Frank waits until the water has been running a few solid minutes and then strips off his clothes and joins Gerard.
Gerard likes to fuck hard and fast. He likes it when Frank slams him against the nearest wall and just fucking goes for it. He likes getting Frank on his hands and knees and pounding into him while Frank whines and twists his hands in the sheets.
But there’s this one spot – the smooth, sensitive skin behind Gerard’s balls – that Gerard loves for Frank to just stroke, nice and light. Frank discovered it on accident the second or third time they’d had sex when his knuckle grazed over the spot. Gerard surprised both of them by pistoning his hips up and coming all over both of their chests. It was hot as fuck, actually, once Frank stopped laughing at Gerard’s bright red, mortified face.
“Hey,” Gerard says, grinning brightly when Frank steps into the shower with him. Both of his arms are raised up, scrubbing Frank’s shampoo into his hair. Frank takes a moment to enjoy the visual. “Come to wash my back?”
“Maybe,” Frank answers. He cocks his head and watches Gerard rinse the soap out of his hair. When it’s all suds floating around their feet, Frank moves forward, trapping Gerard against the cold tile of the shower wall.
“Frankie,” Gerard sighs, bringing one wet hand up to Frank’s cheek as Frank kisses him.
It’s almost too slippery and hot water’s pounding on Frank’s back and ass and the back of his legs, and it’s cold everywhere else, but he makes it work. Gripping Gerard’s dick, Frank presses kisses down his neck to his ear, tonguing inside and using his teeth tug on the lobe. Gerard keens against him, bucking hard enough that Frank almost loses his balance.
He keeps going, with Gerard rocking into his tight fist, his mouth hanging open, until Gerard starts making that deep groaning sound that means he’s close to coming. Then he brings his other hand down and under to that spot. He uses his fingertip to rub it, a barely-there skritch-skritch.
“Come on, come on,” Frank coaxes, not letting up on that gentle pressure even as Gerard flails all the fuck over the place. “There you go, yeah,” he says when he gets Gerard’s eyes rolling back in his head and his cock spurting again and again in Frank’s hand.
The next night, they’re cocooned inside Frank’s bunk, being as quiet as they can. The tinny sound of The Smiths is audible from Mikey’s bunk. Frank stopped feeling guilty about fucking his brother five feet away from him earlier that summer when he walked in on Mikey with Pete Wentz, of all people, going at it against the tiny kitchen counter in the front of the bus. That shit scars a person.
“Frank, Frankie,” Gerard whispers.
“Shh,” Frank says, taking his own advice and swallowing back a groan as he ruts against him.
“Frank,” Gerard says again. He shifts against Frank, almost restless. “Can…can you…”
Frank bites his lip to hide his smile and asks innocently, “What?” He spreads his legs wider, giving both of them better friction. Gerard’s too busy moaning to say anything after that.
Four showers and almost three weeks later, Frank finally feels confident enough about the shower sex thing to drop to his knees in the tub.
Gerard’s hands find his shoulders immediately, squeezing tight. “Shit.”
Frank takes him into his mouth, throat working, while he makes a ring with his thumb and forefinger to stroke what he can’t take. Gerard’s wet thigh trembles under his hand. He keeps at it, getting a nice rhythm going, before pulling off and taking him in his fist.
Wrapping his other arm around Gerard’s waist, he noses under Gerard’s cock while he strokes it up and against Gerard’s soft belly. Gerard makes a soft, desperate sound as Frank carefully explores.
The position is kind of uncomfortable, but it’s so, so worth it when Frank gets his tongue in there, back where Gerard likes it, and laves slow and light. Gerard just fucking loses it, thrashing into Frank’s hand and shouting loud enough that Frank’s afraid Bob and Ray are going to hear next door. Frank hasn’t touched the spot since Gerard’s last shower five days ago, despite Gerard’s not-so-subtle attempts to get his hand back there. It shows when Gerard falls apart faster than he has since the first accidental time, coming with a hoarse cry that sounds like it’s been wrenched from his throat. His knees must give out after, because he slides bonelessly into the tub next to Frank.
A few days later, they’re standing outside at a rest stop, smoking with Bob and Brian.
Gerard rubs his hand over his thigh and scratches his arm absently.
“What’s wrong with you?” Bob asks. “You’ve been acting twitchy all day.”
Gerard pitches his cigarette to the asphalt and stubs it out with the toe of his boot. “I don’t know why, but I just feel like I need a shower.”