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Gerard tries to break it to him gently, but there isn't really a nice way to tell your sort of boyfriend that he smells fucking bad.
"Bert," he says, rolling over to poke him in the stomach. Bert's having a rare quiet moment, humming to himself and half-watching reruns of The Partridge Family. "You smell fucking bad."
Bert makes a monkey face at him and tousles his hair. "And?" he says, something in the quirk of his eyebrows making the word both a challenge and a come-on. Gerard tries to ignore that shivery feeling in his stomach- he's still not used to feeling so into someone who is actually into him back and doesn't intend to break up with him and move to Greece or whatever, and it's a little scary and a lot awesome, but he cannot let it distract him from his mission.
"As your sort of boyfriend," he begins, but he doesn't get to the end of the last word before Bert's on top of him and fucking tickling him and shouting "Sort of? Sort of?" until he loses his balance and collapses on top of Gerard and, well, then things get kind of interesting.
***
The next day Gerard starts over.
"As your total boyfriend," he says, keeping a wary eye out for any signs of brewing shenaniganery, "I have to say I am weirded out by the fact that you never shower."
Bert burps. Gerard should not find it cute. "You never shower," he says, wiggling his toes. One of them is poking through a hole in his sock, and Gerard probably shouldn't find that cute either since he's pretty sure Bert hasn't changed his socks in about three years. The fact that seeing Bert's dirty fucking toes wiggling makes Gerard want to kiss him only reminds him of how far gone he really is.
Okay, Gerard, focus. "I do too shower," he says. "Remember that time in Chicago? I totally showered then."
"That time in- you mean the first time we fucked?" Bert's got this smirk, kind of childish and kind of dangerous and kind of ridiculous, and it makes Gerard's skin prickle in the best possible way. "That was the first time, wasn't it?"
"Mm," Gerard agrees, keeping his hands to his sides. "Unless you count that time you groped me in the pizzeria."
"That wasn't sex."
"It was as close as you can get in a public place without being arrested."
Bert sniggers and swings himself over Gerard in one smooth motion. "Unless you're sneaky," he agrees. His mouth is awfully close to Gerard's ear as he whispers about the closet off the hotel lobby that's the perfect place to be sneaky in and what with losing his shit completely and everything Gerard forgets what he's saying for a long, long time.
***
"That's just it, though," he says sometime early the next morning. The sun hasn't risen yet and Bert's trying to mix them "some fuckin' girly drink Quinn taught me how to make, it's got lime and seltzer and shit." "We've had sex a couple times-"
"Six and three quarters," Bert announces, giving up on the drink and cracking open a beer instead. "Seven if you count that time in the elevator."
"Right, okay. And I have not once seen you shower afterwards."
"Yeah, I don't think I did."
Gerard winces. "See, as the person whose mouth is in intimate contact with your dick, I have a problem with that."
Bert finishes his beer, throws the can across the room, and gives Gerard the finger. It's like ballet. Gerard wonders how long it took him to perfect that particular combination of movements. Then he starts to wonder about the other people Bert's been in a room with like this, and he can feel himself getting jealous over who else Bert's given the finger to and that's a little too much crazy for him to handle, so he tries to push the thought away. It's the kind of thing that'll come back to him, though, like a song stuck in his head.
Bert says something, and Gerard shakes his head to clear it. "What?" he asks, and Bert bounces onto the bed. Actually bounces, with his feet in the air.
"I said you never seemed to have a problem with my dick before." Bert pelvic thrusts a little, as though he just wants to remind Gerard hey, we're talking about my dick here, isn't that awesome?
"I don't have a problem with it," Gerard protests as Bert straddles him, the ends of his tangled hair just brushing Gerard's face. "It's just, you know, I'm afraid it's going to- to sprout or something."
Bert looks taken aback for a minute. "Does that happen?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Bert bites his lip. He actually seems worried, and it makes Gerard feel a little guilty. "Or maybe not. How would I know? Probably sprouting doesn't happen. Don't listen to me, I'm nuts."
Then Bert laughs again and Gerard realizes he's been had. "Dude," says Bert, snorting just a bit, "you're such a pussy. Be a man and guilt me into it. Threaten to withhold beer or sex or something." He squirms casually against Gerard when he says this, is the thing, and Gerard makes an embarrassing squeaky noise and Bert smirks again, like he knows Gerard will never be able to withhold anything.
He is wrong there.
"Bert," says Gerard, hoping he sounds firm and mature and not at all like a teenage girl, which is kind of how he feels, "if you don't take a bath in the next twenty-four hours I am never going to sing 'Like A Virgin' for you again."
Bert looks in his eyes and realizes he means it.
***
They start out slow. Gerard takes him to a drug store and they spent the better part of an hour in the shampoo aisle, browsing.
"I want something scented," Bert says, squinting at the pastel bottles. "Something really fucking fruity, too, none of that Icy Mountain Sports Jizz or whateverthefuck."
"Hmm. How about mango?"
"Nope."
"Passion fruit?"
"No. Ooh, lavender body wash."
"Put it in the basket. Hey, do you use conditioner?"
"What the fuck is conditioner?"
They eventually decide on a bar of lemon-honey soap and strawberry-kiwi two-in-one shampoo. And a bottle of butterscotch bubble bath.
"I," Bert announces as they hail a taxi, "am going to be the best-smelling motherfucker in the greater Chicago area. And you are never going to stop sucking my dick."
"Mmm," Gerard says. It's not exactly a noise of assent, but that doesn't mean it won't likely be true.
***
By the time they get back to the hotel, of course, Bert is a little more focused on the cock-sucking end of the deal than the bathing end of the deal. Eventually Gerard figures it's easier to just let him strip off, since he seems determined to do it anyway; he peels himself away to the bathroom and starts running the water, liberally splashing bubble bath into the tub.
"Smells good in here," Bert says, ambling naked into the bathroom. "Like a fucking cake."
"Maybe we should get some cake later."
"Really?" Bert looks way too excited at the prospect, like little-kid excited, and it makes Gerard want to hug him and play video games with him and make out with his stupid fucking face forever. It also makes him want to wrestle him into the bath, so he does.
"Motherfucker," Bert gasps when he's fully submerged. "I think you hit my dick against the side of the tub. It's probably all crooked now. Like a tree branch."
"Funny how everything ends up being about your dick."
"Funny." Bert scowls, but purrs when Gerard starts working the shampoo through his hair, carefully massaging Bert's scalp with his fingertips. Gerard makes him lean back, cups his hands and pours water over his head, carefully avoiding his eyes. (Because if he knows Bert- and he does- he's the kind of guy who'll yell and curse and whine if he gets soap in his eyes.) Then he scoops up some bubbles and gives him a foam beard because, fuck it, he went to art school and damn if bubble bath isn't a totally versatile artistic medium.
"So do I look like fucking Santa Claus or not?" Bert asks. And he does, kind of, but like a fucked up scary Santa Claus who's offering some poor innocent kid roast haunch of Rudolph.
"You look like a pedophile," Gerard says. "Like the creepy old guy who hangs out at the mall and waits for lost kids to sit next to him on the Cinnabon bench."
Bert laughs, then closes his eyes and hums. "The water is warm. And wet. And warm."
"Yeah, baths are like that."
"Maybe I should get baths more. I mean, as long as they smell good and are warm and end in you sucking my dick. It doesn't hurt anymore, by the way."
"Good." Gerard reaches for the soap and lathers it on Bert's shoulders, feeling him shudder and sink backwards. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly curved and he's got this beautiful blissed-out look on his face that makes Gerard think longingly of the sketchbook he left in his suitcase, and he's almost made up his mind to go and get it when Bert's eyes shoot open and he grabs Gerard and pulls him, fully-clothed, into the water. Soap gets in his eyes and foam bath gets into his mouth and by the time he's got it cleared out Bert's yelling, "See how you like being clean, asshole!"
If it was anyone else Gerard might be pissed, at least a little, but it's Bert and he doesn't even consider it. Instead he pushes the hair out of his eyes and rests against Bert's chest, feeling his jeans soak up roughly half the bath water. They won't be dry by tomorrow, and he's only got one pair, and he doesn't give an actual fuck right now because the water's warm and so is Bert and maybe one of these days they'll make a thing out of bathing together and even buy a towel set or a rubber duck or something. So what if it isn't likely, a guy can dream.
"I was going to come in eventually," he says, bracing his feet against the faucet. Bert's got that smirk again, like he thinks he's bested the whole fucking world. "I mean, I would've taken my clothes off first, but..."
Bert reaches up and pulls his head closer and his hands are moving, and it's strange and beautiful and fucking good, like him.
"No time for that," Bert says against his mouth, and Gerard is about to protest, he really is, but Bert's fingers are stroking music on his sides and his eyes are half-closed and he smells like a thousand different things, fruit and soap and sweat but mostly just Bert. That's the part that smells the best, he thinks, and so the fuck what if he's too far gone. It feels good, and that's what matters.
***
"Hey, Gerard," Bert says later when they're both mostly clean and smelling like butterscotch and there's Loony Tunes on TV and Gerard's brushing Bert's hair for what is by all evidence the first time in fucking years. "Do you wanna buy a rubber duck with me tomorrow?"
Gerard stares at him and thinks, holy shit, I'm in love.
"Yeah," he says when he figures he can trust his voice again, "yeah, okay," and Bert curls up into his side and closes his eyes and they fall asleep that way, the TV still on, their fingers tangled together.