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—Prelude—
They’re eating some guy when Gerard suggests it. Clears his throat, licks blood off his teeth, and says, hey, Frankie, don’t you ever get horny when we eat?
Which is how they get here, with Frank struggling Gerard out of his clothing while they’re kissing, all bloody teeth to bloody fuckin’ teeth. He shoves at Gerard and goes toppling over onto him too until they’re pressed together in the nest of dirty laundry on Gerard’s bed, Gerard’s thighs squeezing at his hips when he pushes himself up long enough to toss hair out of his face.
Of course, Frank’s dead but not that dead: he takes any chance he gets to look at Gerard. Really drink him in. Ha.
A pale, radiant thing tucked into the greasy, cold mass of worn clothes, surrounded by the overwhelming smell of sweat and dried blood and him, that smell that’s driven Frank crazy since before he’d turned; Frank used to think it was human, that smell. Now he knows that whatever Gerard was-before-and-still-is, he’s undefinable by category. He’s licking the flaking blood off his lips and grinding up into Frank’s crotch and tugging a little at his own hair, his fingers disappearing needily into the inky black, and he may be a vampire but he’s always going to be that peculiar something else first.
Frank doesn’t have a clue what that something else actually is, but he does know that it’s really fuckin’ hot.
“How am I supposed to blow you when your dick is all the way over there,” Gerard asks, and he’s trying to do his God-complex-high-and-mighty-mega-bitchy thing except he just sounds kinda desperate, and Frank’s been dying—un-dying? Dying again—for too long now to get picky.
He’s about to say something clever and sexy like well, get down here, or whatever, but Gerard rolls his eyes up and starts talking again.
“I keep having this real weirdo dream, ya know, where—where you’re smoking and I’m sorta smoking your cigarette with you, right?”
With all the intelligence of an extremely horny vampire, Frank licks his lips and grunts out an empty sort of, “Huh?”
“Yeah,” Gerard says, as if Frank is following.
In fact, he’s doing his best to ignore whatever the hell Gerard is talking about long enough to get to the good part, so he goes for the distraction, nuzzling into Gerard’s skin, down across his shoulder until he reaches where the human-smell is strongest, rank and damp amid the sparse hair and soft crease of Gerard’s arm. Makes Gerard laugh a little, which is good, because at least then he’s not talking about—
“It’s gotta be a sex dream, I think, except it’s, like, smoke down my throat instead of jizz.”
Frank drags his face out of Gerard’s skin, suddenly way, way more interested in Gerard’s rambling. “What?”
“Like I’m you but I’m also blowing you.” Gerard rolls his eyes, eyelashes curling up to heaven in a frustrated sort of prayer as he says, “Just roll over and I’ll show you.”
And Frank’s not following about the cigarettes or the being him thing, but he knows when it’s time to let Gerard boss him around a little and that time is now—now, and every other time he might get a blowjob out of it—which just means that he obeys, pulling back and rolling over into Gerard’s dirty laundry and grinning as Gerard settles between his legs and pushes his hair out of his face and leans in.
His lips bump clumsily against Frank’s crotch, mouthing at him, his hands cold where he wraps his fingers around Frank’s cock and finally opens his damn jaw wide enough to choke around the head and fuck, Frank remembers being brought back to life, the crackling, white-hot heat of Death’s fingernails clawing at him as he was ripped out of It’s clutch, and this feels a lot like that.
Exuberant. Life itself rushing back into him. So fucking good.
That thing they both felt, once.
Gerard’s nose presses to his stomach before he pulls back, jerking Frank off with these twitchy little motions as he sniffles, clears his throat, and says, “See?”
That’s when Gerard leans back down to lick at Frank’s dick like he didn’t get enough a second ago.
And it totally shouldn’t be possible that Frank gets what Gerard’s talking about, but he kinda fuckin’ does, hips pulsing up into Gerard’s grip as they both moan these cut-off kind of moans, shared immortality in every twist of Gerard’s corpse-frigid hand against Frank’s dick that only works this much because he’d died half hard and kills to stay this way.
Pleasure-able.
Gerard’s head between his legs.
He scrunches up as if on instinct, grabbing onto Gerard’s greasy hair and tugging, torn between dragging Gerard back to his cock or up to his mouth before Gerard decides for him, surging up to press their lips together in a sloppy, slutty fever while his thighs clench down around Frank’s dick and suddenly Frank’s tasting blood and smoke and himself on Gerard’s tongue and swallowing their mutual moans while he ruts up into Gerard’s dead-soft skin.
And, like, this is what the immortality is about.
Cumming into the crease of Gerard’s thighs.
Right over the immortal, ever-loving bite.
—1—
It’s one of those weird, Twilight-level myths that vampires can’t go into Churches. Hell, the communion burns, sure, but there’s nothing inherently blessed about the building.
Holy ground might very well exist somewhere, but that place is not New Jersey.
Frank knows it’s a myth about the Church thing, but he still feels God’s palm raised above them like a great big fly swatter, so he just waits outside for Gerard to finish, huddled under his umbrella, smoking and eyeing the devout as they walk to their cars. Looking for a sinner God hasn’t cleansed enough, yet. Someone whose blood is untainted with the eucharist.
Anyone who didn’t really drink the wine.
—
For Gerard, the Mass passes in a thick, dull haze. He looks up at The Lord, and The Lord looks back, His palms open, His eyes half lidded like Frank gets when he’s full. Satisfied and yet—as always—still wanting more.
Gerard doesn’t say Amen when the service concludes because the word burns on his tongue like too-hot coffee or another communion wafer. He just swallows down the rising bile of Christ and leaves feeling like he always does: dissatisfied, but in that saintly sort of way. A silent martyr opening his umbrella into the freezing cold. Like he’s real pretty, too. Saint Sebastian or something.
Frank’s a dark smudge against the cloud-covered afternoon. He’s smiling, chewing gum and showing off his teeth to the congregation so they’re all giving him a wide berth. “How’s the tongue?”
“Doing better than my stomach. I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
Frank reaches for him, and Gerard presses their hands together, palm to fly-swatter palm, callouses to fingerprints, this matching decomposition; bruises in their fingers where the blood they eat begins to pool. No heartbeats.
Nothing about them will ever really get to leave.
“That’s kind of the whole thing about communion, isn’t it,” Frank asks, looping their arms together tightly, pressing his frigid hand into Gerard’s pocket. They can share one umbrella now, and Gerard’s taller so Frank closes his and gets to do nothing except enjoy the shade while he continues, “The Good Lord always comin’ back up. Resurrection and shit.”
“Well, yeah, but I think that’s more like vampirism than indigestion.”
“Wow, I knew you were real vain, baby, but comparing yourself to Jesus?” Frank tsks loudly, shaking his head, and he’s real sneaky with it too because it takes Gerard a second to realize that Frank’s used the movement as a disguise to rest his head on Gerard’s shoulder, and now he’s keeping it there, all heavy and clinging, the hand in Gerard’s front pocket squeezing his thigh as they walk.
—
Gerard and Mikey’s apartment is technically the basement floor of what used to be a bigger house. It’s divided up unevenly; they’re always fighting with the neighbors about the hot water bill.
They chose it mainly ‘cause it’s easy to keep light out of the basement, and even though Mikey doesn’t need it he says he doesn’t mind. Right after they’d signed the lease, Gerard spent the night plastering newspaper over the high window in his bedroom, pushing his bookcase in front of it for good measure. Now, the only light he gets is the dim gold of dusk leaking around the dark particleboard edges. He would have to press his back flat to the wall for the sunlight to hurt. He’d have to be pressed.
He’d said that, once, and Frank had just laughed and licked his lips, tugging the brassy curve of his lip ring in-between his teeth.
They shuffle down the concrete steps, Frank blowing a half-hearted bubble with his gum and gagging at the smell, exaggerated and a little mean in a way Gerard can’t quite wrap his head around. He wants to slap the shit out of Frank sometimes, but, then again, it really does stink.
“Fuck, Gerard, can’t you take him to a groomer?”
“I’m right here,” Mikey says, and he’s pressed so far into the corner of the couch that even Gerard missed him at first glance. “And I’m not a dog, I’m a werewolf. I can shower.”
“Yeah, dude, that’s my point.” Frank drops into the armchair on the other side of the room, loudly chewing. “You can but you don’t.”
Gerard, used to both the wet dog smell and the ever cyclical nature of this particular conversation, sits on the couch and interrupts with, “Is Ray here?”
“He’s coming. We ran out of cigarettes and that beer he likes.”
Franks snorts. “Let me guess, Power Pup?”
“Fuck off, man.”
“Yeah, you’d better be nice once Ray gets back,” Gerard says. “You don’t want him to get pissed enough to bite you, ‘cause then you’ll be one of those weird half-vampire half-werewolf things, and that’s, like, really not a good look.”
“Thanks, Gerard. I’m so glad I can always count on you looking out for how hot I am.” And then Frank giggles, gum poking out between his fangs, and Gerard doesn’t get to feel the emotion that inspires long enough for him to name it.
“I’d bite you if I could,” Mikey says, and they all know that he can bite but it wouldn’t actually do anything other than, you know, hurt. Then he yawns really wide just to show Frank his big teeth.
They’re almost done with the same fight about what to watch on TV that they always have when Ray comes in, and Gerard could kiss him just for stopping them before they start the whole cycle over again.
He really could kiss him when Ray brandishes a plastic bag from the video store, solving the whole issue with the masterpiece that is Alien, and Gerard must be a little too obvious about the whole being down to kiss Ray thing because after Ray high fives him and shuffles over to sit between him and Mikey, Frank stands, stretches enough to show his happy trail to the whole room, and then drops himself down practically in Gerard’s lap.
—
After the movie Mikey and Ray head out, doing whatever werewolves do at like 4pm, and it’s not quite dark out which means Gerard and Frank are just poking around Gerard’s room like neither of them have seen this stuff before.
The sun’s right at the perfect angle, so that golden light is coming in. Just a little, like an eclipse, except the obscuring object is a bookshelf stacked with comic books and empty soda cans and the resin bat paperweight that Mikey had given him for his first re-birthday.
Frank sets down Gerard’s sketchbook, apparently bored of looking for whatever it is he always looks for in Gerard’s drawings, and then he turns, leans back against the desk, and says, “Hey, you wanna try something?”
“That depends on what it is.”
“How do you feel about making out?”
He can’t help but laugh, nervous in the way that only Frank can make him feel, which is, like, nervous in a good way. Like something really cool is about to happen. “You know how I feel about it.”
Which of course means positively, and sometimes very positively depending on the day, and especially when it comes to Frank, and even more especially when it comes to Frank covered in blood, which should be gross but instead it’s just cool and a little scary and really really hot.
He shakes off the image of Frank covered in blood and asks, “Is kissing your idea?”
“No, stupid. Well, yeah, but also no. Why do you eat the communion wafers when they burn your tongue?”
“It’s—I don’t know, I guess I always assumed that being turned into a vampire would, like, make me not-Catholic anymore, but here I am, and I’m still, like, pretty fuckin’ Catholic, at least as much as I was before, so I think maybe they’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Oh, so it’s not a you being a masochist thing? Answer quick ‘cause we’re running out of daylight.”
“I—What? Are you trying to kill me?” Gerard presses a hand into his hair, cold and greasy and poking into his eyeballs. “…Again?”
“No, obviously not, dude. I’m just thinking maybe it’d be fun to, like, make out and I can push you against the wall where the light is, ‘cause I bet the newspapers and shit you’ve got glued up there will make it hurt but not, like, that much.”
Gerard goes to say no, because that’s obviously the normal, rational thing to do, except then he looks at the edge of the eclipse and thinks about Jesus and blood-wine and the little thrill that comes with that holy burning sip and the way Frank gets when he buries the cold point of his nose in Gerard’s neck and fuck it—he says Okay.
Frank’s pushing him against the wall before he can say the second syllable, so Gerard just says oh and then he’s getting kissed, and Frank’s kissing like he’s hungry—he probably is, both of them hissing when Frank’s tooth catches on his lip and makes him bleed the blood of the last guy they ate.
Blood that gets to bleed twice. Another thing that’s like Jesus, which either means ‘He really is everywhere, including, like, in Gerard’s unbeating heart’ or some bullshit, or, considerably more likely, ‘Gerard’s God complex is getting worse.’
The kissing, as always, is really really good, but after they’re done being distracted by that initial really really good-ness they realize that the sun won’t do shit through Gerard’s hoodie, so Frank sneaks his cold hands up under the fabric and over Gerard’s ribs and Jesus fucking Christ those callouses should tickle but instead they’re fucking perfect every time.
Together they wrangle the hoodie off and to the floor, and Gerard squirms against the wall for a second before Frank starts kissing him again, squeezing his waist and dragging him a little further left until the diffused sunlight hits the very top of his rounded shoulder.
“Shit,” he whines, a white-hot burst of pain layering over the sudden twinging of the muscle underneath.
“How’s it feel,” Frank asks, mouthing along Gerard’s jawline, licking behind Gerard’s ear and over where his pulse used to be and down to his collarbone and everywhere and fuck.
“It—“ His instinct is to say it hurts. To whine and maybe even beg a little, to push Frank across the room and cover back up with his hoodie so he can’t see the skin that’s definitely got to be burnt and sizzling by now.
He risks a glance.
His shoulder looks bruised, the same as his hands and feet, but not burnt. There’s just a reddish-purplish bloom beneath the unbroken skin. He pulls out of the light, presses at the mottling, groans at the feeling of a bone-deep ache. “It’s actually not horrible,” he says finally.
“You want more,” Frank says, and Gerard thinks that should have been a question, shouldn’t it? as he feels the words scrape along his jugular along with Frank’s teeth.
Which, unfortunately, puts him in the exact right position to see the light go out. “We’re out of luck,” Gerard says, cupping Frank’s head to push him away, guiding him to look at the darkened wall.
“Goddamnit,” Frank huffs, looking up at Gerard with wide eyes, his lips still shiny. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been mad about the sun going down.”
Like most extremely weird, potentially insane, and very creative undead creatures, it’s unclear what exactly makes those electrical connections spark in Gerard’s brain, but suddenly The HorninessTM is overshadowed by the need to write this thought down before it’s drowned out beneath the next one. “Scooch over,” Gerard says, reaching for the semi-used pile of laundry on the bed, tugging a t-shirt over his head as Frank loudly proclaims his disapproval.
“More clothing is never the answer. You should know this by now. Besides, man, what happened to you know how I feel about kissing, huh?”
Gerard ignores him ’cause he is still horny beneath all the brainstorming but he really, really doesn’t want to forget, craning to see his notebook and his shoulder at the same time.
The bruise is settling, violent looking even as the majority of the pain slips away.
It’s given him a great idea for a song.
—Interlude—
Pete’s here, and they’re supposed to be writing or something, but Ray’s the only one still fucking around with his guitar while the rest of them are sprawled out and trying not to act as drunk as they are. For some reason, Pete’s shifted into his big-hairy-wolf-form just to lay his head in Mikey’s lap, which Gerard is really trying not to think about because Mikey’s, like, hardcore smoking with one hand while he scratches Pete behind the ears with the other, and Gerard’s just resigned to the fact that it’s either werewolves or bassists who are just fuckin’ weird.
So he’s focused on Ray instead, and Ray’s busting out a melody line like he’s fucking Michelangelo, carving the goddamn music out of thin air. Gerard sees him in comic-book ink, the energy of the curls covering his face, the chiseled, intentional lines of his hands.
“Do you guys ever think about, like, how we were human and stuff before?” It’s actually not even what he’d been thinking—Ray’s hands, remember?—but somehow the two ideas had merged for a second and only the weird, drunken-pseudo-profound thing came out.
“Huh?” Frank looks at him, eyelashes fluttering, and Gerard recognizes that face. Like you’re more interesting when you’re sober, or something. A lack of interest in the eyes. “I mean, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes.”
Gerard, of course, barrels on. “It’s weird right? I think it’s ‘cause it’s not that different.”
“…More murder, though,” Frank says, and then he’s not looking at Gerard anymore, and Ray’s guitar starts to sound like the theme from Vertigo. Pete’s snoring like a dog in his sleep.
“Sure, yeah, aside from that. The rest was mostly just remembering a new set of rules, though, right? Then after awhile it just became a habit. Or something.”
“Second nature?” That’s Mikey, who’s finally stopped smoking and staring at Ray and petting long enough to join the conversation, and as always he’s got the best possible timing because as Gerard turns to look at him he forgets that he’s mid-freak-out about Frank.
“Some of it, anyway,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like I spent a lot of time in the sun to begin with, so that’s never really been an issue.”
Frank snorts, and he kicks the side of Gerard’s sneaker, which means either he’s forgiven Gerard for not being interesting anymore or he’s drunk enough to have forgotten the whole thing like Gerard’s about to again. “Let me guess, you’re mostly upset about not having a reflection.”
“First of all, fuck you, motherfucker. Second of all, you’re forgetting garlic.”
Mikey passes his cigarette to Ray, waking Pete up as the music pauses long enough for Ray to take a drag. “It’s not like you can’t eat it.”
“Sometimes a girl would like to enjoy some pizza without shitting herself, Mikey.”
“You know what we should do,” Frank says, and when Gerard turns to look at him again he’s very close, like nose-to-nose close, and he’s smiling and glancing down at Gerard’s lips. “We should open a vampire pizza place.”
“…What?” (Given the proximity, Gerard’s weird-insane-creative mind has very quickly taken a detour away from the conversation.)
“Open all night, closed all day, and no garlic.”
“Frank, man…That’s brilliant.”
“Guys, there’s no way that works,” Ray says. “None of us can cook.”
—2—
Frank bounds down the stairs into the apartment, closes his umbrella, hops up against the back of the couch to make sure Gerard’s alone, and then he says, “Hey. You want to try again?”
There must be something wrong with him, because he knows what Frank’s talking about somewhere in-between the words want and to. “The sun’s not setting, yet,” he laughs out, and it sounds weak even as he says it, like one of those wine coolers or an anemic’s artery.
“I mean, it will be in, like, three minutes. I even set an alarm so I’d get here on time, so…”
Gerard sets his coffee aside, considers the visible energy coiling up in Frank’s stance, and says, “Well, I mean, I guess…since you went to all that trouble…”
—
There’s something stained-glass about standing there pressed against the wall, waiting for the light. Frank isn’t even touching him yet, just looking, which is good but not as good as touching, and maybe it’s the God complex thing again but Gerard thinks, maybe, this is how He feels about casual believers. Seen, but not spoken to. Believed in without prayer.
They’ve torn a tiny hole in the newspaper just to make it more dangerous. An added fuckin’ bonus: it’s one of those rare, cloudless days.
And then Frank’s dropping to his knees, and Gerard’s not thinking about anything other than those cold fingers unbuttoning his jeans and pulling the denim apart until the zipper gives up and fuck, that’s Frank’s warm, wet mouth pressing against his cock through his briefs.
“Sorry,” Frank says, and he’s all muffled since his mouth is almost-full of underwear but-not-quite. “Can’t wait.”
Gerard would say something witty here, except all he can think is an endless litany of fuckfuckfuck, so maybe it’s Frank that should have the God complex considering Gerard’s the one resorting to prayer. Frank’s kissing his dick through the fabric, licking hot and wet and hungry until both of them remember they’ve got hands and Gerard shoves his fingers into Frank’s hair while Frank fucking finally shoves his underwear down enough to wrap his lips around the head of Gerard’s cock.
He may be perpetually corpse-soft, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel fuckin’ good.
That’s when the light comes in, hitting the same shoulder as last time, searing over the barely healed bruise that had only started to go away when they’d eaten some jerk outside a bar two nights ago.
It hurts way worse than before.
It burns.
Frank shoves his head forward, and Gerard’s dick slides down his throat and his hands tighten in Frank’s hair and Frank moans like the pain-slut they apparently both are because shit, the light hurts so bad and Gerard’s only getting hornier, groaning at the dueling sensations fighting to overwhelm him.
He looks down, and Frank looks up, and Frank’s drooling on his cock and moaning around him and the vibration makes his fucking legs shake. The sun bores a hole through his shoulder and the side of his neck where Frank likes to lick, and for a second the wires cross in his brain and it’s the sun wrapped in a blistering fever around his cock and Frank drooling on his throat, and just like that he’s cumming; pressing Frank’s head close to him as Frank chokes, pulls off, shuts his eyes, and nuzzles into Gerard’s crotch like all he’s ever wanted is Gerard’s cum dripping down the side of his cheek and into his open, waiting mouth.
Communion.
And then the sun goes down, and Gerard’s left arm goes totally limp and the pain ratchets up to a hundred as his body realizes that it wasn’t actually part of the orgasm sensation, which means he ends up on his knees with Frank, trying stupidly to wipe cum off Frank’s face while Frank freaks out and apologizes and says shit, shit, babe, we’ll get you something to eat and it’ll be fine.
Gerard nods, stunned into silence by how bad it hurts, except Frank’s jeans are looking, like, super tight, even though they always do, and Gerard’s still got some of those wires crossed, enough to think of Frank as someone he owes something to, so before either of them can get up and get killin’, Gerard takes his cum-sticky hand and shoves it down Frank’s pants.
—3—
It’s not like Frank thinks about being immortal all the time. There’s still plenty of shit that can kill him, anyway, so it’s mostly just not having to worry about the whole dying of old-man-natural-causes thing, and he’s still mentally, like, twenty-five or twenty-six or however old he was when he got turned, and either way that’s not the age when guys are usually sitting there worried about dementia or an enlarged prostate.
It usually suits him pretty well, not thinking about immortality.
Except he’s really pondering the whole eternal life thing right at this moment, just not his; it’s Gerard, Gerard with his face turned up like a fucking angel, blood red lips and black eyelashes and corpse-white skin all soft and smooth and flushed from the guy they’re eating. Gerard, who looks today exactly like he did when Frank had looked at him however many years ago and thought holy shit, I really really want him to look like that forever, and that’s when he’d stuck his fangs into the soft crease of Gerard’s inner thigh and gotten exactly what he wanted.
“Is it working?” Gerard asks, and it takes Frank a second to remember the whole sunlight-BDSM thing because he’s too mesmerized by the way Gerard delicately licks blood off his teeth until he contorts to see his own shoulder.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, dude, it’s lookin’ better. How’s it feel?”
“Bad. Like, really fuckin’ bad, but also less bad than before, so that’s…good.”
Frank snorts, propping the fresh corpse up a little higher in his arms. “Hey, you were feeling good enough to jerk me off earlier, so you must be feeling pretty great now.”
“Shut up,” Gerard says, and his voice has gotten all high-pitched and embarrassed, and he’s really flushed, which makes sense considering he’s just drank an entire body’s worth of blood, but, like, it still looks like embarrassment. “That was common courtesy, motherfucker.”
“I don’t think anything about this is common, but okay.” And then Frank loses another minute just watching blood trickle down Gerard’s chest. It’s not like Gerard normally takes his shirt off to eat people, just that he’d wanted to make sure the burn was actually going to go away, so Frank offered to restrain the dude they chose while Gerard did half a goddamn strip tease, tucked his hair behind his ear, and leaned close enough into Frank’s lap that Frank forgot the squirming against his dick was the soon-to-be-dead guy and not Gerard.
It made for a confusing not-harder-than-usual-hard-on, he’ll tell you that much. With Gerard moaning softly into his ear as he drank, and the corpse getting all cold and weird and twitching in-between them—well, Frank’s not really religious, but he thinks he understands, in that moment, why Gerard keeps going back to confession.
(Not like he’s ready to repent, or anything, but like, that’s gotta be a fucked up perpetual-boner to have, right? And, more importantly, it’d be really fun to traumatize the priest.)
Gerard runs his hand over his shoulder, and Frank follows those bony, bruised fingers as they press experimentally into the pristine looking skin.
“I think I’m fine,” Gerard says, and he sounds just a little bit disappointed underneath the relief, which is how Frank knows that he was right about Gerard being a masochist after all, except that wasn’t that hard of a leap to make in the first place considering the amount of times Gerard has cum as soon as Frank’s teeth sink into him.
“You’d be down to do it again, then?”
“Maybe. Not, like, soon, though. Also you were totally the one going down.”
“Funny.” Frank finally shifts, dumping the corpse out of his arms and onto the ground, which, of course, reveals the priest-traumatizing wet spot on the front of his jeans. “Feel like returning the favor?”
—
Frank’s noticed that Gerard’s got this thing where, if you’re talking, he’s looking at you. Really looking. Like he’s trying to crawl inside your eyeballs or something.
So when Frank leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs wide enough for Gerard to fit between, he fuckin’ notices the eye contact; the way Gerard glances up at him with every move of his slender, purplish fingers. Not like he’s waiting for permission or anything, but like this is the part that really gets him off. Frank’s dick is in his hands, sure, but it’s Frank’s reaction that he’s watching. Something there that Frank can see repeated in all Gerard’s artwork.
An endless ache. That rapid jolt of pleasure when the pupils shudder-shrink to pinpricks and then burst to black.
It’s Frank’s face, over and over and over again, and he only knows that because it must be.
It’s the same face on Gerard.
Gerard’s lips wrap around him, sucking at his half-hard flesh, and Frank keens into it, thinking—with the last of his ability to think—that he’ll give Gerard some real good references this time. Something that’ll make it onto the album cover.
Blood.
The same blood, between them. Their tongues lapping from the same wound.
Blood streaming from their mouths like smoke.
That dream, or whatever. Gerard’s cock in his mouth, always soft since Frank got him after he’d already come down. A cigarette they share that’s called immortality. A million nights just like this one, smoking it down to the butt.
He tangles his hands in Gerard’s hair, losing himself in the feeling of that wet tongue and those barely covered fangs and the way Gerard sounds as he loses himself too, and it all becomes too much to stop the pleasure from overtaking him.
Cum slips past Gerard’s lips before his tongue darts out to chase it. Blood. Smoke. Jizz. They always have to share, right?
It’s not like Frank thinks about being immortal all the time, but he’s thinking about it now, dragging Gerard up to kiss him hard and sloppy and wet—until Frank licks into Gerard’s mouth and finds it tastes exactly like his own.