Frank is happy and high on music and life and the stage and the show. Sweat is soaking his hair and his clothes and his fingers feel raw from playing and his throat hurts from screaming into the mic, and he feels good. He feels great. Backstage is a madhouse of bodies and shouting and he can't stop grinning. He wants a Red Bull, he wants a bunk, he wants a fucking shower.
He yells that over his shoulder to Bob, who waves him off, and Frank heads - with purpose, the only way to make your way through the mess of backstage - to find some kind of source of running water. The idea of an actual hot shower with some sort of privacy is beyond a figment of his fucking imagination at this point, but some of these venues at least have locker-room-style showers and he will sniff that sucker out if he has to.
He tries three dressing rooms and two bathrooms and one door that leads to an alley and, apparently, is hooked up to an alarm system, which sends security running right the fuck over to where Frank is standing, hands up in the air, all, "I did it. I did it. It was me." He backs away quickly as they get to work on disabling the alarm, yelling apologies behind him as he scoots off to continue on his search.
He gives a long hallway a shot - door locked, door locked, supply closet, score, dressing room! He slips inside quickly and - oh.
Gerard is there. Gerard is - Gerard is saying, fiercely, "Shut the door."
Which Frank does, dumbly, behind him, not thinking till after it already latches that maybe Gerard hadn't meant come in. But he's in, and his back is against the door, partly because his knees are maybe a little weak, but partly to make sure it stays shut against anyone else looking for a shower or a couch or a quiet place to…do what Gerard is doing.
Frank presses harder against the door. Gerard has his tight black jeans shoved down his thighs. He has his cock in his hand, and he is braced back against the counter that runs below the mirror along the wall. And he's jerking himself off - he'd barely even paused when Frank had stumbled into the room. He's sweaty - his thin t-shirt is soaked with it - and his hair is in his face, only falling forward again each time he tosses it back. He's still wearing his fucking jacket, the worn leather creaking a little bit with the movements of his hand.
Frank can't stop staring. He can't even process this in his fucking brain.
Gerard doesn't stop moving his hand, stroking it up and down, his thumb cocked out to one side, sliding against the head of his cock hard each time he goes up. He's panting, his mouth open and wet, like there's not enough air in the room.
Which maybe there isn't, because Frank can't breathe right, either. Frank is maybe losing his fucking mind here. Because holy fuck, Gerard is in front of him jerking off and it should be weird or funny or wrong, but instead it's just unbelievably fucking hot and Frank is more turned on than he's ever been in hislife, jesus christ.
Gerard's eyes are half-closed, but he's aware of Frank, Frank can see that. It clearly doesn't matter to him, though, like he's so deeply into this that he doesn't care that he has Frank as an audience. He's close, he's apparently really fucking close, biting his lip now, his eyes all glassy, and seeming not at all to mind that Frank is right there, watching like it's his favorite movie of all time.
Gerard doesn't even slow down – his feet are braced against the floor and he's, like, arching into the strokes. Frank can't move, he can't even swallow, he can only watch as Gerard gasps, his head thrown back, his eyes clenched shut, his hand clinging hard to the counter behind him. Frank just watches, breathless, as Gerard comes, hard, all over his hand, fuck, all over the floor.
