It totally wasn't his fault, ok? Frank would like that on record. Because it wasn't. He's not Gerard, who's more than happy to sit up all night, all on his own, just... thinking, or doing whatever the fuck it is that he does all night when he doesn't feel like sleeping. It's hard on him; the responsibility wears him down, and being Party Poison all the time is a strain. Underneath the plastic mask and the layers of grease and sweat and motor oil and the asshole act, Gerard's still got that whole introverted, artistic thing going on, which Frank totally respects but can't really pull off himself. He tried it once, waiting for his epiphany or at least a vision of glory or something, and lasted about half an hour before declaring himself bored out of his skull.
Whatever. Essentially, what it comes down to is that at night, Gerard gets all introspective and tragically insomniatic and Frank's just restless and easily bored.
With a huff of irritation, Frank rolls off his rickety, uncomfortable cot and pads silently (filthy socks instead of bare feet, because those spiders get fuckingeverywhere, seriously) down the darkened hall to Gerard's room. The door's just an inch or two open, spilling light into the corridor. Frank hesitates, conflicted. If Gerard's up, he leaves the door open, like an invitation. If he's asleep, he turns the fucking light off.
Knowing Gerard, thinks Frank wryly, this is probably some kind of grand statement about the dichotomy of good and evil and its manifestation in this fucked-up semi-apocalypse thing they've found themselves in. A door is never just a door, even when it's ajar.
But there's still something that stops him just walking right in there. Unconsciously adopting his best stealthy sneaking, he crosses the few remaining feet between himself and the door, then stops dead.
What he can see of the picture laid out on the other side of the door hits him square in the chest, and he sort of forgets to breathe – because, seriously, Jesus fucking Christ.
Gerard's right on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, one hand curled around his cock while the other hand tenses convulsively beside him in the thin, dirty sheet. His head is bowed slightly, streaks of obnoxious red falling in front of his eyes as his breathing comes fast and ragged. His rhythm falters and he kicks those ridiculously tight jeans past his ankles, then a quick, rough twist of his wrist makes his breath hitch deafeningly in the heavy, stifling quiet. Frank's kind of forgotten he even exists as he stands there behind the door, feeling every bitten-off gasp go straight to his dick and vaguely thinking that this is sleazy and so wrong and also possibly the single hottest thing he's ever seen. Living like this, they've all seen each other undressed plenty of times and it's usually no big deal, but this is different. Frank's brain has narrowed right down to one track, and the thought that he should leave now stirs uneasily in the back of his mind but doesn't quite register properly.
Gerard starts to work his hand faster, brushing his thumb over the slit and running pre-come over his length. He bites his lip and tips his head back, eyes closed and lips parted as his free hand twists in the sheets, and, fuck, definitely the hottest thing Frank's ever seen. Without thinking or looking away, Frank snakes a hand down to his crotch and begins to palm his own growing hard-on, biting back a groan of oh-fuck-yes-this-forever. A faint sheen of sweat covers Gerard's pale chest as it rises and falls erratically and a thin keening noise escapes him; he's close, and Frank's glad he's keeping a lid on the noises so as not to wake the others, because just the thought of the sounds he'd be making otherwise is nearly enough to have Frank coming in his pants on the spot.
