Frank's on fire tonight, spitting venom like screaming hard enough will kick his demons out of him. He's always been the kind of guy to throw himself into things headfirst with everything he's got, sometimes literally, but this is-- fucking hell, this is something else. Gerard's been counting down the days until he could come out and see Frank on tour with his new band, obsessively trawling YouTube for grainy unofficial videos recorded by the kids at the shows. If he's honest, he's jacked off a few times sitting in front of his laptop to shitty low-resolution videos of Frank ripping himself apart onstage on the screen. Well. Okay, maybe more than a few times.
None of the videos have got anything on this, though. Frank's always seemed like he's got too much life in him for just one person. He's fucking electric, Gerard can't take his eyes off him. He's sweating through his shirt, the one Gerard remembers watching him draw the Ø symbol on. Gerard wants to peel that stupid shirt off him and lick over all his tatts, re-familiarize himself with all the shapes and the colors.
Frank's down on his knees, pouring his heart and soul out with his eyes screwed shut and the mic cable looped around his neck. There's so much anger in him, he's screaming like it's burning him up from the inside out.
It's fucking hot.
Gerard knows Frank's still getting used to the weight he's put on. He squirms and whines and tries to distract Gerard whenever he goes for the flesh that spills over the waistband of his jeans, but Gerard not-so-secretly kind of loves it. He likes the idea of Frank being able to hold him down and manhandle him, push him around and use him however he wants.
Gerard fidgets around on his barstool, getting comfortable and twisting the straw in his soda between his fingers while he watches the show.
*
Afterwards, he stays at the bar while the crowd filters out. They're all sweaty and grinning in that loose, easy way that Gerard recognizes as the post-show high. He feels a sudden, unexpected stab of pride that Frank's doing what he's best at and giving people that buzz. Frank belongs on the stage, with or without a guitar over his shoulder.
Gerard orders another drink while he waits. The bartender's young and cute, just the type Gerard would have tried to pick up for the night before he finally got it together with Frank. He's been watching Gerard all night, probably trying to work out where he knows him from. Gerard's dyed his hair brown again and let it grow out of the Black Parade crop, and he's dressed as normally as he ever is in jeans and an oversized hoodie. He didn't want to get mobbed, not tonight. He's glad his cunning disguise seems to be working so far.
"Waiting for someone?" Cute Bartender asks, and of course that's the moment when a hand falls on Gerard's shoulder and a hot body presses up close behind him. Gerard's heartbeat quickens. It's Frank, he's right there and Gerard just wants to fucking touch him, wants to cling to him and bury his face in Frank's neck and lose himself in the way he smells.
"Making friends, huh?" Frank fucking purrs. Gerard immediately starts shaking his head to deny it, but Frank digs his fingers warningly into Gerard's shoulder and he stops. He sees the bartender register the possessive gesture, the little light bulb that appears above his head as he puts two and two together.
"You know something?" Frank's mouth is hot by Gerard's ear. "Fuck going for dinner, I'm not hungry. Let's get out of here."
He puts his other hand on the small of Gerard's back and shoves him towards the door. The hotel is just around the corner from the club and Frank walks fast, keeping his fingers hooked into the waistband of Gerard's jeans. Frank's pissed off enough as it is and Gerard doesn't want to make it worse by speaking first, but the anticipation is almost physically painful.
