"Fucking teenagers,” Frank seethes, pulling at the black noose his asshole of a manager demands he wear. He transferred from Our Lady two years ago; Frank thought he was done with this shit thereafter, but life’s just full of surprises. It isn’t so much of the idea of the uniform. Frank would be much more content in a yuppie Pizza Hut polo and matching hat. It’s how the damned code mirrors Catholic school, and if that’s immature, Frank doesn’t fucking care, this steaming piece of turd is point-blank stupid. The uniform getup in its entirety – the ironed-pressed shirts, slacks, and ties – is ridiculous. He puts the outfit on and he’s fourteen years old again, forced on the kid’s table at his aunt’s wedding, all wrapped up in an ill-fitting casing of itchy polyester and squeaky dress shoes.

In their defense, the purpose of the dress code is to give off a professional “classy” atmosphere. They would have pulled it off if the patrons would just look past the fact that the diner was a fucking dive, greasy tables with greasier teenagers working the grill, and its own serial killer back alley about a hop, skip, and a holler away. Food sucked and the music blew – the only reason the business had income was because of the loitering high school kids, which, funny coincidence, were the same snot-nosed rich assfuckers from his very own school. If he hears “hey look, it’s Faggot Frank!” one more goddamn time, so help him God, the manager can take his two weeks’ notice if it means he’ll turn a blind eye to the pummeling of Joey Clark’s smug face behind the dumpsters.

There’s a break in the battle between his rage and frustration
(no, smashing the next bowl of chili over his annoyingly zealous coworker’s head would not help business – but, what the fuck, who gets that excited over some brat’s first birthday?),
and it’s the right amount of time for him to recall the crushed cardboard box where a vice beckons. Lung cancer won’t kick in until seventy, right? Not that he’s gonna live that long anyway.

He has to crook his fingers in and pinch with the nails he doesn’t have for the flap to open, and much to his dismay, one lonely cigarette appears. Frank shoots a quick glance into the sky. God may be trying to save his sorry ass after all.

He smirks, huffs a light chuckle, and shakes his head. Nah, he decides. The big guy up there probably has too many more pressing issues on his plate. He should heed the warning though. Make an effort not to get lung cancer, save the ozone a world of trouble, all that third world problems bullshit.

Should, his mind reiterates. As much as he loves his mother, Frank embraces his inner asshole with arms stretched. Cigarette flaccid in the corner of his mouth, he digs into his pockets again to find that elusive Bic lighter he fucking knew wouldn’t be in these stupid pants. It’s one more thorough pat-down before he blows out a long suffering sigh of defeat, leaning back against the wall with his last smoke still dangling from his mouth. Frank’s life is a waste land and he’s giving up.

And so maybe God likes to procrastinate and miracle-up some poor bastards, his own shit and bastardly luck considering, because presto! a flame sparks out in front of his eyes. He squints at it, the hand it’s attached to, then the face attached to the hand, and almost drops his cigarette.

There’s a weird, honking laugh and Frank is fucking losing it, this is almost as ridiculous as the job occupation he keeps bitchin’ about, but that laugh sounds so attractive, god, and after a beat Frank thinks – with his heart skipping and a grand orchestra reaching its final crescendo – beautiful.

Now keep in mind, Frank knows he’s gay. And if he wasn’t, he’d be engaged to Jamia. That is, if she weren’t gayer than him. But he didn’t think he’d be gay enough to bestow a word like beautiful to describe a fellow male, maybe smoking hot and yes fuckable but never beautiful. It’s too flowery, reserved for that white guitar sat behind the glass display of the local music store and the sun rising over the Jersey shore after a whole night dedicated to good friends and good weed. Never a guy.

As it turns out though, even Frank has his exceptions. No, scratch that – it turns out the universe has its exceptions, because this guy is fucking pretty, like the kind of pretty that deserves the ‘fucking’ before it. As deserving as the pretty is, the words still fail to do him any justice. What with those hazel eyes, long eyelashes, inky black hair that screams he just got laid, and hips. Frank would like to run his hands smooth over those hips, especially where they curve out to that ass Frank hasn’t yet been graced with but he’s ninety-nine point nine percent sure it’s spectacular.

“C’mon man, don’t leave me hanging. You need a light anyways. I mean. You do, right?”

Frank gapes for a few seconds longer. He’s entranced at the way the man’s mouth shapes around the raspy words, all crooked and soft looking. Frank’s going to kick himself because it turns out he does have a type and all the physical attributes have manifested into this beautiful person smirking and standing but five helpless feet before him.

“Light, yeah, that would be…great,” he replies, getting a little cross eyed as the guy offers up the lighter, leaning into it and refusing to acknowledge the fact that his cheeks are burning up with how close this stranger’s stepping into his little bubble. They aren’t touching at all, but he can feel the heat of skin and soft breaths brushing on his face. Frank hasn’t felt this since he laid his eyes on Jamia’s glowing strawberry gloss smile. This gut-churning heart-racing breath-taking tingle-up-spine butterflies-in-stomach-threatening-to-eat-me-from-the-inside-out vomit-inducing feeling that’s beginning to overwhelm Frank. His tongue against his cheek is sandpaper on gravel, so he bites it instead. “Thanks.”

The guy smiles with too much teeth and Frank should not be finding any of it endearing. Those butterflies have, in all probability, chewed through his large intestines. “No problem,” he says, Jersey slanting the syllables, and Frank wants. “You looked like you needed a break.”

With an awkward arm that’s all elbow and weak wrist, Hot Stranger Guy has a smoke cradled in between his pouty lips, flame cupped and ignited on the stick of nicotine, and Frank watches despairingly because this is porn. Legitimate, softcore foreplay shoved in scant minutes before some disgustingly seedy disco music fades in and people start to undress.

Hallowed cheeks and delicate bone structure and heavy lids drooping and, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s beyond unfair, Frank’s tensing up so much his limbs are cramping. He figures freezing is better than pressing his hand to his dick. Yeah, that’s definitely not acceptable social interaction.

Frank would compare this feeling to being dangled over the world cutest puppy, a puppy which coincidentally also has rabies and AIDS and one nasty fucking bite. Doesn’t seem anything like a do-or-die situation, but you don’t know the powers puppies have over Frank Iero. Frank will tell you himself, it’s a force to reckon with.

He manages to inhale and exhale without dry heaving and presses on to assert a half choked reply, “Yeah, no kidding,” he pauses and hold back, then thinks fuck it. “Fucking kids calling me a faggot like there’s a dick in my mouth,” before shot-putting their conversation into a tense silence. To hell with acceptable social interactions, apparently.

Frank avoids glancing in the guy’s direction for as long as he can bear, busying himself and calming his nerves with the cigarette the wind has nearly waste. He must sound like an idiot. Shit, he must look like an idiot, a scrappy punk high schooler talking to some college guy who’s only letting him waste his time because he pities him. It’s another minute before Frank can redirect himself to the attractive man. Frank doesn’t even know if he likes guys, fuck his fucking life.

Frank looks up at the pretty dude. In the exact moment, Hot Stranger guy shifts so the setting sun’s orange glow strikes him in the eyes, odd emerald-hazel tones glittering with gold and all lit up like fairy lights. He has a well-meaning look on his face and he’s so close Frank thinks he’s going to suffocate with all these feelings caught up in his throat.

“So Frank!” Just like that, Frank’s snapped out of his trance. He didn’t tell Hot Stranger Guy his name. He did not tell Hot Stranger Guy his name.

There’s a tap on his chest. Frank is suddenly worried Hot Stranger Guy will catch his heart as it’s bursting out of his ribcage. He looks down, and turns red because, yes, he still has his nametag on. Pretty is nodding, smug but not like a dick, more like he’s reassuring Frank he’s not a stalker. Frank finds it disconcerting how he wouldn’t have minded if he was a stalker.

“Uh, I didn’t mean – ”

“I’m Gerard.” Gerard removes his smoke from his mouth and shoot out a hand. Frank immediately takes it.

Smoke tendrils out from Gerard’s lips like whisper and Frank sways on his feet. He is on fire, alight from a simple handshake. This isn’t standard procedure for attractive human beings, not by any means, even with a dry spell as long as Frank’s. Okay, fine, so maybe Frank lost his virginity seven months ago, but it’s also been four months since he got laid, you can sue him for all he’s worth. The experience was fast and filthy and left his blood running hotter than ever before. Red dots his vision.

Frank really wants to tighten his grip on Gerard’s hand, bring his fingers to his mouth, and suck. A low, gradual heat settles in Frank’s gut and he knows his mouth is getting stupidly slack, like it does when he’s losing himself playing on stage. He might be losing himself now, clutching tight onto Gerard’s hand.

“Um, I feel kinda, heh,” and Frank is laughing, this is utterly ridiculous, “I feel kinda weird.”

“The drugs will do that to you, Frankie.” Gerard takes his other hand and runs a stripe down Frank’s jawline with two fingers. His thoughtful expression quickly shifts to predatory and fiendish, somehow still hopelessly beautiful.

Gerard’s smile is rapt on Frank like he’s dinner.

Frank is reeled under Gerard’s arm like a fish caught on a fishing line. The only difference is that Frank goes willingly, giggling like he’s insane, his mind unable to make the connection that the situation is racing downhill and dangerous really fucking fast. Pliable isn’t Frank’s game, he’s always been one stubborn sonofabitch, but his legs are useless and Gerard’s an anchor. If he doesn’t hold on, he might just float away with the evening breeze. He slings his arm around Gerard’s waist and lets him lead the way to his car, like they’re good friends out on a Friday night and Frank’s had too much to drink.

“I didn’t drink anything though, Gerard, why is – why am I so fucking shitfaced?” He loses it, shoulders shaking with brash joviality as Gerard sits him in the passenger seat and straps him in. He goes on to handcuff one thin wrist to the arm rest. Frank’s laughing hard enough to not notice, and when he does, he laughs even harder. His stomach drops to his knees and blood rushes to his dick, but that’s blindsided by the fact that Gerard actually handcuffed him, holy fuck. “Whoa…Gerard! That’s some, some kinky shit, dude!”

Gerard snorts. “I guess, Frankie. We got something going on here?” He punctuates the question with a raised eyebrow, quirking his mouth around. Frank’s breath hitches on a giggle, his body thrumming, and a rosy pink dusting the tops of cheeks. He feels like he’s boiling in his skin, edging too hot, hot enough to burn out like a light. He can understand that crystal clear. Yet his mind is doing serious gymnastics trying to fathom why he can feel that, and also like he’s home. Like he can eat a bowl of Lucky Charms, shit, shower, jerk off, piss, and pass out. Frank speculates it. You can’t feel this good when you’re… Fuck, it doesn’t click. He can’t figure it out.

Frank looks up at Gerard with a glazed stare and it is two rough seconds before he sucks his lower lip into his mouth and worries his teeth over the flesh. He knows how he must look, but it’s like he can’t help himself. And he can’t, not really. He doesn’t mind. Somehow he thinks Gerard knows that.

“Maybe?” His voice cracks over the word. He can’t see the fog in his eyes clearing marginally into something sharper, twice as pungent, but there’s heightening pressure in the back of his skull that’s spiking up a sweet spot at the bottom of his spine. It’s like igniting a stick of dynamite at both ends and hesitating, pulling the pin out of a grenade and asking yourself moments after if you want to throw it. Frank furrows his brows, licking the spot where his teeth dug in absentmindedly, and his gaze drops level to where Gerard’s crotch is.

Frank wants. Oh god, he wants so badly. Green irises are swallowed up in black, dilating pupils, and he’s paying enough attention to catch Gerard’s composure nearly slip. It’s a twitch in his hand, the same hand Frank shook, knuckles bending so slightly that if Frank hadn’t been looking he would have missed it. They’re so pale and unmarked, a stark contrast to Frank’s own callused touch. He decides he likes Gerard’s hands a lot.

Diminutive gaffe forgotten, Gerard grins with his tiny teeth, stroking his index finger down the side of Frank’s jaw. “Oh yeah? We’ll see about that,” he dares, and Frank can’t even remember what he said to deserve a retort like that, filthy and smoother than caramel. Bastard. Without another glance at Frank’s perverse state, Gerard steps in behind the wheel. He’s about to back out of the parking lot when Frank whimpers. Frank himself can’t recall feeling this reckless, out of control of his mouth, hands, and the expression on his face.

There are three fingers stuck in his mouth and when he sees he’s caught Gerard’s attention he draws them out slowly, a line of saliva joining his knuckle to his bottom lip. A lazy, drunken grin graces Frank’s flushed face.

“I can’t wait, Gerard,” he rasps. He slumps in his seat, panting like a dog. Hellfire is licking all over his body and he’s going to die if he can’t soothe this insatiable hunger clawing its way to his core.

Gerard white knuckles it the whole drive, the crack in his grin overlooked as Frank goes focused and unfocused on those slender fingers tight on the steering wheel.

Notes

I don't actually know when I will update this? Stand bye?

Thanks for reading, you're absolutely amazing for doing so. Drop a comment for what you thought?

-S