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Frank watches Gerard light up another cigarette — it’s been one after another, all night. A hotel night, and a smoking room. It’s like hitting the lottery. He thinks that no matter how long this thing lasts, this will be his mental image of Gerard forever: a worm’s eye view of Gerard with his eyes cast down, his mouth cradling the filter of a Marlboro Red.
Gerard is breathing the smoke as easy as air. He smokes with confidence, a lifetime of practice. His awkward, uncoordinated palm is rubbing the front of Frank’s jeans, which is nice and all, but Frank can’t focus on anything but the glowing scarlet cherry hanging above his head.
“Like that?” Gerard asks.
“Yeah.” It’s kind of funny that Gerard is even asking. Like he doesn’t have one himself. Like some kind of teenage virgin. Like Frank wouldn’t thank him for the touch of just his pinkie finger. But it’s around that time of night when Gerard’s alcohol-soaked bravado crumples into insecurity, and for once it’s to Frank’s benefit.
There’s more ash dangling off the end of the cigarette now. Gerard jolts a little, his crotch finally meeting Frank’s squirming thigh. It draws a vulnerable sound out of him, but also—
It lands right above Frank’s collarbone. Hot, hot, a shock of pain greater than anything he’s subjected himself to willingly, and Frank thinks melted skin, bone char black, nuclear fallout victim, for just one second before the ash goes inert, all that potential energy burned up and consumed.
“Shit, sorry,” Gerard says, but just the act of talking means he’s sucking on that cigarette again, starting the cycle all over again.
Frank heart kicks in his chest but he doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t want to disturb the particles that mark his collarbone as an ashtray. It’s Gerard who actually brushes it away, sticks a thumb in his mouth and dabs at the burn with his ethanol-nicotine spit. Not really the kiss Frank wants.
“It’s okay,” Frank says, gentle, his just-rescued-you-from-the-pound voice. Frank isn’t sure Gerard is listening — he’s closed his eyes, off in one of his worlds, even as he keeps rocking against Frank’s body. Usually, Frank doesn’t like disrupting him, but as endorphins overtake the pain he can’t stop the impulse to ask. “You could put it out on me. When you’re done.”
Now that succeeds in earning back Gerard’s attention. Frank doesn’t know what to do with his face to communicate that he’s serious. He’s even harder than he was before, and there’s no way Gerard doesn’t feel it. He’s an ace at lying, but he’s never had that kind of control over his body. Gerard strokes him again, more intentional this time, like there’s some kind of truth to discover there.
“It might scar,” Gerard says. It’s less a warning than a promise. Frank’s hands tremble. He grasps Gerard’s wrist and they steady.
Together, they lower the cigarette towards Frank’s chest. It’s like using a ouija board, hands guided by some unseen spirit, or maybe just their combined subconscious urges. When the ember touches down on Frank’s skin, he has to stop Gerard pulling away, even as he grits his teeth and hisses, the heat traveling into his blood, into every starved cell of his body. Gerard’s eyes go wide, like he can’t quite believe what he’s been allowed to do.
When the immediate pain is gone — the one cigarette diffused, the awful burning smell cleared by lighting yet another — Gerard leans in to inspect his handiwork. Frank can’t stop himself from poking at the wound. After this long on the road, he’s probably immune to mutant motel bacteria. No, he’s going to heal up, and the scar is going to grow thick and wild like cancer. The particulates that were in once Gerard’s lungs are going to be embedded above Frank’s heart until the day he dies.
“Sorry,” Gerard says again, his weird cold breath ghosting over the burn.
“Don’t mind,” he says, even as the scratchy motel sheets make him wince. “I asked for it, didn’t I?”