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Stage makeup used to be something of a ritual. Frank had spent hours of his life on tour folded quietly into the corners of green rooms, sidelined while Gerard stared at his reflection in dingy mirrors, dragging paint across his face in ghostly streaks. Every tour was different—every album brought new looks, new colors—but their pre-show ritual never changed. Frank watched each new look with the same silence, regardless of whether it was full skeletal face paint or just a touch of artfully smudged eyeliner.
He never expected that to stay the same once they reunited. Not with no solid theme for the tour, and no new album, and all of them so much older than they used to be. The few shows Gerard did pull out his makeup kit for (now much sparser and more expensive than it used to be) were a treat. It was good to watch him work again, good to see him focused and deliberate and controlled, good in a way that made Frank’s stomach feel just slightly tighter than it should.
And then they had a few years between tours, with only the occasional festival to break up the inactivity, and Frank almost forgot how much he missed stage makeup until he had it again. Seattle wasn’t much of anything, just a little liner and some powder for the cameras—simple, but still enough to make that tight feeling crawl back into his gut—but Gerard kept building it up, adding scratches and bruises and decay to his routine, and by the time Frank was sitting in Gerard’s green room in Chicago the process had more than doubled in length.
Gerard leaned close to the mirror. This one was pristine—no cracks, no haziness, clean and large and well-lit—and Gerard looked larger than life as he tilted his chin to continue the makeup down onto his throat, staring down at his reflection. Frank’s breath caught.
His foundation was heavy at first, blotchy against the surrounding skin, but smoothed out quickly when he started blending. Frank could imagine the way it would feel on his fingertips if he reached out to touch, thick and sticky, or the way it would feel on his tongue—
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up with Gerard’s makeup in his mouth, but those times had been more of an occupational hazard than intentional. Frank didn’t really think he was into that kind of thing. Except maybe he was, given the way the thought made him shift in his seat, his eyes boring holes through the layer of foundation on Gerard’s cheek.
Gerard didn’t seem to notice. He’d moved on to the bruising, adding just the faintest hints of yellow and purple to his caked foundation. “I’ll double this next time.”
“You’ll huh?” Frank said, dragging his stare up from Gerard’s jaw to meet his eyes in the mirror.
“Double the bruising.”
“You’ll look like shit pretty soon.” Frank shifted again. “You already look fucking crazy.”
“I’m not going for hot,” Gerard said, and he sounded almost affronted that Frank would voice the thought. “It’s supposed to look like shit.”
Frank grinned at him. He caught sight of his own face in the mirror when Gerard bent to dig through his kit. Still his usual skin tone, no makeup, no bruising or blood, but he didn’t look himself at all—his eyes were too wide, his jaw too tight, his smile unsteady. “It’s a good shit, to be clear.”
“Wasn’t concerned with that either.” Gerard emerged again a few seconds later with a new brush, dipped it in… something, then sponged whatever it was onto his lower jaw. Frank tried to school his face back into a semblance of normalcy. “I think—” he paused to pull down on his cheek with a thumb, stretching the skin under his eye. “Everyone should get the undead thing by now.”
“How come you haven’t forced the rest of us into makeup yet?”
Gerard stopped with his cheek still stretched. He fixed Frank with a stare that looked goddamn crazy in the vanity lights, powdered rot and bruising distorting his face into something close to familiar but just off enough to send a jolt like an electric shock down Frank’s back. “Did you want makeup, Frankie? We could do makeup.”
Frank’s stomach did a slow roll inside his torso. He felt it all the way to his toes. “Do I—nah, I’m good.”
“You’re sure? You’re not getting slapped around, but you’re getting dragged off stage, so I could—” Gerard set his brush down and turned from the vanity, reaching out to drag his thumb over Frank’s neck. His skin was warm and a little rough, and Frank could do nothing but stare at him blankly and swallow hard, throat hitching under his touch. “Bruising, maybe. Where the hood might have dug in.”
“And give the kids a field day?” Frank didn’t know how he managed to keep his voice relatively steady.
Gerard made a face. “You do that anyway.”
His thumb hadn’t moved from Frank’s throat, just barely digging in over his pulse point. Frank could feel his own heartbeat in the pressure. It was far too fast, thundering in his ears, pinballing off of Gerard’s hand.
“What do you think?”
Frank didn’t think. Gerard’s touch had to be blocking blood flow to his brain.
“Frankie.”
He coughed, lifting his hand to wrap around Gerard’s wrist. “Maybe, uh, next time. You’ll run out of time to finish yours.”
“I don’t think so.”
Gerard still looked fucking crazy. Frank’s tongue was too big in his mouth, swelling dry against his teeth. He wanted.
He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. The backrest pressed hard into his spine.
“Come on. Just a little?” Gerard twisted back to grab a brush from the vanity, bristles still coated in yellow powder. His thumb dug harder into Frank’s throat.
“Gerard—”
Focus was written over his face when he turned around again, makeup not quite hiding the crease between his eyebrows. His stare was intense, eyes roaming over Frank’s face, hand shifting to tilt his chin back. “I think it’d look good.”
Jesus. “Thought,” Frank said. He could barely speak with his head pushed back, with Gerard crowding closer. “Thought you were going for shit.”
“You make bruising look good.”
“G.”
Something flashed through Gerard’s eyes, just for a second, short enough Frank thought he’d imagined it. He ran the brush under his jawline, bristles tickling the softness at the top of Frank’s throat. “Yellow first. To set the base and give the bruising tone. It has to be yellow if you want it to look realistic, like someone really roughed you up. It’ll give you that ugly faded look around the edges.”
Frank’s words strangled before they left his mouth.
“Yeah,” Gerard said, his voice quiet. He kept his thumb pressed to Frank’s throat. “I like the way it makes your tattoos look. This yellow film—you know the filters they put on movies sometimes? That’s the way your skin looks. Your ink’s all faded.”
He traded the brush out for another. The new one was stiffer, bristles prickling like stubble. Frank couldn’t hold back a shiver.
“And then comes the purple. Just a little, really. Enough to give some depth, some color—yeah, there.” The brush clicked against the counter when Gerard set it down. “Sometimes I’ll add some green, or blue, but yours is good just like this. I want to see your tattoos through it.”
When Gerard turned back to him, his hands empty, the same strange flash returned to his eyes. He regarded Frank for half a second, the left corner of his mouth curling. “You make it look great.”
“Gerard,” Frank whispered.
He reached out once more, thumb smoothing over unmarked skin at the base of Frank’s neck and pressing down, just a little, fingers curling loosely over the neck of his shirt.
Frank’s mind went blank. He made a noise like a wounded dog, this breathless yelp that caught in his lungs, and leaned in to press his mouth to Gerard’s jaw. Makeup smeared against his lips, sliding into the cracked skin like mud.
“Makeup,” Gerard gasped out, tugging back. “Frankie, you’ll fuck it up.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. He sounded fucking helpless. He hadn’t done much damage, but Gerard’s makeup was filmier where Frank’s mouth had dragged over his face, damp and thin. He could just see a hint of Gerard’s real skin tone under it.
“You—”
“Gerard.”
“The show,” Gerard said. He opened his mouth, the foundation around it cracking as it stretched with his skin, then closed it again without speaking. He reached up, instead, to press a finger to Frank’s lips, dragging it down towards his chin, pulling it back to show Frank the streak of white that had transferred.
“Fuck the,” Frank started, but Gerard was kissing him before his tongue could finish shaping the next word. Kissing him, and pushing him back against the chair until it creaked under their combined weight and Frank had to grasp at the seat to keep himself balanced, before he made a dissatisfied noise and pulled away as abruptly as he’d begun.
“What—”
“You’ll hurt your back like this.” Gerard’s hand was back on his throat, fingers stroking, rough and easy in turn, catching under his chin to tug him forward. “Up.”
Frank never was able to say no to him. He stood, wavering on his feet, heat already dripping down his ribcage to pool in his stomach.
Gerard kissed him again once he was standing, his mouth open, a quick, dirty press of lips and tongue. “Couch.”
This, too, was a time-honored ritual of sorts. Frank bit back a grin as he turned, his mind feeling hazy already; years of cities, of green rooms, of couches, and they were still here. This couch was a deal nicer than the slumped piles of cloth (that might’ve been couches at one point) they’d started out on, shoved into closets masquerading as dressing rooms, or that one couch in the hallway at the first house show he’d seen My Chem at, or the green room at their first show together—all of them were blending together in his head, now, the push of Gerard’s hand on his lower back anchoring him to today.
Even though this couch looked pristine, Frank didn’t hesitate to sprawl back on the leather and give Gerard a look. “You coming?”
Gerard swung a leg over his hips, settling down with a little “oof” noise that would’ve made Frank laugh if he wasn’t so suddenly fucking aware of how warm Gerard’s thighs were, how close and hot and intense he seemed, now, eyes locking in on Frank’s face. He reached down to run his fingers over Frank’s chin. “The light’s better over here. I missed a spot.”
“Don’t care.”
He made a face, mouth twisting up. “I care.”
“Fix it later, then,” Frank said, the words feeling odd and tight as they left him. He thought he might as well be begging, Gerard’s weight doing strange things to his voice.
Gerard hummed his disapproval, but leaned down to kiss him anyway, hard, thorough, licking into Frank’s mouth until he was melting into the leather. Frank would’ve bet he was leaving makeup all over, but if Gerard wasn’t going to think about it, he wasn’t going to bring it up. He just slid a hand into Gerard’s hair and tugged him closer.
“Don’t have much time,” Gerard mumbled a minute later, sinking his teeth into Frank’s lower lip until he hissed. “Still have to get dressed. Wanna get me off?”
Frank slipped a hand down Gerard’s torso, pausing at his sternum to feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, then trailed his fingers down to tease at his waistband. The denim was digging into his stomach, leaving little ridges of skin that made Gerard tense when he touched them, pressing forward against his hand. “Like this?”
He nodded, hair brushing Frank’s cheek.
Frank unbuttoned his jeans with a little difficulty, his hand at a strange angle. “Help me out here,” he said, words coming out as barely more than a whisper. He shoved down on Gerard’s waistband until he got the memo, lifting up to help work the denim down just far enough Frank could palm him through his boxers.
“Frankie,” he began, a pleading note in his voice, then gasped as Frank pushed his boxers down too to get a hand around his cock.
“Shh.” Frank tugged away just long enough to spit in his palm, then pulled him down for a kiss to swallow the noise Gerard let out as he started stroking him.
The couch was fucking loud, leather creaking under them as Gerard pressed forward into his grip and panted into his mouth, and Frank tried to stay as still as he could, even though every roll of Gerard’s hips made him see stars. He wondered, briefly, if everyone outside the room could hear them, then wondered if they’d locked the door, and then Gerard was biting down on his lip again and he couldn’t think about anything other than the tremble in Gerard’s thighs and the way he was starting to drip, easing the slide of Frank’s hand. He stroked him faster, knuckles brushing the damp warmth of his stomach.
He couldn’t see past Gerard’s hair, but he knew how pretty he looked like this, hunched over and shaking as he fucked Frank’s grip. He swiped his thumb over the head of Gerard’s cock, then took advantage of Gerard’s gasp, moving his mouth down to his jaw.
Makeup was still heavy there, thick on Frank’s tongue, and he bit at the skin just hard enough to feel it collect under his teeth. Gerard whined, but he didn’t pull away, and Frank did it again, swallowing the taste of sweat and product and, under it all, the familiar tang of his skin.
“Frankie.”
Frank shuddered and sped his hand, feeling Gerard’s cock twitch under his fingers. “Gonna come?”
“Frankie, Frankie,” Gerard repeated, and it sounded like a chant, like a fucking prayer, as he shoved forward into his fist. Any performance was gone, disappearing like it always did when it was just them, just this, Gerard going tense and shaking. “Like that, yeah, please, Frank—”
“Come on,” Frank breathed. He bit down on Gerard’s jaw again, harder this time; Gerard would head on stage with a real bruise, something Frank gave him, something to remember him by every time he opened his mouth and felt the ache in his jaw. “Come on.”
Gerard went silent and still as he came, panting raggedly into Frank’s ear. Frank stroked him through it until he started to twitch, then pulled his hand back, licking his palm clean.
“Frankie,” he said again, voice shuddery and awed. He kissed the side of Frank’s head, mouth hot against his temple. “So good.”
Frank turned his head to steal a real kiss, pulling Gerard’s hips closer. Gerard hissed, but pressed up against him anyway, fingers digging into Frank’s hair.
“Wanna,” Gerard mumbled into his mouth. He gave Frank’s hair a tug, then slipped a hand between them, going for Frank’s fly. “Wish we had more time.”
“Hotel,” Frank reminded him breathlessly as Gerard undid his jeans. “We could—”
“Promised Linds a night in, but—”
“She’d ask to watch.”
Gerard laughed and nipped at his jaw, then his fingers curled around his cock and Frank lost the ability to think coherently. “That’s it, Frankie,” he said, and it came out a little sweet and a lot dirty. “Feels good.”
“Feels—fuck,” Frank echoed. Gerard was relentless; his weight was enough to pin Frank down, and Frank could do nothing but gasp under him as Gerard stroked him, hard and fast, mouth still roaming over his jaw. “G—”
“Come on,” Gerard urged, teeth sinking into the skin just under his jaw. “Like that, baby, fuck my hand.”
Frank couldn’t do much more than shove up a little under Gerard’s weight, but he shuddered and nodded and pushed his hips as far as they’d go, pressing into the tight slide of his fist. He’d been close enough just touching Gerard, and he could feel heat building in his gut already. This wasn’t like the times Gerard would hold him down and go slow; Gerard seemed as hungry for it as he was, not giving him a second to breathe or settle, his hand only speeding as Frank jerked under him. “Won’t fucking last, god—”
Gerard tugged harder at Frank’s hair with his free hand. “Good. Come on.”
“Won’t—” Frank began again, then bit back a groan as he tipped over the edge. He thought Gerard might have made a satisfied noise, but he couldn’t tell for sure over the sound of his own labored breathing, the blood roaring in his ears. He shoved his face up against Gerard’s throat to ride out the aftershocks, Gerard’s hand slowing and finally pulling away once Frank’s grip on his hips relaxed.
“Love the way you sound,” Gerard said, his voice low in the suddenly silent room. He kissed Frank’s temple again. “Gonna clean me off?”
Frank let Gerard shove his fingers in his mouth, sucking at them in the way he knew always made Gerard tense up. He tasted himself, and sweat, and the faint, powdery film of makeup that seemed to cover Gerard before every show, and it felt almost like a loss when Gerard pulled his hand away.
He replaced it with his mouth, kissing Frank with the same desperation as before. It sent a shudder deep into Frank’s spine, and he arched up for a moment before Gerard backed off to catch his breath.
“You should probably fix your makeup.” Frank reached up to run his fingers over the patchy mess on Gerard’s cheek.
Gerard wrinkled his nose at him. “Because you’re wearing it. Get up, I’ll clean you up.”
He rolled off Frank’s lap and crossed to the mirror, not bothering to zip up his jeans or smooth down his fucked up hair, and Frank felt a surge of affection that seemed to start all the way in his extremities. He grinned after Gerard until his breathing settled, then stood to follow him.