Archive of Our Own

the fluorescent lights of newark mutual bank buzzed overhead like dying insects as the clock ticked toward 5:00 p.m. gerard way had been counting down the minutes since lunch, his black ballpoint pen scratching idle lines across the margin of a deposit slip. another half-finished sketch of a crumbling cathedral, spires twisting into smoke. six years behind this counter and the routine had worn grooves into his bones: greet the customers with the same polite smile, process the same endless stream of checks and withdrawals, lock the doors at closing, and go home to his too-quiet apartment where the only company was the hum of his sketchbook and the occasional microwave dinner.

he was twenty-eight, pale from too many indoor shifts, with messy black hair that always fell into his hazel eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back. anxiety sat like a permanent knot in his chest. tight enough that he sometimes wondered if it showed in the way his hands trembled when he counted out twenties. but he kept his head down. safe. predictable. boring as hell.

the last customer had just left, the elderly woman with the yappy pomeranian in her purse, and 

gerard was already reaching for the key to the front doors when the world shattered.

the glass doors burst open with a violent chime. three figures in black– ski masks, gloves, hoodies, poured in like smoke. one stayed by the entrance, gun raised, voice sharp: 

“everybody on the fucking floor! this is a robbery! hands where we can see them!”

screams erupted. a teller two stations down dropped her drawer with a clatter. gerard’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack them, but his body moved on autopilot- years of drilled-in training kicking in even as his mind blanked. he sank to his knees behind the counter, palms flat on the thin carpet, breath coming in shallow bursts.

the leader barked orders, but one of them, the smallest, wiry, moving with coiled energy, vaulted the counter in one fluid motion. boots hit the tile inches from gerard’s station. 

the guy was fast, efficient, glock steady in his gloved hand as he swept the row of tellers.

he stopped at gerard’s window.

time stuttered.

gerard looked up, and for a split second, everything narrowed to the masked man looming over him. the ski mask hid most of his face, but those eyes, fuck, those eyes- locked onto gerard’s with an intensity that punched straight through the panic. wide hazel meeting... something warmer, something that didn’t belong in a robbery.

the robber’s shoulders tensed. he froze, just for half a heartbeat, gun still pointed but not quite as steady.

gerard’s hands shook as he rose slowly, keys forgotten, and yanked open his cash drawer with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else. bills spilled out in neat stacks. twenties, fifties, hundreds. his voice, somehow, stayed level. quiet. steady. the same tone he used with difficult customers.

“here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper as he began shoving the money into the black duffel the robber had slammed onto the counter. “it’s all there. just... take it.”

the masked man leaned in closer under the pretense of hurrying him, close enough that gerard could smell faint gun oil and something sharper. cigarettes and adrenaline. his breath ghosted warm against gerard’s ear through the fabric of the mask.

“breathe, gorgeous,” the robber muttered, low and rough, the words vibrating like gravel wrapped in velvet. “i’m not gonna hurt you.”

gerard’s breath hitched anyway, a soft involuntary sound that made the man’s eyes flicker. something cracked open in the air between them. electric, dangerous, impossible. gerard’s pulse thundered in his ears, but it wasn’t just fear anymore. there was heat in that voice, a promise that didn’t match the gun or the mask or the screaming chaos around them.

their fingers brushed when gerard pushed the last stack of hundreds across the counter. skin on skin for a fraction of a second. warm, calloused, alive. the robber’s mask had slipped just enough during the lean-in: a flash of warm brown eyes, dark and intense, a glint of silver from a lip ring catching the fluorescent light, and the edge of black ink curling up the side of his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie.

the moment stretched, thin and taut like a wire about to snap. gerard couldn’t look away. neither could the robber. those brown eyes drank him in. hair, eyes, the faint tremble in his lower lip, like he was memorizing every detail, burning it into memory.

from the front of the bank, one of the others yelled, voice edged with panic: “frank! move your ass, we gotta go!”

the name slipped out like a secret.

the robber, frank, jerked back, mask snapping back into place, but not before gerard caught one last look: those eyes, soft for just a beat longer, almost regretful. then he was snatching the duffel, vaulting back over the counter in a blur of black, and the crew was gone.

sirens wailed in the distance as tires screeched outside. the whole thing had taken maybe four minutes.

no shots fired. no one hurt. just the heavy silence of shock settling over the bank like dust.

gerard stayed on his knees a moment longer, staring at the empty space where frank had been. his fingers still tingled where they’d touched. his heart wouldn’t slow down. and somewhere under the terror, under the adrenaline crashing through his veins, was a single, ridiculous thought that refused to leave:

he called me gorgeous.

the bank manager was already on the phone with the police. coworkers were crying or shaking or whispering furiously. gerard pressed his forehead to the cool edge of the counter and closed his eyes, trying to breathe like the stranger had told him to.

outside, a black van disappeared into the newark evening traffic, carrying almost two hundred grand and a man whose brown eyes haunted the margins of gerard’s next shaky sketch.

the sketch he’d start tonight, alone in his apartment, of warm eyes and a lip ring and ink that promised trouble he shouldn’t want.

but already did.

`*-💵-*`

the fluorescent lights in the bank had felt sterile and safe for six years. now they felt like interrogation lamps.

gerard sat on the edge of a hard plastic chair in the break room, knees bouncing, while two detectives took turns asking the same questions in slightly different ways. his hands were still trembling, even though the shaking had mostly migrated inward, twisting behind his ribs like live wire.

“what did the one who jumped the counter look like?”

“height? build? any distinguishing marks?”

gerard swallowed. his mouth was dry. “average height. maybe five-eight, five-nine? slim but... strong. like he moved like he knew exactly what he was doing.” he kept his voice flat, professional. the same voice he used when explaining overdraft fees. “black ski mask. black hoodie. gloves. gun was a glock, i think. matte black.”

he left out the way the man had frozen when their eyes met.

he left out the low, rough murmur against his ear.

he definitely left out the way his stomach had flipped, hot and sudden, like someone had struck a match inside him the second that voice said breathe, gorgeous.

one of the detectives leaned forward, notepad balanced on his knee. “you said he leaned in close. did he say anything to you specifically?”

gerard’s pulse spiked. he could still feel the ghost of warm breath through fabric, the faint scent of smoke and metal.

“he told me to hurry up,” he lied, eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum. “standard stuff. ‘empty the drawer. don’t try anything.’ that’s it.”

the lie sat heavy on his tongue, but he swallowed it down with the rest of the details he wasn’t ready to examine too closely.

they kept him for three and a half hours. by the time they let him go, the bank had been taped off, the other tellers had given their statements and gone home, and gerard’s sketchbook was burning a hole in his messenger bag. he walked the six blocks to his apartment in a daze, hoodie pulled up against the april chill, shoulders hunched like he could physically fold the memory away.

it didn’t work.

inside his tiny one-bedroom, he kicked the door shut, dropped his bag, and stood in the middle of the living room for a long minute, just breathing. the silence pressed in. no sirens now. no shouting. just the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a police siren somewhere else in newark. someone else’s emergency.

he pulled out his sketchbook.

the pages flipped open automatically to the last drawing he’d been working on before the robbery: half a cathedral dissolving into smoke. he stared at it, then turned to a fresh page. his pencil moved before he could talk himself out of it.

first came the shape of the eyes.

he remembered them too clearly. hazel shot through with warm brown, framed by the black edge of the ski mask. sharp at the outer corners, intense, almost predatory, but there had been something else underneath, something that cracked open when frank looked at him. gerard shaded the irises carefully, layering graphite until the eyes stared back at him from the paper, alive and unsettling.

he added the faint crease at the inner corner, the way the lids had lowered just slightly when the man had leaned in. the line of thick black lashes. he drew them over and over. five, six, seven versions on the same page, each one a little more accurate, each one making his chest feel tighter.

the lip ring came next. a small silver hoop on the lower left side, catching the ugly bank lighting like a tiny star. gerard’s pencil hesitated, then pressed harder, darkening the curve of the mouth he’d barely glimpsed. he didn’t know the shape of the full lips, not really, but he imagined them soft under all that roughness. the thought made heat crawl up the back of his neck.

and the ink. just a flash. black lines curling up the side of the neck, disappearing under the hoodie. gerard sketched what he remembered: the edge of what might have been script or a bird’s wing or thorns. he didn’t know. he filled in the negative space anyway, letting the lines bleed off the page like they were trying to escape.

by the time the streetlights flickered on outside his window, the sketchbook was covered in fragments of a stranger.

gerard set the pencil down and rubbed his eyes with ink-stained fingers. his apartment smelled like old coffee and the faint chemical tang of his cheap art supplies. the television was off. the only sound was his own breathing, still too quick, still echoing that low command.

breathe, gorgeous.

he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids until colors burst behind them. it didn’t help. the voice kept looping anyway. rough, low, intimate in a way no one had spoken to him in years. maybe ever. like the man had seen straight through the counter, through the anxiety, through the boring teller uniform, and found something worth looking at twice.

gerard’s stomach flipped again at the memory. he hated how much he liked it.

he stood up too fast, chair scraping against the floor, and went to the kitchen. the fridge offered nothing comforting, just half a pizza from two nights ago and a bottle of cheap red that had been sitting there since his last failed attempt at a date. he poured a glass anyway, drank half of it standing at the sink, then carried the rest back to the couch.

the sketchbook lay open on the coffee table like an accusation.

he picked it up again. flipped to a new page. this time he drew the whole moment: the counter between them, the duffel bag, the gloved hand reaching for the cash. but in the center was frank. mask slightly askew, eyes locked on gerard’s like the rest of the bank had disappeared.

gerard’s hand moved faster now, almost frantic. he shaded the slope of the masked jaw, the tension in the shoulders, the way the man had lingered one dangerous second longer than he should have while his crew screamed for him to run.

when he finally stopped, the drawing stared back at him, raw and unfinished and far too intimate.

gerard closed the sketchbook slowly. his heart was hammering again, the same way it had behind the counter. he drained the rest of the wine and set the glass down with a soft clink.

tomorrow the news would be full of the newark mutual robbery. two hundred grand gone in under five minutes. clean. professional. no one hurt.

and somewhere out there, frank, brown eyes, lip ring, neck tattoo, voice like smoke and gravel, was probably counting money and laughing with his crew.

gerard wondered if he was thinking about the teller with the shaky hands and the steady voice.

he wondered if frank had felt that same electric crackle when their fingers brushed.

he told himself it didn’t matter. that it was just adrenaline. trauma response. some weird psychological side effect of having a gun pointed at you.

but when he finally crawled into bed, the sketchbook ended up on the nightstand instead of the shelf. and when he closed his eyes, the only thing he could hear was that rough murmur curling around his name like a secret.

gorgeous.

gerard pulled the blanket higher and tried, for the hundredth time that night, to breathe.

`*-💵-*`

frank iero was losing his fucking mind.

he’d done this dance a dozen times before. walk in, take what they needed, walk out clean. in and out in under five minutes, no one hurt, no one dead, just another fat score to split four ways and disappear into the next city for a while. tellers were background noise. blurry faces behind glass. hands that moved too slow or too fast. never people.

until gerard.

two weeks later and frank still saw those wide hazel eyes every time he closed his own. the messy black hair falling across a pale forehead. the way those slim fingers had shaken while the voice stayed steady, calm, almost gentle even with a gun three feet from his face. and that brush of skin, jesus christ, just fingertips against his glove when the cash changed hands. it had burned like a brand.

he was supposed to be laying low in the safe house on the edge of elizabeth, counting his cut, planning the next job up in paterson. instead he was parked across the street from newark mutual bank in a beat-up gray civic with stolen plates, hood up, sunglasses on, watching the front doors like a fucking creep.

it was stupid. beyond stupid. ray had already chewed him out once for spacing out during the split. mikey kept giving him these narrow-eyed looks like he could smell the distraction. but frank couldn’t stop.

every afternoon around 3:30 he told himself he was just driving by. every afternoon he ended up in the same spot, engine off, slouched low in the driver’s seat, eyes glued to the big glass windows.

there he was.

gerard, frank had learned the name from the bank’s staff directory online, because of course 

he’d gone that far, stood at his usual station, third from the left. today he was wearing a black button-down that made his skin look even paler, sleeves rolled to the elbows. he smiled politely at an old lady counting out coins, pushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist, then went back to whatever he was doodling in the margins of a deposit slip when no one was looking.

frank’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

he remembered the way gerard’s breath had hitched when he’d leaned in and called him gorgeous. the soft, surprised sound that had slipped out before the kid could stop it. frank hadn’t meant to say it. the word had clawed its way up his throat the second their eyes locked, and he hadn’t been able to swallow it back down.

now it lived in his head on repeat.

he watched gerard laugh at something a coworker said, quiet, shy, one hand coming up to cover his mouth like he was embarrassed by the sound. frank’s chest did something complicated and painful.

“fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. it was still bleached blond from the job. too recognizable. he needed to fix that.

that night he stood in the cracked bathroom of the safe house, plastic gloves on, cheap black box dye bleeding down the sink. ray walked past the open door, paused, raised an eyebrow.

“you going goth again or what?”

“blond’s too bright,” frank said without looking up. “cops love bright.”

ray didn’t buy it, but he let it go. smart man.

two days later the dye had settled into a deep, messy black that fell into frank’s eyes exactly the way he remembered gerard’s doing. he trimmed it himself with kitchen scissors until it looked careless instead of deliberate. added the fake id, frank anthony, twenty-nine, address in bloomfield that didn’t exist. new bank account already set up under the name with just enough clean money to look legit.

he told himself he was only going in to look. one quick glance up close, make sure the kid was okay after the robbery, then walk back out and never come near the place again.

he was lying to himself and he knew it.

two weeks to the day after the robbery, frank pushed open the glass doors of newark mutual bank at 11:17 a.m., heart hammering harder than it had when he’d jumped the counter with a loaded glock.

the place smelled the same, paper, air freshener, faint ozone from the copiers. his boots squeaked softly on the tile. he kept his head down, hands loose at his sides, no gloves, no mask, just a plain black hoodie and jeans. normal. harmless.

he walked straight to the new accounts desk instead of the teller line. safer. less chance of immediate recognition.

but his eyes kept drifting left.

third station.

there.

gerard was helping a young couple with a joint savings account, leaning slightly forward, explaining something with that same quiet patience. his hair was messier today, like he’d been running his hands through it. there were faint shadows under his eyes. frank wondered if he’d been sleeping.

when the couple finally left, gerard looked up, scanning the lobby out of habit.

their eyes met.

frank felt it like a physical punch to the sternum.

gerard’s hazel eyes widened a fraction, just for a second, before the professional mask slid back into place. recognition? or just the usual customer-service flicker? frank couldn’t tell. he forced himself to look away, casual, like he hadn’t been staring.

a minute later a cheerful woman in her fifties waved him over to her desk. “hi! here to open an 

account?”

“yeah,” frank said, voice pitched a little lower than usual, rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. he slid the fake id across the desk. “frank anthony. just moved to the area. need a checking account, maybe savings.”

he answered her questions on autopilot. employment (self-employed graphic designer), previous bank (some credit union in pennsylvania), reason for switching (better rates, closer to new place). all lies, smooth and practiced.

while she typed, frank let his gaze drift again.

gerard was finishing up with another customer. he glanced toward the new accounts desk once, twice. the third time their eyes caught and held. longer this time. gerard’s fingers stilled on his keyboard. his throat worked visibly as he swallowed.

frank’s mouth went dry.

he wanted to walk over there. he wanted to lean on that counter again, close enough to smell whatever faint cologne or shampoo gerard used. he wanted to say something stupid like you okay, gorgeous? and watch those eyes go wide again.

instead he signed the paperwork with a steady hand that felt like it belonged to someone else, set up the direct deposit lie, and accepted the temporary debit card with a polite “thanks.”

when he stood up to leave, he let himself look one last time.

gerard was watching him openly now, sketchbook peeking out from under a stack of forms on his counter. his expression was unreadable. part confusion, part something sharper, hungrier.

frank gave the tiniest nod. barely there. just enough.

then he turned and walked out into the bright april sunlight, pulse roaring in his ears, the new account receipt burning a hole in his back pocket.

he made it three blocks before he had to stop, lean against a brick wall, and drag in deep breaths.

what the fuck was he doing?

he’d just handed his fake name, fake address, and fake life to the exact bank he’d robbed two weeks ago. to the exact teller whose face he couldn’t stop seeing when he jerked off in the shower. to the man whose steady voice and shaking hands had cracked something open inside him that refused to close again.

frank pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks burst behind his lids.

he was so screwed.

and the worst part?

he already knew he was coming back.

`*-💵-*`

frank waited exactly one week before he came back.

he told himself it was strategy. too soon and it would look suspicious; too long and the memory might fade. in reality he just couldn’t stay away any longer. the new “frank anthony” account had a pathetic three hundred dollars in it, and he was about to make it slightly less pathetic.

he walked into newark mutual at 2:47 p.m. on a friday, hands in the front pocket of a faded black misfits hoodie, hair still freshly black and messy, silver lip ring glinting when he smirked at the security camera like it owed him money. no mask. no gun. just tattoos crawling up both hands and disappearing under his sleeves, and an easy, confident swagger that made him look nothing like the coiled, masked robber from two and a half weeks ago.

gerard was at his usual station, sorting through a small stack of withdrawal slips. when the next customer stepped up, gerard looked up with his standard polite smile.

“hello, how can i–?”

he stopped.

the guy in front of him was shorter than he expected. maybe five-seven on a good day, compact, wired with lean muscle. warm brown eyes, dark lashes, that lip ring catching the light. ink everywhere: knuckles, wrists, the edge of something intricate climbing up the side of his neck. the same neck gerard had sketched obsessively.

but the voice in his head had belonged to someone taller, broader, scarier. this man looked… approachable. dangerous in a completely different way.

gerard blinked. “sorry. hi. what can i help you with today?”

frank leaned one elbow on the counter, close enough that gerard caught the faint scent of cigarette smoke and something warmer, like worn leather and spice. the smirk deepened.

“just making a deposit,” frank said, voice low and rough, exactly the same gravel-and-velvet timbre that had haunted gerard’s dreams for weeks. he slid a folded envelope across the counter. “couple hundred. cash.”

gerard’s fingers brushed frank’s when he took the envelope. the same electric spark from the robbery shot up his arm. he swallowed hard and busied himself counting the bills, two hundred and sixty-three dollars, while his brain short-circuited.

that voice.

those eyes.

it couldn’t be.

but it was. the way frank was looking at him, like he was memorizing him all over again, made gerard’s stomach flip exactly the same way it had behind the counter with a gun pointed at his chest.

“you’re good with numbers,” frank said conversationally while gerard filled out the deposit slip. “i’ve been watching you work. steady hands when it counts.”

gerard’s pen faltered. heat flooded his cheeks. “uh… thanks?”

frank’s smirk turned into something softer, almost fond. “frank anthony. i opened my account last week. you probably don’t remember me.”

“i… remember,” gerard said quietly. he did. he remembered the nod on the way out. he remembered staring at the door for five full minutes after frank left.

frank’s hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. “good. means i made an impression.” he tilted his head, lip ring flashing. “so, gerard– can i call you gerard? or do i gotta stick to mr. way like the stuffy manager does?”

gerard’s blush deepened. his nametag suddenly felt like it was burning a hole in his shirt. 

“gerard’s fine.”

“gerard,” frank repeated, like he was tasting the name. “pretty name. fits you.”

gerard’s ears went pink. he finished stamping the deposit receipt and slid it across the counter along with the updated balance slip. their fingers brushed again. neither of them pulled away immediately.

“you flirting with me while i’m on the clock?” gerard asked before he could stop himself. the words came out breathier than he intended.

frank’s grin widened, shameless. “depends. is it working?”

gerard laughed, soft, surprised, the same sound he’d tried to hide the other day. “maybe. a little.”

frank leaned in closer, voice dropping. “then yeah. i’m flirting. you got any plans after you lock up those doors tonight? or are you gonna go home and draw more cathedrals in the margins?”

gerard’s eyes widened. “how did you–”

frank just winked. “lucky guess. you look like the type who sketches when he’s thinking too hard.”

gerard was officially overheating. he handed frank the receipt, their fingers lingering one dangerous second longer than necessary. “i… get off at six.”

“noted.” frank pocketed the slip without looking at it. “maybe i’ll swing by again next friday. 

ask you about high-yield savings rates or some equally boring shit just so i can stand here and look at you a little longer.”

“you don’t need an excuse,” gerard said, the words slipping out before his brain caught up. 

he immediately wanted to sink through the floor.

frank’s expression shifted- something hotter, darker, flashing behind the easy smirk. “good to know, gorgeous.”

the pet name landed like a spark on dry tinder.

gerard’s breath caught. for a split second he was back behind the counter, mask slipping, warm breath against his ear. he stared at frank, heart pounding so hard he was sure the whole bank could hear it.

frank straightened up, tapping the counter once with two inked fingers. “see you around, gerard.”

then he was gone, sauntering out the doors like he hadn’t just tilted gerard’s entire world sideways.

gerard stood there for a full minute after the doors closed, cheeks burning, hands gripping the edge of the counter to keep them steady.

that night, the second he stepped into his apartment, gerard locked the door, dropped his bag, and didn’t even make it to the bedroom.

he collapsed onto the couch, shoved his jeans down just enough, and wrapped a hand around himself with a shaky exhale. his eyes fell shut and there was frank - easy smirk, lip ring, warm brown eyes looking at him like he was something worth devouring slowly.

he replayed every word.

pretty name. fits you.

you got any plans after you lock up?

good to know, gorgeous.

gerard stroked himself faster, thumb brushing over the head, imagining it was frank’s calloused fingers instead of his own. imagining that rough voice murmuring low in his ear again, closer this time, no counter between them, no masks, no gun.

he came hard with frank’s name caught behind his teeth, hips jerking, spilling over his own fist while the memory of that smirk burned behind his eyelids.

afterward he lay there panting, sticky and dazed, staring at the ceiling.

he was so fucked.

and next friday was only seven days away.

he already knew he’d be counting every single one of them.

`*-💵-*`

the first time frank asked gerard out for coffee, it was after a friday deposit that had taken twenty-two unnecessary minutes.

frank had leaned on the counter, lip ring catching the light, and said, “there’s a shitty little place two blocks over that makes espresso strong enough to wake the dead. you free when you get off?”

gerard had blushed so hard his ears burned, glanced at the clock, and heard himself say, “yeah. i… yeah, okay.”

that was how it started.

they met at the corner, gerard still in his bank button-down with the sleeves rolled up, frank in the same worn misfits hoodie and scuffed docs. the coffee shop was tiny, fluorescent-lit, and smelled like burnt beans and sugar. they sat at a wobbly table by the window, knees bumping under it, and frank made gerard laugh so hard he nearly snorted latte out his nose when he described the time he’d accidentally set his kitchen on fire trying to make boxed mac and cheese.

frank was funny in a chaotic, sharp-edged way - quick jokes, self-deprecating stories, the kind of energy that filled the room without trying. but there was gentleness underneath it, too. when gerard mentioned offhand that his hands still shook sometimes when he thought about the robbery, frank’s expression had softened. he’d reached across the table and brushed his thumb over gerard’s knuckles, once, light as breath.

“you’re safe now,” he’d said quietly. “i’ve got you.”

gerard had believed him without knowing why.

from coffee it bled into record-store afternoons.

frank dragged him to a tiny shop in jersey city on a rainy saturday, the kind of place with peeling posters on the walls and crates of vinyl stacked to the ceiling. they spent three hours there, shoulders brushing as they flipped through albums. frank pressed a copy of the queen is 

dead into gerard’s hands with a crooked grin.

“you look like a smiths guy. trust me.”

gerard bought it. they listened to it in frank’s beat-up black van on the way back, windows cracked even though it was drizzling, morrissey’s voice curling through the speakers like smoke. 

frank sang along under his breath, off-key and unapologetic, drumming his tattooed fingers on the steering wheel. gerard watched him instead of the road, heart doing that stupid flipping thing again.

“you’re staring,” frank said without looking over, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“you’re distracting,” gerard shot back, cheeks warm.

frank laughed, low and rough, and the sound settled somewhere deep in gerard’s chest.

the record-store afternoons turned into midnight drives along the new jersey turnpike.

it was never planned. frank would text at 11:30 p.m - u up? van’s gassed. bring sketches if u want - and gerard would pull on a hoodie, grab his sketchbook, and slip out of his apartment like a teenager sneaking out. they’d drive for hours sometimes, windows all the way down, spring wind whipping through the cab, the smiths or the cure or whatever frank shoved into the tape 

deck playing loud enough to drown out everything else.

gerard talked more on those drives than he had in years. about wanting to draw comics someday, real ones, not just doodles on deposit slips. about the panels that lived in his head: crumbling cities, beautiful monsters, boys with messy fluorescent red hair who fell in love with danger. frank listened like it mattered. he asked questions, real ones. “what does the monster look like?” 

“does the boy get the guy in the end?” his brown eyes stayed soft in the glow of passing headlights, one hand loose on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching over to rest on gerard’s thigh when traffic thinned out.

frank was gentle in ways that surprised gerard every time.

he’d bring gerard coffee exactly how he liked it, black with two sugars, without being asked. 

he’d tuck a stray strand of hair behind gerard’s ear when it fell in his eyes. once, when gerard admitted the anxiety still kept him up some nights, frank had pulled the van over on the shoulder, killed the engine, and just held him in the front seat until gerard’s breathing evened out. no pressure. no rush. just warm arms and the faint scent of cigarettes and frank’s shampoo.

it was terrifying how quickly gerard was falling.

one night in late april, the van was parked in an empty lot overlooking the turnpike, engine off, windows down. “how soon is now?” drifted from the speakers, quiet now. the city lights glittered in the distance like scattered stars.

gerard was mid-sentence, describing a new comic idea, something about a bank robber who falls for the teller he’s supposed to scare, when frank turned in the driver’s seat, cupped gerard’s face with both tattooed hands, and kissed him.

it wasn’t gentle.

it was hungry.

frank’s mouth was hot, insistent, the metal of his lip ring cool against gerard’s lower lip. gerard made a soft, surprised sound and kissed back just as hard, fingers twisting into the front of frank’s hoodie. the kiss tasted like coffee and mint and the cherry cough drop frank had been sucking on earlier. it deepened fast, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, frank’s hand sliding into gerard’s messy hair to tilt his head exactly where he wanted it.

gerard’s brain shorted out. all he could feel was frank - everywhere. the press of his compact body leaning over the console, the rough scrape of stubble, the low groan that vibrated from 

frank’s chest into his.

then, just as suddenly, frank pulled back.

he was breathing hard, forehead resting against gerard’s, eyes squeezed shut like he was in pain. his hands were still cradling gerard’s face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones with a tenderness that didn’t match the intensity of the kiss.

“fuck,” frank whispered, voice wrecked. “gerard… i want this so bad it scares the shit out of me.”

gerard’s heart hammered against his ribs. he could feel frank trembling, just slightly. “then don’t stop,” he breathed, leaning in to chase another kiss.

frank let out a shaky laugh and pressed their foreheads tighter together instead. “not here. not like this. you deserve… shit, i don’t even know. better than making out in a shitty van on the side of the turnpike.”

gerard smiled, small and soft, even as his body throbbed with want. “i like the shitty van.”

frank opened his eyes. those warm brown eyes were dark now, pupils blown, but there was something vulnerable in them too, something almost afraid. “yeah. me too. but i’m trying really hard not to fuck this up.”

he kissed gerard again, slower this time. softer. just lips brushing, a promise instead of a demand. when he pulled away, he stayed close, nose nudging gerard’s.

“take you home?” frank asked quietly.

gerard nodded, throat tight. “yeah. but… next time?”

frank’s smirk returned, crooked and warm. “next time i’m not stopping until you tell me to.”

they drove back toward newark with the windows still down, the smiths playing low, frank’s hand resting on gerard’s thigh the whole way. gerard sketched idly in the passenger seat, quick lines of a boy with a lip ring and kind eyes, leaning over a console to kiss the boy with messy black hair.

neither of them said it out loud, but the air between them felt heavy with everything they weren’t ready to name yet.

and neither of them wanted it to stop.

`*-💵-*`

the next two weeks blurred into something dangerously sweet.

frank kept showing up every friday like clockwork, but the visits stretched longer. small deposits that didn’t need to happen, questions about cd rates he clearly didn’t care about, excuses to linger at gerard’s window until the manager started giving them pointed looks. after work they’d grab coffee, or wander into another record store, or end up back in the van with the windows down and music loud enough to drown out the growing ache in both their chests.

gerard fell first.

he fell hard.

it happened quietly, in the small moments: the way frank would steal sips of his coffee and make a face like it was too sweet, then drink the whole thing anyway. the way he’d drum along to every song on the tape deck, even the slow ones, fingers tapping restless rhythms on gerard’s knee. the way he listened -really listened- when gerard talked about wanting to quit the bank someday and draw full-time, his brown eyes soft and focused like gerard’s dreams were the most important thing in the world.

by the third thursday in may, gerard couldn’t pretend anymore. he was gone. completely, stupidly gone for the short, tattooed chaos gremlin who called him “gorgeous” like it was his real name and kissed him like the world might end if he stopped.

so when frank texted at 7:12 p.m. -free tonight? got nothing but time and bad ideas- gerard replied without hesitation: come over. apartment’s a mess but i have coffee and half a pizza.

frank showed up twenty minutes later with a six-pack of cheap beer and a crooked grin, still in the misfits hoodie that was starting to feel like home.

gerard’s apartment was tiny. one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that barely deserved the name. sketchbooks and loose papers covered every flat surface. the walls were lined with half-finished drawings taped up like chaotic wallpaper: crumbling cities, shadowy figures, beautiful boys with danger in their eyes.

frank stepped inside, boots quiet on the worn hardwood, and let out a low whistle. “holy shit, gee. this is… you.”

gerard rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “yeah, well. it’s not much, but it’s mine. beer?”

they ended up on the couch, pizza box open between them, beers sweating on the coffee table. 

frank asked questions about the drawings on the walls, and gerard answered, voice gaining confidence as he explained the stories behind certain panels. frank listened with that focused intensity that made gerard’s stomach flutter, occasionally reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind gerard’s ear or brush their knees together.

eventually gerard stood up. “want to see the good stuff?”

frank’s eyebrows rose. “there’s better than what’s on the walls?”

gerard led him to the small desk in the corner where the real sketchbooks lived. he pulled out three of them. worn, spine-cracked, pages soft from constant flipping. “these are the ones i actually care about.”

they sat side by side on the floor, backs against the couch, sketchbooks spread across their laps. frank turned pages slowly, reverent, fingers tracing the edges of inked lines. he laughed at the ridiculous ones. monsters made of bank forms, a teller with laser eyes, and went quiet at the more serious pages: lonely figures in empty cities, hands reaching but never quite touching.

then gerard handed him the black sketchbook. the secret one.

“this one’s… newer,” he said, voice quieter. “started a couple weeks after the robbery. i don’t really show it to anyone.”

frank took it carefully, like it might bite. he flipped it open.

the first few pages were normal enough. cathedrals, cityscapes, a self-portrait with tired eyes. 

then the eyes started.

sharp hazel-brown eyes, intense and lined with black. over and over. different angles, different lighting, but always the same pair. sometimes just the eyes. sometimes the faint edge of a ski mask. sometimes a glint of silver at the corner of a mouth. on one page, a full sketch of a masked figure leaning over a bank counter, gloved hand reaching, eyes locked on the teller like the rest of the world had vanished.

frank’s own eyes stared back at him from the paper.

his stomach dropped.

he kept turning pages slowly, pulse roaring in his ears. more eyes. the curve of a neck with just the hint of ink. a hand, his hand, brushing against the teller’s trembling fingers. on the last page he’d looked at, gerard had drawn the moment in soft, smudged graphite: the masked man lingering, eyes soft, mouth slightly parted like he was whispering something dangerous and tender.

breathe, gorgeous.

frank’s throat closed up. heat crawled up the back of his neck. he could feel the exact shape of those words in his mouth again, the way gerard’s breath had hitched when he’d said them.

he closed the sketchbook gently and set it aside.

“i, uh… need some air,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual. “bathroom?”

gerard blinked, confused but nodding. “yeah, down the hall on the left.”

frank stood up too fast, nearly knocking over an empty beer bottle, and disappeared down the short hallway. he shut the bathroom door behind him, leaned back against it, and dragged both hands through his hair.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck.”

he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. black hair messy, lip ring glinting, eyes wide and a little wild. those were his eyes on the page. gerard had drawn them from memory after one stolen glance under a slipping mask. he’d kept drawing them for weeks. obsessively. secretly.

gerard had fallen for the robber before he’d even met “frank anthony.”

the realization hit like a freight train. frank’s chest ached with it. guilt, terror, and something painfully warm that felt a lot like hope. he wanted to walk back out there, drop to his knees, and confess everything: the job, the mask, the way he’d frozen because those hazel eyes had cracked him open on the spot. he wanted to tell gerard that every friday deposit was just an excuse to be near him, that the midnight drives were the only thing keeping him sane, that he was so fucking gone for the anxious, artistic teller that he’d risked everything just to see him smile.

but he couldn’t.

not yet.

if he confessed now, he’d lose this. lose gerard, before it had even really started. the way gerard looked at him like he was safe. like he was wanted.

frank splashed cold water on his face, gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles went white, and forced his breathing to steady.

when he stepped back into the living room a few minutes later, gerard was still on the floor, the black sketchbook closed in his lap, looking worried.

“you okay?” gerard asked softly. “you look like you saw a ghost.”

frank managed a crooked smile, crossing the room to sit beside him again, closer this time, thigh pressed to thigh. he reached over and gently took the sketchbook from gerard’s hands, setting it aside.

“yeah,” he said, voice low. “just… your art’s really fucking good, gee. hit me harder than i expected.”

gerard blushed, ducking his head. “they’re just eyes. i don’t even know why i kept drawing them.”

frank’s heart twisted. he cupped gerard’s cheek, thumb brushing over the flush there, and leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“because they mattered,” frank whispered. “because whoever those eyes belong to… they couldn’t stop looking at you either.”

then he kissed him. slow, deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. gerard melted into it immediately, hands coming up to fist in frank’s hoodie, a soft sound escaping against his mouth.

when they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, frank rested his forehead against gerard’s again and closed his eyes.

he was in so much deeper than he’d planned.

and gerard - sweet, brilliant, falling-hard gerard - had no idea the robber he’d been drawing was already holding him like he might disappear.

frank swallowed the confession down one more time.

not yet.

not tonight.

tonight he was just frank anthony, the chaotic guy with the lip ring and the shitty van, who was lucky enough to be kissed by the most beautiful boy in newark.

he’d carry the weight of the truth a little longer.

for now, that was enough.

`*-💵-*`

after frank returned from the bathroom, something had shifted in the air between them; thicker, heavier, charged with everything neither of them was saying out loud. gerard had barely managed to ask if he was okay before frank was cupping his face again, kissing him like he was trying to memorize the taste of him.

they ended up on the couch.

somehow the pizza box got shoved to the floor. the sketchbooks were pushed aside. gerard found himself stretched out beneath frank, the smaller man’s compact body pressed between his legs, warm and solid and perfect. frank’s weight was grounding, his hands careful as they slid under gerard’s shirt, palms mapping the smooth skin of his back, the dip of his spine, the faint ridges of his ribs.

it was slow, reverent. frank kissed him like they had all the time in the world- deep, unhurried drags of lips and tongue, the cool metal of his lip ring a constant, teasing contrast. every time gerard made a soft sound, frank would swallow it, then pull back just enough to look at him, brown eyes dark and searching.

“fuck, you’re beautiful,” frank whispered against his mouth, thumb stroking over gerard’s flushed cheekbone. “look at you.”

gerard’s face burned. he tugged frank back down, fingers threading through black hair, and kissed him harder. their shirts had ridden up; frank’s hoodie was half unzipped, and gerard’s hands found warm skin underneath, tracing the lines of ink he’d only glimpsed before. swirls of black across frank’s sides, the edge of something that might have been wings or thorns creeping up his ribs.

frank shuddered when gerard’s fingers brushed a sensitive spot, hips pressing down 

instinctively before he caught himself. he broke the kiss with a shaky exhale, forehead dropping to gerard’s shoulder.

“not yet, baby,” he murmured, voice rough and strained. “i want to do this right.”

gerard’s heart stuttered at the pet name. baby. it sounded so good in that low, gravelly voice. he smiled, a little dazed, and tilted his head to kiss the corner of frank’s mouth.

“you are doing it right,” he said softly. “this feels… good. really good.”

frank made a quiet, pained sound and kissed him again. slower this time, almost chaste, like he was trying to cool them both down. his hand stayed under gerard’s shirt, palm flat against his stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles that still managed to make gerard’s breath hitch.

they stayed like that for hours.

making out like teenagers who had nowhere else to be. hands wandering but never pushing boundaries - frank’s fingers mapping the planes of gerard’s chest, brushing over nipples until gerard arched and gasped; gerard’s hands sliding up frank’s back, feeling the shift of muscle under warm skin and ink. every time things started to heat up- when hips rolled too purposefully, when hands drifted dangerously close to waistbands - frank would pull back, jaw tight, breathing hard through his nose.

“not yet,” he’d whisper again, pressing a kiss to gerard’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his eye. “not yet, gee. you deserve better than rushing this.”

gerard thought it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to him.

he had no idea it was guilt eating frank alive.

every time frank stopped them, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting a war with himself, it wasn’t just about being a gentleman. it was the weight of the mask. the gun. the way he’d leaned in and called gerard gorgeous while robbing the place. the sketchbook full of his own eyes staring back at him from the coffee table. every tender kiss felt stolen, every soft sound gerard made under him felt like something he hadn’t earned yet.

but god, he wanted it. wanted gerard so badly it hurt.

so he kept stopping. kept whispering those words like a prayer and a punishment all at once.

gerard, flushed and hard and beautifully patient, just pulled him closer each time, nuzzling into his neck, pressing lazy kisses along the line of ink that disappeared under his collar.

“you’re killing me, you know that?” gerard murmured during one of the breaks, smiling against frank’s throat. his voice was wrecked, lips swollen. “in the best way.”

frank laughed, low and shaky, and buried his face in gerard’s messy hair. “yeah. feeling’s mutual, baby.”

they stayed tangled on the couch until well past midnight, shirts rumpled, hair wild, mouths tender from kissing. the tv stayed off. the beers went warm and forgotten. there was only the quiet sounds of breathing, the occasional soft laugh, the rustle of fabric when hands wandered again.

at some point frank shifted them so gerard was lying half on top of him, head on his chest,     listening to the steady thump of his heart. frank’s fingers carded gently through black hair, slow and soothing.

“you okay staying like this?” frank asked quietly.

gerard nodded, pressing a kiss to the fabric over frank’s sternum. “more than okay.”

frank closed his eyes, arms tightening around him.

he knew the guilt wouldn’t let him sleep easy tonight. he knew the confession was getting heavier every day he waited.

but for now, with gerard warm and trusting in his arms, breathing slow and content, frank let himself have this.

just a little longer.

he pressed one last kiss to the top of gerard’s head and whispered, so softly it barely carried, 

“i’ve got you.”

gerard hummed happily, already drifting.

he had no idea how much those words really meant.

or how much they cost.

`*-💵-*`

the weeks after that night on the couch felt like walking a tightrope over open flame.

every touch, every glance, every shared breath ratcheted the tension higher until it hummed between them like a live wire. frank still came by the bank every friday, still lingered at gerard’s window with pointless questions and that crooked, lip-ringed smirk that made gerard’s knees 

weak behind the counter. but now the air crackled when their fingers brushed over deposit slips. 

now frank’s eyes would drag down gerard’s body slow and deliberate, like he was remembering exactly how gerard had looked stretched out beneath him; flushed, lips swollen, shirt rucked up to his chest.

their kisses changed.

what started as sweet and reverent on the couch turned filthier by degrees, like the dam was cracking and neither of them could stop the flood. in the front seat of the van after a late-night drive, frank would haul gerard halfway across the console, one tattooed hand fisted in his messy black hair, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave faint bruises. their mouths met open and hungry, tongues sliding hot and messy, teeth nipping at lower lips until gerard moaned into it, grinding down against frank’s thigh like he couldn’t help himself. frank would growl low in his throat, sucking a mark just below gerard’s jaw, then lick over it slow and filthy while gerard panted his name like a prayer.

“fuck, gee,” frank would rasp against his skin, hips rolling up to meet him. “you taste so good. 

want to eat you alive.”

gerard would shiver and chase his mouth again, hands scrambling under frank’s misfits hoodie to map the warm, inked skin beneath.

it wasn’t enough. it was never enough.

one thursday evening in mid-may, they were in gerard’s tiny kitchen after another record-store afternoon, pretending to make coffee that neither of them really wanted. frank had gerard backed against the counter before the water even boiled, hands braced on either side of his hips, caging him in. their mouths crashed together. wet, desperate, no more pretense of slow. 

frank’s tongue fucked into gerard’s mouth in filthy strokes, mimicking something they both wanted so badly it ached. gerard whimpered, hands fisting in the front of frank’s hoodie, pulling him closer until their bodies slotted together.

frank pinned him harder, hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate grind. the friction was immediate and devastating. hard lines of cock against cock through denim, both of them already aching. gerard’s head fell back against the cabinets with a soft thud, a broken sound escaping him as frank rocked against him again, harder, grinding in tight circles that had them both shaking.

“frank– fuck–” gerard gasped, nails digging into frank’s shoulders. his legs parted wider without thinking, letting frank settle fully between them, the counter edge biting into his lower back. every roll of frank’s hips dragged pleasure up his spine like lightning. he could feel how hard frank was, the heat of him, the way his breath hitched every time gerard’s hips jerked up to meet him.

frank’s mouth moved to his neck, sucking another mark, teeth scraping, while one hand slid down to grip gerard’s ass and pull him in tighter. “that’s it, baby,” he muttered against damp skin, voice wrecked. “feel how bad i want you? fuck, you’re shaking for me already.”

they stayed like that for what felt like hours; grinding slow and filthy, mouths sloppy and desperate, until both of them were trembling on the edge, breaths ragged, hips stuttering. 

gerard’s cock throbbed in his jeans, leaking, the friction almost too much and not nearly enough. frank’s hand slipped under gerard’s shirt again, thumbing over a nipple, pinching just hard enough to make gerard cry out.

then frank froze.

he pulled back suddenly, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut like he was in physical pain. his forehead dropped to gerard’s shoulder, hands still gripping his hips but no longer moving.

“i can’t,” frank whispered, voice hoarse. “i can’t lie to you anymore.”

gerard blinked through the haze of lust, heart hammering. “what? frank, it’s okay–we don’t have to–”

but frank was already stepping back, jaw tight, breathing like he’d been shot. he ran a hand through his black hair, lips pressed into a thin line, and shook his head. “not yet. not like this. you deserve the truth first.”

gerard reached for him, confused and still painfully hard, but frank caught his wrist gently and kissed the inside of it instead. soft, almost reverent- before letting go.

“i’m sorry,” frank said, voice cracking. “i just… i need a minute.”

he left the kitchen after that, stepping out onto the tiny fire escape with a cigarette, leaving gerard leaning against the counter, flushed and aching and wondering what the hell was going on inside frank’s head.

it kept happening.

the second time was worse.

they’d driven out to a deserted stretch of the turnpike again, windows down, the smiths playing low. one thing led to another- gerard climbing into frank’s lap in the back of the van, hoodie shoved up, mouths fused in a kiss so filthy it should have been illegal. frank’s hands were everywhere: under gerard’s shirt, palming his chest, then sliding down to grip his ass and pull him down harder against the obvious bulge in his jeans. gerard rocked against him shamelessly, grinding slow and deep, the friction dragging broken moans from both of them.

“want you so fucking bad,” frank growled against his mouth, one hand slipping between them to palm gerard through his jeans. “want to feel you come on me, baby. want to hear you lose it.”

gerard whimpered, hips stuttering faster, chasing the pressure. they were both so close- clothes still on, but it felt like everything. frank’s fingers worked him through the denim, thumb pressing just right, while his mouth sucked marks down gerard’s throat.

then frank stopped again.

he hauled gerard off his lap with a groan that sounded like it hurt, breathing ragged, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. “i can’t lie to you anymore,” he muttered, the same words, the same wrecked tone. he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, jaw locked so tight it looked painful. “fuck, gee. i want this– want you– but i can’t. not until…”

he trailed off, shaking his head.

gerard sat there in the back of the van, hair wild, lips kiss-bitten, cock straining painfully against his zipper, and just stared. he wanted to push. wanted to ask what the hell frank was holding back. but the look on frank’s face, raw, guilty, almost desperate- made him swallow the questions.

instead he just crawled back into the front seat, adjusted himself with a wince, and let frank drive them home in silence, one hand still gripping gerard’s thigh like he was afraid to let go.

the tension followed them everywhere now. unbearable. suffocating.

at night, alone in his apartment, gerard would pull on the misfits hoodie frank had left behind after one of their make-out sessions. it smelled like him- cigarettes, faint cologne, that warm spice that was just frank. gerard would bury his face in the collar, inhale deep, and shove his hand into his own boxers, stroking himself slow and desperate while he replayed every filthy grind, every growled pet name.

he came like that more times than he could count- whispering frank’s name into the fabric, hips jerking, spilling over his fist with the hoodie sleeves pulled up to his nose. it was pathetic and 

perfect and it only made the ache worse, because the real thing was so close but always, always stopping just short.

frank felt it too. gerard could see it in the way his hands shook when he pulled away, in the dark circles under his eyes the next time he came into the bank, in the way he’d stare at gerard like he was drowning and gerard was the only air left.

they almost went all the way a third time, right there on gerard’s bed after another night of escalating kisses that left them both stripped to boxers, bodies pressed skin-to-skin. frank had 

gerard spread out beneath him, mouth on his chest, tongue tracing a nipple while his hand 

worked gerard’s cock with slow, perfect strokes. gerard was begging, actually begging, hips lifting off the mattress, hands fisted in frank’s hair.

“please, frank– fuck, i need you–”

frank had looked up at him then, eyes blown black, lips wet and swollen, and for one heart-stopping second gerard thought this was it. frank’s hand sped up, thumb swiping over the head just right, and gerard was right there, teetering on the edge-

then frank pulled back like he’d been burned.

breathing like he’d been shot, chest heaving, he sat back on his heels and dragged both hands down his face.

“i can’t lie to you anymore,” he choked out, voice raw and broken. “god, gee, i’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

he didn’t leave the bed this time. he just curled around gerard instead, pulling him close, pressing kisses to his temple and whispering apologies into his hair until gerard’s breathing 

evened out. but the guilt was eating frank alive. gerard could feel it in the way frank held him too tight, like he was afraid the truth would rip them apart the second it came out.

gerard didn’t know what the lie was.

he just knew the tension was going to break them both if it kept building.

and part of him–some reckless, desperate part–was starting to wonder if whatever frank was hiding could possibly be worse than this slow, exquisite torture of almost-having him.

frank, meanwhile, stared at the ceiling long after gerard fell asleep against his chest, heart hammering with the weight of everything he still couldn’t say.

the mask.

the gun.

the eyes in the sketchbook.

the truth that was one confession away from destroying the best thing he’d ever accidentally stolen.

he tightened his arms around gerard and closed his eyes, the words burning on his tongue like ash.

not yet.

but soon.

he couldn’t keep lying much longer.

`*-💵-*`

the rain came down in sheets that thursday night, drumming hard against the windows of gerard’s tiny apartment like it wanted inside. it had been one of those gray, endless jersey days that made everything feel heavier; bank shifts dragging, customers irritable, the kind of weather that turned the whole city into a smeared watercolor. 

gerard had texted frank around six: rain’s awful. come over after work? i have dry clothes and bad movies.

frank had shown up at his door twenty minutes later, soaked to the bone, black hair plastered to his forehead, lip ring glinting under the hallway light. he’d shaken himself off like a dog, grinned that chaotic little smirk, and said, “missed you, gorgeous,” before pulling gerard into a kiss right there in the doorway.

by nine o’clock the lights were low, only the lamp in the corner and the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the room. gerard was straddling frank’s lap on the old couch, knees bracketing his hips, shirt long gone and tossed somewhere on the floor. frank’s hands were everywhere– palming the bare skin of gerard’s back, sliding down to grip his ass through his sweats, squeezing just hard enough to make gerard’s breath hitch with every slow roll of his hips.

it was filthy in the best way. deliberate. the kind of grinding that built and built without rushing, cocks hard and trapped between them, the friction dragging low, broken sounds from both their throats. frank’s mouth was latched onto gerard’s throat, sucking a fresh mark into the pale skin just above his collarbone, tongue soothing over it immediately after. rain hammered the windows in rhythm with the slow rock of gerard’s hips.

“fuck, baby,” frank groaned against his neck, voice wrecked and low. “you feel so good like this. keep moving– just like that.”

gerard whimpered, head tipping back, fingers tangled in frank’s damp black hair. his own hips rolled in a lazy, devastating circle, pressing down harder, chasing the heat building low in his belly. he was aching, leaking into his boxers, every drag of fabric against his cock sending sparks up his spine. frank’s grip on his ass tightened, guiding him, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he helped gerard grind down onto him.

gerard’s hands wandered, restless and needy. they slipped under the collar of frank’s worn black t-shirt, pushing the fabric aside, palms sliding over warm skin and the raised lines of ink he’d memorized from stolen glances and late-night fantasies. his fingertips traced the curve of a shoulder, then higher, up the side of frank’s neck.

and there it was.

the exact same tattoo he remembered from the robbery.

a scorpion, black and sharp, tail curled in a perfect arc, the stinger pointing toward the jawline. 

the same flash of ink he’d glimpsed when the mask had slipped that day behind the counter. the same one he’d sketched obsessively in the margins of his secret book, trying to capture the memory before it faded.

gerard’s fingers froze mid-trace.

his entire body went still.

the slow roll of his hips stuttered to a halt.

frank’s mouth was still on his throat, but he felt the shift instantly. the sudden tension in 

gerard’s frame, the way his breathing changed from needy little pants to something sharper, shocked.

frank’s eyes snapped open.

their gazes locked.

lightning flashed outside, illuminating the apartment in harsh white for a split second, and in that moment the truth was suddenly, violently between them.

gerard’s hazel eyes were wide, pupils blown from arousal but now edged with dawning horror. 

his fingers were still pressed to the scorpion tattoo, trembling slightly against the warm skin.

“you…” gerard’s voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “that’s… that’s the same tattoo.”

frank didn’t move. his hands were still gripping gerard’s ass, but the hold had gone rigid. his chest rose and fell too fast, breath ghosting hot against gerard’s collarbone. the lip ring caught the low lamplight as his mouth opened, then closed again. for once, the easy smirk was gone. there was only raw panic flickering behind those warm brown eyes, the same eyes gerard had drawn night after night.

“gerard…” frank started, voice rough and cracked, like the word had been dragged out of him.

but gerard was already pulling back, just enough to see frank’s face fully. his hands slid out from under the shirt, but he didn’t climb off frank’s lap. not yet. he stayed there, straddling him, shirtless and flushed and suddenly, painfully sober despite the heat still pulsing between their bodies.

“the robbery,” gerard said, quieter now, but steadier. the pieces were slamming into place– frank’s height, the way he moved, that low rough voice that had murmured breathe, gorgeous against his ear while a glock sat heavy on the counter. the way frank had frozen behind the mask. the way he’d lingered. the name his crew had yelled. “it was you.”

frank’s throat worked visibly. he looked like he wanted to deny it, like he wanted to pull gerard back down and kiss the realization away, but the guilt that had been eating him alive for weeks finally won. his hands loosened on gerard’s ass, sliding up to rest on his hips instead. gentle, almost pleading.

“yeah,” frank whispered. the single word hung heavy in the sweat-soaked air. “it was me.”

gerard stared at him. his heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. the man beneath him, the one he’d fallen stupidly, helplessly hard for, was the same man who had jumped the counter with a gun, leaned in close, and cracked something open inside gerard with nothing but a whispered pet name and a brush of fingers.

the tension that had been building for weeks. the almosts, the stops, the i can’t lie to you anymore, finally snapped.

frank’s eyes were wide, desperate, searching gerard’s face for anger, for fear, for the moment he would push away and tell him to leave. rain continued to lash the windows, thunder rumbling low in the distance like the universe was holding its breath right along with them.

neither of them moved.

the truth sat raw and exposed between their half-naked bodies, the slow grind forgotten, the heat of arousal twisting now into something sharper, more dangerous.

gerard’s fingers hovered near frank’s neck again, not quite touching the scorpion tattoo, like he 

was afraid it might burn him.

“say it,” gerard said softly, voice trembling but not breaking. “say the rest.”

frank swallowed hard. his hands tightened on gerard’s hips, thumbs stroking small, soothing circles even as his own breathing shook.

“i’m the one who robbed your bank,” he said, the words spilling out like a confession in church. “i jumped the counter. i pointed the gun. i leaned in and called you gorgeous because the second i saw your eyes i fucking froze. i couldn’t stop thinking about you after. i came back. i dyed my hair. i made up the whole frank anthony bullshit just to see you again.”

he let out a shaky breath, eyes never leaving gerard’s.

“i’ve been dying every time i touched you, gee. every kiss. every time i stopped us from going further. because i couldn’t keep lying to you while you looked at me like i was something good. like i was safe.”

lightning flashed again.

the apartment went bright, then dark, the rain still pounding.

gerard sat there on frank’s lap, chest bare, hair messy, hazel eyes wide and unreadable in the low light.

`*-💵-*`

the rain kept falling like it would never stop.

gerard sat frozen on frank’s lap, shirtless, skin still flushed from the slow grind that had been building between them only minutes ago. his fingers hovered near the scorpion tattoo on frank’s neck, trembling. the truth hung between them, sharp and undeniable, cutting through the haze of arousal like a blade.

furious.

terrified.

turned on in a way that made him hate himself.

his cock was still half-hard against frank’s stomach, traitorous and aching even as his brain screamed danger. this man, this beautiful, chaotic, gentle man, had pointed a gun at him. had robbed the place where gerard spent six years keeping his head down. had whispered breathe, gorgeous while the world fell apart around them.

and gerard had fallen anyway.

“you fucking asshole,” gerard whispered, voice cracking.

frank’s hands stayed on his hips, loose now, ready to let go the second gerard pushed away. his brown eyes were wide, raw with guilt and resignation. “i know,” he said quietly. “i’ll go. just… tell me you’re okay first. i’ll disappear if that’s what you want. you can call the cops. i won’t stop you.”

the words landed like punches. gerard’s chest heaved. he wanted to scream. he wanted to shove frank off the couch and tell him to get the fuck out. he wanted to kiss him until neither of them could breathe.

instead, he did the last thing he expected.

he grabbed frank’s face with both hands, slammed their mouths together so hard their teeth clicked, and kissed him like he was trying to punish them both.

it was brutal. messy. tongues sliding, teeth nipping, gerard pouring every confusing, violent emotion into it, anger, fear, months of slow-burn want that had been choking him. frank made a shocked sound against his lips, then kissed back just as desperately, hands sliding up gerard’s bare back to pull him closer.

when they broke apart, both gasping, gerard’s forehead pressed to frank’s. his voice came out wrecked, raw, trembling with everything he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“you robbed my bank…” he swallowed, eyes squeezed shut. “and then you stole my fucking heart, you asshole.”

frank let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. his arms wrapped around gerard tight enough to bruise, face buried in the crook of his neck. “i’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice thick. “god, gee, i’m so fucking sorry.”

they didn’t have sex that night.

instead, they fought.

they cried.

they talked until the rain eased and the sky began to lighten into a damp, gray dawn.

gerard climbed off frank’s lap eventually, pulling on his discarded shirt with shaking hands. they moved to the kitchen, then back to the couch, then to the floor when sitting felt too formal. frank told him everything, halting at first, then faster, like the confession had been poisoning him for weeks.

the crew: ray, the calm one who planned most of it; mikey, frank’s best friend since they were kids, sharp and quiet behind the wheel; and the fourth guy who’d already skipped town. the jobs they’d pulled before. never hurting anyone, always clean, always just enough to keep breathing in a world that didn’t give people like them many options. the two hundred grand from newark 

mutual split four ways, most of it still hidden, untouched because frank couldn’t stop thinking about the teller with the steady voice and the shaking hands.

gerard listened to his reasons through tears, through shouting, through long stretches of silence where he stared at the scorpion tattoo like it might explain everything. he was angry, furious that frank had lied for so long, terrified of what this meant for both of them, horrified at how much he still wanted him even now.

“you could go to prison,” gerard said at one point, voice small. “i could lose everything too if anyone finds out i knew.”

“i know,” frank whispered. “i’ll turn myself in if that’s what you need. i’ll do whatever you want.”

gerard cried harder then, curled against frank’s chest while frank held him like he was something precious that might shatter.

they talked about the sketchbooks. about the midnight drives. about the way frank had stopped them every time things got too far because the guilt was killing him. about how gerard had worn frank’s hoodie to jerk off, hating how much he needed the smell of him.

by sunrise, they were exhausted, eyes red, voices hoarse. they lay tangled on the couch under a thin blanket, rain reduced to a soft patter against the glass. no promises. no decisions. just the heavy, fragile truth finally out in the open.

“i don’t know what we do now,” gerard admitted, voice barely audible.

frank pressed a kiss to his temple, gentle and trembling. “we figure it out. together. if you still want me.”

gerard didn’t answer with words. he just held on tighter.

the next night, everything snapped.

gerard had spent the entire day at the bank in a daze. jumping at every sound, replaying 

frank’s confession on loop, his body still buzzing with leftover terror and want. when his shift ended, he didn’t even wait for frank to text. he called him instead.

come over. now.

frank arrived in under fifteen minutes.

the second the door clicked shut behind him, gerard dragged him into the bedroom by the front of his hoodie. no talking. no slow build. months of pent-up fear, guilt, longing, and unbearable sexual tension exploded all at once.

their mouths crashed together in a bruising kiss. teeth and tongues, hands tearing at clothes. 

shirts hit the floor. jeans were shoved down and kicked away. they tumbled onto gerard’s bed in a mess of limbs, skin hot and desperate. frank ended up on top, bracketing gerard’s body with his own, hips already grinding down hard.

“need you,” gerard gasped against his mouth, nails raking down frank’s back. “frank–fuck, please–”

frank groaned like he’d been punched, the sound of his real name on gerard’s lips hitting him somewhere deep and primal. he shoved gerard’s thighs apart, settling between them, mouth sucking bruises down his chest while one hand fumbled for the lube gerard had thrown onto the nightstand days ago in silent, frustrated hope.

it was desperate. messy. raw.

frank prepped him quickly but carefully, fingers slick and trembling, whispering broken apologies and praises between kisses. “so tight, baby… fuck, you’re perfect… been dreaming about this…”

when he finally pushed inside, one slow, burning inch at a time, both of them cried out. gerard’s back arched off the bed, a wrecked moan tearing from his throat. “frank– oh my god–”

frank fucked him like he was afraid gerard would disappear if he stopped; deep, hard thrusts that rocked the bedframe, hips snapping with months of restrained hunger. one hand gripped 

gerard’s hip hard enough to bruise; the other braced beside his head, fingers laced with gerard’s. their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, eyes locked even as pleasure bordered on pain.

gerard moaned frank’s name like it was a prayer and a curse at the same time. gasping it with every thrust, sobbing it when frank angled just right and hit that spot inside him that made stars burst behind his eyelids.

“frank– ah, fuck– right there– don’t stop–”

they came hard and fast the first time, gerard clenching around him, spilling between their stomachs with a broken cry; frank following seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning gerard’s name like it hurt.

but they weren’t done.

they couldn’t keep their hands off each other after that.

the second round was slower but no less intense. gerard riding frank, hands braced on his inked chest, hips rolling in filthy circles while frank looked up at him like he was the only thing in the world. the third was from behind, frank’s chest pressed to gerard’s back, one arm wrapped around his waist, mouth against his ear murmuring filthy, tender things until gerard came again with a sob.

by the time they finally collapsed, sweaty and spent and trembling, the sky outside was dark again. they lay tangled in the sheets, frank’s face buried in gerard’s neck, arms locked around him like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

gerard traced the scorpion tattoo with one lazy finger, no longer freezing at the touch.

“i should hate you,” he whispered into the quiet.

frank pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “you probably should.”

gerard smiled, small and exhausted and real. “too bad i don’t.”

they fell asleep like that, bodies pressed close, hearts still racing from the crash of truth and release.

`*-💵-*`

afternoon light filtered gray and soft through the rain-streaked windows, turning gerard’s tiny bedroom into something hazy and intimate. the sheets were tangled around their legs, the air still thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the faint trace of frank’s cologne clinging to everything. they had barely slept. dozing in short, exhausted bursts between lazy touches and quiet confessions, but when gerard woke fully, the first thing he registered was frank’s warm, compact body curled against his side, one inked arm slung possessively over his waist.

frank was still asleep, black hair messy across the pillow, lip ring glinting faintly, breathing slow and even. the scorpion tattoo on his neck stood out in the morning light, a sharp black reminder of everything that had shattered between them the night before.

gerard stared at it for a long moment.

then the anger. the sharp, leftover edge of it from yesterday’s confession, twisted with something hotter. something vengeful and needy.

all those nights frank had stopped them.

all those times he’d pulled back with a tight jaw and whispered not yet, baby. i want to do this right.

all the desperate, aching hours gerard had spent alone in this bed, wearing frank’s hoodie and jerking off to memories while the real thing held back out of guilt.

a slow, wicked smile curved gerard’s mouth.

revenge.

he shifted carefully, rolling them so frank was on his back. frank stirred but didn’t wake fully, murmuring something incoherent as gerard straddled his hips. gerard’s hands braced on either side of frank’s head, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the scorpion tattoo, then biting down just hard enough to make frank’s breath hitch.

frank’s eyes fluttered open, brown and still heavy with sleep. “gee…?”

“morning,” gerard said, voice low and rough from the night before. his hazel eyes were dark, intent. “you kept me waiting a lot, frank. all those times you stopped us. left me hard and shaking and begging.”

frank’s pupils dilated instantly. his hands came up to rest on gerard’s thighs, thumbs stroking the pale skin. “yeah… i did.”

gerard leaned closer, lips brushing frank’s ear. “my turn.”

he didn’t give frank time to respond.

gerard kissed him hard. deep and claiming, while one hand reached for the lube still on the nightstand from last night. the cap clicked open. frank made a low, surprised sound when slick fingers circled his entrance, teasing, pressing in slow and deliberate. gerard worked him open with focused patience, watching every flicker across frank’s face: the way his lips parted, the way his hips twitched up involuntarily, the soft curses falling from his mouth as gerard crooked his fingers just right.

“fuck– gerard–”

“shh,” gerard murmured, adding a second finger, scissoring gently but relentlessly. “you made me wait. now you get to feel it.”

frank’s head tipped back against the pillow, throat exposed, the scorpion tattoo stark against his flushed skin. his cock was already hard again, leaking against his stomach. gerard leaned down and licked a stripe up the underside, tasting the remnants of last night, before sucking the head into his mouth just long enough to make frank moan.

when frank was trembling, open and desperate beneath him, gerard slicked himself up and lined up.

he pushed in slow, inch by inch, watching frank’s face the entire time. the stretch, the burn, the way frank’s hands flew to grip gerard’s hips hard enough to bruise. it was raw. messy. gerard bottomed out with a groan, forehead dropping to frank’s shoulder as he fought to stay still and let frank adjust.

“jesus christ,” frank gasped, voice wrecked. “you’re so fuckin’ big. move, baby, please–”

gerard didn’t need to be told twice.

he started thrusting. deep, punishing rolls of his hips that rocked the bedframe. every snap forward was payback for every time frank had edged them both to the brink and walked away. 

gerard fucked him like he was trying to imprint himself inside frank, one hand braced beside 

frank’s head, the other wrapped around frank’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

frank took it beautifully. legs spread wide, heels digging into the mattress, moaning gerard’s name like it was the only word he remembered. his nails raked down gerard’s back, leaving red 

lines that would linger for days. sweat slicked their skin, the sounds in the room obscene: skin slapping skin, wet slick noises, broken gasps and curses.

“fuck– harder, gerard, shit–”

gerard obliged, hips snapping faster, angling to hit that spot inside frank that made his whole body jerk. he leaned down, mouth against frank’s ear, voice rough and trembling with the intensity of it.

“you feel that? that’s what you did to me every single time you stopped. left me aching for days.”

frank sobbed a moan, clenching tight around him. “i’m sorry– fuck, i’m so sorry– don’t stop-!”

they were both desperate now. the revenge had burned away into something mutual and frantic. gerard fucked him harder, strokes turning sloppy and deep, hand flying over frank’s cock until frank came with a shout, back arching, come spilling hot over gerard’s fingers and his own stomach.

the sight and the tight clench pushed gerard over the edge seconds later. he buried himself deep, hips stuttering as he came inside frank with a guttural groan, moaning frank’s name like a curse and a blessing all at once.

they collapsed together, panting, bodies trembling with aftershocks.

for a long minute, neither of them moved. gerard stayed buried inside him, face pressed to frank’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and frank. frank’s arms wrapped around his back, holding him close even as his legs shook.

“jesus,” frank finally whispered, voice hoarse. “that was…”

“revenge,” gerard mumbled against his skin, a tired, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “and 

maybe a little bit of love.”

frank laughed. soft, breathless, turning into a wince as gerard finally pulled out slowly. they cleaned up with lazy, half-hearted wipes from a towel, then collapsed back into the sheets, tangled together in a sticky, aching mess.

but even as the exhaustion pulled at them, the hunger didn’t fade.

frank’s hand slid down gerard’s side, possessive and teasing. gerard shivered and pressed closer, already feeling the slow stir of want again low in his belly.

they were both sore. hips bruised, muscles aching, skin marked with bites and scratches. but neither of them wanted to stop touching.

frank nuzzled into gerard’s messy hair, voice low and rough. “we’re never gonna leave this bed, are we?”

gerard smiled against his shoulder, fingers tracing the scorpion tattoo again, this time without hesitation.

“good,” he said simply. “i’m not done with you yet.”

–

they barely left the bed before noon, trading lazy kisses and soft touches that quickly turned heated again. gerard woke up first, sunlight pooling across frank’s tattooed back, and the sight of him, marked up from the night before, lips still swollen, sent a fresh wave of possessive heat through his veins.

he decided then: today was going to be payback in full.

all day.

no quick relief. no mercy until frank was shaking, crying, and begging with that wrecked voice gerard couldn’t get enough of.

he started subtle.

while frank was still half-asleep, gerard slid down his body and took him into his mouth. slow, wet, teasing licks and gentle suction, just enough to get him hard and leaking. every time frank’s hips twitched up, chasing more, gerard pulled back with a soft pop, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh instead.

“morning,” gerard murmured against warm skin, voice innocent. “sleep well?”

frank groaned, fingers threading into gerard’s messy black hair. “you’re evil.”

gerard smiled against his hip. “you have no idea.”

he kept it up through breakfast.

frank tried to make coffee in the tiny kitchen, wearing nothing but gerard’s oversized hoodie and a pair of boxers. gerard came up behind him, pressed close, and slipped a hand inside the waistband. he stroked him slow and firm, thumb circling the head, until frank was gripping the counter and panting. then he stopped. pulled his hand away. kissed the back of frank’s neck and said, “eggs?”

frank turned around, eyes already dark. “gerard.”

“hm?”

“you’re gonna kill me.”

gerard just smirked and handed him a mug.

they moved to the couch later in the afternoon. gerard straddled frank’s lap again, grinding down in those same filthy rolls from the night before, but this time he controlled every movement. slow circles, deliberate pressure, never letting frank thrust up properly. when frank tried to flip them, gerard pinned his wrists above his head with surprising strength and whispered against his lips, “not yet. you made me wait so many times. now it’s my turn.”

frank’s cock was straining against the fabric, a wet spot already forming. gerard palmed him through the hoodie, squeezing just right, then pulled away every time frank’s breathing turned ragged and his hips started stuttering.

by mid-afternoon, frank was flushed all over, pupils blown, the scorpion tattoo standing out stark against his reddened neck. he was leaking steadily, cock flushed dark and aching. every denied orgasm left him trembling harder.

gerard took him apart piece by piece.

in the shower, he dropped to his knees and sucked frank off with perfect, tight heat, hollowing his cheeks, taking him deep, moaning around him, until frank’s knees buckled and he was babbling, “close– fuck, gee, i’m so close–”

gerard pulled off with a wicked grin, water cascading over both of them. “not yet.”

frank slammed a hand against the tile, head dropping forward with a broken whine. “you’re fucking cruel.”

“you love it,” gerard said, standing up and kissing him slow and deep, letting frank taste himself on his tongue.

the real breaking point came in the bedroom as evening light turned golden and soft.

gerard had frank spread out on his back, completely naked, wrists loosely tied to the headboard with one of gerard’s belts– just tight enough to remind him who was in control. gerard was between his thighs, three slick fingers buried deep inside him, curling relentlessly against his prostate while his mouth worked frank’s cock in lazy, torturous strokes.

he brought frank right to the edge again and again.

every time frank’s thighs started shaking, every time his voice cracked on a moan and his cock throbbed against gerard’s tongue, gerard would stop. pull his fingers out. sit back on his heels and watch frank fall apart.

frank was crying by the fourth edge.

real tears slipping down the sides of his face, mixing with sweat. his chest heaved with ragged sobs, hips twitching uselessly, cock red and leaking desperately onto his stomach. the usually cocky, chaotic frank was gone. replaced by a trembling, desperate mess who could barely form words.

“gerard– please– ” his voice was hoarse, broken. “i can’t– fuck, i need to come so bad– please, baby, i’m begging you-”

gerard leaned over him, brushing damp black hair out of frank’s eyes. his own cock was aching, untouched and leaking, but the sight of frank like this – tears wetting his lashes, lip ring glistening, body shaking with need, was worth every second of restraint.

“look at you,” gerard whispered, voice thick with awe and lust. “so fucking gorgeous when you beg. you cried for me.”

frank sobbed, hips jerking. “please…gerard, i’ll do anything - just let me come. please–”

gerard finally gave in.

he slicked himself up quickly, pushed frank’s thighs wider, and slid inside in one smooth thrust. 

frank cried out, back arching off the bed, the sound raw and beautiful. gerard didn’t tease anymore. he fucked him hard and deep, hips snapping with purpose, one hand stroking frank’s cock in tight, fast pulls.

“come for me,” gerard growled against his mouth. “let me see it.”

frank came with a shattered cry that echoed off the walls, whole body seizing, tears streaming down his face, come spilling hot and endless over gerard’s fist and across his own chest. his ass clenched tight around gerard, pulsing, milking him as wave after wave crashed through him. 

the orgasm seemed to last forever, frank’s voice cracking on gerard’s name like a prayer.

the sight– frank’s face twisted in overwhelming pleasure, eyes screwed shut, mouth open on a silent scream, was everything.

gorgeous.

perfect.

addictive.

gerard followed right after, burying himself deep and coming with a low groan, hips stuttering as he filled frank. he collapsed on top of him, both of them shaking, breathing hard in the quiet aftermath.

for a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint patter of leftover rain against the window.

frank’s wrists were freed. he immediately wrapped his arms around gerard, pulling him closer even though they were both oversensitive and sticky. tears still clung to his lashes, but his smile was soft, wrecked, and utterly content.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” frank whispered, voice hoarse.

gerard pressed a gentle kiss to the scorpion tattoo, then to the corner of frank’s wet eye.

“good,” he murmured. “because i’m nowhere near done with you.”

frank laughed weakly, the sound turning into a content sigh as he nuzzled into gerard’s neck. 

they stayed like that for hours, tangled, aching, sated but already hungry again. the edging had broken something open between them, leaving them raw and closer than ever.

`*-💵-*`

the weeks that followed were a dangerous kind of perfect.

they barely left gerard’s apartment except for necessary things, gerard’s shifts at the bank, quick runs for food and cigarettes. every night they fell into each other again, bodies learning every inch, every sound, every way to make the other fall apart. the sex stayed raw and addictive, sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes desperate and bruising, but always ending with them tangled together like they were afraid the world would rip them apart if they let go.

but underneath the honeymoon haze, frank’s mind was working.

he started planning the last job in quiet moments, when gerard was sketching at the kitchen table, or when frank lay awake staring at the ceiling after gerard had fallen asleep against his chest. it had to be big. big enough to set them both up for good. big enough that frank could walk away from the life, change his name for real this time, disappear somewhere quiet with gerard, and never look back.

he didn’t tell gerard at first.

he sketched out details on the back of deposit slips he’d stolen from the bank, hiding them in the bottom of his duffel. a small armored car route that ran through north jersey on the last friday of every month. low security, high payout. one last score, maybe three hundred grand if everything went perfectly. then burn the plans, ditch the crew, and vanish.

ray and mikey noticed he was distracted. they pushed for details on the next job, but frank kept putting them off with half-truths. he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud yet: this was the end of the line for him.

gerard found out anyway.

it was a humid tuesday night in early june. they’d just finished fucking, slow and deep, gerard riding frank until they were both shaking and oversensitive. they lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on their skin, the fan spinning lazily overhead. frank’s fingers were tracing the fresh hickeys he’d sucked into gerard’s pale neck, dark purple blooms that marked him as taken.

gerard’s head rested on frank’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. his own fingers idly traced the scorpion tattoo, the familiar black lines now something comforting instead of terrifying.

frank’s voice broke the quiet, low and careful.

“i’m planning one last job.”

gerard went still.

frank kept talking, soft and measured, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. “armored car. north jersey route. it’s clean - minimal risk if we time it right. one last big score. enough to set us up somewhere far from here. new names. a quiet place. i can go straight after that, gee. no more masks. no more running.”

gerard lifted his head. his hazel eyes were wide, fear flashing bright and sharp. “frank…”

“i know,” frank said, thumb brushing over one of the hickeys. “it’s dangerous. but i’ve done worse with less. this one pays enough that we don’t have to look over our shoulders forever.”

gerard sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around his waist. his chest felt tight, the same anxious knot he used to carry at the bank now twisting into something worse. “you could get killed. or caught. what if something goes wrong? what if–”

he cut himself off, voice cracking.

frank sat up too, cupping gerard’s face with both hands. his brown eyes were steady, but there was fear there too; fear of losing this, of losing gerard.

“i’m doing it for us,” frank whispered. “so i can give you something better than a shitty apartment and friday deposits. so we can actually have a life.”

gerard’s eyes filled with tears. he was terrified – bone-deep, stomach-churning terror. the thought of frank in a ski mask again, gun in hand, sirens in the distance, made him want to scream. but he was in too deep. he’d already crossed every line the night he chose to keep frank instead of calling the cops. he couldn’t let go now.

he leaned forward and kissed frank hard, tasting salt from his own tears.

“i hate this,” gerard breathed against his mouth. “i hate that you have to do this. but… i’m not letting you go. not now.”

frank pulled him closer, arms wrapping tight around his waist, foreheads pressed together.

“i’ll be careful,” he promised. “in and out. then it’s over.”

they didn’t talk about it again that night. instead they fucked again, desperate and clinging, like they could hold the future at bay with their bodies. gerard rode frank again, slow and deep, hands braced on his chest, eyes locked the entire time. frank’s hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave new bruises, whispering praises and apologies into gerard’s skin until they both came undone.

afterward, they lay spent and tangled once more.

sweat was cooling on their skin. the room smelled like sex and them. frank’s fingers returned to the hickeys on gerard’s neck, tracing each one with reverent gentleness, like he was memorizing the map of where he’d claimed him. his voice was barely a whisper in the dark.

“if they catch me… run.”

the words landed heavy between them.

gerard’s breath caught. he turned his head, pressing his face into frank’s neck, right over the scorpion tattoo. his arms tightened around frank’s waist, pulling their bodies flush together, skin to skin, heart to heart.

he answered without hesitation, voice steady despite the fear clawing at his throat.

“then don’t get caught.”

frank exhaled shakily, pressing a soft kiss to gerard’s messy hair. his hand slid down gerard’s back, holding him even closer. they stayed like that until sleep finally claimed them; bodies pressed tight, the weight of the last job hanging over them like a storm cloud.

one final score.

one final risk.

and then, maybe, if the universe was kind, they could finally disappear together.

`*-💵-*`

the city never really slept.

even at 3:17 a.m., newark hummed low and restless beyond the thin walls of gerard’s apartment. sirens wailed in the distance, car horns blared faintly from the street below, and the orange glow of streetlights leaked through the half-closed blinds in thin, flickering stripes across the bedroom wall.

inside, the world had narrowed to the bed.

frank and gerard lay tangled together in a messy knot of limbs and damp sheets, bodies still warm from the slow, clinging sex they’d fallen into after the heavy conversation. sweat had cooled on their skin, leaving them sticky and sated, but neither had any desire to move. 

gerard’s head rested on frank’s chest, ear pressed directly over his heartbeat. frank’s arm was wrapped securely around gerard’s back, fingers idly tracing lazy circles over the knobs 

of his spine. one of gerard’s legs was slung over frank’s thigh, keeping them pressed close from chest to hip.

they breathed in sync, slow and deep, like the simple act of existing together was the only thing anchoring them to the earth.

the scorpion tattoo rose and fell under gerard’s cheek with every inhale frank took. 

gerard’s fingers rested lightly over it, not tracing anymore, just resting there, a quiet claim. the fresh hickeys on his own neck throbbed faintly with his pulse, dark marks left by frank’s mouth like signatures.

two people who were never supposed to meet.

a anxious bank teller who sketched cathedrals in the margins of deposit slips.

a chaotic, ink-covered criminal who jumped counters with a gun and a grin.

and yet here they were, unable to breathe without each other. frank pressed a slow kiss to the top of gerard’s messy black hair, lips lingering. “you still scared?” he whispered into the quiet.

gerard nodded against his chest, the movement small. “terrified.” his voice was hoarse from earlier moans and from the tears he’d tried to hide. “but i’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

frank’s arm tightened around him. a shaky breath escaped him. “same.”

outside, another siren rose and faded. inside, the only sounds were their heartbeats and the faint rustle of sheets when one of them shifted closer.

gerard tilted his head just enough to look up at frank. in the flickering city light slipping through the blinds, frank’s face was half-shadow, half-glow. warm brown eyes soft, lip ring catching a glint of orange, black hair falling messily across his forehead. he looked young and dangerous and heartbreakingly tender all at once.

“i love you,” gerard said quietly. simple. no drama. just truth.

frank’s eyes closed for a second, like the words hurt in the best way. when he opened them again, they were shining. “i love you too, gee. fuck… so much it scares me more than any job ever could.”

gerard smiled. small, tired, real. and pressed his lips to the center of frank’s chest, right over his heart.

they didn’t speak after that.

there was nothing left to say tonight.

the last job loomed somewhere in the near future, heavy and uncertain. the fear was still there, coiled tight in both their stomachs. but right now, in this small, messy apartment with the city lights flickering across their skin, none of it mattered as much as the way frank’s fingers kept stroking gerard’s back, or the way gerard’s leg tightened around frank’s thigh, or the way their breathing stayed perfectly matched.

two people who should never have crossed paths.

a masked robber and the teller who looked up at him with steady hazel eyes and cracked his whole world open.

now they were inseparable, bodies tangled, hearts knotted, futures braided together whether the universe liked it or not.

frank’s hand eventually stilled on gerard’s back as sleep finally pulled him under. gerard stayed awake a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of frank’s heartbeat, watching the city lights dance across the ceiling.

he whispered one last thing against frank’s skin, too soft for anyone but the night to hear.

“don’t get caught.”

then he closed his eyes, pressed closer, and let himself drift.

outside, newark kept moving. restless, loud, indifferent.

inside, two hearts beat in time, tangled so tightly that separating them would tear both men in half.