Work Text:
“I’m glad you stayed another week,” Frank says, cuddling into Grant’s side in the cab on the way back to the hotel. He’s still wearing the wolf hat, mostly because Gerard keeps telling him how ridiculous he looks, which he knows means Gerard secretly thinks it’s cute. “I know you miss the cats.”
“And the weather.” Grant winks and tugs on one of the wolf ears. “But I’ve had you for half the month, so it’s not so bad. And Alicia says the cats are enjoying the company.” Which probably means Alicia’s enjoying the company. She’s coming over, but not until the later European dates.
“It went well,” Gerard interjects suddenly from the other side of Frank. “Didn’t it? I thought it did.” He’s still wound up from the video shoot. Frank’s a little sorry they have to leave tomorrow for the Netherlands, without more time to rest. Grant’s leaving tomorrow too; headed back to L.A. out of Heathrow. Their hotel room is a mini-Stonehenge of luggage, but Frank can’t wait to get back there, because it’ll be their last night together for a month.
“It was great, Gee,” Frank assures him. “The kids are fucking hardcore. It’s going to be great.” Grant makes a noise of agreement from beside him. Planetary, he always says, is his favorite after Destroya. The conversation dies out a bit until they’ve been dropped off at their hotel, but then they’re making their way to their room. Grant takes the keycard from Frank after his third failed try and opens the door. Gerard practically trips over Frank’s rolly bag before Frank turns on the light. They all take a deep breath, and then they’re all laughing.
Frank starts shedding layers, watching Gerard do the same. Grant grabs Gerard’s wrist gently when he shrugs out of his jacket and smooths a hand down the Sharpie on his forearm. “Starting to smudge,” he says, tracing “Crime is doomed”from Gerard’s elbow to his wrist.
“It was hot as fuck in there,” Gerard says. He’s standing still, watching Grant’s fingers. “You wanna fix it?”
“Maybe,” Grant says. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a Sharpie and twirls it between his fingers. Gerard watches it move in silence, and Frank feels a grin slowly spreading across his face. This is totally one of Gerard’s things. Grant knows that. Frank knows that. This should be good. “Strip,” Grant says calmly, and Frank watches Gerard’s eyes fly back to Grant’s face. He pulls his shirt off, bends to unzip his boots, wriggles out of his jeans and underwear. Silently. Frank grins and walks over to the desk to pick up his camera.
“Frank,” Gerard says warningly. He’s breathing a little quicker, though, pupils blown. He loves this, he just likes to pretend like he doesn’t. Frank flicks a look at Grant, whose mouth is quirking in a little half-grin.
“Just a few. I’ll be careful with them, Gee, you know that,” Frank says. Gerard sighs dramatically, and Grant lays his fingers across Gerard’s lips.
“Lie down,” Grant says. “Pull the covers down first.” Gerard follows instructions. The sheets are very white, Gerard’s skin only somewhat less so. Grant’s wearing a black pinstriped suit and when he goes for the top button of the jacket, Frank says quietly, “Leave it on,” to Grant, who nods in response.
Frank has already stripped off his own shirt, and the camera is heavy and somewhat cool when he loops the strap around his neck and lets it fall against his chest. He walks around the room turning more lights on while Grant kneels on the mattress beside Gerard. He circles the bed, seeing it all through the shutter, in full technicolor glory whenever he lets the camera drop.
Grant’s freckled knuckles wrapped around Gerard’s forearm. The black marker tracing a thick, wet “C” over smudged ink.
Grant shifts, and Frank shifts with him. Black sleeve against pale skin, a delicate arabesque bleeding along Gerard’s collarbone. Tiny skeletons marching down the cage of Gerard’s ribs like the cover of Black Parade. The camera sees it all. Frank sees their faces, Gerard flushed and panting, moaning and squirming when the ink tickles along his side. Grant watching hawklike, possessive of every inch of skin he touches.
Another shift and lean, Grant’s breath washing over Gerard’s groin as he inscribes the jut of Gerard’s hipbone. More words this time. Jump out of the world. Grant's words, another quote. His thumb presses against the bruise Frank left there last night. The shutter clicks. Frank makes a noise and Grant leans in. The camera catches his lips and jaw in closeup before he kisses Frank’s temple.
“Almost done,” Grant murmurs, pushing off of the mattress to strip out of his suit jacket and send his shirt fluttering to the floor. Frank shoots that too in low light, the distorted folds of material against the rumpled comforter, Gerard’s body a pale curve behind Grant’s naked back. When Grant climbs back into bed, he spreads Gerard’s legs wide, leans down to press a kiss where Gerard’s heart beats.
Frank’s forgotten about his camera; he’d much rather watch Grant’s slim hand close around Gerard’s cock. Gerard’s been hard since before he lost his clothes. Possibly since they got offstage, who knows? But now he’s so hard he’s leaking, skin stained with a flush and the stark black lines of ink. Grant still has the Sharpie; he smooths his free hand across the expanse of Gerard’s chest, scrawls a final message there.
Grant must toss the pen; Frank doesn’t see what he does with it, just sees Grant lean down and wrap his free hand around the back of Gerard’s neck, tugging him up off the mattress to kiss him as he continues stroking. The camera bangs against Frank’s ribs as he kneels on the side of the bed, photos less important than the desperate arch of Gerard’s back against Grant’s arm. Gerard gasps, shudders, comes, and as he sinks back into the pillows Frank can read the final quote scrawled across his chest.
This miraculous cabinet, it says in sweeping letters. Click.
“Frank,” Grant says throatily. “Put it down now.” Frank nods in acknowledgement and sets his camera on the bedside table, shoving at his jeans and underwear until he’s naked, until he can crawl up into Grant’s lap. Grant’s propped himself up against the headboard next to Gerard, and Frank straddles his hips, rocking his own to spark a little friction. Grant makes a sound not unlike a purr, and Frank leans in to kiss him, hands slipping up Grant’s chest to cup his face.
“Do you remember?” he whispers, sucking gently up and down the skin of Grant’s neck.
“Your birthday,” Grant murmurs, hips hitching up as Frank grinds down. “Do it, Frankie.” His hands settle on Frank’s hips, and Frank leaves one hand on Grant’s neck, wrapping the other around both their cocks. They both let out a strangled noise. Beside Grant, Gerard stirs, touching the back of Frank’s hand and squirting some lube into his palm when Frank looks over.
“Thanks, baby,” Frank says, and wraps them back up, stroking fast and sure. Grant groans. Frank presses his thumb against Grant’s pulse, watching as Gerard curls close to trace his fingers up and down Grant’s chest. “Is it what you imagined?” Frank breathes to Grant.
Grant nods, then throws his head back against the pillows as Frank adds an energetic twist to the top of his stroke. “Fuck, Frank, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” Frank leans back in to taste his mouth, stifling Grant’s gasp, nibbling along his bottom lip. He’s got his own eyes squeezed shut, forces himself to open them and watch as Grant braces his shoulders against the headboard, hips lifting into Frank’s strokes, fingers biting into Frank’s hips. “Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck. Frank. Yes....”
Frank pulls their mouths back together, kisses Grant hard, hearing his breath catch as he comes in Frank’s hand. Pulls back enough to give himself the last few strokes he needs to come, too. When he comes, he comes hard, words seizing in his throat, breath catching, vision flashing white before it all settles down into a pleasurable buzz under his skin.
When Frank can breathe again, he cleans them up with a corner of the sheet and then settles back between the other two. He reaches out and traces his fingers lightly over Gerard’s hip. “I didn’t get any drawings,” he says, turning his head to look up at Grant.
Grant kisses his forehead. “Where exactly do you have room?” he teases.
Gerard laughs on Frank’s other side. “His big toe, maybe.” Frank pouts a little. They both get enough mileage out of his tattoos, and now they’re mocking him.
Grant won’t let him pout for long. He rolls over, leans off the side of the bed, and when he sits back up he’s got the pen in his hand. He sweeps a hand down Frank’s chestpiece, rests his palm against the bottom edge of Frank’s ribcage, and starts drawing something in the patch of clean skin above Frank’s navel.
“This is the solar plexus,” he murmurs, pen nib tickling along Frank’s skin. “The yellow chakra, the source of our willpower.”
“What are you drawing?”
Gerard leans over. “Is that a Chaos Star?” When Frank gives him a disbelieving look, he shrugs and says, “Warhammer.”
Frank snorts. “Of course.”
“It is,” Grant murmurs, putting the last touches on the points. “Aleister Crowley used it in his tarot, said it stood for energy scattering at high velocity...the seeds of Chaos, of creation maybe....” He trails off into a hum, then caps the pen and tosses it away again. “There, darling. You are similarly defaced. Yes?”
“Yes,” Frank says, voice a bit thick. It started as a joke, but it’s not funny anymore, it’s...something special. He squirms until he can wrap his arms around Grant, whispering “I love you,” kissing them both until his eyes are drooping, his movements slowing. He falls asleep cradled between them.
*
The next day, Frank covers the star with a large Band-Aid. When they get to Tilburg, he cons Medhi into taking him to a tattoo parlor the stage manager knows. “Ah,” the tattoo artist says when Frank uncovers the drawing. “Warhammer.” Frank rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch. What the hell, it’s appropriate.
Twenty minutes later, it’s permanent.
Inked and wrapped, Frank heads back to the venue. Playing’s going to suck tonight, but he doesn’t care. He’s got Grant on his skin now where he belongs.