Chapter Text
The first time it happens is in the fall of 2003 at the tail end of their first tour.
Matt drives the van, surely going way over the speed limit, but none of them can care at the moment due to the pain. The chatter had slowly gone quiet over the course of the drive between towns, and now that they've gotten past Tobyhanna, it's silent and tense, only interrupted by the occasional groan, or someone swearing under their breath as they fold themselves in half to clutch their stomach.
Matt wordlessly takes an exit and pulls the van into the parking lot of an empty gas station, nearly tipping the van over. Then he stops the van and all of them struggle with their seatbelts and climb over each other to dart out of it.
Mikey books it to the mini mart at lightning speed, and Ray, stumbling through the parking lot, can see him through the window pleading frantically with the poor attendant before locking himself in the bathroom with the key he's received.
"Fuck," Frank says, and shambles away from the door of the building, too slow in his sickness to have reached the bathroom before Mikey. He disappears into the treeline thirty feet from where Matt did, who’d been pulling down his pants before he even got to the safety of the forest.
Ray doesn't make it very far before the burning cramps drain the strength from his legs and he curls up in a ball on the asphalt, illuminated by the lights of the gas pumps, moaning and rocking and clenching his arms around his middle. He feels like he’s been disemboweled and then thrown into a washing machine, the sheer agonizing, flying sensation blurring his vision and making his world spin.
"Oh, Christ. Jesus Christ," he wheezes to himself.
It's war. Manners and sympathy have vanished in the desperation. They've all gone in different directions to try and die in privacy like sick animals, except for Gerard, who looks a little bewildered at the speed everyone's disappeared with.
Gerard, who'd eaten a tuna melt and fries from the shitty diner in Syracuse, is the only one who'd gotten away unscathed. They'd all made fun of him for ordering a fucking tuna melt-- and a red wine, of all things-- in a place that had cigarette stains on the walls and only one fully functioning overhead light gathering a swarm of moths and flies. It was the only place open at 2am in the whole town.
"It's from a can," they’d said defensively, holding the sandwich, a stream of mayonnaise thinned with tomato juice leaking over their thumb, "It's safe. You're really gonna give me shit for having red wine with fish? Look where we are."
And he'd been right, which was the fucked up thing about it. Matt and Ray with their soggy BLTs, Frank with his overcooked burger (no cheese), and Mikey with his limp chicken caesar salad had all had fries, too, but they'd also eaten lettuce, the only through line they could later blame for the hell that descended upon them.
He doesn't hear Gerard's footsteps behind him, just feels soft hands on him, maneuvering him into a sitting position, where he continues rocking back and forth with his eyes pinched shut.
"It's okay. It's okay, Ray," Gerard says quietly, rubbing a hand up and down Ray's back. The touch doesn't help the pain, but it makes him feel less pathetic and alone.
"It was the lettuce. It was the fucking-- lettuce. I'm gonna," he says between deep breaths, surges forward onto his hands and knees, and gags.
"Okay, okay, it's alright," Gerard says. They kneel up with him and gather Ray's hair out of his face.
Ray closes his eyes, his head feeling like it weighs a million pounds, nausea poking at his gut incessantly, as his mouth floods with water. His stomach churns and gurgles pointedly. He spits on the ground and opens his eyes.
Just the sight of his saliva against the pavement draws the first wave of vomit out of him, a deep, horrible, guttural noise coming with it. It comes out with force, a horrible pinkish slurry rushing up his throat, hitting the pavement and splashing onto his shaking fingers, his jeans. A piece of french fry, trapped in a salmon-colored goo, lands on his hand and he moans in despair before shaking it off. Then, to add insult to injury, his glasses fall off into the mess, and he lets out a sob.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, my God," he says with a gaping throat.
"You're okay," Gerard coos from behind, patting his back, tethering him to reality. They carefully pluck his ruined glasses off the ground.
He belches and vomits again. The feeling's worse the second time, throat already burning with bile, and the chunks in his vomit feel like knives as they come up. He expects it to be less this time, but the puddle in front of him doubles in size. Flecks of lettuce and bacon and tomato skin twinkle confetti-like in the harsh light overhead. It smells awful, like cheese and rotting fruit and the beer and the smoky bacon.
One weak hand lifts from the ground, loose gravel stuck to the palm, to wipe away a thick string of spit and mucus dangling from his bottom lip. He misses, delirious. Equal parts of disgust, appreciation, and love fill his heart when Gerard gets it for him, gathering it up in one sweater paw like spiderwebs off a tree, and flicks it away onto the pavement before wiping their sleeve on their jeans.
"Fanks," Ray says. His mouth hangs open. Tears begin to dry on his cheeks.
"Anytime," Gerard says softly, catching Ray when he falls back to his previous position, on his ass with his legs folded to his chest. He puts his head on Gerard's chest and closes his eyes.
"Sorry," he breathes.
His cheek is pressed against their rapidly beating heart. They must be anxious. Ray would be, too, if his brain wasn't so foggy, wondering how they're going to survive the rest of the drive, let alone the two remaining shows they have to play. They'll probably have to cancel both. The next town's only an hour and a half southwest, but even with Gerard driving, there's no way they're making it without stopping the van every ten minutes. There's not a single motel that'll take them in, sweating and drooling and running around for a place to puke and shit their collective brains out.
"It's okay. It's not your fault," Gerard says, "You know nothing grosses me out."
Ray nods and attempts a laugh. Then he tries and fails to steady his breathing in the silence broken by the breeze, an echoing retch from the woods, and the hum of the gas station lights.
"You think you got all of it?" Gerard asks after a while.
"No," Ray says, "I'm fucked. I'm gonna die."
"Hey, it’s okay. It's just food poisoning," Gerard says, and just the phrase makes Ray realize how hellish the next two days are going to be.
He lurches forward with another gag, and before he can push himself away from Gerard, pukes all over the front of his sweater and the lap of his jeans. He looks wide-eyed down at the mess with a hand over his mouth.
"God," he says thickly and feels tears begin to roll down his face again. He scoots away from Gerard. "I'm so sorry. Holy shit, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."
Gerard's unaffected. They're right, nothing grosses them out. "You're good," he says simply, arms slightly raised to spare them from the vomit, as though Ray'd accidentally stepped on his toe and not just spewed undigested bread and two beers all over him. "Seriously, you're all good. I promise."
Ray's eyes rake over the destruction he's just caused, and then he sees it. Gerard's rock hard. He stops crying immediately, just stares at the very obvious boner tenting his friend-fuckbuddy-whatever's jeans.
Gerard sees him seeing, and hovers their hands over their crotch, careful not to touch. Then he scrambles to his feet, Ray's vomit dripping off of him. "Are you... are you gonna be okay for, like, two minutes while I go change? I'll get everyone some water. And some..."
They're just standing there, horrified, blushing profusely. Ray, more confused than anything, nods shakily.
"Okay, cool. Sorry. I'll be right back. Sorry," Gerard says quickly and runs away into the darkness. Ray can just make out his form clambering into the back of the van, emerging with a bundle of clothes held at arms-length away, and scurrying behind the mini mart.
He's back there for much longer than it should take to get changed. But they eventually return, abandoning their ruined clothes, jogging into the store and gathering things in their arms. The attendant stops his banging on the bathroom door to ring them up, and then Gerard's jogging back to Ray, still red in the face, boner gone.
"Okay, here. I'll be right back," they say hurriedly, emptying a black plastic bag onto the ground, before they take it with them and run back behind the store. Ray looks at the contents of the bag, now in a pile on the ground: a bunch of water bottles, a box of saltines, some electrolyte drinks, a packet of bleach wipes, and pills of Pepto-Bismol. God bless Gerard for not getting the horrible liquid form of it.
Then Gerard's going back to the van, the bag now bulging with his sweater and jeans inside, and shoving the bundle into the trunk of the van. Finally, he returns to Ray, empty-handed and panting.
"Um, I got you some Gatorade," he says, squatting down next to Ray and picking up a bottle of it. Ray shakes his head. "No? Okay. How about water and a Pepto?"
Ray nods and accepts the bottle of water. Gerard opens the box of Pepto with shaking hands and holds out two little pills in their palm. "Which pill, Neo?"
"Both, Morpheus," Ray rasps, voice deep and painful, and takes them in his hand. "You wanna talk about what happened back there?"
Gerard laces their hands together and laughs bashfully as Ray struggles to swallow the pills and chases them with a big gulp of water. "Maybe when you're feeling better."
Ray pauses and nods, watching Gerard busy themself by wiping Ray's glasses clean with a Clorox wipe.
He feels saliva pooling under his tongue again. "Thanks. Um, I don't think I was ready for water. Do you wanna be here while..."
"Only if you want," Gerard says.
"I do, but this isn't really--fuck--" Ray struggles onto his hands and knees.
"No. No. Of course not. I wasn't here to, like, try anything. And I didn't come over here just to, y'know. I'm worried about you," Gerard rambles, but Ray's already puking. "Oh, shit!" Gerard says, and pulls Ray's hair back again. The little pink pills, perfectly intact, fall noiselessly onto the pavement in a pool of bile and water.
It's a couple days after Christmas. Ray'd come over to exchange gifts with the family and feign his exit around 11, but Gerard smiled, catlike, when they'd let him back in through the basement door.
"I have one more present for you," Ray whispers.
"You do, huh?" Gerard whispers back, pretty face looking like the full moon against the dim light of the basement. They're a little drunk after a few hot toddies, but so is Ray. Snowflakes catch in their long eyelashes. They step aside to let Ray in, who sheds his bulky winter coat and boots.
There's a stale smell to the basement, half from time, half from Gerard's aversion to laundry and cleaning. The twin bed creaks as they sit down. The pilling sheets on it, Star Wars themed, always give Ray acne when he spends the night here, but he’s still excited to sleep over and watch the snow fall through the window while he holds Gerard. It's a window near the ceiling but against the ground outside, and when morning comes, they'll look at the wall of white blocking out the sun and pretend like they're snowed in and Ray couldn't possibly leave in this storm.
Ray kneels in front of him and pulls at the hem of his pajama pants. Gerard lifts his hips off the bed, and then the pants are around his feet, and he’s naked from the waist to the ankles.
Ray stares at their dick. His heart beats pointedly in his chest. He's actually about to do this.
He gently lays his hands on their thighs and opens his mouth to take the tip of their cock between his lips. Gerard sighs happily, and nests his hand into Ray's hair, not pulling, not pushing his head down, just twirling ringlets with their fingers as Ray bobs his head. He can feel their dick hardening and thickening in his mouth, and feels a building, tickling anticipation in his gut.
He pinches his eyes shut and takes Gerard deeper. He fights through the first poke of discomfort in his throat, like someone's hovering a finger a millimeter away from his uvula. Gerard's other hand comes up to his head to join the first, and they roll their hips. A gag erupts from deep within Ray's chest.
"Fuck, Ray, am I too big for you?" Gerard says. His own words excite him. Ray can feel the muscles of their thighs twitching under his hands as they grind softly.
Ray breathes deep through his nose. You can do this, you can do this, he chants in his head, just as he chokes again and retches loudly. He braves it and continues sucking up and down.
"You're gonna throw up if you keep going," Gerard whispers.
Ray stops his movement and looks up at them. They make eye contact. Ray tries to tell him, telepathically, I know. That's your present, and watches as Gerard realizes what he's doing.
"Oh, fuck," they say, "Oh, my God, Ray, fuck. You're gonna throw up all over me." It's a warning, an out, just to make sure Ray's okay with it.
Ray fights through his building nausea as he continues moving his head up and down, listening to Gerard's moans grow breathier and higher. Everything in his body tells him to take Gerard's dick out of his mouth, the tears that make him squeeze his eyes shut, the saliva flooding his mouth as an omen, the third gag that makes his head lurch forward even more.
"You're gonna make a mess of me," they whine.
A fourth gag comes, and it happens all at once, the release of his vomit and saliva onto Gerard's dick, the broken gasp from above him and the lift of his pelvis, the salty come flooding his mouth in exchange.
Ray pulls off, panicked, looking for somewhere to spit. Gerard makes a noise and gets as quickly as they can with their pants around their ankles to the trash can next to their crowded desk. They bring it over to Ray, and he gratefully spits onto a crumpled piece of paper, sketches and scribbles blanketed with a disgusting little ooze of various body fluids. Ray might actually throw up again looking at it.
Gerard squats down next to him. He looks at them, still salivating, throat on fire with the whiskey for the second time.
They're looking at him like he hung the moon. "Are you, like, are you into that too?"
Ray thinks back to the food poisoning disaster and the loose, uncontrolled roiling in his stomach just moments ago. "Don't think so." It hurts to talk.
Gerard's face falls a little, not out of disappointment, but guilt. "You don't have to do that. It's not fair to you."
"I wanted to," Ray smiles.
"Thank you," they say.
In the basement's strange pink and blue bathroom, Gerard fills a glass with sink water and Ray flushes his mouth out before he can actually drink it, wearing Gerard's unwashed t-shirt and shorts. Gerard offers him a shower, too, but he doesn't need it. Gerard gets into the shower before they turn it on, and take off their shirt behind the curtain, one hand emerging from the shower to drop it on the floor along with their socks. Ray's a little sad he won't be able see all that pale flesh glimmering under the stream of the water.
"Oh, wow. Gerard? Showering? It must be Christmas," Ray says from his seat on the counter.
"Drink your water," Gerard laughs.
The shower chokes a few times before it turns on, and Ray can just make out Gerard's form as he cleans the puke off of himself.
"I don't think you're weird," Ray says after a moment.
Gerard turns it off and pokes their head out from behind the curtain. Their hair falls in dripping strands over their head. "Huh?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you," Ray says, "It can wait."
"No, no, I'm done," Gerard says and reaches for a wrinkled towel. He didn't actually wash his hair or body, just rinsed off his dick, Ray realizes with amusement. He disappears behind the curtain again and emerges a moment later with the towel wrapped around him, up to his armpits, the way women do.
"I was saying I don't think you're weird. Like, I get it," Ray says, "The, um. It's like an explosion. It's like coming, kind of."
Gerard turns pink. “Um. Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s not, like, just about that, though.”
Ray clears his throat. “What's it about for you, then?"
"Oh, geez," Gerard says with the heels of their hands pressed against their eyes, "It's, um, it's about the desperation. I like the noise, too. I like, um, taking care of someone like that, when they're so vulnerable, y'know?"
Ray grins. Gerard's a sweetheart, this he knows, but he only gets truly coddling and nurturing in situations like this.
"So you like taking care of me, huh?"
The hint of a smile draws up the edges of Gerard's lips, and then he smiles for real, his cheeks squishing up and out with it the way Ray loves. "Yeah. I do."