Written for Trey for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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Mikey had begun to look like he was living underwater. It seemed to Frank almost as though the strange blue light from Mikey's room at the mansion was following him everywhere, giving his skin the cyanide tinge of asphyxiation, casting bruise-deep shadows beneath his eyes, along his mouth. The water that filled his bathtub when he wasn't looking, that spilled out of his sink to run in rivulets across the cold floor, beneath his bed, followed him even when they couldn't see it, so that Mikey was drowning by degrees in the open air. "He'll be okay," Ray had said to him, earlier, after they'd all sat in Mikey's room with him until he fell asleep, one hand curled against Gerard's, Bob sitting, quiet and watchful, in a chair beside his bed. Mikey kept refusing the suggestion to change rooms, and, for now, they respected that; if this was something he needed to fight, they'd fight it together with him rather than pull him from the battle. Ray repeated this to him, and to himself, several times as Frank and he trailed through the tumble of rooms and oddly-angled corridors of the Paramour, finding their way to the cavernous foyer they had made into their entertainment room, littered with video game magazines and unwashed plates, as bad as the tour bus two months in, a fact Ray had reminded them of several times already. The television was still running from when they had left it before, now so far along in the silent horror film Gerard had put in the DVD player that Frank had no idea even who the characters on the screen were. As he lit a cigarette, he watched a kohl-eyed woman struggle against the chest of either a man or a monster, or something that shifted back and forth between the two with the flicker of the missing frames. "Frank?" Ray had already brushed past him and dislodged an empty pizza box from the ornately upholstered couch that already bore the stains and scent of their unwashed bodies. He sat with his legs outstretched, scratching at one shoulder beneath his shirt the way he did when he was preoccupied. Frank shook his head to snap his eyes into focus, off the screen, and coughed around the cigarette. He'd gotten sick again, of course, the type of marshy lung infection that made him feel like he was struggling to breathe, too, mouth barely above the surface of the water. Much as the cigarettes made him cough, he still liked to smoke through it, imagining the heat of dry ash coiling through his lungs, drying him out from inside. "Yeah," he said, and walked over to the couch, too, leaning back against Ray's chest as he sat down. For a while, they stared at the TV screen together. Ray reached down and took the cigarette when Frank offered it, and they passed it back and forth in silence, smoking. Ray took the last drag, and leaned forward to stub the cigarette into an empty beer bottle; as he leaned down, he held onto to Frank's shoulder with his free hand so that he didn't dislodge him. Their bodies curled down and fell back together as one. They sat together for a while, not speaking, letting the images pass over them, pass through them. "Frank," Ray said, again, quietly. "What?" "You're jittering." Frank hadn't even realized he'd been moving. He pulled his legs up on to the couch to stop bouncing his knee, but he still vibrated with energy, one hands worrying at his lip. "Just sit still for a second," Ray said. "Stop worrying about it now. We'll take care of him." "Yeah, but," Frank started, but trailed off. He blew out a breath, sat up briefly, then pressed his face against Ray's chest again. "But I don't know. I want to do something. Just sitting here fucking sucks." "Look, there's nothing more we can do tonight. He's safe. Worrying more isn't going to help." Ray's brow was still creased, though, and he hadn't bothered to turn the DVD off. The inconstant light from the screen seemed to wash out their own colors, cast them into black and white; where Frank's fingers curled against Ray's shirt, the letters across his knuckles seemed starkly black, like ink on bone. "I guess," Frank said. Ray didn't answer, but when Frank stopped tugging at his lip and started biting his nails, he reached across and pulled Frank's hand away from his mouth and down onto his lap. "Stop," he said, softly, not letting go, his fingers still looped loosely around Frank's wrist, covering the words braceleted there. i wish i were a ghost "I can't," he said, then shook his head. "I can't stop." "Can't stop what?" "I don't know, stop thinking." Frank, still jittering, pulled rhythmically against Ray's fingers around his wrist, tugging his forearm backwards. Ray didn't tighten his grip, but didn't let go. "Do you want me to help you?" Ray asked, softly, plainly, the same way he'd ask if Frank wanted help changing a guitar string or finding his way back to the bus from deep inside a venue. Frank nodded against Ray's chest. "Frankie..." "I know, I know," he said, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment, breathing deeply. Ray's shirt, against his face, smelled of their shared cigarette and their shared sweat, with a sharp edge of chlorine, too, from when they'd ventured, listlessly, into the leaf-scattered water of the swimming pool in the late afternoon, just after waking up. "Frank?" Ray asked again, fingers of his free hand trailing through Frank's hair. "It's okay. You know it's okay. But you know you need to ask me." Frank opened his eyes halfway, looked up at into Ray's face, which was calm except for one deep crease of worry that would never quite leave his brow until they moved out of the mansion. Ray didn't always understand why Frank needed what he needed, but he'd always done it, with the same gentle urgency he did everything, anything for him. For them. But he needed Frank to ask him first. That was part of the deal, the hardest part, and the part he'd always try to get around if he could. "Please," Frank said, "please help me." "Help you what, Frank?" Ray asked, still softly, his hand resting in Frank's hair. Frank squeezed his eyes shut again for a moment. "Help me shut my fucking mind off," he said. "Please." "Okay, Frankie," Ray said, and, before Frank could say anything more, tightened his grip so sharply that Frank gasped with the sudden rush of pain as Ray pulled his hair, tugging his head backwards. He barely had time to inhale before Ray's mouth was on his, forceful without being rough, tongue pushing into his mouth. Their unshaven skin scratched where their faces met in the struggle of the kiss. Frank pressed and squirmed against Ray's chest even as he opened his mouth for the kiss, wanting to feel his own body be pushed back, trapped between the hand on his hair and the hand now vise-tight around his wrist, overwhelmed by Ray's larger body. As he struggled, Ray pushed him backwards until his neck awkwardly hit the padded arm of the couch; he was nearly flat on his back on the couch. Ray let go of his hair as he broke the kiss and held his wrists crossed in front of him, straddled him just below his thighs, most of his weight on either side of him - a knee resting on the couch, a leg on the floor - but still a solid force, pinning him down, anchoring him to the couch, to the world. Their breathing was ragged, both their mouths swollen from the kiss. When Frank started to cough, Ray pulled him further upwards so that his chest was angled more steeply against the end of the couch and his breathing cleared. They remained like that for a few moments, body to body, Frank alternately struggling against and giving in to the pressure of Ray's hands on his wrists, the weight of his body across his legs. "When I let go, reach behind you and put your hands on the arm of the couch." Ray said, his even tone making it sound matter-of-fact, a statement of reality rather than a request or command. "Okay?" Frank nodded, biting quickly as his lip, and Ray let go of his wrists. When Frank went to rub at one of them, Ray said, simply, "No," and Frank stopped. He reached up behind him to put his fingers on the edge of the couch, his t-shirt riding up at his waist as he did so, the scrolling edges of tattoos becoming visible, his knew, along the soft flesh of his stomach. "Put your palms down flat," Ray said. Frank complied, his muscles stretching to the edge of discomfort as he did so. "Okay," Ray said, reaching up to push back, again, the hair that had fallen across Frank's face as he had struggled. Frank closed his eyes and relaxed into the feel of Ray's hand on his face, on the solid force of his body holding him down. Ray tightened his grip on the side of Frank's hair, pulling strongly enough to hurt, to make Frank tilt his head further backwards to try to lessen the pain. Frank could feel Ray waiting for him and opened his eyes. "Leave them there," Ray said, his eyes flicking upwards to where Frank's arms curved up behind him, "Leave them there or I tie them. Understand?" Again the same calm Ray voice, the same one he'd use to ask if Frank understood what buttons he needed to press to play a certain character in Street Fighter. Frank smiled. Ray pulled his hair hard enough to make his eyes water. "Fuck!" he said, then, very quickly, "Yes. Yes, fuck, yes," until Ray relaxed his grip. "Okay." Ray let go of Frank's hair entirely, and that whole side of his scalp throbbed. He thought about how good it would feel to pull down a hand and rub there, and flattened his palms more firmly against the arm of the couch to keep from doing so. A realization of his defenselessness, of the position he put himself in, rushed through him, and his dick, already half-hard, stiffened painfully against his jeans. Frank shifted, but Ray kept his legs firmly pinned, so the most he could do was tilt his pelvis or try to arc his chest a few inches one way or the other. Ray ran his broad, flat palms up and down Frank's chest a few times before pushing Frank's shirt up as far up as he could, far enough to expose the jumble of tattoos across his chest, to expose his nipples, which rose to sharp points in the cold air even before Ray touched them. Frank's body shuddered in anticipation of the breath-taking pinch, the ache, of Ray's strong and calloused fingers closing tightly over them. "Stay still," Ray said, placing a palm on his stomach, one finger trailing close enough to the waistband of his jeans that he tried to thrust his hip up into it, in search of further sensation. Ray slapped him, hard, on the upper part of his right thigh, and Frank let his hips slide back. Ray's fingers, rough, ran over the skin of his chest, tracing the lines of tattoos along his breastbone, across his ribs, where it had hurt the most to get them. Sometimes he used his fingernails to scratch long, shallow lines into his skin, intersecting his tattoos, marking him in a way he had not marked himself. When his fingers first closed over his nipples, Frank arched backward, his body, separating from his mind, trying to pull away from the pain even when he knew he couldn't, not without moving his arms. "Fuck," Frank said, arching his back even further, but unable to pull away from the vice-grip closing again and again over his nipples, each release more painful then the one before. "Stop," he said, when Ray started scratching his swollen nipples with his fingernails before pinching them again. "Stop, stop, stop. Please." He grew harder every time he said stop and Ray continued, pinching or pulling at flesh that was quickly growing raw beneath his fingers. Frank had been the one who insisted that he needed a safe word, something other than stop. Ray, honestly, earnestly confused, had simply asked said, Why? Just say stop I'll stop. Frank had sighed, held his fingers to his mouth as he tried to figure out how to explain why he needed to use another word instead, a word that wasn't stop, that wasn't no. I want to feel like I don't have control any more, he'd finally said, I want to say stop and you don't stop. Do you get it? Ray hadn't, not then, but he'd agreed, even though it took a few months before he hesitated when Frank begged him to stop. Now, though, he never hesitated. He pinched Frank's swollen nipples even harder when he pleaded, and Frank's dick grew even more painfully hard when he babbled, out of breath, squirming and shifting his chest to try to do anything to get away from the pain, sweat trickling down his face and body from the effort to keep his arms in place, when all he wanted to do was pull his arms down and cover his sore and vulnerable chest. Frank rode through the bright waves of pain, able to keep his arms lifted back above his head, even if they were shaking, until Ray leaned forward and closed his teeth, gently, around one of his nipples, the other one held fast between strong fingers. When Frank felt the edge of teeth against swollen skin, he started, bringing one hand down involuntarily, his body desperate to break free from the pinch of teeth or fingers, but Ray caught his wrist before he could do so, grabbing him by the hair again with his other hand, pulling his head back. Frank exhaled loudly and almost cried out; his nipples, one of them wet with saliva, throbbed painfully in the cold air. Ray held him still for a long moment, hand to wrist, hand to hair, body across his legs. "Frankie," he said, softly. Frank opened his eyes, looked for Ray's eyes, half hidden by the tangle of hair falling over his face. Frank knew Ray was checking in with him as much as bringing him to check, waiting to make sure he could go ahead. The look of understanding they shared was the same as the one they'd shared years ago, the first time Ray had held him down against the threadbare seat of someone's borrowed van, confused at first but willing to do whatever Frank needed, and kissed him, not gently, the cold of Frank's lipring an antiseptic sting between the heat of their mouths. "What did I say?" Ray asked. "Not to move my hands." "Or what?" "Or you'd tie them." Ray nodded, released Frank's hair, and caught both of his wrists in one hand, pulling them up above Frank's head. As he bent over Frank's waist to unbuckle his belt, he said, "If you wanted me to tie them when we started, you should have asked." Frank bit his lip as tried to push up against Ray's hand, so near his crotch as Ray worked the belt free. "But now," Ray said, looping the belt tightly around Frank's wrists, his voice tinged with a soft regret, "I have to punish you." Frank's body shuddered in reaction to the words as much as in reaction to Ray's hands at the waistband of his jeans. Frank ground his erection up against his hand, which Ray then quickly moved away. "Don't." Ray pulled Frank's clothes free of his thighs, jeans and boxers tangling just above his knees, then resettled his weight across Frank's legs. "Not yet." "Ray, fuck, just-" "Not for a long time." Ray sat back quickly and smacked his palm down, full force, on the bare skin at the top of Frank's thigh. Frank gasped first at the loud crack of the sound of it, then bit his lip against crying out from the needling sting that flooded in where Ray had slapped him. With his shirt pushed up to his collarbones and his jeans and around his knees he felt more exposed than if he had been completely naked.
"You can," Frank whispered, when Ray had slapped him hard, several more times, setting the skin on his thighs on fire, leaving one hand to rest, burning, against one leg, fingers curving. "You can," he whispered again, pushing his legs upwards, trying to open them beneath Ray's hand. Sometimes, he would. He'd thrust up between Frank's thighs, hard, until they both came, and Frank was imagining that now, how the front of his thighs would still be burning as Ray moved against him, how it would hurt more to keep his legs tightly closed and pressed upwards, how he could feel Ray pressing up against him but never in, the friction against his erection, between their bodies, unbearable. "No," Ray said, "shhh." "But you can-" Ray grabbed his hair again, pulling hard. "Frank," he said, more firmly, and Frank grew quiet, biting at his lower lip. "Pay attention." "No. Not yet. Not now. You're going to stay like this as long as I want you to." Afterwards, it was always difficult for him to determine the exact moment when he broke free from the whir of his thoughts and worries, but Frank could feel himself resolving into a series of points along his body: his stiff and throbbing wrists, the still-tingling side of his scalp, the pressure of Ray's weight across his legs, his body cohering around the bright points of pain at his nipples, the growing burn of his smacked thighs, and the tight pull of his hard dick. "Okay, Frankie?" Ray asked, and Frank nodded, half-lidded eyes meeting Ray's, the caverns of the mansion dropping away beyond them, the flicker of the TV distant, existence contracting to the space of their bodies where they touched. "Okay," he said. Ray dipped his head down until their foreheads were touching. "For as long as you need me to."
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