Title: Proof
Author: desfinado
Reader: shiningartifact (posted here at her journal)
Pairing: Gerard/Frank (Lindsey/Gerard, Jamia/Frank)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 6,400
Runtime: 40m 00s
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me; not making a profit.
Summary: Frank won't stop taking pictures in the studio while the band records their new album.
Notes: Completed for the 2011 pod_together challenge! Set in the spring of 2010 while MCR began to record Danger Days. Since this was a collaborative project, we are posting both the fic and the podfic together. We encourage you to read and listen to both pieces.

Valeria made us some incredible art for this story, which you should definitely go check out here! Thanks so much, girl! ♥

desfinado - This was written with invaluable support and input from shiningartifact - my absolute favourite podfic author, who I've been so fortunate to get to work with on this. It was such an honour to be get see the podfic planning and recording process for this; she puts so much care and attention into her work that it blows my mind, and I think it really shows. Also, major thanks to anoneknewmoose for a thorough beta that has made this story so much more than it was.

shiningartifact: This project was such a fascinating and fun experience. Thanks so much to the mods for their wonderful idea and all of the hard work that went into running this challenge! I'm beyond grateful to desfinado for all of the things that come out of her fabulous brain and for being so enthusiastic about our collaboration. She let me in on the brainstorming for the story, which was so much fucking fun, and was so supportive and helpful throughout the recording and editing process as well. It was a dream to work with her and I hope that I get to do it again soon.


To download the podfic mp3, click HERE and then click to download the file.

To download the audiobook, click HERE and then click to download the file.





Gerard and Mikey are hunched over a keyboard, arguing about a note that Mikey says is "too sad," when Ray falls into the drum kit.

"Wow, it really doesn't just happen in cartoons," Gerard says after the spectacular display of noise has died out, a drumstick rolling to a stop at his shoe.

Ray swears and tries to rescue the donut he had been holding, now crushed under a cymbal. "What the fucking fuck was that?" He pushes a high hat out of the way and frowns. "I thought I left Bauer on his leash!"

Frank ignores the urge to rub at the spot where Ray's leg slammed into his hip – photographers can't let themselves get distracted – and tilts the camera, snapping a few shots of the carnage on the sound room rug. "I think I'll call it a god has fallen," he says from where he's crouched in the doorway.

"Jesus Christ, Frank," Ray says while Mikey helps him up. "Why are you in the way?" He waves a hand at the kit. "This shit is expensive!"

Frank finally stands up, letting the camera hang from the strap around his neck. "Aw, I can't take pictures when you guys are looking at me." He waggles his fingers in the air and adds, "I'm invisible when I'm being a photog, remember?"

"You're not allowed to say photog anymore," Gerard tells him. He plunks out a few notes on the keyboard and goes back to arguing: "Come on, Mikes, it's not sad, it's dissonant. Like, it's a note that makes you think."

Frank carefully lifts the camera over his head and places it in its foam-lined plastic case, running his fingers over the little knobs and buttons in satisfaction before snapping the case shut.

"You okay?" he asks Ray quietly, feeling kind of bad. Ray sighs but nods. Frank smiles at him and turns his attention to the Ways. "Mikey, your brother is talking out of his ass, and Gerard, you're just being a bitch because I don't want to photograph you while you're posing and sprawling all over the soundboard or whatever."

Ray laughs, adjusting the snares, and Gerard opens his mouth so Frank quickly adds, "—or you think I'm gonna give you a double chin."

"You promised you would delete that photo and stop taking pictures of me from that angle," Gerard says. Frank may be imagining things, but he seems to be hitting that key in a menacing sort of way. As menacing as part of an A-minor chord can be.

"See, sad!" Mikey says. He raises his eyebrows and points a finger at Ray. "Come on, tell me that isn't sad."

"Well technically," Ray starts, "it's only sad when it comes after a minor progression, like this." He joins them at the keyboard to demonstrate.

Frank watches his bandmates talk while he starts tuning his guitar. It's that time of day after the pizza's been delivered but before a Starbucks run, when Gerard's just finished saying goodnight to Bandit over his phone. The warm, softly lit space of the studio makes it feel like it could be night or day, like time could stretch on forever.

They've hit a killer pace this week, writing two tracks in as many days. Last Friday, they spent all night sprawled out on the studio carpet with Chinese takeout, every ray gun in Los Angeles and half an art store on the floor around them. They recited lines from Goodfellas and aimed painted technicolour plastic barrels at each other while they tested out the sounds.

Frank grins down at the neck of his guitar. His job is pretty fucking sweet sometimes.

---

"I like this one," Ray says later that night, hunched over the viewfinder of Frank's camera while he flips through the day's pictures.

Mikey's in the booth tracking, so they're half listening, half dicking around until it's their turn. Frank wheels his chair to Ray's side and looks over his arm at a shot of some amp cables, curling and winding around the floor like a preschooler had gone at it with a crayon.

"It's got sort of a..." Ray pauses to think. Frank appreciates how, despite all the shit they give him, his band has treated him like a real artist about this photography thing, like he actually knows what he's doing – which is only partly true. "It's as if they were all laid down perfectly like that, just to fit the frame," Ray says.

Frank tucks his hair behind his ears and sits back in his seat. "How do you know I didn't spend hours tangling them artfully?"

Ray laughs softly and flips to the next photo. "I know you, man. You wouldn't stage that shit. You like to, I dunno, show things the way they are. But kind of bring them out more, you know?"

"Thanks, dude." Frank can't help smiling; he's never going to pretend that praise, especially from Ray, doesn't get him jazzed. "It's hard. There are all these settings to fuck with, y'know?" He waves a hand at the back of the camera and adds, "it's like operating a goddamn space craft."

"Yeah, shit. And the more money they cost, the less sense they make," Ray says, wrinkling his nose.

They laugh together when they flip past a photo of a studio tech flipping the camera off while he works the board. A shot of Bauer poking his nose into an overturned kick drum, fur in sharp focus but tail a wagging blur, makes Ray grin. Frank decides to make him a print of it the next chance he gets.

Ray pauses on a picture of himself and Gerard. They're talking in the vocals booth, Gerard's hair in his face and both of their smiles bright. Their hands are just streaks of colour and they look like they’re having too much fun to sit still. Frank says "Yeah, that one," because it's his favourite so far. He remembers having to bite his lip to keep from moving, too, so he wouldn't jolt the camera when he took the picture.

"We look happy," Ray says softly. Happy seems simple, but Frank knows what he means: how big that word is for them right now, after what they've been through, how long they've been at this; how it feels like relief but at the same time feels like striking out into uncharted territory, shit-scared and too excited to sleep.

"Yeah," Frank agrees. "And the lighting is pretty rad too."

---

They call it a night around three. Frank realizes he hasn't talked to Jamia in hours, so he texts her to see if she's up – her sleep schedule is almost as fucked as his these days. She calls back almost immediately, as he's unlocking his rental car. It's a warm night, so he shuts the door and leans against the hood while they talk, smoking two cigarettes down to the filter and absently waving goodbye to the guys as they leave the studio.

He asks her how she's doing without him there to kiss her stomach and make fun of her walk and tries not to talk her ear off about the new bridge they're working on. J tells him about her night, and they're both cracking up over her pitch-perfect retelling of the latest Real Housewives episode when he starts yawning.

"You need sleep," Jamia says. "And I need to go make my first breakfast. This pregnant chick is really fucking hungry." They say goodbye and Frank flips his phone shut, looking out at the surrounding city.

The view isn't much from the parking lot, but Frank knows what's beyond it: the hills of twinkling lights, the black shadows of palm-tree-lined streets, the orange glow of Los Angeles reflected on the low-hanging clouds. Frank's not used to seeing the stars or anything, but there's something about being in California that makes it feel weird that he can't, with the ocean on one side of them and the desert on the other.

Frank's too keyed up to go straight back to the hotel right now. He misses Jamia; a couple phone calls a day is never fucking enough. He thinks about taking a walk but remembers a shot he'd been meaning to take of the studio, empty of people. Maybe he'll just turn one light on, angle it at something and play with the shadows.

It's always like entering a vacuum of sound when he steps into the studio building. It amazes Frank how the noise of everything – crickets outside, his sneakers on the floor – gets muted so completely. He gets all the way to their studio and then nearly falls over his own feet at the sound of Gerard’s voice spilling out of the half-closed door.

He's wailing out the long, building notes of the chorus of the song they tracked today. Frank grins to himself; Gerard used to do this thing on the early albums where he would let the notes fill out in his mouth, his jaw too loose – Rob says it sounds like a howling cat. Gerard's been trying to keep the notes in his diaphragm more, but it's funny how easily he slips back when he's not paying attention. Frank notices the difference, but he kind of likes how much it reminds him of Revenge, of how Gerard was so caught up in the emotions behind the songs back then that they seemed to tear right through the words he sang.

Gerard pauses for the guitar riff that isn't there, then lets out a "Whoa-oh!" and ba-bums through the bass line that follows. Frank remembers the camera hanging at his chest and lifts it to this eye, staying in the shadows of the hallway but angling it around the doorframe.

Gerard's plaid button-down shirt bleeds deep purples and reds as Frank fiddles with the saturation before he wraps his fingers around the zoom. Gerard is up on one of the high studio stools in the centre of the room, boots hooked on the rung below him, one hand on the hanging mic and the other spread wide on his thigh. Frank takes a few silent photos while Gerard hums and bobs his head to himself, his eyes closed while his fingers tap out a rhythm on his jeans.

Frank likes how black Gerard's hair looks through the camera's settings. He takes a couple of pictures where Gerard's hand on the mic is in focus, then a few where it's just his face, eyelashes dark on his cheeks and a slight crease in his brow.

Frank is careful with his breath as he keeps snapping shots. He's still out in the hallway but he has to step into the light of the studio to get the right angle. Gerard isn't facing him, but all he'd have to do is open his eyes and look to his right and he'd see him. Frank knows how Gerard can be about getting his photo taken; he tries so hard to look like he's not trying at all that it totally ruins the authenticity of the shot. This isn't a photoshoot face; this is just Gerard.

Frank crouches as Gerard hums and sings a few more words. He likes the way Gerard's boots look on the bottom rung of the stool, one tilted down and the other up, the scuffs on the leather and the fraying hem of Gerard's jeans. Frank tries a few different points of focus, hears Gerard heave a big sigh, and sees his feet shift to hook behind the vertical bars of the stool, knees spread and thighs wide.

Frank looks down to adjust the light levels, lip between his teeth, and nearly bites through the skin when he looks back up. Gerard is thumbing open his jeans. What the fuck?

Once they're open, he curls his other hand back around the hanging mic. His eyes are still closed and his body seems relaxed. Frank feels like he should be embarrassed, either for himself or for Gerard, but all he can think is how often does Gerard do this? and also when was the last time Rob got this rug steam cleaned?. Trust Gerard to find the sound of his own voice ringing through the empty studio sexy.

Gerard drags the zipper down and shoves until the denim is stretched tight between his spread thighs. Frank decides then that if Gerard is going to bust a nut in their shared space – shared space that Frank has laid face-first down on more than once – well. Frank is morally entitled to take a few PG-rated blackmail photos before he gets the hell out of there.

"Mmm," Gerard hums, a little pleased sort of noise that cants down at the end, like when Frank offers him a cigarette right before Gerard was about to ask for one.

There's nothing much to see, with Gerard in profile like that, but the curl and spread of his knuckles as he rubs himself, the play of shadow and light, makes Frank's scalp prickle. He takes a few shots but he feels pretty weird when he thinks too hard about what he's doing, so he doesn't take any more.

Frank turns quietly on his heel to slip off down the hallway but he's misjudged how far forward he'd moved and he slams hard into the doorframe. It startles him enough that he can't help yelping, "Fuck", as he slaps a hand over his shoulder where the pain blooms sharp and hot.

"What the shit, Frankie?" Gerard's hands fly up and his eyes open wide, thighs snapping together like it makes it any less obvious that his pants are hanging open. He folds his hands over his lap a beat later, twisting on the stool to face the door. "Gave me a motherfucking heart attack."

"I was – um. You..." Frank still has his goddamn camera in front of his face. He lowers it quickly, but for some reason it seems even weirder to be looking Gerard in the eye than to be looking at him through a fifteen-hundred-dollar lens.

He really doesn't know what to say that doesn't sound creepy. All the jokes he was planning for when he showed Gerard the blackmail photos seem to have skipped his mind.

"Frank—" Gerard twists his mouth up to the side, biting his lip. He jerks forward to stand up, but hunches his shoulders and stops, like he's just remembered his fly's still down. He lets out a heavy breath and pulls his eyebrows up, looking apologetic. "Fuck. I don't usually..." Gerard smiles down at his thighs. "...I must look like a tool, huh."

Frank feels ridiculous too, the heat of embarrassment at getting caught still radiating from his cheeks. "Maybe a little," he agrees. He glances down at the LCD screen of his camera where it's showing the last shot he took of Gerard's boots. He adds, "But the colours were pretty sweet, you know. I can make anything look good." He laughs a little and hears Gerard echo it.

There's a pause, but Frank can't look up; it just feels too weird. "So I'll just—" he starts.

"Really?" Gerard interrupts.

Frank's gaze flicks to Gerard's without thinking, and his stomach bottoms out when he meets Gerard's dark, heavy eyes. "What?" he asks. He has no fucking clue what Gerard is talking about anymore.

Gerard tilts his chin up, angling his head to the side, and the corner of his mouth tugs up as he looks over the line of his nose at Frank, tendons in his neck in shadow. He clenches and unclenches his hands on his knees. "You can make it look good?"

Frank looks down at the camera and holds it tight to keep his hands from shaking. He knows what it sounds like when Gerard is hoping for something. Frank's first thought – dude, I'm not directing a fucking porno, here – doesn't feel right to say. He licks his lips and lifts the camera again, leaning as casually as he can against the door frame. His palms are sweating enough he feels like he's going to drop the fucking thing, but he raises his eyebrows at Gerard and puts the camera to his face.

Gerard keeps his head tilted away but his smile grows, reaches his eyes. "Yeah?" he asks. It should be ridiculous, how fucking slinky he looks and sounds like this, but there's no crowd to play to now. Just Frank.

Frank doesn't notice he's licked his lips until he feels his own breath ghost across them. His heart starts pounding when Gerard slides a hand up to his lap. He presses the heel of his palm down on a breathy exhale and Frank presses his fingertip down a beat later to take a picture.

It's unreal, Frank thinks, when he takes his fifth shot and looks down at the screen, Gerard touching his tongue to the corner of his open mouth. By the time Frank is on his eleventh shot, Gerard is rolling his head on his shoulders while he rubs himself over his briefs, sliding the fingers of his free hand up his chest to curl into the collared neck of his shirt.

The way he pulls the collar down creates these lines in the fabric and Frank doesn't even think before he says, "Lean your head back, away from your hand."

Gerard's body jerks in surprise, eyes that had been fluttering shut fixed on Frank through the lens of the camera. Frank's face heats up; maybe he shouldn't have talked, maybe it broke the mood somehow.

But Gerard purses his lips, which Frank recognizes as his attempt not to smile, and tilts his head back. It's fucking beautiful, the sharp line of his raised jaw, his Adam's apple working as he swallows, the thickness of his throat, the bunched fabric where he pulls at the collar of his shirt, all in one line of movement and shadow across his body.

Frank takes a few more shots, feeling that excitement when he realizes he's on to something, needs to chase it down. "Your—uh." His breath hitches when Gerard squeezes himself hard through his briefs, letting out a small noise. Fuck. Frank tries to school his voice, needs to feel like there's some line still here between them to make this okay, to know that he's just here to take pictures.

"Your hair," Frank says in a low voice, and it almost sounds like a question so he grits his teeth and makes it sound like an order. "Push it back."

Gerard does it smoothly, lifting his hand from his lap to rake spidery fingers through his bangs. "Yeah, good," Frank breathes. God, that black, it's fucking gorgeous in these shots, inky against the white of his fingers.

Gerard drops his hand to his lap again and slips the other one up to curl around the back of his neck, elbow bent. His eyes slip shut and he breathes, slow and deep. Frank pushes off the doorframe and takes just one step into the room so he can adjust the focus – Gerard's elbow, then the point of his nose, the curve of his lips.

"Can I..." Gerard's voice sounds strained. He shifts on the stool. "Shit. Frank." Frank's stomach flips again, remembering he isn't just watching Gerard do this alone, he's doing it for the camera. Christ. "What should I—"

"Touch yourself," Frank says in a rush, because he feels fucking ridiculous, but Gerard just says, "Yeah," really softly, gratefully, like he's been waiting for it. Frank's not used to Gerard waiting to be told what to do, especially not by him. His skin feels kind of hot and itchy all over with it; he's sweating in his hoodie now but can't think of a way to take it off that wouldn't look like stripping, so he keeps pressing down the shutter to take another picture.

"God," Gerard moans on a long exhale, like he's been waiting for it, and when Frank thinks about it, he kind of has, ever since Frank interrupted him with that startling display of coordination in the doorway. "Is this—" Gerard swallows, and Frank realizes he's been snapping shots of Gerard's face, the way his eyebrows twitch together, and watches as Gerard pulls himself out through the slit in his briefs. "Is this good, Frank?"

"Oh," Frank says stupidly. He's seen a lot of dick. He's even seen a lot of Gerard's dick, and Frank looks down at one – a pretty fucking nice one, if he does say so himself – every day. Still, there's something completely obscene about the way Gerard's looks, hard and squeezed in his fist, just the darkened red tip showing between his open fly and his shirttails.

Frank makes a noise in the back of his throat and can't even get his shit together to snap a picture when Gerard rubs a wide, pale thumb across the head, smearing it shiny with precome. "Yeah," Frank says, too quietly, and then, "you need—" fuck, how do porn stars say this shit without sounding like a twelve year-old kid or a goddamn medical textbook? "—like, spit. Lick your hand or something."

It sounds just as stupid out loud as it did in Frank's head but Gerard works his cheeks, lips puckered, and then lifts a hand to spit into his cupped palm, the noise loud in the soundproofed room. He's watching Frank with the point of his tongue on his top lip – God, he's such a fucking diva for the camera – while he swipes his palm smoothly over the head of his cock and then curls it into a loose fist, twisting on the downstroke.

Frank can feel the hard press of his own dick against his jeans – anyone who says porn doesn't get them going isn't fucking human, seriously – but he keeps his eye on the viewfinder and starts taking shots again. He catches glimpses of his own fingers whenever he pulls back to look at the screen and the inked skin seems weird, like it doesn't belong in this moment, like it's not about him right now.

"Perfect," he says, and then when Gerard smiles and starts jacking himself off, slow and precise, Frank feels encouraged and adds, "show me how it feels."

Gerard moans immediately, palm rubbing up and down at the back of his head to mess his hair up, eyes fluttering shut as he speeds his hand on his cock. He shifts, spreading his legs wide, jeans tight across his thighs while he slides his hand down one side of his face, turning into it like it's someone else's touch with a low "Mmmm" sound. He twists his hand on his dick on the upstroke.

"Good," Frank says almost immediately. He knows this role from photo shoots, has seen just how Gerard reacts to this kind of direction. "Yeah, like that. Hold it." Gerard pauses perfectly with his flushed red cheek turned into his own palm, head tilted to the side but eyes slitted and fixed on the camera.

"Fuck," Frank breathes, because – fuck. They make fun of Gerard for his pouty camera faces, but the dude can pose. "I can't see. Can you... move your hips?" Frank doesn't know how to explain it but Gerard gets it, lifts one foot to brace higher on the stool so his opposite knee is tilted up and to the side. It pushes his hips forward into his hand, still moving fast on his dick.

"Yeah," Frank says, and rolls his shoulders when he realizes he's been holding them tense, can feel sweat beading at the base of his spine, across his upper lip. He licks it away, salty-warm, and tries to ignore his own body, to concentrate on Gerard. "Can you move your hands so I can see?"

Gerard tilts his head back and raises one dark eyebrow at him. Frank just arches his back at him over the top of the camera, snapping a few more shots, so Gerard lowers his other hand until they're both in his lap. He stops moving his other fist over his dick and instead flattens both palms against the slit in his briefs, pushing down tight against the base of his cock to trap it between the crook of his thumb and forefinger, hard and still.

"Jesus," Frank whispers. He can't believe he’s actually zooming in on someone's fucking dick with his brand new camera; now he knows the exact shade of pink Gerard's cock is when it's hard and jutting up against the plum-red tones of his shirttails and the pale skin of his hands. Frank snaps a shot that captures the texture so well – the play of warm light and dark shadow across spit-shiny, taut skin – that he actually thinks about how it would feel to touch the raised blue vein spidering up from under Gerard's thumb and forefinger.

"Uh, okay. That's good." Frank swallows unsteadily. Gerard gives the camera – gives Frank – such a cocky smirk that Frank kind of wants to smack him. Almost as badly as he wants to, well, smack him, but in a much less innocent way.

Gerard spits in first one hand, then the other. Frank really, really wants to pretend that Gerard doesn't know how hot that gets him, but he's got a camera hiding his face, not his fucking crotch, so that ship has probably sailed.

"This good?" Gerard asks in this voice, this small, innocent little voice, like he doesn't already know the answer. One side of his mouth is tugged up as he interlocks his slippery fingers around the base of his dick and slides them up and then back down again. "Oh," he moans, sounding surprised by how good it feels, and his eyes flutter shut again, that bravado slipping. Frank tries so hard to capture that little moment, how open Gerard's face looks, taking as many shots as he can.

Frank doesn't say much for the next two dozen photos or so; he doesn't want to break the mood. Gerard's getting flushed, red all down from his cheekbones to his jaw line, his skin damp with sweat. His eyes are closed now, and he says “Aw, fuck” and “Oh god” in this tight, warning voice, thighs twitching together and apart again on the stool.

Frank has to wrench his fingers off the camera to tuck his hair behind his ears before it swings in front of the lens. He can feel it curling wet against the nape of his neck and almost moans out loud at the feeling of his own fingers on his hot skin. Gerard slouches forward, bowing his head so his hair falls in front of his face as he pumps his cock, before straightening up and tossing his head back and blinking heavy-lidded at the camera. Frank can barely stop snapping photos to adjust the settings, to remember to try different saturations, different light levels.

"God, Frank," Gerard moans down at his lap when his head falls forward again between his broad shoulders, and takes one hand off his dick to fist in his hair. "Oh my fucking god, it feels – it feels –"

"What?" Frank breathes, transfixed at the way the studio lights fall like a spotlight on Gerard, hunched over on the stool in the centre of the room, shoulders shaking as he fists himself hard and fast.

"What do I – ah," Gerard catches on the last word, moaning. He braces his left foot against the stool but it slips down and swings free, kicking and catching again on the rungs, like he can't stay still.

Gerard is curled in on himself, hand a pale blur in his lap, when he claws hair out of his face enough to look up at Frank behind sweaty, dark strands. His expression makes Frank realize what he's trying to ask.

"Just like that," Frank says, blown away by how completely open and vulnerable Gerard looks like this. He's not stretching out for the camera, arranging his limbs in long lines or his face in coy looks. Instead he's sweating through his shirt so it clings to his skin, pushing stringy pieces of hair from his face, curling red lips back in a snarl to bare crooked teeth.

He looks up at Frank, half challenge, half plead. It's all Frank can do to get his finger on the button before Gerard jerks in on himself and gasps, "Fuck, fuck, oh god,," and comes all over his knuckles, turning to bite hard into the heel of his palm as his feet kick out, the stool wobbling for a moment before he leans back and regains his balance.

Frank stops taking pictures when it's over. He doesn't lower the camera, though, can't really think about his own body when he's so caught up in Gerard's right now. Gerard, whose open-mouthed pants fill the studio space as he tries to catch his breath.

Shit.

"That looked amazing," Frank finally says, gesturing with the camera. He has a feeling that Gerard already knows how great he looked, though.

"God, Frankie," Gerard mumbles on a drawn-out exhale, like his tongue's not working right. He goes to lean back and sways when he realizes there's nothing to lean back against. "Can you get me some fuckin'... napkins or some shit?"

Frank lets the camera hang from the strap around his neck and heads into the control booth, shoving tabs and sheets of lyrics and doodles aside to find a stack of leftover napkins from their pizza that afternoon.

He pauses, looking up over the soundboard and through the glass into the studio space. The light is different from this angle, the curve of Gerard's spine through his shirt more pronounced as he faces the empty space in the doorway where Frank had stood. Frank's skin is hot all over and his ears are ringing but he feels so removed from his body, hadn't been thinking about anything but the camera, but Gerard. It's weird.

Frank shakes himself and grabs the napkins before he goes back in, trying not to freak out or hide behind his camera again, and passes Gerard the wad of napkins. Gerard tosses them in the waste basket gingerly when he's done cleaning himself up.

It's awkward, then, and Frank feels stupid in his sweaty hoodie and tented jeans, camera a heavy weight against his chest. He digs his hands in his pockets and backs up to the safety of the doorway while Gerard slips off the stool to stand unsteadily on his feet and zip up.

"Frank," Gerard starts, shoving hair out of his face and meeting his eyes. God, Frank is going to see Gerard's sex-kitten face every time he does that now.

"Don't," Frank interrupts, not sure why he feels defensive. He doesn't think he could explain what just happened, though, and really hopes Gerard knows him well enough to read that in Frank's voice, in the tense curl of his shoulders.

Gerard purses his lips and holds his gaze, looking back and forth between his eyes for a long moment. Frank blinks and then Gerard's sweaty palms are cupping his face and his lips are pressed against Frank's. Frank's whole body jerks in surprise, nerve endings on edge, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. Gerard just steps into his space until his elbows are pressed into Frank's chest and the camera digs into Frank's sternum.

Gerard's tongue slides in one smooth line along the seam of Frank's lips and Frank feels his whole body just open, fists relaxing in his pockets while Gerard's tongue sweeps his mouth. He feels the burn of Gerard's stubble against his own, adding a raw edge to the kiss that promises to leave marks. It's so goddamn much, after Frank feeling so disconnected from his own body, so caught up in watching someone else's. When Frank finally slides his tongue into Gerard's mouth, Gerard sucks it slow and hard like the fucking porn star he apparently became when Frank wasn't looking, and pulls back with a soft wet pop of his puckered lips.

He rubs his thumbs over Frank's cheekbones and raises his eyebrows, like, do you get it? Frank raises his own and draws them together, like I have no fucking clue at all, motherfucker. Gerard snorts and plants a soft little kiss on Frank's nose before stepping backwards.

"I'm gonna head home," Gerard says.

"Okay?" Frank replies, unsure. It feels like they're okay, but there's so much more at stake here than just the two of them, and one big fucking part of that is hanging around his neck right now. The rest is waiting at home in Gerard's bed, and sitting at the top of the 'recent calls' list on Frank's phone.

"Yeah," Gerard says firmly. He turns back to the stool, shifting it around until it's lined up under the hanging mic again, hair swinging into his face.

Frank watches him, feeling stupid and confused, but not sure what to say. Gerard seems to run out of things to fiddle with and takes a deep breath, turning to walk towards him again, slowly, with intent. Frank's stomach still hasn't stopped twisting when Gerard looks at him like that, fingers twitching in his pockets, wishing he knew what the fuck was going on.

Gerard wraps a hand around Frank's neck, warm and strong, and reaches the other between them – oh shit, oh shit – and Frank's heart leaps into his throat because he knows there's a line here, even after what just happened. He knows there are reasons not to cross it, but if Gerard touches him right now he doesn't know if he can say no.

Gerard's fingers close over the camera and he lifts the strap carefully up and over Frank's head with this other hand.

Frank can hardly hear Gerard over the hammering of his heartbeat. "Linds is gonna want these, dude," Gerard says.

"Oh. Yeah," Frank says, dumbly. That makes sense.

Gerard fiddles with the lens cap for a second and then looks back up, the faintest smile on his lips. "Don't let me forget to give the camera back, though, Jamia'll kick my ass."

That makes Frank smile too, and then Gerard is saying goodnight from the doorway and Frank doesn't know what to do but echo it, his head still swimming.

By the time Frank has turned off all the lights, set the alarm, and locked the front door, his car is the only one left in the parking lot. He gets the door unlocked and the key in the ignition and wraps his fingers around the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white. He breathes deep and drops his head back against the headrest.

Frank looks out at the dark parking lot, the pools of orange light from the streetlamps, and thinks that maybe he gets it: it’s okay that it happened, but Frank doesn't get to keep it. Lindsey does.

---

Frank pulls into the hotel fifteen minutes later, swiping the key card and dropping his bag and empty camera case onto the night table as he toes off his shoes. Fuck. What a weird fucking night.

He still feels really keyed up. He stands in the window looking down at the empty pool in the courtyard below while he runs a hand down his face, over his chest, tapping his belly absently. He's kind of turned on and kind of sick to his stomach in equal measure, remembering the sheen of flushed pink cheeks, the curl of fingertips.

"Shit," he mutters to himself. His first instinct when he's confused out of his mind is to call Jamia but right now he doesn't know what's his to share or how to explain what happened in the first place, when he doesn't even understand what he's feeling, or allowed to feel.

Frank's skin is hot under his sweaty hoodie so he decides that getting undressed and brushing his teeth is something he can do, because thinking about tomorrow morning – about seeing Gerard at the studio, about talking to J – makes his throat close up. By the time he's climbed under the cool hotel comforter, Frank at least feels cleaner. It may be something small, but it's better, at least.

The camera case is a garish yellow that stands out even in the dark of the room after Frank has turned off the lights. He lies on his side staring at it, thinking about how much he wishes he could have kept those photos but how he doesn't know if he could look at them now, even if he had.

Frank reaches for his phone so he can set an alarm for tomorrow – fuck, as if he'll actually be able to sleep – when he sees that he has one missed message, with a photo attached. His breath catches when he sees it's from Lindsey. He doesn't let himself wait or think of all the horrific things it could say, just opens it.

Because she won't believe your sorry ass when you tell the story. Proof. – L

Something starts to loosen in Frank's chest as he reads it over again and then thumbs open the attachment to see the picture. Shit, even on this tiny screen, he can tell it's a beautiful shot. He traces a fingertip down the line of Gerard's bent arm, across his hunched shoulders and along the curve of his jaw.

Frank calls his wife.

"You alone?" he asks as soon as Jamia picks up.

She laughs, big and open – she always recognizes the need in Frank's voice – and the sound relaxes him immediately. "Jesus, you're like a fucking teenager with this shit, Frank. I'm feeding the dogs, gimme a sec."

"Fine, fine." Frank smiles as he rolls face-down on the pillow, phone pressed against his ear. His stomach twists with excitement and nervous energy, feet tangling in the sheets as he taps a rhythm out on the bedspread with his fingertips.

When she's upstairs and settled in their bed, Frank lets his breath out all in a rush, eyes squeezed shut in the dark. "Okay. Okay. You are not gonna fucking believe this, J. Only you are, because I've got proof."

"Yeah?" Her voice is soft and low as Frank listens to her move around, getting settled on the sheets. He can tell she's smiling when she finally says, "So tell me."

END