Work Text:
All men have secrets and here is mine
Gerard knows the scent of his own spunk, sour and dried on his skin, from lifting up the heavy weight of his blankets in the morning. He knows it in the same way he knows the pattern of Mikey's before-bed ritual, the shuffle of socks from living room to bathroom and down the hall towards their room.
Gerard has an endless supply of excuses that get him off the couch at night, the brush of Mikey's thigh against his own as he stands to head to bed before the movie ends. His hands make shapes at Mikey's protests: flapping, awkward gestures of don't worry about me and go on, go on, I'm fine. Gerard tries not to think about the double-chin he gets when he frowns. Mikey has seen it his whole life, Gerard can't hide it from him.
Gerard usually gives himself enough time to brush his teeth, make faces at himself in the mirror, and climb into bed facing the wall, on his side. By the time the low buzz of noise from the TV dies out, Gerard already has a loose fist curled around his soft dick, idly fingering wiry hairs, thumb sliding slack skin back and forth.
It's the protest of the floorboards when Mikey stands up that Gerard waits for. He closes his eyes--face pressed into the pillow--and pictures his brother, the way he pulls himself up, stretches tall, the flat of his stomach. He pictures the way the sunken jersey fabric of Mikey's pajamas falls down the lines of his hips and the shape of his dick clear underneath it, almost obscene, the point which Gerard knows is the tip of his brother's dick, shifting back and forth as he walks out of the room.
Gerard knows this, and feels the swell of his own cock in his hand. He has to move fast now that he hooks the elastic of his boxers down his hips and starts sliding his grip up and down, because Mikey comes down the stairs, heavy footfalls--so heavy for his small frame--and flips the bathroom light on, hum of the overhead fan.
Gerard lets his hips move back and forth, fucking into his fist like it could be something else--it's never been anything else, but. Could be. There's the sound of water running and Gerard knows Mikey is leaning against the counter, knows how wide his shoulders look from the doorway, standing under the light, hunched over the sink. Gerard's shoulders curl in against his bed, shifting as the blankets move with his arm, the shake of the mattress.
It builds in Gerard's gut fast; when he's alone at home it never builds this fast, but it's because he knows he has to hurry this time. Gerard thinks about the red of Mikey's lips, wet with toothpaste foam and saliva, but it's cut with Gerard thinking what he'd do if Mikey suddenly walked in the room: he'd stop--just stop short, wouldn't lie on his back, wouldn't take his fingers from his hot, throbbing dick. He'd make himself stay like that until he fell asleep, because he knows he wouldn't finish with Mikey in the room.
The thought makes Gerard work for it, forces him to draw up all the half-formed images that get him to the edge fastest: sliding, hot tongues, people fucking, bloodied lips and the shadow of cleavage, the dimples in the backs of knees and the slope of a long neck ducked over the sink, the tinny sound of spit hitting the basin from down the hall. Gerard turns his face further into the pillow to quiet his breathing, soaking a spot into the fabric as saliva drips out the corner of his wide-open mouth.
It's easier on the nights when Gerard hears the sound of the toilet seat being flipped up; it gives him that extra minute, lets him think about long fingers, bitten-down dirty nails tucking under the elastic, reaching in to curl around his brother's cock. Just like Gerard, just down the hall, panting and tonguing rough cotton, hips stuttering into the dry, tight squeeze of shorter fingers.
When the sound of the fan cuts out, the silence always surprises Gerard. That's when he remembers to school his breath and the squeak of the bouncing mattress under the jack-knife of his hips. This is the real fucking race and Gerard knows exactly how long he doesn't have, knows the feeling of sweat breaking out across his back, in the folds of his knees, between his fingers, skin ablaze.
Gerard knows the soft sound of socks on the carpet, the shifting weight coming down the hall. When the doorknob turns, soft click in the dark room, Gerard squeezes as tight as he can, white-knuckled and grimacing into the pillow, and comes all over his fist. The feeling is like a supernova in his veins, shaking waves of pleasure out to his fingertips and his toes. Gerard has to tense, hold it all in, because that is the exact moment that Mikey looks over at Gerard's bed in the slant of light from the hall. Sometimes Gerard Charley-horses himself, muscles in his calves seizing up from being held so tense, but he rides it out. It makes Gerard feel like he's pulling out every last ounce of his orgasm. He can't move because Mikey is right there, toothpaste-clean and sleepy-limbed, pulling up his covers.
Gerard doesn't shift around, just falls asleep like that. He likes to think that the evidence is right there in his loose fist, smeared on his belly under the covers, and all anybody would have to do is look.
Gerard knows nobody will.
END