Dead Dove Diner

"Jesus Christ, Gee, your mom went hard on the lasagna tonight," you groaned, flopping onto the couch beside Gerard with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Your stomach gurgled ominously, and you pressed a hand to it, willing the sensation to settle.

"You sure you didn't, like, inhale an entire pan?" Gerard snorted, nudging your knee with his socked foot as he grabbed the remote. The blue glow of the TV washed over his sharp cheekbones, catching the smudged eyeliner he hadn’t bothered to wipe off after the gig. "I saw you go back for thirds. And then fourths. And then—"

"Shut up," you mumbled, burying your face into Gerard's shoulder as he chuckled. The pressure in your stomach rolled like a storm warning, but you swallowed hard, focusing on the flickering screen where some poor idiot was about to get gutted by a masked killer. The gore was almost comforting—at least someone else was suffering worse than you right now. Gerard's fingers absentmindedly twisted a strand of your hair around his finger, the way he'd done since you were both sixteen and sharing his twin bed during thunderstorms.

The nausea hit you like a gut punch, sudden and undeniable. One second you were laughing at Gerard’s shitty horror movie commentary, the next your throat clenched tight, saliva flooding your mouth in a hot, urgent warning. "Oh fuck—" you barely managed to choke out before lurching upright, nearly kneeing Gerard in the process as you scrambled off the couch.

Gerard’s "Whoa—!" was half-laughter, half-concern as you bolted for the hallway, hand clamped over your mouth. The bathroom door was already swinging shut behind you when you heard his footsteps jogging after you—too late, you were already collapsing onto your knees in front of the toilet, heaving violently into the bowl. Lasagna chunks splattered against porcelain, the acidic burn of bile searing your throat.

The door slammed open before you could even register the cold tile against your palms. Gerard’s hands were on you instantly—one pressing warm and firm between your shoulder blades, the other gathering your hair back with a gentleness that shouldn’t have existed while you were retching into the toilet. His fingers trembled slightly against your scalp, but his grip was steady. The silence was wrong. Gerard was never quiet, not like this, not when you were bent over and shaking apart in his childhood bathroom.

Gerard's palm pressed harder into your spine as another wave of nausea wracked your body, his fingers twitching against your sweat-damp shirt. You could feel his breath—hot and uneven—against the back of your neck, closer than necessary, closer than normal, but right now you were too busy gagging into the toilet bowl to care. The silence between your retches was thick, broken only by the wet splatter of half-digested lasagna hitting water and the shaky exhale Gerard let out when your throat worked around another violent heave.

You slumped back on your heels, throat raw and trembling, spit and bile still clinging to your lips. The cool bathroom air hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap, but Gerard’s hands were already there—one still tangled in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "Hey, it’s okay," he murmured, voice low and rough in a way that sent an entirely different kind of shiver down your spine. "I got you."

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, panting, and Gerard’s grip on your hair tightened—not painful, but present, grounding you in a way that made your skin prickle. His thumb brushed the nape of your neck, sticky with sweat, and you could feel him watching you, his breath still uneven against your shoulder. "Fuck," you croaked, voice wrecked. "I think I’m done."

Gerard’s hand lingered on your shoulder a second too long before he finally pulled away, his fingers dragging lightly against your damp shirt. “I’ll get you some water,” he murmured, voice low and oddly strained. “You should clean yourself up.” The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the sour tang of vomit still hanging in the air.

Gerard leaned against the hallway wall outside the bathroom, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars. What the fuck was that. His pulse hammered in his throat, his skin too tight, his jeans suddenly unbearable where they pressed against his—no. No, no, no. He couldn’t be hard right now, not while you were in there puking your guts out, not when your sweat-damp hair had stuck to the back of your neck like that, not when your throat had worked around every heave like—Jesus Christ. He bit down on his bottom lip until it hurt, the metallic tang of blood snapping him back to reality.

The faucet hissed to life inside the bathroom, water splashing against porcelain. He could picture it—you bent over the sink, rinsing your mouth, wiping your chin with trembling fingers. His stomach twisted. He shouldn’t be picturing it. Not like this. Not ever. But the memory of your shoulders shaking under his hands, the way your breath hitched between retches, the heat of your skin through your shirt—fuck. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping hard at the roots. Get it together, Way.

The glass trembled in Gerard's grip as he filled it under the tap, water sloshing over the rim and dripping onto his fingers. He barely noticed. His mind was a fucking car crash—worse than the splatter-fest playing on TV when you'd bolted for the bathroom. Twenty-four years old and he'd never so much as kissed someone properly, let alone—fuck. Meanwhile, you? You'd been fucking your way through half the scene since you turned eighteen, laughing about it afterward like it was nothing, like it didn't twist something hot and ugly in his gut every time you mentioned some stranger's hands on you.

Especially after his gigs. Especially when you'd disappear into some backroom with a groupie still buzzing from his performance, like his music was just foreplay for your next hookup. Pathetic. He was pathetic. He squeezed the glass tighter, knuckles bleaching white. At least horror movies didn't laugh at him when he got off to the fake screams and fake blood. At least they didn't know.

The medicine cabinet door squeaked as Gerard pulled it open, his fingers hovering over the rows of half-used prescriptions and dusty bottles. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the muffled sound of water running in the bathroom down the hall. His gaze snagged on the familiar amber bottle tucked behind his mom’s sleeping pills—chloral hydrate syrup, the thick, cloying stuff he’d choked down during the worst of his insomnia nights. The label was peeling at the corners. He remembered the way it made his limbs heavy, his thoughts syrupy slow.

Just a little. Just enough.

The bottle was heavier than he expected when he grabbed it. The cap twisted off with a dry pop, the smell beneath the lid sickly sweet, medicinal. His throat tightened. He didn’t measure. Didn’t care to. The syrup glopped into the glass of water in thick, uneven swirls, clouding the clear liquid. He stirred it with his finger—cold, sticky—then licked the residue off his skin without thinking. Bitter. Familiar. His stomach rolled, but his jeans were still too tight, his thoughts still too sharp where they circled back to you—your sweat-damp hair, the way your throat had worked around every heave, the heat of your skin under his trembling hands.

You won’t mind. You never mind.

The glass clinked against the counter when he set it down too hard. His reflection in the dark kitchen window was a ghost—pale, wide-eyed, lips bitten raw. He wiped his palms on his jeans. The syrup would take time. Not much. Enough. Enough to make your limbs heavy, your thoughts slow, enough to let him—what, exactly? Watch? Touch? Taste? His breath hitched. He didn’t know. Didn’t let himself think further than need, hot and clawing under his ribs.

The fridge door swung open with a soft whine, the fluorescent light casting a sickly glow over the contents. Gerard's gaze snagged on the half-empty bottle of cherry-red Kool-Aid shoved to the back—Frank’s leftover from their last hangout, because the idiot refused to drink plain water like a normal fucking human. His fingers closed around the plastic before he could think better of it, squeezing a generous glug of syrupy sweetness into the cloudy glass. The red swirled through the water in thick tendrils, bleeding into the dissolved syrup until the liquid turned a murky pink, the bitter medicinal scent drowned under artificial cherry.

The basement stairs groaned under Gerard's weight as he descended, the glass of murky pink liquid trembling in his grip. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and old band posters, the flickering overhead bulb casting long shadows across the concrete floor. And there you were—sprawled across his mattress like a discarded marionette, limbs loose and heavy, head lolling against his sweat-stained pillowcase. Your shirt clung to your chest, still damp from the bathroom sink, the fabric riding up just enough to expose a sliver of stomach.

"Brought you something," Gerard murmured, voice rough as he nudged the door shut with his hip. The latch clicked softly behind him, sealing you both in the dim, humming quiet of the basement. You blinked up at him, slow and unfocused, lashes fluttering against your flushed cheeks. Perfect. The word slithered through his mind like smoke, curling around his ribs until his breath stuttered. You looked wrecked—lips chapped, throat bobbing with every shallow swallow, fingers twitching where they lay limp against the mattress. So fucking weak. So fucking sick. So fucking his.

You groaned, squinting at the murky pink liquid Gerard pressed into your hands. The glass was cold against your clammy palms, condensation already beading along the rim. "Kool-Aid? Really?" Your voice came out hoarse, throat still raw from heaving. The smell of artificial cherry mixed sickeningly with the lingering bile in your mouth.

Gerard sank onto the mattress beside you, the springs creaking under his weight. His thigh pressed warm against yours through the thin fabric of his ripped jeans. "It works," he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he guided the glass closer to your lips. "Trust me." His breath hitched when you finally took a tentative sip—the syrupy sweetness cloying, masking something darker beneath.

You drained the last of the murky pink liquid with a grimace, throat working around the cloying sweetness. "Man," you rasped, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "I can't believe Frank could drink this shitty stuff." The aftertaste clung to your tongue—cherry syrup and something medicinal, something that made your head feel heavy the moment it hit your stomach. You slumped back against Gerard's shoulder, the mattress dipping under his weight as he leaned closer. His fingers traced idle circles on your knee, too deliberate to be casual.

Gerard's fingers twitched against yours, his grip tightening just enough to make your sluggish pulse stutter. "How do you feel?" His voice was too low, too careful—like he was balancing something fragile between his teeth.

"Like shit?" You sighed, pressing your forehead against Gerard's shoulder as the room tilted lazily around you. The glass was still clutched in your limp fingers, empty now except for a thin film of pink clinging to the bottom. "Man, I'm so sorry for destroying your toilet. I cleaned it, though." Your words slurred together, thick and slow like molasses, and you didn't miss the way Gerard's breath hitched when your lips brushed against the fabric of his shirt.

The glass slipped from your fingers, thudding onto the mattress with a dull sound. You barely registered it—your limbs felt weighted, your thoughts syrupy slow. "Gee," you mumbled into his shoulder, lips dragging against the worn fabric of his shirt. "M'head's all… fuzzy."

Gerard's hand slid from your knee to your fingers, his grip warm and damp as he laced them together. "Yeah?" His voice was low, rough—closer now, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Fuzzy how?" His thumb pressed into your pulse point, the pad of his finger catching on the rapid flutter beneath your skin.

Your eyelids dragged like lead weights, the dim basement light fracturing into hazy streaks across your vision. Gerard's fingers tightened around yours—too warm, too tight—and his thumb pressed harder into your wrist like he was counting each sluggish pulse point. "Mmm," you managed, tongue thick against your teeth. The word dissolved into a sigh as your head lolled against his collarbone, the sharp jut of bone digging into your temple. "Like… cotton. Or—or static."

Gerard’s exhale was shaky against your temple, his fingers twitching around yours like he was fighting the urge to squeeze tighter. “Static,” he repeated, voice rough—like he was savoring the word, rolling it around in his mouth like hard candy. His free hand brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his fingertips lingering against your damp skin a second too long. “That’s good. Just… let it happen.”

Gerard's hands were suddenly everywhere—guiding your shoulders back against the mattress, fingers slipping beneath your knees to ease your legs down, his palm cradling the back of your head as it sank into the pillow. The room tilted violently, your vision swimming with dark spots that pulsed in time with your slowing heartbeat. "I got you," he murmured, lips brushing your temple as he leaned over you, his shadow swallowing the dim basement light. "You trust me, right?"

You managed a weak nod, your chin dipping toward your chest like a marionette with cut strings. The movement sent another wave of dizziness crashing through you, your eyelids fluttering shut against the blur of Gerard's face hovering too close, his breath hot and uneven against your parted lips. "M'kay," you slurred, the word thick as syrup. Your fingers twitched against the mattress, searching for something to grip, but all they found was the damp fabric of Gerard's shirt as he pressed you deeper into the bed.

Gerard's fingers trembled against the hem of your shirt, the fabric damp with sweat and clinging stubbornly to your skin. "I'm sorry, baby," he murmured, voice cracking like old vinyl as he peeled the cotton upward, inch by agonizing inch. His breath hitched when your stomach came into view—soft, still trembling faintly with every shallow breath. "I need this so bad." The shirt caught under your armpits, and he paused, his thumbs pressing into the delicate skin there, hot and insistent. "And you're just… so fucking perfect like this."

Gerard's lips brushed yours—hesitant at first, trembling like his fingers as they skated up your ribcage. The kiss tasted of bile and cherry syrup, bitter and cloying, and he groaned into it like he was starving. His hands shook where they palmed your stomach, fingers pressing into the soft flesh as if memorizing the way it yielded under his touch. "Fuck," he gasped against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged. "You taste—" His teeth grazed your bottom lip, biting down just enough to make you whimper. "—perfect."

The shirt hit the far wall with a soft thwap, lost somewhere in the dim clutter of Gerard's basement. His gaze flickered down to your bare chest—the flush creeping up his neck clashing violently with the smudged eyeliner still clinging to his waterline. His breath stuttered when your nipples pebbled under the basement's stale air, his fingers hovering just above your skin like he was afraid you'd dissolve under his touch. "Fuck," he whispered, more to himself than to you, before his teeth grazed your left nipple—hesitant, testing—his tongue flicking over the sting before he pulled back with a shaky exhale. "Do those people see you like this too?" His voice cracked on the last word, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Those fucking— randoms after shows?"

You whimpered, head lolling against the pillow as another wave of drowsiness dragged at your limbs. The words tangled in your throat—no, never like this—but all that escaped was a slurred, "Gee…" His name dripped from your lips like syrup, thick and slow, and Gerard groaned like it physically hurt him, his forehead dropping against your sternum.

Gerard's grip on your hips faltered, his fingers twitching against your bare skin as he lifted his head. His eyeliner had smudged further—black streaks cutting through the flush high on his cheeks—and his lips were swollen from biting them raw. "Why is it never me?" His voice cracked like broken glass, sharp enough to cut through the syrupy haze clouding your thoughts. "Is it because I'm a virgin? Because I—" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing violently. "Fuck, I don't know—because I'm a loser to you?"

Your fingers twitched against Gerard's wrist, weak as a dying moth's wings. "Gee… no—not now…" The words slurred together, thick and clumsy on your tongue. You tried to squirm away, but your limbs were lead weights, your muscles slack under the syrupy haze pressing down on your thoughts. The mattress groaned as Gerard shifted over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his breath hot against your collarbone.

The basement air clung to your bare skin like damp gauze as Gerard hovered above you, his breath ragged against your collarbone. His fingers traced the curve of your ribs—too hesitant, too reverent—like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch. "You don’t get it," he muttered, lips brushing the hollow of your throat. "Every fucking time you come back from some stranger’s bed, laughing like it’s nothing—" His teeth grazed your pulse point, sharp enough to sting. "—I wanna ruin you."

Gerard’s teeth sank into the meat of your shoulder, sharp and sudden, and you gasped—more from the shock than the pain. His tongue lapped at the mark immediately after, hot and apologetic, but his hands were anything but sorry. They roamed your torso with a feverish desperation, mapping every dip and plane like he was trying to memorize you before you dissolved.

Gerard’s fingers fumbled at the button of your jeans, the metal cold against his shaking fingertips. He exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound ragged as he wedged his knee between yours, spreading your legs wider across the mattress. The denim resisted for a heartbeat before yielding with a quiet pop—too loud in the thick silence of the basement. His breath hitched when the zipper slid down, teeth catching fabric as he peeled the jeans down your hips with a rough, jerking motion.

"Fuck," Gerard muttered, his voice wrecked as his knuckles brushed the damp fabric of your underwear. He hesitated there, fingers trembling against the waistband, his throat working around a swallow. The air between your legs was warm, thick with the scent of sweat and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, or the ghost of bile still clinging to your skin. His nostrils flared. "Fuck, you’re—" His fingers curled into the fabric, twisting it tight enough to strain the seams. "—you’re wrecked."

The elastic of your underwear snapped against your hip as Gerard tugged it down in one rough motion, his breath catching when the damp fabric peeled away from your skin. His fingers traced the crease of your thigh—too hot, too shaky—before dipping inward, brushing the soft, overheated skin between your legs. "Jesus," he breathed, voice cracking like thin ice. "You're already—" His fingertip grazed your clit, feather-light, and you jerked beneath him, a weak sound escaping your throat.

You jerked away instinctively—or tried to—but Gerard's grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you to the mattress with surprising strength. His fingers dug into the soft flesh above your knees, blunt nails leaving half-moon indents as he leaned down, his breath hot and uneven against your inner thigh. "Just a taste," he murmured, lips brushing your skin—too close, too intimate—his voice cracking like a bad record. "I promise."

The words dripped from his mouth like honey, syrupy-sweet and cloying, but his hands were anything but gentle. They held you open with a desperation that bordered on violence, his thumbs pressing into the tender skin of your inner thighs hard enough to bruise. You whimpered—weak, pathetic—and Gerard shuddered above you, his eyeliner-smudged gaze locked on the wetness between your legs like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Gerard's teeth sank into your inner labia with a sharp, sudden pressure that made your entire body jerk—not pain, not quite pleasure, just too much all at once. Your fingers tangled in his hair instinctively, tugging weakly as a garbled noise tore from your throat. His eyeliner-smudged gaze flicked up to yours, pupils blown wide and black as ink spills, before he groaned against your skin like the vibration alone could ruin him.

Your feet kicked uselessly against Gerard's shoulders, heels skidding against his sweat-damp shirt as he buried his face deeper between your thighs with a muffled groan. "Gee—fuck—you—you really don't know how to eat a pussy…" The words slurred together, thick and clumsy from the syrup clinging to your tongue, but the way Gerard's entire body shuddered against yours said he'd heard every syllable. His fingers dug harder into your thighs in response, blunt nails leaving crescent moons in your flesh as he dragged his teeth over your clit with deliberate, awkward pressure.

Gerard glared up at you through the tangled mess of his hair, eyeliner smeared into raccoon-dark crescents under his eyes—exactly like those shitty horror movies he’d forced you to watch since you were kids. The ones where the villain always got off on the victim’s pain, where the blood looked like cherry syrup and the screams sounded suspiciously like moans. His lips were swollen, spit-slick, pressed too hard against your clit as he sucked like he was trying to pull the venom from a wound.

Your heel connected with Gerard's shoulder with a weak thud—barely a nudge, really, your muscles still sluggish from the syrup—but he recoiled like you'd burned him. His grip on your thighs slackened just enough for you to squirm backward, the mattress springs creaking in protest as you dragged yourself up onto your elbows. "Stop—" The word came out garbled, your tongue too thick in your mouth. "I don't—I don't want this."

"You do," Gerard whispered, his voice cracking like dry kindling. His fingers trembled against your inner thighs, sticky with sweat and something else—something that made his stomach twist when he licked his lips. "Just rest that pretty head of yours, alright?" His thumb brushed your clit again, too light to be anything but teasing, and you whimpered—weak, pathetic, exactly how he wanted you. The sound punched through him like a stray bullet, hot and jagged.

Gerard’s breath hitched when your fingers tangled weakly in his hair again—not pushing him away, not pulling him closer, just there, trembling against his scalp like moth wings. He pressed his forehead into your inner thigh, exhaling shakily against the damp skin. "You’re so warm," he murmured, the words slurring together like he was the one drugged. His tongue dragged a slow, wet stripe up your slit, savoring the way your hips jerked beneath him. "Taste like—fuck—like cherries and salt."

Gerard looked up at you through the tangled mess of his hair—your eyelids fluttering shut, head lolling against the pillow, lips parted around shallow breaths. Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. His fingers trembled as they fumbled with his jeans, the button popping open with a choked gasp. He was already impossibly hard, the fabric straining against him, damp with precome where it clung to the outline of his cock.

The zipper hissed as he dragged it down, teeth catching fabric, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet basement. His breath hitched when he finally freed himself—hot and heavy in his palm, veins standing stark against flushed skin. He squeezed once, twice, biting back a whimper at the slick drag of his own fingers. Fuck. Fuck. He wasn’t gonna last. Not with you spread out beneath him like some fucked-up offering, not with the way your thighs trembled when his thumb brushed your clit again.

Gerard's fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he lined himself up, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts against your overheated skin. His cock twitched against your entrance—hot, slick with precome—and he hesitated there for a long, trembling moment, eyeliner-smudged gaze locked on where you were joined. "Fuck," he whispered, voice cracking like dry kindling. "You're—" His hips jerked forward involuntarily, the head of his cock catching on your rim before sliding in with a wet, choked sound.

The stretch burned—not quite pain, not quite pleasure—just too much all at once. Your fingers scrabbled weakly against the mattress, nails catching on the frayed fabric as Gerard bottomed out with a ragged groan. His hips stuttered against yours, sloppy and unpracticed, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone. "Fuck," he gasped, voice cracking like cheap vinyl. "You're—fuck—you're so tight." His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, blunt nails leaving crescent moons in your skin as he pulled back slightly, only to thrust forward again with a rough, jerking motion.

Gerard's grip tightened on your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh like he was afraid you'd dissolve beneath him. His thrusts were uneven—too shallow, too sharp—his breath hitching with every clumsy snap of his hips. His forehead dropped against your sternum, his eyeliner-smudged gaze fixed on where you were joined—his cock sliding in and out of you in ragged, uncoordinated thrusts. "Fuck," he muttered, voice cracking like thin ice. "I'm not—fuck—I'm not gonna last."

Gerard’s hips stuttered against yours, his rhythm fracturing into uneven, desperate snaps as his breath came in ragged bursts against your throat. His fingers trembled where they gripped your thighs, blunt nails digging crescents into your skin—anchoring himself to you, to this moment, like you might vanish if he loosened his hold. "Fuck," he gasped, voice shattered, eyeliner smudged into dark streaks beneath his wild eyes. "You feel—fuck—you feel perfect." The words dripped from his lips like syrup, thick and clumsy, as he rutted into you with the frantic, graceless urgency of someone who'd waited too long.

Gerard's hips stuttered against yours with a final, desperate thrust—his entire body locking up as a broken whine tore from his throat. His fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to bruise, blunt nails biting crescents into your skin as he came deep inside you, hot and messy and completely unrestrained. His chest heaved against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, eyeliner smudged into dark streaks beneath his wild, glassy eyes. "Fuck," he gasped, voice cracking like cheap vinyl, his lips brushing your collarbone with each ragged exhale. "Fuck, fuck—"

He slumped forward, forehead pressed against your sternum as he fought to catch his breath, his hips still twitching weakly against yours. His fingers trembled where they gripped your hips—too tight, too desperate—like he was afraid you'd dissolve beneath him if he loosened his hold even slightly. His eyeliner-smudged gaze flickered down to where you were still joined, his spent cock softening inside you, his come dripping slowly out around him. Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.

Gerard's breath hitched when your fingers twitched weakly against the mattress—not pushing him away, not pulling him closer, just there, limp and trembling like moth wings. He traced the delicate curve of your wrist with his fingertips, marveling at the way your pulse fluttered beneath his touch—slow, sluggish, but still there, still proof that you were alive beneath him. His lips brushed your inner wrist, tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin. "Fuck," he whispered, voice rough as gravel. "You're so—" His fingers tightened around your wrist, thumb pressing into the delicate veins beneath your skin. "Perfect."

"Like a ghost in the snow," Gerard whispered against the damp hollow of your throat, his voice frayed at the edges like torn fabric. His breath hitched when you didn't respond—when your fingers stayed limp against the mattress, your pulse slow and syrupy under his lips. The words tasted like winter, like the static between radio stations, like the hush of a basement at 3 AM when the furnace clicks off and the world holds its breath. He'd read it somewhere—a poem scrawled in the margin of a library book, ink bleeding through the page—and now it clung to his tongue, desperate for purchase in the thick air between your bodies.

Morning light seeped through the basement's high, dusty windows in weak yellow streaks, painting the concrete floor in fractured rectangles. You blinked awake with a tongue that felt like wool and a skull full of wet cement. Your shirt—Gerard's shirt, you realized dimly—was buttoned crookedly, the collar askew where it dug into your throat. The waistband of your jeans pinched uncomfortably tight, the zipper only half-closed.

The mattress beside you was empty, still indented with the shape of Gerard's body. You reached out instinctively—fingers brushing the warm spot where he'd been—before curling them into the damp sheets. The basement hummed with silence, broken only by the distant rattle of pipes and the muffled sound of a car passing outside. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards. No Gerard.

You groaned, rubbing your temples as you dragged yourself up the basement stairs—each step sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling through your stomach. The kitchen light was blinding, harsh against your bleary eyes, and you squinted through the glare to see Gerard and Mikey hunched over the dining table, forks scraping against plates.

Mikey's head snapped up first, a piece of toast dangling from his mouth. His eyes widened. "Holy fuck," he mumbled around the bread, crumbs tumbling onto his Ramones t-shirt. "You look like you just got hit by a truck."

You scratched absently at your ribs—something felt off beneath your shirt, a dull ache that pulsed when you moved—before shuffling toward the sink. "Yeah, yeah, make fun of me," you muttered, voice still thick with sleep and something else, something syrupy. The glass clattered against the porcelain as you filled it too fast, water sloshing over your fingers. You gulped it down like you were trying to drown the taste of bile and cherry syrup still clinging to the back of your throat.

Mikey snorted into his cereal, milk dribbling down his chin. "Dude, you look like you got fucked by a poltergeist." His grin faltered when Gerard's fork screeched against his plate—a sound too sharp, too sudden—and his brother's knuckles went white around the utensil.

"Unlike you virgins, I had the best wet dream yesterday," you announced, slamming your glass down on the table hard enough to make Mikey's spoon rattle in his cereal. You dropped into the chair beside Gerard with a wince—your hips ached strangely, thighs sticky beneath your jeans—but the smirk stayed plastered on your face. "Dude had these fucking hands—like, knew exactly how to—"

Mikey groaned into his cereal bowl, the sound muffled by a mouthful of soggy marshmallows. "It's seven in the fucking morning," he grumbled, milk dripping off his chin as he gestured wildly with his spoon. "And not in front of my Lucky Charms, you deviant." The plastic leprechaun on the box seemed to judge you from its perch near the salt shaker, its painted grin suddenly sinister in the fluorescent kitchen light.

Gerard's knee nudged yours under the table—once, twice—the pressure deliberate against your thigh. You knew that signal. The one that meant lean in, I've got something without saying it aloud. You tilted toward him instinctively, catching the stale scent of his unwashed hair and last night's eyeliner before he whispered, "Told my mum the lasagna did a number on you." His breath hitched when your shoulder brushed his, knuckles whitening around his fork. "She said you should stay for a while."

You leaned closer, lips brushing Gerard's ear—his skin smelled like stale eyeliner and something metallic, sweat-damp at the temple. "Hmmm," you murmured, letting your breath hitch just enough to make him stiffen, "if only you let me talk about the wet dream I got yesterday."

Gerard snorted—too loud, too forced—his fingers twitching around his fork. "You know I always listen," he muttered, but his throat worked around the lie like it was barbed wire. His knee pressed harder against yours under the table, denim scraping denim with a sound like teeth grinding.

Your grin split your face wide enough to hurt—that same sharp, shit-eating smirk you'd perfected at fifteen, just to watch Gerard's ears turn pink. "Deal," you drawled, dragging the word out like taffy between your teeth, and his fork screeched against his plate again. The sound set your molars on edge, but the way his eyeliner-smudged gaze flickered to your mouth made it worth it.

But oh, how he wished you knew those ‘wet dreams’ were real—and that he was the man who was finally making you feel so fucking good.