cold_clarity: (mikey black n white)
[personal profile] cold_clarity
Distance In Between

R for sex, language, and implicit incest

written for [ profile] celtic_cookie's All Hands On Deck commentfic challenge. the original prompt came from [ profile] turps33: 'Gerard/Mikey; One of them jerking off while the other is having sex close by. Both aware of what they're doing and putting on a show for the other'. posted here for archival purposes. PWP..ish? unclear. unbeta'd. 

It's all Mikey's fault. Seriously. Not like that should be surprising or anything but Gerard hadn't even planned on being out tonight, hadn't planned on anything except putting Bandit to bed and watching Romero films until he fell asleep because Lindsey was in New York, dealing with some gallery install.

Of course, shit didn't work out like that because Mikey has been texting him since six o-fucking-clock--some bullshit about talking to Gabe who was talking to Pete who was DJing some gig downtown and, seriously, they should go. Around ten, Gerard finally caved, calling in a last-minute babysitter, kissing Bandit's hair, and heading out the door.

And that's how he's here. Now. In the middle of this noisy club full of socialites and glitterati, their clothes and their baubles catching and reflecting and refracting the club's weird amber lowlighting. He keeps losing Mikey in the fringe, and so he lingers by the bar, sipping a drink. The place couldn't be further from Gerard's scene, but he bobs to the music in spite of himself. It's Pete's set, he thinks--and that probably bodes well. Not music that Gerard would make himself, but definitely interesting stuff.

At some point, Mikey emerges from the mill of bodies. He smiles--a minute expression, a slight wrinkling of his mouth--his eyes bright.

"You like it?" he asks, leaning in close to talk over the music. His breath tickles Gerard's ear.

"Yeah--yeah, it's good."

Mikey's fingers wrap around his wrist, squeeze gently. A strange residual expression of affection from when they were younger. It's simultaneously comforting and disorienting here, now, in this place.

"I'm glad you came."

Gerard twists a little so he can meet Mikey's eyes again. The music's bass beat thrums through him and he says with sincerity, "Me too."

They stand together after that, shoulder-to-shoulder, Mikey dropping his hand to thread his fingers through Gerard's, while the music hums on. It's upbeat, a dance-y sort of thing that lights something up inside of him--but whatever Pete's done to the bass is weirdly calming. Trance-like, maybe. He nods his head a little, keeping time.

When the set eventually fades into silence, Mikey speaks up.

"Hey, I'm going to find Pete."

And then he's gone, fingers extricated, lost amidst the fray. His sudden absence leaves Gerard feeling slightly cold and he curls his hand against the empty air and he exhales against the sudden rise of a familiar pressure in his chest. People shuffle around the bar, waiting, talking, laughing. Gerard waits. Itches with some unreckonable anxiety. Impatience, maybe, or a sudden sense of self-consciousness now that the music's stopped. He sighs. And then--

Mikey and Pete materialize out of the world of dim light and deep shadow and Pete is grinning wide and sincere. Mikey has his arm slung around Pete's waist, has one thumb hooked into the pocket on Pete's jeans and--oh. Gerard blinks. He looks at Mikey who looks at him, a long gaze and unwavering. That same small twist in Mikey's mouth. Gerard looks back to Pete.


"Hey, man. Glad you could make it out." Pete sounds like he means it, though he never really keeps his eyes on Gerard. His gaze keeps drifting back to Mikey.

Gerard wonders, vaguely, if Pete's smile is meant for him at all.

"Good stuff," he says and Pete's expression shifts to almost bashful.


A moment's lull. Gerard folds his hands into his pockets. "Hey, uh…where's the bathroom?" he asks, glancing at Mikey again.

Mikey nods to the left, gesturing with his free hand. "Towards the back."

"Thanks. Be right back."

He sidles past his brother, past Pete, through the throng. The bathroom is weird in that faux-chic sort of way, all black tile and black-lacquered aluminum stalls. Even the urinals are black. The mirror is splattered with flecks of…something. Watermarks, maybe, or dried suds of soap, all of it overwritten by pink and yellow sharpie, some midnight wannabe vandal scrawling aphorisms on the glass.

Gerard blows out a breath and steps into a stall to--what. Wait? It seems a little ridiculous, now that he's here. He doesn't misread Mikey often, but it's been awhile--more than awhile--since they've pulled something like this and…well.

He exhales again, tipping back his head. He's too old for this shit.

The silence in the bathroom presses closer and closer until Gerard is ready to turn around, walk out of the stall, back into the club, and fish Mikey out of the crowd even if that means peeling him away from Pete "We Fuck Every Time We're In The Same Place" Wentz. Of course, the thought has no sooner entered his head than he hears the bathroom door swing open with a bang. A scuffling of feet, and the wet sound of mouths meeting. Again. Again. In the midst of it, a breathless gasp, fuck and Pete.

Gerard's stall shudders a little when Mikey (he's certain it's Mikey) gets backed up against the door. Mikey makes a quiet noise, low and throaty, when Pete speaks, and all of it sends a shiver down Gerard's spine.

"Hey," Pete murmurs, breathless. "Hey, lemme--I'm. I want to blow you. Okay?"

Mikey exhales through his teeth, a hissing sound. "Yeah--yeah."

There's another shuffling sound, the short zip of a fly coming undone, and Mikey's sharp intake of breath. Gerard leans back against the door, feeling Mikey's weight through the flimsy aluminum (certain that Mikey can feel him), and tips his head back. Fumbles to undo his jeans.

Mikey makes another quiet sound--a gasp, maybe--over the slick noises of Pete's mouth. Gerard spits into his hand and lets his eyes drift shut, his world dissolving into nothing but audition, nothing but the broken breaths, the quiet groans, the wet, unfolding sounds beyond the door. Fingers curling around his dick, he gives a long pull when Mikey draws out a thin yeah. yes, Pete-- and Gerard feels the vibrations of his utterance reverberate through the door. Gerard hums in response, voice pitched low--low enough, he hopes, that Mikey feels more than hears it--and shuffles his hand faster, faster.

Mikey's breathy inhalations stagger, crest towards thinner, higher slivers of sound. Gerard pictures his long fingers twisted up in Pete's hair, holding, holding like nothing else can ground him. He pictures Mikey's mouth, slightly parted, throat working around each gulp of air, each barely-breathed yes, yes, yesyesfuck, his quiet pleas shivering through the door, through Gerard. And when the aluminum warbles and Mikey's voice breaks, Gerard comes hot and sticky over his hand.

Beyond the door, the rustling of fabric, the shuffle of Pete shifting to stand again. Gerard keeps his eyes closed, listening to them linger in a kiss. It's not until they leave and the bathroom settles back into silence that he reaches for a handful of toilet paper, stuffs himself back into his jeans, and cleans up.

He finds Mikey waiting by the club exit, looking only slightly disheveled. Gerard is proud that he manages to smile rather than smirk.


"Hey," Mikey answers.

"Where's Pete?"

A vague gesture with his head. "Went to get his car, I think."

"You're going back to his place?"

Mikey's mouth curls. "A gentleman doesn't just blow you in the bathroom and then not invite you home."

Gerard snorts. "Glad to know he treats you right," he drawls, fishing his own keys out of his pocket.

Mikey ignores the gentle jab. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

"Sure. Tell Pete I said bye."


Gerard steps towards the door and, for the second time that night, Mikey catches him by the wrist. Presses a kiss, long and gentle, to the corner of his mouth.

"G'night," he murmurs.

Gerard smiles. "Night." And he steps out in to the cool rush of nighttime air.
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