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Frank doesn’t set out to do it. There are no goal posts here. No super secret mission. And he is not intentionally trying to be a total fucking creep. He just, you know. Ends up there. Organically.
The show was great. It was fucking amazing, honestly. The kind of show that he could have only dreamed about when he was just a baby-faced punk with a guitar, an idea, and enough energy to power the fucking sun. Adrenaline pumping, crowd screaming. Mikey grinning, Ray absolutely shredding, and Gerard— fucking Gerard. So absolutely in his element. Screaming into the mic, wailing into it, stoking the fans higher and higher until the whole place seemed like an inferno of noise and heat and sweat. Even now, Frank is still feeling the aftershocks, electricity thrumming through his veins. Restless, under his skin. An uncontrollable itch that bites.
He should have probably gone to the party with the guys. Normally, he would have. Drinking, bouncing to some tunes, and crashing around like a one person wrecking ball until the tidal wave of energy dialed back to an angry simmer has historically been a great way of scratching that itch. On bad nights — or good nights, depending — he’d maybe even find somebody amenable to a quick and dirty fuck and work that energy out another way.
But when Mikey cocked an inquiring eyebrow at him earlier, Frank had gotten too stuck in his head about it. A party might be fun, sure, but it would be loud. Smelly. And the sort of restlessness that’s made a home in his veins tonight isn’t the type that’s best suited for company.
No, he’d thought. Better off going back to the tour bus, smoking some weed, and getting out of his head a little.
Which was exactly what Frank had done.
What he hadn’t considered was that he’d be bored to fucking tears within fifteen minutes.
The weed hadn’t taken care of the restlessness either, just burrowed it in even deeper. The itch had been bad before. It was unbearable now.
The bus was too fucking quiet. Frank had fucked around on his guitar a bit, trying to work his way through a melody that had been dogging him for weeks now, but his brain refused to latch onto anything. His focus was shot, brainwaves bouncing all over the place except where he wanted them to. Couldn’t get that mess of gray useless matter to cooperate and light up the neurons to make his fingers do what he wanted them to. Eventually, he’d been forced to give up entirely, slumping sulkily off towards the bunks.
And it wasn’t— he didn’t mean anything by it, obviously, falling into Gerard’s bed instead of his. He just couldn’t be fucked to climb his happy ass up into his own. It’s not like Gerard was there to give him shit about it. And even if he was, he probably would have just rolled his eyes and let Frank roost anyway. Maybe even crawled in after him to sketch or read until he eventually kicked Frank to his own bed whenever he was ready to crash.
But Gerard was out, which meant that his bunk was free game.
And well— historically there’s always been a sure fire method to quelling Frank’s boredom. He’s just usually in his own bunk when he’s doing it.
For a second, he considers it. Crawling up into his own bunk and jerking one out into his own considerably cleaner blankets. It would be the responsible thing to do. The reasonable thing to do, even. But the weed’s got him now, his limbs heavy like he’s under a thick weighted blanket. Like there’s someone on top of him, the full weight of their body on the verge of smothering him, pressing him down into sheets that smell of Gerard, musky and smoky and perfect.
Fuck it, he thinks, and shoves a hand down the front of his pants.
The first touch is exquisite. A breath shudders out of him as Frank’s knuckles bump up against his dick, sparks of sensation popping off like pop-rocks in his gut. He wraps a hand around it and pumps once, slow, dragging the feeling out. He’s hard already— been hard, probably. His breathing is coming out of him in ragged panting exhales and that fucking itch that’s had him in a chokehold for the last couple hours slides smoothly into something that’s decidedly pleasant. His eyes flutter shut and he turns his head into Gerard’s pillow, inhaling deep. Fuck. Fuck. This is so fucked up.
He imagines it, because he’s not a fucking saint here. Gerard has— well, hell, if Frank is being completely honest with himself, he’s always been a bit of a guilty pleasure of Frank’s when he’s touching himself like this. Now’s no different, his nose buried deep into the place that smells most like Gerard.
So Frank thinks about it, his mind not settling on any one image but giving him a series of half-formed snapshots. Gerard finding him like this. The surprised look on his face shifting slowly into something hungry. Eyes dark. Teeth digging little grooves into his lower lip. Frank imagines him taking a step closer. Imagines him climbing into the bunk with him, weight settling down onto his thighs. Imagines Gerard getting his cock out too, how his hand would curl around the shaft, flushed red and perfect against the ghostlike whiteness of his fingers. Would Frank suck his dick if he asked? Would he let Gerard fuck him? Find the half used travel-sized bottle of lube that he’s got half-buried in his backpack and offer it up like the holy grail? An offering at the foot of Gerard’s altar?
Fuck yeah, he would.
“Fuuuuck,” Frank whines, shifting his hips and adjusting his grip on his cock. He’s leaking already, thumb smearing the dribble of pre-come over the flare of the head, sticky-smooth as he eases it back down the shaft. His hips pump once, jacking up into his fist. He shudders. Gives into the urge to whine again, a shaky little moan making its way out of him.
Fuck. Fuck. Gerard. Over him. Under him. In his stage outfit, in the tiny shorts that he sometimes wears around the bus when they’re on long stretches of endless road and he knows they won’t be having company any time soon. In nothing at all, an endless stretch of pale smooth skin just waiting to be mapped out by Frank’s fingers.
Frank’s shivering. His thighs are shaking. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop what he’s doing long enough to dig out the lube, but god, he wants something inside of him. Wants Gerard inside of him. Wants it like breathing.
Another small noise hisses out between clenched teeth and then that small noise gets bigger, turns into a groan as he starts jacking himself in earnest, and he doesn’t— Frank doesn’t want anyone to hear. They won’t, it’s a stupid thing to even worry about because he’s alone, even the bus driver and sound techs having fucked off to spend their Saturday nights somewhere better than this smelly fucking bus, but years of sharing small, enclosed spaces with a half dozen people at the best of times has him on edge, wary of making any sound at all. He’s not thinking when he gets a hold of the hem of his t-shirt and drags it upwards, his nipples pebbling to hardness as the cold air hits them, stuffing a mouthful of fabric into his mouth. Something to keep him quiet, something to bite down on.
“Mm,” a low voice says, somewhere to Frank’s right. There’s a quiet hum to it. Satisfaction? Amusement? “Don’t do that. It was just getting good.”
Frank stills immediately, his eyes fluttering open.
He’s still blissed out and the weed has him slowed down and gummy enough in the head that the realization is slow. That yes, that is Gerard standing there nibbling his lower lip raw, half-slumped against the side of the bunk across the aisle. Eyes dark and intent as he watches Frank touch himself. Watches Frank touch himself in his bed.
Not a figment of Frank’s imagination. Actual real-life Gerard, still sweaty from either the show or the after party. Maybe both. Actual Gerard who smiles slowly, with beatific malice, cocks his head, and says, “Don’t stop on my account.”
“Fuck,” Frank says around his mouthful of shirt. He spits it out onto his chest, where it settles damply against his sternum.
“Fuck,” Gerard agrees cheerfully, his eyes positively sparkling. “Why ‘ya in my bed, Frankie? I have to sleep there.”
“It was,” Frank starts, and then has to stop, clearing his throat when his voice comes out in a wobbly-sounding croak. “It was closer,” he protests weakly.
“Mm,” Gerard says agreeably, drifting closer and leaning against the end of the bunk near Frank’s feet. He quirks a gleeful eyebrow, eyes crawling down Frank’s body to where his hand is, mortifyingly, still curled around his hard dick within the confines of his jeans. Frank’s knuckles are pressed uncomfortably tight against the tines of the zipper, the metal digging into his flesh, and it should be a small miracle that his dick is still in his pants at all and not hanging out in the open, but it almost feels worse this way.
The grin on Gerard’s face is positively dangerous as he stands there over him, looming, and says, “That so? You sure about that, Frankie?”
Frank swallows. He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything. He has, quite literally, been caught red-handed here.
He still doesn’t say anything when Gerard eases himself down onto the bedsheets next to him, but a small noise escapes him anyway, a choked off gasp that makes him immediately go red in the face when his dick visibly jumps in Gerard’s proximity.
“What was the plan, Frankie?” Gerard asks him, expression still devious as he leans over to curl two fingers into the wet fabric pooled on Frank’s chest. He twists them idly into the fabric, pressing down hard enough that Frank can feel it, the pressure just shy of bruising. “Were you going to jizz all over my sheets and then let me come back here to sleep in them? Make me messy without even touching me?”
“N-no?” Frank gets out, voice a thin rasp. Strained. His dick is, somehow, still hard.
Gerard cocks his head. “That a question?”
Frank clears his throat.
“No,” he says again, more clearly. “No, I uh, wouldn’t do that.”
“Were you planning to catch it all, then? Make sure you didn’t spill a single drop?”
Frank nods his head jerkily, because yeah, that had been the plan actually. Loose as the plan actually was.
“Considerate of you,” Gerard tells him, sounding distracted as his fingers continue to mindlessly wind themselves into the fabric of Frank’s shirt, knotting it around his knuckles. Gerard’s looking at the shirt now, at his fingers twisted up in it, as if transfixed. The look on his face is a familiar one. It’s the same look that he gets whenever his brain is churning out a crazy new idea, gnashing it to pieces in the slow, mechanical grind that is his brain.
“You could have, you know,” he muses. “I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Would have gone straight the fuck to bed, not even realizing that I was going to bed in Frank stew.”
Gross, Frank thinks, wanting to protest.
Gerard’s eyes find Frank’s suddenly. His fingers slide smoothly out of the knot only to tip sideways onto the skin of his chest instead, the pads of his fingers skating carefully over the lines of Frank's tattoo.
“Would you have liked that?” he asks, sounding breathless. “Getting me messy?”
And it’s not— it’s not like Frank hasn’t thought about it. Obviously. He was just thinking about it. Could even say that on some fundamental level, he’s always thinking about it. Touching Gerard. Making him dirty. Well, dirtier. Filthy in a way that could be hot and not just, well, gross.
But they haven’t— this is real. Not stage kisses or firm, spontaneous gropes while Frank is blissed out on some cocktail of weed and booze and drugs. This isn’t Gerard’s fingers curling against his skull and tugging for show, or Gerard rubbing up against him because it gets the fans going. When Gerard slowly leans over him and works his fingers into Frank’s still messy hair, this is real.
So Frank decides to be brave even though he’s still fucking trembling and makes himself look Gerard right in the eyes when he admits in a clear, mostly solid voice, “Yeah. Yeah, I—” he lets out a puff of shaky laughter as Gerard’s fingers tighten enough to tug at his scalp, the bite of it sweet. “Fuck. I’m always thinking about that, Gee. You’ve gotta know that by now.”
“Do I?” Gerard asks, all traces of teasing gone from his voice. He sounds— something. Serious. Unsure, maybe. Thoughtful as his eyes go distant, like even now he’s thinking back to all the times that Frank did something weird and maybe a little too needy, recalibrating it in his head into what it is. Undeniable proof that Frank is stupidly, stupidly gone on him. Like Gerard is holding a microscope up to all that devotion, all that blind worship, and seeing to the heart of it. Seeing Frank’s heart. Ugh.
Frank closes his eyes for just a second, overwhelmed. “Yeah.” He lets out another bark of laughter, not even trying to disguise the slightly bitter taste of it. “I mean, everyone else does. Thought that you probably did too.”
By the time he’s got his eyes open, Gerard is looking at him again. Frank can’t read his expression, can’t wonder at it for too long, because Gerard sighs, the grip on his hair loosening, becoming a mindless stroke, nails scritching over Frank’s scalp. “Thought that it was— something else, maybe.”
Frank snorts. “Nope. Just— this, I guess.”
His dick is still mostly hard, but it’s lost some rigidity in the last few minutes, his knuckles still tucked against the softening slump of it. His hand isn’t moving, just resting there, so the spark of pleasure has dulled to a thrumming kind of ache. It kicks again though when Gerard fixes him with a look, something like resolve in his eyes as he gives Frank's hair one last pet and says, soft, “Let’s do something about that then.”
“What?” Frank says, or rather, starts to say, but all that comes out is the garbled beginning of a syllable before Gerard’s mouth is on his, swallowing up the sound.
The kiss is— shocking. Good. Messy. Somehow nothing like and everything like those stage kisses. Those were messy, too. Messy or biting, always firm, rushed, or unnervingly spontaneous. Frank had never known when they were coming. Could count on them probably happening during Prison, but sometimes Gerard surprised him, rubbing up against him during Helena, quick presses of his body or lips during Cemetery Drive. Frank never knew when they were coming, but god, his body was always thrumming with the anticipation of it. Yearning. Forever leaning in, like a flower turning upwards each morning, hoping for the sun.
This is like that too, insofar as Frank unknowingly waiting for it, body tight with anticipation. His mouth opens under Gerard’s and he gasps once, reedy and thick, before he yanks his hand out of his pants so fast that the metal of the zipper leaves a streak of pain against the outermost curve of two knuckles. His hands find Gerard’s hips and greedily pulls him in.
Gerard chuckles against his mouth as he overbalances slightly, catching himself with a hand to the mattress next to Frank’s head. His tongue darts out, licking hotly into his mouth, and Frank lets out a creaking moan in response, open-mouthed and shockingly loud in the quiet. His body tilts up into Gerard’s, hips rocking even though the angle’s not right.
Gerard catches onto the problem quickly and clambers into Frank’s lap without another word between them, kneeing him in the ribs in his haste. He rocks down as Frank is rocking up and the starburst of sensation as they press together is enough to make him dizzy.
“Fuck,” he gasps into Gerard’s mouth.
“Fuck,” Gerard agrees, hand darting down between them to tug Frank’s pants fully open, reaching in and wrapping a hand around Frank’s dick like it’s nothing, like they’ve done this a dozen times before. Frank lets out a shocked, urgent noise, ducking his head to press his hot cheek against Gerard’s jawline, gasping into the skin there.
“Thought you were gonna get me messy, Frankie,” Gerard murmurs into Frank’s temple, pulling Frank’s cock the rest of the way out of his pants and giving it a long firm stroke.
God, Frank is going to die tonight. He’s going to his fucking death and when he’s gone, his gravestone will read: Here lies Frank Iero. Beloved son and celebrated guitarist. Taken from the world too soon because Gerard fucking Way touched his goddamn cock.
“Nngh,” Frank groans in response, breath coming in quick pants as Gerard works his dick. His touch is curious, exploratory. Figuring him out. Seeing what makes him gasp. “Gonna,” he manages eventually, and even that is an effort. Gerard laughs at him, but there’s no cruelty there. It’s a sweet sound, sweet as any of Gerard’s laughs, only this one is all for him, thick with affection as he presses his lips to Frank’s temple.
“What do you want, Frankie?” he asks, breath hot and damp against his skin. Frank’s overheated brain digs up feverdream-like snatches of those half-formed fantasies he’d had earlier, of Gerard over him, Gerard fucking him. Even now he wants Gerard inside of him so badly that he feels a little crazy with it, but he doesn’t think that he’ll last long enough to get there. He’ll probably come before Gerard can even get a finger into him, and then where will he be?
He doesn’t know if this will be the only time, though. And Frank doesn’t want to live the rest of his life wondering what it would have been like to have Gerard inside of him.
“Fuck me,” he says, gasping and bucking up into Gerard’s grip when he stutters to a stop at Frank’s words. He whines, he’s pretty sure, the sound long and drawn out.
Gerard is looking down at him, eyes round with surprise. Big. Pretty. Lashes sooty and dark against pink cheeks. “Really?”
“Yes,” Frank hisses, teeth digging into his lower lip. “Please. There’s lube— lube in my bag.”
“Shit,” Gerard says, the hectic flush on his face going deeper, ruddier. He sounds off now, flustered in a way that he wasn’t ten seconds ago. Frank feels an absurd throb of pride at that, that he’s the reason that Gerard basically trips off of him, clumsy as he fumbles at his bag on the floor and letting out muffled curses when, from the sounds of it, the zipper gets caught before the bag is fully open.
Frank lies there, catching his breath as he listens to the sounds of his bag getting absolutely ransacked. He knows without looking that his clothes are probably all over the floor now, casualties of Gerard’s singleminded massacre.
Gerard surfaces again clutching the lube and a sleeve of condoms, wearing a triumphant smile as he clutches his spoils tight to his chest and perches over Frank. He looks hot, way too smug about winning a fight against a goddamn bag. And he still hasn’t taken off an inch of clothing.
“Take off your fucking clothes, already,” Frank tells him, sulkily tugging at them.
Gerard laughs and tugs back at his. “You first, motherfucker.”
Frank rolls his eyes, but does his best to wriggle his way out of his clothes, yanking his t-shirt off over his head before he starts shoving impatiently at his jeans.
Gerard just watches him struggle, a mocking little smile on his face before he turns away to start shoving at his own clothes.
“Can I blow you first?” Gerard asks a few minutes later, as he’s shoving two wet fingers inside of Frank. The burn is sweet, probably too much too fast. Frank arches as they nudge up against his prostate on like the third fucking try, panting. It’s not enough. He might say as much, demanding, before his brain catches onto what just came out of Gerard’s mouth.
Frank groans loudly. “Not unless you want me to come before you get your cock in me.”
“You’re still young,” Gerard tells him, sniggering as he slaps Frank’s thighs further apart so he can better slide between them. “Are you really gonna try to tell me that you couldn’t get it up again?”
Frank’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head when Gerard gets his other hand around his cock, jerking it sweetly as he lowers his mouth to hover over the head. He exhales slow against it, the giant asshole.
“Okay, okay,” Frank pants. “Fine, make me come. Just do it fast, I want you inside me.”
“Patience,” Gerard murmurs sagely and Frank snarls, jerking his head up off the pillow to glare down at him. He catches the tail end of the smirk on Gerard’s lips before he lowers his mouth onto Frank’s dick and swallows him down.
Frank’s head thumps back down against the pillow.
To his credit, he doesn’t come immediately. He lasts at least five whole minutes. He thinks. And he'll challenge any motherfucker to last longer than that with their cock down Gerard Way’s throat.
Gerard sucks cock the way that Frank always imagined he would. Messy, wet, and sloppy — saliva dripping down his chin to streak wetly down into the crease of Frank’s thighs, over his balls. He makes noises while he’s blowing Frank, little whines and moans like he can’t help himself, like he loves it. And fuck, he probably does. Frank always thought that he was joking whenever he talked about sucking dick onstage, but god, he wasn’t, was he?
He tries to hold off, but it’s like Gerard is chasing Frank’s orgasm, fucking his face onto Frank’s cock faster and faster as Frank digs his nails into his own thighs, Gerard’s fingers still coaxing little shocks of pleasure out of him as he fucks in in in—
There’s no technique to it, or if there is, his technique is the race itself, choking himself repeatedly until he’s gagging every other downwards shove but still moaning like he can’t get enough of it.
The tipping point is when Gerard blindly reaches down and pulls Frank’s hands up to his hair, gets him to tug, and that’s it, Frank's a goner.
His orgasm punches out of him hard and fast, visceral, like a punch to the gut, and Frank curls up like a bug around Gerard’s head, holding him there when he doesn’t seem to want to come up for air, politely swallowing around Frank’s cock until Frank is sprawled boneless and loose beneath him.
Gerard pulls off with a pop, and Frank is exhausted, but he makes himself look at him, because it’s Gerard. Because it’s Gerard who just sucked his cock and finger-fucked him into the stratosphere.
Gerard who looks at him now, eyes a little wild, and says, “I’m going to fuck you now.”
“‘Kay,” Frank says, and gets one noodley leg hooked around Gerard’s waist, pulling him closer.
It’s been a while since Frank did this. Or at least did it with something that wasn’t his own fingers, so when Gerard, who is obnoxiously, mouthwateringly hung even strutting around the place fully soft, starts to push inside of him, it burns. Aches deep as he eases inside, bullying Frank open in a slow, unyielding press.
Frank is boneless, he’s flying, and he wants this— wants it badly.
He relaxes into the ache, waits for the bright spark of pain when the head finally pops past the tight ring of muscle, and tucks his head up against Gerard’s throat, mouthing at the sweaty skin that he finds there, squirming until Gerard’s bottomed out.
Gerard was right, though. Frank gets hard again.
It doesn’t happen right away, still soft and sticky and overwhelmed with sensation as Gerard settles into a glacially slow rhythm, hissing between his clenched teeth as he fucks into him.
“God, Frankie,” he murmurs, sweat dripping down his face. A droplet slides down his jaw, shakes loose and lands against the corner of Frank’s open mouth. He tastes salt. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“Mmhmm,” Frank sighs agreeably, back arching as a particularly rough shove nails him just how he wants it. The stretch, the burn — he missed it, Frank realizes. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Gerard, that it’s Gerard’s cock inside of him, making room for himself inside of Frank as Frank's body does exactly what his dumb bleeding heart did years ago, welcoming him in gladly.
“I want—” Gerard starts to say, the rest of the sentence sliding straight into a moan when Frank twists his hips experimentally, fucking back onto him. Gerard’s kissing the curve of his throat. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave streaks of saliva on his skin. He bites down once, hard, and then worries the mark with his tongue afterwards, when Frank keens long and low. “God, I want to make you come again.”
“Keep that up,” Frank pants, “and you’re gonna get your wish.”
And it’s true. Frank’s dick isn’t fully hard again, but it’s getting there, twitching and chubbing up a little more with every shift of Gerard’s hips.
“Frankie,” Gerard says, his voice ragged.
“Yeah,” Frank tells him. “Just like that. Please.”
It should probably take longer to get him there again. Frank’s not eighteen anymore and while his dick might think it is sometimes, the last time he came twice in one hour was at least half a decade ago. But Gerard’s a good fuck. A great one. Needy and breathless, the sounds he’s making pushing Frank higher and higher. He’s not a selfish lover, but he fucks Frank like he’s chasing his own orgasm, like he knows that he’ll get Frank there regardless.
“Shit, you feel so good,” he says at one point, the words slurred against Frank’s skin. He’s drooling into Frank’s collarbone now, which shouldn't get Frank even hotter, but does.
“You too,” Frank says, canting his hips up, chasing the feel of Gerard’s cock.
“God, you gotta—” Gerard pants into his neck. “You gotta come. Want to feel you come on my cock. Are you close? Please be close.”
And all of a sudden, Frank is.
He drags his teeth against the jut of Gerard’s jawline in answer, letting out a series of increasingly frantic noises that he’ll probably be embarrassed about later. He doesn’t have enough leverage to fuck back against Gerard properly, and Frank has the sudden thought that next time he wants to ride him, wants to make it slow and deep, wants to see Gerard’s face properly, and that’s it, he’s gone. Second time in what? Forty minutes? Gotta be a new record.
He comes with a cry, back arching, and barely hears Gerard’s answering groan as his rhythm falters, shoving in once more before he’s coming to a stuttering stop, pressed deep as he can get.
Frank gives himself a minute. Maybe two, enjoying the afterglow, the twitchy aftershocks that go through Gerard’s body as his softening cock slips out of Frank. And then he laughs.
Gerard blinks down at him sleepily. “What?”
Frank gives him a sharp grin, reaching down to drag a hand through the mess of come between them. It’s everywhere, all over Frank’s groin, his hip, his fucking chest, but it’s all over Gerard too. A wide swath of sticky wetness all over his belly.
Frank takes his wet hand and smears it down Gerard’s bicep, still grinning. “Is this messy enough for you?”
Gerard rolls his eyes, shoving at him. “Fuck off.”
“No, no,” Frank coos, dipping back down for more. He swipes two fingers through the mess on his chest and smears it along Gerard’s cheekbone, down his throat, like he’s fingerpainting. “You wanted to be messy, right?”
Gerard huffs pissily, rolling off of him, but let’s Frank do it. There’s an indulgent little smirk on his lips as he watches Frank rub his come into Gerard’s skin until there’s nothing left, just dried flaking patches all over them both. Belatedly, Gerard removes the condom, flicking it in the direction of the trashcan. Frank is ninety percent sure that it landed somewhere in Ray’s bunk, but that’s a problem for later.
“So,” Gerard says, rolling over to look at him. “Are you still thinking about it?”
Frank tips his head to the side and for a moment, he’s not sure what Gerard means. Then, he remembers. I’m always thinking about it, he’d said.
“Yeah,” Frank admits, because it’s true. He thinks about getting Gerard spread out on a hotel bed beneath him. Pressing him back into the wall of some seedy bar, making out because they can’t get enough of it. Sneaking quick kisses backstage after soundcheck. Thinks of getting Gerard messy again, of Frank’s come still sticky on his skin as they go up on stage, and almost bites straight through his lip smothering the resulting moan back down. “Yeah, I’m still thinking about it.”
Gerard grins at him. Bright. A little impish. “Guess you’ll need a do over, then.”
Frank grins back, a feeling growing in his chest. It’s huge, a bright swell of emotion. Electric, like there’s something shivering just under his skin. An itch that’s not quite scratched. It feels a lot like hope, a simmer of want. “Yeah. Yeah. Guess so.”