Gerard just wants Frank to pick a God damn NUMBER. ::Frerard::
And that’s the first thing he heard. No- not entirely true. The very first thing Frank heard when he emerged, half-conscious, from that deliciously comfortable sleep was the tip-tip-tap of fingers on laptop keys. And somehow- some/how/- Gerard was psychic enough to realize that Frank’s brain was at least an eighth of the way awake and decided to seize this opportunity and ask him a random early-morning question. And Frank rolled around in the thin, cool sheets, wishing Gerard was in the damn bed and not at that stupid /desk/. So he groaned- loudly so Gerard would know how disappointed and frustrated he was- and pulled a pillow over his head.
/“Frank,/” Gerard snapped. “Pick. A /number./”
Frank kicked his legs under the sheets in a post-adulthood temper tantrum and whined, his frustration oozing out through his vocal chords.
“What are you doing?/” he squeaked. He tugged the blankets over his naked top-half, vindictively thinking, /’He’s not getting /any/of this’/, and kept his head under the pillow, not really caring what Gerard’s answer was. Because that didn’t matter. Frank had been having a nice sleep and Gerard had to be the giant /douche-bag he felt the need to be and just fucking clicked away at his laptop.
“Frank! Can you pick a God damn number?!/” Frank flipped over and sat up. Gerard was at his desk, sitting on the balls of his feet on his chair, bent over his laptop in his worn-out T-shirt and his checker boxers. His long, spidery fingers just /tippity, tap, tapping on the keyboard while Frank glared at his back.
“SIXTEY-NINE, GERARD,” Frank cried at Gerard’s back. “The number. You are looking for. Is SIXTEY. NINE.” He saw his boyfriend pause, tilt his head to the side slightly as if considering the suggestion (not taking notice to the sexual reference), give a tiny little ’Hm.’/then go with the tiniest of shrugs /right on back to tapping at the keyboard. When Gerard didn’t say anything else, Frank groaned loudly- and, admittedly, a little obnoxiously- and crawled angrily to the end of the bed. He glanced over Gerard’s shoulder in an attempt to see what he was doing. Gerard jerked his head in front of Frank’s view so sharply that Frank wasn’t sure if the whiplash Gerard was probably going to receive was going to be worth it.
Frank growled and gave Gerard’s shoulder a hard punch. He crawled back into bed and curled up in the thin, white sheets (making sure to ruffle them noisily) and gave an exaggerated sigh. But Gerard didn’t notice. No, he just kept fucking typing.
“You know what?” Frank snapped. “I hope you realize you’re not getting any se-”
/”PLASTER CAST?!/” Gerard interjected suddenly. “Fuck, Frank! We got stuck with fucking /plaster cast!/”
Frank decided at this moment, the moment that his boyfriend yelled that they were “stuck with plaster cast”, that Gerard was an idiot. He had been aware that he was somewhat stupid, a bit of a dork, a little bit of a pansy, and (at times) downright /retarded/, but it took the screaming of “WE GOT STUCK WITH PLASTER CAST!” for him to decide that he was a complete moron. So he lay there, tangled in those blankets they should have been sharing, and said the only thing that came to his mind.
Gerard did a little rhythmic bounce on the balls of his feet. His voice was more mock-angry than genuine irritation. “We picked a number between one and one hundred and because you’re a dirty boy, you picked sixty-nine and we got stuck with plaster cast. I hope you’re happy.”
Frank sat up in bed again. “Yes. I am happy. So while you wallow in your horniness wishing for my ass, all you’ll have is your /fucking plaster cast!/”
Gerard turned around in his chair and pursed his lips in Frank’s direction. “Don’t be a dick. We just have to write a /story./”
“…About…a /plaster cast?/”
Gerard nodded and furrowed his eyebrows, pushing out his lips almost playfully. He hopped off of the chair and crawled onto the bed. Frank turned away from Gerard, laying on his stomach and pouting to himself. Gerard straddled Frank’s legs and placed his hands on both sides of his shoulders.
“I have some ideas for a story,” Gerard said in a low voice. He laid himself down on top of Frank, pressing his lips against Frank’s unclothed shoulder. “And all of them seem to involve you…not being able to /move…/” Frank flipped around underneath Gerard.
“You’re an asshole,” he muttered languidly through a smirk. Gerard gently bit on Frank’s bottom lip.
“Yeah…” Gerard whispered, his voice low and sexual. He stared Frank in the eyes, stern and unblinking. “…But I like yours better.”
Frank sat up, planting little pecks on Gerard’s lips as he went. “Well, then we’re just gonna have to get something, aren’t we?” Gerard rolled off of his boyfriend. Frank shot him a sexy stare and Gerard smirked. He didn’t smirk because Frank was just about to give him the sex he so desperately wanted from his stubborn and moody partner.
No, Frank didn’t that Gerard hadn’t pushed his chair in.
Frank’s foot caught right on the wooden leg and with a tiny puppy-like yelp, he fell forward and landed face-first onto the carpet. Frank didn’t move. He was paralyzed with the mixed sensations of embarrassment and foot-related pain. Gerard crawled to the end of the bed and leaned on his elbow.
“You know, Frank, if I didn’t know any better I’d say your foot needed a…/plaster cast./”
Gerard was an idiot. But he was an idiot who was completely right.