Gerard is falling-down drunk, laughing-drunk, flying-drunk, warm and pliant, and Bert is only a few drinks behind. Together, they stagger away from the noise and the lights of the main stage, stumbling to a halt on the grass in the shadow of the MCR bus. Gerard sways slightly, his smile guileless and liquid in the dark. He's still wearing his stage makeup, deathly pale with a thick, dramatic band of black across his eyes. It looks like a superhero's mask, or maybe a bandit's, the ends disappearing into his tangled mess of dark hair. The edges are still sharp and crisp and perfect, like he's only just finished painting it on.
Bert frowns. There's something wrong, he thinks blearily, with Gerard looking so – so clean when he's this fucked up. Gerard dodges interventions and gets away with murder because he's pretty, because he cleans up so nicely, and that's always struck Bert as deeply unfair. If you're a mess, you should look it. Without thinking, Bert reaches out and runs his finger through the sticky black facepaint, dragging a long streak of it down over Gerard's bright white cheekbone. It looks a little like a tear track.
"So we fucking match," he says. It's true and it isn't. It's – symbolic. Of something. Probably. He doesn't know. It's three a.m. and he's drunk and the cut-grass-gasoline smell of the air is making him dizzy.
Gerard has gone very still, lips parted, eyes big and dark. He doesn't look away. Instead, he swipes a finger along just under his eye, and draws a slightly unsteady stripe on Bert's cheek, biting down slightly on his lip in concentration.
"S'like war paint," he explains solemnly. "Now we match."
Bert has a sudden moment of clarity and wants to laugh; god, look at them, they're fucking ridiculous. As messes go, they're a disaster.
Gerard's forehead creases up with puzzlement. "What?" he says, and Bert realizes he was laughing out loud.
"Nothing, nothing," he says. "Just – us. Fuck." It shouldn't be funny. Maybe it's not.
Gerard still looks confused, like he wants so badly to understand it and doesn't know why he can't. He looks surreal in the dark, like an escaped character from a Tim Burton movie, pale and unearthly and just that little bit unsettling, that little bit off. There's a still, suspended moment, and Bert wants to touch him, wants to kiss him, wants to taste the smoke and the cheap beer on his tongue and the sweat and paint on his skin just to reassure himself that Gerard is flesh and blood.
Bert/Gerard -- we kiss like painted tigers; 1/2
Bert frowns. There's something wrong, he thinks blearily, with Gerard looking so – so clean when he's this fucked up. Gerard dodges interventions and gets away with murder because he's pretty, because he cleans up so nicely, and that's always struck Bert as deeply unfair. If you're a mess, you should look it. Without thinking, Bert reaches out and runs his finger through the sticky black facepaint, dragging a long streak of it down over Gerard's bright white cheekbone. It looks a little like a tear track.
"So we fucking match," he says. It's true and it isn't. It's – symbolic. Of something. Probably. He doesn't know. It's three a.m. and he's drunk and the cut-grass-gasoline smell of the air is making him dizzy.
Gerard has gone very still, lips parted, eyes big and dark. He doesn't look away. Instead, he swipes a finger along just under his eye, and draws a slightly unsteady stripe on Bert's cheek, biting down slightly on his lip in concentration.
"S'like war paint," he explains solemnly. "Now we match."
Bert has a sudden moment of clarity and wants to laugh; god, look at them, they're fucking ridiculous. As messes go, they're a disaster.
Gerard's forehead creases up with puzzlement. "What?" he says, and Bert realizes he was laughing out loud.
"Nothing, nothing," he says. "Just – us. Fuck." It shouldn't be funny. Maybe it's not.
Gerard still looks confused, like he wants so badly to understand it and doesn't know why he can't. He looks surreal in the dark, like an escaped character from a Tim Burton movie, pale and unearthly and just that little bit unsettling, that little bit off. There's a still, suspended moment, and Bert wants to touch him, wants to kiss him, wants to taste the smoke and the cheap beer on his tongue and the sweat and paint on his skin just to reassure himself that Gerard is flesh and blood.
He doesn't do it.