#ongoing rayrard nonsense

[upfromtherainclouds]

It's still wip wednesday if I haven't gone to sleep yet, right?

Have some of... whatever this is:

Gerard is fucking soaked. Out of all the things he didn’t miss about touring, marinating in his own sweat has to win some kind of award. He flops face first onto the dressing room couch, which is probably totally gross, but like, so’s Gerard and also on a list of gross things he’s put his face in, it doesn’t even break top twenty.

“Huh. Grossest thing I’ve ever put my face in?” he asks the universe, or maybe the gross couch, and Ray says,

“Oh god, why the hell would I know that? I don’t want to know that, man.”

Gerard giggles into his new best couch friend. Maybe he’ll live here. He’d get, like, a pretty awesome soundtrack through the walls and the other bands could probably toss a slice of post-show pizza to the resident dressing room couch troll once in a while.

“Okay,” he says, “so what’s the grossest thing you've ever put your face in?”

Ray stops doing whatever the fuck he was doing to make that weird knocking noise and says, “Your leather jacket, dude. All the way. When it was, you know, decomposing on your body via sweat?”

“Yum,” says Gerard, and rolls over.

Ray is towering against the ceiling like fucking Colossus or some shit, and the horrible fluorescent light is right behind his head making his hair glow, but not like a halo, more washed-out green like one of those fucked up bioluminescent deep sea fish.

“What if you were a reverse mermaid, and you had to keep your head underwater all the time or you’d fucking choke to death?”

Ray laughs and says “Guess I’d take swimming lessons. Man, that show did a number on you, huh?”

It kind of did. Gerard feels achy and stretched out and kind of high, like he just got fucked or did some really intense fucking yoga or something. He should call Lindsey - she always likes him show-high and suggestible. But his gross couch is too comfy and besides, he’s got no fucking idea what time it is in LA.

“Stop being a fucking… deep sea colossus and get the fuck down here, Toro,” he says, making a fucking herculean effort to stretch up and grab Ray’s wrist. Mm, guitar muscles. “This couch is, like, the comfiest couch ever created by fucking human ingenuity.”

Ray doesn’t get the fuck down there. He gives his mildly awkward turning-you-down laugh (distinct from his moderately awkward off-color-joke laugh or, God, his homicidally awkward interviewer-said-something-racist laugh) and says “I should, uh, probably go take a shower.”

Gerard doesn’t let go. “In a sec, dude. I gotta tell you about how fucking awesome you were out there first. Get down here, motherfucker.” He gives Ray’s wrist a yank, not that hard, or at least he doesn’t think it was that hard until Ray lands on top of him with an oof and it immediately gets real fucking obvious why he was trying to leave.

“Uh, G–” Ray says, his voice skipping right up to the top of his range. He’s flailing ineffectually – he landed with one leg between Gerard’s and the other most of the way off the couch.

“Oh, whatever, dude,” Gerard says. “Frank’s literally humped my head in front of thirty thousand people.”