Every night after the recording session ended Gerard would call Bert, except for the nights when Bert called him first. They'd start out talking about music. Bert would play him one of the finished tracks John Feldmann had e-mailed him, even if Gerard had already heard it. Gerard would sing whatever song they'd been working on that day, even though Bert had probably already read the lyrics. Then Gerard would ramble on about comics, Bert would talk about television, and it would all end with Bert panting in his ear and moaning, "What are you wearing?"

"Uh...sweatpants," Gerard said one night as he lay on his bed smoking and watching South Park on mute. "Tube socks." He looked down at his chest. "A t-shirt I stole from my mom. It has butterflies on it."

Bert moaned in his ear again.

Gerard picked up the edge of his shirt so he could examine it better. "Oh, and some flowers. Lilacs mostly."

Bert grunted and gasped .

Gerard squinted at his shirt. "I think that's a lily."

Bert's moans got louder, and Gerard had to pull the phone away from his ear as they reached a crescendo.

"That's it," Gerard said once it was safe to talk into the phone again. "I'm coming to visit you."

Through his slowing pants, Bert growled, "Bring the shirt."

The next day at the studio Gerard announced that their tight schedule was stifling his creativity. Ray and Mikey both eyed him suspiciously, but Frank was easily worked up, and complained that he didn't get to see Jamia enough. By the end of the day they'd agreed on a three-day weekend, and by eight p.m. Gerard was on a plane.

It wasn't until he felt the jolt of the plane as the wheels hit the runway in Salt Lake City that Gerard wondered if his trip was a bad idea. He'd only ever hung out with Bert on buses. What if everything was different in Bert's hometown? What if Bert introduced him to his parents, and they lectured Gerard about Jesus? What if Bert's friends were all bad-ass Midwest meth-heads who thought Gerard was a pussy?

But it wasn't until he saw Bert at the other side of the terminal, leaning against a bank of monitors showing arrival and departure times, chewing on the end of a lock of his hair and staring up at the ceiling, that Gerard had the sudden, horrifying thought that messing around with guys might be something Bert did only when he was drunk and on tour.

Bert spotted him and his face broke into a grin. "Hey, man! Good to see you!" He took a few steps forward, pulled Gerard into a hug, and slapped him on the back.

"Um..." Gerard stepped back quickly. He wasn't used to manly slap-hugging, and it kind of hurt. "Yeah, good to see you."

Bert took the duffel bag off Gerard's shoulder. "Got anything in baggage claim?"

Gerard shook his head.

"Cool." Bert began walking to the exit, and Gerard kept pace with him easily. "So there's this 24-hour diner right by Quinn's place with these bad-ass peanut-butter banana pancakes."

Gerard chuckled. "How fucked up are you when you go there?"

Bert threw his head back and laughed his insane, high-pitched laugh. "For real, man," he said. "They're so good I eat them even when I'm not high. You gotta try it."

They passed through the automatic doors and walked in silence to the short-term parking lot, where Bert unlocked a white Lumina.

"Your car?" Gerard asked. Though Bert must've made a fair amount of money off his band's first album, he still lived a transient lifestyle. The biggest purchase Gerard had ever seen him make was a used Gameboy, which he'd paid for in weed.

"Hell no," Bert said. "Quinn's dad's."

Gerard got into the passenger's seat while Bert tossed the duffel bag into the trunk. The seat was back further than the driver's seat, so that Gerard could barely touch the dashboard, and he was relieved that he wouldn't have to make eye contact with Bert for the entire drive. Gerard wasn't sure who he'd come to Utah to visit, but it sure as hell wasn't someone who called him "man" and didn't give real hugs.

Bert got into the car, put the keys in the ignition, and locked the doors. Gerard turned to look out the window, and the next thing he knew Bert was grabbing him by the hair and kissing him hard on the lips.

His stomach flipped like it always did, as if he still couldn't believe Bert would want to kiss somebody like him. Most days Gerard felt like he was playing dress-up with Mikey in their grandmother's basement, like no one would ever listen to their music or take their message seriously. He had nightmares where he went back to his old cubicle job and no one believed him when he said he was in a band.

But Bert was born a rock star. He drank in the mornings and threw up onstage. He could walk into a party where he didn't know anyone and have a crowd of people around him ten minutes later. He fought with security guards and told record executives to go fuck themselves. His stories began with "this one time in jail" or "I was totally fucking high" or "so I was fucking two chicks at the same time".

The fact that a guy like that found Gerard attractive made him dizzy. It made him stupid-happy. It made him put his hands on Bert's narrow hips and tug at him until he crawled over the center console to kneel on the floor between Gerard's legs. Gerard ducked his head down so they could keep kissing, the pace becoming more urgent as Bert's hands went up his shirt and Bert's stomach rubbed against his crotch. The raw quality of Bert's touch always got Gerard hard embarrassingly fast, but Bert didn't seem to mind; he actually seemed to take pride in how quickly he could get Gerard from a conversation backstage to on his back in the tour bus.

Bert's hand moved from Gerard's chest to his lap, where he began fumbling with Gerard's belt.

"Someone could see us," Gerard muttered.

Bert didn't hesitate. "It's dark."

Gerard looked out the window. Sure, it was dark, but it wasn't pitch black, it wasn't outer space dark. There were lights throughout the parking lot, and a few cars nearby. There were probably regular security patrols, and oh God, he was going to be arrested by Mormons. They probably had a special section in their Mormon jails for bisexual East Coast boys who had girl-eyelashes.

Bert lowered himself down as far as he could, folding his thin, flexible body so his knees were at his chest and his face was in Gerard's lap. He'd gotten Gerard's pants open far enough that he could pull his dick out, and he wrapped his mouth around it like he was starving for it. Gerard immediately stopped caring about how he was going to be arrested for indecent exposure and end up as someone's bitch in a Mormon prison.

Gerard never made much noise during sex, which he attributed to spending his early jerking-off years sharing a bedroom with Mikey, and spending his early sex years sharing a dorm with a room mate. When Bert first put his mouth on him, Gerard took in a sharp, quick breath. As Bert took him deep, he sucked in jagged breaths and blew out hard. When Bert's fast, wet motions became almost too much for him, Gerard held his breath, and he came with a choked exhale.

Bert tucked him back in his pants and climbed up his body, pressing his erection into Gerard's hip. "You're so easy," he said.

"Yeah," Gerard panted as their lips met again, because he was easy. He was such a slut for this. There was no one else in the world he would give it up for as easily as he did with Bert, and he couldn't believe there'd been a moment when he doubted this. They kissed, and he could taste himself in the corners of Bert's mouth, and he could feel Bert hard against his hip, and oh fuck, he would do anything.

"What do you want?" Gerard asked against his mouth.

Bert pulled back and began undoing his pants. He looked up at Gerard, and in the dark he was all dark hair and light eyes. "Will you suck it?" he whispered.

Gerard put his hands on Bert's hips. "Like this."

"Oh, fuck yeah," Bert breathed out. He reached to the outside edge of the seat and pulled on the lever. "Lean back."

Gerard pushed backwards until the seat was almost completely horizontal. He slid down, and Bert straddled his chest. Gerard licked his lips, pulled Bert's dick out of his pants, wrapped his hand around the base so it couldn't accidentally choke him, and pushed the head past his wet lips.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck." If Gerard was quiet during sex, Bert was the exact opposite, and the first few times they'd hooked up on tour there was plenty of good-natured mocking from their friends, including a chart made by Jeph rating Bert's obscenities on a scale of okay sex to awesome sex.

Bert pushed himself in and out of Gerard's mouth at a steady pace, as Gerard worked his dick with his hand and moved his lips to keep it wet. "Fuck your mouth," Bert muttered, his voice so strained it wasn't clear if he was expressing an appreciation of Gerard's mouth or just explaining what he was doing.

After a minute or two Bert pulled back a bit, and Gerard lapped at the head of his dick until Bert let out a groan and a long string of swear words. His arm, which was flat against the window and steadying him, was tight and trembling.

"Go in my mouth," Gerard said.

Bert pushed forward, moaning "God damn motherfucking fuck" as he resumed his movement in Gerard's mouth, and Gerard had to stop himself from smiling. He hadn't heard that combination before.

Bert put one of his hands in Gerard's hair and held on tight as he thrust in and out. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he gasped as his thighs trembled. "Fucking God your fucking mouth." He pushed in once more, held his body taut, made a noise halfway between a choke and sob, and came in Gerard's mouth. Gerard swallowed quickly. Normally he didn't, but it would've been rude to Quinn's dad to get semen all over the upholstery.

Bert kept muttering swear words and shaking slightly as he came down. When he pulled out of Gerard's mouth, Gerard tightened his lips and licked him clean.

Bert rolled off him and managed to wedge his thin frame between Gerard and the gear shift. He was breathing heavily, and his pants were still undone. He looked up at the gray roof of the car and rubbed his eyes.

"I missed you a little," he said.

Gerard smiled. "Just a little bit."

Bert looked over at him and grinned. "A tiny, tiny amount."

"I could tell," Gerard said. He turned his head and kissed him.

"Welcome to Utah," Bert said, smiling blissfully against Gerard's mouth. "Where Bert McCracken is the best lay you'll ever have." He ran his hand down Gerard's side until he found his hand, and curled their fingers together.

"Yeah, they had that on the sign in the airport," Gerard said.

"You worked up an appetite for peanut-butter banana pancakes?"

"Sure," Gerard said through a chuckle.

Bert gave his hand a quick squeeze, then opened the glove compartment, retrieved a joint, and moved into the driver's seat.

"They have good coffee?" Gerard asked as they drove out of the parking lot.

Bert lit the joint and rolled down his window. "Yeah, and even that flavored shit you like." He handed the joint to Gerard and turned the car onto the ramp to the highway.

Gerard took a deep drag off the joint, exhaled a stream of pure white smoke out the window, watched the buildings shrink and disappear in the rear view mirror, and thought that he could be happy like this for a long time.