Title: In Your Eyes
Author: valerie_z
Pairing: Bert/Gerard
Rating: R. Language and a little groping.
Notes: Takes place shortly after the release of In Love and Death. Let's say it's early 2004, and we're pretending The Used and MCR are touring together. The idea for this fic came from my amazing husband Mike. Constructive criticism is welcome. All of my bandslash is here. Thanks for reading.


Bert was awakened by music. But it was good music, so he lay in bed with his eyes closed for a minute, enjoying it and humming along. It wasn't until the second chorus that Bert realized the reason he liked the song was because he wrote it.

Bert rolled out of bed, fell onto his knees, stood, tripped over an empty whiskey bottle, stood again, and made his way toward the music, which seemed to be coming from outside. As he approached the glass doors to the balcony, he could clearly hear the bridge of I Caught Fire (In Your Eyes), one of the tracks off their new album. Someone was playing it loudly just under the balcony.

Bert wondered if it was a crazy fan. Then he wondered if she had big tits. Then he wondered if he still had the number of the crazy fan with the big tits he met in Atlanta. Then he wondered how far he was from Atlanta. Then he wondered what city he was in right at that moment.

Bert was just about to go find Quinn, because Quinn was really smart and knew things about maps and shit, when the song ended and a familiar voice shouted, "God fucking damn it, Bert! Wake up!"

The song started again as Bert slid open the balcony door and walked outside. Gerard stood one floor below, among the woodchips of the meager garden surrounding the hotel, wearing the same black-on-black outfit he'd had on for the past two days, and holding a huge rectangular stereo over his head. When he spotted Bert, Gerard struggled to turn down the volume without dropping the big black contraption on his head.

Bert leaned on the railing. "Dude," he said. "Where's your ipod?"

"What?" Gerard looked up at the stereo, like he was just noticing the gigantic piece of equipment he held over his head. "The boom box is for effect," he explained. "I'm doing John Cusack."

Bert pat his hips, looking for his cigarettes, before realizing that he was in his underwear, and his underwear didn't have pockets. "You're doing John Cusack? Like...in the butt?"

Gerard sighed. "Say Anything. You know? Say Anything?"

"Penis!" Bert shouted suddenly. Then he laughed. "Okay, cool. Now you say anything. The only rule is that it has to be 'penis'."

Gerard lowered the boom box to the ground and switched it off. "Don't tell me you never saw that movie. What were you doing in the eighties?"

"Being born."

"Great, make me feel old," Gerard groaned.

Bert grabbed the railing and straightened his arms so he was holding himself slightly off the ground. "Awww, it's okay, Gerard. You might look like an old guy..." Bert lifted his legs out to the side until they were almost at a right angle to his torso. "But you fuck like a little baby!" he shouted.

"Can I just come inside and apologize?" Gerard asked.

Bert hopped down. "Oh, right. I forgot we were fighting."

"Do you think I just hold boom boxes up in the air for no reason?"

"I dunno, Gerard. You're a pretty fucking weird guy." Bert stuck his index finger up his nose. Even when he didn't pull things out, he just found it comforting. "Come on up."

Bert walked back into his room, unlocked the door, and sat down on the couch. He had a suite with a large sitting room and a separate bedroom. He wasn't sure why he had a bigger room than the other guys. Maybe it was because he always had people over. Or maybe it was because he kissed the hotel manager on the mouth while they were checking in. Either way, the room was wasted on him, since he'd spent almost all of last night curled up in one corner of the king-sized bed, clutching his bottle of whiskey to his chest, and laughing hysterically as Quinn told dirty jokes. Then they'd taken pictures of their asses with Quinn's camera phone and e-mailed them to James Muñoz.

Gerard walked into the suite, carrying his boom box and looking tired. He set it down beside the couch, kicked his shoes off, and then stood in front of Bert, as if preparing to give a presentation.

Bert pulled his finger out of his nose and gestured for Gerard to begin.

Gerard took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I said Tim Armstrong was the hottest punk singer I'd ever seen."

"And?" Bert prompted.

"And I'm sorry I said Ray had stronger thighs than you."

Bert folded his arms across his chest. "And?"

"And I didn't mean it when I said your whole body smells like your balls, except for your mouth, which smells like my balls." Gerard took in a quick breath. "And I was kidding when I said that I blew John Feldman, and he told me it was the best head he ever got, and then he bought me ice cream, and then we played with his dogs in the park."

Bert leapt to his feet in one fluid motion, proclaimed "I forgive you!" and pulled Gerard into an enthusiastic hug.

Gerard rubbed the back of Bert's head. "So what are you doing for our day off?"

"Oh!" Bert kept his arms around Gerard's sides, but leaned his torso back so he could smile at him. "I just had a great idea. We could take your box boom, right? And we could play it outside Jepha's room. And when he comes out to see what it is..." Bert's smile widened. "We pee on his shoes."

Gerard nodded slowly. "Mmm hmm." He pulled Bert closer and kissed him, holding their bodies flush against each other as he worked his tongue into Bert's mouth and ran his hands down his back. Gerard exhaled hard as they pulled apart, tilted his head down, and looked up at Bert with big eyes.

"Do you have any other ideas?" Gerard asked.

"Thousands," Bert said as he ran his hand down to the curve of Gerard's hip.

Gerard blinked. "Do you have any other ideas that don't involve peeing on someone's shoes?"

Bert considered this for a moment. "No."

Gerard took a step back, pushing Bert's hands away as he separated their bodies. "And this is why I'm going to call Tim."

"Hey! Why do you have to be such a bitch?" Bert pointed to the balcony doors. "Go back outside and hold the thing up again!"

"Fuck you, Bert," Gerard said casually as he sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette. "You pick on everyone, and then you can't even take a joke."

"I can take a joke," Bert muttered.

Gerard exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "It's like you're a little kid and I always have to watch what I say."

"No you don't." Bert knelt down in front of Gerard and put his hands on his knees. "You can say anything."

Gerard tapped the end of his cigarette into an empty beer can on the floor. "Penis."

"What?"

"Penis." Gerard smiled. "Now you say anything."

Bert's mouth opened slowly into a wide smile. "Ooooh, I get it." He snaked his hands in between Gerard's legs. "Penis."

Gerard took a long drag off the cigarette and then dropped it into the beer can. "Get some beer and meet me in the bedroom." He slapped Bert's thigh, stood up, and rushed into the other room.

"I might just have whiskey!" Bert called out as he made his way to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room.

"Whatever!" Gerard called back.

Bert found two bottles of beer and a half-empty bottle of whiskey in the fridge. As he was heading toward the bedroom, he noticed Gerard's sneakers lying haphazardly near the couch.

The shoes were black, with ragged black laces and visible worn spots in the soles. Bert knew Gerard never got rid of clothes until Brian stole them and threw them out himself, and these shoes had to be next on his list. They looked so old, so shabby, so...absorbent.

"Bert!" Gerard called out from the bedroom. "I swear, I'll start without you."

Bert leaned down close to the shoes and narrowed his eyes at them. "I'll get you later, motherfuckers," he whispered. Then he let out a high-pitched laugh and ran into the bedroom.