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Frank bursts through the cabin door trailing frigid air and droplets of blood. Gerard startles a bit, dropping Mikey’s parka, which has been shedding feathers all over the cabin and which he’s just finished patching. He doesn’t stab himself with the needle, though it’s a near thing. “Frank?” Mikey asks. The front windows are drifted over again, but Gerard knows Frank and Ray should have been home from the supply run ages ago. And Ray’s - “Where’s Ray?” Mikey says to Frank’s retreating back.
“Behind me,” Frank snaps. “Putting the snowmobiles in the lean-to.”
He disappears down the cellar stairs. True to his word, Ray comes in from outside a moment later, knocking snow off his boots. He sees the bright trail of droplets on the floor and says immediately, “Frank stomped off already?”
Mikey nods, and Gerard asks, “What happened out there?”
“The meet went as planned, but dracs hit the sled caravan with a fucking avalanche. They must’ve fixed that long-range laser of theirs. Either that or we missed a nest on our last sweep of the supply line.”
“Shit,” Mikey says, putting down the set of secondhand spark plugs he’s cleaning. “What’d we lose?”
“Nothing. The last sled got snowed under, but that jackass dug it out - mostly with his bare hands. Saved the shipment of engine parts for the colony in Five, but he tore himself up pretty bad.” Ray shrugs. Spare parts are that fucking important out here in the Zones, it pretty much goes without saying.
Gerard’s already on his feet, fetching some cleaning rags from the worktable in the corner to mop up the blood droplets, but Mikey takes them out of his hands and gives him a first aid kit instead. “He’ll bitch less if you’re the one who fixes him up,” Mikey says, which is the truth. Frank will still bitch, though. He likes to pretend he’s fucking indestructible. Gerard doesn’t blame him. It’s easier than reminding yourself how easy it it is to freeze to death.
Or get crushed under a river of snow, watching the world go from white to black. Gerard takes the first aid kit and heads for the cellar. They all know where Frank goes when the claustrophobia or the sheer fucking winter terror hits him. It’s a little ironic, really, that he heads straight for the tunnels, but that’s not the only thing down here.
Their own cellar is small, piled high with emergency supplies, the entrance to the tunnel system hidden behind a half-wall and a flap of burlap. Gerard grabs a propane lantern and pushes through the doorway. The tunnel network honeycombs the mountain, and it’s easy enough to get lost if you don’t know where you’re going. But Gerard knows exactly where he’s going, and it’s not far.
The airlock door always freaks Gerard out a bit, but he steps through the first portal and pushes it shut behind him, shedding his parka. He won’t need it on the other side of the inner door.
Stepping into Frank’s hydroponic greenhouse is an assault on the senses: heat, color, the gurgling of the fishtank, the breeze from the recirculating vents. The contrast from the outside world is ridiculous. The Zones are cycling into a dark season again, so the skywells that open onto the hidden rocky valley near their cabin are wide open, the reflectors pitched to catch every last ray of sunlight. Frank’s been tinkering with the generator backup for his electric growlamp system for a week now, but that’s not what he’s doing now. It’s quiet down here except for the hum of the tank pumps, and Gerard can’t see Frank at all.
Just because he can’t see Frank doesn’t mean Gerard doesn’t know where he is. He tosses his parka at the workbench by the door and winds through the rows of planter boxes. Beans, tomatoes, squash, assaulting him with the kinds of colors they can only duplicate in the Zones with spray paint and bright nylon. Frank’s sitting halfway down one row, parka spread over top of the gravel and his back propped against a planter of soybeans, watching the fish.
“You can go back up,” Frank tells him without turning his head. “I’m fine.”
“Sorta looks like you’re bleeding all over the soybeans,” Gerard answers. “Ray said you -”
“I’m fine,” Frank repeats, turning his head this time. He looks tired, fucking exhausted, really; Gerard knows he wouldn’t have gotten more than an hour or two of sleep, trading watches with Ray while they waited for Show Pony and the caravan to arrive.
“Bullshit.” Gerard kneels on the parka next to Frank and pops open the first aid kit. Frank’s hands aren’t as bad as they could be, all told - the blood’s coming from a few cracks in his winter-dry skin and from a couple torn fingernails. “How bad do your gloves look right now?” Gerard murmurs as he turns Frank’s left hand palm-up in his lap and presses a cloth soaked with antiseptic against the cuts.
Frank hisses but doesn’t complain about the sting. “Fuckin’ trashed,” he says. “Snapped the piece of shit emergency shovel on the new Electrokat. We need something that’s not scrounged up junk, especially if those SCARECROW motherfuckers got themselves a fucking avalanche gun.”
“You need to not lose a finger or two,” Gerard replies, finishing with the left hand and reaching for a roll of gauze. He’s watching what he’s doing, so of course he sees immediately when Frank lifts the freshly-wrapped hand to his face, but Gerard gasps at the soft rasp of the gauze against his cheek all the same. “I like your hands the way they are,” he adds, lifting his eyes to Frank’s.
Frank swipes his thumb over Gerard’s cheekbone. “Me too,” he says. “Hurts like a bitch,” he adds in a quieter tone as Gerard repeats the cleaning process on the other hand, turning them both over when he’s done to inspect the bandages, tracing the lines of half-hidden tattoos with a gentle finger.
“You gonna listen to me if I tell you to hold them above chest level for a while?”
“Maybe,” Frank says. “We playing doctor now?” He cups the back of Gerard’s skull in his bandaged palms and tugs him close enough to touch their lips together.
Gerard laughs against Frank’s mouth. “I’d hate to encourage you to hurt yourself more often,” he says. “You drive me fucking insane, do you know that?” He’s already sweaty from the humid air of the greenhouse, but he presses closer anyway, pushing Frank up against the side of the planter and coaxing Frank’s mouth open with a press of his tongue. They kiss until Gerard can’t breathe anymore, until he shifts to straddle Frank’s lap and rock their hips together. Frank shifts his hands from Gerard’s head to his shoulders to his back, and whines when he’s too clumsy to navigate Gerard’s layers. “Hands up,” Gerard reminds him, and Frank wraps his arms around Gerard’s neck while Gerard unfastens the front of Frank’s pants and sticks a hand inside.
Frank groans, hips bucking up against Gerard’s, and Gerard bites his lip and spreads his thighs farther, bracing his knees while he jerks Frank off between them, strokes quick and firm and with the slight upward twist he knows drives Frank insane. Frank arches up against him, swearing against the damp skin of Gerard’s neck and biting at his jaw until Gerard crushes their mouths together again, and it doesn’t take long at all before Frank is spilling into Gerard’s hand.
They pant into each others’ mouths for a moment, Gerard half-exhilarated and half-dizzy. Touching Frank turns him on like nothing else...except for Frank touching him. As he catches his breath, Frank tips him over until he’s sprawled on the discarded parka and slithers down his body until Gerard can feel Frank’s hot breath on his cock right through his thermals. Frank fumbles with Gerard’s waistband, and Gerard reaches down to help, moaning as Frank takes Gerard’s cock in his mouth the moment it’s uncovered.
Frank splays his bandaged hands across Gerard’s stomach, pressing lightly but not otherwise moving at all as he bobs his head up and down Gerard’s length. Gerard twists his hands gently through Frank’s hair and holds on, tipping his head back and concentrating on breathing while Frank teases with his tongue for what feels like forever, then takes Gerard down until Gerard’s nudging up against the back of his throat.
The feeling of Frank swallowing around him as he gently thrusts up into Frank’s mouth is enough to make Gerard’s eyes roll back, and he tugs at Frank’s hair to get him to pull back before he comes. Frank obeys but keeps his lips sealed tight around the head of Gerard’s cock, and he manages to swallow everything down, pulling off afterwards to press wet lips against Gerard’s inner thigh and catch his breath. Gerard grabs his wrist and tugs, and Frank obediently shuffles himself back up Gerard’s body, draping over him like a blanket, the humid air of the greenhouse wafting over their skin where their clothing is still in disarray.
The others won’t come looking for them, not here, at least not for a while, and Gerard is glad of it. It’s the only time Gerard truly feels warm these days: in this hidden garden, buried halfway under a mountain - with Frank.