For his birthday, Bob gave himself a gift. He'd had a hard year, he deserved it. There was only one thing he wanted--well, excepting getting the fuck out of prison, but Bob was a realist.
On the night of his birthday, after lights out, he said, "Gerard, would you--" and almost lost his nerve.
Luckily, Gerard whispered back, "Bob?"
"Come here?" he managed to finish. He would have gone to Gerard--Bob could work for the things he wanted, did work for those things--but it was less conspicuous if they were in the bottom bunk together. There was a long moment wherein Gerard didn't move. Bob wasn't going to make him. That wasn't any sort of gift. Slowly, the soft rustle of the bedsheet and the quick whine of the metal frame informed Bob that he was about to have company.
Gerard slept in both pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. In fact, in general, if Gerard could avoid showing skin, he would. Bob didn't mind that. It only meant that if he got what he wanted, he would be the only person to see that skin revealed. That was perfectly fine by Bob.
Gerard climbed into the bunk stiffly. Bob almost just told him to go back to bed, but it was Bob's birthday, and he wanted to touch, he wanted that so badly, had waited so long. He put his fingers to the skin at Gerard's neck. It was as soft as it looked. There wasn't much that was soft in prison, not the sheets nor the pillows nor even their clothes, once the industrial detergent they used in the prison had worked its magic on them. Bob stroked at it for a bit, not unaware of the rapidity of Gerard's pulse, beating near where Bob's thumb rested. Bob thought about saying something, but there was nothing he could say that Gerard would believe, so he kept quiet, paid attention to the signals of Gerard's breath, the minute tremors beneath his skin.
When the former calmed somewhat--largely, Bob suspected, because if Gerard kept up that level of fear he was going to pass out--Bob slipped his hand down to Gerard's hip, just beneath the waistband of his pajama pants and resumed his stroking. Gerard was watching Bob, his eyes clear and uncertain. Bob covered most of Gerard's hipbone with his hand and pressed gently until Gerard was on his back.
Bob had been thirteen the first time he had looked at another man and wondered what it would be like to get his hands on that man's cock. By the time he'd told his mom, at fourteen, he'd wondered all sorts of other things about cocks that most certainly weren't his own. He'd said, "Mom, I think I'm a fag," and she'd said, "Don't you ever use that word to refer to yourself, ever, you hear me?"
He'd said, "That's what they call it," and she'd said, "If by 'they' you mean uninformed assholes. What are you doing judging my son by the opinions of those fucktards?"
Bob had learned the overwhelming majority of swearwords from his mother. He'd also learned not to judge himself for his sexual proclivities, no matter what the other kids in the neighborhood might have said if they knew. He didn't need to learn to keep quiet. That he could figure out all on his own. He'd slept with his share of women, just to make sure, and women were nice and all, but Bob really didn't get the point, not when he could have something like Gerard. Bob carefully pulled Gerard's pants down to his thighs. He wasn't hard, but then, Bob hadn't expected him to be. It was hard to be scared out of your mind and turned on at the same time unless fear turned you on and Bob didn't really get that vibe from Gerard. It was fine, Bob wasn't lazy about developing his skills regardless of arena. He defied Gerard to hold out that long.
He started with a soft suck to the head of Gerard's cock. Gerard squawked. Bob pulled off, looking up and pressing a finger to Gerard's lips. Gerard's eyes were the size of his face. Bob was tempted to laugh, but he had better things to be doing with his mouth. Gerard had a beautiful cock, thick and a little curved. It fit him perfectly, had been taunting Bob for months. Bob let the hand that wasn't at Gerard's hip slip from Gerard's mouth to his balls, rolled them in his palm. Gerard's breathing picked up, but Bob knew it had nothing to do with panic this time. He glanced up, and sure enough, Gerard had his bottom lip caught in his teeth. Bob smiled to himself and got to enjoying his self-bought present. A few more carefully coaxing licks along the length of Gerard's cock and Gerard was more than ready to go. Bob swallowed him slowly, taking it easy. It had been a while since he'd had someone to do this with. He relaxed his throat the way he'd taught himself, let Gerard in all the way. Gerard went taut beneath his hand and Bob glanced up to see the way his neck arched back. It was, without question, the hottest thing Bob had ever seen. He swallowed, more out of reflex than any desire to drive Gerard absolutely past his limits, but Gerard's hands flew to cover his mouth, lock the moans carefully away. Bob hated to tell him, but that sort of thing really wasn't discouragement. Bob swallowed again and Gerard came, his hands still pressed tightly to his mouth, his entire body quivering under Bob's touch.
When he was finished, Bob slipped off and gently returned Gerard's pants to their proper position. Bob asked, "You need help getting back up to your bed?"
Gerard said, "Wha?"
Bob did smile at that. He worked his hardest not to make it smug. It wasn't, not really, he was just happy. "The bunk, the one up there. You sleep in it?"
Gerard blinked a few times. Finally he said, "You don't--"
"My hands work just fine." Better than fine. Bob trusted his hands implicitly.
Gerard's breath was finally slowing. He took a few deep ones and then whispered, "Would you let me watch?"
Bob very nearly echoed Gerard's near incoherency of the moment before. He managed to stop himself just in time. "Um. You want that?"
Gerard touched shaky fingertips to the spiderweb inked into Bob's left bicep, the one with the spider crawling downward. It was the most recently applied of the tattoos. Bob let him touch. At the implied permissiveness of Bob not moving to intercept the fingers, Gerard dragged them to the double Sig runes at his other bicep, received upon getting into prison. Gerard traced the shapes and then traveled on, over to the pair of cats on his right pectoral and then, lastly, the spade blooming out of the rose over his heart. He murmured, "Made of art."
Bob had never really thought of it in those terms before, but now that it had been said, he wasn't terribly shocked that Gerard did. It was an odd reason for someone to be interested in watching him jerk-off, but this was Gerard. Bob wasn't one to quibble. He nodded. Gerard didn't move his hand from Bob's heart. Bob offered his hand up to Gerard's mouth not all that confidently. He held it a few inches away, to give Gerard the choice. After a second's hesitation--in which Bob very nearly pulled away--Gerard craned his neck a bit, his tongue darting out to wet the surface of Bob's palm. It wasn't exactly an act of seduction, nor one of compliance, more like curiosity. Bob had to close his eyes, remember how to breathe.
Gerard finished with a long, thoughtful lick to the underside of Bob's middle finger. Bob took his hand back, hastily wrapping it around his cock which was waiting rather impatiently for some attention to be paid to it. He squeezed tightly at the base before sliding up a little, letting his thumb circle the head. He kept his eyes on Gerard, who was focused entirely on the action below. Bob settled into a rhythm, allowing himself to take it as slow as he could, draw this out, this moment in which Gerard wasn't paying attention to anything but him. When he couldn't, absolutely couldn't hold on any longer, Bob rolled away from Gerard, onto his back. Gerard's gaze followed Bob as he let go, swallowing a groan of release.
While Bob was still slightly languorous in the aftermath, Gerard leaned over him and said, "Bob?"
"Happy New Year," he said, and scrambled out of the lower bunk, back to his own.
Bob looked up and quietly said, "You too."