Shakes To The Beat: Gift for romanticalgirl

[stuffitmod.livejournal.com]

Click here for part one, headers, and warnings


It's not an exaggeration. Pete spends the next three days naked and following Gabe's instructions, from "stay off the furniture" to "take this phone call from your lawyer and cooperate with what he tells you." Gabe does find a collar for him, thick brown leather with a well-worn groove where the buckle fits. Feeling it pull snug across his throat when he's kneeling in front of the couch while Gabe watches TV, Gabe's fingers curled easily around the leather at the back of his neck, is one of the more peaceful moments he's found in a while that doesn't involve being beaten to hell and back first.

Gabe calls Alex and borrows an air mattress for Pete to sleep on, on the floor at the foot of Gabe's bed. "Stay off the furniture," is all Gabe says when Pete looks at him in confusion the first night, repeating the first order he gave. Pete curls up under the blanket Gabe gives him--a thin, cheap knitted thing that smells like it's a veteran of many tour buses--and feels the slight, sharp humiliation sinking down through his skin. It's perfect.

In the morning, Gabe helps him up off the mattress and takes him to shower, his hands sliding all over Pete's skin, checking him for stiffness and soreness and gently coaxing away anything he finds with gentle touches and hot water. He dries Pete off, kisses his forehead, then puts him down on his knees again and goes about his day, watching TV and making calls, scheduling DJ gigs and Cobra shoots and finalizing plans for his trip to Uruguay.

Thinking about that makes Pete feel cold, the idea of being without Gabe at all for a full month. He closes his eyes and presses his head against the couch next to Gabe's knee, not quite touching him but breathing him in, letting himself drift and revel in the quiet surrender. He can do that here. It's safe.

Gabe doesn't hit him, doesn't ask for anything more than the submission and obedience of staying naked and on the floor, and following instructions when he's given them. He doesn't have to kneel unless Gabe tells him to, and he doesn't have to crawl; he doesn't have to get permission to eat or go to the bathroom. He just has to wait, basically. He's on a three-day time out.

The last night, Gabe goes out. He kisses Pete's forehead before he goes, and traces his fingers lightly down his chest. "Behave," is all he says before he heads out the door. Pete listens to the click of the key in the lock and swallows hard, suddenly very aware of being alone in the apartment. There's nothing to stop him now from sitting on the couch, or lying down in Gabe's bed. He could take the collar off and get dressed. He could use Gabe's computer. Hell, he could go home. The boundaries of the game become very clear once Gabe is out of sight, the flimsiness of the illusions they've agreed on. He could easily dismantle it all. Call Gabe's phone and say "Chicago," or just write the word on a piece of paper and leave it taped to the door. He could end this.

He goes into the bedroom and lies down on his mattress, pulling the blanket over himself and closing his eyes to drift in half-sleep. He doesn't want to give up the shell of comfort just yet. He'll wait some more.

He falls fully asleep at some point, waking up when the door opens with a bang. He blinks against the dark, groggy and confused by the sound of footsteps crossing the living room in an awkward, stumbling beat. "Pete?" he hears Gabe call, his voice thick and rough. "Pete, mijo, donde estas?"

"'m here," he calls, his own voice a raw mumble. He rubs at his eyes and looks up again when Gabe stops in the bedroom doorway, looking down at him. Gabe's drunk, he can tell that at a glance, his face flushed and his jacket unzipped even though it's December in New York and it has to be fucking freezing outside.

"There you are," Gabe croons, stepping forward deliberately, carefully. "There you are. Didn't see you."

"I fell asleep."

"Good. That's good. You've gotta sleep, baby. Gotta get your beauty rest." Gabe laughs and Pete manages a smile in return, still trying to get his brain back in working order. He gets up on his knees as Gabe comes closer. Gabe reaches out, petting Pete's hair and his face like he's a puppy, and Pete leans into his touch, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling of Gabe's fingers tracing his skin.

"You're so good," Gabe says, his voice rougher still. Pete looks up at him and Gabe touches his mouth, rubbing one finger back and forth across the swell of his lower lip until Pete parts them and lets the finger slide inside, pressing against his tongue. "Can't believe how good you've been. And I've been good to you, right? Taken care of you?"

Pete nods, staring up into his eyes, and sucks at his finger carefully. It's awkward, and he knows it can't be good, but Gabe's eyes get brighter and he smiles, looking down at Pete with real pride.

"So fucking good, mijo." Gabe takes a breath and hooks two fingers of his other hand in Pete's collar, tugging until Pete gets to his feet. "Goddamn, Pete."

Pete lets him pull him closer, until he's pressed up against Gabe's chest, and he's both surprised and not at all when Gabe eases his fingers free of Pete's mouth and kisses him, gripping the collar tight. His spit-wet fingers close tightly around Pete's wrist, thumb pressing against his pulse, and Pete groans against his mouth, nodding eagerly.

"I want to fuck you," Gabe says, his voice almost a growl. "Can I? Let me fuck you, baby. Please?"

Pete feels dizzy, like maybe this is a trick question, some kind of a test or a game. He's been Gabe's for three days, collared and obedient, and he's been Gabe's for longer than that, bending to his whims and waiting for the touch of his hand. Of course he isn't going to say no.

"Yes," he says, nodding and opening his mouth to another kiss. "Yes. Fuck me."

Gabe smiles, releasing the collar and cradling Pete's face in both hands. "Fucking gorgeous, Pete," he says, his breath warm and thick with booze. Pete wants to lick the taste from his mouth, but there isn't a chance, because Gabe backs him over to the bed and pushes him down and Pete stops thinking after that.
**
"Was good," he mumbles against Ashlee's stomach, closing his eyes and breathing her in while her fingers wander slowly up and down the back of his neck. "He went kind of fast, only used his fingers a little, so it burned, but...well, you know, I was kind of in the mood for things to hurt, so..."

"He took care of you after?" Her voice is a little odd, tight and controlled, but he doesn't have the extra brainpower to sort through that right now. He just wants to float in this nice headspace of being home and comfortable and with her.

"Yeah. He cleaned me up and kissed me and let me sleep in the bed." He laughs a little, turning his head to press his cheek against her stomach and look across the room at where Bronx is bashing his stuffed animals against the walls of his playpen. "Cuddling and shit. It was nice."

"I'm glad it was good." She traces the row of stitches on his nose and he winces, closing his eyes. "You feel better?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She traces the stitches again and then pulls her hand away, touching his shoulder lightly. "Sit up for a minute? I need to check my phone."

He rolls onto his back and just lies there for a while, listening to Bronx muttering to himself and the sound of Ashlee moving back and forth in the next room. He feels good, at peace. Things make sense in his head.

That last exactly as long as it takes for Ashlee's voice to filter into the part of his brain where he actually deciphers words.

"You were drunk," she snaps, her voice rising on the last word. "I cannot fucking believe you would do that. You put your hands on him when you were drunk? Are you kidding me? I defend you when people call you stupid, you know, but I'm going to have to think twice about that now."

Fuck. Pete sits up, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Ash..."

"If you ever do that again, Gabe, I will fucking end you, do you understand me?"

"Kitkat, baby, it's okay, don't..."

She's really shouting now, loud enough that Bronx flings his toys out of the playpen altogether and gathers his breath for a howl of protest. Pete goes over and scoops him up, cradling him against his chest. "My fault, kiddo," he mutters against Bronx's curls. "My bad."

"Get your shit together, Gabe! Be a drunk on your own time, not when you're...I don't want to hear your goddamn excuses, I want you to swear on something you actually take seriously that you're not going to do that again!"

Pete has a feeling that isn't going to be a problem. This is how it goes, after all; one fuckup, one misstep, one mistake, and people walk away.

Ashlee comes back into the room a few minutes later, tucking her hair behind her ears and still visibly pulling herself together. Pete averts his eyes, rubbing Bronx's back slowly.

"It's possible I just screwed things up for you," Ashlee says. Pete shrugs, bouncing Bronx a little to make him smile.

"Don't worry about it," he says after a minute, glancing over at her. She's watching him with wide, worried eyes. "It's cool."

"Call him later? Sort things out. Just tell him I'm crazy and irrational."

"I'll talk to him, yeah." He shifts Bronx into one arm and reaches for her with the other, pulling her in close. "Got everything I need right here, you know. Our family. That was just...bonus points. Don't need it."

"Pete..." She sighs, resting her head against his shoulder. "I hope I didn't screw things up between you guys in general."

"Can't be done." He kisses her hair and tells the cold knot in his stomach to fuck off, there’s no point thinking about it. "Gabe and me, we speak the same language."
**
They do, and so Pete knows exactly how this is going to play out. He can call it note-perfect. They still talk, they still laugh on the phone and send stupid texts and check in during insomnia hours, but Gabe doesn't invite him over, and neither of them tries to hang out in any context where they would be alone. A wall's gone up, and Gabe's stepped back on the defensive. If I'm just going to fuck up, then I'll go be alone--yeah, Pete speaks that language fluently. Might even be his native tongue.

Cobra's off to Europe anyway, so it's not like it matters. And Pete's got a lot going on himself. He's growing a beard, just to see what that might be like. He spends time lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, cataloging his thoughts. He takes Bronx out and they spend hours just walking, people-watching, seeing what there is to see. He tells his son all of his secrets, right now while it's safe because Bronx won't remember.

And of course he explodes a lot of careful PR work via the Internet and sets fire to a couple of interpersonal relationships as well as irritating the shit out of everyone involved in his professional management, but that was more or less inevitable, and they really should've seen it coming. He's sorry, but not very much, and sorry won’t put it back together anyway.

Gabe calls him after that breaks, from Germany or somewhere. "You hanging in there okay?" he asks, his voice blurry with exhaustion and booze. Pete chews at his thumbnail and shrugs, knowing Gabe will pick up on the gesture. Same language. "You going to get somebody to help you, Pete?"

"I think I'm going to deal with this one like a mature and reasonable adult, actually. Just for a change."

"Dude."

"It's a crutch. That whole thing, it's just...a childish crutch, and I'm gonna deal with this one differently. Okay?"

Gabe's quiet for a moment. "Childish? Really? That tells me something about your parenting technique, Wentz, and that something kind of makes me wonder if I should call CPS on your ass."

"I'm hanging up now."

"I'll talk to you soon, brother. Keep on keeping on."

Pete's smiling when he hangs up. It isn't quite right, but it's something. It reminds him that not everything sucks all the time, at least.
**
Things get a little easier when they're back in LA. His house, his dogs, his coffee shop, the little pieces of routine, as much as his life ever has a routine. Months slip past without him really noticing, until suddenly it's spring.

"It's a fucking cliché," he says, looking over the top of his coffee at his super-stealth Starbucks companion. They're both huddled down in sunglasses and hoodies as if anybody gives a shit in LA. Then again, they'd probably be in sunglasses and hoodies anywhere, because they're pretentious fucks that way.

Mikey squints at him over the top of his glasses. "What is?"

"Sunlight makes shit feel better."

"That's not a cliché, that's, like...circadian rhythms or something. My therapist is all about it."

"Yeah? How much sunlight are you getting locked up in a studio for nine months or however long it's been?"

Mikey rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses up higher with the lid of his drink. "That's different. I'm sustained by the awesomeness of creating art."

Pete chokes on his coffee and they both giggle helplessly for a minute, hunching forward over the table. "Dude. Wow. I can't wait to hear this album."

"Same number of nervous breakdowns, but this time they're Gerard and not me."

"It's sweet that you guys like to share that shit, dude."

"Right?" Mikey laughs softly and shakes his head, then ducks his chin so his glasses slide down his nose again and he can look directly at Pete. "So how are you hanging in?"

Pete's fingers tense against his cup, but he keeps his face still. "You know. Okay."

"Yeah." Mikey smiles, crooked and wry and the same expression that made Pete want to kiss him the first time, once upon a time. "I know."

"It still sucks."

"No shit." Mikey brushes his hair back off his forehead and then snaps his fingers and points across the table at Pete. "I'm gonna give you some words of wisdom now, okay? I'm gonna full-on Yoda your ass."

Pete sits up a little straighter, edging his chair back an inch before he catches himself. Mikey doesn't usually bring out the intense stares and big speeches. They don't have that kind of friendship. "Um. Okay?"

"Of course it sucks. But you're not broken, dude. You're sad, of course you're fucking sad, but you're not broken. And you've gotta get up now. Get moving." He takes a drink, breaking off eye contact. "And quit moping. Emo is dead."

"Fuck you," Pete says with all of the sincerity he can muster.

Mikey shrugs and smiles faintly. "I call 'em like I see 'em."

"Right." Pete gulps down the last of his coffee and pushes the empty cup away, which leaves his hands twitchy and empty. "I don't know. I fucked some stuff up. I mean, beyond the obvious. Other stuff."

"Then either fix it or let it go. It's time to shake it off and find the next thing, man."

"I've got shit going on."

"Yeah, well, get it moving faster." Mikey doesn’t show even a hint of sympathy. He sucks. Pete glares at him again. "You know I’m right."

"How do you do that?"

"I'm just that awesome." Mikey glances at his phone and gets to his feet, pushing his glasses up again. "I gotta get back to the studio. We're doing this thing today that's gonna change the world."

"For real, or just in your mind?"

Mikey arches an eyebrow at him. "How do you know I don't create the world with my mind?"

Pete has to laugh, a sharp gasp that surprises him with how much it doesn't hurt. "I've got no comeback for that."

Mikey steps around the table and gives him a hug. "You're going to be fine."

Pete nods, closing his eyes tightly until he has to let Mikey go. "Happy recording."

"Oh, you know it." Mikey saunters out the door and Pete takes a deep breath, staring down at his phone. Shake it off. Fix things. Okay. In theory, he knows how to do that in one part of his life, if not any of the others. Make a call. It's not like things can get any weirder between them than they are right now.

He closes his eyes and counts the rings until Gabe picks up with a cough.

"Saporta."

"Hey, man."

"Wentzy. What's up?"

He’s got to throw himself out there. Rip the band-aid off fast. "I want to see you."

He can picture Gabe's face in the pause that follows, the blink and furrowed brow. "Well...I'm on tour, so that's..."

"Yeah, I know. But like...when you can."

This pause is even longer, and Pete's stomach twists into a painful knot. Fuck Mikey Way, this was a mistake.

"We've got a tour break after the show in LA," Gabe says finally. "I could hang."

"You could stay with us."

He can picture the face that goes with that, silence, too. "You sure Ashlee will go for that?"

Pete closes his eyes tightly and hopes everything he means is coming across in his voice. "Yeah. I'm sure."

"She hates my ass, you know."

"She doesn’t. She..." He doesn’t know how to explain it, because Gabe ought to know. Loving people means protecting them. Loving people also means reaming them out sometimes. It all goes together. "She really doesn’t."

Gabe sighs. Pete knows that sigh well. Tour exhaustion and the strong suspicion that you ruin everything you touch. "I'm a fuck-up, Pete. That hasn't changed. In fact, I've been reliably informed by a few people that I've gotten worse, lately."

Pete has to smile. He can guess. "Travie, right?"

"And William. Snotty little fucker even over text."

"You love his sarcastic ass."

"Whatever."

"Hey, I love his sarcastic ass, too. It's why we keep him around." Gabe snorts but doesn't say anything. "I gave you a perfect set-up for some innuendo and you're not going to take it?"

"I've had to break the habit. He's not into that shit since he got married."

"Bullshit." Pete exhales slowly and drags his finger through some spilled coffee on the table. "So...you'll visit on the tour break? Stay with us and...stuff?"

"No stuff."

"Maybe stuff."

"No, Pete."

Pete frowns at the phone. "No guarantees on stuff, but no absolutely ruling it out."

"You are the most fucking annoying, stubborn person I have ever met."

"That means a lot coming from you, duder."

"I'm going to beat your ass until..." Gabe trails off and Pete bites back a smile. It isn't really funny, but he can't help it. The raw frustration in Gabe's voice just hits the sweet spot in Pete's head too perfectly.

"You still there, Gabanti?"

"I'll see you in a few weeks, you annoying fucking fucker." Gabe hangs up with excessive force and Pete laughs out loud, waving away the glances he gets from the next table. So he can still push Gabe's buttons, or Gabe will still allow his buttons to be pushed, or a combination of both. Whatever, the point is, he's still got a way in, and that means Mikey was right again and this isn't over yet.
**
It's not a great show. Not a bad show, but not great. It's too far into the tour; everyone is visibly tired, worn around the edges, running on spite and adrenaline more than anything else. Pete stands side-stage with his arms wrapped around himself and watches like a coach or a judge, not a fan. He dissects what they're doing and fills out a scorecard in his head that he will never show anyone because it would get him punched in the teeth.

Gabe comes offstage with his t-shirt pulled up to wipe his face, shaking his head at something Ryland's trying to say. "I'm done, dude, I'm wiped, I got no more. I need a fucking drink and I need a fucking..." He stumbles over a cord and falls forward, reaching out blindly to catch himself. "Fuck."

Pete dodges forward and braces himself, so he takes Gabe's impact on his shoulder but doesn't fall down. "Easy, there," he says, wincing as Gabe flails for balance and smacks him around the head. "Ow. Stop that. I keep you from falling on your face and this is how you thank me?"

"The fuck are you doing here, Wentz?" Gabe straightens up and steps back, wiping his face again.

"That's still not a thank-you." Pete looks past him at Alex and Ryland and sticks his hand out for fist-bumps. "You guys haven't taught him any manners after all this time?"

"That's not our job." Alex pulls him into a hug and ruffles his hair. "We farmed that out to some interns."

"You get interns? I think those are groupies, dude."

Alex nods thoughtfully. "That explains why they stole our underwear and ran away."

"Joke's on you," Ryland says, stretching his arms above his head. "That's why I never wear any."

Pete glances over at Gabe, who's still standing with the front of his t-shirt bunched in his hand, watching the three of them expressionlessly. "You ready to get going, man? I've got a car."

Gabe looks at him for a minute more, then shifts his gaze to Ryland. "Am I meeting fans tonight?"

Ryland matches him stare for stare. "Are you sober?"

"No."

"Are you sober enough not to be mean?"

"Yeah."

"Then you're meeting fans." Ryland puts on one of his slightly scary smiles, the one that shows too many teeth. "It's such a simple equation, really."

"Lick my simple ass, Blackinton." Gabe nods and starts toward the doorway, his hand brushing quickly, lightly over Pete's arm as he passes. "I'll catch you in an hour or so?"

"I'll be hanging out." Pete high-fives Nate and Victoria as they come out of the green room, then wanders back into the corridors, vaguely looking for Travie or Nat. Or anybody else he knows, a lot of people were making vague noises about coming out to the show tonight, might be cool to bump into somebody entirely random--

"Peter Peter."

He almost duplicates Gabe's stage exit by tripping over his own feet. "Beckett? Am I hallucinating or are you a couple thousand miles away from where you're supposed to be?"

William laughs. "I'm out here visiting Mike. Writing. Working on the next big thing. Well. Big-ish. There is purely theoretical bigness."

He pulls Pete into a hug, and Pete closes his eyes and leans into it. William always did give the best hugs. "You're out here writing and you can't even drop me a text? I'm hurt. I'm wounded."

"I told you I'd be at your birthday party."

"Not the same thing at all. We could've been hanging."

"I'm writing. I'm busy. I've got work to do."

Pete smiles against William's shoulder. He can still hear the pissy, arrogant sixteen-year-old he first met following Patrick around to local gigs, and he loves it, loves that some things really never do change. "Right. Work. We'll call it that."

"Mean." William bops him on the head and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How are you? How are things?"

Pete doesn't have to meet his eyes to know all the layers of what he's really asking. But William's way too polished-surface to ever flat-out ask or pry. "I'm doing okay. Family's good. Stuff is...in motion."

"I'm glad to hear it." William gives him a little smile and rocks back and forth on his heels. "And you're going to fix this weirdness with Gabe, right? Before he starts actively climbing the walls?"

Pete keeps a blank face through sheer force of will. "Don't know what you're talking about, man."

"Right." William rolls his eyes. "Well, whatever, it's none of my business."

"But you've got one more thing to say."

William flips him off calmly. "Of course I do."

"Lay it on me."

"Gabe is almost physically incapable of admitting when he needs something. He can't admit he needs people. He can't admit that he needs things. He can't admit that he needs reassurance or validation or support or...well, you name it, he will refuse to admit he needs it. And it's all complete bullshit, of course. He needs as much as anybody, and more than some." He shrugs and brushes his hair back off his face. "And I don't know quite what happened with the two of you, or what he's not getting that he needs and won't admit, but I have a hunch that you can fix it with your patented, unique brand of being a stubborn pain in the, as the French would say, derriere."

Pete blinks at him and then reaches out, pulling him into another hug. "You talk too much, Bilvy."

"It's my gift and my curse."

"I'll see you at my birthday. You'd better bring me an awesome present."

"How about a big-ish album? Or demos for it, anyway?"

"Fuck that, I want material goods."

"Mean." William laughs and turns away. "Go give Gabe whatever it is he needs. Start with a nap, maybe."

"Don't worry." Pete rubs at his own wrists, pressing right where it feels the best. "I'm the man with the plan."
**
Gabe drops his bag on the couch and takes Bronx from the nanny, swinging him up high and holding him there. "Hey, littlest dude. You miss me?"

Bronx kicks him in the head and Pete has to laugh, kissing Ashlee on the cheek as she comes into the room. "Kid has a violent streak, sorry."

"I wonder where he got that from." Gabe swings Bronx down again and tucks him under his arm like a football, ignoring his shriek of mixed confusion and joy. "Hey, Ash."

"Hey, Gabe." She goes over and hugs him hello, then carefully takes Bronx and settles him on her hip. "How was the show?"

"Eh. It happened." Gabe shoves his hands in his pockets and glances around the room, eyes wandering over things he's seen a dozen times before. His body's angled away from both of them and he doesn't look at their faces; reading body language isn't a particular talent of Pete's, but this is kind of a slam-dunk.

Throwing the guy a rope is probably the right thing to do. "You thirsty, duder? Or hungry? We've got, you know...a kitchen. With stuff in it."

"What's the beverage selection?" Bronx waves his hands at Gabe from the safety of Ashlee's arms, and Gabe goes over to let the kid chew on his fingers. Pete winks at Ash; he'd told her that Gabe is powerless in the face of babies. Their secret weapon is eighteen months old and thinks nothing is more hilarious than hiding Pete's phone between the couch cushions.

"Water. Juice. Um...some kinda herbal energy thing Jessica keeps leaving here. What is that, anyway, baby?"

Ashlee rolls her eyes and hands Bronx to Gabe again. "I don't know, they want her to endorse it. It tastes like feet, though, so you don't really want it, Gabe."

"Water's fine." Gabe makes a face at Bronx, scrunching his nose and crossing his eyes. "With ice if you've got it. Pete, how is this kid so adorable? Did you find him in a ditch somewhere? Cause he is not rocking your DNA, I'll tell you that right now."

"Wait until you hear him start yelling," Ashlee says as she heads for the kitchen. "That tends to get rid of any questions that he's all Wentz."

"You're both jerks." Pete flops down on the couch and pats the cushion next to him. "Sit, Gabanti. You've been on your feet all night."

"I'm not an old man." Gabe sits anyway, bouncing Bronx on his knee. "So, is she going to poison my drink?"

"Dude, you've gotta let that go."

"No, I don't." Gabe looks at him, not a trace of joking in his face. It's kind of startling, actually, Gabe with no masks in place at all. Pete's seen him like this more than a few times over the years they've been friends, but it always means something, that shit is getting real.

"I fucked up," Gabe says, then glances at Bronx and frowns. "Sorry."

"It's okay. He's heard worse. And you didn't, man, not really."

"Yes, I did. I f...messed up. I did something dumb, and I could've really hurt you. I betrayed your trust in me, and I can't just let that go. I shouldn't. And neither should she, and neither should you."

"You didn't betray my trust. Don't be stupid."

"Don't argue with me."

"Well, if you're going to tell me what to do, then we must be back to okay." Pete punches the air as Ashlee comes back with Gabe's water. "Checkmate, game, set, and match to me."

"That doesn't even make..." Gabe groans in frustration and thumps his head back against the couch. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." Ashlee sits down on the floor by Pete's feet, resting her head against his knees. "You can't even convincingly pretend you do."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I heard enough of it." She looks at him, her hair falling down over her eyes. Pete reaches down and brushes it back, winding it carefully between his fingers. "Yeah, you messed up. But that doesn't mean you have to be shunned until the end of time. It means you need to step up and do better."

Gabe rubs his forehead and then catches Bronx around the belly, keeping him from tumbling forward. It's a long moment before he speaks, and when he does his voice is almost too low to hear. "I don't want to mess up again. I don't ever want to hurt you, Pete. You're one of my best friends, and if I hurt you, I don't...and I'm always going to mess up, man, that's what I do."

Ashlee shakes her head and Pete lets go of her hair, letting it fall down around her face. "People can change. I'm sure you have amazing capacity for growth."

"I'm fuckin' flattered." Gabe frowns again and covers Bronx's ears with his hands. "Damn it, why do I keep doing that?"

"Because you're not used to having kids around." Pete smiles and reaches out to rub his knee. "Dude, listen to her. She's always right. Trust me on that one. I've learned it the hard way."

"Your confidence is shot," Ashlee says, resting her chin on the edge of the couch. "But there's an easy fix for that."

"Oh? Do tell."

She shrugs, slow and easy and just a little bit taunting. Pete can't take his eyes off of her when she's being like this. "You'll just have to work under my supervision for a little while."

Gabe blinks, his hands still over Bronx's ears. "Does that mean what I think it does? Because...there's a child present, you know. Dirty lady."

Ashlee laughs and crawls away from them both, reaching to grab the remote from the coffee table. "Guess you'll just have to wait until he goes to bed to find out."
**
Pete kneels by the couch, resting his forehead against the cushion and breathing slowly through his nose. In and out, in and out, holding the air tight in his lungs for a count of three in between. It keeps the anticipation to just an occasional shiver instead of him squirming all over the place like a freak.

He's stripped down to his boxer-briefs, his hands tied loosely behind his back with one of Ashlee's scarves. They have cuffs of all makes and descriptions in this house, and they end up using a fucking scarf. There's probably a metaphor or something there, but he really can't be bothered right now.

He can hear Gabe and Ashlee in the kitchen, talking softly and moving around. He hears the clink of plates and silverware, the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, the slide of something on the stove. He's curious about what they're doing--making dinner, he assumes, but he wants to know what, and what they're talking about, and if they're talking about him and if so is it in good or bad ways--but he was told to sit and wait. It feels good to do what he's told, and he knows he'll be rewarded if he does it right.

If he's good, they'll tell him he's good, and that's all he really wants in the whole world.

Their voices are low and indistinct and he lets them fill up his head until he's drifting slowly, not thinking or reacting or doing anything, just waiting. It loosens a knot in his chest and sets him free from himself. Even if it's just for a few minutes, it feels so damn good.

Fingers brush over his hair and he moves, seeking out more touch, leaning his body against the person standing beside him, eyes still closed.

"Good," Gabe's voice comes softly. "Good boy."

Fingers brush over Pete's lips, and he licks at them on pure instinct. Gabe laughs softly and wipes them on Pete's chin. His other hand is still resting on Pete's head, solid and comforting. "Open your eyes, Pete."

He does, and sees that there's a plate with three grilled-cheese sandwiches cut into triangles sitting on the coffee table, and Ashlee is moving around the room switching the lights down to dim.

"Not exactly fancy shit, but Ash said this is what you sad suburban Americans consider comfort food." Gabe sits down on the couch, gently guiding Pete's head to rest against his thigh. He keeps touching, petting, and Pete breathes him in, pretty sure he never wants to move again. "That's a real shame, but we'll work with it."

"Are you really complaining?" Ashlee comes over and sits on the other end of the couch, her knees brushing against Pete's back. Both of them are touching him, and it's kind of perfect. He definitely never wants to move again. There must be some way to make that happen.

Gabe picks up a piece of sandwich and holds it in front of Pete. "Slowly," he says, his voice stern. "Chew and swallow. We've got time."

Pete follows instructions, chewing and swallowing carefully, his tongue brushing against Gabe's fingers when he takes the last few bites. Gabe doesn't react, and so Pete doesn't tease or try to push the issue, just eats and then waits, licking the last traces of butter from his lips.

Gabe holds out the plate to Ashlee and then takes a piece for himself, and they eat in silence. It isn't strained or awkward, just quiet. Pete closes his eyes to drift again. Ashlee's free hand slides up and down his back, slow and careful petting, and Gabe brushes his hair off his forehead occasionally. It's completely and perfectly safe. He can't think of any other word for it than that.

After a few minutes Gabe taps his chin and he opens his eyes, sitting up a little straighter to take another piece of sandwich. They repeat the slow, lazy cycle until the food is gone, when Gabe stands up and takes the plate back to the kitchen.

Ashlee's hand curves gently against the back of Pete's neck and he moves toward her, shuffling on his knees until they're facing each other. She smiles down at him, warm and loving. "This is good, baby?"

He nods, turning his head to kiss her arm. She legs her hand slide forward, over his shoulder and down his chest, her nails grazing his skin in a teasing promise. "You want more, though, don't you?"

He licks his lips and forces himself to keep his eyes down. "If you want to give it to me."

She laughs. "I don't think that's in question for either of us." Pete hears Gabe come back into the room and feels Ashlee shift on the couch, turning her body toward him. "What do you think, Gabe?"

Gabe's quiet for long enough that Pete looks up, worry cutting through the warm fog of safety in his head. But Gabe's smiling, looking down at him like he's something good.

And then Gabe unbuckles his belt, and Pete loses every thought he ever had.

"Hold his head, Ashlee," Gabe says, doubling the belt over and catching the leg of the table with his foot, dragging it out of the way so the space around Pete is good and clear. "Keep him still for me."

She slides down and shifts until Pete's face is buried against her stomach, one of her hands at the base of his neck and the other curved around his skull. Her nails scrape against him again, more firmly this time, a warning. "Be still," she says, and he shudders all over, just barely having time to take another breath before the belt cracks across his ass the first time.

Gabe only gives him ten, enough to warm him up and make him squirm and beg, his brain all lit up with pain but nowhere close to all he can take or even all that he wants. Ashlee drags her nails down his back, scratching in earnest this time, and he gasps against her, pressing closer and then jerking back as Gabe pulls the boxer-briefs down his thighs.

Gabe slaps his ass with his hand, light and almost playful, then unties the scarf. "Down on your back." Pete pulls back from Ashlee slowly, reluctantly. She taps him on the cheek, too gently to be a slap but a still a reminder that he's supposed to obey.

"How am I doing so far, ma'am?" Gabe asks as Pete situates himself on the floor. Pete misses the look Ashlee gives him in return, distracted by the pain of settling his weight down on sore skin, but it makes Gabe laugh and that makes Pete's adrenaline spike all over again, because there's a dark note in the sound that promises good things for him. Good, hurty things.

Gabe kneels down, and straddles Pete's chest, looking down at him. Ashlee gets up and moves out of Pete's field of vision; distantly, he hears a drawer opening, but his attention is held by Gabe's eyes, Gabe's face, Gabe's weight against his chest.

Gabe rubs his thumb roughly over Pete's lower lip. "You a good boy?" Pete nods and Gabe slaps him lightly. "Answer me."

"I want to be good."

Gabe nods and shifts back, undoing his jeans and guiding his cock out of his boxers. Pete licks his lips and shudders again, his hips jerking up. Gabe jacks himself lazily, working his cock hard. "Want that mouth of yours. You going to make it good for me, Pete?"

"Yes," Pete breathes, jerking in surprise again as Ashlee moves up behind Gabe and kneels between Pete's legs. She rubs her hands up and down his thighs, slow and promising and distracting.

Gabe leans in and rubs the head of his cock across Pete's lips. "Open," he says, and Pete obeys, closing his eyes and taking Gabe in.

Gabe goes slow, thrusting shallowly and carefully, and it doesn't take too long for Pete to relax into it and find a rhythm. Once he does, he isn't sure how long it is before Ashlee's hands are guiding his knees apart, exposing him, but it's all right. He's safe with them, both of them ready to catch him if he so much as wavers, never mind if he falls.

He hears the pop of the cap on the bottle of lube and moans around Gabe, closing his eyes tighter as Ashlee's fingers slide cool and wet against his opening. She rubs in slow, lazy circles until he calms again. Gabe waits for him, too, his thighs shaking a little with the effort of keeping still but his hips not moving until Pete's ready to take him again.

He almost loses it again when Ashlee pushes her finger into him, but apparently it's in a good way, because Gabe curses under his breath and thrusts a little deeper, enough that Pete chokes around him. "So good, Pete, so fucking...beautiful, mijo, gorgeous, just take it a little more..."

And Pete does, because he would do anything for them. Not just right now, always, but right now it's so clear it makes his chest hurt. This is what he does, what matters to him, the people he loves and who love him back, the whole web of them weaving out away from him and back again, with Ashlee and Gabe right here at the heart.

Gabe comes deep in his throat and Pete chokes again swallowing him down. Ashlee has two fingers in him by then, sliding slow and steady and getting deeper with each thrust, and it's sending him out of his head. He starts begging as soon as Gabe pulls back, his voice hoarse and choked and broken, asking her for more. He needs, fuck, he needs, and she gives it to him, slow and patient and good, working him faster and deeper and bending her head to take him in her mouth as well.

Gabe moves around and holds Pete's head in his lap, steadying him while Ashlee fucks him and sucks him off, her mouth hot and tight and her fingers unrelenting until he arches up off the floor. She crawls forward while he's still shuddering through it, and then she's straddling him like Gabe did before, her hands braced on Gabe's shoulders and Gabe's hands guiding Pete's face to her and it's too much, it's everything.
**
(Epilogue)
The Black Cards tour is, without question, a vanity project. Pete doesn't care. Yeah, he's getting something from this in the form of ego-stroking, but he's going to make damn sure that every single fan who comes has a good time and gets something out of it in return. An exchange of goods and services. It's the American way.

He knows Gabe's coming to the last show, not because they talked about it but because same language, still, and showing up at the last show is the kind of thing he would do. When he hears the whole crowd start screaming while they're still shut away in the back room, he grins and slides out of his chair, dodging around Bebe and Nate and Spencer to be waiting at the door.

"Ten bucks says..." The door swings open and he laughs with delight as Gabe darts inside. "Saporta's in the house."

"The one and only." Gabe wraps Pete in a hug, holding him close. His hand curves around the back of Pete's neck and Pete bites back a groan, reminding himself sternly to keep it cool for the others.

"How's it going, Pedro?" Gabe lets him go and rumples his hair. "You ready to rock some faces?"

"You fucker, I just had that the way I wanted it." Pete falls back and lets Gabe greet the others, kissing Bebe's cheek and doing some kind of complicated handshake routine with Spencer. Pete tries not to stare, but they're not in the same place so often these days that he ever gets tired of looking at Gabe. He doesn't want to miss anything, not a smile or a stupid joke or, if he's lucky, an instruction.

Gabe smirks at him and walks over, trailing his fingers over Pete's back. "I told the kids to run along and let the old guys have some time to talk." He boosts himself up on the edge of the table, kicking his feet. "How's that pretty wife of yours?"

Pete shoots him a sideways glance while he fights with his hair again. "Like you haven't been on the phone with her all night."

Gabe laughs again. "No, actually. Well, there was a text or two." He taps a few buttons on his phone and tosses it at Pete, shaking his head. "She's something else, but I guess I don't have to tell you that."

Pete glances at the screen. i trust you have fun w him now leave me alone why are you so needy???

It's pretty much one of the most romantic things he's ever seen. He has to play it off or he might fucking swoon to the floor or something. "Are you two conspiring against me?"

"You wish." Gabe slides off the table and moves in close again. Pete braces himself, but Gabe doesn't touch, just breathes warm against his neck. "We hanging after your show?"

Pete forces himself to breathe out normally, to shrug and smile. "I got nothing going on."

Gabe smiles wider, bright with promise. "Yeah, you do."

Pete feels the buzz building under his skin, adrenaline and excitement. Fuck, he feels like he could fly. Forget a car wreck, tonight is going to be fireworks.