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Title: Shakes To The Beat (With a Barrel Down Their Throat)
Author:

inlovewithnight
Pairing(s): Pete/Gabe, Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Gabe/Ashlee
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM (face-slapping, spanking with a belt, submission, scratching)
Word count: 17,000
Summary: Pete's life has turned upside-down. Obviously the thing to do is get kinky with Gabe. Obviously.

"The thing is," Pete mumbles against Gabe's shoulder. "The thing is, you and me, we're a car wreck."

Gabe's fingers card through Pete's hair roughly, tugging more than petting. Pete closes his eyes and leans against the pull, letting the pain slide through him.

"What is it with you and car wreck metaphors?" Gabe asks.

"Motion and energy and going so fast you're flying, coming to a sudden stop with a bang and shrapnel and possibly fire. Total destruction in kinetic energy and what's left is all twisted but kind of looks like art."

Gabe's hand stills and Pete turns his head enough to peer up at him sideways. Gabe's eyes are closed, but his forehead is furrowed thoughtfully.

"You had that answer ready right off the top of your head," Gabe says finally. "You've given this some thought."

"Yeah. It's pretty much a metaphor for my life, dude."

Gabe shakes his head and settles back more against the couch. The bus is moving down the highway nice and fast; Pete can feel it humming under his skin, that flying feeling. His lips taste like the vodka and cherry Coke that he and Gabe were mixing earlier, and his head feels full, swollen, vibrating with too much energy and too many thoughts. He's never going to sleep. Never again.

"But we are," he says, talking right into the collar of Gabe's shirt, his nose pressed tight against Gabe's neck. "You and me, Gabanti, we're nothing but a car wreck. Don't you think? Like...bang, bang, blood on the fuckin' highway. Right?"

But Gabe fell asleep sometime in the gap between words falling out of Pete's mouth. Pete pokes him in the ribs a few times, but gets no reaction. Passed out, then, maybe. Fuck. Now he's alone with the buzz in his head.
**
They've been a car wreck since the day they met, since they were standing in line for the bathroom in some piece of shit club and Pete said "Dude, you're Gabe Saporta" and waved him ahead, gushing all over himself and looking like an idiot. Gabe smirked at him and left piss all over the seat before he went back to the bar and made sure to talk nice and loud right where Pete could overhear about having the superpower to make midget fanboys come in their pants.

Pete made a mental note that Midtown Gabe Saporta was an asshole--a musical genius, but an asshole--and that he hated that guy, and then drank until he passed out, because he could and because he'd embarrassed himself and being drunk was better than being humiliated.

He found some way to humiliate Gabe back, a few months down the line--fuck if he remembers now, but it was pretty good, and Gabe's assured him more than once that it made him hate Pete right back with full enthusiasm--and then time passed and other shit happened and Gabe whipped his dick out in the middle of a dance floor, just to make a point, and one way or another Pete didn't hate him at all anymore. And then Gabe's band fell apart and his heart broke and one person after another nudged him to go talk to Pete, who he didn't hate anymore either but he definitely didn't like.

And then he did talk to Pete.

And then there was Cobra.

And now they're...

Well, now they're sharing a bed on Pete and Joe's bus more nights than not, because Gabe can't sleep on his bus and Pete can't sleep at all, not now, not anymore. They're touring under the incredibly fucking cocky statement that believers never die even though Pete thinks he can feel himself dying inside every day and night, his heart getting cut to pieces by significant glances and carefully cleared throats that cue back to the conversation he refuses to finish having, no matter how many times the guys ask him to sit down and talk about it some more.

Gabe doesn't say it, but he acts like he thinks maybe he's dying, too, and he'd rather burn out than fade away, because if there's anything Gabe loves, it's a well-applied cliché. Pete knows the signs. He shares that particular affectation. Affliction. Whichever.

Anyway. Since day one. Booze and arrogance, shame and one-upmanship , challenge and defeat, exhibitionism and fear, fear, fear of failure. They're a fucking car wreck.

And Pete's wife wants him to get on his knees for this guy.
**
"Did you talk to him yet?" Ashlee's voice is soft, her fingers wandering through Pete's hair. He thinks she forgets, sometimes, or she never really believed in the first place, that sometimes people being gentle with him hurts more than the impact of a fist. The pain of anticipating it all going away.

"No."

"Why not?"

He presses his face against her thigh, wishing he could say not right now, Ash or fuck, you just got here, can we save this for later or anything to throw a killswitch on this conversation. He wishes Bronx would wake up and call out. He wishes a sinkhole would suddenly open up under the bus, right here in the parking lot. He wishes the alien invasion would kick in rightthefuck now.

But no external events are going to save him, and if he tries to dodge the conversation, she'll just fill in her own answers and bring it up again later. She knows him, so well it scares the shit out of him half the time. The other half, he's just thanking God for her, because she fills in all the gaps that he forgets.

"It isn't right," he says, turning his head so he can look up at her. She's so fucking beautiful he can't even take it sometimes, like his heart's about to burst and run liquid down out of his eyeballs. "Not right now."

"How is now different from any other time?"

It's her eyes, he thinks, her eyes that do it, that see into him and through him and can count all of the cracks on his heart but still somehow look like she really believes he can be okay, that they can be okay together. If they keep at it. He loves Ashlee's eyes.

"Pete?" Her fingers tighten a little in his hair, tugging, reminding him she's waiting for an answer. It makes him think of lying on the couch with Gabe, and he shivers. "Why is now not a good time?"

"He's messy right now. I'm messy."

"Baby..." She sighs softly and smoothes his hair again. He kind of wishes she would slap him. "Pete, baby, you and Gabe are both always messy. All the time. It's kind of just the way you are."

"Right, but...this seems like the kind of thing that should be done clean."

"Is it clean the way you and I do it?"

He looks up and meets her eyes again, trusting himself to fall into them, to be honest with her and still land safely. "It's closer. You make up for a lot of me."

"That's not how it works." Her fingers tighten again and she pulls hard, lifting his head up off her leg and closer to her own. "Do not use it like that, Pete. We've talked about this."

They have, so many times. They negotiate like...well, like professional multi-media entertainers who sign contracts four days out of five when they're doing it right. We can only do this if it's a game. If it's a metaphor. If you really think I'm punishing you and you really think you deserve it, then I can't do this. I can't. It hurts me to hurt you if you think it's because I'm mad, Pete.

He knows. He understands. He does, he does. But sometimes...fuck, sometimes he just needs...

Which is exactly why they're having this conversation, for the five hundred and twelfth time. Because sometimes he just needs, and she can't, because she loves him too much to let him project his demons on her.

"I know," he says, leaning in to press a line of kisses on her chest, below her collarbone and above her breasts. "I know, kitkat. I just said it wrong."

She exhales and loosens her grip on his hair, and he kisses again, tracing his tongue over the delicate skin. "I love you, Pete. I want you to have what you need."

"You give me everything I need."

"Not everything. Ninety-five percent."

"That's an A+ average."

"I want you to have the other five, too." She slides her hand down to cup his chin, tilting his head up until he meets her eyes again. "Talk to him, or I will."

He nods and licks his lips, his chest tight with worry and his head light with relief. There's a hint of steel in her voice that makes it an order, an instruction, and he knows what to do with those. Obey and be rewarded, or disobey and be punished. She’s drawing him some lines.

"I'll talk to him," he says. "I promise."

He moves up to kiss her, and she lets him, her hand slipping free from his hair to cradle his face like an angel, and he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.
**
When he finally gets it up to talk to Gabe, they're both drunk, of course. Gabe's spent most of the tour drunk, and Pete's his wingman, his babysitter, the one who licks the taste from his mouth.

They're sitting in a booth at a club, tucked in and contorted around together so that Gabe's knees are in Pete's lap and his arm is around Pete's neck, guiding a bottle of vodka back and forth between their mouths.

"Pedro, my friend," Gabe says, pressing a kiss to Pete's cheek.

"That's me." Pete pets him on the knee. Things don't suck right now. He's in love with the feeling. He's in love with vodka, and this club, and maybe with Gabe, just a little bit. "What's up, Gabanti?"

"Why does your wife keep texting me asking if we've talked?" Gabe takes another drink and squints at him, his eyes dark and hazy behind half-closed lids. "We talk every day. She expecting us to fight or something?"

"Nah, man." Pete leans toward the bottle, opening and closing his mouth like a baby bird or a kitten. Gabe holds it back, teasing him, smirking in a way that tightens Pete's muscles and makes him want to squirm in his seat. "She knows we're cool. Brothers."

"I'm way too good-looking to be your brother, Wentz." Gabe tilts his head back and drains the rest of the bottle. Pete wants to protest or pinch him or something, but he gets distracted, mesmerized a little by watching Gabe's throat move as he swallows. Fuck.

He looks over at the mirrored wall reflecting the dance floor. The lights are flashing and spinning and so many colors, rotating too fast to keep track. He wonders if that's what the inside of his head would look like if somebody split it open with an axe. Blood and words would run out like ink and all the lights would fly up into the sky, until the shadows were left all alone.

"Dude, seriously." Gabe knees him in the stomach. "What's up with Ashlee texting me? What does she think we need to talk about?"

Pete looks at him again, forcing himself to blink and focus his eyes. Gabe's hair is clinging to his forehead in sweaty little curls, his lips are wet and dark, and he's looking at Pete, looking at him like he can see right through him. "I'm supposed to ask you something."

"Yeah? What's that?" Gabe spins the bottle neck between his fingers. "What it's like to have a big dick?"

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams." Gabe leans in and kisses his forehead, wet and sloppy and with tongue for absolutely no reason. Pete squirms away from him and waves at the waitress, hoping she'll read his mind and the bottle in Gabe's hand and bring them another one.

"C'mon, Pete. What's the question?" There's a curious edge to Gabe's voice now, just a little bit of a whine, and Pete knows that means Gabe's not going to give up until he gets an answer. He'll nag and wheedle and be a pain in the ass until Pete gives in, because that's the Gabe Saporta way. And Pete will give in, because he doesn't want to tell Gabe no.

"Tell me." Gabe taps the bottle against Pete's chest. "Tell me tell me tell me."

Pete exhales roughly and looks at Gabe's chin. He means to look at him like a normal person, but at the last instant it turns out he can't meet Gabe's gaze. "You ever, you know..."

Gabe waits, still rubbing the bottle against Pete's chest. Pete watches his fingers wrapped around the glass. They're kind of distracting.

"You ever," he tries again, "you ever tried, like...kinky shit?"

Gabe actually drops the bottle. It bounces off Pete's leg on its way to the floor, then rolls off under the table and away. "Whoa."

"I guess it's kind of a weird question."

"Why would Ashlee want to know that?"

Pete knows he needs to choose his words carefully, but his mouth feels clumsy and full all of a sudden. He's not sure if it's the vodka or the blind panic that the vodka is half-suppressing. "It's not so much she wants to know it as she wants me to ask you." Gabe just keeps staring, so Pete tries again, this time with emphasis. "She wants me to ask you."

Gabe blinks and then looks away, turning his head like he's looking for the waitress. Pete's pretty sure that what he's actually looking for is the exit. "Why?"

Pete shrugs, wishing he could get out from under Gabe's weight and make a break for it himself. If he starts struggling, though, he's going to panic and then Gabe's going to panic and they're probably going to end up giving each other black eyes and somehow it'll end up on the no-news level of the Internet in two hours tops.

Sometimes when he feels like this, the thing that works the best is doing the exact opposite of what he wants to. He wants to run away, so instead he leans in, pressing his face against Gabe's arm and breathing in the smell of sweat and detergent and shitty cologne.

"You know me," he mutters. That's the whole point of their friendship, how they get each other, how they know stuff without having to say it. They write lyrics, they write songs, but they can't say things. Pete doesn't have his own voice and Gabe sold his for bright lights and extra synthesizer.

Gabe doesn't move. Pete closes his eyes and presses against him harder, grinding his nose against the bone in Gabe's arm. It doesn't hurt quite enough to make him focus, but almost.

Gabe's hand settles on the back of his neck, fingers splayed and thumb pressing against the vertebra that joins to his spine. Pete relaxes into the pressure on instinct, just a little but enough that it makes Gabe react, a soft huff of breath against Pete's hair and his thumb sliding in a fast arc over his skin.

"Yeah," Gabe mutters. "I know you, Pete."

Pete bites his lip, trying to find the extra edge of pain that will let him find his self-control again. It all falls apart in a rush of shock and adrenaline as Gabe's other hand slides down between his legs, pressing against the seam of his jeans, fingers finding the curve of his balls through the tight fabric and rubbing against him. "Fuck," he gasps, grabbing at Gabe to steady himself, his head bowing further forward under the pressure on the back of his neck. "Fuck, Gabe, I--"

Gabe's hand slides against him again, fingers pressing and then squeezing. Pete cries out softly, shock and desire mixed up with the rush of pain.

Gabe jerks back and Pete nearly falls, catching himself on the edge of the table. "Shit," Gabe mutters, and Pete closes his eyes tighter, humiliation hitting him with a hot rush. He knew better than this. He knew it was a bad idea.

Gabe's hand cups his chin. Pete tries to pull away, biting down on his lip again to keep from making a sound.

"I'm sorry," Gabe says. Pete shakes his head, and Gabe's fingers tighten a little, tilting Pete's head up. "Look at me." There's an edge of command in his voice, and Pete's just worked up enough that he gives in without thinking. It's exactly the thing that always gets him in trouble, the fucking lack of self-control. It’s his curse.

"This is a bad idea," Gabe says. "Tell Ashlee that you asked, that you did what you were supposed to. But tell her it's a bad idea and she better not have you ask again." He releases Pete's chin and sits back, looking away from him. "We should get back to the buses."

Pete wraps his arms around himself, trying to hold on to the heat that he swears he felt in the club a few minutes ago. He doesn't trust himself to say anything, so he just nods and slides out of the booth.

He texts Ashlee from the car, then turns his phone off before he gets an answer. She'll be upset about that, and he'll be in trouble the next time he talks to her. That's almost a comfort, knowing what he'll be in trouble for and when. He's still doing this wrong, still breaking the rules, but it's the only way he knows how to be.

He and Gabe don't speak at all on the ride back to the buses. The silence crawls around under Pete's skin like ants. By the time he climbs out of the car with a muttered thank-you to the driver, his hands are shaking, and he curls them into fists pulled up inside his sleeves to keep anyone from being able to see.

Gabe follows him to the bus. Pete swallows as he punches in the code to unlock the door, forcing himself to take a deep breath and ask a question like a normal person. "What are you doing?"

"Going to bed."

"Not your bus."

Gabe's fingers ghost over the back of his neck again. Pete hunches his shoulders, torn between wanting to melt into the touch and wanting to scream at Gabe that he doesn't get to tease him like that after rejecting him. It isn't fair. It's fucking mean.

"It's not you, it's me," Gabe says, so quietly that Pete has to look over his shoulder at him to be sure he heard it right.

Gabe’s looking at him steady and serious. "You're my brother. Shit, man, you're my best friend. If I hurt you? If I fucked you over? I would never forgive myself. And I'm too much of a fuck-up to promise that I won't. So...so it's a bad idea. For me to give you that. For me to..."

Pete licks his lips. "Top me." It's such a stupid thing to say out loud, it just sounds dumb, but God, he didn't realize how much he wants it until it's out of his mouth.

Gabe nods a little, his fingers wandering up Pete's neck and back down again, hairline to shirt collar and back. "I don't trust myself."

"I trust you."

"Yeah, well, that's the thing about you, Pete. You believe in people." Gabe leans in and presses a soft, dry kiss to Pete's forehead. "I don't believe in anything."

Pete takes a shaky breath and they stand there for a minute, Gabe's hand warm and steady on Pete's neck. The lights on access panel to the bus blink and blink, waiting for the last number of the code.

"So can I stay the night after all?" Gabe asks. "Even though I'm a jerk?"

"You're not a jerk."

"Of course I am, Wentz." Gabe smiles at him, but it's his Cobra smile, his stage smile, the sharp one with the blank eyes. "It's my gimmick."

Pete shakes his head and hits the last number, forcing himself to take a breath as the door beeps softly and swings open. "Let's just pretend tonight never happened, huh?"

"Deal," Gabe says, and follows him onto the bus.

They don't talk about it again the rest of the tour, but sometimes Gabe rests his hand on Pete's neck, and Pete never pulls away, just closes his eyes and imagines heat radiating out from Gabe's fingers and winding all around him, wrapping him up.
**
The Latin VMAs are a huge success, and Pete spends the entire time pretty sure that he's going to die.

He's on the verge of a panic attack from the moment he wakes up that morning. He twists the sheets around his wrists and buries his face in the pillow, hoping the lack of oxygen will kill him or at least put him in some kind of coma before he has to face the rest of his day.

Ashlee's hand slides up and down his back, slow and warm and soothing. It makes him want to cry.

"First dose now?" she asks softly, and he nods, turning his head to the side to take a desperate, hiccupping breath before he sits up. She gets the pill bottle from her bag and shakes a few into her hand, passing them over and nodding toward the water bottle on the nightstand, watching him carefully as he pops them in his mouth and then washes them down. They planned out all the pills he's going to take today before they even left Los Angeles. They've got this shit down to a science.

"It's going to be fine," she says, and he nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. She glances over at the other bed, where Bronx is still asleep in a nest of pillows and blankets. Pete follows her gaze and stares at their son, the most important thing in the world, the one thing he cannot fuck up, must not fuck up, even though the evidence is stacked strongly in favor of the idea that he is inherently going to fuck up anything and everything he touches in the entire world, no matter--

"Pete." Ashlee's hands close around his wrists, fingers pressing hard and then, when he doesn't answer, turning so her nails dig in hard. He gasps at the pain and looks at her. Her sharp gaze, the set of her jaw, it centers him, gives him a lifeline he can follow back into his head.

She looks back over at Bronx again, then pulls away from Pete, swinging her legs across the bed and sitting on the opposite edge of the mattress, her back to Bronx and her feet dangling a few inches above the carpet.

She snaps her fingers and points to the floor. "Come here, Pete."

He scrambles to obey, half-falling off the bed and crawling around the end of it to kneel in front of her, bowing his head so the crown is pressed to the edge of the mattress in the space between her thighs. She runs her hand over his hair and lets her nails trail down the back of his neck, not scratching but promising.

"I love you, baby." Her voice is soft, without any reprimand at all, and it makes him want to shake. He wants to be good for her, he wants to make her so happy, half as fucking happy as she makes him. "I love you so much. You're so good." Her hand moves away and he takes a rough breath, feeling the mattress move as she shifts her hips back and forth, then smooth fabric sliding against his cheek as she works her panties off. "Be good for me."

Her hand curves around the back of his head, guiding him in, and he goes, closing his eyes and wetting his lips. He slides his hands under her thighs, settling her legs over his shoulders, her heels sliding against his back as he parts her labia and tastes her, taking her on his tongue.

He loves eating her out, licking slow at first, all around the surface of her, and then going in deep, thrusting his tongue inside and then pulling back to suck at her clit, letting his teeth graze against sensitive skin until she tugs at his hair, deliberately teasing until she curls her legs around him and yanks him forward, muttering raw, broken orders under her breath, telling him exactly what she wants him to do. It's so fucking dirty and unbelievably pure at once, her holding him against her, grinding her cunt into his mouth, fucking herself on him. He loses himself in her, surrenders, forgets everything but the hot salty taste and smell and slickness.

She digs her nails into the back of his head when she comes, and he groans into her, licking deeper and swallowing, wanting to taste everything he can. She pushes him back hard, and he goes, bending back until he can't go any more and then lying down, fumbling to get his boxers down to his thighs as she slides off the edge of the bed and moves to straddle him.

She rakes her nails down his chest, leaving sharp angry lines, and he gasps, not quite crying out. She slides one hand down and wraps it tight around the base of his cock, squeezing until he twists underneath her, until he whimpers, and then she puts her other hand flat over his mouth, holding him quiet as she lifts herself up a little, guides him against her, and takes him in.

She rides him until he thinks he's going to die, making it the second time that morning and he's hasn't even been awake for an hour. She keeps her hand pressed down hard enough that he'll be able to feel the imprint of his teeth on his lips for the rest of the morning, and she scratches him again when she lets him come, giving him another set of painful lines he can use to concentrate on for the rest of the day. It helps, like they both knew it would, and it's just one more reason out of a million that he loves her.
**
It doesn't help a lot, though, because this is it, this is the last one, the final performance of his life as he knows it. He's been fighting it as hard as he can, denying it with everything he's got, but here it is and there is exactly fuck-all he can do about it.

He stands in the dressing room and lets the make-up artist glue the feathers around his eye, slowly and meticulously, one by one. He'd meant to do a sketch of what he wanted, but he never got around to it ahead of time and his hands are too shaky to do it now. It's not that complicated to explain, anyway, and when she's finished he looks in the mirror and can honestly tell her it's perfect.

He's on his third dose, uncoiling slow and thick in his blood, enough to file the edges off even though he still wants very, very badly to start screaming and never stop. He breathes through his nose, staring into the mirror and practicing his smile. It's going to be great. Going to be magic. Going to be the end of everything and the stage will open up and drop him into hell.

"Peter Peter, mi hermano, mi amor."

Pete watches Gabe's reflection come up in the mirror, sees Gabe's arms wrap around him more than he really feels it. "You going to be speaking Spanish all fucking night, man?"

"Of course. We're in the land of my people. I've got the upper hand for once."

"You've always got the upper hand. You've always got the upper everything. I fucking hate you tall people."

Gabe kisses his temple, watching him in the mirror. "I've already told them to bring you a box to stand on. No need to get bitchy."

Pete rolls his eyes and goes to pull away, but Gabe's arms tighten around him. He could fight, but if he starts fighting now the adrenaline will spike and he'll probably panic, have a meltdown, and never make it on stage. Which has a certain appeal, but it would also be humiliating and he's pretty sure the guys won't hesitate to kill him, at this point. Skin him and make it into badges of victory. Surrender is definitely the better part of valor.

"You doing okay, brother?" Gabe asks softly. They're both still at the mirror, eyes meeting in reflection. The level of detachment makes Pete feel better, like maybe none of this is really real. Maybe it's all through a glass, all done with mirrors.

"I think I'm going to throw up," he says.

"You need a trash can?"

"Don't move, okay? Just...just don't move."

Gabe pulls him closer still, which is moving, but it's okay. It's grounding. He almost feels safe. Or he can almost pretend he feels safe, anyway.

"You can do this," Gabe says softly, breath ghosting warm against Pete's ear. "You can."

"And then I'm gonna fucking fall apart." Forcing himself to breathe hurts. "I'm...I think I'm going to explode, my head's going to blow off, my heart's going to blow up like a pipe bomb, man."

Gabe moves both of their bodies sideways to the mirror and turns Pete in his arms, so they're looking each other in the face. His hand moves to the back of Pete's neck, settling warm and firm and easy like it belongs there, and Pete lets out a choked little moan. He can't stop himself. He's got no fucking reserves left, here, not right now.

"You get through this," Gabe says, his eyes fixed on Pete's. He's looking at Pete the way he looks out onto the stage on one of the good nights, like he's seeing a world to conquer. "You get through this and you wait for me and then you can fall apart all you want, Pete. Fall to pieces."

Pete doesn't want to argue, he doesn't, but he also doesn't understand and he can't handle feeling this lost right now. "But I thought..."

"Forget what you thought. Forget what I said." Gabe doesn't look away. "Wait for me. I'll keep you safe. I'll put you back together."

A voice comes from another planet, Marcus calling for Pete; they need him stage-side. Gabe still doesn't look away, and he doesn't let go, which as far as Pete's concerned means he can't move.

"Get through this," Gabe says. "And I'll take care of you."

It doesn't sound like much to hold on to, just a little promise, but it's enough. They do the set and they do the stageplay with Gabe giving out his e-mail to the Spanish-speaking world. Of course it crashes and dies a miserable death, but by that time he's waiting backstage again, waiting for Gabe, his heart racing in his chest like it's going to self-destruct and every hard-honed instinct he has, every pre-programmed reaction he bought with years of being a fuck-up, is telling him to snap, to say and do things he shouldn't, to hit the big red button and watch the world burn down.

He waits. And Gabe comes for him, just like he promised.
**
Gabe has a car arranged to take them both back to his hotel. Pete goes along without a word, barely able to put a thought together around the screaming in his head. Gabe touches him the whole drive, fingers resting against his wrist or rubbing gently against his thigh, not starting anything yet but keeping contact. Pete suspects it's probably supposed to ground him, but it isn't doing much. He feels like he's spinning out into space.

"I talked to Ashlee," Gabe says as the car pulls up to the hotel. "She said the boundaries are up to you, so you're going to have to talk to me, okay?"

Pete nods, barely moving his head. He can't think of any boundaries. He kind of wants Gabe to take a knife and peel all of his skin off, it couldn't possibly hurt more than he does right now.

"Pete. Answer me."

He forces himself to look up, to meet Gabe's eyes. "Okay."

Gabe studies him for a moment and then nods, looking away to thank the driver. His hand closes loosely around Pete's wrist and Pete goes along, letting Gabe pull him out of the car, through the lobby, and into the elevator.

They don't say anything else until they're safely in Gabe's room. It isn't a suite, like Pete and Ashlee have at their own hotel, but it's nice. There's a TV that Pete thinks might be roughly the size of his first apartment, and a California king-size bed, with the kind of ridiculously swank bedding that Pete knows is Gabe's true vice, above and beyond anything he puts on for his persona.

"What's your safeword?" Gabe asks, undoing his tie and rolling it slowly around his hand.

"Chicago."

Gabe's mouth turns in a half-smile. "Probably should've been able to guess." He sets the tie carefully on the dresser and starts unbuttoning his cuffs. "My safeword's cobra. If I say it, I'm freaking out and throwing the brakes. It's not you, it's me. For real."

He rolls his sleeves up and Pete watches, staring at each exposed inch of skin. He's seen Gabe in every state of dressed and undressed, he's touched Gabe, Gabe's touched him, this isn't new, but it is. It's completely new, it's making the air crackle like there's a thunderstorm contained in this room, and he needs it. He needs it so fucking badly he wants to cry.

"What do you need?" Gabe's voice is low and steady, certain. He finishes rolling his sleeves and looks at Pete again, his eyes sharp. "Tell me."

Pete takes a breath, slow and unsteady, and lets it go with a whimper that escapes without his meaning it to. "I need it to hurt."

"How bad?"

He has to laugh; it isn't funny, but he can't help it. He hurts inside, and he can't put that into words, not out loud. If he was writing them down, maybe. He could howl it out in lyrics or a blog post or an e-mail that would never be read. But out loud, he can't, he just can't. He can't stand all of this shit even being in his head; he can't process it, can't break the feelings down the way they are, pressing on the inside of his skull and making it hurt. It's too much, and he never learned how to handle it in what his therapists would call a healthy way, so this is all he's got.

"Bad," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets and pinching himself through the lining. "It needs to be...bad. I need you to break me."

Gabe doesn't flinch at that. He doesn't even blink. He just nods and runs his hand through his hair, his eyes flicking away from Pete for a minute and then back again. "Get undressed."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

Pete turns away to do as he's told, not out of modesty--that would be pretty laughable, at this point--but because he needs to catch his breath, and it's easier to do that if he isn’t watching Gabe watching him. He needs too much, he always has and always will, and now he's taking it from Gabe, who doesn't like to owe anybody anything and who very well might only be doing this to square out his debts, in which case Pete's going to fucking take a header out of those windows, because he can't deal with that, he just can't, it isn't something he can--

"Pete."

He looks up, boxer-briefs wadded in his hand and his breath hiccupping in his chest with panic. "Yeah?"

Gabe's hand cups his chin, warm and steady and gripping just a little too hard. It's comforting. "Stop thinking."

"I..."

"I don't do anything I don't want to do." Gabe meets his eyes and waits until Pete breathes again. "Now stop thinking." Pete nods a little bit, closing his eyes, and Gabe's grip eases, his thumb rubbing gently along Pete's jaw. "Are you ready?"

Pete nods again and Gabe slaps him across the face. He stumbles sideways with the impact, pain and surprise shooting through him and clearing out the white noise in his head for just a heartbeat. It's quiet for that instant, and he gasps with relief, tears starting in his eyes. He keeps them closed and waits, not sure what's coming next but already surrendered into it, trusting Gabe to know what to give him.

There's a second slap, on the other side of his face, and he rocks with that, too, moaning softly. His skin stings hot, and if he focuses on that it's better, quieting the dull roar that comes back into his head once the initial silence ends.

Gabe's fingers trace along his jaw, down to his neck and then his shoulder. "Go bend over the bed. Brace yourself on your elbows and keep your eyes closed."

Pete obeys, stumbling toward his vague memory of where the bed is. Gabe catches his elbow and guides him back on-course, then lets go, letting him find his own way. Pete settles with his feet shoulder-width apart and his fingers digging into that rich bedding, trying to remember to draw breath all the way from his toes and up, to keep from hyperventilating and falling over before this even starts.

He feels the warmth of Gabe's body moving up behind him, standing close, just before Gabe's hand settles on the base of his neck. It traces down his spine slowly, lingering between his shoulder blades and then at the bottom of his ribs, subtle pressure holding him down, steadying him. Reminding him to surrender, as if it's necessary. He couldn't take control of himself again if he had to.

"You want to break," Gabe says, his voice low and cool and utterly, utterly controlled. "You want to break in half, mi hermano, mi amigo, mi hijo, mi amor?"

Pete knows just enough Spanish to know what he means, and he knows just enough about what they're doing to know it isn't real, it's all part of the scene. He's so grateful he wants to cry all over again. "Please. Please."

The crack of Gabe's hand across his ass is a lot louder than it was on his face, the impact a lot harder. He bites his lip to keep from crying out. "Come apart for me."

It takes a while to get there. He's been holding himself together with both hands and everything he's got all night, and longer than that; there are a lot of walls that have to come down before he can break. Gabe's patient, and thorough. By the time Pete finally cracks, his knees are shaking from keeping him standing up even though almost all of his weight is on his arms. His ass and thighs are burning, the skin aching even when he's not being touched, and Gabe's hand has to hurt just as bad, his arm cramped from swinging. Pete apologizes between every hit for the last few before he starts to cry, gasping out that he's sorry on choked, broken breath. Gabe doesn't say anything in return, just hits him again, his free hand moving up and down Pete's back in same reminder, the steady pressure of ownership.

The minute Pete starts to sob, the pressure turns into a caress, a gentle slide up to his neck and down again. He hits him again, though, and again, and again, until Pete twists under the impact and gasps Chicago through clenched teeth. He suspects it's barely understandable through his choked, hiccupping breaths, but Gabe's listening closely.

He moves around Pete to sit on the edge of the bed, then pulls Pete into his arms, holding him carefully so none of the sore skin touches anything. Then he lies back, holding Pete against his chest and whispering soft, soothing nonsense in a mix of languages that Pete can't even begin to decipher. Pete can't think at all. His head is emptied out, nothing left but the dull, throbbing pain that pulses in blessed, blessed silence. He's still crying, sobbing like an idiot against Gabe's chest, wrecking that nice shirt, but he doesn't care. He's crying and he hurts and it's okay, there's a reason for it that's concrete and physical and real, and there are arms around him, steadying him, keeping him safe until the storm is done.
**
He falls asleep like that, and he really does sleep for once, deep and dreamless for six solid hours. When he wakes up, he's lying on his stomach against the soft pillows, one sheet pulled loosely over his legs and another one across his back. His ass and his thighs are bare, but he can smell the ointment covering them, the good stuff that numbs and soothes and explains why he's just in considerable pain instead of excruciating.

"The plane ride's gonna suck," he says. His voice comes out as a raw croak, fucking sick. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the crust of tears and sleep from his lashes, but no luck. He can barely get his eyes open anyway, they're so swollen from crying. Fuck, that's exactly why he doesn't do that shit until he absolutely has to.

"Better go with the miracle of modern sedatives." Gabe doesn't sound as bad, just exhausted. Pete peers at him through the bare slits he can manage to get his eyes to be. Gabe's sitting in a chair next to the bed, just wearing his boxers.

"You didn't sleep there, did you?" Gabe shrugs. "Idiot, get in bed. Jesus."

"Didn't want to bump you."

"It's fine. I like company. You know that. Idiot."

"Always the insults with you." He does get into bed, though, stretching out next to Pete and sighing softly. He brushes Pete's hair back from his forehead, then frowns and uses his thumb to clear Pete's eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Dead," Pete answers honestly.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Sure." He closes his eyes again, tucking his nose against Gabe's arm, breathing him in. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Don't ever have to do that again if you don't want to."

"Did I give that impression?"

Pete shrugs, refusing to look up. "Just saying."

Gabe's quiet for a long time, long enough that Pete would tense up if his muscles were obeying any instructions at all. As it is, he just lies there, vaguely surrendered to the whims of the universe. He's got no fight left.

"You're gorgeous like that," Gabe says softly. "You took it so good. I wanted to fucking rip you apart."

Pete does look up then, startled, and their eyes meet for a minute. Something uncurls in his chest, hot and hopeful. "Yeah?"

Gabe nods, just a little. "We've got...a lot of talking to do, man. I'm serious. I haven't done this in a while and I stopped for a reason, okay?"

"Anything you need." Pete can hardly breathe around the need to keep Gabe from changing his mind. "Anything you want."

"Right now, how about a couple hours more sleep, huh?"

"Is it okay if I just lie here?"

Gabe's brow furrows. "Is that a kinky question, or..."

Pete surprises himself by laughing. He'd sort of thought he was never going to do that again. "Gross, dude."

"Hey, I don't judge. Everybody's kinks are okay as far as I'm concerned."

Pete moves closer, resting his head on Gabe's chest again and closing his eyes. He hurts, and it's real, all of this is real. He trusts that. "Yeah, okay. Good."
**
Moving to New York is like moving to another planet. Pete’s spacesuit is all wrong, he’s not getting the right mix of oxygen. He can’t breathe right here.

He’s excited for Ashlee, and it’s awesome being a mostly full-time dad--okay, a mostly full-time dad with a nanny and about three other people on speed-dial if he can’t take it-- but he’s walking over an abyss in his head. He’s balanced on a very, very narrow tightrope and if he falls there’s nothing to catch himself on until he hits the razor-sharp rocks and hot lava.

It would be a good idea not to fall.

New York is an apartment that hates his phone, and not having his dogs, and walking places instead of having the insulating shell of the SUV. New York is also falling asleep on the couch with Bronx cradled against his chest for naptime, and Ashlee being lit up and excited about doing a show, and sometimes moving along with the crowd on the sidewalk like he really is a person just like everybody else.

And New York is Gabe, of course.

Gabe is busy and Pete’s trying not to be too needy, so they don’t get together too often, or regularly; they space things out. It's good, though, when they're together. It's really, really good.

Pete tells Ashlee about it when he gets home from a night with Gabe, lying next to her with her fingers wandering over his bruises. He tells her the story behind every one, the things Gabe can do with his hands, or a belt, or a paddle--fuck, the paddle, he loves and hates that thing--and a pair of cuffs.

They don't have sex. Gabe hurts him and then cleans him up, makes sure he's okay, then they usually fall asleep together and in the morning Gabe sends him home. They haven't talked about it, it isn't a boundary or a rule, they just...don't. Pete thinks, when he thinks about it at all, that it isn't really what he needs, and Gabe knows that, so he doesn't offer. Gabe is good at this, at seeing through Pete's bullshit and defenses and narrowing down to what he really needs. Pete thought he would be, hoped he would, but finding out that he really is is kind of like winning.

It's a weight off Ashlee's shoulders, he can tell, and he's glad. She's got enough going on without that stress. There's Bronx, and her show, and the fact that even if he does have a place to go and vent the worst of what his brain throws at him under Gabe's very capable hands, he still isn't okay, and he's either not going to be for a while or he's never going to be, depending on how optimistic either of them is feeling.

The worst of it comes and goes, ebbs and flows with how much he hears from the others, and what he comes across on the Internet, and what he's doing with himself all day. When he finds something to keep his mind busy, and he has people to talk to, and Gabe's around to smack him stupid and take the edge off, he's good. When any variable wobbles too far out of line, or he reads something he shouldn't, or he has too many minutes to sit still and think...

It all goes to hell in a hurry. He slides down the rabbit hole into his own head and he's gone, Peter in Horrorland, all cards on the table showing a shitty hand. It blows.

Gabe goes in and out of town on Cobra's winter season, hitting the radio-station holiday shows, and Pete slides so fast his vision blurs. Down, down, down, looking up at the world like he's sitting at the bottom of a well, way too far away to reach. That's December.
**
He's lucky that Gabe is there in Seattle. And Ryland, too, because it takes the both of them to haul him back off the guy in the airport bar. Pete's spitting and cursing and getting blood everywhere, all over himself and the floor and the other guy. Gabe has his arm around Pete's chest, his other hand firm on his neck, but Pete's far too gone for the steadying touch to work. He's actually out behind where he can go into headspace, too jacked up on adrenaline and alcohol and a mix of uppers and downers that has gotten decidedly out of balance in the last few days of running around.

He hurls more insults at the guy until Gabe physically removes him from the bar, half-carrying him to the bathroom. "Stop it," he says, his voice a warning, but Pete ignores him, fighting his hold, choking on panic and bile. Fuck, fuck, that's just what he needs, to go from mad to curled up on the floor in a panic attack, right here in public where anybody could take a picture. Fuck.

Gabe never stops touching him, and it's just barely enough, a thin, thin thread that he manages to keep between his fingers to hold him up. Somehow they get on the plane, the flight attendants shooting them confused, frightened looks as he keeps bleeding and swearing under his breath and Gabe keeps alternating his hold between his wrist and his neck. Putting the seat belt on helps; it's a restraint, it's grounding. Pete closes his eyes and pulls it tight enough that he has a red line across his belly when they land.

By that point he's stupid with exhaustion and pain, staring straight ahead and not able to manage words of more than two syllables. Gabe does everything, canceling their cars and calling his own father to come get them. Ryland waits until Diego arrives and then vanishes discreetly, in the time it takes Pete to blink; before he closes his eyes, Ryland's murmuring something in Gabe's ear, and when he opens them again he's gone, and Gabe's throwing their bags into the back of Diego's car.

Then again, it might be taking Pete longer to blink than he thinks it is. His brain isn't working so well, and that includes his sense of time, probably.

Gabe and Diego talk in Spanish the on the ride to Gabe's apartment. Pete keeps his eyes closed to listen to them, letting the words swirl around him in warm, pretty waves. He picks out maybe one word in ten, not enough to put them together into a picture at all. It's abstract art made of sounds.

Diego cleans up his face, which hurts like fuck, and then stitches him up, which is worse. "Be more careful," he says, smiling and touching Pete's cheek like Pete's a child. Pete stares at him, and the only word he can think of for how Diego looks is kindly, which is so out of place for someone who's half of Gabe that he doesn't really know what to do with it. On the other hand, would anyone who met his own father be able to see him there? Probably not. Maybe they're both changelings. Aliens in this world.

Diego pets him again and then says something else to Gabe, rapid-fire Spanish that Pete can't even catch one word of. He leaves and Gabe locks up behind him, then leans back against the door and studies Pete for a long moment.

"I should go home," Pete says finally, wincing at the blossom of pain talking creates across his entire face. "Ow. I should..."

"You're not going anywhere, Pete."

"I need to go..."

"I'll call Ashlee. You're staying here."

Pete frowns, which hurts, too. He must look fucking grotesque. "Why?"

"Because you're bottling shit up and it needs to go."

"What are you going to do to me?"

Gabe rubs his face roughly and digs his phone out of his pocket. "I don't know yet. Something. Just sit down for a minute while I call Ash, okay?"

Pete nods and sits on the couch, waiting until Gabe goes into the other room and then promptly getting his own phone out. He takes a picture of his face and posts it to his blog, throwing in a message that vents some of the shit in his head. Who knows if Gabe will be able to get it all? He'd better help out with his own strategies, tried and true. Talking too much and starting shit on the Internet. He's good at those.

Gabe comes back a few minutes later and walks straight to the kitchen, pouring himself a vodka and cutting it with barely a splash of tonic, then drinking half of it before he looks at Pete again. "Put your phone down and get undressed."

Pete stands to obey, gasping in pain as he pulls his shirt over his head. "What's the plan?"

Gabe downs the rest of his drink and shudders. "You're staying here for three days." He frowns and rubs the back of his neck. "I gotta see if I've got a collar, fuck."

Pete stares at him. "Three days?"

"Yeah."

"What the fuck are we going to do for three days?"

"We're going to calm you the fuck down." Gabe pours another drink, vodka splashing over the edge of the glass and onto his fingers. He sucks them clean and shoots Pete a look that makes his knees weaken and his breath catch in his throat. "More specifically, I'm going to own your ass."

Part two