Chromatic: Gift for northernveil

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Title: Chromatic
Author: shinetheway
Pairing(s): Pete/Gabe
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Word count: 1,992
Summary: Poughkeepsie


A roar went up out in the main club, coming clearly through the thin door. Bebe twitched, startled. "What the hell?" she said, frowning a bit at the door like it was about to break down, but not noticeably rattled. She hadn't shown a single sign of stage fright the entire tour--not that these were difficult crowds, Pete thought wryly, but still, not bad for a kid who’d barely performed before. It was a rather disconcerting change from what he was used to. That said, it was pretty loud out there. Like. Really loud.

"I think," he started, as the door opened and the noise filled the room like a blast from a furnace, “it might be…”

"Fucking hell," Gabe said, ducking through the doorway, a hundred faces turned towards them, wide eyes and big smiles and the smell of sweat and beer and his hair a mess .

Fuck, he'd missed this.

"What took you so long?" Pete asked, because that was easier to say than "thank you for coming." Gabe smirked at him like he'd heard it anyway, and Pete ducked his head into Gabe's hug.

"Well, if you hadn't decided to play the asshole of New York, maybe I'd have gotten here sooner," Gabe told him, and poked him in the forehead when they disentangled. "These streets are insane, Nate got us lost, like, five fucking times."

"Hey! You were driving," Nate retorted, and Pete rolled his eyes and gave Nate a quick hug, then bouncing away a little, shaking out his feet, up on his toes. He could feel himself getting jittery, his heart beating faster. It was almost showtime, and he could feel the heat of it like a physical rush, adrenaline making his skin goosepimple. He was too hot in his hoodie, but he left it on, felt sweat roll down his forehead.

Across the room, Gabe had caught sight of his bass and was giggling helplessly. “Oh my god," he managed, and waved a hand, apparently unable to speak any further. Pete flipped him off.

"They're one of the tour sponsors," he said pointedly. "And just what the fuck is wrong with it?" and picked it up, gingerly shrugging the strap over his shoulder. The back room was tiny, filled with cases and boxes and stacks of cable, and he had to be careful how he stood to make sure he didn't bang the headstock into the wall. It had a different weight from his usual Precision, and he still wasn’t quite used to the way it hung.”

"What, Fender was out of Mike Dirnt models? Jesus, you’re such a fucking sell-out."

“Bite me,” Pete muttered, and plugged the cable into his tuner. He didn't have a tech for this tour--there was a general one, to help the venue staff, but no one just for him. He hadn't tuned his own bass before a show in years. He strummed an open E with the tuner propped on a shelf and carefully tightened the peg, trying to ignore the roar of the crowd getting louder as the show came got closer. The string crept closer, closer, closer to tune--and then abruptly it was too sharp, and he grunted in irritation, trying to correct it. Maybe it was the strings or stripped pegs, but this bass had been a bitch to tune the entire tour. He'd started every show in tune, but by the end of the night he’d been flat every single time so far. It wasn’t a big deal, nothing that the fans could hear, but he could tell, and it drove him crazy.

"Oh my god, you're a moron." Gabe grabbed the horn and the strap, tugging, and Pete didn't argue, let go, let Gabe take it away and settle it on himself. He passed over a pick when Gabe held out his hand and let Gabe tune for him, frowning in concentration.

" I feel like a sell-out," he said, not really complaining, and Gabe didn’t look up but grinned sharp and fast. His hands were deft on the tuning pegs and the soft shifting sound of the strings as they changed pitch was soothing. Pete watched him work and tried to breathe. It felt too warm in here, suddenly, and he wondered briefly if he should get a beer, something to cool him off before the show.

"So," Gabe said, leaning on a piece of furniture and testing the G string a final time, then running an fast E scale, first across the strings and then down the neck, "are you nervous?"

"Nervous?" Pete snorted and took his bass back, rolling his eyes at Gabe's knowing look. He slung it over his head, thumbed the A, then played Dance Dance at half-speed. It was in perfect tune. Fucker.

"Of course I'm not nervous," he added, and switched over to Bang the Doldrums. Gabe raised an eyebrow at him, and Pete stopped playing long enough to flip him off. "It's a dive," he added, sourly. "I've been playing dives for years."

"So...yes, then," Gabe said, and Pete looked down. He rubbed a finger across the E string, then played the first eight measures of Saturday, slowly.

"The fans have been great," Pete said, not looking up, playing the postchorus. It had been almost a year, but his fingers found every note. "A little crazy, maybe, but--great."

Gabe smirked. "Like you can talk. You're crazier than any of them." Pete forced himself not to laugh. "But that wasn't what I meant."

"Well, what the fuck did you mean, then?" Pete looked up, abruptly frustrated beyond belief. First Gabe, calling him from the blue to tell him he'd be at this last show, and now this, Mister fucking Inscrutable--and Patrick, who hadn't come. Joe hadn't come. Andy hadn't come. None of them had come to see him put something together out of the ashes of the old, try to capture some of the same fire they all said they stilled believed in.

They'd called, of course, all of them, after the first show, wishing him luck, joking about pre-show rituals. In Patrick's case, he’d called after as well, to see how it went, what the fans had said. Pete had let Patrick listen to the recording one of the techs had made of the crowd, and laughed when Patrick teased him about the staggeringly underage girl who tried to hit on him in the autograph line, and when Patrick congratulated him on the sold-out shows the next two nights. Pete tried not to take it personally when Patrick said that he wished he could be there.

He'd pretended he'd had too much beer at the afterparty, instead, and shut himself into the bathroom for a while. He felt like something inside him might be cracking apart, letting something raw and painful seep out, and for a minute he just stared at himself in the mirror, looking for the seams, hating what he saw.

Then he'd gone out again, where everyone was giddy and celebrating, smiled and laughed and teased Bebe about fangirl crushes. It was what he did.

"This is the first time for a long time that it's mattered," Gabe said softly, and Pete didn't look up, just felt Gabe's hand warm and big on the back of his neck. Bebe was still practicing warm-ups in the corner, and Pete let his left hand find the fingering for Club Called Heaven, quarter time, fingertips glancing over the strings soundlessly. Gabe didn't let go, and Pete leaned forward, let his forehead touch Gabe's chest. He breathed, and listened to the roaring hum just outside the door.

"Those fans out there," Gabe said, "they aren't there for Fall Out Boy, and they aren't there for a rock star, and they aren't there for a pretty face. They're there for you."

"And if I fuck it up?" Pete said, quietly, letting Gabe's shirt swallow it. He didn't say, again. He didn’t say, more. He wanted to, but he didn’t.

Gabe sighed. "Then you go back out there and do it again. And again. Differently, or the same, it doesn't matter. Everyone fucks up sometimes. Everyone doesn't fuck up sometimes. It isn't always about you, Pete. It was never about you."

"It fucking feels like it was about me," Pete said, almost bitterly, feeling like the seams were cracking open a bit more.

Gabe tightened his grip, and shook him very gently. "That's because you're crazy," he said kindly, and Pete snorted out a snicker in spite of himself. "It was a lot of things, but it wasn't that. And look at what else you've done."

And Pete knew Gabe was right, he did, but. But. "Lightning doesn't strike twice," Pete said, forcing the words out, tightly.

He could almost feel Gabe rolling his eyes and the leak of tension from his frame. "Don't be a moron, of course it does,” Gabe said dryly. “It happens all the fucking time. I mean, look at, I don' t know, The Smiths and Morrissey. The Beatles and Paul McCartney. Genesis and Peter Gabriel. Cream and fucking everyone." Pete snickered. "And Midtown and me." Pete stopped laughing, and felt Gabe breathing very steadily against him.

"Those girls out there, they came to see you, doing what you do," Gabe said after a while. "I can use the internet just as well as you can, and I saw the reviews. The fans love it, the critics are good with it. The only thing that's going to fuck this up for you is you, if you let yourself. So do yourself a favor, okay? And get the fuck over it."

"That's all?" Pete blinked hard. Gabe felt as strong as a tree, like nothing could uproot him, and Pete couldn't help leaning against him more.

Gabe snorted. "And maybe get some antidepressants. Seriously, you loser, the next time you grow a beard, I'm burning your bass. A real one, not this piece of crap."

"Hey," Pete said indignantly at the slur, lifting his head and doing his best glare in the face of Gabe’s smirk. Pete couldn't help smiling. It felt awful and amazing at the same time, like something big had happened.

It was the same dingy backstage room, the same detritus of bands, the same pre-show rituals—some new, maybe, unfamiliar, a woman's soprano and keys instead of guitar, nothing had changed. Or maybe something had changed after all, because the crowd was screaming now, the opening act was on, and Pete dug out a pick from his pocket and let himself play the first eight measures of This Ain't A Scene, full speed. His heart was starting to beat faster, and he twitched a little, restless.

"You're late, you diva," Gabe said, and Pete flipped him off, and tossed him the pick.

"Souvenir," he said, grinning, and Gabe rolled his eyes again.

"I'm honored," Gabe said dryly, and Pete waved his hand in a magnanimous way.

"I'm just that awesome," he said loftily, and Gabe laughed his crazy laugh.

"Come here," he said, and tugged Pete in by the bass strap, kissed him hard. Pete grinned into the kiss, let Gabe slip him some tongue. He could feel people looking at them, and it made him feel giddy and wild. The opening band was gone, security was waving at him from the door, and the crowd was going wild. “Rockstar,” Gabe muttered into the kiss, and Pete couldn’t help laughing, and accidentally bit Gabe’s lower lip.

“Come back here after the show,” Pete said breathlessly, and Gabe laughed quietly.

“You know it,” Gabe said, pulling away as Pete’s arm was yanked by someone with a clipboard and a determined look, and then the door was open, he and Bebe were out in the crowd and heading for the stage, and the show was on.