Fic: "Everything About You That Hurts" (bandom)
Pete/Gerard. Kink bingo square: emotion play.
Notes: I wrote probably 75% of this in 2009, when I'd just wandered into bandom and done my first binge of reading. It then chilled out in my Gdocs until a few days ago, when I went on a Pete/Gerard re-reading spree and remembered it was there. It's been cleaned up, edited, and the focus on the kink sharpened; however, the bulk of it, including characterization and character dynamics, remain first-fic-in-fandom as of 2009. It's like a time capsule!
Content notes: angst, references to and recovery from past drug and alcohol abuse, and nonnegotiated dysfunctional BDSM including slapping, humiliation, pain play, CBT, blood play, references to breath play. Some questionable consent.
At various times
romantical and
sionnain read this;
anoneknewmoose beta'd.
The next thing on my to-write list is happy, totally consensual Gabe/William/Carden double penetration, I swear to God.
There's a knock on the bus door in the middle of the night. The rest of the band is out partying except for Ray, who insists he isn't babysitting. He's just too tired to go out. Whether he's lying or not, he's shut up in his bunk in the back, so Gerard is alone when he opens the door.
Pete's standing out there in the dark, balanced on the outside edges of his feet. "Heyyyy, Gee," he says, grinning up at him.
Gerard can smell the alcohol. It's coming off Pete in waves like he fucking bathed in it. Only a complete asshole like Wentz would show up like this at the doorstep of a guy who isn't quite a year sober. Only Wentz.
"Is Mikey here?" Pete asks, climbing up and trying to peer around Gerard into the bus. "I was just looking for him and somebody said--"
"He's not," Gerard says, his fist clenching against his side. He wants to knock Pete back down the stairs, make him hit the ground, because what the fuck.
"Shit," Pete says eloquently, with the extreme seriousness of the very drunk. "He's not answering his phone, 's the thing, do you know where they went?"
"No, Pete. I don't know."
"Oh, okay." Pete grins again, leaning in closer, that stupid too-wide too-white grin with all those stupid teeth. "Well, when he comes back, tell him to come find me tomorrow, cool?"
Sure, he'll do that if he remembers, but for some reason Gerard doesn't say so. He stares down at Pete, Pete's face in the dark, bright against the dark ground like it's floating. The smell of liquor and that dumb smirk twist up in Gerard's head into a symbol of the dirty little paradise he's not allowed to have anymore.
"Okay, then," Pete says after a minute, his smile fading. "You okay, Gee? You're kinda weirding me out." Gerard shrugs, digging his fingers hard into his palms, and Pete nods, a puzzled look on his face. "Um, okay. I'll see you..."
Gerard doesn't know what he's going to do until he does it. His hand whips out and catches Pete's wrist on some impulse that bypasses thinking altogether. Pete barely makes a noise, just a surprised little intake of air. It hitches at the end because Gerard doesn't stop; once he has hold of Pete's wrist he grips as tight as he can, yanking Pete forward.
Pete half-crashes into him, off-balance on the narrow step. He manages a startled huff of breath and, "Dude, what the fuck," before Gerard kisses him. His mouth covers Pete's and he sucks the words out of him, licks the taste of booze from his lips and his tongue, gives a fucking good try of drinking him dry just with a kiss.
And the whole time he's holding on, squeezing Pete's wrist hard enough that he can feel the tendons grinding against the bone. Pete makes more noises against his mouth, and Gerard has no idea if they're whines of protest or whimpers of desire.
It surprises him a little how much he doesn't care.
He breaks off the kiss and shoves Pete back, hard enough that Pete falls off the step and lands on his ass. He stares up at Gerard, eyes wide with shock, maybe, and Gerard wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Go away," Gerard says unsteadily, and closes the door.
**
The next day it's at least ninety degrees outside, but Pete's wearing a hooded sweatshirt when Gerard sees him walking away with Mikey after Fall Out Boy's soundcheck. Even Pete usually has a limit where he switches to t-shirts.
Sleeves, Gerard realizes after a moment, long sleeves. He must have left bruises.
He isn't sure how he feels about that at all, or if he feels anything at all. It was just a weird moment, a weird night, and Pete was drunk anyway.
Patrick yells something, and Pete looks back over his shoulder. Gerard's standing sidestage, right in Pete's line of vision.
Pete's eyes get wide and he misses a step, stumbling and bumping against Mikey's shoulder. Mikey knocks him aside playfully and he stumbles again, eyes still fixed on Gerard, one hand moving to grip the other wrist.
Gerard turns away and walks back to his bus. Pete was drunk anyway. It was a weird night.
**
You never know what kind of bathroom a city's going to give you. Gerard tries to stick to the bus, but Frank ate something he shouldn't have and is camped out in the My Chem bus bathroom threatening to puke on anyone who bothers him. So now Gerard is in a dirty cinderblock room at the back of a concession stand, brushing his teeth in front of a sink that looks like it's been used for some kind of blood magic ritual in the not-too-distant past.
He spits into the sink, watches watching the toothpaste slide over the rust stains, and looks up into the mirror when a door opens and closes behind him. Pete's stepping in from the shower area, t-shirt wrapped around his shower supplies in his arms, jeans riding low on his hips and exposing four inches of boxer-briefs.
Gerard spits again and watches Pete in the mirror. His hair is wet and clinging to his forehead. Water drips down into his eyes and runs down his neck, droplets highlighting the tattoos winding around his chest. Gerard follows the lines of ink to Pete's arm, down that stupid Nightmare Before Christmas tattoo to where the lines of ink merge with lines of bruising.
Pete finally looks up, sees him, and stops. His face flushes slightly. "Gerard."
Gerard nods at him and looks down at the sink again, cupping a hand under the faucet so he can rinse his mouth out. Pete keeps standing there, staring. Gerard shifts his weight back and forth slowly, like he's slow-dancing, refusing to look directly at him.
"Look," Pete says finally, "I'm sorry for bugging you the other night."
Gerard takes another scoop of water, and swallows a flat, iron-tinged drink. "Who said you were bugging me?" Pete's forehead furrows, and Gerard almost wants to laugh at his confused face. He rinses and spits again, finally wiping his mouth. "When did I say that, Pete?"
"Well, you knocked me off the stairs," Pete says.
Gerard nods thoughtfully and shakes the water off his hands. "But I never said that."
Pete lets out a sharp breath. "Fine. Whatever."
"No," Gerard says, turning to face him. It's just like when he grabbed Pete on the bus; he doesn't know why he's doing this, it's just happening and he's going with it, along for the ride. "No, not whatever, I didn't say that, Pete."
Pete takes half a step back, catching himself just before it's a full retreat. "Okay. I wasn't bugging you. You were thrilled to have me there. Really excited to throw me off the bus."
Gerard steps in close and he can hear Pete's breath come faster as he makes himself plant his heels and hold still, not back away. The layer of bravado over confusion and discomfort is so obvious it's entertaining. Gerard wonders idly how much he can make that surface crack. There's nothing wrong with it if it's just a game, a tease.
He grabs Pete's shoulder right where the tendon stands out under the skin and Pete flinches. Gerard doesn't grip hard, doesn't dig his fingers in; he just holds and leans in to talk into Pete's ear.
"Don't put words into my mouth," he says quietly, then brushes the backs of his fingers over Pete's cheek as he turns and walks away.
**
Gerard doesn't see Pete again for a few days. They've both got plenty to do on tour. Gerard is even writing, a little bit, between playing and schmoozing and absolutely not drinking or using.
He's a busy guy. Rock star is a full-time job.
If he sees Pete at all, it's fleeting, from the corner of his eye, on stage or when Pete's running around with Mikey like puppies on sugar highs. That's more than enough. Gerard doesn't have any reason to want or need a close association with Fall Out Boy's frontman.
If he keeps thinking about the look in Pete's eyes in the bathroom, or the little noise he made when Gerard grabbed his wrist--well, that's just because Gerard is kind of a fucked-up guy and that isn't going to change just because he quit drinking. It's not the kind of thing he should indulge himself in.
He hasn't indulged himself, not for a long time. Since Bert, or even before. He doesn't really remember the other times, not the specifics. Just how it felt, the adrenaline rush. It's a lot like the feeling he gets when he remembers the way Pete looked when he was being told he was wrong. Being corrected.
Gerard's already denying his urges for so many of his vices. Cigarettes and coffee are all he's got left. Turning down one more--when it's right in front of him--that's really just not fair.
He's going to try as hard as he can, but he's not sure how much that's worth these days.
**
The next time it happens, Gerard is alone on the bus again. For real this time; the rest of the guys are all off catching the last set. He wasn't feeling it tonight and they actually didn't try to babysit or cajole, just called him a princess and left.
His band is good people; he really does love them. He's lying on the couch thinking about that when the knock comes at the door.
It's Pete, looking more surprised to see Gerard than makes any sense. It's My Chem's bus, and Pete was stuck to like glue to Mikey all morning, so how could he not know the plans?
But here he is, looking up at Gerard wide-eyed and a little nervous. His arm drops to rub the bruised wrist against his hip, and that craving in Gerard's head flares up hot and sweet. He wants.
"What?" he asks flatly, keeping his voice as empty as he can. Maybe keeping Pete off-balance and uncomfortable will be enough.
"Just looking for Mikey," Pete says, looking up at him with a hesitant try at a smile. He's Pete, though, he's no good at hesitant. In an instant it turns brash and too-wide and irritating. "Is he here?"
Gerard shoves his hands in his pockets. It's a yes-no question. There's no reason he should have to think about it, but he does anyway. "No."
Pete pauses, watching him expectantly, then snorts in frustration. "Dude, you gonna tell me where he is or what?"
Gerard smirks and leans against the doorframe. "You didn't ask."
"You're such an asshole," Pet says, glaring now, and Gerard laughs sharply.
"And you're full of shit, Wentz." He points at him, his hand forming the gesture with two fingers because it's so used to gesturing with cigarettes. "You and Mikey barely stop texting each other long enough to piss. You can find him easy if you want him."
"My battery's dead," Pete says. God, he might as well have a sign that reads liar floating above his head.
"You just came over here," Gerard answers, slow and measured and so deliberately it almost catches in his throat, "to piss me off some more." He waits a beat, long enough for Pete's eyes to narrow slightly but not long enough for him to speak. "To fuck with me."
Yeah, that does it; Pete's eyes go wide again and he takes a half-step back before he catches himself. "That isn't why."
"Fine," Gerard says, and Jesus, he can hear his own voice sounding all low and smug and like bad, bad promises. "You want me to fuck with you."
Pete swallows hard and doesn't say anything. Gerard's skin feels like it's on fire.
"Get on the bus," he says, and steps back enough to make room. This is a terrible idea. It's not too late to stop.
But as soon as the door closes behind Pete, it will be.
For a minute it seems like Pete might do the smart thing and leave. He stands there on the edge of the step, looking up at Gerard like he doesn't need this bullshit. Which is true. Neither of them needs this bullshit. But Gerard wants it, God, he wants to make Pete get on the bus, grab him and yank him up the steps, make him obey, make him--
Pete steps up onto the bus, brushing close past Gerard. The door swings closed behind him with a solid click. Gerard's breath catches in his throat. No going back now.
**
Gerard has been trying not to think about this, definitely not to plan. This is the first time, anyway; he doesn't know how far he can push before Pete pushes back. Or cracks. It takes time to figure that out.
So he has to improvise. He makes do with a bandanna twisted around Pete's wrists, digging in right across the bruises left by Gerard's fingers and holding Pete's hands at the small of his back. He doesn't let Pete get undressed, just ties him and pushes him down to his knees.
Pete leaves the bus with his mouth all bruised, a kind of glazed look in his eyes and a hard-on he's not allowed to touch anywhere but the bathrooms on the far side of the festival park. Gerard doesn't know why he throws that last instruction in. It slips out while he's ushering Pete off the bus, right after he ruffles his fingers through Pete's hair and tells him he's got a pretty fucking mouth when he shuts up for a few minutes.
Gerard lies down on the couch again, blinking up at the ceiling and rubbing at his own wrists. He doesn't know what he's going to say when the guys get back and ask him what he's been up to. He doesn't know how he's going to look Mikey in the eye. He managed it when he was a fucked-up drunk, but he doesn't have denial on his side this time.
Eventually he decides on the path of least resistance and goes to bed.
**
They don't cross paths for two days, though one time Gerard sees Pete and Mikey out under a stand of trees. They're stretched out on the grass, Pete's head on Mikey's chest, talking softly about who knows what. Mikey's smiling in a way Gerard sometimes forgets his brother can, sweet and open and uncomplicated. Looking at them makes Gerard's stomach twist up into a knot.
The next day Pete and Patrick get in a fight after Fall Out Boy's set. This one doesn't break the top ten Pete/Patrick throwdowns of all time (since the top eight slots are all taken up by incidents from the van days) but it's a close call. Apparently Pete's back-up bass gets thrown, Patrick accidentally elbows Andy in the face while going after Pete, and Joe gets kicked in the balls while trying to get between them. It's all very dramatic, according to the techs that saw it and are describing now to a crowd, then all four of them stormed off in opposite directions. Gerard looks at Frank and Ray, shrugs wordlessly, and goes off to check their merch table. It's got nothing to do with him.
Except half an hour later Pete corners him in their equipment trailer, where Gerard had followed their techs more out of boredom than any actual desire to be helpful. Pete's face is flushed, his eyes dark and furious, blood still marking the split at the edge of his lip from where one of Patrick's punches had connected.
"Looking good, there, Wentz," Gerard says finally.
"I need to talk to you," Pete says, and Gerard shrugs, because...well, obviously. Pete gives a sharp huff of breath and bites his lower lip. "Alone?"
"Wait two minutes," Gerard says, smiling vaguely at Cortez and Bob's drum tech as they gather up what they need and head for the door, shooting Gerard and Pete a strange look as they leave. Pete crosses over and pulls the door closed behind them, making the trailer shake. He flips it locked, and Gerard's eyebrows go up. He crosses his arms over his chest and stands hip-shot, affecting as much casual indifference as he can manage before Pete turns back to him.
"What do you want?" Gerard asks, when Pete just stands there by the door and stares at him instead of saying anything. "I don't have all day." Pete says something in a fast, unintelligible mumble, and Gerard rolls his eyes. "I can't hear you."
"Do something to me," Pete says, his voice tight and miserable and angry, his hands fists at his sides.
Gerard blinks. "What?"
"You know. Like...you know. Do something that will make my head shut up."
That wasn't what Gerard expected. He blinks again, and looks away, which means Pete won. Fuck. "I don't..." He catches himself, takes a breath, tries again for careful indifference. "Looks like Stump already took care of the leaving bruises part, Wentz. Not sure what else you want from me."
"Fuck you," Pete says. His voice actually wavers a little, which draws Gerard's eyes back to him like a magnet. "You know what I mean, Gerard. Fix it."
Gerard exhales slowly through clenched teeth. "Fix it."
"Fix me." Pete steps toward him, challenging and begging at once. "Do something and..."
"Shut up." Like every other time, it happens when Gerard's not thinking about it, that cold voice that gives orders breaking loose as soon as he's not paying attention. Pete's breath hitches in an almost-sob, but he stops talking, stops moving, just stops and stands and looks at Gerard with pleading eyes.
Gerard takes a deep breath and tries to find some kind of center while his blood is pounding in his ears and Pete is looking at him like that. "Don't move." He doesn't look to see if Pete obeys; he just walks over to the far corner and scuffs at dirt on the floor with his heel, running through ideas quickly.
"Take your clothes off," he says finally, still not looking. He counts to thirty in his head, watching a fly crawl across a window, then turns around just as Pete steps out of his jeans. His t-shirt is lying in a puddle with his hoodie on the floor.
"Wait," Gerard says, and crosses over to him, taking the t-shirt and twisting it slowly between his hands, looking Pete up and down. Pete still has his underwear on, but that's all, bare feet shifting on the floor, smooth skin, dark ink.
Gerard nods slightly. "Open your mouth." Pete's eyes go wide, surprise and a little bit of fear flickering in the dark depths. Gerard slaps him across the face on the same fast, sharp, thoughtless impulse that's going to get him in trouble. "I said open your mouth, Pete."
Pete exhales with a sound almost like a sob and opens his mouth. Gerard places the twisted-up t-shirt in his mouth like a horse's bit, settling it between his teeth. "Bite. And don't drop it. You drop it, I'm done with you. Got it?" Pete nods, his breath loud and ragged through his nose, and Gerard shoves him down. Pete groans when his knees hit the floor, and the sound sends a hot spark up Gerard's spine.
He leans down, breathing right next to Pete's ear, enjoying the shiver that runs through Pete's body. "Don't move," he says, sing-song, then reaches down and catches the thick elastic waistband of Pete's briefs. He guides the elastic down over Pete's cock, but lets it catch snug over his balls. Not as good as an actual restraint, but it'll make it a little harder for Pete to come, and he has to improvise here.
"Don't worry," he says, flicking Pete's temple with his thumb and forefinger. "I promise I'll take really good fucking care of you." Pete makes a little noise around the t-shirt and Gerard slaps him again, light and lazy, not to hurt him but just to watch him flinch.
He steps back, glancing over at the door again and folding his arms across his chest. "Jerk off," he says, pitching his voice to sound bored. Pete gives him a startled, confused look, color rising in his face when Gerard returns it with a stony stare. Pete shifts on his knees and reaches down to touch himself lightly, hesitantly, fingers just brushing over his cock. He's still soft, and it's probably going to take him a minute to get things going. Gerard sighs, loud and echoing in the empty space, and Pete flushes even darker with embarrassment. "Jesus, Wentz. Get the fuck on with it already."
By the time Pete gets it up and gets going there are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes; just a few, but undeniable as they glitter on his face in the dim light. Gerard keeps his distance, keeping his arms folded and his hands curled tight, just watches and occasionally says something cutting. Pete's breathing is loud and ragged, sometimes broken up with little choking noises around the gag. Gerard's dick aches in his jeans, watching him. Pete's gripping himself too tightly for it to really feel good, jerking fast and rough, and Gerard thinks about telling him to slow down, but fuck it. Pete asked for this, he's as responsible for himself as Gerard is, and he can do what he wants.
Pete whimpers when he comes, closing his eyes and biting down hard on the gag. Gerard watches him for a long moment, not saying anything until Pete looks up and meets his eyes. "Feel better?" Gerard asks. Pete just keeps staring, looking confused. Gerard walks over and takes the t-shirt out of his mouth, shaking it out of the twist and rolling it up in his hand. Pete rubs at his jaw with his clean hand and turns his gaze down at the floor.
"Get dressed," Gerard says, draping the wadded-up shirt over his shoulder. "Go back to your bus and take a damn nap. Kiss and make up with Patrick. And don't come looking for me unless you mean it."
It's a good line for a dramatic exit, and Gerard has a flair for drama. He walks out of the trailer without looking back.
**
Mikey mopes and sulks around the bus for the entire next day until Frank snaps--actually snaps--at him, demanding to know why he isn't off screwing around with Wentz and staying out of their hair.
"Pete's not feeling great," Mikey says, slumping down in his seat and kicking at Ray's shoes. "He texted me that he thinks he's just going to take it easy today so he can make it through the show tonight."
"So why can't you go hang out over there?" Frank asks. "I was starting to think you two would go into comas if you were separated."
Mikey shrugs and picks at his jeans. "He said he wanted to be alone."
Frank shoots Gerard a surprised look and laughs. "Wow, guess he really is sick. Wentz never wants to be alone."
Gerard manages a slight smile, then gets up and rumples Mikey's hair before he retreats back to his bunk.
**
The day after that Pete seems to be back to normal, or as close as he gets; at any rate, back to running around with Mikey and being loud and obnoxious in every corner of the tour. He stays away from Gerard, and that's--that's good, that means he's caught on and acquired some sense. Good.
Gerard keeps his distance. He sees Pete and Mikey every time he turns around, but he stays away. They're making each other happy, irritating as it is, and that's a good thing, too. Mikey should be happy. Everyone should be happy. Gerard cannot fucking wait to be happy. They're all rock stars, after all. Best damn job in the world.
The bands rotate times and stages, and sometimes Gerard ends up leaning against a wall during Fall Out Boy's set, watching Pete crowd up against Patrick and harmonize into the microphone. He spins around Joe, spits up in the air, jumps up on amps and dives into the crowd, bleeding out his sad little stories of fucking up his ex-girlfriends and being fucked up in return.
Pete fucking Wentz. Gerard would kill to be able to keep his eyes to himself, but apparently he's as hooked as Mikey.
He doesn't know if Pete and Mikey are actually hooking up. He doesn't want to know. Pete is highly physical and all over everybody all the time, but he's...gentler with Mikey, treats him like he's something precious. Which is exactly as it should be, because Mikey is precious. Mikey is every precious thing.
Of course, sometimes Mikey is also a stone-faced, nagging pain in the ass who corners Gerard on the bus and wants to have a talk about how Gerard's sobriety is faring during one of the hardest partying tours in the biz.
"You've been acting weird," Mikey says. Gerard looks past him, over his shoulder, trying to find an escape route. "Gee. You've been weird, and you've been avoiding me. You told me you wanted all of us to help you with this, to be there for you. So I'm doing that. Talk to me."
"I'm not avoiding you." It's the weakest point he can defend himself on, but he does it anyway. "Don't be stupid, Mikey."
"It's stupid to worry about you, now?" Mikey's jaw is set tight, his eyes dark behind his glasses. "That's not fair."
"That's not what I meant." Gerard exhales sharply and forces himself to meet Mikey's eyes. "I'm fine. I'm not avoiding you. It's just, you know, tour. I'm tired."
"You barely talk to me. You're keeping to yourself."
"And that has to mean I'm drinking?"
"I just want you to be okay," Mikey says. He's almost yelling and Gerard aches that he made that happen, that he's putting that expression on his brother's face.
"I am okay," he says stiffly, knowing he should hug Mikey and reassure him but not entirely sure that if he reaches for his brother he won't end up hurting him somehow. Physically, at least. He's already fucking gutting Mikey emotionally. "I'm fine, Mikes. I'm sorry. I can't...I just can't..." Mikey's shoulders slump, and Gerard shakes his head, already turning away. Watching Mikey admit defeat is even worse.
"I have to go," Mikey says, and stomps off the bus. Gerard waits as long as he can before he gets out of there, too.
He doesn't know where he's going until he looks up and it's Fall Out Boy's bus in front of him. Of course. He takes a deep, shaky breath and knocks on the door. Something hot and ugly is twisting in his stomach, now that he's acknowledging it. He's probably going to regret what he's about to do, but later. Not tonight.
Andy answers the door, looking confused as hell to see Gerard standing there. Gerard can't blame him. "Is Pete there?" he asks, closing his eyes as Andy yells back over his shoulder. This is going to end in disaster, but he can't stop himself. He's fucking burning up with wanting.
Pete shuffles up to the door, looking almost as confused as Andy but with something else in his eyes as well, wariness and under that what Gerard thinks might be an echo of his own want. "What's up, Way?"
Gerard meets his eyes. "Come with me."
Pete shifts his weight, frowning a little. "Where?"
"Come. With. Me." It's almost a growl, a sound Gerard hadn't really realized he could make outside of a song, and it makes Pete's eyes go as wide as the first time Gerard grabbed him on the steps of My Chem's bus.
"Let me get my shoes," Pete says, moving back from the door, and Gerard nods, turning to look out over the crowded parking lot. He's acting mostly on instinct, only thinking as far ahead as the very next thing he's going to do. Right now it's mostly take a breath. And another one. another.
Pete steps off the bus and pulls the door shut behind him, shivering a little even though it's eighty degrees outside. "What do you want to do?"
"You know what I want to do," Gerard says, and Pete bites his lower lip, glancing back at his bus. "You have to decide, right now. Yes or no."
They stand there for a minute, staring at each other, and Gerard can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He needs this release so fucking badly, but he doesn't know how to say that. He can only stand there throwing it out as a challenge and wait to see what Pete's going to do.
Pete licks his lips and nods, just a little, almost more like another shiver. "Yeah," he says softly, and then more firmly, "yeah. Where?"
That's something Gerard hasn't thought of yet. But the venues they're playing are full of quiet, dark places. He starts walking and knows without looking that Pete's fallen in behind him.
**
Before he left the bus, Gerard had grabbed the white t-shirt Pete had been wearing the last time they did this, the one he had shoved in his pocket and kept after it was over. Now Pete's standing in front of him again, naked this time but only half-visible in the murky light of the storage room, and Gerard pulls it out slowly, shaking the fabric out with a flick of his wrist.
Pete's eyes go so fucking huge, and this flash of panic goes through them, just enough for Gerard to see and yet it still gives him an electric jolt of...something that tastes good at the back of his throat. Power.
He twists the shirt into a rope and steps forward. "Open your mouth," and Pete hesitates just a beat but he does it, he lets Gerard slide the gag home. He closes his eyes when the fabric settles between his teeth, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Don't drop it," Gerard says, and he can hear his own voice shaking, just a little bit. Fuck, he is so far over his head and he can't stop. Won't stop. "You drop it, I'm done with you." Pete nods, a tiny almost not-there movement. Gerard nods at the table pushed up against the wall. "Go over there. Bend over it and brace yourself on your hands."
Pete makes a noise that Gerard can't identify at all. Then he goes.
Gerard takes off his belt and follows.
**
Why does he keep saying yes?
When Gerard's head is clear again, when he's calmed down and his entire body isn't throbbing with desire to hurt, he comes back to that question over and over again.
This is the first time Pete wasn't the one starting it, the one seeking Gerard out. Gerard is painfully aware that he's the one who made this happen, this time, that it was his will driving things.
But Pete could have made it stop. He could've said no in the first place, he could have spit out the gag, he could have nodded when Gerard whispered tauntingly in his ear do you want me to stop?
He shook his head every time. He moaned under the sting of Gerard's belt and he pushed back against Gerard while Gerard fucked him down into the table. Pete kept saying yes. Gerard doesn't know why.
Maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe it doesn't matter. He relies on that interpretation. He clings to his vague and lingering tendency to think of this as an elaborate game, even if it's one where the rules keep shifting and the stakes keep rising and Gerard doesn't think anybody wins until the other one cracks.
Pete hasn't cracked. Gerard thought maybe he would, right after, when he'd stepped away and zipped himself up and pulled the t-shirt out of Pete's mouth. Pete didn't move from where he was sprawled on the table, body hitching with every breath, and when Gerard unrolled the damp fabric, there was blood on it.
His vision blurred out for a moment. Fuck, fuck, didn't mean for that to happen, fuck. Then Pete coughs and takes a deep, shuddering breath, pushing himself up off the table. He stands upright and looks at Gerard with a surprisingly level gaze. Still glazed, a little shocky, but not broken. Not gone.
"I bit my lip," he says, licking at it and then rubbing his fingertips over the split flesh. "Shit."
Gerard stares at him for a moment, utterly lost for how to respond to that. "Be more careful next time," he says finally, but there's no heat or force to his words. He's fumbling.
Pete still ducks his head at the reprimand, moving away from the table and reaching for his clothes. Gerard watches him get dressed and doesn't say anything, just breathes slowly. He's exhausted, now. Exhausted and a little sick to his stomach, craving a cigarette in the worst way, and desperately aware that he needs to go apologize to Mikey.
Pete makes a muffled, pained noise as he pulls his hoodie on. It draws Gerard's eyes to him, makes his fingers curl into his palms as he pictures the welts rising on Pete's back where the belt bit in.
Pete looks up and meets his eyes, and there's actually a bit of a challenge there, under the endorphins and adrenaline and the pain.
"What?" Gerard asks, sliding his belt through the loops again. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Pete lowers his eyes and tucks his hands into the pocket of the hoodie. Gerard picks up the t-shirt again, crumpling it into a wad in his fist.
"You want this as much as I do," Pete says, almost too low for Gerard to hear. "It shuts up your demons, too."
Gerard stares at him for a moment, fingers clenching into the t-shirt hard enough to hurt. "Who says I've got demons?"
Pete smiles, a twist of the mouth that doesn't go anywhere near his eyes, and licks blood off his lip deliberately. "I do."
It roars up out of nowhere, the way it always does, and Gerard steps into Pete's space, grabbing his wrist as tightly as on the first night. Pete groans, his head tilting back, and there's as much real protest in the sound as pleasure. Apparently even he has a limit for a night.
"Don't say anything to Mikey," Gerard whispers, and Pete throws him a startled glance, laced with confusion around the edges.
"I won't," he says, and Gerard lets go. "He shouldn't be any part of this."
"He won't be," Gerard says, and he means it. With every fiber of his being, he means it.
**
It never works out that way, of course. Gerard can mean things as hard as he wants, but the universe is going to conspire against him.
Or maybe it's not the universe, maybe it's just that Mikey is observant and stubborn as hell when he has a mission. Watching Gerard is a self-appointed mission of long standing for him, one that comes out of the kind of fear and pain that just won't die.
So he's watching Gerard's every move, but at the same time he's spending a lot of time with Pete. And Pete's bravado notwithstanding, Gerard was rough with him. The next day he's sore, he's limping, he doesn't want to be touched the way he usually does.
Gerard can see Mikey watching, dark eyes taking everything in, comparing, cross-referencing, not missing a beat. Seeing more than he should, and Gerard's not sure how to conceal anything from him anymore. Maybe he never really did.
**
Whatever Mikey sees, whatever he's putting together like puzzle pieces, he isn't saying or doing anything about it now. He's giving Gerard a bit of a cold shoulder. He's still spending time with Pete, but more quietly. The simple happiness that flashed across his face before when they were running around has dimmed. Gerard hates that he made that happen, that he took that happiness away.
Except he didn't do it alone. They took it away. Knowing that twists him even closer to Pete than before.
And twisted is the word, yes. Oh, fuck, yes.
Gerard starts setting things aside, keeping a bag of supplies on hand. He had to be creative, on tour, but that was exactly how they'd all gotten to where they were, wasn't it? Creativity and single-minded vision. A certain degree of ruthlessness.
Gerard can do ruthless.
Practically everyone on the tour has Pete's phone number, so it's easy to get that without drawing any more of Mikey's attention. Gerard almost never uses it, though. It's better in person. More personal, more raw. It hits his ugly, unpleasant buttons better to track Pete across the grounds, catch his eye, call Pete to him with a look.
Pete never texts him. If Pete is the one starting it, he always finds Gerard in person, that stupid grin of his halfway to a challenging smirk, something desperate and hollow in his eyes.
All part of the game, Gerard thinks, while they track down an empty storeroom or an hour alone on one of the buses or once--once--the woods outside the venue because they couldn't find anywhere else.
That was stupid; they were artificial woods, overly groomed and preserved and patrolled and it's nothing but dumb luck that they didn't get caught. But Gerard was crawling-out-of-his-skin desperate, and Pete must have been, too. He was the one who came looking, showing up at My Chem's dressing-room door and making a series of smart remarks that made Gerard's hands curl into fists at his sides.
Gerard tied him up out in the woods, wrapped his arms around a tree trunk and tied his hands. He gagged him and fucked him there like that, hard and rough and leaving the whole front of Pete's body scraped from the bark.
That's the game, after all; it keeps escalating, because neither of them has cracked yet. Gerard thinks he should be a little scared of the way this is going, but it's hard to remember to. He's got this thing burning inside of him right alongside the music and the adrenaline of tour.
Pete keeps coming back, keeps saying yes, keeps meeting every escalation. Gerard twists rubber bands around Pete's dick and his balls. He takes the plastic clips Ray uses to hold his hair out of his face--the ones with sharp little teeth--and clamps them onto Pete's skin. He uses his belt and his nails and his teeth, he fucks Pete's mouth and his ass as hard as he can, he ties and cuffs and blindfolds and restrains. And Pete never says stop.
Pete starts to cry a little every time he sees that fucking t-shirt. Something inside Gerard is screaming, but Pete doesn't say stop, and Gerard can't be the first one to break, he won't, this means something.
He has no idea what, anymore, but it does.
He has a hard time getting to sleep some nights. He sees Pete's face in his head, sees the tears running down his cheeks and eyes so fucking wide as he watches Gerard twist the dirty white fabric. Say no, Gerard thinks at him in frustration, twisting under the sheets and punching his pillow. Just fucking tell me no.
If Pete would, he could stop.
**
The rest of Fall Out Boy assumes Pete is on drugs. It's not an unreasonable mistake, but it's a big one. They hold an intervention that, given that it is completely misguided, fails as spectacularly as possible. Pete stops speaking to his entire band. He appears five minutes before stage call and doesn't speak to anyone, just drinks from an unmarked water bottle and stares straight ahead. He fakes it through the show, and not well enough; the fans notice, the fans always notice.
He disappears after, and sometimes he finds Gerard. Sometimes he doesn't. Gerard never asks.
It has to stop. It has to. Gerard can't stop it and Pete won't, but something has to, because the wheels are coming off and there's no way to hide that. Mikey is starting to stare at Gerard with accusation in his eyes, and it won't be long until that all spills out into the open. If Fall Out Boy doesn't break up first. If the tour management doesn't step in. If Pete doesn't OD or collapse with alcohol poisoning again.
Pete gets on his knees for Gerard, sucks Gerard's fingers all the way down into his throat, bows his head so Gerard can see the way his belt wraps around Pete's neck and slides against the skin. The world is spinning out of control under Gerard's hands, but here in these moments he's a god, he just might be winning, and he can't be the one who stops it, he can't, he can't.
Gerard tries to make Pete say stop every time they get together. He tries to pry it out of Pete with his hands, squeeze and dig and force it out of him, but Pete won't fucking give in.
**
A hotel night comes around, just when it's needed most; the whole tour is weak with anticipation of hot showers and real beds and walls.
Gerard squints at the list of room assignments, not understanding what he sees. His name is by itself. He has a single. That isn't possible; he hasn't had a single in eleven months, three weeks, and two days.
"There was a mix-up," Brian says, biting his lip. "The hotel got mixed up and gave us a couple of singles, and you happened to draw one. If you don't want it, I can switch you."
"No," Gerard says, shaking his head. "No, it's fine, it's not a problem. I was just confused."
"If you want to room with Mikey, I can--"
"It's fine, Brian." Gerard shakes his head and steps back, forcing a smile to make up for his sharp tone. "Time to myself would be awesome. Thanks."
He texts Pete as soon as he's out of Brian's eagle eye, of course. He doesn't even stop to think about it. This--this is privacy, and something like security, and since neither one of them is stopping this they might as well turn it up to eleven. Why shouldn't his hand be on the dial?
It's like all of the crawling tension under his skin has been building up to this.
Once they're checked in, he has time for a shower and two reruns of Friends before the knock comes. Pete looks like a runaway kid standing there in the hallway, his hood flipped up and his hands in his pockets. He's smiling, but there's something strained and feverish about it. Desperate. His eyes are too bright. Gerard sees the hollows under them, the sharpness of Pete's cheekbones and the unhealthy tone of his skin, and his stomach twists.
"Let me in," Pete says. "I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm rooming with Andy--I was supposed to be with Patrick but that's not happening these days so I had to switch around and--"
"Shut up." Gerard doesn't want to hear about it, can't stand to hear about other messes he can't clean up but he's pretty sure he's still responsible for. They're both here for a reason and he wants to get on with it, with the things that will take his guilt and his anger and his wanting and all of his demons and just burn them the fuck out for an hour or two.
He steps back and lets Pete inside, turning to lock the door behind them. When he looks at Pete again he finds him in perfect submissive position, hands clasped behind his back and eyes lowered but still bright with that crazy feverish need.
"Fuck you for making me need this," Gerard says, and Pete looks up.
"I didn't make you do anything."
"Shut up."
"It's just part of you. Not my fault. Just the way it is."
"I didn't go around doing these things until you."
Pete smirks at him, which is horrible combined with those eyes. "Is that supposed to make me feel special?"
Gerard shakes his head and moves over to the bed, reaching down into his bag for the t-shirt. "Guess if you can't shut your mouth I'll make you."
Pete flinches and his eyes get wet when he sees the shirt, just like it's supposed to be. Gerard's reaction hits him like a drug, just like that's supposed to: hot sweet adrenaline, power and want that goes right to his cock. He rubs the shirt against Pete's cheek and shoves two fingers into Pete's mouth, deep enough that Pete gags before he starts sucking on them.
"I hate you," Gerard whispers, and Pete shudders all over. "God, I fucking hate you."
He draws his fingers away and slaps Pete across the face, hard. Pete groans and Gerard twists the t-shirt up fast, wanting it in Pete's mouth before he has to hear another sound.
"This is the last time, Pete. The last fucking time, do you hear me? You think you win because you don't say stop, don't say no. I'm going to make you say it. I'm not going to give you a choice."
He shoves the fabric into Pete's mouth and steps back, looking around the room. "Get undressed and get on your knees," he says, grabbing the bag again. More improv. Working with scraps.
His dopp kit is down at the bottom of the bag and at the bottom of that he finds the comb he's been carrying around for God knows how long. Carrying it around doesn't mean he uses it. It's the cheap plastic kind his dad always used to bring home from the barbershop, fine-toothed and sharp. He remembers yelling when his mom used it to comb his hair for school pictures, remembers the sharp angry lines he could feel it leaving on his scalp.
He moves over to Pete again and stands behind him, looking down at the smooth line of his back. There's the collar of thorns, of course, but below that the skin is blank, unmarked. Pete's head is bowed, his hands braced on the floor on either side of his knees, his jaw clenched tight against the dirty fabric of the t-shirt. Gerard can hear him breathing through his nose, loud and rough. He can hear the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Nothing else.
"I'm going to make you say it." He sets the comb over Pete's spine, just below the tattoo, and drags it down sharply. Pete gasps, and Gerard pulls back to look at his work. Thin lines, rising up puffy and white. A drop of blood at the top, where he was pressing the hardest, but nothing more.
Pete looks back over his shoulder, eyes wide. Gerard can't tell anymore if what he's seeing is confusion or a challenge. He can't tell if he cares. He just wants Pete to tell him to stop.
"That was just a test one," he says, tangling his fingers in Pete's hair and shoving his head down. "Face front. I don't want to look at you."
He presses harder on the next pass of the comb, and keeps the pressure steady all the way through. More blood comes up this time, scattered drops in the lines that stand out angry and red, and Pete makes a sound behind the gag that might be the start of a cry. Heat sparks in Gerard's stomach, low and hungry; that switch flips in his head and all he can think is yes and want and more.
He drags the comb down Pete's back again and again, overlapping and crossing the previous scratches, staring in fascination as he makes the skin go red and raw. It's like art, but in a medium he's never thought of using,like he's sculpting human flesh. He barely hears the noises Pete's making, only vaguely notes the way he's ducking his head and arching his back and his hands are scrambling at the carpet.
"Stop it!"
It's what he's been waiting to hear for weeks but it takes a minute to sink into his head. He stares down at his fingers wrapped around the comb, blood streaking his own skin from the plastic. It's another endless minute after that before he realizes it wasn't Pete who said it.
"Gerard, what the fuck are you doing?" Mikey's voice breaks, and it's like icy water crashing over Gerard, knocking him out of his head and back into reality, making his hand clench around the comb and drive the bloody teeth into his own palm.
"I...I'm..."
The t-shirt fluttering to the floor catches his attention from the corner of his eye. He stares at it, a white flag on the dirty carpet, and only distantly processes Pete's shaky, broken voice saying, "Mikey...you shouldn't be here."
"Pete, what the fuck is he doing to you?"
"Fixing me." Pete makes another sound after he says it, one that Gerard can't identify at all at first. Mikey grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him back out of the way. It's not until his ass hits the edge of the mattress that he realizes Pete is laughing.
"Jesus Christ," Mikey whispers, kneeling next to Pete and staring at the raw mess of his back. "Jesus Christ, Gerard."
"He didn't tell me to stop," is all Gerard can think to say. It's not the right answer, but it's the only one he has.
**
The rest of the tour, and thank God that isn't very long, there's an invisible line drawn right down the middle of everything. My Chem stays on one side, Fall Out Boy on the other, and God help anyone who tries to cross over. Actually, don't bother with God helping, because it's just not going to happen. Full stop.
Gerard hears, vague and third-hand, that after Mikey got Pete back to his room and his band, they had to take him to the emergency room. He doesn't know what was done for him there, but Pete doesn't miss any shows. He hardly moves through them, standing stiffly on his side of the stage and cradling his bass like it's made of glass, but he's there, he's playing, he does his job.
Gerard does his job, too.
Nobody in his band knows except Mikey, and that's bad enough. Having his brother look at him white-faced and cold-eyed is awful. Having him shove a list of therapists into his hand and inform him that if he doesn't call one and make an appointment for the day they get home, Mikey will let Patrick call the cops, is worse.
"It was mutual," Gerard tells him, more hopeless than defensive. "He asked me to do it."
Mikey doesn't nod, doesn't smile, doesn't flinch. "Then step one of the rest of your life is learning to say no."
**
It's months later when Gerard sees Pete again, in the reception area of some stupid industry event or another. He's mingling, he's sipping Diet Coke, he's smiling and making conversation and Mikey is hovering a pace behind him like a shadow.
He looks across the room and sees Pete arriving, posing against the official promo backdrop for a press shot.
He feels a sharp rush of heat to his face; he must be blushing like a goddamn fire engine. Pete looks good; not too thin, not too hollow-eyed, like he might actually have gotten some sleep recently. He's smiling for the camera and it's almost real.
Part of Gerard wants to go over and grab his arm, pull him aside and talk to him. Tell him about everything, about therapy, about how he's sorry he fucked up. Tell him about all the reading he's been doing, all the things he's learned; about dominance and submission, masochism and sadism, power and control; about how to feed your demons safely, about how they don't even have to be demons at all. He wants to tell him everything and ask him back to his room and see if any of it's true.
But then the camera turns away and Pete's smile fades, his face relaxing into a quiet expression, his gaze dropping to the floor. He bows his head and rubs the back of his neck and a raw jolt runs through Gerard like an electric shock. He wants, and it's not safe or sane or smart or careful. It's just hunger, the same old hunger, the same old rush and risk. The same need to take as much as he can until someone outside himself makes him stop, because he doesn't want to, and he's only going to do things he wants to do.
He takes a shaky breath and turns away, bringing his glass to his mouth to hide his face. Fire and gasoline, he thinks. Never going to do anything but burn out bright.
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comments. Comment there or here, as you like!
Notes: I wrote probably 75% of this in 2009, when I'd just wandered into bandom and done my first binge of reading. It then chilled out in my Gdocs until a few days ago, when I went on a Pete/Gerard re-reading spree and remembered it was there. It's been cleaned up, edited, and the focus on the kink sharpened; however, the bulk of it, including characterization and character dynamics, remain first-fic-in-fandom as of 2009. It's like a time capsule!
Content notes: angst, references to and recovery from past drug and alcohol abuse, and nonnegotiated dysfunctional BDSM including slapping, humiliation, pain play, CBT, blood play, references to breath play. Some questionable consent.
At various times
romantical and
sionnain read this;
anoneknewmoose beta'd.
The next thing on my to-write list is happy, totally consensual Gabe/William/Carden double penetration, I swear to God.
There's a knock on the bus door in the middle of the night. The rest of the band is out partying except for Ray, who insists he isn't babysitting. He's just too tired to go out. Whether he's lying or not, he's shut up in his bunk in the back, so Gerard is alone when he opens the door.
Pete's standing out there in the dark, balanced on the outside edges of his feet. "Heyyyy, Gee," he says, grinning up at him.
Gerard can smell the alcohol. It's coming off Pete in waves like he fucking bathed in it. Only a complete asshole like Wentz would show up like this at the doorstep of a guy who isn't quite a year sober. Only Wentz.
"Is Mikey here?" Pete asks, climbing up and trying to peer around Gerard into the bus. "I was just looking for him and somebody said--"
"He's not," Gerard says, his fist clenching against his side. He wants to knock Pete back down the stairs, make him hit the ground, because what the fuck.
"Shit," Pete says eloquently, with the extreme seriousness of the very drunk. "He's not answering his phone, 's the thing, do you know where they went?"
"No, Pete. I don't know."
"Oh, okay." Pete grins again, leaning in closer, that stupid too-wide too-white grin with all those stupid teeth. "Well, when he comes back, tell him to come find me tomorrow, cool?"
Sure, he'll do that if he remembers, but for some reason Gerard doesn't say so. He stares down at Pete, Pete's face in the dark, bright against the dark ground like it's floating. The smell of liquor and that dumb smirk twist up in Gerard's head into a symbol of the dirty little paradise he's not allowed to have anymore.
"Okay, then," Pete says after a minute, his smile fading. "You okay, Gee? You're kinda weirding me out." Gerard shrugs, digging his fingers hard into his palms, and Pete nods, a puzzled look on his face. "Um, okay. I'll see you..."
Gerard doesn't know what he's going to do until he does it. His hand whips out and catches Pete's wrist on some impulse that bypasses thinking altogether. Pete barely makes a noise, just a surprised little intake of air. It hitches at the end because Gerard doesn't stop; once he has hold of Pete's wrist he grips as tight as he can, yanking Pete forward.
Pete half-crashes into him, off-balance on the narrow step. He manages a startled huff of breath and, "Dude, what the fuck," before Gerard kisses him. His mouth covers Pete's and he sucks the words out of him, licks the taste of booze from his lips and his tongue, gives a fucking good try of drinking him dry just with a kiss.
And the whole time he's holding on, squeezing Pete's wrist hard enough that he can feel the tendons grinding against the bone. Pete makes more noises against his mouth, and Gerard has no idea if they're whines of protest or whimpers of desire.
It surprises him a little how much he doesn't care.
He breaks off the kiss and shoves Pete back, hard enough that Pete falls off the step and lands on his ass. He stares up at Gerard, eyes wide with shock, maybe, and Gerard wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Go away," Gerard says unsteadily, and closes the door.
**
The next day it's at least ninety degrees outside, but Pete's wearing a hooded sweatshirt when Gerard sees him walking away with Mikey after Fall Out Boy's soundcheck. Even Pete usually has a limit where he switches to t-shirts.
Sleeves, Gerard realizes after a moment, long sleeves. He must have left bruises.
He isn't sure how he feels about that at all, or if he feels anything at all. It was just a weird moment, a weird night, and Pete was drunk anyway.
Patrick yells something, and Pete looks back over his shoulder. Gerard's standing sidestage, right in Pete's line of vision.
Pete's eyes get wide and he misses a step, stumbling and bumping against Mikey's shoulder. Mikey knocks him aside playfully and he stumbles again, eyes still fixed on Gerard, one hand moving to grip the other wrist.
Gerard turns away and walks back to his bus. Pete was drunk anyway. It was a weird night.
**
You never know what kind of bathroom a city's going to give you. Gerard tries to stick to the bus, but Frank ate something he shouldn't have and is camped out in the My Chem bus bathroom threatening to puke on anyone who bothers him. So now Gerard is in a dirty cinderblock room at the back of a concession stand, brushing his teeth in front of a sink that looks like it's been used for some kind of blood magic ritual in the not-too-distant past.
He spits into the sink, watches watching the toothpaste slide over the rust stains, and looks up into the mirror when a door opens and closes behind him. Pete's stepping in from the shower area, t-shirt wrapped around his shower supplies in his arms, jeans riding low on his hips and exposing four inches of boxer-briefs.
Gerard spits again and watches Pete in the mirror. His hair is wet and clinging to his forehead. Water drips down into his eyes and runs down his neck, droplets highlighting the tattoos winding around his chest. Gerard follows the lines of ink to Pete's arm, down that stupid Nightmare Before Christmas tattoo to where the lines of ink merge with lines of bruising.
Pete finally looks up, sees him, and stops. His face flushes slightly. "Gerard."
Gerard nods at him and looks down at the sink again, cupping a hand under the faucet so he can rinse his mouth out. Pete keeps standing there, staring. Gerard shifts his weight back and forth slowly, like he's slow-dancing, refusing to look directly at him.
"Look," Pete says finally, "I'm sorry for bugging you the other night."
Gerard takes another scoop of water, and swallows a flat, iron-tinged drink. "Who said you were bugging me?" Pete's forehead furrows, and Gerard almost wants to laugh at his confused face. He rinses and spits again, finally wiping his mouth. "When did I say that, Pete?"
"Well, you knocked me off the stairs," Pete says.
Gerard nods thoughtfully and shakes the water off his hands. "But I never said that."
Pete lets out a sharp breath. "Fine. Whatever."
"No," Gerard says, turning to face him. It's just like when he grabbed Pete on the bus; he doesn't know why he's doing this, it's just happening and he's going with it, along for the ride. "No, not whatever, I didn't say that, Pete."
Pete takes half a step back, catching himself just before it's a full retreat. "Okay. I wasn't bugging you. You were thrilled to have me there. Really excited to throw me off the bus."
Gerard steps in close and he can hear Pete's breath come faster as he makes himself plant his heels and hold still, not back away. The layer of bravado over confusion and discomfort is so obvious it's entertaining. Gerard wonders idly how much he can make that surface crack. There's nothing wrong with it if it's just a game, a tease.
He grabs Pete's shoulder right where the tendon stands out under the skin and Pete flinches. Gerard doesn't grip hard, doesn't dig his fingers in; he just holds and leans in to talk into Pete's ear.
"Don't put words into my mouth," he says quietly, then brushes the backs of his fingers over Pete's cheek as he turns and walks away.
**
Gerard doesn't see Pete again for a few days. They've both got plenty to do on tour. Gerard is even writing, a little bit, between playing and schmoozing and absolutely not drinking or using.
He's a busy guy. Rock star is a full-time job.
If he sees Pete at all, it's fleeting, from the corner of his eye, on stage or when Pete's running around with Mikey like puppies on sugar highs. That's more than enough. Gerard doesn't have any reason to want or need a close association with Fall Out Boy's frontman.
If he keeps thinking about the look in Pete's eyes in the bathroom, or the little noise he made when Gerard grabbed his wrist--well, that's just because Gerard is kind of a fucked-up guy and that isn't going to change just because he quit drinking. It's not the kind of thing he should indulge himself in.
He hasn't indulged himself, not for a long time. Since Bert, or even before. He doesn't really remember the other times, not the specifics. Just how it felt, the adrenaline rush. It's a lot like the feeling he gets when he remembers the way Pete looked when he was being told he was wrong. Being corrected.
Gerard's already denying his urges for so many of his vices. Cigarettes and coffee are all he's got left. Turning down one more--when it's right in front of him--that's really just not fair.
He's going to try as hard as he can, but he's not sure how much that's worth these days.
**
The next time it happens, Gerard is alone on the bus again. For real this time; the rest of the guys are all off catching the last set. He wasn't feeling it tonight and they actually didn't try to babysit or cajole, just called him a princess and left.
His band is good people; he really does love them. He's lying on the couch thinking about that when the knock comes at the door.
It's Pete, looking more surprised to see Gerard than makes any sense. It's My Chem's bus, and Pete was stuck to like glue to Mikey all morning, so how could he not know the plans?
But here he is, looking up at Gerard wide-eyed and a little nervous. His arm drops to rub the bruised wrist against his hip, and that craving in Gerard's head flares up hot and sweet. He wants.
"What?" he asks flatly, keeping his voice as empty as he can. Maybe keeping Pete off-balance and uncomfortable will be enough.
"Just looking for Mikey," Pete says, looking up at him with a hesitant try at a smile. He's Pete, though, he's no good at hesitant. In an instant it turns brash and too-wide and irritating. "Is he here?"
Gerard shoves his hands in his pockets. It's a yes-no question. There's no reason he should have to think about it, but he does anyway. "No."
Pete pauses, watching him expectantly, then snorts in frustration. "Dude, you gonna tell me where he is or what?"
Gerard smirks and leans against the doorframe. "You didn't ask."
"You're such an asshole," Pet says, glaring now, and Gerard laughs sharply.
"And you're full of shit, Wentz." He points at him, his hand forming the gesture with two fingers because it's so used to gesturing with cigarettes. "You and Mikey barely stop texting each other long enough to piss. You can find him easy if you want him."
"My battery's dead," Pete says. God, he might as well have a sign that reads liar floating above his head.
"You just came over here," Gerard answers, slow and measured and so deliberately it almost catches in his throat, "to piss me off some more." He waits a beat, long enough for Pete's eyes to narrow slightly but not long enough for him to speak. "To fuck with me."
Yeah, that does it; Pete's eyes go wide again and he takes a half-step back before he catches himself. "That isn't why."
"Fine," Gerard says, and Jesus, he can hear his own voice sounding all low and smug and like bad, bad promises. "You want me to fuck with you."
Pete swallows hard and doesn't say anything. Gerard's skin feels like it's on fire.
"Get on the bus," he says, and steps back enough to make room. This is a terrible idea. It's not too late to stop.
But as soon as the door closes behind Pete, it will be.
For a minute it seems like Pete might do the smart thing and leave. He stands there on the edge of the step, looking up at Gerard like he doesn't need this bullshit. Which is true. Neither of them needs this bullshit. But Gerard wants it, God, he wants to make Pete get on the bus, grab him and yank him up the steps, make him obey, make him--
Pete steps up onto the bus, brushing close past Gerard. The door swings closed behind him with a solid click. Gerard's breath catches in his throat. No going back now.
**
Gerard has been trying not to think about this, definitely not to plan. This is the first time, anyway; he doesn't know how far he can push before Pete pushes back. Or cracks. It takes time to figure that out.
So he has to improvise. He makes do with a bandanna twisted around Pete's wrists, digging in right across the bruises left by Gerard's fingers and holding Pete's hands at the small of his back. He doesn't let Pete get undressed, just ties him and pushes him down to his knees.
Pete leaves the bus with his mouth all bruised, a kind of glazed look in his eyes and a hard-on he's not allowed to touch anywhere but the bathrooms on the far side of the festival park. Gerard doesn't know why he throws that last instruction in. It slips out while he's ushering Pete off the bus, right after he ruffles his fingers through Pete's hair and tells him he's got a pretty fucking mouth when he shuts up for a few minutes.
Gerard lies down on the couch again, blinking up at the ceiling and rubbing at his own wrists. He doesn't know what he's going to say when the guys get back and ask him what he's been up to. He doesn't know how he's going to look Mikey in the eye. He managed it when he was a fucked-up drunk, but he doesn't have denial on his side this time.
Eventually he decides on the path of least resistance and goes to bed.
**
They don't cross paths for two days, though one time Gerard sees Pete and Mikey out under a stand of trees. They're stretched out on the grass, Pete's head on Mikey's chest, talking softly about who knows what. Mikey's smiling in a way Gerard sometimes forgets his brother can, sweet and open and uncomplicated. Looking at them makes Gerard's stomach twist up into a knot.
The next day Pete and Patrick get in a fight after Fall Out Boy's set. This one doesn't break the top ten Pete/Patrick throwdowns of all time (since the top eight slots are all taken up by incidents from the van days) but it's a close call. Apparently Pete's back-up bass gets thrown, Patrick accidentally elbows Andy in the face while going after Pete, and Joe gets kicked in the balls while trying to get between them. It's all very dramatic, according to the techs that saw it and are describing now to a crowd, then all four of them stormed off in opposite directions. Gerard looks at Frank and Ray, shrugs wordlessly, and goes off to check their merch table. It's got nothing to do with him.
Except half an hour later Pete corners him in their equipment trailer, where Gerard had followed their techs more out of boredom than any actual desire to be helpful. Pete's face is flushed, his eyes dark and furious, blood still marking the split at the edge of his lip from where one of Patrick's punches had connected.
"Looking good, there, Wentz," Gerard says finally.
"I need to talk to you," Pete says, and Gerard shrugs, because...well, obviously. Pete gives a sharp huff of breath and bites his lower lip. "Alone?"
"Wait two minutes," Gerard says, smiling vaguely at Cortez and Bob's drum tech as they gather up what they need and head for the door, shooting Gerard and Pete a strange look as they leave. Pete crosses over and pulls the door closed behind them, making the trailer shake. He flips it locked, and Gerard's eyebrows go up. He crosses his arms over his chest and stands hip-shot, affecting as much casual indifference as he can manage before Pete turns back to him.
"What do you want?" Gerard asks, when Pete just stands there by the door and stares at him instead of saying anything. "I don't have all day." Pete says something in a fast, unintelligible mumble, and Gerard rolls his eyes. "I can't hear you."
"Do something to me," Pete says, his voice tight and miserable and angry, his hands fists at his sides.
Gerard blinks. "What?"
"You know. Like...you know. Do something that will make my head shut up."
That wasn't what Gerard expected. He blinks again, and looks away, which means Pete won. Fuck. "I don't..." He catches himself, takes a breath, tries again for careful indifference. "Looks like Stump already took care of the leaving bruises part, Wentz. Not sure what else you want from me."
"Fuck you," Pete says. His voice actually wavers a little, which draws Gerard's eyes back to him like a magnet. "You know what I mean, Gerard. Fix it."
Gerard exhales slowly through clenched teeth. "Fix it."
"Fix me." Pete steps toward him, challenging and begging at once. "Do something and..."
"Shut up." Like every other time, it happens when Gerard's not thinking about it, that cold voice that gives orders breaking loose as soon as he's not paying attention. Pete's breath hitches in an almost-sob, but he stops talking, stops moving, just stops and stands and looks at Gerard with pleading eyes.
Gerard takes a deep breath and tries to find some kind of center while his blood is pounding in his ears and Pete is looking at him like that. "Don't move." He doesn't look to see if Pete obeys; he just walks over to the far corner and scuffs at dirt on the floor with his heel, running through ideas quickly.
"Take your clothes off," he says finally, still not looking. He counts to thirty in his head, watching a fly crawl across a window, then turns around just as Pete steps out of his jeans. His t-shirt is lying in a puddle with his hoodie on the floor.
"Wait," Gerard says, and crosses over to him, taking the t-shirt and twisting it slowly between his hands, looking Pete up and down. Pete still has his underwear on, but that's all, bare feet shifting on the floor, smooth skin, dark ink.
Gerard nods slightly. "Open your mouth." Pete's eyes go wide, surprise and a little bit of fear flickering in the dark depths. Gerard slaps him across the face on the same fast, sharp, thoughtless impulse that's going to get him in trouble. "I said open your mouth, Pete."
Pete exhales with a sound almost like a sob and opens his mouth. Gerard places the twisted-up t-shirt in his mouth like a horse's bit, settling it between his teeth. "Bite. And don't drop it. You drop it, I'm done with you. Got it?" Pete nods, his breath loud and ragged through his nose, and Gerard shoves him down. Pete groans when his knees hit the floor, and the sound sends a hot spark up Gerard's spine.
He leans down, breathing right next to Pete's ear, enjoying the shiver that runs through Pete's body. "Don't move," he says, sing-song, then reaches down and catches the thick elastic waistband of Pete's briefs. He guides the elastic down over Pete's cock, but lets it catch snug over his balls. Not as good as an actual restraint, but it'll make it a little harder for Pete to come, and he has to improvise here.
"Don't worry," he says, flicking Pete's temple with his thumb and forefinger. "I promise I'll take really good fucking care of you." Pete makes a little noise around the t-shirt and Gerard slaps him again, light and lazy, not to hurt him but just to watch him flinch.
He steps back, glancing over at the door again and folding his arms across his chest. "Jerk off," he says, pitching his voice to sound bored. Pete gives him a startled, confused look, color rising in his face when Gerard returns it with a stony stare. Pete shifts on his knees and reaches down to touch himself lightly, hesitantly, fingers just brushing over his cock. He's still soft, and it's probably going to take him a minute to get things going. Gerard sighs, loud and echoing in the empty space, and Pete flushes even darker with embarrassment. "Jesus, Wentz. Get the fuck on with it already."
By the time Pete gets it up and gets going there are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes; just a few, but undeniable as they glitter on his face in the dim light. Gerard keeps his distance, keeping his arms folded and his hands curled tight, just watches and occasionally says something cutting. Pete's breathing is loud and ragged, sometimes broken up with little choking noises around the gag. Gerard's dick aches in his jeans, watching him. Pete's gripping himself too tightly for it to really feel good, jerking fast and rough, and Gerard thinks about telling him to slow down, but fuck it. Pete asked for this, he's as responsible for himself as Gerard is, and he can do what he wants.
Pete whimpers when he comes, closing his eyes and biting down hard on the gag. Gerard watches him for a long moment, not saying anything until Pete looks up and meets his eyes. "Feel better?" Gerard asks. Pete just keeps staring, looking confused. Gerard walks over and takes the t-shirt out of his mouth, shaking it out of the twist and rolling it up in his hand. Pete rubs at his jaw with his clean hand and turns his gaze down at the floor.
"Get dressed," Gerard says, draping the wadded-up shirt over his shoulder. "Go back to your bus and take a damn nap. Kiss and make up with Patrick. And don't come looking for me unless you mean it."
It's a good line for a dramatic exit, and Gerard has a flair for drama. He walks out of the trailer without looking back.
**
Mikey mopes and sulks around the bus for the entire next day until Frank snaps--actually snaps--at him, demanding to know why he isn't off screwing around with Wentz and staying out of their hair.
"Pete's not feeling great," Mikey says, slumping down in his seat and kicking at Ray's shoes. "He texted me that he thinks he's just going to take it easy today so he can make it through the show tonight."
"So why can't you go hang out over there?" Frank asks. "I was starting to think you two would go into comas if you were separated."
Mikey shrugs and picks at his jeans. "He said he wanted to be alone."
Frank shoots Gerard a surprised look and laughs. "Wow, guess he really is sick. Wentz never wants to be alone."
Gerard manages a slight smile, then gets up and rumples Mikey's hair before he retreats back to his bunk.
**
The day after that Pete seems to be back to normal, or as close as he gets; at any rate, back to running around with Mikey and being loud and obnoxious in every corner of the tour. He stays away from Gerard, and that's--that's good, that means he's caught on and acquired some sense. Good.
Gerard keeps his distance. He sees Pete and Mikey every time he turns around, but he stays away. They're making each other happy, irritating as it is, and that's a good thing, too. Mikey should be happy. Everyone should be happy. Gerard cannot fucking wait to be happy. They're all rock stars, after all. Best damn job in the world.
The bands rotate times and stages, and sometimes Gerard ends up leaning against a wall during Fall Out Boy's set, watching Pete crowd up against Patrick and harmonize into the microphone. He spins around Joe, spits up in the air, jumps up on amps and dives into the crowd, bleeding out his sad little stories of fucking up his ex-girlfriends and being fucked up in return.
Pete fucking Wentz. Gerard would kill to be able to keep his eyes to himself, but apparently he's as hooked as Mikey.
He doesn't know if Pete and Mikey are actually hooking up. He doesn't want to know. Pete is highly physical and all over everybody all the time, but he's...gentler with Mikey, treats him like he's something precious. Which is exactly as it should be, because Mikey is precious. Mikey is every precious thing.
Of course, sometimes Mikey is also a stone-faced, nagging pain in the ass who corners Gerard on the bus and wants to have a talk about how Gerard's sobriety is faring during one of the hardest partying tours in the biz.
"You've been acting weird," Mikey says. Gerard looks past him, over his shoulder, trying to find an escape route. "Gee. You've been weird, and you've been avoiding me. You told me you wanted all of us to help you with this, to be there for you. So I'm doing that. Talk to me."
"I'm not avoiding you." It's the weakest point he can defend himself on, but he does it anyway. "Don't be stupid, Mikey."
"It's stupid to worry about you, now?" Mikey's jaw is set tight, his eyes dark behind his glasses. "That's not fair."
"That's not what I meant." Gerard exhales sharply and forces himself to meet Mikey's eyes. "I'm fine. I'm not avoiding you. It's just, you know, tour. I'm tired."
"You barely talk to me. You're keeping to yourself."
"And that has to mean I'm drinking?"
"I just want you to be okay," Mikey says. He's almost yelling and Gerard aches that he made that happen, that he's putting that expression on his brother's face.
"I am okay," he says stiffly, knowing he should hug Mikey and reassure him but not entirely sure that if he reaches for his brother he won't end up hurting him somehow. Physically, at least. He's already fucking gutting Mikey emotionally. "I'm fine, Mikes. I'm sorry. I can't...I just can't..." Mikey's shoulders slump, and Gerard shakes his head, already turning away. Watching Mikey admit defeat is even worse.
"I have to go," Mikey says, and stomps off the bus. Gerard waits as long as he can before he gets out of there, too.
He doesn't know where he's going until he looks up and it's Fall Out Boy's bus in front of him. Of course. He takes a deep, shaky breath and knocks on the door. Something hot and ugly is twisting in his stomach, now that he's acknowledging it. He's probably going to regret what he's about to do, but later. Not tonight.
Andy answers the door, looking confused as hell to see Gerard standing there. Gerard can't blame him. "Is Pete there?" he asks, closing his eyes as Andy yells back over his shoulder. This is going to end in disaster, but he can't stop himself. He's fucking burning up with wanting.
Pete shuffles up to the door, looking almost as confused as Andy but with something else in his eyes as well, wariness and under that what Gerard thinks might be an echo of his own want. "What's up, Way?"
Gerard meets his eyes. "Come with me."
Pete shifts his weight, frowning a little. "Where?"
"Come. With. Me." It's almost a growl, a sound Gerard hadn't really realized he could make outside of a song, and it makes Pete's eyes go as wide as the first time Gerard grabbed him on the steps of My Chem's bus.
"Let me get my shoes," Pete says, moving back from the door, and Gerard nods, turning to look out over the crowded parking lot. He's acting mostly on instinct, only thinking as far ahead as the very next thing he's going to do. Right now it's mostly take a breath. And another one. another.
Pete steps off the bus and pulls the door shut behind him, shivering a little even though it's eighty degrees outside. "What do you want to do?"
"You know what I want to do," Gerard says, and Pete bites his lower lip, glancing back at his bus. "You have to decide, right now. Yes or no."
They stand there for a minute, staring at each other, and Gerard can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He needs this release so fucking badly, but he doesn't know how to say that. He can only stand there throwing it out as a challenge and wait to see what Pete's going to do.
Pete licks his lips and nods, just a little, almost more like another shiver. "Yeah," he says softly, and then more firmly, "yeah. Where?"
That's something Gerard hasn't thought of yet. But the venues they're playing are full of quiet, dark places. He starts walking and knows without looking that Pete's fallen in behind him.
**
Before he left the bus, Gerard had grabbed the white t-shirt Pete had been wearing the last time they did this, the one he had shoved in his pocket and kept after it was over. Now Pete's standing in front of him again, naked this time but only half-visible in the murky light of the storage room, and Gerard pulls it out slowly, shaking the fabric out with a flick of his wrist.
Pete's eyes go so fucking huge, and this flash of panic goes through them, just enough for Gerard to see and yet it still gives him an electric jolt of...something that tastes good at the back of his throat. Power.
He twists the shirt into a rope and steps forward. "Open your mouth," and Pete hesitates just a beat but he does it, he lets Gerard slide the gag home. He closes his eyes when the fabric settles between his teeth, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Don't drop it," Gerard says, and he can hear his own voice shaking, just a little bit. Fuck, he is so far over his head and he can't stop. Won't stop. "You drop it, I'm done with you." Pete nods, a tiny almost not-there movement. Gerard nods at the table pushed up against the wall. "Go over there. Bend over it and brace yourself on your hands."
Pete makes a noise that Gerard can't identify at all. Then he goes.
Gerard takes off his belt and follows.
**
Why does he keep saying yes?
When Gerard's head is clear again, when he's calmed down and his entire body isn't throbbing with desire to hurt, he comes back to that question over and over again.
This is the first time Pete wasn't the one starting it, the one seeking Gerard out. Gerard is painfully aware that he's the one who made this happen, this time, that it was his will driving things.
But Pete could have made it stop. He could've said no in the first place, he could have spit out the gag, he could have nodded when Gerard whispered tauntingly in his ear do you want me to stop?
He shook his head every time. He moaned under the sting of Gerard's belt and he pushed back against Gerard while Gerard fucked him down into the table. Pete kept saying yes. Gerard doesn't know why.
Maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe it doesn't matter. He relies on that interpretation. He clings to his vague and lingering tendency to think of this as an elaborate game, even if it's one where the rules keep shifting and the stakes keep rising and Gerard doesn't think anybody wins until the other one cracks.
Pete hasn't cracked. Gerard thought maybe he would, right after, when he'd stepped away and zipped himself up and pulled the t-shirt out of Pete's mouth. Pete didn't move from where he was sprawled on the table, body hitching with every breath, and when Gerard unrolled the damp fabric, there was blood on it.
His vision blurred out for a moment. Fuck, fuck, didn't mean for that to happen, fuck. Then Pete coughs and takes a deep, shuddering breath, pushing himself up off the table. He stands upright and looks at Gerard with a surprisingly level gaze. Still glazed, a little shocky, but not broken. Not gone.
"I bit my lip," he says, licking at it and then rubbing his fingertips over the split flesh. "Shit."
Gerard stares at him for a moment, utterly lost for how to respond to that. "Be more careful next time," he says finally, but there's no heat or force to his words. He's fumbling.
Pete still ducks his head at the reprimand, moving away from the table and reaching for his clothes. Gerard watches him get dressed and doesn't say anything, just breathes slowly. He's exhausted, now. Exhausted and a little sick to his stomach, craving a cigarette in the worst way, and desperately aware that he needs to go apologize to Mikey.
Pete makes a muffled, pained noise as he pulls his hoodie on. It draws Gerard's eyes to him, makes his fingers curl into his palms as he pictures the welts rising on Pete's back where the belt bit in.
Pete looks up and meets his eyes, and there's actually a bit of a challenge there, under the endorphins and adrenaline and the pain.
"What?" Gerard asks, sliding his belt through the loops again. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Pete lowers his eyes and tucks his hands into the pocket of the hoodie. Gerard picks up the t-shirt again, crumpling it into a wad in his fist.
"You want this as much as I do," Pete says, almost too low for Gerard to hear. "It shuts up your demons, too."
Gerard stares at him for a moment, fingers clenching into the t-shirt hard enough to hurt. "Who says I've got demons?"
Pete smiles, a twist of the mouth that doesn't go anywhere near his eyes, and licks blood off his lip deliberately. "I do."
It roars up out of nowhere, the way it always does, and Gerard steps into Pete's space, grabbing his wrist as tightly as on the first night. Pete groans, his head tilting back, and there's as much real protest in the sound as pleasure. Apparently even he has a limit for a night.
"Don't say anything to Mikey," Gerard whispers, and Pete throws him a startled glance, laced with confusion around the edges.
"I won't," he says, and Gerard lets go. "He shouldn't be any part of this."
"He won't be," Gerard says, and he means it. With every fiber of his being, he means it.
**
It never works out that way, of course. Gerard can mean things as hard as he wants, but the universe is going to conspire against him.
Or maybe it's not the universe, maybe it's just that Mikey is observant and stubborn as hell when he has a mission. Watching Gerard is a self-appointed mission of long standing for him, one that comes out of the kind of fear and pain that just won't die.
So he's watching Gerard's every move, but at the same time he's spending a lot of time with Pete. And Pete's bravado notwithstanding, Gerard was rough with him. The next day he's sore, he's limping, he doesn't want to be touched the way he usually does.
Gerard can see Mikey watching, dark eyes taking everything in, comparing, cross-referencing, not missing a beat. Seeing more than he should, and Gerard's not sure how to conceal anything from him anymore. Maybe he never really did.
**
Whatever Mikey sees, whatever he's putting together like puzzle pieces, he isn't saying or doing anything about it now. He's giving Gerard a bit of a cold shoulder. He's still spending time with Pete, but more quietly. The simple happiness that flashed across his face before when they were running around has dimmed. Gerard hates that he made that happen, that he took that happiness away.
Except he didn't do it alone. They took it away. Knowing that twists him even closer to Pete than before.
And twisted is the word, yes. Oh, fuck, yes.
Gerard starts setting things aside, keeping a bag of supplies on hand. He had to be creative, on tour, but that was exactly how they'd all gotten to where they were, wasn't it? Creativity and single-minded vision. A certain degree of ruthlessness.
Gerard can do ruthless.
Practically everyone on the tour has Pete's phone number, so it's easy to get that without drawing any more of Mikey's attention. Gerard almost never uses it, though. It's better in person. More personal, more raw. It hits his ugly, unpleasant buttons better to track Pete across the grounds, catch his eye, call Pete to him with a look.
Pete never texts him. If Pete is the one starting it, he always finds Gerard in person, that stupid grin of his halfway to a challenging smirk, something desperate and hollow in his eyes.
All part of the game, Gerard thinks, while they track down an empty storeroom or an hour alone on one of the buses or once--once--the woods outside the venue because they couldn't find anywhere else.
That was stupid; they were artificial woods, overly groomed and preserved and patrolled and it's nothing but dumb luck that they didn't get caught. But Gerard was crawling-out-of-his-skin desperate, and Pete must have been, too. He was the one who came looking, showing up at My Chem's dressing-room door and making a series of smart remarks that made Gerard's hands curl into fists at his sides.
Gerard tied him up out in the woods, wrapped his arms around a tree trunk and tied his hands. He gagged him and fucked him there like that, hard and rough and leaving the whole front of Pete's body scraped from the bark.
That's the game, after all; it keeps escalating, because neither of them has cracked yet. Gerard thinks he should be a little scared of the way this is going, but it's hard to remember to. He's got this thing burning inside of him right alongside the music and the adrenaline of tour.
Pete keeps coming back, keeps saying yes, keeps meeting every escalation. Gerard twists rubber bands around Pete's dick and his balls. He takes the plastic clips Ray uses to hold his hair out of his face--the ones with sharp little teeth--and clamps them onto Pete's skin. He uses his belt and his nails and his teeth, he fucks Pete's mouth and his ass as hard as he can, he ties and cuffs and blindfolds and restrains. And Pete never says stop.
Pete starts to cry a little every time he sees that fucking t-shirt. Something inside Gerard is screaming, but Pete doesn't say stop, and Gerard can't be the first one to break, he won't, this means something.
He has no idea what, anymore, but it does.
He has a hard time getting to sleep some nights. He sees Pete's face in his head, sees the tears running down his cheeks and eyes so fucking wide as he watches Gerard twist the dirty white fabric. Say no, Gerard thinks at him in frustration, twisting under the sheets and punching his pillow. Just fucking tell me no.
If Pete would, he could stop.
**
The rest of Fall Out Boy assumes Pete is on drugs. It's not an unreasonable mistake, but it's a big one. They hold an intervention that, given that it is completely misguided, fails as spectacularly as possible. Pete stops speaking to his entire band. He appears five minutes before stage call and doesn't speak to anyone, just drinks from an unmarked water bottle and stares straight ahead. He fakes it through the show, and not well enough; the fans notice, the fans always notice.
He disappears after, and sometimes he finds Gerard. Sometimes he doesn't. Gerard never asks.
It has to stop. It has to. Gerard can't stop it and Pete won't, but something has to, because the wheels are coming off and there's no way to hide that. Mikey is starting to stare at Gerard with accusation in his eyes, and it won't be long until that all spills out into the open. If Fall Out Boy doesn't break up first. If the tour management doesn't step in. If Pete doesn't OD or collapse with alcohol poisoning again.
Pete gets on his knees for Gerard, sucks Gerard's fingers all the way down into his throat, bows his head so Gerard can see the way his belt wraps around Pete's neck and slides against the skin. The world is spinning out of control under Gerard's hands, but here in these moments he's a god, he just might be winning, and he can't be the one who stops it, he can't, he can't.
Gerard tries to make Pete say stop every time they get together. He tries to pry it out of Pete with his hands, squeeze and dig and force it out of him, but Pete won't fucking give in.
**
A hotel night comes around, just when it's needed most; the whole tour is weak with anticipation of hot showers and real beds and walls.
Gerard squints at the list of room assignments, not understanding what he sees. His name is by itself. He has a single. That isn't possible; he hasn't had a single in eleven months, three weeks, and two days.
"There was a mix-up," Brian says, biting his lip. "The hotel got mixed up and gave us a couple of singles, and you happened to draw one. If you don't want it, I can switch you."
"No," Gerard says, shaking his head. "No, it's fine, it's not a problem. I was just confused."
"If you want to room with Mikey, I can--"
"It's fine, Brian." Gerard shakes his head and steps back, forcing a smile to make up for his sharp tone. "Time to myself would be awesome. Thanks."
He texts Pete as soon as he's out of Brian's eagle eye, of course. He doesn't even stop to think about it. This--this is privacy, and something like security, and since neither one of them is stopping this they might as well turn it up to eleven. Why shouldn't his hand be on the dial?
It's like all of the crawling tension under his skin has been building up to this.
Once they're checked in, he has time for a shower and two reruns of Friends before the knock comes. Pete looks like a runaway kid standing there in the hallway, his hood flipped up and his hands in his pockets. He's smiling, but there's something strained and feverish about it. Desperate. His eyes are too bright. Gerard sees the hollows under them, the sharpness of Pete's cheekbones and the unhealthy tone of his skin, and his stomach twists.
"Let me in," Pete says. "I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm rooming with Andy--I was supposed to be with Patrick but that's not happening these days so I had to switch around and--"
"Shut up." Gerard doesn't want to hear about it, can't stand to hear about other messes he can't clean up but he's pretty sure he's still responsible for. They're both here for a reason and he wants to get on with it, with the things that will take his guilt and his anger and his wanting and all of his demons and just burn them the fuck out for an hour or two.
He steps back and lets Pete inside, turning to lock the door behind them. When he looks at Pete again he finds him in perfect submissive position, hands clasped behind his back and eyes lowered but still bright with that crazy feverish need.
"Fuck you for making me need this," Gerard says, and Pete looks up.
"I didn't make you do anything."
"Shut up."
"It's just part of you. Not my fault. Just the way it is."
"I didn't go around doing these things until you."
Pete smirks at him, which is horrible combined with those eyes. "Is that supposed to make me feel special?"
Gerard shakes his head and moves over to the bed, reaching down into his bag for the t-shirt. "Guess if you can't shut your mouth I'll make you."
Pete flinches and his eyes get wet when he sees the shirt, just like it's supposed to be. Gerard's reaction hits him like a drug, just like that's supposed to: hot sweet adrenaline, power and want that goes right to his cock. He rubs the shirt against Pete's cheek and shoves two fingers into Pete's mouth, deep enough that Pete gags before he starts sucking on them.
"I hate you," Gerard whispers, and Pete shudders all over. "God, I fucking hate you."
He draws his fingers away and slaps Pete across the face, hard. Pete groans and Gerard twists the t-shirt up fast, wanting it in Pete's mouth before he has to hear another sound.
"This is the last time, Pete. The last fucking time, do you hear me? You think you win because you don't say stop, don't say no. I'm going to make you say it. I'm not going to give you a choice."
He shoves the fabric into Pete's mouth and steps back, looking around the room. "Get undressed and get on your knees," he says, grabbing the bag again. More improv. Working with scraps.
His dopp kit is down at the bottom of the bag and at the bottom of that he finds the comb he's been carrying around for God knows how long. Carrying it around doesn't mean he uses it. It's the cheap plastic kind his dad always used to bring home from the barbershop, fine-toothed and sharp. He remembers yelling when his mom used it to comb his hair for school pictures, remembers the sharp angry lines he could feel it leaving on his scalp.
He moves over to Pete again and stands behind him, looking down at the smooth line of his back. There's the collar of thorns, of course, but below that the skin is blank, unmarked. Pete's head is bowed, his hands braced on the floor on either side of his knees, his jaw clenched tight against the dirty fabric of the t-shirt. Gerard can hear him breathing through his nose, loud and rough. He can hear the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Nothing else.
"I'm going to make you say it." He sets the comb over Pete's spine, just below the tattoo, and drags it down sharply. Pete gasps, and Gerard pulls back to look at his work. Thin lines, rising up puffy and white. A drop of blood at the top, where he was pressing the hardest, but nothing more.
Pete looks back over his shoulder, eyes wide. Gerard can't tell anymore if what he's seeing is confusion or a challenge. He can't tell if he cares. He just wants Pete to tell him to stop.
"That was just a test one," he says, tangling his fingers in Pete's hair and shoving his head down. "Face front. I don't want to look at you."
He presses harder on the next pass of the comb, and keeps the pressure steady all the way through. More blood comes up this time, scattered drops in the lines that stand out angry and red, and Pete makes a sound behind the gag that might be the start of a cry. Heat sparks in Gerard's stomach, low and hungry; that switch flips in his head and all he can think is yes and want and more.
He drags the comb down Pete's back again and again, overlapping and crossing the previous scratches, staring in fascination as he makes the skin go red and raw. It's like art, but in a medium he's never thought of using,like he's sculpting human flesh. He barely hears the noises Pete's making, only vaguely notes the way he's ducking his head and arching his back and his hands are scrambling at the carpet.
"Stop it!"
It's what he's been waiting to hear for weeks but it takes a minute to sink into his head. He stares down at his fingers wrapped around the comb, blood streaking his own skin from the plastic. It's another endless minute after that before he realizes it wasn't Pete who said it.
"Gerard, what the fuck are you doing?" Mikey's voice breaks, and it's like icy water crashing over Gerard, knocking him out of his head and back into reality, making his hand clench around the comb and drive the bloody teeth into his own palm.
"I...I'm..."
The t-shirt fluttering to the floor catches his attention from the corner of his eye. He stares at it, a white flag on the dirty carpet, and only distantly processes Pete's shaky, broken voice saying, "Mikey...you shouldn't be here."
"Pete, what the fuck is he doing to you?"
"Fixing me." Pete makes another sound after he says it, one that Gerard can't identify at all at first. Mikey grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him back out of the way. It's not until his ass hits the edge of the mattress that he realizes Pete is laughing.
"Jesus Christ," Mikey whispers, kneeling next to Pete and staring at the raw mess of his back. "Jesus Christ, Gerard."
"He didn't tell me to stop," is all Gerard can think to say. It's not the right answer, but it's the only one he has.
**
The rest of the tour, and thank God that isn't very long, there's an invisible line drawn right down the middle of everything. My Chem stays on one side, Fall Out Boy on the other, and God help anyone who tries to cross over. Actually, don't bother with God helping, because it's just not going to happen. Full stop.
Gerard hears, vague and third-hand, that after Mikey got Pete back to his room and his band, they had to take him to the emergency room. He doesn't know what was done for him there, but Pete doesn't miss any shows. He hardly moves through them, standing stiffly on his side of the stage and cradling his bass like it's made of glass, but he's there, he's playing, he does his job.
Gerard does his job, too.
Nobody in his band knows except Mikey, and that's bad enough. Having his brother look at him white-faced and cold-eyed is awful. Having him shove a list of therapists into his hand and inform him that if he doesn't call one and make an appointment for the day they get home, Mikey will let Patrick call the cops, is worse.
"It was mutual," Gerard tells him, more hopeless than defensive. "He asked me to do it."
Mikey doesn't nod, doesn't smile, doesn't flinch. "Then step one of the rest of your life is learning to say no."
**
It's months later when Gerard sees Pete again, in the reception area of some stupid industry event or another. He's mingling, he's sipping Diet Coke, he's smiling and making conversation and Mikey is hovering a pace behind him like a shadow.
He looks across the room and sees Pete arriving, posing against the official promo backdrop for a press shot.
He feels a sharp rush of heat to his face; he must be blushing like a goddamn fire engine. Pete looks good; not too thin, not too hollow-eyed, like he might actually have gotten some sleep recently. He's smiling for the camera and it's almost real.
Part of Gerard wants to go over and grab his arm, pull him aside and talk to him. Tell him about everything, about therapy, about how he's sorry he fucked up. Tell him about all the reading he's been doing, all the things he's learned; about dominance and submission, masochism and sadism, power and control; about how to feed your demons safely, about how they don't even have to be demons at all. He wants to tell him everything and ask him back to his room and see if any of it's true.
But then the camera turns away and Pete's smile fades, his face relaxing into a quiet expression, his gaze dropping to the floor. He bows his head and rubs the back of his neck and a raw jolt runs through Gerard like an electric shock. He wants, and it's not safe or sane or smart or careful. It's just hunger, the same old hunger, the same old rush and risk. The same need to take as much as he can until someone outside himself makes him stop, because he doesn't want to, and he's only going to do things he wants to do.
He takes a shaky breath and turns away, bringing his glass to his mouth to hide his face. Fire and gasoline, he thinks. Never going to do anything but burn out bright.
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