FIC: The Secret of My Success (1/1) Bandom
TITLE: The Secret of My Success
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
RATING: R
PAIRINGS: Gabe Saporta/Dallon Weekes
DISCLAIMER: Gabe Saporta, Dallon Weekes and other members of Cobra Starship, Panic! at the Disco, or other bands mentioned belong only to themselves. I don't claim them. I don't claim to know them. No harm is intended. I make no profit from this. I just like playing with them.
SUMMARY: Dallon meets Gabe Saporta. It goes about like you'd expect.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once upon a time inlovewithnight wanted Dallon smoking. Then Gabe Saporta got involved. It was all downhill from there.
Dallon mostly knows these guys by reputation, not from any actual meeting, but everyone knows everyone knows Pete Wentz, so he’s not actually surprised when he sees Gabe Saporta at the after-party.
Dallon was a Midtown fan, so Gabe’s actually been on his musical radar longer than most of the rest of them, but he’s relatively sure that only obnoxious poseur hipsters actually start off conversations with him by talking about Midtown. Besides, he’s not really all that sure what he’d say - ‘So, I loved your old band that’s nothing like what you’re doing now’ seems like a backhanded compliment at best, and band break-ups are kind of dangerous ground anyway. Brendon says they started a trend, and Spencer gives him a look, and Ian and Dallon usually find somewhere else to be.
Another option would be talking about the meta level of Gabe’s career, but Dallon’s pretty sure that Gabe has all that planned and plotted down to the last possible reaction. Acting like he’s in on it would probably prove to Gabe that he wasn’t even close to getting the joke.
“It’s not an existential crisis, dude.” Ian grabs Dallon by the elbow and drags him over to the Cobra pack. “Gabe’s friends with Singer.”
“Didn’t you leave on good terms?"
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make Singer less of a tool.” Ian says it with a straight face - as straight as his goofy mug gets - but Dallon gets it. Friendship is a tough thing when a band breaks up. Even Lennon and McCartney weren’t completely okay at the end, and they had years to get right again.
Ian introduces Dallon to everyone, then wanders off with Ryland and Alex. It’s a funny sight, given that they’re both a good foot taller than Ian. Still, guitars know no size limitations.
Victoria gives him the once over and starts laughing. He doesn’t even have a chance to take offense before Gabe shakes his head. “Be nice, La Hoya.”
“Not me being nice he has to worry about.”
“Go.” Gabe nods toward the bar and she takes off, dragging Nate along with her. Dallon raises an eyebrow. Gabe just shrugs and meets his gaze placidly. “She was laughing at me.”
“Maybe, but I think I might still be the butt of the joke.”
Gabe’s grin is quick and sharp, his eyes dropping down to Dallon’s hands. “You’re good. You four sound good together.”
“We’ve got a nice thing going.”
“Careful of the rebound girls.”
“Is that what Cobra is?”
“Ah.” Gabe doffs an invisible hat. “Touché.” He leans back against the wall and Dallon lets his own gaze wander. He saw Gabe from the pit at several Midtown shows, but it’s different. Gabe’s different. And not. “I could tell you my secret.”
“Would you have to kill me after?”
“Won’t matter. You won’t believe me.”
That sounds too much like a dare to turn down. “Try me.”
“All I wanted to do with Midtown was make music. I wanted to be heard, because I had some important shit to say.”
“Does that include The Outfield cover?”
“Don’t bust my chops, man. That is classic shit.” Gabe’s smile is genuine and contagious, and Dallon can’t help smiling back.
“Right. Right. Sorry.”
“Anyway. Important shit. Life-altering. Except it wasn’t. And I couldn’t actually stand most of the people who thought it was. I mean, not the people who like the songs or the music, but the ones who thought we were some sort of kindred. Pretentious douche-bags.”
“Which meant you were a pretentious douche-bag?”
“Eh. Some would say that hasn’t changed.” Gabe exhales, half breath and half laugh. “I’m going to get some air if you want to come.”
“I’m assuming I haven’t heard the great truth yet.” They go out the patio doors and move further onto the balcony, away from the lights and noise. Gabe reaches into the inside pocket of his acid-washed jean jacket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“Don’t tell, okay? I quit.”
“Badly, apparently.”
Gabe laughs and lights up, the golden-orange glow hitting his sharp cheekbones and the dark circles under his eyes. Dallon waits for him to take the first hit, then reaches over and steals it for his own.
“Thanks.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. “I thought you were a goody two-shoes.”
“I am. Sort of. Most of the time.” He takes a deep draw, holding it in his lungs. “Not always. But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Fair enough.” Gabe lights another cigarette and they stand there, two orange cherries in the muted light and sound. Dallon watches Gabe’s fingers, long and slim, parted in a vee for the cigarette, his cheeks hollowing out with every drag. He smokes slowly, savoring it, instead of rushing through so he can’t get caught. Dallon takes his time as well, every inhale and exhale slow and measured.
They’re both almost done, and Dallon’s comfortable with the silence, such as it is. Gabe takes one last drag then pinches the cherry, flicking the filter over the railing. Dallon turns his head and watches Gabe as he melts back against the hot concrete of the hotel wall, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
“That’s not the only reason we broke up. We were all sick of each other and sick of everyone telling us how great we were but not getting anywhere. And I had this idea. The antithesis of Midtown. I knew everyone would hate it. The guys were pissed that I was writing with Beckett, that I was talking to Pete about the business of things.”
“So you formed Cobra.”
“So I wrote and recorded a lot of shit by myself, figuring maybe - maybe - if I had something to combat the other side of things, I’d be okay.”
“Only that’s not how it worked out.”
“They said to choose. So I did.”
“And you chose…”
“Why did you get into music? Why join a band?”
“Because it’s who I am. What I do. I love it.”
“And as far as careers go, it’s a shitload of fun, right?”
Dallon laughs and nods, tossing the cigarette butt onto the balcony and grinding it out. “Yeah.”
“It’s like not even having a real job. Even with the tours and the rehearsals and the shit schedule, right?”
“Right.”
“Midtown was like having a job. TAI, for Bill, for all of them at the end, got to be a job, where you have to work to make it fun, where going out on stage is great, but everything else is fucking work.”
“So your secret to band success and longevity…”
“Is to have fun.” He grins and Dallon gets caught in the sheer, honest joy of it. “The whole joke is that there isn’t a joke. There isn’t some deeper existential meaning. I’m not making a statement. I hang out with my friends and make music, party, see people dancing and having a good time because of me. And that’s my job. I’m the luckiest mother fucker on the planet.”
Dallon looks at him for a long minute, judging how serious he is. “This is when I say you’re shitting me, right?”
“No one ever believes me.” Gabe holds his hands out and open, as close to the picture of innocence as Gabe Saporta can get.
“Because you’re completely full of shit. I mean, look at Pete. Look at Ryan. They’re not happy.”
“Well, no.” He shrugs. “It also helps if you get lucky.”
When Dallon raises his eyebrow, Gabe shrugs again, and this time his grin is nothing like innocent. “So you need to get lucky.”
“Yeah. I mean, that is why you came out here with me, right?”
“That whole…all of that bullshit was just to hit on me?” He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I ought to throw you off the balcony.”
“Nah. Pete would get seriously pissed.”
“I don’t know. It’s my favorite option right now.”
“What are the other ones?”
“Why? Do you think you get a vote or something?” Dallon walks over to the railing and turns around, facing Gabe head on. “Stalking back into the party.”
“Or?”
Dallon has to fight his smile at Gabe’s expectant tone “Telling everyone inside that you dragged me out here to ask me to convert you to Mormonism.”
“Oooh. That’s low.” He presses his lips together, fighting his own smile. “Or?”
“You are such a dick.” It’s easy to cover the short distance between them. It’s just a step and he’s looking Gabe in the eye. “They warned me about you.”
“And you didn’t listen?”
“Oh, no. I did. That’s why I’m out here.” His gaze drops to Gabe’s mouth before he kisses him, tasting smoke, vodka, and Red Bull. Gabe’s still smiling, so Dallon pulls back enough to bite his lower lip. Gabe barks a quick laugh then wraps the palm of his hand around the back of Dallon’s head, kissing him deep, tongue tracing the surfaces of Dallon’s mouth.
Dallon chases Gabe’s tongue with his own, tangling them together and sucking. Gabe moans into Dallon’s mouth, his stance shifting so Dallon can ease a leg between both of Gabe’s and get closer. Dallon can feel the bulge in Gabe’s jeans as he presses his thigh firmly against him.
Dallon rolls his hips forward and curves his hand over Gabe’s hip, one finger catching under a belt loop. Gabe pulls back, his breath coming quickly and ghosting over Dallon’s damp lip. Gabe’s fingers tighten on the back of Dallon’s skull, keeping him from moving any further.
“Having fun?”
Dallon huffs a laugh. “I should break up with you if I’m not, right?”
Gabe catches him in another kiss, this one deeper and harder, intent behind it. His fingers press against Dallon’s scalp, guiding him. Gabe’s free hand finds the small of Dallon’s back, sliding up his spine and pulling him even closer. This time, the bodily contact is chest to knee and Dallon can’t help but rock forward. His own dick is pressed to Gabe’s thigh, grinding down against him.
“Definitely not a goody-two-shoes,” Gabe murmurs, sliding a hand along his thigh to cup Dallon’s erection. He squeezes lightly and Dallon rises up on his toes, thrusting into the pressure of his hand. When he drops back down to his heels, he keeps sinking, getting on his knees. He has to shift back just a bit, and he can hear the ebb and flow of the party. He’s not sure if it actually gets louder or if someone opens a door onto the balcony or if it’s just the roar of it all in his ears.
Gabe’s already got his fly undone, and Dallon pushes the fabric away, guiding him from inside his boxer-briefs. He strokes Gabe’s cock as he frees it, feeling it in the curve of his palm. Gabe sucks in a breath, and Dallon licks the head, trying not to laugh as he chokes it out about him. Any kind of reprimand is cut off when Dallon takes Gabe into his mouth, wrapping his hands in Gabe’s belt and holding him close while he sucks him deep.
Gabe isn’t loud, but he’s verbal, a constant stream of choked-off words. It’s like a litany, a prayer and Dallon nearly chokes at the thought as he takes Gabe in again, cursing at his own sense of humor.
“Son of a…holy…fucking…” Gabe’s hips arch away from the building and he hits the side of his fist against his hip, so Dallon pulls off, wrapping his hand around Gabe’s spit-slick cock and jerking him a few more strokes until he comes, spilling on the balcony floor. “Fucking…hell.” He breathes roughly, eyes closed and mouth open, for a moment, and Dallon can see the second he pulls himself together and is Gabe Saporta again. “C’mere.”
He grabs Dallon by the collar and jerks him to his feet, kissing him rough and hard. Dallon’s knees ache from it even more than the rough ground, and he gives back as good as he gets. He’s so caught up in the kiss that he doesn’t notice Gabe’s hand until he has Dallon’s jeans open, and hot desert air and Gabe’s warm, damp hand are on his dick.
Dallon bites back a groan, because Gabe’s got long fingers and a firm grip and, while he doesn’t have his bassist calluses anymore, he has years of skill with a microphone, and he works Dallon’s dick like he’s working a crowd, bringing him up on his toes again, blood boiling at fever pitch. Gabe kisses him like he means to fuck him, hard and deep and possessive, the hand not on Dallon’s cock at the small of his back.
He can’t breathe and he can’t think and then he’s coming with a squeeze of Gabe’s fingers and the slide of his palm. Dallon shudders and jerks, his whole body stiff then he drops his head to Gabe’s shoulder, breathing roughly against his jacket. “That was…”
“I know.”
Dallon pulls back, his eyes narrowed. “Are you quoting Empire at me or are you just being a dick?”
“One of the great questions of the universe, man.” Gabe grins at him, all teeth and attitude. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t bullshitting you.”
“I find that hard to believe, no matter what you’re actually talking about.” Dallon does up his jeans, using the toe of his shoe to scuff the spilled come into the concrete. “But for the record, what are you talking about?”
“Have fun. Hang out and make music with your friends. Don’t worry about what it all means. You’ll live longer.” Gabe frowns for a minute. “I mean, I get that you’re into the whole eternal life thing, but…”
“You’re a douche,” Dallon laughs, smacking Gabe on the shoulder and shoving him back to the party. “That’s the real secret of Gabe Saporta.”
“Dude,” Gabe laughs as well, looping an arm around Dallon’s shoulder as they go inside. “That is in no way a secret.”
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
RATING: R
PAIRINGS: Gabe Saporta/Dallon Weekes
DISCLAIMER: Gabe Saporta, Dallon Weekes and other members of Cobra Starship, Panic! at the Disco, or other bands mentioned belong only to themselves. I don't claim them. I don't claim to know them. No harm is intended. I make no profit from this. I just like playing with them.
SUMMARY: Dallon meets Gabe Saporta. It goes about like you'd expect.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once upon a time inlovewithnight wanted Dallon smoking. Then Gabe Saporta got involved. It was all downhill from there.
Dallon mostly knows these guys by reputation, not from any actual meeting, but everyone knows everyone knows Pete Wentz, so he’s not actually surprised when he sees Gabe Saporta at the after-party.
Dallon was a Midtown fan, so Gabe’s actually been on his musical radar longer than most of the rest of them, but he’s relatively sure that only obnoxious poseur hipsters actually start off conversations with him by talking about Midtown. Besides, he’s not really all that sure what he’d say - ‘So, I loved your old band that’s nothing like what you’re doing now’ seems like a backhanded compliment at best, and band break-ups are kind of dangerous ground anyway. Brendon says they started a trend, and Spencer gives him a look, and Ian and Dallon usually find somewhere else to be.
Another option would be talking about the meta level of Gabe’s career, but Dallon’s pretty sure that Gabe has all that planned and plotted down to the last possible reaction. Acting like he’s in on it would probably prove to Gabe that he wasn’t even close to getting the joke.
“It’s not an existential crisis, dude.” Ian grabs Dallon by the elbow and drags him over to the Cobra pack. “Gabe’s friends with Singer.”
“Didn’t you leave on good terms?"
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make Singer less of a tool.” Ian says it with a straight face - as straight as his goofy mug gets - but Dallon gets it. Friendship is a tough thing when a band breaks up. Even Lennon and McCartney weren’t completely okay at the end, and they had years to get right again.
Ian introduces Dallon to everyone, then wanders off with Ryland and Alex. It’s a funny sight, given that they’re both a good foot taller than Ian. Still, guitars know no size limitations.
Victoria gives him the once over and starts laughing. He doesn’t even have a chance to take offense before Gabe shakes his head. “Be nice, La Hoya.”
“Not me being nice he has to worry about.”
“Go.” Gabe nods toward the bar and she takes off, dragging Nate along with her. Dallon raises an eyebrow. Gabe just shrugs and meets his gaze placidly. “She was laughing at me.”
“Maybe, but I think I might still be the butt of the joke.”
Gabe’s grin is quick and sharp, his eyes dropping down to Dallon’s hands. “You’re good. You four sound good together.”
“We’ve got a nice thing going.”
“Careful of the rebound girls.”
“Is that what Cobra is?”
“Ah.” Gabe doffs an invisible hat. “Touché.” He leans back against the wall and Dallon lets his own gaze wander. He saw Gabe from the pit at several Midtown shows, but it’s different. Gabe’s different. And not. “I could tell you my secret.”
“Would you have to kill me after?”
“Won’t matter. You won’t believe me.”
That sounds too much like a dare to turn down. “Try me.”
“All I wanted to do with Midtown was make music. I wanted to be heard, because I had some important shit to say.”
“Does that include The Outfield cover?”
“Don’t bust my chops, man. That is classic shit.” Gabe’s smile is genuine and contagious, and Dallon can’t help smiling back.
“Right. Right. Sorry.”
“Anyway. Important shit. Life-altering. Except it wasn’t. And I couldn’t actually stand most of the people who thought it was. I mean, not the people who like the songs or the music, but the ones who thought we were some sort of kindred. Pretentious douche-bags.”
“Which meant you were a pretentious douche-bag?”
“Eh. Some would say that hasn’t changed.” Gabe exhales, half breath and half laugh. “I’m going to get some air if you want to come.”
“I’m assuming I haven’t heard the great truth yet.” They go out the patio doors and move further onto the balcony, away from the lights and noise. Gabe reaches into the inside pocket of his acid-washed jean jacket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“Don’t tell, okay? I quit.”
“Badly, apparently.”
Gabe laughs and lights up, the golden-orange glow hitting his sharp cheekbones and the dark circles under his eyes. Dallon waits for him to take the first hit, then reaches over and steals it for his own.
“Thanks.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. “I thought you were a goody two-shoes.”
“I am. Sort of. Most of the time.” He takes a deep draw, holding it in his lungs. “Not always. But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Fair enough.” Gabe lights another cigarette and they stand there, two orange cherries in the muted light and sound. Dallon watches Gabe’s fingers, long and slim, parted in a vee for the cigarette, his cheeks hollowing out with every drag. He smokes slowly, savoring it, instead of rushing through so he can’t get caught. Dallon takes his time as well, every inhale and exhale slow and measured.
They’re both almost done, and Dallon’s comfortable with the silence, such as it is. Gabe takes one last drag then pinches the cherry, flicking the filter over the railing. Dallon turns his head and watches Gabe as he melts back against the hot concrete of the hotel wall, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
“That’s not the only reason we broke up. We were all sick of each other and sick of everyone telling us how great we were but not getting anywhere. And I had this idea. The antithesis of Midtown. I knew everyone would hate it. The guys were pissed that I was writing with Beckett, that I was talking to Pete about the business of things.”
“So you formed Cobra.”
“So I wrote and recorded a lot of shit by myself, figuring maybe - maybe - if I had something to combat the other side of things, I’d be okay.”
“Only that’s not how it worked out.”
“They said to choose. So I did.”
“And you chose…”
“Why did you get into music? Why join a band?”
“Because it’s who I am. What I do. I love it.”
“And as far as careers go, it’s a shitload of fun, right?”
Dallon laughs and nods, tossing the cigarette butt onto the balcony and grinding it out. “Yeah.”
“It’s like not even having a real job. Even with the tours and the rehearsals and the shit schedule, right?”
“Right.”
“Midtown was like having a job. TAI, for Bill, for all of them at the end, got to be a job, where you have to work to make it fun, where going out on stage is great, but everything else is fucking work.”
“So your secret to band success and longevity…”
“Is to have fun.” He grins and Dallon gets caught in the sheer, honest joy of it. “The whole joke is that there isn’t a joke. There isn’t some deeper existential meaning. I’m not making a statement. I hang out with my friends and make music, party, see people dancing and having a good time because of me. And that’s my job. I’m the luckiest mother fucker on the planet.”
Dallon looks at him for a long minute, judging how serious he is. “This is when I say you’re shitting me, right?”
“No one ever believes me.” Gabe holds his hands out and open, as close to the picture of innocence as Gabe Saporta can get.
“Because you’re completely full of shit. I mean, look at Pete. Look at Ryan. They’re not happy.”
“Well, no.” He shrugs. “It also helps if you get lucky.”
When Dallon raises his eyebrow, Gabe shrugs again, and this time his grin is nothing like innocent. “So you need to get lucky.”
“Yeah. I mean, that is why you came out here with me, right?”
“That whole…all of that bullshit was just to hit on me?” He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I ought to throw you off the balcony.”
“Nah. Pete would get seriously pissed.”
“I don’t know. It’s my favorite option right now.”
“What are the other ones?”
“Why? Do you think you get a vote or something?” Dallon walks over to the railing and turns around, facing Gabe head on. “Stalking back into the party.”
“Or?”
Dallon has to fight his smile at Gabe’s expectant tone “Telling everyone inside that you dragged me out here to ask me to convert you to Mormonism.”
“Oooh. That’s low.” He presses his lips together, fighting his own smile. “Or?”
“You are such a dick.” It’s easy to cover the short distance between them. It’s just a step and he’s looking Gabe in the eye. “They warned me about you.”
“And you didn’t listen?”
“Oh, no. I did. That’s why I’m out here.” His gaze drops to Gabe’s mouth before he kisses him, tasting smoke, vodka, and Red Bull. Gabe’s still smiling, so Dallon pulls back enough to bite his lower lip. Gabe barks a quick laugh then wraps the palm of his hand around the back of Dallon’s head, kissing him deep, tongue tracing the surfaces of Dallon’s mouth.
Dallon chases Gabe’s tongue with his own, tangling them together and sucking. Gabe moans into Dallon’s mouth, his stance shifting so Dallon can ease a leg between both of Gabe’s and get closer. Dallon can feel the bulge in Gabe’s jeans as he presses his thigh firmly against him.
Dallon rolls his hips forward and curves his hand over Gabe’s hip, one finger catching under a belt loop. Gabe pulls back, his breath coming quickly and ghosting over Dallon’s damp lip. Gabe’s fingers tighten on the back of Dallon’s skull, keeping him from moving any further.
“Having fun?”
Dallon huffs a laugh. “I should break up with you if I’m not, right?”
Gabe catches him in another kiss, this one deeper and harder, intent behind it. His fingers press against Dallon’s scalp, guiding him. Gabe’s free hand finds the small of Dallon’s back, sliding up his spine and pulling him even closer. This time, the bodily contact is chest to knee and Dallon can’t help but rock forward. His own dick is pressed to Gabe’s thigh, grinding down against him.
“Definitely not a goody-two-shoes,” Gabe murmurs, sliding a hand along his thigh to cup Dallon’s erection. He squeezes lightly and Dallon rises up on his toes, thrusting into the pressure of his hand. When he drops back down to his heels, he keeps sinking, getting on his knees. He has to shift back just a bit, and he can hear the ebb and flow of the party. He’s not sure if it actually gets louder or if someone opens a door onto the balcony or if it’s just the roar of it all in his ears.
Gabe’s already got his fly undone, and Dallon pushes the fabric away, guiding him from inside his boxer-briefs. He strokes Gabe’s cock as he frees it, feeling it in the curve of his palm. Gabe sucks in a breath, and Dallon licks the head, trying not to laugh as he chokes it out about him. Any kind of reprimand is cut off when Dallon takes Gabe into his mouth, wrapping his hands in Gabe’s belt and holding him close while he sucks him deep.
Gabe isn’t loud, but he’s verbal, a constant stream of choked-off words. It’s like a litany, a prayer and Dallon nearly chokes at the thought as he takes Gabe in again, cursing at his own sense of humor.
“Son of a…holy…fucking…” Gabe’s hips arch away from the building and he hits the side of his fist against his hip, so Dallon pulls off, wrapping his hand around Gabe’s spit-slick cock and jerking him a few more strokes until he comes, spilling on the balcony floor. “Fucking…hell.” He breathes roughly, eyes closed and mouth open, for a moment, and Dallon can see the second he pulls himself together and is Gabe Saporta again. “C’mere.”
He grabs Dallon by the collar and jerks him to his feet, kissing him rough and hard. Dallon’s knees ache from it even more than the rough ground, and he gives back as good as he gets. He’s so caught up in the kiss that he doesn’t notice Gabe’s hand until he has Dallon’s jeans open, and hot desert air and Gabe’s warm, damp hand are on his dick.
Dallon bites back a groan, because Gabe’s got long fingers and a firm grip and, while he doesn’t have his bassist calluses anymore, he has years of skill with a microphone, and he works Dallon’s dick like he’s working a crowd, bringing him up on his toes again, blood boiling at fever pitch. Gabe kisses him like he means to fuck him, hard and deep and possessive, the hand not on Dallon’s cock at the small of his back.
He can’t breathe and he can’t think and then he’s coming with a squeeze of Gabe’s fingers and the slide of his palm. Dallon shudders and jerks, his whole body stiff then he drops his head to Gabe’s shoulder, breathing roughly against his jacket. “That was…”
“I know.”
Dallon pulls back, his eyes narrowed. “Are you quoting Empire at me or are you just being a dick?”
“One of the great questions of the universe, man.” Gabe grins at him, all teeth and attitude. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t bullshitting you.”
“I find that hard to believe, no matter what you’re actually talking about.” Dallon does up his jeans, using the toe of his shoe to scuff the spilled come into the concrete. “But for the record, what are you talking about?”
“Have fun. Hang out and make music with your friends. Don’t worry about what it all means. You’ll live longer.” Gabe frowns for a minute. “I mean, I get that you’re into the whole eternal life thing, but…”
“You’re a douche,” Dallon laughs, smacking Gabe on the shoulder and shoving him back to the party. “That’s the real secret of Gabe Saporta.”
“Dude,” Gabe laughs as well, looping an arm around Dallon’s shoulder as they go inside. “That is in no way a secret.”