Fic: "Always Looking Up 2/2" (Bandom)
Part 1
it was the best of times from broken homes and battle scars to where we are (Paper Chase)
Sisky arrives breathless and juggling fast-food containers. "Sorry. Fucking...traffic. Did I miss the tipoff?"
"No. We're good." William takes the food and tumbles onto the couch, swinging his feet onto the much-abused milk crates that pretend to be a coffee table. "Did you get extra ketchup?"
"In the bag." Sisky sits down next to him, wiggling out of his jacket and squinting at the screen. "This is going to be epic."
William holds back from pointing out that Adam says that about every game. Mostly because if he's honest, he's just as bad. Team loyalty is important.
Basketball nights have become kind of a ritual lately, since the album. They had always hung out and watched the game when they thought of it, when it was convenient, but now Adam seems to make a point of asking and figuring out plans. William still believes in the importance of close observation and constant vigilance. He's noticed. And he's noticed the quiet approval from the others, which means that apparently Sisky has been given custody of William. Baby-sitting duties, at any rate, which should probably piss William off. He kind of wants to be pissed about it.
But it's hanging out and watching basketball. He just can't manage anger about that. And as much as he would rather die than admit it, it feels good to know that they're not going to leave him all alone. He's having some trouble being alone, these days. The never-ending racing circles in his head get worse without other people around to derail them. They get worse to the point that he flies across the country and locks himself in hotel rooms with his phone turned off, and worries everyone he knows except for the ones he pisses off.
It is, to put it mildly, not good. He needs to not do that. And if being baby-sat until the playoffs is what it takes...
"Fuck the refs," Adam declares, elbowing William in the ribs. "Did you see that?"
"Total bullshit," he agrees, slouching lower on the couch and letting his shoulder press against Adam's.
When he got back from LA, Mike and Adam met him at the airport. They hugged him a little tighter than usual, and then Mike smacked the back of his head really hard, but that was it. Then, and since, none of the guys said anything, just closed ranks around him and let him lean on them or pretend they weren't there depending on how his moods swung that day. They were just...around. Even the new guy, not-Tom (Chislett, he reminds himself, don't be an asshole), though he kept a respectful distance and showed concern just by bringing coffee once in a while and telling jokes that didn't make any sense without a five-minute translation from the Australian.
William loves his band. Even when it feels like the world is ending, at least there's that. There's their guitars and dreams of being rock stars and terrible, terrible hair. There's this thing that they have. All that matters in the world. When he remembers that, he does okay.
Adam jabs his elbow into William's ribs again, harder this time. "Ow! What the fuck?"
"You're not even paying attention. That was a very important free throw you just missed."
William looks at the screen. "We're up by twenty-seven points, you maniac."
"Never get cocky."
"You're completely insane." William leans into him a little harder, and they don't talk for a while.
The Bulls call a time-out and Sisky grabs his drink, slurping loudly through the straw. "Hey, did you finish the treatment for the video? You said you and Pete were talking about it but you didn't share the love. Jerk."
"Oh." William stretches his legs out, hooking his ankle with Adam's. "Well, it's like...what if you looked in the mirror and it wasn't you? And then that person came through the glass and tried to take over your life?"
Sisky nods slowly and slurps again. "Freaky."
"Yeah." William goes through the rest of the idea, the final version after he and Pete had e-mailed back and forth for a week, taking off the rough edges and the melodramatic flourishes and enduring all of Pete's editorializations of ha ha projecting much there bill?
He watches Adam out of the corner of his eye, trying to tell if that's his reaction, too, but Adam just nods a lot, his eyes fixed on the TV.
"...and then I beat up my mirror-self, on the stage? And all of you guys are trying to break us up. But then it goes to a wide shot and it turns out I'm alone on the stage. Not even the other guy. Like...like it was all in my head." Sisky looks sideways at him and slurps. William feels his face flush red. "It's symbolic."
"Right." Sisky rolls his eyes. "Like we'd ever leave you alone on the stage. I know that's the idea that makes you touch yourself at night, you douchebag, but you're stuck with the rest of us."
William punches him in the shoulder and settles against him again, closing his eyes once he's sure Sisky can't see his smile. "Shut up and watch the damn game."
**
you're a stranger i know well and not at all (The Test)
Gabe is always warm, ridiculously so, like a furnace as William leans up against him. Gabe's sitting on the back of the couch with his shoes on the cushions, and William's curled into Gabe's legs, his cheek pillowed on Gabe's thigh. Gabe's petting him slowly and lazily, and if William was just a bit more sober he would sit up and push Gabe's hand away, assert himself just on principle.
But he is very, very drunk and Gabe's hand is soothing, almost hypnotizing. So he stays.
"Bilvy," Gabe says, his voice low and sing-song. "How you doing, Bilvy-boy?"
William gives him a vague thumbs-up, not opening his eyes or moving away from the precarious support of Gabe's legs. Travis is on his other side, not quite touching but leaning in close enough that William feels the heat of his body. If he turned his head to the left, he knows he would find Travis smiling. At some point he started to be able to just feel it, the way the two of them look at him, like they see something good.
"You want to go back to your bus?" Gabe's fingers tighten a little, tugging at William's hair and trying to get him to look up. William shakes his head, resisting. He doesn't want to go anywhere. Moments of peace, of stillness inside his head, are rare, even with all of the alcohol a tour party can provide. He knows that Gabe knows that. A lot has changed since that tour with Midtown, but Gabe knows him in ways that still surprise him when he catches them out of the corner of his eye, just as much as they did back then. That artless swing across the country when Tom and Butcher were new and William still believed he could have absolutely anything he wanted if he just controlled everything perfectly. If he kept all of the balls in the air and did a backwards handspring before they landed. If only.
Maybe he still believes that, all crushing evidence to the contrary. He's better at pretending to be well-adjusted now, if nothing else. That has to be worth something.
This is the first time they've toured together since Snakes on a Plane, since Gabe put together his new band and hit the ground with a stubborn determination to create pop trash as performance art and convert the scene-kid masses to the cause of dancing themselves stupid and not taking themselves so seriously. William isn't sure it's going to take, but it's fun to watch and fascinating to listen to Gabe lecture about.
Travis cards his fingers through William's hair slowly, tugging a little at the ends. William swats at him, catching Travis' fingertips and curling them into his own palm. "Quit it."
"Just petting you." Travis frees his hand easily and brushes the back of it against William's jaw. "I like petting you."
"So do I," Gabe says, and William glares up at him as best he can, focusing on the sharp white curve of Gabe's grin.
"You both treat me like I'm a puppy or something."
"No way." Gabe's fingers slide down and race along the back of William's neck. "You're definitely a kitten."
"Fuck you," William says, but Gabe and Travis are both laughing and he can't help but join in, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against the solid heat of Gabe's thigh.
Gabe's fingers are still teasing his neck, and Travis is touching him again, too, palm resting warm and heavy on his shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles on his back. William knows he needs to sit up, push them both back, make up a reason and go back to his own room. This is the point where he needs to reestablish the safety of distance--actually, it's probably past that point. Travis' hand is sliding back and down, broad and solid and caressing and distracting. It's one of the days where William's chest is tender and sore and binding just aches too much, so it's not like he has to worry about that, but letting his guard down once is a bad precedent.
He's warm and comfortable and buzzed and being with Gabe and Travis like this is better than being anywhere except with his band. But rules are rules, even if they're arbitrary and his own.
"Let me up," he says, squirming between Gabe's legs and Travis' body. "You're squishing me."
"We are not," Gabe says, but he pulls his legs aside and lets William sit up. William drags his fingers through his hair--it's long again, past his shoulders, thick and tangled--and shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. It doesn't much work, except that he realizes that Gabe and Travis are both staring at him.
"What?" he asks, his instant suspicions doubling as they glance at each other. "Come on, what?"
"Well." Travis rubs his hands together in his lap. "We just wanted to ask you something."
William's heart is beating faster, making his head spin a little. "It's obviously something weird, so can we save it for sober time?"
"God, no," Gabe says. "That's a terrible idea."
William stands up and steps away, turning to face them and crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine."
"It's not anything bad, baby boy," Travis says, looking at him patiently, like William's being silly. Gabe has the same look. William wants to tell them both that they don't know what the fuck they're talking about, before they even say anything.
"Just get on with it already."
Travis glances at Gabe again, the two of them having a whole conversation with their eyes. "We've just noticed--not noticed noticed, but just kind of--"
"You never pick anybody up," Gabe says flatly, looking at William with a challenge in his eyes.
William can't really meet that challenge, because he is far too confused. "What?"
"After shows. When we go out. You never mention anybody at home, either. People hit on you left and right and you don't blink."
William takes a breath and opens his mouth to argue, then catches himself as he realizes the look Gabe and Travis are sharing isn't mockery, it's worry.
"Okay," he says slowly, "so I don't have much of a love life. What does that have to do with...anything?"
"We want you to be...you know...cool with us," Gabe says. "I mean, I figured you knew that, but maybe we need to spell it out."
He's going to start throwing punches if things don't start to make sense sometime soon. "Spell what out?"
"Whatever it is, we're not going to judge you. We both like you a lot, you're our friend, and no matter what you say, that's not going to change."
William runs his hands through his hair again, digging his fingers in hard to keep punches from happening. "Okay, let's back this up." He takes a deep breath and tries to center himself, to find something resembling logic and calm. "I don't know what you think you're talking about, but I'm fine. Sex just isn't important to me right now. I've got other things on my mind. Other priorities. My career, mostly. Sex is...so far from anything I care about. It's in another time zone."
"You know you can have both, right?" Gabe's looking at him all earnestly and intently, in a way that usually William would tease him for but that now is making his heart catch in his throat. "Music and sex. Relationships, even. Many people manage it. It even gives some of them material for their songs."
There, that's better. That part's more like Gabe. "Don't be condescending."
"This is a whole part of your life you're shutting off, Bill," Travis says. "We just wanted you to know that, you know, if there was some reason...if something happened, or whatever..."
It takes William a minute to figure out what the hell that means, and then he has to grab at the edge of the table to keep from breaking down in helpless laughter. Oh. Oh, God. They think someone hurt him. They think...
"Nothing happened," he says when he can manage it, when he finds the fine line between wanting to hug them and wanting to just walk out the door to avoid the entire situation. "I...wow. You're both...really great for being...for thinking about me that much. For caring about me. But I promise, you're...you're way off. Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened to me. It's just not my priority." He can see them opening their mouths to argue and holds up a hand to hold it back. "I don't want to talk about it any more right now. I'm going to bed."
"You don't want to talk about it right now, or you don't want to talk about it with us?" Travis asks.
William looks at the window behind them, at his face reflected in the glass. "When I feel like talking about it, you guys will be the first to know. I promise." He surprises himself, a little, with how much he means that. He trusts Gabe and Travis more than anyone in the world except his band, and he is going to tell them.
But not tonight. That's a conversation to have sober.
He meets Travis' eyes, then Gabe's. "Is that good enough?"
Travis nods slightly, and Gabe reaches out, his fingers tracing down William's shoulder just enough to feel. "I guess it has to be."
**
don't be so scared/it's harder for me (Skeptics and True Believers)
The air conditioning isn't working in the back lounge of the bus, for some unknown and unknowable reason. It's not comfortable, but William has it to himself. He lies on his back on the bench, stretching his legs out and folding his hands over his stomach, willing the low, grinding ache there to go away.
My stomach hurts, he told the others before he retreated, and maybe that's why they're leaving him alone, as much as the lack of air. They all try to give him space when his stomach hurts, because he's snappish and irritable as well as in pain. He feels wrong. It's a vague, inconsequential betrayal by the body that's pretty much otherwise bent to his will, and it's...unsettling. Upsetting.
It's also fucking hot in the lounge, and that's annoying, too. He wants someone to come back here so he can pick a fight with them. He'll pick a fight, they'll scream at each other, maybe throw a punch or two, then they'll play the show and he'll buy them a drink after and everything will be fine. They'll hug. It'll be proof in practice that things can be broken and then fixed.
It looks like they're all on to him, though. Not going to give him a chance. Fuckers.
He grabs his laptop, settling the heat of it over the pain in his stomach, and clicks restlessly around the Internet. There are a few blogs and boards he follows with great interest, music and sports mostly, and ones for trans issues that he watches in a more distant way. He feels guilty, sometimes; he thinks he should be more political, more involved, but then he thinks about the energy required, the intensity, the piece of his soul, and something in him flinches back.
Someday. He's sure that he'll get to it someday. He does care. He just has all the community he can handle right now with the industry and the scene. He can't pick up another one until he has a little more energy to spare. A little more room to breathe.
Then he will activist his ass off. Absolutely. He rolls his eyes a little at himself and bookmarks a blog post to come back to later. He has no attention span right now; it's too fucking hot.
He closes the laptop and then his eyes, lying still and listening to the fan humming away, stubbornly circulating stale warm air. Sometimes he suspects he's doing everything wrong, and sometimes he's sure of it. No surgery, no hormones. No out-and-proud. He's living his life and singing his songs and putting forward exactly the picture he wants, seamless, just like he wanted way back when.
It seems ridiculous that that could be hiding. But maybe it is. Maybe it's going to blow up in his face. He'll get sick, or hurt, end up in the hospital. They'll get successful enough that people will go digging into his history and actually care outside of a few fan communities who are more than happy to smooth over the odd edges, and--
"Not yet," he mutters, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. It's all still holding together, for now. Live in the moment. Live his life the way he wants to. The rest of it can come later.
"Bill?"
He moves one hand and looks over at the doorway. Sisky's leaning in, spinning one of Butcher's drumsticks between his fingers. "Yeah?"
"It is time."
William moves his other hand so he can glare at Sisky properly. His band is full of cryptic halfwits. "Time for what?"
"PS3 deathmatch. One round on every game on the bus. Winner takes all bragging rights." He points the stick at William's face. "The stakes are high."
"I don't want to play."
Sisky spins the stick again, then drops it. "Okay. But you should know that Mike said he would kick your ass, and if you don't play, he's going to tell everybody he did kick your ass, and you won't be able to defend yourself without looking like a chicken."
William is aware that he is being manipulated. But it's kind of touching that they would go to the trouble. "Carden," he yells. "You're a lying sack of shit."
"Blow me," comes the distant reply from the front lounge. "Get up here already, I'm not gonna wait all day."
"Yeah, come on, dude," Sisky says. "It's hot as balls back here."
William slides off the bench and to his feet, biting his lip against another hot, sullen wave of pain but silently determined to ignore it. Everything is fine. His life is the way he wants it. Not yet, not yet.
**
and I do regret more than I admit (Everything We Had)
William is on his third beer, and having the world's most awkward and dull conversation with the bartender. She's very pretty, with long black hair and a broad smile, and he's talking to her about vintage clothing stores and the weather, because he is the biggest loser in the world and so anxious he very well might be sick all over the bar. She keeps looking at him with open concern and not a little bit of pity, obviously assuming he's been stood up, and William is beginning to think she's right. He's going to switch to something stronger as soon as he finishes this beer.
Then Tom walks in, brushing rain out of his hair and looking around the bar wide-eyed and flustered. William raises his hand a little, ignoring the bartender's relieved smile. The sinking dread of being stood up is instantly swallowed up by the anxiety tripling itself. There really is a very good chance that he's going to be sick.
"Sorry I'm late." Tom hasn't changed, the way he looks William up and down hasn't changed, though his eyes are more guarded. "The rain. Traffic's all fucked up."
"It's fine." William manages a smile and wraps his hands tightly around his glass. "No problem at all."
Tom orders a drink and sits down, looking around the room, up at the ceiling, anywhere but at William. "How have you been?"
"Good. Fine. You?"
"Great. Good." Tom shrugs slightly. "You know."
William isn't sure what to say, what to leave out, where to begin. "Thanks for agreeing to see me."
"You said there was an opportunity."
As opposed to every other time he'd tried to call, or see Tom in person, when he'd pitched it as wanting to stay friends and been icily ignored. Though to be fair, he'd stopped trying at all pretty quickly. Two and a half years since Tom left, just about two years since he'd called. To be fair. He has to try to be fair or there's just no way this is going to work at all.
"So what's the opportunity?" Tom takes a drink and closes his eyes. It's easier for William to look at him then, searching for the differences. Tom's face is thinner, his hair wilder, his mouth still set in the same inscrutable line when he swallows. He opens his eyes again, meeting William's gaze before he can look away. "Bill?"
"You want to go on tour with us?" Tom chokes and William stumbles to clarify, gesturing wildly over the bar. "Not...I mean your band. Your...all of you guys. We've got some dates that need a second act." He shrugs a little, wanting to flinch under Tom's stare. "If you're not booked."
"We're not booked." Tom shakes his head, staring down at his beer. "I don't know if we're interested, though. I'm not actually a fan of walking into a gig where I'm going to get kicked in the crotch, believe it or not."
"That's not my intention."
Tom gives him a sharp look. "You're not the one I had a problem with."
William still had never asked what exactly snapped between Mike and Tom. It had seemed, on an instinctive, unexplainable level, important not to know. "Acoustic tour. Small. Just me and Adam, actually." He takes a drink and then a deep breath. "Mike won't be there."
Tom never did like to put too much into words if he had a chance to communicate between the lines instead. "I'll talk to the guys."
"Great. That's...thank you. Great."
"Anything else?"
William has to laugh, though it comes out sounding a little thin and strained. "We could just talk. Catch up. Couldn't we?"
"What do we have to talk about?"
William remembers enough to recognize when Tom is flat-out, unquestionably stonewalling. Fine. He'll cut through the bullshit, then. "Why did you send me those pictures?"
Tom blinks, pausing with his drink halfway to his mouth. "They were good pictures. Some of the best I ever got of you. I thought you might..."
"I wasn't sure what you were trying to say. The note."
Tom's brow furrows. "I don't..."
"It was about duality."
Tom stares at him for another minute, blank and puzzled, and then suddenly his eyes go wide. "You thought I meant...oh, Jesus. Bill." He shakes his head, hair falling down over his forehead, still damp enough to cling to his skin. "I meant...I meant the way you're all serious and poetic and shit but also, like..." He makes a wild gesture, encompassing William and the bar and possibly the whole world. "All energy. Out there. Sexy."
William's eyebrows make a good try at climbing up to his hairline. "Sexy?"
"Yes. You asshole." Tom takes another drink and rolls his eyes, but William's remembering more now, recognizing more, enough that he can see the trace of a smile around Tom's mouth. "I was mad as hell at you but I wanted you to know I...saw you." He shrugs and pushes the now-empty glass away. "Guess I fucked it up."
"No." William shakes his head and toys with his own glass, looking back at his distorted reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "I...I was...I jumped to conclusions. I was kind of fucked up after all that, too." A sideways glance at Tom shows that the smile is still there, and a little clearer now. "We're both really dumb."
"We so are." Tom laughs softly and they share a real grin, one that makes William's heart ache with memories in almost a good way. "I'll talk to the guys."
"Thanks."
Tom looks at his watch and then at his glass, jaw tightening with thought. William forces himself to be still, be silent, just wait.
"You have time for one more round?" Tom asks finally. "Maybe we could catch up a little bit."
"Yeah. I've got time."
"I've been wanting to ask you for like two years why the fuck you let Saporta talk you into doing that movie bullshit."
William laughs, and Tom grins and waves for another round.
**
I hope before the night is through one fumbled touch will finally hit the spot(After The Last Midtown Show)
Gabe laughs, low and warm and smelling like some of that godawful mixed-booze-and-punch concoction they'd all been drinking at the party. William can taste the echo on his own tongue, and he leans in to kiss Gabe again, suddenly compelled to share it.
Gabe kisses him back with happy enthusiasm, his hands sliding down William's arms to curl loosely around his wrists. "You're fun to kiss," he murmurs against William's mouth, as if this is a new discovery, which it hasn't been for months now, since William made a phone call that started with So my priorities, I think they've changed, maybe, a little, progressed through no, fuck you, I am not drunk and I wasn't ever damaged and shut up and listen, damn it until ending with but slow, okay? Slow.
Gabe lets William set the pace and the boundaries, which seem to keep melting like snow in the sun every time, closer and closer to...something. William tries not to imagine too much.
Gabe squeezes his wrists lightly and William groans a little, turning his head to nip at Gabe's throat. Gabe laughs again and shifts onto his back, tugging William on top of him. "Don't bite."
"You like it."
"Yeah, but I've got a thing tomorrow. Pictures. Can't show up with Bilvy-bites all over me."
"Depends on where."
Gabe looks at him with a smirk, eyes dark and warm and a little mesmerizing. "Tell me some more about that."
William feels his face heat, and shrugs, ducking his head to hide it. Gabe's thumbs rub slow, soothing circles over his wrists. "Or not. 's cool."
"I've only had sex once." Gabe just nods, still rubbing. "It was...it was awkward, and kind of...bad. Not his fault. Not...I didn't know how to say what I..."
Gabe nods again, bringing one of William's hands up to his mouth and kissing his palm. "What about showing? Instead of saying?"
William shrugs helplessly. He suddenly feels very hot, and very exposed, and he kind of wants to pull away and change the subject or maybe get another drink.
But he also really, really wants to have sex with Gabe.
Gabe is still kissing his hand and wrist, mouthing slowly and idly at the bones. William closes his eyes and just feels that, the hot damp slide over his skin and how it makes his nerves sing.
After a few minutes he realizes that Gabe really isn't going to move on to anywhere else unless William tells him to. Or shows him. He will wait all night. Which is kind of amazingly nice of him, but William's hand is getting all soggy and it feels weird.
He leans in and kisses Gabe again, turning his wrists in Gabe's grip until Gabe lets go, then reversing the hold and guiding Gabe's hands to his hips. They span his hips easily, thumbs rubbing slowly over his waist with just enough pressure to make him shiver.
"Nice," Gabe whispers, then catches William's lower lip in his teeth. William closes his eyes and kisses more, deeper, holding Gabe's wrists tightly.
It's incremental, by inches. Gabe's fingers catch in the hem of William's t-shirt again and again, but he doesn't try to move it aside until William finally catches his breath, releases his hold, and tugs the shirt off over his head. Gabe's eyes track thoughtfully over the binder, but he doesn't say anything or try to touch, just finds William's mouth in another kiss and goes back to running his hands carefully along the sensitive skin of his waist.
William can feel Gabe's dick pressed against the underside of his thigh, hard and hot even through two layers of jeans. He rocks down carefully, experimentally, rewarded by the low groan Gabe makes into his mouth. Good.
"God, good," Gabe says, his voice so low and hot it makes something jerk in William's stomach, a spike of want. He reaches down and fumbles with his own jeans, getting them open and guiding Gabe's hand inside. He can't quite breathe, his chest locked up with fear and want and adrenaline, and he certainly can't speak, so he guides Gabe's hand by touch, pushing his packer aside and then his underwear. All by touch, while he kisses Gabe frantically, for dear life, and keeps moving down against him in an erratic rhythm that probably isn't all that much fun.
Gabe's nodding, though, whispering something reassuring between kisses, and letting William place his hand just where it wants it, the side of the fleshy base of his thumb pressed hard against his clit, where he can press and grind, rubbing down without penetration.
And it works, it fucking works, he gets off with hot sparks behind his eyes as Gabe works the edge of his hand against him and bites at his lips and sucks at his tongue. As he's coming down from that, gasping into Gabe's mouth, Gabe's free hand tightens on his hip, holding him down more firmly as Gabe's hips buck up and he feels Gabe come hot and wet in his jeans.
"Fuckin' A," Gabe says, and kisses him again. "We totally just boned, Bilvy. Welcome to the very elite club of dudes banged by Gabe Saporta."
"More like a cast of thousands," William mumbles against Gabe's neck, and Gabe smacks his ass lightly, and then they're both laughing, there in the dark together.
**
you know it's all right/I'm stepping on the cracks and I feel fine (Sputter)
Somewhere just out of William's line of vision, Mike and Butcher are playing an excessively physical game of trash-can basketball. William can hear it, and he very badly wants to turn his head and look, because whoever loses this match is going to be incredibly annoying for the rest of the afternoon. But if he moves his head at all, he's going to get a pencil in his eye.
"You have fantastic cheekbones," the make-up artist murmurs, carefully drawing the pencil under the lashes of his right eye. "Seriously."
"Thank you." William digs his thumb into his palm to keep from blinking. She told him her name not half an hour ago--Jenna, Jenny, Jamie. "I'm fond of them. They hold my face up."
She laughs and steps back, reaching for a jar of something or other, and William looks up at the ceiling, tracing the pattern of the tiles. Photo shoot days are always an endless game of hurry up and wait, alternating between controlled chaos and, well, counting ceiling tiles. Or playing trash-can basketball.
"Tilt your head a little to the left, please." He obeys and she starts carefully dabbing at his cheek with a sponge. He closes his eyes, feeling the cool slide of the make-up and listening to Mike threaten to eviscerate Sisky for calling a foul. "How do you even...it's not actual basketball, you raving lunatics, how do you--"
Jamie swats him on the nose with the sponge. "Don't talk."
He winces in apology and obediently falls silent, studying the tiles again. They're going to do part of the interview during the shoot, so he needs to be prepared to be charming, funny, cagey as needed, enthusiastic about the new stuff, and to not stutter. It's going to be a very long afternoon.
His phone chirps in his pocket and he tries to reach for it without moving his head. Jamie laughs again and steps back, tossing the sponge to the counter. "Go ahead. I'll finish with your hair while you do that."
"Thank you, darling," he says, shooting her his best smile. It just makes her laugh more, but it's cheerful and not mocking and he keeps grinning as he glances down at the screen.
It's a text from Gabe. gracing my city with ur presence! dinner?
He wrinkles his nose against the mist of hairspray flying around his head as he types his reply. if ur buying
always. call when ur done. xo xo
William catches his tongue between his teeth to keep from laughing as he slides his phone back in his pocket. As he looks up, he sees himself in the mirror, something he had been avoiding for no easily explained reason. Now that it's happened, though, he stops, transfixed for a moment.
Jamie's hands settle on his shoulders. "Is it okay?" she asks. "If you don't like it, we've still got a little time to try something else. I was going for really neutral, but if you want theatrical, or--"
He shakes his head, smiling at her in the mirror. He isn't even going to begin to try to explain how when he sees himself, his automatic response is to search for what needs to be fixed, polished, made perfect. He's a performer. He corrects himself at all times. And there's always a pleasant little shock when he sees his reflection and there's nothing to correct, it's just himself, seamless.
It happens more and more often these days, but it's still so great, every time.
"It's fine," he says, tilting his head back to grin at her properly. "You do good work."
"Thanks." She studies him from that angle for a moment, brow furrowing, then nods and steps back, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're all set. Send me the next one."
William lets the other guys fight it out among themselves for who goes next, and wanders over to look at the setup for the shoot. Apparently they're going to be posing with giant, brightly-colored blocks. All righty then.
"Mr. Beckett?" He looks up and returns the offered handshake from a tall, bearded guy. "I'm Jeff, I'll be doing the interview. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too."
"Can we get you anything? Anything you need?"
William glances around the studio, at the cameras and the lights, his band beating the crap out of each other, the recorder in Jeff's hand waiting to catch everything he has to say about what he does.
"I'm good," he says, grinning enough that it almost hurts. "Everything's...really good right now. Thank you."
it was the best of times from broken homes and battle scars to where we are (Paper Chase)
Sisky arrives breathless and juggling fast-food containers. "Sorry. Fucking...traffic. Did I miss the tipoff?"
"No. We're good." William takes the food and tumbles onto the couch, swinging his feet onto the much-abused milk crates that pretend to be a coffee table. "Did you get extra ketchup?"
"In the bag." Sisky sits down next to him, wiggling out of his jacket and squinting at the screen. "This is going to be epic."
William holds back from pointing out that Adam says that about every game. Mostly because if he's honest, he's just as bad. Team loyalty is important.
Basketball nights have become kind of a ritual lately, since the album. They had always hung out and watched the game when they thought of it, when it was convenient, but now Adam seems to make a point of asking and figuring out plans. William still believes in the importance of close observation and constant vigilance. He's noticed. And he's noticed the quiet approval from the others, which means that apparently Sisky has been given custody of William. Baby-sitting duties, at any rate, which should probably piss William off. He kind of wants to be pissed about it.
But it's hanging out and watching basketball. He just can't manage anger about that. And as much as he would rather die than admit it, it feels good to know that they're not going to leave him all alone. He's having some trouble being alone, these days. The never-ending racing circles in his head get worse without other people around to derail them. They get worse to the point that he flies across the country and locks himself in hotel rooms with his phone turned off, and worries everyone he knows except for the ones he pisses off.
It is, to put it mildly, not good. He needs to not do that. And if being baby-sat until the playoffs is what it takes...
"Fuck the refs," Adam declares, elbowing William in the ribs. "Did you see that?"
"Total bullshit," he agrees, slouching lower on the couch and letting his shoulder press against Adam's.
When he got back from LA, Mike and Adam met him at the airport. They hugged him a little tighter than usual, and then Mike smacked the back of his head really hard, but that was it. Then, and since, none of the guys said anything, just closed ranks around him and let him lean on them or pretend they weren't there depending on how his moods swung that day. They were just...around. Even the new guy, not-Tom (Chislett, he reminds himself, don't be an asshole), though he kept a respectful distance and showed concern just by bringing coffee once in a while and telling jokes that didn't make any sense without a five-minute translation from the Australian.
William loves his band. Even when it feels like the world is ending, at least there's that. There's their guitars and dreams of being rock stars and terrible, terrible hair. There's this thing that they have. All that matters in the world. When he remembers that, he does okay.
Adam jabs his elbow into William's ribs again, harder this time. "Ow! What the fuck?"
"You're not even paying attention. That was a very important free throw you just missed."
William looks at the screen. "We're up by twenty-seven points, you maniac."
"Never get cocky."
"You're completely insane." William leans into him a little harder, and they don't talk for a while.
The Bulls call a time-out and Sisky grabs his drink, slurping loudly through the straw. "Hey, did you finish the treatment for the video? You said you and Pete were talking about it but you didn't share the love. Jerk."
"Oh." William stretches his legs out, hooking his ankle with Adam's. "Well, it's like...what if you looked in the mirror and it wasn't you? And then that person came through the glass and tried to take over your life?"
Sisky nods slowly and slurps again. "Freaky."
"Yeah." William goes through the rest of the idea, the final version after he and Pete had e-mailed back and forth for a week, taking off the rough edges and the melodramatic flourishes and enduring all of Pete's editorializations of ha ha projecting much there bill?
He watches Adam out of the corner of his eye, trying to tell if that's his reaction, too, but Adam just nods a lot, his eyes fixed on the TV.
"...and then I beat up my mirror-self, on the stage? And all of you guys are trying to break us up. But then it goes to a wide shot and it turns out I'm alone on the stage. Not even the other guy. Like...like it was all in my head." Sisky looks sideways at him and slurps. William feels his face flush red. "It's symbolic."
"Right." Sisky rolls his eyes. "Like we'd ever leave you alone on the stage. I know that's the idea that makes you touch yourself at night, you douchebag, but you're stuck with the rest of us."
William punches him in the shoulder and settles against him again, closing his eyes once he's sure Sisky can't see his smile. "Shut up and watch the damn game."
**
you're a stranger i know well and not at all (The Test)
Gabe is always warm, ridiculously so, like a furnace as William leans up against him. Gabe's sitting on the back of the couch with his shoes on the cushions, and William's curled into Gabe's legs, his cheek pillowed on Gabe's thigh. Gabe's petting him slowly and lazily, and if William was just a bit more sober he would sit up and push Gabe's hand away, assert himself just on principle.
But he is very, very drunk and Gabe's hand is soothing, almost hypnotizing. So he stays.
"Bilvy," Gabe says, his voice low and sing-song. "How you doing, Bilvy-boy?"
William gives him a vague thumbs-up, not opening his eyes or moving away from the precarious support of Gabe's legs. Travis is on his other side, not quite touching but leaning in close enough that William feels the heat of his body. If he turned his head to the left, he knows he would find Travis smiling. At some point he started to be able to just feel it, the way the two of them look at him, like they see something good.
"You want to go back to your bus?" Gabe's fingers tighten a little, tugging at William's hair and trying to get him to look up. William shakes his head, resisting. He doesn't want to go anywhere. Moments of peace, of stillness inside his head, are rare, even with all of the alcohol a tour party can provide. He knows that Gabe knows that. A lot has changed since that tour with Midtown, but Gabe knows him in ways that still surprise him when he catches them out of the corner of his eye, just as much as they did back then. That artless swing across the country when Tom and Butcher were new and William still believed he could have absolutely anything he wanted if he just controlled everything perfectly. If he kept all of the balls in the air and did a backwards handspring before they landed. If only.
Maybe he still believes that, all crushing evidence to the contrary. He's better at pretending to be well-adjusted now, if nothing else. That has to be worth something.
This is the first time they've toured together since Snakes on a Plane, since Gabe put together his new band and hit the ground with a stubborn determination to create pop trash as performance art and convert the scene-kid masses to the cause of dancing themselves stupid and not taking themselves so seriously. William isn't sure it's going to take, but it's fun to watch and fascinating to listen to Gabe lecture about.
Travis cards his fingers through William's hair slowly, tugging a little at the ends. William swats at him, catching Travis' fingertips and curling them into his own palm. "Quit it."
"Just petting you." Travis frees his hand easily and brushes the back of it against William's jaw. "I like petting you."
"So do I," Gabe says, and William glares up at him as best he can, focusing on the sharp white curve of Gabe's grin.
"You both treat me like I'm a puppy or something."
"No way." Gabe's fingers slide down and race along the back of William's neck. "You're definitely a kitten."
"Fuck you," William says, but Gabe and Travis are both laughing and he can't help but join in, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against the solid heat of Gabe's thigh.
Gabe's fingers are still teasing his neck, and Travis is touching him again, too, palm resting warm and heavy on his shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles on his back. William knows he needs to sit up, push them both back, make up a reason and go back to his own room. This is the point where he needs to reestablish the safety of distance--actually, it's probably past that point. Travis' hand is sliding back and down, broad and solid and caressing and distracting. It's one of the days where William's chest is tender and sore and binding just aches too much, so it's not like he has to worry about that, but letting his guard down once is a bad precedent.
He's warm and comfortable and buzzed and being with Gabe and Travis like this is better than being anywhere except with his band. But rules are rules, even if they're arbitrary and his own.
"Let me up," he says, squirming between Gabe's legs and Travis' body. "You're squishing me."
"We are not," Gabe says, but he pulls his legs aside and lets William sit up. William drags his fingers through his hair--it's long again, past his shoulders, thick and tangled--and shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. It doesn't much work, except that he realizes that Gabe and Travis are both staring at him.
"What?" he asks, his instant suspicions doubling as they glance at each other. "Come on, what?"
"Well." Travis rubs his hands together in his lap. "We just wanted to ask you something."
William's heart is beating faster, making his head spin a little. "It's obviously something weird, so can we save it for sober time?"
"God, no," Gabe says. "That's a terrible idea."
William stands up and steps away, turning to face them and crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine."
"It's not anything bad, baby boy," Travis says, looking at him patiently, like William's being silly. Gabe has the same look. William wants to tell them both that they don't know what the fuck they're talking about, before they even say anything.
"Just get on with it already."
Travis glances at Gabe again, the two of them having a whole conversation with their eyes. "We've just noticed--not noticed noticed, but just kind of--"
"You never pick anybody up," Gabe says flatly, looking at William with a challenge in his eyes.
William can't really meet that challenge, because he is far too confused. "What?"
"After shows. When we go out. You never mention anybody at home, either. People hit on you left and right and you don't blink."
William takes a breath and opens his mouth to argue, then catches himself as he realizes the look Gabe and Travis are sharing isn't mockery, it's worry.
"Okay," he says slowly, "so I don't have much of a love life. What does that have to do with...anything?"
"We want you to be...you know...cool with us," Gabe says. "I mean, I figured you knew that, but maybe we need to spell it out."
He's going to start throwing punches if things don't start to make sense sometime soon. "Spell what out?"
"Whatever it is, we're not going to judge you. We both like you a lot, you're our friend, and no matter what you say, that's not going to change."
William runs his hands through his hair again, digging his fingers in hard to keep punches from happening. "Okay, let's back this up." He takes a deep breath and tries to center himself, to find something resembling logic and calm. "I don't know what you think you're talking about, but I'm fine. Sex just isn't important to me right now. I've got other things on my mind. Other priorities. My career, mostly. Sex is...so far from anything I care about. It's in another time zone."
"You know you can have both, right?" Gabe's looking at him all earnestly and intently, in a way that usually William would tease him for but that now is making his heart catch in his throat. "Music and sex. Relationships, even. Many people manage it. It even gives some of them material for their songs."
There, that's better. That part's more like Gabe. "Don't be condescending."
"This is a whole part of your life you're shutting off, Bill," Travis says. "We just wanted you to know that, you know, if there was some reason...if something happened, or whatever..."
It takes William a minute to figure out what the hell that means, and then he has to grab at the edge of the table to keep from breaking down in helpless laughter. Oh. Oh, God. They think someone hurt him. They think...
"Nothing happened," he says when he can manage it, when he finds the fine line between wanting to hug them and wanting to just walk out the door to avoid the entire situation. "I...wow. You're both...really great for being...for thinking about me that much. For caring about me. But I promise, you're...you're way off. Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened to me. It's just not my priority." He can see them opening their mouths to argue and holds up a hand to hold it back. "I don't want to talk about it any more right now. I'm going to bed."
"You don't want to talk about it right now, or you don't want to talk about it with us?" Travis asks.
William looks at the window behind them, at his face reflected in the glass. "When I feel like talking about it, you guys will be the first to know. I promise." He surprises himself, a little, with how much he means that. He trusts Gabe and Travis more than anyone in the world except his band, and he is going to tell them.
But not tonight. That's a conversation to have sober.
He meets Travis' eyes, then Gabe's. "Is that good enough?"
Travis nods slightly, and Gabe reaches out, his fingers tracing down William's shoulder just enough to feel. "I guess it has to be."
**
don't be so scared/it's harder for me (Skeptics and True Believers)
The air conditioning isn't working in the back lounge of the bus, for some unknown and unknowable reason. It's not comfortable, but William has it to himself. He lies on his back on the bench, stretching his legs out and folding his hands over his stomach, willing the low, grinding ache there to go away.
My stomach hurts, he told the others before he retreated, and maybe that's why they're leaving him alone, as much as the lack of air. They all try to give him space when his stomach hurts, because he's snappish and irritable as well as in pain. He feels wrong. It's a vague, inconsequential betrayal by the body that's pretty much otherwise bent to his will, and it's...unsettling. Upsetting.
It's also fucking hot in the lounge, and that's annoying, too. He wants someone to come back here so he can pick a fight with them. He'll pick a fight, they'll scream at each other, maybe throw a punch or two, then they'll play the show and he'll buy them a drink after and everything will be fine. They'll hug. It'll be proof in practice that things can be broken and then fixed.
It looks like they're all on to him, though. Not going to give him a chance. Fuckers.
He grabs his laptop, settling the heat of it over the pain in his stomach, and clicks restlessly around the Internet. There are a few blogs and boards he follows with great interest, music and sports mostly, and ones for trans issues that he watches in a more distant way. He feels guilty, sometimes; he thinks he should be more political, more involved, but then he thinks about the energy required, the intensity, the piece of his soul, and something in him flinches back.
Someday. He's sure that he'll get to it someday. He does care. He just has all the community he can handle right now with the industry and the scene. He can't pick up another one until he has a little more energy to spare. A little more room to breathe.
Then he will activist his ass off. Absolutely. He rolls his eyes a little at himself and bookmarks a blog post to come back to later. He has no attention span right now; it's too fucking hot.
He closes the laptop and then his eyes, lying still and listening to the fan humming away, stubbornly circulating stale warm air. Sometimes he suspects he's doing everything wrong, and sometimes he's sure of it. No surgery, no hormones. No out-and-proud. He's living his life and singing his songs and putting forward exactly the picture he wants, seamless, just like he wanted way back when.
It seems ridiculous that that could be hiding. But maybe it is. Maybe it's going to blow up in his face. He'll get sick, or hurt, end up in the hospital. They'll get successful enough that people will go digging into his history and actually care outside of a few fan communities who are more than happy to smooth over the odd edges, and--
"Not yet," he mutters, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. It's all still holding together, for now. Live in the moment. Live his life the way he wants to. The rest of it can come later.
"Bill?"
He moves one hand and looks over at the doorway. Sisky's leaning in, spinning one of Butcher's drumsticks between his fingers. "Yeah?"
"It is time."
William moves his other hand so he can glare at Sisky properly. His band is full of cryptic halfwits. "Time for what?"
"PS3 deathmatch. One round on every game on the bus. Winner takes all bragging rights." He points the stick at William's face. "The stakes are high."
"I don't want to play."
Sisky spins the stick again, then drops it. "Okay. But you should know that Mike said he would kick your ass, and if you don't play, he's going to tell everybody he did kick your ass, and you won't be able to defend yourself without looking like a chicken."
William is aware that he is being manipulated. But it's kind of touching that they would go to the trouble. "Carden," he yells. "You're a lying sack of shit."
"Blow me," comes the distant reply from the front lounge. "Get up here already, I'm not gonna wait all day."
"Yeah, come on, dude," Sisky says. "It's hot as balls back here."
William slides off the bench and to his feet, biting his lip against another hot, sullen wave of pain but silently determined to ignore it. Everything is fine. His life is the way he wants it. Not yet, not yet.
**
and I do regret more than I admit (Everything We Had)
William is on his third beer, and having the world's most awkward and dull conversation with the bartender. She's very pretty, with long black hair and a broad smile, and he's talking to her about vintage clothing stores and the weather, because he is the biggest loser in the world and so anxious he very well might be sick all over the bar. She keeps looking at him with open concern and not a little bit of pity, obviously assuming he's been stood up, and William is beginning to think she's right. He's going to switch to something stronger as soon as he finishes this beer.
Then Tom walks in, brushing rain out of his hair and looking around the bar wide-eyed and flustered. William raises his hand a little, ignoring the bartender's relieved smile. The sinking dread of being stood up is instantly swallowed up by the anxiety tripling itself. There really is a very good chance that he's going to be sick.
"Sorry I'm late." Tom hasn't changed, the way he looks William up and down hasn't changed, though his eyes are more guarded. "The rain. Traffic's all fucked up."
"It's fine." William manages a smile and wraps his hands tightly around his glass. "No problem at all."
Tom orders a drink and sits down, looking around the room, up at the ceiling, anywhere but at William. "How have you been?"
"Good. Fine. You?"
"Great. Good." Tom shrugs slightly. "You know."
William isn't sure what to say, what to leave out, where to begin. "Thanks for agreeing to see me."
"You said there was an opportunity."
As opposed to every other time he'd tried to call, or see Tom in person, when he'd pitched it as wanting to stay friends and been icily ignored. Though to be fair, he'd stopped trying at all pretty quickly. Two and a half years since Tom left, just about two years since he'd called. To be fair. He has to try to be fair or there's just no way this is going to work at all.
"So what's the opportunity?" Tom takes a drink and closes his eyes. It's easier for William to look at him then, searching for the differences. Tom's face is thinner, his hair wilder, his mouth still set in the same inscrutable line when he swallows. He opens his eyes again, meeting William's gaze before he can look away. "Bill?"
"You want to go on tour with us?" Tom chokes and William stumbles to clarify, gesturing wildly over the bar. "Not...I mean your band. Your...all of you guys. We've got some dates that need a second act." He shrugs a little, wanting to flinch under Tom's stare. "If you're not booked."
"We're not booked." Tom shakes his head, staring down at his beer. "I don't know if we're interested, though. I'm not actually a fan of walking into a gig where I'm going to get kicked in the crotch, believe it or not."
"That's not my intention."
Tom gives him a sharp look. "You're not the one I had a problem with."
William still had never asked what exactly snapped between Mike and Tom. It had seemed, on an instinctive, unexplainable level, important not to know. "Acoustic tour. Small. Just me and Adam, actually." He takes a drink and then a deep breath. "Mike won't be there."
Tom never did like to put too much into words if he had a chance to communicate between the lines instead. "I'll talk to the guys."
"Great. That's...thank you. Great."
"Anything else?"
William has to laugh, though it comes out sounding a little thin and strained. "We could just talk. Catch up. Couldn't we?"
"What do we have to talk about?"
William remembers enough to recognize when Tom is flat-out, unquestionably stonewalling. Fine. He'll cut through the bullshit, then. "Why did you send me those pictures?"
Tom blinks, pausing with his drink halfway to his mouth. "They were good pictures. Some of the best I ever got of you. I thought you might..."
"I wasn't sure what you were trying to say. The note."
Tom's brow furrows. "I don't..."
"It was about duality."
Tom stares at him for another minute, blank and puzzled, and then suddenly his eyes go wide. "You thought I meant...oh, Jesus. Bill." He shakes his head, hair falling down over his forehead, still damp enough to cling to his skin. "I meant...I meant the way you're all serious and poetic and shit but also, like..." He makes a wild gesture, encompassing William and the bar and possibly the whole world. "All energy. Out there. Sexy."
William's eyebrows make a good try at climbing up to his hairline. "Sexy?"
"Yes. You asshole." Tom takes another drink and rolls his eyes, but William's remembering more now, recognizing more, enough that he can see the trace of a smile around Tom's mouth. "I was mad as hell at you but I wanted you to know I...saw you." He shrugs and pushes the now-empty glass away. "Guess I fucked it up."
"No." William shakes his head and toys with his own glass, looking back at his distorted reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "I...I was...I jumped to conclusions. I was kind of fucked up after all that, too." A sideways glance at Tom shows that the smile is still there, and a little clearer now. "We're both really dumb."
"We so are." Tom laughs softly and they share a real grin, one that makes William's heart ache with memories in almost a good way. "I'll talk to the guys."
"Thanks."
Tom looks at his watch and then at his glass, jaw tightening with thought. William forces himself to be still, be silent, just wait.
"You have time for one more round?" Tom asks finally. "Maybe we could catch up a little bit."
"Yeah. I've got time."
"I've been wanting to ask you for like two years why the fuck you let Saporta talk you into doing that movie bullshit."
William laughs, and Tom grins and waves for another round.
**
I hope before the night is through one fumbled touch will finally hit the spot(After The Last Midtown Show)
Gabe laughs, low and warm and smelling like some of that godawful mixed-booze-and-punch concoction they'd all been drinking at the party. William can taste the echo on his own tongue, and he leans in to kiss Gabe again, suddenly compelled to share it.
Gabe kisses him back with happy enthusiasm, his hands sliding down William's arms to curl loosely around his wrists. "You're fun to kiss," he murmurs against William's mouth, as if this is a new discovery, which it hasn't been for months now, since William made a phone call that started with So my priorities, I think they've changed, maybe, a little, progressed through no, fuck you, I am not drunk and I wasn't ever damaged and shut up and listen, damn it until ending with but slow, okay? Slow.
Gabe lets William set the pace and the boundaries, which seem to keep melting like snow in the sun every time, closer and closer to...something. William tries not to imagine too much.
Gabe squeezes his wrists lightly and William groans a little, turning his head to nip at Gabe's throat. Gabe laughs again and shifts onto his back, tugging William on top of him. "Don't bite."
"You like it."
"Yeah, but I've got a thing tomorrow. Pictures. Can't show up with Bilvy-bites all over me."
"Depends on where."
Gabe looks at him with a smirk, eyes dark and warm and a little mesmerizing. "Tell me some more about that."
William feels his face heat, and shrugs, ducking his head to hide it. Gabe's thumbs rub slow, soothing circles over his wrists. "Or not. 's cool."
"I've only had sex once." Gabe just nods, still rubbing. "It was...it was awkward, and kind of...bad. Not his fault. Not...I didn't know how to say what I..."
Gabe nods again, bringing one of William's hands up to his mouth and kissing his palm. "What about showing? Instead of saying?"
William shrugs helplessly. He suddenly feels very hot, and very exposed, and he kind of wants to pull away and change the subject or maybe get another drink.
But he also really, really wants to have sex with Gabe.
Gabe is still kissing his hand and wrist, mouthing slowly and idly at the bones. William closes his eyes and just feels that, the hot damp slide over his skin and how it makes his nerves sing.
After a few minutes he realizes that Gabe really isn't going to move on to anywhere else unless William tells him to. Or shows him. He will wait all night. Which is kind of amazingly nice of him, but William's hand is getting all soggy and it feels weird.
He leans in and kisses Gabe again, turning his wrists in Gabe's grip until Gabe lets go, then reversing the hold and guiding Gabe's hands to his hips. They span his hips easily, thumbs rubbing slowly over his waist with just enough pressure to make him shiver.
"Nice," Gabe whispers, then catches William's lower lip in his teeth. William closes his eyes and kisses more, deeper, holding Gabe's wrists tightly.
It's incremental, by inches. Gabe's fingers catch in the hem of William's t-shirt again and again, but he doesn't try to move it aside until William finally catches his breath, releases his hold, and tugs the shirt off over his head. Gabe's eyes track thoughtfully over the binder, but he doesn't say anything or try to touch, just finds William's mouth in another kiss and goes back to running his hands carefully along the sensitive skin of his waist.
William can feel Gabe's dick pressed against the underside of his thigh, hard and hot even through two layers of jeans. He rocks down carefully, experimentally, rewarded by the low groan Gabe makes into his mouth. Good.
"God, good," Gabe says, his voice so low and hot it makes something jerk in William's stomach, a spike of want. He reaches down and fumbles with his own jeans, getting them open and guiding Gabe's hand inside. He can't quite breathe, his chest locked up with fear and want and adrenaline, and he certainly can't speak, so he guides Gabe's hand by touch, pushing his packer aside and then his underwear. All by touch, while he kisses Gabe frantically, for dear life, and keeps moving down against him in an erratic rhythm that probably isn't all that much fun.
Gabe's nodding, though, whispering something reassuring between kisses, and letting William place his hand just where it wants it, the side of the fleshy base of his thumb pressed hard against his clit, where he can press and grind, rubbing down without penetration.
And it works, it fucking works, he gets off with hot sparks behind his eyes as Gabe works the edge of his hand against him and bites at his lips and sucks at his tongue. As he's coming down from that, gasping into Gabe's mouth, Gabe's free hand tightens on his hip, holding him down more firmly as Gabe's hips buck up and he feels Gabe come hot and wet in his jeans.
"Fuckin' A," Gabe says, and kisses him again. "We totally just boned, Bilvy. Welcome to the very elite club of dudes banged by Gabe Saporta."
"More like a cast of thousands," William mumbles against Gabe's neck, and Gabe smacks his ass lightly, and then they're both laughing, there in the dark together.
**
you know it's all right/I'm stepping on the cracks and I feel fine (Sputter)
Somewhere just out of William's line of vision, Mike and Butcher are playing an excessively physical game of trash-can basketball. William can hear it, and he very badly wants to turn his head and look, because whoever loses this match is going to be incredibly annoying for the rest of the afternoon. But if he moves his head at all, he's going to get a pencil in his eye.
"You have fantastic cheekbones," the make-up artist murmurs, carefully drawing the pencil under the lashes of his right eye. "Seriously."
"Thank you." William digs his thumb into his palm to keep from blinking. She told him her name not half an hour ago--Jenna, Jenny, Jamie. "I'm fond of them. They hold my face up."
She laughs and steps back, reaching for a jar of something or other, and William looks up at the ceiling, tracing the pattern of the tiles. Photo shoot days are always an endless game of hurry up and wait, alternating between controlled chaos and, well, counting ceiling tiles. Or playing trash-can basketball.
"Tilt your head a little to the left, please." He obeys and she starts carefully dabbing at his cheek with a sponge. He closes his eyes, feeling the cool slide of the make-up and listening to Mike threaten to eviscerate Sisky for calling a foul. "How do you even...it's not actual basketball, you raving lunatics, how do you--"
Jamie swats him on the nose with the sponge. "Don't talk."
He winces in apology and obediently falls silent, studying the tiles again. They're going to do part of the interview during the shoot, so he needs to be prepared to be charming, funny, cagey as needed, enthusiastic about the new stuff, and to not stutter. It's going to be a very long afternoon.
His phone chirps in his pocket and he tries to reach for it without moving his head. Jamie laughs again and steps back, tossing the sponge to the counter. "Go ahead. I'll finish with your hair while you do that."
"Thank you, darling," he says, shooting her his best smile. It just makes her laugh more, but it's cheerful and not mocking and he keeps grinning as he glances down at the screen.
It's a text from Gabe. gracing my city with ur presence! dinner?
He wrinkles his nose against the mist of hairspray flying around his head as he types his reply. if ur buying
always. call when ur done. xo xo
William catches his tongue between his teeth to keep from laughing as he slides his phone back in his pocket. As he looks up, he sees himself in the mirror, something he had been avoiding for no easily explained reason. Now that it's happened, though, he stops, transfixed for a moment.
Jamie's hands settle on his shoulders. "Is it okay?" she asks. "If you don't like it, we've still got a little time to try something else. I was going for really neutral, but if you want theatrical, or--"
He shakes his head, smiling at her in the mirror. He isn't even going to begin to try to explain how when he sees himself, his automatic response is to search for what needs to be fixed, polished, made perfect. He's a performer. He corrects himself at all times. And there's always a pleasant little shock when he sees his reflection and there's nothing to correct, it's just himself, seamless.
It happens more and more often these days, but it's still so great, every time.
"It's fine," he says, tilting his head back to grin at her properly. "You do good work."
"Thanks." She studies him from that angle for a moment, brow furrowing, then nods and steps back, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're all set. Send me the next one."
William lets the other guys fight it out among themselves for who goes next, and wanders over to look at the setup for the shoot. Apparently they're going to be posing with giant, brightly-colored blocks. All righty then.
"Mr. Beckett?" He looks up and returns the offered handshake from a tall, bearded guy. "I'm Jeff, I'll be doing the interview. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too."
"Can we get you anything? Anything you need?"
William glances around the studio, at the cameras and the lights, his band beating the crap out of each other, the recorder in Jeff's hand waiting to catch everything he has to say about what he does.
"I'm good," he says, grinning enough that it almost hurts. "Everything's...really good right now. Thank you."