Fic: "Darken My Door" (bandom)
Alternate lineups fic #2.
Pete/Gabe. Prompt: 16 - Coming back from tour and knocking on the other's door, jetlagged and tired, and being taken care of.
Contains spanking. And sarcasm. Title from Lucero.
Pete isn’t waiting up.
He’s awake, because keeping insomnia hours works like that. His eyes are burning and his head is fuzzy but he couldn’t sleep if he tried, so he doesn’t. He watches TV and he clicks around on the Internet and he keeps catching himself with his phone in his hand, screen lit up like he’s looking for something.
Which he isn’t. He has his pride. Kind of.
He isn’t waiting up for a text, or a call, but he’s kind of aware of the possibility of either. And it’s not like he’s going to sleep anyway. So.
He looks down at his phone again, running his fingers over the screen. Maybe--things change, stuff comes up, people realize there are new directions they’d rather go in and that’s fine, that’s awesome, so maybe--
The knock on the door is really loud, startling enough that he half-falls off the couch. He drops his phone, too, and it slides off under the couch as he goes to answer the door. He doesn’t go back for it; no point now.
Gabe is leaning in the doorframe, hat pulled down low so that the brim meets his glasses, which only cover half of the shadows under his eyes. “Hey,” he says. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“I’m going to just pretend you didn’t even say anything that dumb, dude.”
Gabe half-smiles--not really, not quite--and tosses his duffel bag past Pete into the entryway. “You were just waiting up for me? Keeping the light on? Thanks, man, that’s so sweet.” There’s an edge to his voice, just a little bit of mocking, but Pete can roll with it. He knows where it’s coming from.
“Don’t be a dick.” He pushes the door closed and pulls Gabe into a hug, closing his eyes and breathing in the washed-to-death-soft fabric of Gabe’s t-shirt and the mingled smell of sweat and cologne and Gabe underneath. “You hungry?”
“Mad fucking hungry.” Gabe ruffles Pete’s hair and gently bumps him back, out of the hug and out of his space. Pete goes easily, mentally kicking himself because he knows better. Fresh off tour, everything feels too close, too hot-cold-itchy; it’s like your skin is raw and everything hurts. Not just the skin, either, the top layer of everything, eyes and ears and just being around people. Everything is too loud (unless it’s too quiet), too bright (unless it’s too dark), too much.
Getting off tour just makes you want to fight with the whole world, or maybe curl up on the floor and scream like a baby. It’s like coming off a drug, a slam-bang detox of the real world with its schedules and its daylight and its real food and people who might expect you to act like a human being instead of just taking the stage and going up like lightning once a night.
It sucks, in the bizarre upside-down way that anything involved in being a rock star can be said to suck, and he gets that, so he just heads down the hall to the kitchen and lets Gabe follow along, out of reach. He doesn’t ask any other questions, and he doesn’t let himself react to the way Gabe’s eyes keep coming back to him, focusing on him all sharp and intent, like Gabe wants to pry him open and look inside.
He digs around in the freezer, looking for anything that's both vaguely vegetarian and easy to make. Taquitos. Excellent. He doesn't even remember buying those.
He puts them in the microwave and boosts himself up to sit on the counter, kicking his feet in slow arcs and watching Gabe from the corner of his eye. Gabe is sprawled in a chair, legs stretched out and spread wide, one elbow on the table and that hand supporting his chin. His eyes are closed, but Pete can tell he isn't anywhere close to dropping off. His whole body is coiled tight, tense, almost jittering with suppressed energy.
Tour isn't good for anybody, but especially not people like them. The two of them are enough alike that Pete's pretty confident in saying that, and also that neither one of them would ever admit it out loud, because as much as it isn't good for them, they crave it. Attention. Adrenaline. Everything moving at six hundred miles an hour and no time for bullshit like sitting still or thinking stuff through. Always a new place and a new distraction a couple hours away at most. It's everything they want and everything they don't need, it winds them up and wears them down to fried nerve endings and the bare ends of wires.
“Stop. Looking. At. Me.” Gabe's voice is a low growl. “For fuck's sake, Pete.”
“Sorry.” Pete slides off the counter and goes to get a plate, balancing it on his finger tips and moonwalking back to the microwave as it dings. “You want anything to drink?”
“Just water.” Gabe rubs his forehead and sits up straight, drawing his legs back and hooking them around the legs of his chair. “Thanks.”
Pete gets him his food and a glass of water and sits on the counter again, bouncing his heels off the cupboards in a slow, erratic rhythm while Gabe eats. He hums to himself under his breath, nothing in particular, nothing to draw Gabe's attention. Now he is waiting, half expectant and half unsure. There are a lot of different ways this could play out.
Gabe finishes the last of his water and sets the glass aside on the empty plate. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and covers his face with his hands. There's a long, long moment where neither of them says anything, or moves. Pete can hear him breathing, slow and controlled. Waiting, waiting.
Pete can only stand silence for so long. It's a weakness and he owns that, but seriously. “You want to crash, duder?” he says finally, kicking the cupboard with both heels for emphasis. “I can go make up the guest bed.”
“No.” Gabe sits up a little and grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes, pushing his glasses up at a precarious angle that makes Pete's fingers itch to grab them before they fall. “If I try to sleep now it's going to be a fucking joke. I used to think being too tired to sleep was total bullshit, but it turns out so's my life.”
Pete nods, even though Gabe can't see him, and kicks the cupboard again. “So...you want to play video games, or go for a walk, or...”
Gabe laughs, low and rough, and holds out one hand. Pete jumps down from the counter and walks over to him, stopping just barely inside his reach, just close enough that Gabe can hook his fingers in the collar of Pete's shirt and drag him closer.
“I don't want to go for a walk,” Gabe mutters, curving his hand around the back of Pete's neck and pulling. Pete gives in easily to the pressure, straddling Gabe's lap on the chair, balancing himself with his hand on the edge of the table until Gabe shifts under him to support him, his free hand moving to Pete's hip.
“What do you want to do?” Pete asks, closing his eyes and leaning back a little against Gabe's hand on his neck. Gabe isn't gripping hard, just holding, and it's warm and solid and kind of comforting. More than kind of. Maybe it's what Pete's been waiting for.
Gabe shakes his head and tugs him in, kissing him slow and deep. Pete closes his eyes and falls into it in his head, the heat of Gabe's mouth and the slide of his tongue and the weight of his hands. He could sit like this for hours, kiss Gabe for hours. They have, more than once, but it isn't going to be like that tonight. Gabe's buzzing all over. He needs a release.
“Fuck,” Gabe breathes, pulling back and rubbing his thumb in slow arcs over the back of Pete's neck. “Fuck, Pete.”
Pete waits, eyes closed, feeling too warm under his skin and he's still aching with exhaustion but it's easy to ignore now, flooded out by anticipation and want.
“Up,” Gabe says, squeezing his hip slightly. “Get up and go in the living room.”
There's a moment where he's not sure he's going to be able to catch his balance without stumbling. There's a trick to do that while suppressing a shiver. “Should I get undressed?”
“I'll tell you when to do that.” Gabe stands up and stretches slowly, groaning a little. Pete winces as he hears Gabe's vertebrae pop, one-two-three in a row, and then one of his shoulders, louder. Shit.
“Go on,” Gabe says, and Pete goes, walking into the living room and glancing around to see what he's left lying out, how bad the mess is. Gabe won't care tonight, that's a game for another time, but it's habit to check.
He stretches as well, swinging his arms in slow, useless arcs, listening to the sound of the water running in the kitchen and then the soft click of a glass meeting the counter again. Waiting, waiting. Have a little goddamn patience, Pete.
Gabe steps into the room and stops, looking him up and down for a minute. When he speaks again, his voice is still rough, but there's a little bit of need in it, and he's asking. “Can I?”
Pete nods, meeting his eyes steadily, without a flinch. He never flinches in front of Gabe. There isn't any reason to. “Yeah.”
Gabe nods slightly and sits on the arm of the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “Undress.”
Gabe needs this, needs the venting and the space where the world will stop racing long enough for him to find himself again, and Pete would be a liar if he said he didn't need the exact same thing, tonight and a hundred other nights. They do this for each other. They help each other out. They understand.
He strips down to his boxer-briefs and waits, thumbs caught in the waistband, eyes seeking Gabe's again. Gabe looks him up and down again, eyes a little more distant, than nods slightly. “Keep those on.” He holds out his hand and Pete goes to him, rubbing his hands on his thighs, a little startled by the sweat.
Gabe kisses him again, softly, his hands sliding up Pete's arms and then down his back, curving over his ass and squeezing lightly. Pete sighs against his mouth and nods, another silent yes, he'll say yes a dozen fucking times, more, however many Gabe needs to hear. Gabe squeezes again, then pinches, sharp and fast enough that Pete squeaks.
“That got your attention,” Gabe murmurs, smiling a little as he sits back. He takes Pete's arms again, turning and moving him like a doll, bending him over his lap. Pete goes easily, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath, looking for the spot in his head where he goes when they do this, the balance point where it all fits together and everything is good.
Gabe positions him, steadies him, gives him half a beat to take another breath, and then his hand comes down hard, smacking Pete's ass through the dark fabric. Pete gasps, a sharp huff of air, then licks his lips and whispers “One.”
“Doesn't count if I can't hear you.” Gabe's voice is barely above a whisper itself, but that's fair, that's how it works, and he's hitting Pete again before he can think about arguing anyway.
“Two.” Pete bites his lower lip, squirming a little against Gabe's lap, trying to find a combination of angle and pressure that works, that lets him get friction when Gabe smacks him again. Three is almost right and four is perfect, but then Gabe stops and snaps the elastic of the waistband against the small of his back, a sharp sting of warning.
“Stop wiggling,” he says, and Pete nods, jerky and blind. “We'll get to that. Stop thinking with your dick.” Pete wants to tell him it's kind of difficult to think with anything else, right now, but then there's five and he only manages to gasp again and fight to keep from thrusting down.
Gabe catches the elastic again and Pete braces himself, but he just tugs it down to Pete's thighs, leaving his ass bare to the sting of skin on skin for six to ten. By ten there's a hitch in Pete's words, because Gabe is hitting him hard, not holding back, but he keeps his voice above a whisper and it doesn't break.
Eleven and twelve move down to the backs of his thighs, and Gabe's fingers drag up the inside of them after, teasing the sensitive skin with his nails.
“You're out of practice,” he says, bending down to breathe hot against the stinging skin. “Guess we're not going to go to fifty tonight.”
Pete laughs a little, shaky and breathless, and totally misses counting thirteen, which earns an extra-hard smack for fourteen, and he can't help it anymore, he's writhing against Gabe's lap and panting out broken little sounds that might've started out as please.
Gabe's hand slides all the way up his spine to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling his head back so he blinks up at Gabe through the tears in his eyes. “One more,” Gabe says softly, his voice thick and rough and so warm, like he's fucking proud of Pete. “Take one more for me?” Pete nods, closing his eyes again against the tug of Gabe's fingers in his hair and letting the tears run down his face slow and hot as Gabe guides his head down again and rubs his ass slowly before the final heavy smack.
Pete makes a choked, helpless noise, and one of Gabe's arms curves around his chest, supporting him while Gabe rubs his back with his other hand, slowly and carefully. Gabe's talking, a stream of words that Pete can't really parse, but what he does catch is about how good and brave and beautiful he is. So mostly lies, but ones he really likes right now.
Gabe helps him sit up, shifting around to balance himself on his knees straddling Gabe's lap so his sore ass isn't touching anything. Gabe kisses him again, sliding his hand down to wrap around Pete's cock, and Pete can't help but make more of those stupid raw noises against Gabe's mouth as Gabe starts to stroke.
“Good,” Gabe whispers, “good boy,” and Pete shudders and comes all over Gabe's hand and his t-shirt.
“Was going to do laundry tomorrow anyway,” Gabe says, and he sounds so earnest, so obviously trying to be reassuring, that Pete starts to laugh. It comes out as a kind of broken, demented sound, so he kisses Gabe instead, holding his shoulders tight to balance himself until Gabe's arms wrap around his waist.
“Now I want to go to bed,” Gabe says, nuzzling Pete's jaw. “I am tired as fuck and I want to sleep for twelve hours.”
“You don't want to get off?” Pete mumbles, reaching down for Gabe's dick, pretty sure it's around here somewhere and probably would like to be involved.
“Tomorrow.” Gabe eases Pete back onto his feet and stands up, sliding his arm around Pete's waist again to catch him. “After the twelve hours of sleep, it's all laundry and you getting me off like six times. And more of those taquitos. Cool?”
He still looks exhausted and more or less like shit, maybe even worse than he did when he came in, but he sounds like himself, more solid, more here. Pete nods and leans on him, letting Gabe steer him down the hall to the bedroom. He knows they're not going to fall asleep right away, that Gabe's going to cuddle the hell out of him for at least half an hour first, while flatly refusing to call it cuddling.
Gabe's going to take care of him, but it goes both ways; weird how that works, but Pete gave up on understanding this shit ages ago. What works is what works. That's all that matters. And they're both going to sleep tonight.
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Pete/Gabe. Prompt: 16 - Coming back from tour and knocking on the other's door, jetlagged and tired, and being taken care of.
Contains spanking. And sarcasm. Title from Lucero.
Pete isn’t waiting up.
He’s awake, because keeping insomnia hours works like that. His eyes are burning and his head is fuzzy but he couldn’t sleep if he tried, so he doesn’t. He watches TV and he clicks around on the Internet and he keeps catching himself with his phone in his hand, screen lit up like he’s looking for something.
Which he isn’t. He has his pride. Kind of.
He isn’t waiting up for a text, or a call, but he’s kind of aware of the possibility of either. And it’s not like he’s going to sleep anyway. So.
He looks down at his phone again, running his fingers over the screen. Maybe--things change, stuff comes up, people realize there are new directions they’d rather go in and that’s fine, that’s awesome, so maybe--
The knock on the door is really loud, startling enough that he half-falls off the couch. He drops his phone, too, and it slides off under the couch as he goes to answer the door. He doesn’t go back for it; no point now.
Gabe is leaning in the doorframe, hat pulled down low so that the brim meets his glasses, which only cover half of the shadows under his eyes. “Hey,” he says. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“I’m going to just pretend you didn’t even say anything that dumb, dude.”
Gabe half-smiles--not really, not quite--and tosses his duffel bag past Pete into the entryway. “You were just waiting up for me? Keeping the light on? Thanks, man, that’s so sweet.” There’s an edge to his voice, just a little bit of mocking, but Pete can roll with it. He knows where it’s coming from.
“Don’t be a dick.” He pushes the door closed and pulls Gabe into a hug, closing his eyes and breathing in the washed-to-death-soft fabric of Gabe’s t-shirt and the mingled smell of sweat and cologne and Gabe underneath. “You hungry?”
“Mad fucking hungry.” Gabe ruffles Pete’s hair and gently bumps him back, out of the hug and out of his space. Pete goes easily, mentally kicking himself because he knows better. Fresh off tour, everything feels too close, too hot-cold-itchy; it’s like your skin is raw and everything hurts. Not just the skin, either, the top layer of everything, eyes and ears and just being around people. Everything is too loud (unless it’s too quiet), too bright (unless it’s too dark), too much.
Getting off tour just makes you want to fight with the whole world, or maybe curl up on the floor and scream like a baby. It’s like coming off a drug, a slam-bang detox of the real world with its schedules and its daylight and its real food and people who might expect you to act like a human being instead of just taking the stage and going up like lightning once a night.
It sucks, in the bizarre upside-down way that anything involved in being a rock star can be said to suck, and he gets that, so he just heads down the hall to the kitchen and lets Gabe follow along, out of reach. He doesn’t ask any other questions, and he doesn’t let himself react to the way Gabe’s eyes keep coming back to him, focusing on him all sharp and intent, like Gabe wants to pry him open and look inside.
He digs around in the freezer, looking for anything that's both vaguely vegetarian and easy to make. Taquitos. Excellent. He doesn't even remember buying those.
He puts them in the microwave and boosts himself up to sit on the counter, kicking his feet in slow arcs and watching Gabe from the corner of his eye. Gabe is sprawled in a chair, legs stretched out and spread wide, one elbow on the table and that hand supporting his chin. His eyes are closed, but Pete can tell he isn't anywhere close to dropping off. His whole body is coiled tight, tense, almost jittering with suppressed energy.
Tour isn't good for anybody, but especially not people like them. The two of them are enough alike that Pete's pretty confident in saying that, and also that neither one of them would ever admit it out loud, because as much as it isn't good for them, they crave it. Attention. Adrenaline. Everything moving at six hundred miles an hour and no time for bullshit like sitting still or thinking stuff through. Always a new place and a new distraction a couple hours away at most. It's everything they want and everything they don't need, it winds them up and wears them down to fried nerve endings and the bare ends of wires.
“Stop. Looking. At. Me.” Gabe's voice is a low growl. “For fuck's sake, Pete.”
“Sorry.” Pete slides off the counter and goes to get a plate, balancing it on his finger tips and moonwalking back to the microwave as it dings. “You want anything to drink?”
“Just water.” Gabe rubs his forehead and sits up straight, drawing his legs back and hooking them around the legs of his chair. “Thanks.”
Pete gets him his food and a glass of water and sits on the counter again, bouncing his heels off the cupboards in a slow, erratic rhythm while Gabe eats. He hums to himself under his breath, nothing in particular, nothing to draw Gabe's attention. Now he is waiting, half expectant and half unsure. There are a lot of different ways this could play out.
Gabe finishes the last of his water and sets the glass aside on the empty plate. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and covers his face with his hands. There's a long, long moment where neither of them says anything, or moves. Pete can hear him breathing, slow and controlled. Waiting, waiting.
Pete can only stand silence for so long. It's a weakness and he owns that, but seriously. “You want to crash, duder?” he says finally, kicking the cupboard with both heels for emphasis. “I can go make up the guest bed.”
“No.” Gabe sits up a little and grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes, pushing his glasses up at a precarious angle that makes Pete's fingers itch to grab them before they fall. “If I try to sleep now it's going to be a fucking joke. I used to think being too tired to sleep was total bullshit, but it turns out so's my life.”
Pete nods, even though Gabe can't see him, and kicks the cupboard again. “So...you want to play video games, or go for a walk, or...”
Gabe laughs, low and rough, and holds out one hand. Pete jumps down from the counter and walks over to him, stopping just barely inside his reach, just close enough that Gabe can hook his fingers in the collar of Pete's shirt and drag him closer.
“I don't want to go for a walk,” Gabe mutters, curving his hand around the back of Pete's neck and pulling. Pete gives in easily to the pressure, straddling Gabe's lap on the chair, balancing himself with his hand on the edge of the table until Gabe shifts under him to support him, his free hand moving to Pete's hip.
“What do you want to do?” Pete asks, closing his eyes and leaning back a little against Gabe's hand on his neck. Gabe isn't gripping hard, just holding, and it's warm and solid and kind of comforting. More than kind of. Maybe it's what Pete's been waiting for.
Gabe shakes his head and tugs him in, kissing him slow and deep. Pete closes his eyes and falls into it in his head, the heat of Gabe's mouth and the slide of his tongue and the weight of his hands. He could sit like this for hours, kiss Gabe for hours. They have, more than once, but it isn't going to be like that tonight. Gabe's buzzing all over. He needs a release.
“Fuck,” Gabe breathes, pulling back and rubbing his thumb in slow arcs over the back of Pete's neck. “Fuck, Pete.”
Pete waits, eyes closed, feeling too warm under his skin and he's still aching with exhaustion but it's easy to ignore now, flooded out by anticipation and want.
“Up,” Gabe says, squeezing his hip slightly. “Get up and go in the living room.”
There's a moment where he's not sure he's going to be able to catch his balance without stumbling. There's a trick to do that while suppressing a shiver. “Should I get undressed?”
“I'll tell you when to do that.” Gabe stands up and stretches slowly, groaning a little. Pete winces as he hears Gabe's vertebrae pop, one-two-three in a row, and then one of his shoulders, louder. Shit.
“Go on,” Gabe says, and Pete goes, walking into the living room and glancing around to see what he's left lying out, how bad the mess is. Gabe won't care tonight, that's a game for another time, but it's habit to check.
He stretches as well, swinging his arms in slow, useless arcs, listening to the sound of the water running in the kitchen and then the soft click of a glass meeting the counter again. Waiting, waiting. Have a little goddamn patience, Pete.
Gabe steps into the room and stops, looking him up and down for a minute. When he speaks again, his voice is still rough, but there's a little bit of need in it, and he's asking. “Can I?”
Pete nods, meeting his eyes steadily, without a flinch. He never flinches in front of Gabe. There isn't any reason to. “Yeah.”
Gabe nods slightly and sits on the arm of the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “Undress.”
Gabe needs this, needs the venting and the space where the world will stop racing long enough for him to find himself again, and Pete would be a liar if he said he didn't need the exact same thing, tonight and a hundred other nights. They do this for each other. They help each other out. They understand.
He strips down to his boxer-briefs and waits, thumbs caught in the waistband, eyes seeking Gabe's again. Gabe looks him up and down again, eyes a little more distant, than nods slightly. “Keep those on.” He holds out his hand and Pete goes to him, rubbing his hands on his thighs, a little startled by the sweat.
Gabe kisses him again, softly, his hands sliding up Pete's arms and then down his back, curving over his ass and squeezing lightly. Pete sighs against his mouth and nods, another silent yes, he'll say yes a dozen fucking times, more, however many Gabe needs to hear. Gabe squeezes again, then pinches, sharp and fast enough that Pete squeaks.
“That got your attention,” Gabe murmurs, smiling a little as he sits back. He takes Pete's arms again, turning and moving him like a doll, bending him over his lap. Pete goes easily, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath, looking for the spot in his head where he goes when they do this, the balance point where it all fits together and everything is good.
Gabe positions him, steadies him, gives him half a beat to take another breath, and then his hand comes down hard, smacking Pete's ass through the dark fabric. Pete gasps, a sharp huff of air, then licks his lips and whispers “One.”
“Doesn't count if I can't hear you.” Gabe's voice is barely above a whisper itself, but that's fair, that's how it works, and he's hitting Pete again before he can think about arguing anyway.
“Two.” Pete bites his lower lip, squirming a little against Gabe's lap, trying to find a combination of angle and pressure that works, that lets him get friction when Gabe smacks him again. Three is almost right and four is perfect, but then Gabe stops and snaps the elastic of the waistband against the small of his back, a sharp sting of warning.
“Stop wiggling,” he says, and Pete nods, jerky and blind. “We'll get to that. Stop thinking with your dick.” Pete wants to tell him it's kind of difficult to think with anything else, right now, but then there's five and he only manages to gasp again and fight to keep from thrusting down.
Gabe catches the elastic again and Pete braces himself, but he just tugs it down to Pete's thighs, leaving his ass bare to the sting of skin on skin for six to ten. By ten there's a hitch in Pete's words, because Gabe is hitting him hard, not holding back, but he keeps his voice above a whisper and it doesn't break.
Eleven and twelve move down to the backs of his thighs, and Gabe's fingers drag up the inside of them after, teasing the sensitive skin with his nails.
“You're out of practice,” he says, bending down to breathe hot against the stinging skin. “Guess we're not going to go to fifty tonight.”
Pete laughs a little, shaky and breathless, and totally misses counting thirteen, which earns an extra-hard smack for fourteen, and he can't help it anymore, he's writhing against Gabe's lap and panting out broken little sounds that might've started out as please.
Gabe's hand slides all the way up his spine to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling his head back so he blinks up at Gabe through the tears in his eyes. “One more,” Gabe says softly, his voice thick and rough and so warm, like he's fucking proud of Pete. “Take one more for me?” Pete nods, closing his eyes again against the tug of Gabe's fingers in his hair and letting the tears run down his face slow and hot as Gabe guides his head down again and rubs his ass slowly before the final heavy smack.
Pete makes a choked, helpless noise, and one of Gabe's arms curves around his chest, supporting him while Gabe rubs his back with his other hand, slowly and carefully. Gabe's talking, a stream of words that Pete can't really parse, but what he does catch is about how good and brave and beautiful he is. So mostly lies, but ones he really likes right now.
Gabe helps him sit up, shifting around to balance himself on his knees straddling Gabe's lap so his sore ass isn't touching anything. Gabe kisses him again, sliding his hand down to wrap around Pete's cock, and Pete can't help but make more of those stupid raw noises against Gabe's mouth as Gabe starts to stroke.
“Good,” Gabe whispers, “good boy,” and Pete shudders and comes all over Gabe's hand and his t-shirt.
“Was going to do laundry tomorrow anyway,” Gabe says, and he sounds so earnest, so obviously trying to be reassuring, that Pete starts to laugh. It comes out as a kind of broken, demented sound, so he kisses Gabe instead, holding his shoulders tight to balance himself until Gabe's arms wrap around his waist.
“Now I want to go to bed,” Gabe says, nuzzling Pete's jaw. “I am tired as fuck and I want to sleep for twelve hours.”
“You don't want to get off?” Pete mumbles, reaching down for Gabe's dick, pretty sure it's around here somewhere and probably would like to be involved.
“Tomorrow.” Gabe eases Pete back onto his feet and stands up, sliding his arm around Pete's waist again to catch him. “After the twelve hours of sleep, it's all laundry and you getting me off like six times. And more of those taquitos. Cool?”
He still looks exhausted and more or less like shit, maybe even worse than he did when he came in, but he sounds like himself, more solid, more here. Pete nods and leans on him, letting Gabe steer him down the hall to the bedroom. He knows they're not going to fall asleep right away, that Gabe's going to cuddle the hell out of him for at least half an hour first, while flatly refusing to call it cuddling.
Gabe's going to take care of him, but it goes both ways; weird how that works, but Pete gave up on understanding this shit ages ago. What works is what works. That's all that matters. And they're both going to sleep tonight.
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