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bitacrytic · 1 year

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Overheat [41 - 44]

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Vegas arrived not long after with a tight frown on his face.

“He’s still alive, right?” he asked. “Tell me he’s alive so that I can kill him .”

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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Popping yet another pill into his mouth, Vegas blinked the blurriness at the edge of his vision away. Soon. Once they handled the Porsche’s public presentation and dealt with Tawan, Vegas would get off the pills and fuck a lot of toys. Because, damn if his body wasn’t begging for it. He was angrier, snappier, more prone to raising his voice at his people and after Porsche had smacked him in the head a couple of times, Vegas realized that he was getting snappy with his… friends… too.

He needed a moment away from other people. He needed a moment away from Pete. It wasn’t exactly the best decision to be hanging around him when Vegas’ suppressants were barely suppressing anything. It may have been in his mind, mostly because Pete was on suppressants too and wasn’t smelling anything like an omega. But Vegas could swear that every time Pete got close or passed by him, or even opened his mouth to speak, Vegas could get a whiff of omega pheromones. Intoxicating and pleasant and so, so lust-filling to the point that he’d almost slipped his hand into the back of Pete’s pants.

In public.

Vegas needed a moment.

“You left before saying goodbye,” Pete said on the phone as Vegas walked up the stairs to his room, at home.

“I have some things to take care of. How is Tankhun’s Great Plan coming along? Did you finish?”

“I think we’re ready.”

“That’s…” Vegas sighed. “That’s good to hear.” He really wished Pete was there.

“Cycle break’s started. I can come over-”

“Not today,” he said. “I didn’t get the mouth guards.”

“You’re still on suppressants, right?”

As he entered his room, he realized that was actually a good point. If he stayed on suppressants all night, Pete could-

The light by his desk came on before Vegas closed the door, revealing his father sitting in Vegas chair.

“Um…” he said. “Let me call you back.”

“Should I start comin-”

“No,” he said a bit too harshly. “No,” he repeated, lower and calmly.

“You-you don’t want me there?” Pete asked, sounding disappointed.

“It’s not that…” It’s not that I don’t want you here, Vegas wanted to say, but his father was in the room, looking right at him. “Can I talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Pete said hastily. “No problem.”

Pete cut the call before Vegas could say anything more.

Sighing in frustration, Vegas made his way closer to his father as he reached his bed, but didn’t sit on it.

“You’ve been busy recently,” Papa said.

“I have an opening coming up and Porsche’s stage play will soon start viewing.”

“Hmm,” Papa said, swiveling the chair from side to side as he watched Vegas. “Who was that on the phone?”

Unable to reply, Vegas looked at the ground.

“Was that Pete?”

“Papa-”

“You and Kinn switched employees. You fuck his and he gets to fuck Porsche? Is that it?”

“It’s not like that, Papa.”

“You’re spending so much time with him, people might start to remember that you’re blood related?”

“We’re working on a project together.”

“On a project?” Papa asked, a sardonic smile spreading on his face. “Your actors are working on a project together. Not you and Kinn.”

Vegas eyes returned to the floor.

“While you were busy gallivanting around the place, Porsche was getting exposed.”

“Someone attacked him, Papa.”

“And whose fault is that?” Papa asked. “You’ve been too busy burying yourself in that whore-”

“Don’t call him that,” Vegas said.

“Excuse me?”

Vegas cringed inwardly, realizing that he’d actually said those words out loud.

“What did you say to me, boy?”

Bracing himself, Vegas looked up. “I’m handling the Porsche situation, Papa. It’s all under control.”

“And Pete?”

“He has nothing to do with this.”

“He has everything to do with it. Before you started messing around with Kinn’s people, you had your head on straight. Now, it’s one problem after another. I have half the mind to take that fucking company from you.”

That was what it was all about, at the end of the day. Anything Pete had done to Papa, any insult he’d caused, paled in comparison to the fact that Pete was Kinn’s artist. That alone was enough for Papa to mark him off.

Papa got up and made his way around the table, watching Vegas with as much disappointment as was regular.

“You’re not supposed to be at that production,” he said. “Didn’t you hire a manager for that? Why are you spending so much time there?”

“Some things need my attention.”

“Anything beyond Porsche is bullshit.”

“I’ve been there for Porsche.”

“And the late night meetings with Kinn? The midnight surveillance?”

“Papa-”

“You think I didn’t know about those? What are you always meeting about?”

“Business.”

“What business,” Papa began with his voice rising into anger. “Could you fucking have to discuss with Anakinn Theerapanyakul?”

“I just-”

Papa slapped him.

“Don’t you fucking talk back to me, boy.”

Vegas jolted in place. He’d expected the slap, but it was always still a shock to him. Even as an adult.

Papa dropped a bunch of cards on Vegas’ bed as Vegas dared to look at them. He knew what they were. He thought he’d handled them. He thought they wouldn’t be a problem. But, apparently, they were.

“What business have you been handling?” Papa asked. “If we have dissatisfied business partners.”

Vegas’ lips trembled as he looked down at the cards.

“What has Kinn been telling you?” Papa moved closer, causing Vegas to step back. “Do you think you’re too good for how we do business?” he asked. “Answer me.”

“He hasn’t been telling me anything, Papa.”

“Then explain those cards to me,” he said, pointing at Vegas’ bed. “Do you think that you’re Kinn? Do you think our allies will listen to you if you show up pretending to be your cousin?”

“I’m not trying to be Kinn.”

“You know how we get our foot in the door. You kill someone or you fuck someone and as I’ve always told you, you can’t kill everyone.”

“I was…” Vegas hesitated, not sure how to proceed. “I was going to get back to them.”

Papa smacked him so hard that Vegas sat on the bed.

“Look at me,” Papa said as Vegas obeyed. “You’re only good for one thing, Vegas. I’ve tried to teach you how to be a good business man but you’re as useless as ever. If I ever have to come down here to ask you to fuck someone again, I will fucking castrate you.” He shoved Vegas away.

Vegas hadn’t been hosting any of his allies recently. He hadn’t done it out of anger. He’d started to hate it more than usual and reduced his contact. If they wanted to fuck, he sent them paid boys and girls to take care of business. Sometimes, they wanted him in the room. Sometimes, they were fine accepting the people Vegas sent. Vegas was fine with the arrangement as long as they didn’t have to touch him.

He had no idea how, but ever since Pete, ever since feeling what it felt like for someone else to cater to him, to make him feel good, the mere thought of letting all these other vultures near him was incredibly revolting and Vegas had just opted out of it. Quietly. Without making a big deal out of it.

“Maybe,” he began. “Maybe there are other ways.”

“Other ways to what?”

“Satisfy our business partners.”

Papa looked at him.

Papa belted into loud laughter, bending over like Vegas had said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“You really do think you’re Kinn.”

“It’s not about Kinn.”

“Is it about the whore you’re entertaining in your bed these days?”

Vegas bit his lips to keep from retorting to that.

“What?” Papa asked. “You think you can be faithful to him just because he’s new?”

“We’re Theerapanyakuls. We don’t have to bow to our business-”

“You’ll bow to whomever the fuck I say you bow to.”

“Papa-”

“I thought I made myself clear, Vegas.” He turned fully to face Vegas. “Pick one card.”

Without bothering to look, Vegas picked the closest card.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to call him up, take him to dinner and do whatever the fuck he wants you to do.”

When Papa turned to go, Vegas said, “No.”

One word. Two letters bearing the weight of a billion words, Vegas heard his own voice utter something he’d never uttered to his father. Unable to believe what he’d just said, Vegas slowly covered his mouth, wondering if he’d actually said it or if he’d only thought it. If he could get up from the bed and pretend none of it ever actually happened.

“What did you say?” Papa asked.

“I said no,” Vegas heard himself repeat.

On Papa’s face, shock and anger fought for dominance as he slowly spun back to look down at Vegas.

“I must not have heard you correctly.”

“I won’t be entertaining any of them,” Vegas said, sitting up.

“Who do you think you are?”

“I’m your son,” Vegas said.

“You’re my greatest disappointment.”

“Without me all your business ventures would be nothing.”

Papa slapped him. Before Vegas could recover, he punched him in the jaw, shifting it slightly as Vegas winced in pain. Familiar pain. Because this was all Papa did. One step out of line and Vegas could count on pain.

He knew pain. His cut flesh, his scarred back, his stabbed hand, his broken wrist. Vegas could remember every incident. Because that was the extent of Papa’s wrath. Physical pain.

“You take that card and make that call-”

“Or what?” Vegas asked with genuine curiosity, blood dripping out of his mouth.

He couldn’t help wondering what was beyond the pain because, frankly, the pain was starting to get a bit old.

“Are you going to lock me up? Tie me up? Beat me? Break me?” he asked, sputtering blood in his father’s face. “I want to know what else you have in store for me, Papa.”

Searching his eyes like he’d never seen Vegas before, Papa said. “You must have lost your damn mind.”

He shoved Vegas into the cards on his bed as he wiped his face.

While Vegas waited for his father’s punishment, nothing came. He lay there for a few more moments, wondering if Papa was going to lift the table and drop it right on his head. He’d done it before. Vegas wouldn’t put it past him.

Instead, he heard the door to his room open and close.

When Vegas looked up from the bed, Papa was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

When the room door opened, that night, Porsche turned over, burying his head in his pillows as he pulled the covers over his head. They were done with rehearsals and most people were going to go home. Some of the cast and crew had left already. Porsche would have stayed, regardless because he had things to do. He had no idea if Pete had any prior engagements, but seeing as they still had Tawan to deal with, they were both stuck in their rooms. Trying to stay out of trouble.

It was the night before Monday... before Porsche's public presentation and he just wanted to get some sleep, but for some reason, sleep kept evading him. Pretending was going to help. Plus, pretending was going to get rid of any uneasy tension between Pete and himself. Pete wanted space. The last thing Porsche was going to do was make an already hard situation worse for either of them.

Pete didn't waste time getting out of his clothes before he went to take a bath. As soon as he entered the bathroom, Porsche's phone rang. Smiling, he answered the call.

"What now?"

"Did I wake you?" Kinn asked.

"No. Need something?"

"Just checking in. Tomorrow's a big day."

"I know."

"Are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The line was silent for a while, as it began to get weird.

"Did you call for a reason?"

Kinn chuckled. "I did. But, it just occurred to me that even though I have a lot to say, you have a digital gremlin attached to your phone."

Porsche laughed, imagining Todd as a tiny, woodland creature pattering around inside his android, struggling to listen in on Porsche's conversation with Kinn like the creep that he was.

"Don't worry, you can tell me tomorrow."

"I doubt I'll be able to say it when we're face to face."

Porsche wasn't very bothered by the way his heart started beating faster. Kinn tended to cause it without even trying.

"Oh, do I make you nervous, Kinn?"

"Always."

Blushing, Porsche moved his phone from one ear to the other as he turned over so that the phone could rest on his head.

"Let me allow you to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow."

Porsche wanted to tell him not to go, tell him that Porsche couldn't sleep anyways. He wanted to press and prod till Kinn stayed and talked with him and told him nice things because he was sure the things Kinn wanted to say would be things that Porsche wanted to hear.

But then he remembered their last conversation in the hospital and his lips went still. any request for Kinn to stay died on his tongue. Because as sweet as it all was, there was still an elephant in the room.

Sighing, he said, "Good night Kinn."

"Good night, Porsche. Good night, Todd."

Porsche couldn't help laughing as the line cut off on Kinn's laughter. As he quieted, he heard Pete coming out of the bathroom. Knowing that Pete had already heard him, Porsche, slipped his hand out of the covers and dropped his phone back on the side cupboard. He was very aware of Pete's movement through the room. In the past week, they'd become something like revolving doors, knowing that they each existed, but doing everything in their power to never meet outside of work.

That night, he felt Pete move between their beds, something he hadn't done in a while. He sat on his bed, facing Porsche's, silent and unmoving as Porsche waited for him to say something. After all, Pete was the one who dug the pit between them. If there was ever going to be a bridge, Pete had to build it himself. Porsche couldn't get in the way of his stress or healing or whatever he was going through if he'd expressly told Porsche to stay away.

After a few minutes of wondering, Pete shifted back into his bed as he pulled the covers over himself, and went to bed.

Disappointed as he was, Porsche remained where he was. Monday was a big day ahead. He needed to think about himself and not Pete. For a moment, he had to worry about tomorrow.

His relationship with Pete would sort itself out when it was ready to sort itself out.

***

Porsche received so many calls that morning that he handed his phone to Toss.

Ohmovit had rented the Graham Blitz conference hall for the public presentation so the place was packed with reporters in the front, while a line of sectioning tape held back regular people who'd come to watch. Up on stage were three chairs, a desk, a huge monitor for the viewing, a laptop for the technician who was conducting the viewing, and a mic for Porsche and the event coordinator.

Sitting alone in the back room of the conference hall, Porsche closed his eyes as he tried to calm down. On the schedule of things they were about to do that week, the presentation ranked low on difficulty. He was an alpha. He was just going to sit in front of an audience and be declared an alpha. absolutely nothing to worry about.

His CCD was another issue. But having gone four months out of a six-month project with no slip-ups, Porsche was going to survive this. Especially since Ohmovit already knew. It was in his contract. It wasn't something he was going to lie to future producers about. He could do this.

He could do this.

He swore he could do it.

The door opened and Toss peeped in.

"Uh... Phi?" Toss said, coming with Porsche's phone held out in front of him.

"What is it?"

"Your mother."

"Hey, Mae," he said smiling as he answered the phone.

"How are you, my baby?" she asked. "You haven't started, have you?"

Porsche looked at his watch. "Any moment now. Did you need something?"

"You weren't lying to me, where you Porsche?" she asked. "When you said a stalker attacked you, that was all this story was, right?"

Porsche pinched his nail to keep his voice steady. He hated lying to his mom, so he'd sent a text. Now, here she was, asking for verbal confirmation that Porsche was afraid to give. How could explain Tawan to her without mentioning what they had planned? How could he tell her about Kinn's kidnapping without telling her that he shot people? He was doing things that he knew was wrong. Things that she'd feared he would be too exposed to since they were kids.

She'd wanted her children to be better, but she'd been too worried about the Theerapanyakul kids to cut the family off completely. How was Porsche supposed to explain to her or his father? How was he supposed to tell her that he had waltzed right into a turf war simply because he was fucking Kinn?

"Porsche?" she asked. "Tell me what's going on?"

"Mae-"

"Vegas brought his brother over to the house, this morning. He asked me to keep him for the week or until he comes to get him. What is going on that he's hiding his brother here, Porsche? I trust that you'll tell me if something is wrong."

Porsche frowned. Tawan was the problem, but Tawan didn't care about Macau. If Tawan was targeting their younger brothers, Vegas would have said something so that Porsche could keep Chay out of the way. Which meant that Tawan wasn't the problem. This was something else.

"I don't know what's going on, Mae."

"He showed up with bruises on his face again," she said.

"Who?"

"Vegas. I might not know much, but I know Kun's handiwork, Porsche. So, I'll ask you again, did you tell me the whole truth about your incident? Was it just a random stalker, or does this have anything to do with Vegas' father?"

Oh, Porsche thought. His mother thought... oh... but also, how horrid it was for Kun to be causing trouble now that they were in the middle of all this. For fucksake.

"Kun had nothing to do with my attack, Mae. It was... it was-it was just a stalker."

"And Vegas? Did he tell you what happened with his father? Because he won't talk to me. He just dropped Macau and ran."

"I'll ask him what's going on?"

"Ask him," she said. "And make him eat. You know how he is."

"I will Mae."

She sighed heavily. "I miss you. You boys go out into the world and god knows what you're doing there or who's looking at you and wanting to harm you. I have a good mind not to let Macau and Chay leave the house."

"Actually," Porsche said, as it occurred to him. "That might be a good idea."

"I didn't mean that, Porsche. the boys have school."

"They can miss school for a week. If they need anything, have Kim bring it over."

"Kim's been here for a couple of days already."

"See?" Porsche said with cheer. "It's a holiday already."

Honestly, they'd all been irresponsible by not making sure the family babies were safe. Seeing as Tawan was a sewer rat willing to do anything, they should have done something to keep the boys safe. After all, no one had thought Porsche was on Tawan's radar until he was lying on the ground, staring up at paparazzi, with no shirt on.

"Okay," she agreed. "I can call off work for a few days." She sighed. "Take care of yourself, okay? I'll be watching the presentation. You're good with speeches. You've got this, okay?"

"Okay, Mae. Greet Papa for me."

Vegas came into the room. He had on a pair of dark sunshades that barely covered the bruise above his left eye and the one on his jaw, along with the scratches on his cheek. Porsche went to him, picking up Vegas' hand as he examined it.

"Are you ready?" Vegas asked, letting Porsche turn his hand around.. "Sorry I'm late, but they're calling for you."

"Yeah, 'm ready," Porsche replied, noting that there were no bruises on his knuckles.

Knowing Vegas, the only person who ever got close enough to land a punch without receiving one in return was his father. Every fight they'd ever gotten in, Vegas had hit Porsche back, when they were kids. He'd hit Kin back. Even Tankhun. It didn't matter if he was going to lose, Vegas fought back.

"Let's go."

Porsche wanted to talk about the bruises. He wanted to ask about Macau. But it wasn't the right time.

At the moment, Porsche had to worry about his career and the part he was about to play in the plan to destroy Tawan.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

He didn't want to talk to Kinn, but Kinn had a lot to say to Congressman Apinya. Locked away in his hospital room, the man kept his face turned from Kinn the moment Kinn came into the room.

"I'm here to extend an olive branch."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Trust me, you'll want to hear what I have to say."

"You said you would let me go, yet here I am." He looked at Kinn. "Your word means bullshit to me."

Laid up in bed with his legs still in casts, the congressman could barely contain his fear, but his rage was wading through and Kinn could see it. If he let the man go, retaliation was going to take place.

"Your son and I were never going to mate. He's not an omega."

Apinya scoffed. "Okay," he agreed with a shrug.

"Judging from what you said the last time we spoke, I'm sure you weren't in on it. You have no idea what your son was planning."

"Let's just understand that I will never believe a thing you say."

Kinn had guessed as much. So he dialed Tawan's number.

"Hey," Tawan said as soon as he picked up.

Kinn put it on speaker.

"Your father is giving me trouble. I don't think I can keep him anymore."

Tawan sighed. "Old fucker. Keep him a week and you can send him back."

Apinya looked at Kinn, surprise all over his face.

"He's getting disruptive and my men-"

"Kill him if he's causing you so much trouble. At least that way he won't try to force us to mate again, eh?"

Apinya's lips patted slowly, as his eyes doubled in size.

"You're sure."

"Of course I am."

Kinn cut the call. He'd expected as much. If Kinn killed the congressman, he'd be in trouble with Apinya's allies. And then Tawan would swoop in to save the day. Leaving his father with Kinn had been just another step in his plan to get rid of the old man, but Tawan wasn't going to do it himself. He was going to use that one stone to kill two birds, by placing himself strategically in place to join the Theerapanyakul family.

"Did you hear that?"

"That wasn't my son," Apinya said, shaking his head.

"Your son was never an omega. He only let you believe that so that you'd force us together."

"To what end?" Apinya asked, his eyes clouding with tears as he looked up at Kinn from his hospital bed.

"He tried to get rid of my father too," Kinn said. "That was the end goal. Once you two were gone, he could have me, even though he wasn't an omega."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Think about it," Kinn said, moving closer. "We were both in our cycle and I was tied up. If he was an omega, what was stopping him from biting me?"

"He..." Apinya said, searching for answers in his mind, struggling to understand that his son had just sentenced him to death. "He-he-he couldn't... he wouldn't do that to me."

"Your son has been amassing an army of loyalists without you. How else could I have escaped? He let me go and your men watched it happen from the sidelines."

"No."

"I'm going to make this simple for you, Sir," Kinn said, as he got to Apinya's bed. "You're safe with me and I'm willing to return you to the people who are loyal to you if you help me bring down your son."

"I..." Apinya was shaken, unable to form coherent sentences as he fought to come to terms with all the information Kinn was laying on him.

"He asked me to kill you, Sir," Kinn said. "No matter how I've felt about my father, I've never thought of killing him. You might want to reconsider your loyalties before it's too late."

***

On the day of the presentation, Kinn watched it from his phone, noting how much older Porsche looked dressed so corporately in a grey shirt, a black jacket, and a pair of blue trousers. With a serious set to his face, he sat between the technician and the moderator as the technician pressed the needle into Porsche's neck. The camera zoomed in on Porsche, his face veiled and emotionless in a way that Porsche was never supposed to be.

Kinn wished he could be there, but there was so much to do. the day was going to go fast, so they couldn't all stand around, holding hands.

The technician injected the hormone into Porsche and withdrew the needle as Porsche blinked, shaking his head to clear it a bit. Behind them, the monitor showed the test form with blank readings. The technician took disposed of his needle, took out a biting foam, and waited as Porsche steadied.

When he opened his mouth and the mating teeth extended, the hall erupted in gasps as cameras flashed, taking pictures, documenting the moment that the country had confirmation that Porsche Kittisawasd was not a beta.

The technician pressed the biting foam into Porsche's teeth, extracting what he needed for the test. As he fitted the foam into the machine, setting it to work, the form on the board began to change as, one by one, the test exposed Porsche's readings for all to see. As it became apparent what the reporters and the audience were looking at, the hall started to get noisy as more pictures flashed, with people getting to their feet and moving closer to the sectioning tapes.

"Please stay in your places," the moderator said. "No questions, today." He looked at the monitor, as shocked as everyone else, because he'd also been of the mind that Porsche was an omega. "Alpha," he said breathlessly. "Porsche is an alpha. Who knew?"

But the readings kept going, filling in the spot that was usually blank for others.

"My god," the moderator said, staring down at Porsche. "You have CCD?"

If Kinn didn't remember how badly he'd reacted to Porsche's secrete when he'd found out, he would have been irritated by the way everyone was acting like they were staring at a unicorn.

Porsche sat forward, leaning towards the mic as the hall quieted to hear him.

"Yes," he said. "I am an alpha and I have a Contagious Cycle Disorder. I did not plan to be misleading, I just felt it was my personal life to deal with. Ohmovit was made aware of my condition when I auditioned for the role. It's in my contract and I'm obligated to pay damages if I put the production at risk. I have spent four months on Overheat and there has seen no trouble from me. I hope that now that everyone knows my business, this will stop being a topic of discussion and that you can all respect what little is left of my privacy. Thank you."

He was about to stand up when the moderator waved him back down.

"Please, one question," he said. "Can we expect any legal action against haters who disparaged your name by calling you an omega?"

For the first time that day, anger flashed over Porsche's face as he looked at the moderator.

"Calling me an omega was not disparaging of my name."

"You do agree they did it to bring you down, don't you?"

Porsche inhaled as he went back to the mic again.

"I have worked on thirty-two different projects with hundreds of cast and crew and in all my years as an actor, I have never seen any problems on set that were caused by an omega." He grimaced. "I've seen alphas go into a rut because they didn't check their calendars. I've seen alphas bite their costars during a love scene. I've had productions get pushed back because one of the leads was in a rut. Never, in my life, have I seen the same happen because of an omega. So no," he said, looking back at the moderator. "I will not be suing anyone for thinking that I was an omega."

Kinn had heard Porsche say the same thing a thousand times. He didn't care that people thought he was an omega, but his refusal to deny it only made people believe it more. And yet, Kinn was sure that what Porsche had just said would carry more weight now that people knew he wasn't an omega. Because people tended to listen to allies more than they listened to the victims of hate and ignorance. Half of them were going to romanticize Porsche's statements while the other half pretended that their disdain for omegas was just something that their idol would have to live with.

The world wouldn't be perfect in one day because of one alpha actor.

A loud, pained moan brought Kinn's attention back to his phone. The camera of the reporter that Kinn was watching the presentation from, moved around as the reporter sought the source of the moan.

"What was that?" someone asked in the background.

The moan sounded again. This time, the camera steadied, facing the monitor behind Porsche. On-screen, a video of Pete played as Pete sat in front of bright yellow light that was cast against his body, showing his legs chained apart. Kinn had seen Pete naked a lot of times. 80% of his stage plays featured him nude at least once. Seeing Pete naked was nothing new for Kinn or anyone else in the audience.

But this time, Pete was sitting on a metal chair, placed on concrete, and from where the camera was, everyone could see something leaking from beneath him.

"Pete Saengthem," someone in the crowd of reporters said.

"What's going on?"

On stage, Porsche turned to look up at the screen as he slowly stood to his feet in shock.

"Oh god," the moderator said, running behind the monitor. "How do we turn it off? How do we turn it off?"

The moderator ran off the stage, no doubt, going to look for the person who set up the monitors.

"No, no, no, no," Porsche said.

With Pete's video playing and the moderator absconding, the reporters pushed passed the sectioning tapes, going closer to Porsche as the camera showed Porsche staring up at the screen, unable to move.

"This wasn't..." Porsche said. "This wasn't supposed to come out now." He turned to his left and his right, searching for the moderator. "Turn it off," Porsche screamed. "Turn the fucking monitor off."

There was a laugh on the screen of the monitor. A cackling maniacal laugh that silenced the room, once again.

"Aaaaaaand... cut," the director said on screen.

Suddenly, Time rushed onto the screen of the monitor with a clapper board, laughing like a child. He was wearing his General Bho costume from Overheat. As soon as Time hit the clapperboard, Pete gave a heavy sigh in the background as his body relaxed. Immediately, people walked into the frame, going to retouch Pete's make-up as someone covered him with a towel.

"Why did you laugh?" Pete asked Time.

"You weren't even acting," Time said, faking a moan. "That didn't even sound like a-"

The monitor went off.

Once again, reporters hounded Porsche, looking for answers as Porsche stared into the crowd, looking unsure of what to do next.

***

Many Days Ago

"It's simple, really," Tankhun had said, shrugging his shoulders at the other men in the room.

Pete had looked at Kinn, a slight frown on his face as he tried to understand Tankhun's plan. "I thought the play already released its two trailers."

"This will be a new one." Tankhun nodded. "Director, you'll film another one from Act II, Scene IX." He dropped the folded script on the bed, in the midst of all of them.

Vegas picked it up. "This is the scene where the general interrogates Niran after he's caught poisoning the emperor." He looked up at Tankhun. "How is this going to help us?"

"We tweak it a bit. Have Pete shoot it completely naked, all lubed up and dripping like he's in heat."

"I'm sorry," Porsche said, raising his hand like a kid in a classroom. "Isn't the whole point to hide his... omeganess, not re-record more evidence?"

"Yes," Tankhun agreed. "But if we shoot a scene between the general and Niran for a new trailer, one where the set for the interrogation is exactly the way it was when Tawan took Pete, we can release "leaked footage" and then an actual trailer." He looked at Pete. "You do remember what the room looked like, right?"

Pete wrapped his housecoat around his body and folded his arms in as he said, "I could never forget."

"See? We shoot a fake scene that's just like the real one and the real one loses its power."

"Hunh," Vegas said, looking at Tankhun. "That almost sounds like a sensible plan."

"You can give me a compliment without being a dick, Vegas," Tankhun informed him.

***

Present Day

Cameras flashed in Porsche's face as Kinn watched it online from the back of his car as Kinn checked his guns, loaded up on bullets, and slipped two more knives into his shin guard.

"Porsche, what did you mean by "it wasn't supposed to come out yet"?"

"Porsche, was that leaked footage?"

"Was that Time Ratanapakorn who plays General Bho in Overheat?"

"Are we expecting more trailers?"

"Will this cast be involved in a screenplay?"

"Why was Pete Saengthem's naked body on the monitor?"

"No comment," Porsche said, moving through the crowd as bodyguards reached for him, coming between him and the reporters who were desperate for more information.

The moment Porsche left the conference hall in one piece, protected by bodyguards, Kinn switched off his phone. Leaning back against the headrest, he took a few deep breaths. Almost there. They were so close. There was no wind left beneath Tawan's wings. Not anything he could use against them anymore. But letting Tawan run around was out of the question. Underneath their noses, he'd caused so much trouble already. Kinn was worried to imagine what would happen now that Tawan had nothing to lose.

The congressman had been honest and forthcoming, offering up the warehouses where Gambit kept goods, as well as all possible safehouses where his son would lay low. Coordinating with Vegas and seven other teams, Kinn led his team of bodyguards against Tawan's men. Armed and ready for a fight, Kinn was covered in blood from the moment he walked through the doors.

He wasn't going to kill all of them. He needed leverage against their old bosses. Unlike the Theerapanyakuls who'd been lucky enough to discover their mole, other gangs had remained oblivious, giving their disloyal members more time and many chance to betray them to Gambit, to sell them out to Tawan, giving info on their soft spots and whatever edge they had in the business. Kinn knew the gang leaders were going to want to deal with their moles, personally.

He also knew the shame was going to be immeasurable when they considered just insulting it was for a newcomer to walk right over all of them.

But they were going to owe Kinn. They were going to owe the Theerapanyakuls. Kinn was going to make sure that every one of them knew that it was Kinn and Vegas that brought Gambit to its knees. Not Korn and Kun. It was Kinn and Vegas that saved the Thai underworld from running headfirst into the chaos that Tawan was no doubt going to unleash, in the wake of his success.

So, while Kinn fired his gun and stabbed his daggers, and fought his way through familiar faces that belonged to a multitude of gangs, he knew he had to keep some of them alive. The plan hinged on the old gang leaders who'd been previously hesitant to stand against the older Theerapanyakuls.

He was stepping out from his father's shadow. He was going to be his own man. Do his own thing. If he had to lead, then he was going to lead. And the gang leaders were going to know it. One way or another.

However, after they'd raided and contained six warehouses and three safehouses effectively Tawan Apinya was nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Pete’s phone was on silent mode.

He wanted to soak himself in the bath while the world went crazy around him. He knew a lot of noise would be waiting for him when he got back to the phone and he just figured he could have a few moments of peace.

Somewhere, not so far away, Porsche was having his presentation, Kinn and Vegas were kicking down doors and Tankhun was poised for damage control. Pete was going to spend the rest of his life worried about all that fucking shit so he could afford to have two seconds of peace.

When he emerged from the bathtub, toweling off his body, he watched himself in the mirror, grateful for the good work his ointments had done. The scars left behind by Vegas’ father were almost gone. Very faint lines remained and even then, Pete could only see them because he knew they were there. By the time Overheat came around, he’d be fresh as a baby.

From the bathroom, he went straight to his wardrobe, humming to himself as he tried not to think of his phone, just yet. He would get to it. Eventually. Not just yet. A moment more. And another moment. And another…

A few moments before contact, Pete felt the presence of someone else behind him.

With the kind of life he’d led, having someone come up behind him wasn’t the strangest thing. Directors did it. Photographers did it. Friends did it. In prison, other prisoners had done it. Pete was delicate-looking. The kind of visage that invited people's imposition. He was used to his space being overrun by unwanted entities.

But he was in his safe space. In his room. He didn’t have to indulge any of it. It took him until the last second to remember that he could move away. He could avoid it.

Pete shrugged his shoulder out of the way as he felt the scratch of a needle against his skin, tearing away at the good work his ointment had fought so hard to preserve. Hissing in pain and annoyance, Pete drove his elbow into the gut of the person behind him as a huge hand tried to reach for him.

When Pete turned around, he saw two men in the room. One of them was right in front of him with a syringe in his hand, while the other remained further away, almost out of sight but not quite. The man with the syringe lunged at Pete, but he evaded, climbing over his desk chair as he picked up the chair, and slammed it against his assailant's face. The man let go of the syringe, grabbing his bleeding face and so Pete jumped at the chance. He rushed for the syringe, very aware that he had almost no idea what to do with it. But the moment he picked it up, he stabbed the man in the neck with it and pressed down the lever, emptying the contents of the syringe into the man’s neck as the man’s body slowly slumped at Pete’s feet.

Breathing hard, he pulled the syringe out and dropped it on the table as he stood up, just as the other man strolled out from behind Porsche’s bed, a tiny gun in his hand, with a silencer attached to the nozzle.

“Honestly,” Tawan said. “I’m shocked at how many times I’ve been able to get away with the same trick.”

“Fool me once,” Pete said, remembering how they’d accosted him, drugged him, and dragged him to a warehouse.

“Tsk,” Tawan said. “I suppose I should have brought more than one man, but he’s all I’ve got now.”

Trying to control his breathing because his heart was still pumping hard in his chest, Pete tightened the towel on his waist. He could feel blood trailing down his neck from where the syringe had cut him, but he couldn’t attend to it, at the moment. Not with Tawan pointing a gun at him.

“What do you want?”

“Seeing as you just knocked out the man who would have carried you out, I want you to get dressed and walk with me.”

“And go where?” Pete asked, remembering how they’d put a bag over his head and manhandled him into the trunk of a car. He remembered how he’d woken up, naked and afraid, shivering with the cold metal bars of the chair digging into his body.

“Does it matter where I’m taking you?”

Keeping Tawan in his sights, he pulled a shirt from the wardrobe, a pair of pants, an underwear from his drawer, and a pair of socks.

While everyone else was looking for him, he’d come to get Pete. Because Pete was the easy target. The easy, bargaining chip. The one that could be bundled into a bag and tucked into a trunk. The powerless omega that could be assaulted whenever.

Then again, Pete’s presentation didn’t matter much to scum like Tawan. He’d abused Kinn and Porsche, as much as he’d abused Pete. If he was fearless enough to go after Kinn, Pete knew that he’d been lucky the first time Tawan had gone after him. It had just been for the video.

This time, Tawan was exposed and on the run. He was desperate and shoved into a corner. If he’d been dreadful before, Pete didn’t want to imagine what he’d be like if Pete walked out of the room with him.

As he put on his clothes, he wondered if he could risk it. If he could make a run for the door and pray that Tawan wasn’t a good shot. He hadn’t come close to Pete since he’d entered the room. He was keeping his distance to avoid Pete attacking him. But for him to do that, Pete wondered if Tawan was also just confident in his shooting skills that he knew he could get Pete if Pete tried to run.

“Pick up the pace,” Tawan said when Pete sat on the foot of his bed to put on his socks.

Pete eyed his phone on the table. He’d been careful not to go near it, lest he draw Tawan’s attention to it. As he wore his shoes, he stood to his feet, looking at Tawan as Tawan nodded towards the door.

“Let’s go. Don’t even think about being funny.”

Stepping over the broken chair and the slumped body of Tawan’s guard, Pete leaned on the table as he swiped his phone from it, heading towards the door. As he got into the entryway that also led to the bathroom, there was a short moment where he was slightly out of Tawan’s sight.

“Not too fast,” Tawan said.

But it was too late. The door leading out of the room opened into the room so that wasn’t Pete’s best option, seeing as the bathroom door was already slightly ajar. He pushed in and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him as he dialed Kinn’s number.

“Get out of there,” Tawan raged against the door as he banged it.

Pete hid in the corner between the toilet and door as he squatted and dialed Kinn’s number with shaky fingers. Tawan fired his gun at the door.

“Hey,” Kinn said.

“Tawan’s here,” Pete said. “Come now.”

“In your room?”

“Yes.”

“On my way.”

Pete’s heart jumped into his throat when the second shot went off, slicing into the air, breaking off bits of the door. He prayed that Kinn was close enough to make a difference because if Pete had taken this chance and it was for nothing, Tawan was going to kill him. No doubt. Pete would have been better off walking into the corridor with Tawan, than jumping into the bathroom and getting caught.

He knew that Tawan had an escape plan. He’d walked into Graham Blitz and no one caught him, so he might have had a way out. If he was planning to carry an unconscious Pete out of the hotel, walking out with him would be less conspicuous and therefore easier to do. If Pete dared to walk out with Tawan, he would be gone for good. Foolish as it felt, he was right to have gone into the bathroom because there was no way Pete was going to be captured again. Not when so many things could go wrong. Especially with a man like Tawan.

The third shot broke the door lock and it burst open.

Pete pounced on the door, slamming it into Tawan’s hand. Tawan shouted in pain as he pushed back. Pete fell away from the door and landed on the wet floor of the bathroom. He rolled out of the way, just as a bullet dug into the tile just beside his head.

He kicked Tawan in the leg and brought him to his knees. Pete sat up and punched him in the face. Both of them shouted in unison as Pete nursed his cracked knuckles, while Tawan held his face. Something had moved in his bones, but he didn’t even have time to deal with it because Tawan’s gun was coming up again. Tired of it, Pete slapped the gun away. Without bothering to go after the gun, Tawan lunged at Pete, grabbing him by the neck and slamming Pete into the side of the bathtub.

Gasping for breath, Pete pressed Tawan’s hand and pulled at the same time, but Tawan wouldn’t budge.

“All you had to do was come with me,” Tawan said through his bleeding lips as he applied more pressure.

Dizzy, Pete used all his strength to land a punch in Tawan’s midriff as Tawan’s hold buckled. Choking on freedom, Pete pushed him but when he tried to crawl away, Tawan grabbed him by the hair and tried to slam his face into the side of the bathtub.

Pete held the bathtub, protecting himself with all his might. Tawan kicked one of Pete’s hands out from under him and he fell, landing on his chest, instead of his face. Tawan grabbed the back of his hair again, but this time, Pete was ready for him. As he lifted Pete, so that he could slam him down again, Pete pushed back, walking both of them into the broken door with all the force he could muster. When Tawan’s hand came loose, Pete turned around and slapped him.

Flustered, it took Tawan a second to recover, but in that second, Pete punched him in the head again, ignoring the pain in his hand as he locked both hands together and brought them down on Tawan’s head. Tawan collapsed on the floor, bleeding from the head as he blinked up at Pete, groaning softly in pain.

“You…” Tawan started to say. “You piece of-”

Pete clenched his unmarred hand into a tight fist and delivered one last blow that sent Tawan’s face into the wall with a loud smack, knocking him out instantly.

Breathing loudly, Pete stumbled back and sat on the bathtub, staring down at Tawan’s unmoving form. From where Pete was sitting, he couldn’t tell if Tawan was even breathing. For all he knew, he could have killed the guy.

And yet, Pete couldn’t even bring himself to care. Because if there was one person who didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy, it was Tawan Apinya.

And Pete would be proud to put down yet another abusive son of a bitch.

***

Porsche got back to the room first, rushing in like the world was on fire and stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the sight of a bleeding Pete sitting on the bathtub with Tawan passed out against the broken door. He pushed the door aside as Tawan’s body fell in the other direction and entered the bathroom.

He kicked the gun away from Tawan’s body as if he expected Tawan to wake up and use it against either of them. Only then did it occur to Pete that maybe he should have done that, himself. It would have been so annoying to have gone through all this, only for Tawan to wake up and shoot Pete just as Pete thought he’d won.

“Are you okay?” Porsche asked, making no move to approach Pete.

He was being cautious around Pete. Knowing Porsche, if Pete hadn’t pushed him away, Porsche would have run to Pete the moment he entered the bathroom. But he didn’t. Instead, he squatted by Tawan’s body, checking for a pulse. For once, Pete wished Porsche would approach him and engulf him in a hug, but he didn’t know how to say it or put it into words. Not when his mind and body were still reeling from the experience.

“I’m…” Pete cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“He’s still alive, the fucking weasel.”

“There’s another guy,” Pete said. “In the room. He came with another guy.”

“For fucksake.”

Porsche left the bathroom and Pete wished he wouldn't do that. He wished Porsche would stay with him for a second. Just sit with him so that he could come back to reality and leave the space of having just fought for his life.

No matter how many times he went through it, Pete would always break a little, afterward. But he had to be strong. He had to stand on his own. Already an omega, people couldn’t look at him and think he needed protecting. That kind of mindset was why Tawan had thought Pete was an easy target, to begin with. Pete couldn’t be weak.

Pete went to sink and splashed water on his face. The blood on his neck had dried and so had the blood on his face. But there would be no scarring. He was going to have a bruise on his face and chest and his back, but bruises wouldn't be an issue. By the time the cycle break was over, Pete would be just fine. Tawan would have caused more damage with his gun than with his weak hands. Pete had been hit harder in his life. He could recover from Tawan’s hits.

The fact that he’d been seconds away from death, though? That was another issue. Because every time Pete closed his eyes, he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Hey,” Kinn said, entering the bathroom, as he went straight for Pete.

Pete didn’t even fight him. He just sank into the hug as Kinn held him. Grabbing the back of Kinn’s shirt, Pete tried to calm his breathing, knowing that he’d done it himself. He hadn’t let himself be taken away. Not for a second time.

“I’m going to kill that asshole.”

“Weak asshole. He can’t even take a punch.”

Kinn chuckled as he pulled Pete away to look at him.

“How are you?”

“I have a handful of broken bones. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re going to joke it off till I let it go.”

“Then let it go,” Pete advised as Kinn frowned at him. “I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I’m always fine.”

Vegas arrived not long after with a tight frown on his face.

“He’s still alive, right?” he asked, pointing at Tawan. “Tell me he’s alive. I need a moment.”

“He’s alive,” Kinn said, letting go of Pete. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.”

Vegas held Pete by the hand, leading him out of the bathroom where a guard came in to bind Tawan’s hands and feet.

“You’re sleeping in my room tonight. You can’t sleep in this destroyed room. Come,” Vegas said. “Let’s get your things.”

***

Pete ordered a bunch of food that he didn’t need, just because he wanted to put off sleeping. But as they waited, with Pete cuddled up in Vegas’ arms, feeling safer than he’d ever felt, Pete slept off before he knew what was happening.

A black, dreamless sleep. More than he could have wished for, with a day full of activity and agitation. He’d been so scared that he would go to bed and Tawan would follow behind him. Because how surprising was it that the day had turned out as they’d hoped it would? Except for Tawan’s little excursion, the day was fulfilled and successful.

Pete was grateful. Even though a part of him was still a bit on edge.

In the softness of Vegas’ bed, the warmth of the coverings, and the safety of having Vegas with him, Pete slept through the night. Like he hadn’t done in ages. He didn’t have false reports to send to Wan. He didn’t have to worry about being captured. He wasn’t worried about the tape anymore because Tankhun had handled that.

Even if Tawan released the footage, there was nothing on it to do any real harm. He’d been foolish enough to only turn on the camera when Pete was in view and to turn it off before he (Tawan) even uttered a word. There was no other person videoed or recorded in Tawan’s footage. No way to tell that it wasn’t just something that was done by the studio or done as a rehearsal shoot.

No way to ruin things for Pete.

Pete was free.

#actor au #omegaverse #kinnporsche #vegaspete #all pov

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scarlettundrhett · 1 year

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yes, love can be the violence by dustbottle

Relationship: Vegas/ Pete

POV: Vegas

Words: 8881

Taking care of Vegas as a doctor? - A dream job!

There’s nothing Vegas hates more than being ill. He hates being feverish, phlegmy, nauseous, in pain, hates the disgusting physicality of it all – hates being out of control of his body, no one to punish for it but himself.

We see Vegas in the series KinnPorsche a month after the showdown. Everything is sweetly sugar-coated. Everyone is happy. Nice. Warmed my heart and I was glad Vegas is alive. All's well that ends well.

But how long was the road to get there? And is all really well in the end?

They have a lot to talk about, a lot to figure out. The world as he knew it is most likely no longer the world as it is. Provided the main family even lets him live long enough, everything is going to have to change.

He's a shitty patient. But Vegas is so sweet and intense about it, as only he can be. I love him!

He has plenty of time to watch Pete now and think about him. He sees him with the eyes of a predator and thinks about him with the heart of a lover.

He can’t stop thinking about him now. He’s obsessed with the charming way he reasons with himself, thinking out loud; the way his smiles come easy but hide more than they reveal; the way his throat bobs when he swallows; the way he surrenders, with an easy grace that borders on relief. Vegas wants to know everything there is to know about Pete. He wants to dig his fingers in. He wants to pry him open, lay him bare, see his inner workings for himself. He wants to hurt him and bruise him and break him apart. He wants to kiss every last inch of him, from the tips of his ears to his dimples to his ribs to the tender backs of his knees. It’s maddening. It’s intoxicating. Vegas feels on fire with it.

They are there, the tender and heartfelt moments, the moments when Vegas shows himself in all his vulnerability and Pete reveals his pure love for Vegas. The hands that Vegas so often used to torture and kill, here they reappear again and again: Groping, caressing, gentle and loving. Hands say so much.

Pete meets his eyes and smiles, more solid this time, more real. He reaches out to Vegas. Takes his hand. “I’m here because you’re here,” he says, and it’s too easy. Nothing in Vegas’s life could ever be this easy. But it still sounds like the truth. Vegas draws Pete’s hand up to his mouth; kisses it, gentle and reverent, the way he remembers doing once before. Pete exhales sharply, looking unsteady. His eyes are bright with unshed tears. It’s a moment that feels stolen – too soft for who either of them are.

But Vegas wouldn't be Vegas if he wasn't willing to activate the self-destruct mechanism.

Well, Pete might have been able to teach him more gently that Porsche is now sitting on the throne. The ring is gone. As always, the messenger has to suffer when he delivers bad news.

“So you just went ahead and told him everything, like the good little bitch you are,” he spits, and watches Pete flinch and startle back a step with a savage kind of satisfaction. “I figured you would regret biting the hand that fed you eventually, but I thought even you could hold out longer than this. (…) I never asked you to be,” he says, venomous, the words like acid in his mouth. “I don’t need you here. Run back to your master, go on. I’m sure they’ll take you back if you beg.” He knows he’s going too far. (…) He wants something to break.

Who can tame such a predator that bites around and prefers to destroy everything around it for fear of being hurt.

Pete meets us here as we know and love him. With a pure heart and an indomitable soul. Who wouldn't want someone like Pete by his side? Again, it's his hands that hold Vegas as he collapses.

“Just go, Pete. You shouldn’t be here. I have nothing left,” he says, suddenly more tired than he can ever remember being in his life. Pete’s face softens. He moves closer as if on instinct, putting his stuff on the bedside table and sitting on the bed next to Vegas, crowding in close. He takes Vegas’s hands in both of his and squeezes them tight. He catches Vegas’s eyes and won’t let him turn his gaze away.

In every story there is that one sentence that hits me in the heart. Here, Pete says that sentence:

“You are what’s left,” Pete tells him, and leans their foreheads together.

Sick and bedridden? Vegas and Pete are a couple who make the most of a successful hour of physiotherapy. Who wouldn't want to be rewarded like that?

Pete is leaning over him and into his space, staying close. He kisses him again, longer this time, more demanding. He bites at Vegas’s bottom lip, sharp and painful, soothing the sting with his tongue. Vegas groans. Kisses him back like he’s starving, because he is. “Keep getting better, and I’ll let you come down my throat right here in this ridiculously big bed,” he says, a challenge and a promise, and all Vegas can do is stare.

I won't reveal the rest.

This story has everything I love. It dissects the soul of my favorite character down to the smallest details, it moves me to tears and pulsates with eroticism.

#vegaspete one-shot’s #ao3 one shots kinnporsche #review ao3 stories kinnporsche #recommendation story ao3 kinnporsche #Vegas is a miserable patient #Vegas in the hospital #Vegas does not die like Elisabeth and Sebastian

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fleet-off · 2 years

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This isn't a literal "let me prove that this medicine isn't poison" kiss for a whole host of reasons. The fact that putting the capsule between your lips for a few seconds says nothing about the capsule's poison content is actually the least of these, because the truth is that they both know Pete isn't scared the pill is poison.

Pete just told Vegas to let him die. Pete's not afraid that the pill will kill him, he's afraid it'll heal him and let Vegas continue using him as a plaything interminably.

Vegas isn't really saying "This pill isn't poison." He's saying "This healing isn't a trap meant to harm you." When he kisses Pete without a hint of taking or consumption or control, he's promising a change. And unlike the presence of literal poison, that is something you can demonstrate with a kiss.

#kinnporsche #on the literal level he's also surprising pete into opening his mouth #but vegas has a lot of ways to get pete to open his mouth #he picked kissing for a reason #when you're a pathetic villain man a 'let me prove it's not poison' kiss is a hell of a lot easier to offer #than an 'i'm not letting you die please don't die on me' kiss #but pete got the true message #fleet post #fleet meta

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littlejeanniebean · 4 years

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Ep. 3 | The Marauders: Riddle Records

A/N: “Come to the dark side. We have a solo career.” - Tom Riddle Jr., probably. On a lighter note, I can just see them backstage like this by the lovely artist @theimpossiblefifth. Read on AO3 :) Enjoy! - J xx

One look in your eyes

I can read your mind

You're naughty, my type

Care for a good time?

You could be just like all your high society friends at high tea

You could get with a football player

But there’s nothing like a shot of adrenaline in the morning

You know you want a dragon slayer

“Like me,” James mouthed seductively to the camera and winked.

“I’m Alice Fortescue, these wonderful lads are The Marauders, thank you for joining us this Saturday Night Live!” the actress grinned widely as the camera backed away.

The boys all gathered around her in a group hug.

“Holy shit! That was incredible!” Obviously, this was Sirius speaking.

“You were wonderful, honey,” a low voice whispered.

A smiling man with sweet eyes and a mop of dark hair put his arms around Alice.

“Oh, everyone, this is my boyfriend, Frank!” the bubbly actress grinned widely, “He’s a photographer for GQ.”

“Sick!” James shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Frank; lovely working with you, Alice; hope you’ll both come to one of our shows sometime, ta-ta!” Sirius practically dragged the band away before anyone could say anything more.

“What was that?” Remus tutted at his boyfriend.

“Yeah, ta-ta?” the bespectacled boy wiggled his nose to adjust his glasses that had gone askew, “Who says that?”

“Not what I meant,” the pale, mousy-haired boy shrugged off his suit jacket in their shared dressing room.

“Look, I’ll explain later!” Sirius pleaded, “Just hurry up and let’s get the hell -”

“Yoo-hoo! Siri!” a warbling, high-pitched voice giggled on the other side of the door, “This is their room here, Tommy...”

“Christ,” the dark-haired boy covered his face with his hands.

“We’ll deal with Bella,” James set his jaw and turned to the other two, “Ready?”

Remus and Peter rolled up their dress shirt sleeves and nodded.

The trio filed out of the dressing room, forcing Bella Black and her friend backward, and immediately shut the door behind them.

“He doesn’t want to see you or any of your family again, Bella,” said James sternly, giving the show's new cameraman the stink-eye for good measure.

Bella stuck her tongue out childishly.

Her guest grimaced and offered his hand to the boys, “I’m sorry about her. She overheard I was interested in speaking with you young talents and… well, it got a bit out of hand. I’m Tom Riddle, of Riddle Records.”

Really, the man with chiseled features and dark slicked back hair wasn’t much older than they were. But he was dressed more expensively than they could ever be comfortable with, even with the fresh success of their debut album.

“You’re Senior’s kid,” James nodded, his mother being an agent in the industry. He noted just the smallest flinch at the mention of the man's father. “With all due respect, we already have a label.”

“A label that has you locked into a contract as a group,” Tom gave them each his card and presented James with another one for Sirius, “We would pay any fees associated with breaking your current contract, then we would launch your solo careers - James as the pop prince, Sirius as the rock and roll bad boy, Remus as the R&B god, and Peter as the jazz legend!”

“We’re better musicians together,” said Remus.

Tom leaned in, “Your success now, quadrupled. Plus the potential for high-engagement collaborations among you. The freedom to create in your own style on top of that. Imagine it. And give me a call.”

"Ta-ta," Bella blew them each a kiss in a way that could only be described as menacing. When they were out of the boys' earshot she simpered, "You're such a clever businessman, Tommy."

"Don't call me that," he yanked his arm away and pressed his phone to his ear irritably, "I found us some new business and laid the groundwork. Can I have my allowance now?"

The Marauders flew back to Scotland that night and rehearsed for months until they were ready to drop before flying back to LA for Night One.

“Nervous?” Sirius whispered while they waited for their opening act, DJ Dedalus Diggle, to finish his set.

“Why would you ask me that?” James huffed, adjusting his bright red tie for the umpteenth time.

“You need more glitter,” Molly patted his cheekbones lightly with her pointer finger, which was covered in the golden stuff.

“Five minutes, boys!”

“Thanks, Arthur!” Remus spoke for them all.

“We’ve got this, Jimbo!” Peter bounced excitedly on his heels.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been performing at recitals since you were big enough to reach the keys from the bench.”

“The jitters never get old,” his baby-faced friend told him, “but we’re all going out there. And with everything we do together, we always have fun.”

James nodded to himself and made sure to check on their drummer for the tour, “You good, Kingsley?”

The man in a rose-red disco suit twirled the sticks deftly in his hands, “Let’s do this.”

“... and now, Los Angeles,” Diggle hyped the crowd, “give it up… for The Marauders!”

The lights went up and the boys looked out at the incredibly emotional fans who’d come to see them.

“Right,” James whispered, reaching for the microphone with shaking hands, “A-one, two, three.”

I don’t have a lot of time

I’m running for my dear life

Can’t breathe without you by

Aye aye aye

It’s a full house

But I’ll seek you out

It’s a wild crowd

But I’ll seek you out

I don’t know how

But I’ll seek you out

James couldn’t help grinning ear to ear as Sirius broke out into his guitar solo.

Remus pointed out a sign that said, “Marry me, James Potter!”

The lead singer laughed and spoke into his mic, “Well, will you buy me dinner first, at least?”

The girl promptly fainted.

Arthur was by her side immediately to make sure she was alright.

“Oh, dear, you’ve hit your head,” Molly crouched down beside him and handed the young girl an ice pack.

The red-headed manager got his first good look at the videographer and her multi-pocketed fishing vest and cargo pants.

She noticed him staring, “I’ve known these boys a long time. You never know what you’re going to need.”

“Good advice,” he helped her and the fan back up in one go, “I’m Arthur.”

“Molly,” she grinned, hoisting her camera back onto her capable shoulders and focused back in on James.

Under your spell, I like how you play it

Keeping it cool is so overrated

Waiting on you, every breath bated

Hey hey hey

They played LA two more nights before moving on to San Francisco. Then Vegas, then Seattle, and across the rest of the continent, all the way to New York.

“Madison Square Garden,” James swallowed, taking in the iconic jumbotron above their heads and the entire stadium, really.

Just three hours later, he was up on that very stage, sweat trickling down his back and the bridge of his nose as he sang his heart out about a funny story the designer, Lily Evans once related about her sister via Instagram post.

There’s a little house on Privet Drive

Where nothing ever happens

Little curtain twitcher of a wife

And a little boy and husband

But when they leave for their nine to five

And the little boy goes to school

The little old lady with cats ninety-nine

Does what she wills to do

Living next to ordinary no. 4

So much to do, so much to explore

The grocer down the street from me

His daughter left for university

And he needs the comfort of my tabbies

Yessiree, that’s what I’m here for

Your neighbour next to ordinary no. 4

After that, they went all over South America. The streets were typically too narrow to drive a tour bus around, so they often jetted from one country to another and rented a little convoy of minivans to take them to the arenas from their hotels and back.

“Shit, Petey’s got food poisoning!” Remus fussed over the poor boy.

“I’m fine! Really!” the blond insisted before doubling over and retching once more.

“I can fill in,” DJ Diggle adjusted his signature flat cap, “I have all your songs pre-recorded -”

“We have half an hour to get it out of his system!” Sirius declared determinedly, “We’re not going on without you, Pete!”

“I’ve got the doctor!” Arthur came in, followed closely by a middle-aged woman with apple cheeks and curly hair.

“You need to replace your fluids,” Molly handed Peter a bottle of electrolytes.

“Yeah, it’s a common bacterial infection going around among tourists,” said the doctor, giving him a dose of antibiotics, “He’s not in any shape to perform, you lot, so you might as well let him rest.”

“I can - oh,” Peter ran to the bathroom.

“How soon can you give him another dose of that?” Sirius asked anxiously.

“Not any time in the next half hour,” she narrowed her eyes at him, apparently having overheard his earlier proclamation.

“Poppy’s right,” said Arthur, “Peter’s health comes first. Dedalus, isolate the keyboards in every track and queue the set list.”

“Try to keep in time,” Sirius added.

“No improvising for tonight, lads,” Arthur warned the regular band members.

“But -”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I!” he could only maintain a straight face for two and a half seconds after he said this.

James sighed as they waited for the DJ to introduce them half an hour later, “It’s not going to be the same without Peter.”

“We’ll make the best of it, Jimbo,” Remus assured him, “and he’ll be back with us for the next one.”

The frontman set his jaw, pushed his glasses up his face and pulled the microphone to his lips.

Do you remember

The games we used to play

Mermaids underwater

Aliens in outer space

Do you remember

The sticks we’d raise aloft

We called them swords and never

Lost the battles that we fought

Peter was back on stage the next night, to much celebration and all too soon, they flew back across the pond for their European leg. Of course, their first stop was Scotland.

“It’s so good to be home,” James sighed happily, pausing to wipe his glasses on the hem of his shirt and winking at a girl who lost it at the sight of his abdomen, “This is our last song. Please join in if you know the words. Or make them up. Just have a good time. Be as loud as you want to. We love you all, thank you for everything you’ve done for us. We’re the luckiest boys in the world.”

Is there a risk to it?

Is it a challenge?

If there isn’t, if it isn’t, I don’t want it

Yeah, I wanna do some damage

I feel lucky tonight

I got you by my side

Seven days in a week

And you spend them with me

So hell yeah, I feel lucky

"That sounds really good, Pete," said James from where he lay on the floor of their stage after the arena emptied, "We could use that."

Peter chuckled, "It's Chopin. A waltz."

James ambles over and his friend makes room for him on the bench.

"It's a split C chord, then F, A flat..." he guides him through the song. It's out of time and messy, but they're having fun. "James…"

"Yeah, Pete?"

"What are we going to do about Tom Riddle's offer? I mean, his dad’s label practically owns half the music industry. And Castle is just this little independent… He could make our lives more difficult than he already has."

"Unless we join him, you're thinking?"

"We could ask Arthur to negotiate a group contract just the same. I doubt they'll dislike the idea of paying less upfront."

"But what about loyalty to everyone at Castle? McGonagall? Urquart?" James shook his head, "We're having a successful tour in spite of the ticket bots Riddle set on us. We're looking out into seas of fans all wearing our merch in spite of his shipment hijacking. And we're having bloody good time because we're not letting any of the homophobic slander he's fueled the press with get to us."

"Here, here!" cheered Sirius, clinking his beer bottle with his boyfriend's.

"Right, rest up, lads! You deserve it with all the work you put into this show," James stood and ambled back to the tour bus, where Shacklebolt was already sleeping soundly, being the earliest riser of them all.

“Goodnight, all!” Peter loved his friends, truly. But he was convinced their stubborn sense of the meaning of courage would do them a great disservice.

As always when confronted with a decision to make, he visited the only jazz bar in Scotland, the Leaky Kettle. Immediately upon stepping inside, he let the smooth piano carry away the stress.

“The usual,” he told the bartender.

“Put it on my tab,” Tom Riddle swivelled around on the bar stool, "Fancy meeting you here."

"You mean you didn't expect to? Didn't plan it?" Peter received his drink with barely more than a sideways glance at their adversary.

"It's just business, Peter. I know you understand that."

"Then why go through all this trouble for one act? There must be thousands - hundreds of thousands - of talented artists who could make you rich."

Tom rolled his eyes, "My father was always… a bit single-minded. He wants to put me through my paces before handing me the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. But don’t worry about that. Just know this: I think your group is talented and I can see that you’re the musical glue holding it all together. You’re the only one with any formal training, after all. And I really can see to your career’s longevity. If you stick with this boyband too long, though…”

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Then what?”

“Well,” the label executive leaned in, “then you’ll need to think about what that does to your image as a real, serious musician.”

The blond boy finished his drink.

“Another one for my friend,” Tom told the bartender, took his jacket, and left.

His calling card sat heavy in the keyboardist’s wallet.

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spiderman-homecomeme · 5 years

Text

Day One - When in Vegas

Prompt: future!au

It’s cutting it close, but here is my first contribution to @spideychellemonth! I’m gonna try my darndest to keep up, but I’m so excited for this guys!!

This is potentially going to be multi-chapter, mostly because it was getting too long and I was having just TOO MANY IDEAS lmao Let me know what y’all think! This is also based off of an idea an anon sent me a week or so ago about a marriage pact!AU that i just LOVED the idea for

Basically, the 1.7k Waking Up Married in Vegas!AU nobody asked for pls enjoy! <3

Fuck.

It’s the first semi-coherent thought that pops into MJ’s head as she’s dragged into a sluggish state that can barely be described as consciousness. Her eyes, feeling as if they might fall right out of her skull, squeeze shut in an effort to stop the sun’s merciless assault. The groan that leaves her mouth as she turns away from the window is almost inhuman, her tongue heavy and dry, throat feeling as if she’d just swallowed barbed wire. If she moves too much, she’s sure whatever concoction of last night’s activities currently residing in her stomach are going to end up on the floor.

Three gin and tonics, two vanilla screwdrivers, and a few too many—who was counting, really?—shots of tequila seemed like an okay idea last night, at least past-MJ thought.

That was a problem for future-MJ.

Future-MJ hates past-MJ.

It was true, it was all true, she reflects as her stomach gurgles violently, lurching into the back of her throat.

It’s a simple explanation, really.

Over time, the enzymes required to metabolize all that booze have started to weaken, no longer breaking down toxins with the same vigor, leaving the elusive acetaldehyde to roam free.

In other words, she’s thirty.

Gone were the glory days where she could drink the night away and wake up with just a mild headache. The days where she could have as many different cocktails as her heart desired and not wake up feeling like death itself. The days where she could drink just one glass of pinot noir and not feel like an angry bull is stomping on his hippocampus.

But it had been Ned’s 30th, one of her best friends since high school, a real cause for celebration. They were in Vegas, for crying out loud. Sin City. What was she supposed to do?

Not drink?

(Well, yeah. That would have been ideal.)

But where was the fun in that?

Her hand brushes across her bare stomach, and she realizes with a small start that she’s naked.

She’s not sure if she’s ever been more confused.

Come to think of it, she’s not sure she even knows what happened last night. There’s flashes, very brief flashes of club music, Grey Goose, way too much glitter, and a lot of highly questionable, dumbass financial decisions involving slot machines and poker games.

She’s pretty sure she’s still alive, about 62%, but she’s also fairly certain that her brain has been replaced with cotton and sewing needles. An ache that starts right around her knees shoots up her spine, radiating throughout her body as she pulls the blanket tighter around her and buries her puffy face into the pillow.

When she realizes that any chance of sleep is gone for good, and that she can’t just will this splitting headache away with her own mind, she cracks an eye open. She immediately regrets that decision as soon as the harsh sunlight hits, shaking her head, throwing her arm out in some kind of half-assed effort to fight it off.

Her heart nearly stops when her hand hits something soft and warm next to her. She yanks her hand back, eyes shooting open to see someone—a man—face down in the mattress, head of chocolate brown waves turned away from her. A rather uncalled for heat swarms her body as her gaze drifts to his exposed back and lingers on the taut muscles there, drifting lower, the thin stop-sheet just barely covering the curve of his—

What the hell happened last night?

But dread starts to mix with the nausea gripping at her stomach as she realizes something about the naked mystery man in her bed.

She knows that curly mop of brown hair.

Immediately, she shoots up from the bed, gripping the sheet against her chest.

A big mistake.

The nausea finally wins the battle, and she runs to the bathroom, not bothering to cover up as she empties the toxic contents of her stomach into the toilet.

It’s a wonder Peter doesn’t wake up from her violent retching.

She forces out a harsh exhale as she flushes down the remnants of her night out, hand reaching out to grip the bathroom counter as she rises on shaky legs. She grabs the complimentary bathrobe—how fancy—and shrugs it on before turning to the sink to splash ice cold water onto her face.

And that’s when she sees it.

The gaudy, cheap, obviously fake rock sitting smugly on her left ring finger, staring right back at her slack-jawed expression.

What the fuck?!

It all comes back to her.

They’d been so, so incredibly dumb.

Both of them.

Peter looks stupid good.

He always has, of course, she wasn’t blind.

But his late-twenties seemed to have been incredibly kind to him. He still had that boyish charm she’d always secretly liked, but now… now there was just something about him, standing under these neon casino lights, wearing a plain black suit with a white tee underneath, that brought back years and years of repressed high school feelings.

Mutual feelings that neither of them ever acted on. Only joked about.

They would never have worked as a couple, they’d always say.

It was a disaster waiting to happen.

So they both moved on. It was high school. They still had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

Plus, the risk of ruining their solid friendship was just too great.

So why, after nearly twelve years, is she having to actively fight back the stupid fluttering of butterflies when he so much as glanced in her general direction?

It makes no sense.

It isn’t like they haven’t seen each other since high school. Yeah, it’s been a few months since they last caught up, both of them being too busy with work and the like, but...

They were still friends—best friends, even.

She blames it on the second gin and tonic.

Yes, it’s the warm buzz of the alcohol running through her body that’s making her feel like she’s pretty damn close to walking on air.

And she chases that feeling, returning again and again to the bar—sometimes with Peter, himself—giving up on actually counting her drinks after the first shot of tequila.

Tequila was clearly not her friend in this case.

It could also have been the fact that she’s freshly single and she’s had to witness Ned and, now fiancèe Betty, making googly eyes at each other one too many times, and it’s entirely possible that she’s just feeling that creeping loneliness she’d tried so hard to stamp down.

She doesn’t know how they get here, maybe it’s somewhere between her second shot and her first screwdriver, but they’re alone in a booth in the corner. For the first time in a while, her liquid courage doesn’t help stave off the pressure of trying to come up with something cool to say, and she feels, once again, like she’s back in high school.

It’s an incredibly frustrating feeling.

Peter ducks as he sees Ned looking for him, MJ snickering as she watches the whole ordeal. Ned’s drunkenly leading this poor, unassuming casino patron around, glancing around frantically as he wanders from room to room.

Odds are it’s just another person to try and hook Peter up with.

Ned means well, he truly does, but frankly, Peter’s a little tired of the constant matchmaking. Yes, he’s been the perpetually single friend for a number of years now, but he seemed to be pretty content on his own.

And plus, he and MJ are having a pretty good time by themselves.

He doesn’t need anyone else.

“But, Pete,” MJ starts, words slurring ever-so-slightly, tone laced with sarcasm. “Everyone knows that being single in your thirties is one of the most shameful things in existence. It’s barbaric. You need to settle down, before it’s too late.”

He throws his head back, letting out an exaggerated laugh. “You’re right. My good years are gone.”

She tsks, shaking her head. “Past your prime.”

“I’ve truly peaked.” He tips his glass to her, before taking a drink.

A smirk tugs at her lips. “What will you do now?”

“Well...” He laughs lightly, casually stirring the glass in his hand. He looks up at her, eyes glazed over, tilting his head as he fixes her with a fond, teasing smile. “We still have that pact.”

Ah, yes.

The pact.

The pact that they’d made—as a joke—when they were sixteen.

It was simple.

If they were both single at thirty, they’d get married.

That was the deal.

They even shook on it.

But, official as that simple handshake was at the time for two hormonal teenagers, it wasn’t something that was ever in any universe supposed to be taken seriously.

Maybe it was just a ring, though. Maybe they didn’t get actually, legitimately, legally get married. They couldn’t have been that dumb.

Or maybe this was some sick hangover hallucination her brain made up as punishment for drinking too much.

The rest of the night is a blur, brief glimpses of drunken giggles, his hand in hers flashing through her mind. She vaguely remembers going somewhere outside the casino with him, stumbling through the streets as they pull each other along, bright lights dancing above them.

Balloons everywhere.

A corny chapel.

A Tony Stark impersonator.

Her expression is oddly calm, a contrast to the utter horror she feels in her gut as she stares at the sparkling ring on her finger.

This isn’t that bad, she thinks. This can all be over in a matter of hours.

An annulment was easy, right?

Right?

It’s not like they had sex or anything—

Wait, no, fuck, they did.

Did they…?

Again, the later part of the night is fuzzy.

Another wave of nausea crashes into her before she has a chance to be confused, and in an instant, she’s hunched over the toilet again.

And it’s while she’s puking her guts out, while she’s praying that the naked guy in her bed stays asleep where he’s supposed to be, does a boxer-clad-Peter step into the bathroom. He looks almost as wrecked as she is, his hair in wild disarray, bags under his eyes giving Gollum a run for his money.

He hesitates, knocking gently on the doorframe. “MJ—?” At first, he looks as though he’s about to ask her why she’s in his hotel room, but his expression crumples into one of worry when he sees how sick she is. “Are you okay?”

She scoffs and gives him a weak glance over her shoulder, ready to throw a biting, sarcastic remark back at him, when she sees the way the color drains from his face.

He’s frozen in place, eyes wide, and she hesitantly follows his gaze, right onto that big, fake diamond on her finger.

Fuck.

#spideychelle #petermj #peter parker x michelle jones #peter parker #michelle jones #spiderman #spider-man #vegas!au #spideychellemonth2k19 #woooooo #celebrate!!!#part 2???#eh???

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seelaa26 · 4 years

Text

8. Start A War

“Bang, shots fired. Pain is what you desire. The pen is mightier than the sword then how did we get here, my God. Sail among liars, blame the deniers. So you want to start a war. So you want to be immortal with a loaded gun”

As we had done in the interrogation of Pete, Sara, Brass and I entered the interrogation room while the FBI agents stayed in the viewing room. As soon as we entered, Brian got mad and started talking.

-Finally! What am I doing here? You have no right bring me here when I have done nothing!

-Are you in a hurry, Mr. Reid? –Brass asked.

-In fact, yes –he nodded seriously- I have to stop by my ex-girlfriend’s house to pick up my stuff before she gets from work.

-So you didn’t break into her apartment? –He frowned like if he had no idea about what I was talking about- The door was bashed open.

-What? No! I have a key –he exhaled and tried to calm down- Just call Portia. She’s angry with me but she’ll back me up.

I opened my mouth in surprise. Brian didn’t know what had happened, which meant I had to tell him. This was going to be the first time that I had to communicate someone’s death. I looked at my colleagues and they nodded at me. With their support, I quickly thought about how to say it.

-There was a fire at the spa.

-A fire? Oh God! Is she OK?

-Unfortunately, Ms. Weismann never made it out of the mud bath.

-The mu.. you mean sh.. it can’t be!

-Mr. Reid, we’re sorry for your loss –Brian closed his eyes and put his hands in his head- We have no evidence implicating you right now, and we know it must be a shock to hear about Portia. We need your help to figure out what happened to her. You mentioned that you and Portia were no longer together. Was this a mutual decision?

-No, I broke it off with her. She.. her, her drug problem was getting in the way. Weed. She knew I couldn’t.. she knew I had a problem with it.

-Was Portia self-medicating? –Sara asked- Cancer patients are sometimes prescribed medicinal marijuana to help them cope with the side effects of treatment.

-Cancer? Well, that may have started her habit, but her cancer’s been in remission for years.

-Portia’s cancer had come back. The autopsy found mesothelioma in the lining of her heart. She didn’t have long.

-But she never told.. I didn’t know.

-Where were you last night? –I asked- Can anyone verify your location between the hours of three and four a.m.?

-I don’t think so, no. I was at home hanging with my body Jack for most of the night. But by then, Jack was gone and I was pretty much passed out. -Can your buddy Jack confirm your story?

-Well, I try not to ask the bottle too many questions. People look at me funny.

-Mr. Reid or should I call you Captain Reid? –I could see where Brass was going.

-Not anymore, I’m no longer with the Las Vegas Fire Department.

-I bet you’ve seen a lot of buildings burn and I bet you know a lot of ways to light ‘em up.

-You know something buddy? You are way the hell outta line! –Brian snapped and hit the table with his fist- I devoted my life to jumping into flames and saving people. So for you to sit there and insinuate that I may be an arsonist.. is the most offensive thing anyone has ever said to me! And Portia? You think I set Portia on fire?! I mean, I don’t know what kind of animals you people have to deal with, but that’s not me!

-Being a firefighter was obviously very important to you so it must have hurt to lose that. I think you failed a drug test..?

-Portia made pot brownies. Now, she says she didn’t dose mi intentionally but she did leave the damn things right where I would find them and she didn’t tell me what they were! And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, happy Monday! Go pee in a cup.

-You dumped her because she dosed you.

-Tell us about this tool –Sara showed him a picture of the tool used to break in Portia’s apartment- It’s a firefighter tool, isn’t it?

-It’s called a Denver Tool. Firefighters use it for getting into and out of places.

-The drywall at the spa was ventilated with a Denver Tool.

-Well, it wasn’t mine. Anybody can buy one on the internet, even my gir.. even Portia had one. She wanted it for protection. Said it creeped her out to be alone in that place all day.

-How often did she do that? Spend hours alone at the spa? –I asked him.

-Just about every day. You know.. there were times I started to believe that place might be some sort of front for money laundering. Portia was convinced and she was keeping her own records.

I looked at the mirror, knowing Killian and his partner were behind it watching the interrogation. Brian gave them what they were looking for.

-Did anyone else know Portia was keeping financial records?

-I think she might have mentioned it to her boss which seemed like the wrong guy to talk to about it, but she trusted him. After she talked to him, she got all paranoid.

I left the room feeling satisfied. Besides clearing up my suspicions, Brian gave us a reason for Pete to start the fire and the pressure point we wanted to start dismantling “The Queen of the Hive”. Next stop? Pete Baxa’s barbershop.

***

When we got to Pete’s office, the barbershop, we saw the blinds down and the sign closed hanging on the door. Killian and I exchanged a daring look and knocked on the door despite being closed. We were willing to wait whatever it took, but luckily, Pete opened the door holding a piece of paper around his neck.

-Hi, uh, sorry. I was shaving.. cut myself –he threw the paper in the trash next to the door- What can I do for you?

-We’re looking for a tool –I said directly- Portia Weismann owned a firefighter tool. She kept it at the spa for security. Have you seen it?

-No, she had some kind of weapon at the spa? That’s totally against company policy.

-That’s all we need right now. We’ll be back.

-Uh.. looking forward to it.

After that phrase, he closed the door and disappeared. It was clear that Pete wasn’t a very smart pawn, because if were, he wouldn’t have given us his DNA. When the evidence is in a public place and in plain sight, we don’t need a warrant, so we took the paper.

Still with the DNA lab doors closed, you could hear the music Greg was playing but once I opened the doors, the sound flooded the room and Greg was lost in the song. He moved his leg like he was hitting the drum’s pedal and moved his arms like he had drumsticks.

-Good morning to you too, Greg! –I yelled in his ear and he jumped in fright.

-What can I say? A man need his pleasures –he answered with a smile while he removing the music.

-Especially, when those pleasures include Marilyn Manson’s Holy Wood album.

Greg’s eyes lit up and his mouth fell open at what Killian said. Love at first sight.

-Greg Sanders –he introduced himself and shook hands with Killian- It’s always a pleasure meeting someone who values metal music.

-Killian Hayes.

I was surprised to see that Killian didn’t introduce himself as a Special Agent, which is normally what they should do, but with Greg he did it on a personal way. Like if he wanted to meet him beyond the profession.

-I don’t know why but I knew you two would get along –I smiled at them and handed Greg the piece of paper with Pete’s blood- I need you to compare this blood with the black hair from the bead curtain. I need it ASAP, please.

-C’mon love, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee while we wait.

-I bet you can get it for free with that charm of yours –I said as I walked out the door that Killian was holding for me.

-You don’t like it? -he put his arm around my shoulders and brought me closer to him as we walked down the hall being the center of attention of my colleagues. I looked at his blue eyes and his devilish smile and forgot about everyone and everything around us.

We left the lab and went to a cafeteria that was on the opposite street, so we were close in case we were needed. We sat at a table at the back, by the window, and ordered two coffees. He ordered an Irish coffee, which was curious but predictable.

-Feeling homesick? –he raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly- How did you become an FBI agent anyway?

-Had some connections with the IRA. One day the FBI showed up at my door, offered me a deal to be their informant, I accepted and since I helped them take down the operation I started working with them until I got my position.

-That’s.. quite impressive, actually.

-What about you?

-I thought you were Sherlock Holmes, why don’t you give it a shot? –I dared him. Killian placed both arms on the table and stared at me.

-Divorced parents clearly marked by the absence of a father, broken home and growing up with different difficulties. Short-tempered and with a certain tendency to fight–I swallowed and leaned back- I’m sorry Laura, but you’re from textbook.

-You’re right.. –I nodded with a certain sadness- About everything.

-Hey, it’s better to come from a broken home than to live in one –the waitress brought us the coffees, interrupting that beautiful scene- So, what was your method to get the rage out?

-Boxing.

-Suits you –he smiled like he expected that answer- Keep practicing it?

-Not since I moved here.

-Why’s that?

-Well, coming to Vegas was a new chance for me and I wanted a different life than what I had in Barcelona, so I left it all behind.

-In my opinion, I think you should box again. I’m going to give you some advice, Laura. You need to find something outside of work to disconnect. Anything. Otherwise, the things you see and the people you meet, they’re going to be stucked in your head. For a girl like you, with that kind of fire inside, boxing is one of the best options.

***

Greg sent me a message confirming that the DNA matched, which meant we had a search warrant. Brass, Sara and I got in the same car and we headed to the barber shop.

-Mr. Baxa, Las Vegas Police, open up! –Brass yelled while he knocked on the door- Looks like he’s not here. We’ll have to execute the warrant without him.

The police opened up the door and Sara and I handled the scene investigation. The barber shop was small, way too small to be a normal business, so we figured that everything had to be in his office. We found an empty financial portfolio with the spa’s logo on it.

-Those records we found in the victim’s oven are just the kind you’d keep in a binder like this –Sara concluded.

-Hey Sara, look what I found –I held the bag in my hands- Vegan blueberry muffins. They look almost edible.. and flammable.

Next to the office, there was a small room with shelves, but the first thing we saw was some boots on the floor. Sara picked them up and observed the sole of the shoe. It was similar with the shoeprint the intruder had left at Portia’s apartment.

-I wonder why they need so much acetone –I said to my colleague pointing to a 5L litter of acetone- Place is a little too masculine for manicures.

-Mmm.. Laura? Guess what my favorite city is.

I turned around and looked at the tool she picked.

-Denver.

Back in the lab, it was time to get some physical evidence of Pete’s tampering with the Denver Tool, since finding it in his office wasn’t enough. We needed him on the weapon that caused the fire and killed Portia. I had the tool on the table and everything I needed to search for fingerprints, when someone entered the room. I looked back and saw him.

-Hey Nick.

-Hey, how you doing with the case? –he asked when he stood next to me.

-Good, actually I was about to examine the tool that caused the fire.

-Can I help you with something? –he nicely offered.

-Well, if you want you can examine the portfolio –I pointed to the portfolio next to him on the table- I was going to do it after finishing with the tool, but if you help me that would be great.

-Let’s get to work then! –Nick put on some gloves and I looked at him with a kind look, thinking him for helping me.

With the magnetic powders I dusted all the parts of the tool, but there was only one fingerprint on the handle. I looked at Nick with a satisfied smile while he looked back showing me the portfolio with another fingerprint. We had both been successful.

-Now, let’s photograph them and run them through AFIS.

-So, ..Where’s the Super Agent? –Nick asked like he was interested.

-I don’t know, I’m not his mom.

-Yeah, I know.. I was just asking because you’ve been spending so much time together.

-Well, yes, we’re working a case.. together.

-I’ve worked cases with FBI agents and they haven’t been holding me in the middle of the hall.

I had never seen Nick react like this; he seemed annoyed and even jealous. Before saying anything, I stopped to look at him. He kept his gaze steady, jaw clenched and darken eyes.

-Nick, what’s all this about?

-About that you two should have a professional relationship. I understand that he’s handsome and charming, but don’t let that cloud you. Especially when he’s playing with you.

-Excuse me?! –I opened my mouth and took step back- What if I like him? What do you have to do in my love life? Do I tell you who you should be or shouldn’t be with? Besides, I think it’s funny and hypocritical that you advise me to keep it professional. Like you did with Kristy?

-I guess I had that one coming.

The sound of the AFIS search separated us from the discussion to look at the result. Portia’s fingerprints were the ones in the financial portfolio, confirming she took the papers and Pete’s fingerprints were the ones on the handle of the Denver Tool, confirming he started the fire.

As fast as I could, I went to Brass’s office to get an arrest warrant for Pete. I knocked on his door and when he let me in, I realized that both officers were in the office and looking nervous.

-Guys, I think I know what happened –I explained- Baxa was laundering money and when Portia confronted him about it, he panicked. Then he decided to rig the spa to explode. Portia probably showed up after Pete was gone. Doc Robbins said she had marijuana in her system, so she might not have noticed the acetone. While she was there burning to death, Baxa was at her apartment, looking for the records she was keeping.

-Laura –Brass made a dramatic pause- We have a visitor. Ms. Beatriz Salazar.

-You serious? She’s here?

-“The Queen of the Hive” herself just walked in and asked to talk to the CSI in charge of the Pedro Baxa case.

-Do you mind if I sit in on this one, Captain Brass? –Agent Huntby asked.

-Be my guest, you can even take my seat. I’ll hang back and watch from the viewing room.

Agent Huntby and I entered the room with some intimidation and fear, we couldn’t deny it. Agent Huntby remained standing while I sat across from Beatriz. She was a woman in her 50s, she had brown hair with highlights. Her suit clothes showed a scar on her chest from an open-heart surgery and a tattoo of a crow.

-Hello, Ms. Salazar. My name is Special Agent..

-Gene Huntby. I know who you are. But she.. –she looked at me with narrowed eyes- I am unfamiliar with. I shall presume you are the one persecuting my poor, clumsy Pedrocito?

-We’re not persecuting anyone. The evidence speaks for itself, ma’am –I wasn’t going to let Beatriz intimidate me- Why are you here? Usually. When someone wants to talk to us in this room, they want to confess. So, is there something you’d like to get off your chest, Ms. Salazar?

-You think you’re very clever, don’t you? –She got mad- Perhaps I know you better than I thought, but I’m here for Pedro. He’s family.

-Family, huh? You know, I might actually be moved by that, if you weren’t still the primary suspect in the execution murder of your first husband –Agent Huntby spoke boldly.

-My husband’s murderer remains at large, Agent Huntby –she smiled at him- Pedro’s family, all three of his sisters, they live in the house I provide. So, as you can see, I have s significant investment in the future and well being of this young man.

-Sorry about your investment, but, like I said, the evidence speaks for itself and it never lies –I spoke again.

-What precisely is this evidence saying to you?

-I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics of an ongoing investigation.

-Very well, I understand. Sometimes a man is called upon to be more than he has been in the past. Sometimes he fails.

-A woman is dead because Pete Baxa was trying to clean up a mess. Do you think it was his own or yours?

-I think if this evidence is speaking to you, miss, then something must be lost in the translation, regardless of whatever mess there was, Pedro is incapable of violence. Pedro is not a murderer.

-You’re very bold to come here. Aren’t you afraid you’ll leave some trace behind? A hair or flake of skin? Something with your DNA.. that we might be able to use against you.

She looked at me with a sideways smile and then she spat on the floor.

-Wouldn’t want to make your job more difficult than it has to be. I believe I have made myself very clear to you. I shall not waste anymore of your time. Muchas gracias.

Beatriz got up from the chair, gave me a last challenging look and left the room. A few seconds later, we all met again in the hallway. When we were about to talk about what happened, Brass got a phone call.

-Two police officers came by to serve that arrest warrant again –Brass explained as we walked into the barber shop and saw Pete dead on one of his chairs- They found him like this. Called it in.

There was a video camera aimed right at him, so we hit the play button. Pedro was sitting in front of the camera making his confession.

-My name is Pedro Baxa. I am an embezzler.. and a murderer. I set fire to the Superla Spa in order to cover up the fact that, for some time now, I have benn fraudulently reporting its earnings –he really looked sad and sorry- I poured acetone all over, I cut the gas line, and left a muffin to burn in the toaster oven. I swear to God the place was empty when I rigged it go up. I know it’s small comfort, but I apologize to her family and to anyone close to her. I’m so sorry for taking her away. Please, tell my sisters this. I made a deal with the devil to keep you safe, to give you a better life. I beg you to remember me if you are ever tempted to make a deal of your own. So it’s come to this.. Good bye.

Pete Baxa put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

***

-So all the forensic evidence supports what Pete Baxa confessed to on the video? –Killian asked.

-Yes, it does. But Pete Baxa’s confession wasn’t for us.

-Neither was his suicide. I think he was trying to make amends.. to his Queen.

-Well, this case may not have resolved itself the way you hoped. Now, we’ll have to find another way to trap Salazar.

-Yeah.. and maybe we’ll trap her together –Killian nodded and looked at me. Noticing we were in the middle of the hallway, he got close- Look, I’m not leaving until tomorrow and I was wondering that maybe you’d like to have dinner with me. Now that the case is officially over.

Killian’s seductive and daring gaze was a force that attracted me to him. His hand brushed mine lightly and I couldn’t help but blush. There was no reason for what I felt when I was with him. So, when I was going to say yes, Nick appeared on the scene. He and Warrick were talking and laughing and then Nick realized that I was there with Killian. His face changed.

-I can’t. I’m sorry.

-I understand love –Killian nodded and approached me to give me a hug- Maybe some other time. I’ve left something in your locker accompanied by my phone number. Call me.

After that farewell, the first thing I did was go open my locker to get my things and find what he had left. It was the business card of a boxing club in Vegas.

#csi #csi las vegas #crime scene investigation #gil grissom #nick stokes #george eads

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ameliasnormandy · 4 years

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Warehouse: New start

Hey, just a week note. I am restarting my warehouse fanfic, because I didn’t like the start. It’s basically the same just more details, and better written.

I am not going to get involved in anything. Never again. I paid my debt to society. I never had a debt to pay, yet I paid it. I paid a debt for a friend, and now I am out. I am free, and I will never do anything that could jeopardize my freedom. Not again. Not ever again. Well, I had made that vow, but there was one little thing that I had to do for a friend. There was this small little thing that I had to do, and then I was going to be out. It wasn’t going to be anything that would be hard or difficult or anything that would take very long, so I was sure that I could get out quickly.

……………….

Myka Berring and Pete Lattimer were sitting in the bed and breakfast. Nothing much had changed in the four years since they were told that the warehouse could be changing to another country. Steve Jinks and Claudia Donavan were still there, as was Artie aka Arthur Neilson. Yes, they were all still there. Everything was the same, well except that Myka and Pete were now married, though they did have to postpone the wedding several times, and finally they just decided to do it when they were in Vegas, snagging an artifact from the nuclear testing field about thirty miles south. Not many people would be happy that they got married in front of an Elvis impersonator, while being officiated by a Marilyn Monroe impersonator, but two of them it made sense. The rest of their relationship was just as crazy, their wedding should be no different. They had actually just gotten married the night before. That was it. They were as newlywed as anyone could get. They were looking for a small vacation because of that. They were actually hoping to talk to Artie about that. “Artie, hey where are the others?” Myka asked. She paused and then looked at Pete. She knew that telling everyone what had happened would be more difficult, and she was hoping that Pete would take care of it.

“We have something that we should tell them,” Pete said, looking over at Myka.

“You can tell them that you picked out another date, another time, I have the next mission for you,” Artie said, throwing a folder in front of them. He seemed a touch more on edge than he had been. Yes, something was different about him. Something wasn’t right with him, but what that was and trying to understand it, didn’t seem like the right time.

“Don’t you think that we could take a week to get back into our routine?” Myka asked, she was trying to figure out the best way to see that things were changing without telling Artie that.

“Artie, maybe we should wait for the others to explain to them what is going on, before you send us on a mission,” Pete said, that was the best that he could think to do. It was the only thing he could think to do.

“They are doing something else for me,” Artie said, curtly. “This is a ping and it takes your concern to fix it.”

“Yes, Artie,” Myka said.

………………..

Even now Artie has power over the people that work under him. I remember that power. I remember his power. He had this way of making you feel like the most important person in the world, while at the same time making you feel like he doesn’t care about that fact. It’s the weirdest relationship that any of us can have. I had known him longer than most. I knew him for a long time. I knew the pain that he went through. I seen the pain that he went through at some points, but it was never enough. None of it. Nothing was worth it. He wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth the effort that I put into him. He would say the same about me. He would still freak if he knew that I was out, and then I might finally be worth his effort. I might finally be worth it to me, at least to track me down and finally do what he had to.

………………..

“Did Artie seem freaked to you?” Steve asked Claudia.

“Artie is always freaked when there is a dangerous artifact running around,” Claudia said, stopping front of a building. It seemed that Artie was calmer. He hadn’t been as anxious as Claudia first knew him to be. Dr. Vanessa was helping with that. She seemed to calm him down. It was good. A good four years, but then something happened. It was in the warehouse. It didn’t seem like it was too big of thing, but Artie seemed to freak out. There was something that Artie didn’t like, and because of that he had sent them to this building.

The building? St. Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital. In the middle of Shanny, Pennsylvania. Shanny, Pennsylvania, the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania. The perfect place to hide out. The perfect place to hide the truth. The perfect place to stick someone who is barely at fault here, well no, I know that it was my fault, but I was not the only one to blame. It had flowers running along the walkway. They were yellow flowers, mixed with blue and green, and just a few pink ones. I planted those. They let me have a lot of freedoms there. They didn’t think that the needed to worry about me. There was a small amount of Ivy growing over the building. There was a lot of yard space out in the front, and there were several benches scattered along the yard. “A pretty place. I wonder why they keep an artifact here?” Steve said, looking at Claudia.

“These places always seem nice, but there is always something wrong with them,” Claudia said, taking a step away from Steve.

“Do you want me to do this on my own?”

“No,” Claudia said, turning around to look at him. “Whatever is going on Artie thinks that we both need to be here. I am curious what he wants here.”

“We had best find out,” Steve said, walking toward the door.

………………..

I gave up on them years ago. I gave up on everything years ago. I know better than to believe in anything, and yet with my past I have to believe in everything. It’s just the only thing that works. I know the truth though. I know more about this world than I should. I know more about the world’s secrets than I should, but I won’t let them keep me from doing what I have wanted for several years now.

That is simply to live free. I want to live free, and they want me. They want to put me back there. I don’t know why; they think that I am worth it. Arthur has to know that I am no longer worth it. I no longer have the capabilities to be worth it.

Unless it is truly the fact that I exist, if that is the case, I wonder if it has always been the case. Could it be that when someone knows about an artifact, when someone is connected by an artifact, they become forever connected to the warehouse, a slave to the warehouse. No matter what. No matter if they want to leave or not. I have often thought about that especially now. Now, that I know some of what happened. Now, that I know what happens next.

………………….

“Did Artie seem off to you?” Myka said, looking over at Pete. The plane felt a little tighter and just a little bit closer than it had several years ago. It was weird for Myka to think about the fact that it had been several years. They had been through a lot. They had made a lot of great friends from this too, and she wasn’t planning on going anywhere any time soon. Now, they were on an airplane, tracking an artifact just as they had done countless times. They had no idea that the last four years of relative peace had been building them up to this moment. I don’t think anyone did. Not one of them. Not even me, and usually when it comes to things like this, I know. Yes, I know. I know a lot of things that I shouldn’t. I know a lot more about the warehouse then I should, but this, this what I am talking about, how everything played out so far, I never saw coming.

“More than normal?” Pete asked, sitting on the plane beside Myka. More than normal? Artie had a normal? This place had a normal? The warehouse had a normal? Well, to be fair it did seem that there had been a normal. They had found something that I had never found. That my team never found. We never found a normal. We never found anything that could even be considered normal. Maybe for that reason I am jealous of the new group. They found something we never could. They found the normal.

“Yes, more than normal,” Myka said, shaking her head. He was acting stranger than normal, and I wish that I could take the blame for it, but I know better. I know that the truth of the matter is that it had hardly anything to do with me, if it had anything to do with me at all.

“I am sure that it’s nothing,” Pete said, leaning back. He could tell that Myka was still upset. “I am sure that everything is fine.”

“It just seems that Artie is worried about something.”

“He is always worried about something,” Pete said, nudging Myka a little bit. “This isn’t about that, though is it.”

Myka didn’t look at him. Myka didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but then she finally spoke. “No, it isn’t. It’s…” She paused trying to get her words right. “I feel like we betrayed them getting married the way we did, and Artie, acting how he is, it just seems, that something might be going on, and I am now wondering if it was a good idea to get married.”

“Are you questioning whether we should have gotten married or not?” Pete asked, his mouth open just slightly.

“No,” Myka said, confidently. “Not at all, but I just worry now.”

“What are you worried about then?” Pete asked her.

Myka bit her lip for a second, just for a second before she said, “I worry that something might be coming.”

#Myka Bering #Pete Lattimer #Steve Jinks #Artie Nielsen #artifacts #warehouse13 #fanfic #fanfic oc #oc fanfiction #Claudia Donovan

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shimmershaewrites · 6 years

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Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 16. (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title: Waltzing’s for Dreamers

Rating: PG? PG-13 maybe?

Warnings: some adult language. Innuendo.

Characters/Pairings: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier, Sophia Peletier, Dale Horvath, Arat, Jessie Anderson, Sam Anderson, mention of Ron Anderson, Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes, Siddiq, mentions of Michonne, Merle Dixon, Dr. S.

Waltzing’s for Dreamers

More than a year after Vegas. Early September.

The call comes in while Daryl’s at work.

He’s elbow deep in the engine of an old clunker better suited for the junk yard. Has been for the better part of the afternoon and the woman that brought the car in keeps sneaking fretful peeks at him around its hood. Giving a play by play to her husband over the phone even though it’s painfully obvious she don’t know what the shit he’s doing. Looks like she’s got other things on her mind, like keeping the squirming toddler on her hip from making a break for it. And for once? He’s grateful for Arat’s obnoxious taste in music because it’s full on blaring. The bass tugging at his gut and making his tools rattle whenever he sets one down. It gives him the out he’s looking for when she bites her lip and offers the phone to him. He shakes his head, makes a show of not being able to hear a damn thing and it ain’t no lie. Really ain’t. Still. He can’t suppress the twinge of guilt when she tucks the phone back between her shoulder and her ear with a wince, bounces the whining kid in her arms and turns her back to him. Walks away.

“Looks like we got another penny pincher on our hands.”

“Grade A asshole,” Daryl agrees, wiping his hands on the red rag sticking out of the front pocket of his navy coveralls. “Turn that shit down.”

Arat smirks. “Sounds like somebody needs to loosen up your buttons, Dixon. Pretty little wife not doing it for you? Could always invite me over. Three’s not such a crowd anymore.”

His neck goes hot at the suggestion and a growl rumbles deep in his chest. “How many times…”

“You know I’d make it good for you both.”

“Fuck off.” She cackles as she retreats to the back of the garage, singing along when the tune changes on cue to one Daryl figures should be her anthem. His brother’s, too. Although Merle sticks to chasing skirts. On more than one occasion, Arat’s proven she ain’t as discriminating. Backed up all that bold talk with the people she brings around. “Old Man ain’t fundin’ your sexual harassment.”

“Just having a little fun.”

“Well, I ain’t,” Daryl mutters. “So get on back to work.”

“Um. Excuse me?”

It’s the frazzled mother again, this time minus the kid. A quick glance toward the office shows him the old man hamming it up with the moon-eyed toddler and the corner of Daryl’s mouth lifts when he sees a smile break out on the shy little boy’s face. “Ma’am?”

Wringing her hands, the woman sighs.

She chews on her words so long Daryl takes pity on her. “Lemme guess. No lifesaving measures.”

“What’s the cheapest quick fix? I need to pick my other son up from school soon.”

Scratching absently at the back of his head, Daryl lays out the truth for her. “Be no better than plugging a leak on the Hoover dam with a wad of bubblegum.”

“Pete won’t agree to anything else.”

“Alright. Okay. I’ll get you hooked up. I’ll…shit. Snuck up on me, Old Man,” he grumbles. “What’s the matter? Look like you seen a ghost or something.”

The woman steps between them, holds out her arms for her son. “Sam, come here. Come to Mommy.”

Soon as that boy’s in her arms, Daryl steps closer to Dale even though Arat has killed the volume on the radio and is currently walking toward them, shepherding the woman and her child outside to give them some privacy and it’s a good thing. Because Daryl don’t like the look on his boss’s pale face. He don’t like the way his bushy brows are bunched in worry.

“Sophia’s school called. They couldn’t reach Carol.”

“Got that test today. Been studying for it for weeks. Dale? What’d they say?”

“That’s just it. They wouldn’t tell me anything. Other than she was in an accident and she’s been taken to the hospital.”

“Fuck. Fuck. I need to…”

“Go,” Dale cuts him off. “Just don’t get yourself killed trying to get to her.”

Daryl tries to mind the old man’s instruction as he races toward the hospital, but he breaks at least ten different traffic laws before he skids to a crooked stop in the parking lot. Forgets to even lock the truck’s door before he sprints to the ER entrance and rushes inside. Nearly collides with a pair of EMTs on their way back out. He only realizes his hands are shaking when he grabs the arm of the first person he sees wearing scrubs. “I’m looking for my little girl. Her school called and…” About that time, he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure in front of a row of vending machines, lets go of the puzzled hospital employee and calls out to her. “Lori!”

Lori whirls around. Tucks her phone and a couple packets of candy back in her purse and meets him halfway, her brown eyes bright but calm.

“What the hell happened?” Daryl demands to know, not even giving her a chance to say anything. “Where is she? What the fuck are you…”

“Even doing here when I’m still responsible for a class full of six-year-olds?” Lori finishes for him when he runs out of steam. “Walk with me. I can explain.”

By the time they reach Sophia’s cubicle, he’s heard the whole ugly story and he’s calmer, yeah. At least marginally but he also has this passing urge to whip some first grade ass, his own history notwithstanding. “Something needs to be done ‘bout that kid. Little terror’s been bullyin’ ‘Phia long as I’ve known her. This so-called playground scuffle ain’t his first go-round.”

“Trust me,” Lori sighs. “I’m aware.” Combing her hair back behind her ears, she reaches for the privacy curtain but waits for his cue before pulling it back.

Daryl nods and suddenly there she is. Looking so damn tiny and defenseless in that huge stretcher he feels his knees go weak.

Her freckles stand out in stark relief against the paleness of her skin, the small butterfly bandages that follow the line of her strawberry brow and disappear into her hairline. Blood and dirt smudge the front of her favorite rainbow shirt and a neon green cast extends from her short fingers all the way above her right elbow.

He’s so busy silently cataloguing her hurts that he doesn’t notice he’s been spotted until the young man in a lab coat recaps the black Sharpie in his hand and relinquishes it to Sophia with a smile.

“Looks like Dad’s here just in time.”

“He’s not her…”

Lori’s quick to shush her boy. Taking him by his skinny shoulders and pulling him to her. “Carl.”

Daryl’s grateful because he can’t find his fuckin’ voice to do it himself. He’s on autopilot, being pulled in by the magic of Sophia’s shy smile. He feels his heart squeeze with overwhelming affection when her pink tongue pokes through the gap left by her missing baby teeth and his calloused hand reaches out to cover her foot. “Had me worried, Ladybug. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“M’sorry.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Carl’s quick to interject. “Was Ron’s. He’s a big mean bu–”

The little shithead scowls when his mama’s hand closes over his mouth just in time, looks mighty fierce with that impressive shiner blacking his eye and Daryl smirks when Sophia giggles. Nods at the young doctor when he likewise smiles. “Thanks. For takin’ care of her. Know her mama’d appreciate it. Know I damn well do.”

Lori echoes the sentiment. “Thanks, Siddiq.”

“I just helped put on the cast. Sophia did all the hard, brave work.”

“Still,” Daryl insists. “Thank you, Man.”

“You’re welcome. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if I can round up Dr. S so he can get your discharge paperwork started.”

“Carl and I should get going, too. Now that Daryl’s here.” Leaning over the stretcher’s rail, she places a careful kiss atop Sophia’s hair. Reaches out and briefly touches Daryl’s forearm before digging through her purse and offering up a package of M&M’s for later. “You did good, sweet girl. I’ll see you back in class Monday, okay? I’ll bring more markers so everybody can sign your cast.”

“Okay,” she murmurs in response.

“Your mama will be here soon. Michonne’s going to go get her soon as her test is over and bring her here so she doesn’t have to drive.”

“So she won’t worry?”

“So she won’t worry as much,” Lori gently corrects. “Bye, Sweetie. Why don’t you close your eyes and rest? I know you’re tired.”

“I’m here,” Daryl reminds her. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Promise?”

“With pinkies and everything,” he says gruffly.

“Pinkies and everything?”

“Yep. Now close them pretty eyes. I’ll still be here when they open back up and your little friend Carl? Well, he’ll finally be gone.” That comment earns him a giggle. From Sophia, then Lori, and eventually the boy himself, who just shrugs when he offers up a halfhearted apology. Then they’re gone and it’s just him and ‘Phia and he thinks she’s drifted off until she mumbles his name.

“Daryl?”

“Hmm, Ladybug?”

“Dr. Siddiq called you my dad.”

“I heard.”

“I don’t want to call you that.”

“Don’t have to call me anything you don’t wanna. Daryl’s just fine.”

She falls quiet again, her breath evens and slows and then. “What ‘bout Daddy? S’that okay?”

It takes him a minute. Damn lump makes it hard to swallow, much less speak. But eventually he husks a response, “Even better.”

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slovenlyrecordings · 6 years

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A ton of reviews just in courtesy of Terminal Boredom (they still hate 10" records):

ANMLS s/t LP Chilean street punko's who love to shout together - a lot and often. Reminiscent of 80's Spanish language boot-stompers Cicatriz, Eskorbuto and the like, but with added filth-blown guitars that are left tryna' cut through layers of amp cone dust and a seeping to the surface 70's rock cockpunch. The hardcore leanings and gang vocals calm a tad as the sides play on and I'm starting to hear echoes of John Reis riffage in the aptly titled "Instrumental" and the flip's opener, "V'amanos De La Ciudad". Thanks to "Pirata" they practically give you an Oi anthem at the end. Sort of a shock to see Slovenly head in this direction, as I'd expect the band to hook up with Lengua Armada, Sorry State or some other stateside stable of cellar dwellers. Is Ruleta Rusa still active? These cats should team up with them for a US stretch. Either way, I have no real knowledge of international hardcore (outside of Italy), so I'm gonna' shut up now and let you dig in on your own.(RSF)

The Cavemen "Nuke Earth" LP "Nuke Earth" is the third time these sleaze-Zealanders have been found rifling through the rubbage bins of garage shock past to toss a full platter. The best tracks within float to the surface - kinda' like pull tabs or smoke butts floating in the fetid water of a gas station squeegee bucket - and scramble about, attempting to create something along the line of a budget-punker's K-Tel collection. These cavemanish boys crank things off with "Lust For Evil" a tune that's got one boot planted firmly in the Oblivians camp and the other can be found kicking the 'Tards squarely in the gonads. Leather-jacketed riff warriors, hopped up on CPC (get it?!) and unleashing dueling leads and hostile vibes aplenty. "Janey" lightens things a tinge with some boozy balladry and organ rottens the rock during tunes like "Batshit Crazy" and "Concrete Town" in a way that could bring both Lost Sounds lovers, Spits fanatics and tattooed MCD car-show greasers lovingly together for a sock hop. Duster-huffers will rejoice to the dum-dum Dictator clunk of "Chernobyl Baby" and "Thug" which reeling in a meaty Gizmos/Penetrators spew. "Dont Wanna Hang" strips veneers in guitar frazzle and New Bomb Turk velocity. It's like having the Las Vegas Shakedown start up again, right there on your very own turntable! The parts may be aftermarket, but there's gonna' be some paunchy yet pleased turkeys around these forums real soon. (RSF)

ぐうたら狂 Gūtara KYŌ s/t 10” Damn, this here is a firecracker! What lies within these grooves are obliterated Teengener-ized riffs, and demented psycho-wails, all walloping upside the punk velocity of something akin to prime 80's Gauze. "Drive" got a lead that's reminiscent of a garage slop take of an old Soundgarden tune (I'm dead serious!) and it's pokin' out of a deteriorating Stalin bootleg. "Daydream" and "It's Gotta Be You" ride along hardcore gallops, rendered futile due to some of the gnarliest production filth since Tim Kerr was knob twisting. The shining light in all this scree would be the soulful belter "Romance" that kicks off the flip. This gold star doom rocker features strained crooning and a truly putrid solo that's - of course - blown all to snuff. It wouldn't feel outta' place on that 'Tokyo Flashback' sampler at all. Fo' real tho' - this platter could clear the sinuses of the most jaded of High Rise fan. Hell, Gutara Kyo is good enough to make me overlook the fact these songs are pressed up on the lamest of all formats (the dreaded 10") with a goddamn dumb 45 hole. Hey Pete, knock it off! All snark aside, I'd still tell folks to buy this, even if it was only available on floppy disc. Scum Stats: 100 copies pressed up on red and black splatterwax.(RSF)

Hand & Leg s/t LP Greek duo doing their best impersonation of that gluey/Krauty/fuzz-buzzy sound that the French has dominated for the past decade. This co-ed bass and drums act strips their music down to the bleached bone, leaving the sorta' repetitive weed-wacker chops and threadbare beats that Wire fans should froth over. Standout tracks like "Dogshit Country" lighten the low plod load a smidge, letting the high strings shine as if Godheadsilo was taking on a Volt tune. "Bloody Hole" closes us shop in a full two minutes of tone drone and irritated wail before the "song" proper takes flight within a spattered cacophony of pie-plate thwack and chanted vocals. Soothing to one's skull as This Heat. Dig yer feet in the sand, people. Scum Stats: 100 on clear vinyl.(RSF)

Häxxan "The Magnificent Planet Of Alien Vampiro II"" LP Nasally Israeli psych-boogie, for the moderne youth market. The press release mentions playing with Ty and them Fuzz comparisons are pretty on point in these here grooves. They also trot out bratty, childlike pop tantrums that should speak to the Burgerooligans that follow these updates as well. What you mostly get on this is quiet/loud dynamics pushing out a Black Angels/Frijid Pink hybrid. There's quite a bit of local flavor in their guitar pyrotechnics, so world-beat freaks and psych aficionados should perk up. Most of it makes for a fine fried background rock, but nothing is really sticking to my maw. A couple of tracks do stand out - "Circle Of Quantum" and "Snakes In My Hair" - both nearly seared my eyebrows off like the best moments of C.A. Quintet "Trip Thru Hell" with swirling, woozy leads and vocals lost in the arid desert wind. The whole ride is easy to digest and makes for decent afternoon accompaniment, but gotta' say I wanted more like those two aforementioned tracks. Better than the countless Ty & Dwyer clones we've had to weather so far. Better than the King Gizzard knock-offs to come. Let's just be happy today.(RSF)

Νόμος 751 (Nomos 751) s/t LP Electroshok-rockers that clatter along like a Grecian Metal Urbain. Drum machine robot riddims and twisted rockabilly riffs fighting against various space trash splatter and the occasional Spits-take on skate punk. There's a Grande Triple Alliance vibe rippling underneath that's hard to shake as well as more than a couple nods in the early Red Mass direction I use to enjoy (long before that act stank it up with Mac Demarco's hair-footed guest spots). I should ramble more about the tracks involved, but my janky-assed computer's 'bout to crash for yet another twenty minute interval - so I'm just gonna' go pogo about like some metaloid mutant instead. Give 'er a go!(RSF)

Proto Idiot "Leisure Opportunity" LP How the hell did the Hipshakes connection escape me?! Proto Idiot is way less Oblivian and way more Adverts than the 'shakes ever were. This here's a jagged pop-gone-puke to tunes like "Better Way Of Life" and "Angry Vision" - the sorta' stuff Jaytard did solo and that Useless Eater kid slung about. Comparisons to Devoto-era Buzzcocks seems apt, and there's a tad of 'Chairs Missing' up in here too. Honestly, either this is a love letter to the entire UK punker past catalog or I'm just an asshole who thinks so 'cuz of the English accent. Hey - it's the GG King Of The UK! Still, I'm perplexed that I never knew the Hipshakes were related. I'm bad at this game. I'd way rather party with this Proto Idiot than those stuffy shirted Protomartyr's out there. Good Fun. 'Nuff said. Scum Stats: 100 on green vinyl.(RSF)

Subsonics "Flesh Colored Paint" LP In this time of reunions around the corner for every wang-dang-doodle of a band that falls under the Budget Rock blanket, it shocks me to no end that Atlanta's Subsonics have never even given up. I've evidently been in the dark for nearly a decade (Sorry Slovenly/Sorry Subsonics.) as "Flesh Colored Paint" is their eighth full length. The band continues to do what they do best - muggy southern stomp filtered through Marc Bolan flutter and a Cramps-ian cha-cha heel strut. This sorta' glitter shimmer fits snugly nestled in the crotch region, somewhere between American Death Ray, Danny & The Darleans and so on. They've always been in my peripheral and I've witnessed them bring quite a solid live revue in my times, but they've never seemed tough enough to break me during my boozy-fueled heyday. NOW - on the other hand - being older, wiser and actually warming up to the voice of Brian Ferry - this stuff is pretty damn sharp! I'm fully locked down on the track "Begging Hands" here, which proves beyond any doubt that these swingers are as big of fans of Radley Metzger's 'Score' skinflick as I am. Elsewhere they beat on the traps like a Black Time light, less set on grate and more on the grind. "Die A Little", "Cold Cold World" and "In The Black Spot" ride in the Velvet's lil' Reed wagon, possibly playing at the wrong pitch. "I Must Be Poisoned" and "I'm The Most Popular Boy In Town" are cut from the same girl group worship and sequenced catsuit that Kid Congo stitches together with his Pink Monkey Birds. "Permanent Thaw" fires off that Black-Angels-Death violin scrape along its woozy train track clack and tunes like "Why Should Anybody Care At All" feature squirrelly, ragged soloing, as if front-mouth and string-slinger Clay Reed was dry humping his gee-tar on the studio floor (and chances are, he did). A good party platter for the red eyed sect. Now while we're at it, let's wax up them early WorryBird CDs!(RSF)

The Monsieurs "Deux” LP Knowing how much I loved Tunnel Of Love - one of the finest bombastic blowouts to cross my blurred vision in the early aughts - I feel like a lamestain for sleeping on this act for so long. Well, I fixed that over the past few months. Here I am, warming by the fire during this wintry bluster and ingesting another fine Andy MacBain release. Between this stuff and the Andy California EP, he's keeping Slovenly's Gladiators on the garbage rock radar (not that they ever really fell of it in the first place). The opener "Burning Flame" and "I Will Run" are straight up crash/bang shards of garage violence and if you said to me these were lost Tunnel Of Love tracks, I wouldn't argue it one bit. Things chill and take pop-ier turns within tunes like "Suburban Girls" and "At The Hop". Not saying cutesy levels of pop, but there's a definite whaff of catchy albeit retched perfection ala' Nobunny or Ramones girl group grabs. The femmes on deck keep Andy's cock-swingin' machismo at bay, adding great touches of Toody-esque back ups, forceful fuzzed power chords and abusive can bashing. "Get Right Get Ready" is rears a Karp riff and shoves it, clawing smack into the face of some delirious Dollrod slop. That's not a bad place to be - crawling around in a metallic Danny Kroha muck. Wrapping this fast lil' fucker up is "My War", which brings all the above elements to a broil, splattering about like a scorched Love cover turned beat-punk brat psych and going gloriously wrong. A wooly ride. Will ride again. Scum Stats: 100 copies on orange.(RSF)

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hindsywrites · 7 years

Text

Hey Baby, They’re Playing Our Song (The One We Used To Hear When We Used To Get Along)

Of all the first meetings Gabe’s ever had with someone in the music industry, the one he would forever remember was the first time he met with Panic at the Disco. To be completely accurate, he would never forget meeting Brendon. Outside a venue in some city that Gabe wouldn’t remember the name of later if he tried, Gabe went outside for a cigarette and tried to remember whether or not he’d bought a fresh pack that day. Against a red-bricked wall, Brendon Urie was crouched over his sidekick, furiously sending text-messages. The familiarity of the situation pole-axed Gabe right as he was approaching Brendon to see if he had a lighter. He recognized the face from pictures Pete had shown him while raving about his latest find. The face in front of him wasn’t what was troublesome at all. Gabe’s head spun with the sickest sense of déjà vu. This expanse of red, this endless sidewalk; Gabe had been here before, many, many times. Upon looking down, Gabe realized he was in his purple hoodie and Brendon was in one just the masculine side of lilac. The cigarette dropped from Gabe’s mouth and he carefully took a few steps back. He wasn’t ready for this sort of confrontation. The sick feeling in Gabe's stomach didn't go away every single time he saw Brendon. If anything, it got a whole lot worse. They toured together a few months after their initial meeting and each day Brendon managed to disappear before Gabe could even attempt to drag him off to talk to him. It really didn't help that Spencer seemed to be totally onto Gabe’s various plots and plans to get time alone with Brendon and thwarted them with an ease that had Gabe questioning his mortality. It was entirely possible that Spencer had some sort of superhuman powers that allowed him to sense Gabe's intentions before they were even turned into actions. If that was the case, it was incredibly unfair and basically disproved the existence of a god. He still hadn't quite figured out what the dreams meant, other than he potentially tortured someone in an alternate universe and did it while wearing the clothes from his current universe. So, he was some sort of stylish tormentor to Brendon in another dimension that was a never-ending venue sidewalk. Gabe preferred not to think about why he might’ve stopped having the dream now that they had met. None of this would’ve really bothered Gabe if it weren’t for the fact that Brendon was cute. Short, but cute as all hell and kind of impossible to not think about all day, every day. The more time Gabe spent around him, the more Gabe realized Brendon was kind of amazing and someone that Gabe wanted to get to know better in a biblical sense and in a relationship sense. Gabe figured it was kind of serious at that point. He never had interest in relationships. When he finally figured it out, he made mention of it. Unfortunately he made the mistake of mentioning it in front of Spencer. "No. Not at all. Absolutely not," Spencer hissed, his face instantly souring. He pulled Gabe off to the side and shook his head up at him. "No. You are staying away from Brendon, absolutely a hundred and ten percent away from him." "Where did you even come from? How do you appear like that?" Gabe pulled his arm back, trying to keep from getting it pulled off. "Not really your biggest concern here. You're not going after Brendon. I don't need my lead singer dragged down with the likes of you." Spencer shook his head and pulled out his BlackBerry. "The only way I would ever consider telling him to go for you is if you somehow became a really awesome person who, like, rescued puppies from shelters." "Rescued puppies from shelters." Gabe began programming this into his phone. "What else would I have to do?" "What? No, that was an example! I don't mean you actually have to do that. You'd just have to become a better person. Like. Laying off the drugs? Maybe not fucking everything that has a hole?" Spencer furiously clicked at the buttons on his phone, returning an email with force. "I don't fuck everything with a hole. I stayed away from your Mom, didn't I?" Gabe looked around for someone to high-five. Finding no one, Gabe's shoulders slumped. "Okay, you actually pretty much need to become an entirely different person. I don't think better is going to cover it." Spencer looked at Gabe in disbelief. "An entirely different person?" Gabe's eyes widened and he slipped his phone into his pocket. "So. I should change my name or something? I could become some sort of exotic dancer." "I think the goal was to become a better person. And I'm not sure if you realized this, but exotic dancers are sort of a dime a dozen in Vegas. It's probably actually really easy to become a different person than you are." Spencer sat down on a counter and laughed at a new message received. "Ha. Ryan says you'll be a better person somewhere around the time Pete decides to join a monastery and devote his life to the search for enlightenment from a higher power." "That's not fair. We already know that won't happen because Pete won't give up sex!" Gabe flailed and Spencer ducked for cover. Seriously, those limbs could go for weeks. "Okay, okay. So. I become a better person and then I have your permission, which I totally don't need, to declare my intentions to Brendon?" "I'm sorry, did you just say my permission wasn't needed in this situation?" Spencer's facial expression shifted slightly, and only because Gabe had spent a large portion of his time observing Panic at the Disco in their natural habitat was he able to recognize the emotion on it as smug self-satisfaction. "Gabe, in twenty minutes I want you to come to our dressing room and ask Brendon if he wants to go with you to the store to pick up the re-release of The Fox and The Hound." "Excuse me?" "Twenty minutes, Saporta. Ten should be enough, but twenty gives me plenty of time." Spencer turned and before Gabe could even register the movement, Spencer was gone. Spencer, Gabe decided, was a ninja in another life. * Nineteen minutes later, Gabe knocked on Panic’s dressing room door. He squared his shoulders and attempted to look like a moral and upstanding person. Jon opened the door and immediately began laughing. "Oh, man. You do not want to be here right now." "What?" Gabe was seriously confused. He hadn't taken anything all day; everything was staying right side up and this was a world Gabe wasn't entirely used to. Nothing was shifting, hissing around his ankles, up his jeans. "Just trust me." Jon reached up to squeeze Gabe's shoulder. "Can I just talk to Brendon or something?" Gabe leaned against the door. This tiny band of wee scene boys was proving to be too much for him. "It's not a good idea." Jon shook his head and tried to close the door and walk into the hall at the same time. "Look, I just need to talk to Brendon for a minute. I heard about this rad music store that I think he'd probably really like." Gabe looked easily over Jon's head and spotted Brendon sitting on the couch, curled around Spencer's thigh while Spencer patted his head. "Spencer, make him go away. He doesn't believe." Brendon buried his face in Spencer's stomach and tried to make himself invisible by curling up into a smaller ball. "Brendon? I just wanted to see if you wanted to come to the store. I thought maybe you were getting cooped up in here," Gabe called over Jon's shoulder and watched as Brendon looked up, his eyes narrowing. "This is not a dressing room for disbelievers. You're not welcome here," Brendon said in a clipped voice. "What?" Gabe wrapped an arm around Jon and moved him out of place so he could walk in. "What are you even talking about?" "Don't you take one step further." Brendon stood and placed his hands on his hips. "You get the hell out of this room and don't even think about coming back. Not believing in Hobbes, who does that? Just because you can't see him doesn't mean he isn't completely real to Calvin." "I. Wait, what? Calvin and Hobbes? That's what. You're upset because I know Hobbes is Calvin's imaginary animal friend?" Gabe took a step closer before flinching back at the look on Brendon's face. "You get out, and you get out now before I decide that you shouldn't be on this tour! I reject you and your willingness to disbelieve in something just because there's no proof in it. I mean, you probably don't even think the Loch Ness monster is really there." Brendon's voice sounded screechy and Gabe, really having no desire for Panic to have to cancel that night’s show because their singer couldn't sing, began to walk backward out of the room. "Um." Gabe raised his eyebrows. "Oh, God. You actually don't! That's it, you're off the tour!" Brendon crossed his arms and attempted to give Gabe a scathing look. "Uh, Bren, you can't really make that decision on your own. And. I mean, they're good openers." Ryan shrugged and started ushering Gabe out of the room even as he defended him. "Ryan Ross, you filthy traitor. You and I are no longer friends." Gabe heard the door close behind him and what sounded like a make-up bag hitting the door. Yeah, okay, Spencer's permission was completely necessary. * "Gabe's List of Betterness?" Ryland was sitting on the couch on the bus and throwing out ideas for the name of Gabe's list of ways to make himself a completely different person. "The Difficult Voyage of Gabriel Eduardo Saporta to the Destination Good Person Land," Nate offered from the floor. He'd maybe already had a few drinks when they started playing the name game. "Steps on the Straight and Narrow Path to Spencer James Smith the Fifth's Permission to Declare My Intentions to One Brendon Boyd Urie." Alex looked up from reading 'The Alchemist' and possibly playing a drinking game with himself. "I. I actually really like that." Gabe nodded and carefully printed it at the top of the page in block letters. "Okay, so I have to become a different person. But I don't think he means giving up my identity. Or identifying characteristics. Or I'd be totally screwed." Gabe made a note of that under the title. He thought about his daily routine and tried to think of which things Spencer would consider bad. The conclusion he came to was that everything Spencer considered bad was everything Gabe considered to be fun. With the same careful block letters, Gabe listed the first three items on his list. Wake up before 10 a.m. Go to bed before midnight. Start eating breakfast. They were simple and they were the first tasks recorded. He would've made the bedtime earlier but he was fairly certain that Spencer was often up much later than midnight. Still, better safe than sorry. * The first thing Gabe crossed off the list was Start eating breakfast. The joint he'd smoked with Jon and Tom first thing in the morning helped with that. As he sat in the diner, enjoying his third plate of waffles, he waved happily to Spencer across the room. There was a look of disapproval on his face but it wasn't entirely aimed at Gabe. Jon and Tom were making obscene noises over their own plates of hash browns and sausage links. "Why does Spencer look so pissy, guys?" Gabe asked, kicking their legs under the table to get their attention. "Hm? Oh, he hates when we smoke first thing in the morning to get over a hangover." Tom moaned around a particularly greasy hash brown before swallowing a bit of orange juice. "Actually, he kind of hates when we smoke first thing in the morning. Or at night. Or in the afternoon." "What? Seriously, he hates you guys smoking? How do you work up an appetite after drinking all night?" Gabe raised his hands, not sure how that even worked. "He doesn't like when you drink all night either." Jon looked up, his eyes glassy. "Does he like anything?" Gabe asked around a mouthful of waffles. "Well, he definitely doesn't like a lot of what you do. Or anything of what you do, actually. I think the exact phrase he used was that your life was a joke without a punch line." Jon turned to Tom for confirmation on the phrasing. "No, that's what you said the movie Superstar was. Spencer said that Gabe was the reason the world couldn't have nice things." Tom nodded and slurped down a drink of his orange juice. "That's so not true, guys. I gave the world the phrase 'Fangs up.' If that isn't a contribution to humanity, then I've been doing it wrong." Gabe shook his head and stood up, tossing some money down to cover his breakfast. His waffles suddenly tasted like sawdust. * Gabe realized he was going to have to give up his nighttime parties with the rest of his band. There couldn't be any more drinking if he wanted to have an appetite for breakfast and if he wanted to be up at a reasonable hour in the morning. Don't have more than two drinks in one day, unless you see Spencer drinking, which you won't so don't be stupid. Gabe had his suspicions that his list had been found and potentially edited by the tour ninja because the careful script writing of that last bit of his next goal looked nothing like his own. The first night was the hardest. Nate brought out a large handle of Limoncello and if there was one thing Gabe loved his alcohol to be, it was fruity. He mixed one glass carefully with orange juice and took a sip. He nursed the drink while Nate went onto his third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. Before long, Nate was rolling on the floor laughing with Alex about how funny the name Limoncello was. Gabe, not finding the conversation particularly humorous or enjoyable, went to his bunk. When he checked his watch, it was only ten minutes to eleven. He really had no idea how people were supposed to stay sober if nothing was funny. After a while, he managed to drift off, and he was surprised to find that he was awake at nine the next morning. In college, nine had only existed once a day and it had never included the sun being so high in the sky. The bus was quiet and he was able to use the time to look around and survey the damage. The glass he had been drinking from but hadn't finished was sitting on the counter, now a sickly purple color. Gabe emptied it into the toilet and figured it was better not to ask questions. Nate was asleep under the table, arm curled protectively around the bottle. He only shifted slightly when Gabe kicked him to make sure he was still alive. Better safe than sorry. As they approached a gas station, Gabe realized he had begun work on two of his other goals. He wouldn't cross them off because that could've just been a fluke, but still, it was nice to feel at least a little accomplished. Stepping off the bus, Gabe shaded his eyes. He'd forgotten where his latest pair of sunglasses was, but he figured he could find some at the truck stop. He approached the gas station with a sense of wonder at the people who were out. It was like there was another culture that lived during the day. He never got to see these people. There was a woman with two small children in line to pay for gas, and the kids looked up at him in amazement. Neither could've been more than four feet tall. Gabe just smiled cheerfully at them and went over to the food section. He needed a breakfast that was both nutritional and tasty. Spencer would have to see then that he was being responsible and completely unlike the old Gabe. "Part of a balanced breakfast," Gabe read the back of a box of Lucky Charms and decided to take it. He was sure they had the other parts to the balanced breakfast somewhere on the bus. If not, well, at least he'd had one part. * When Gabe sat down with the list again, he realized that somewhere along the line he'd added Cut back on recreational drug use, even though stopping altogether would be a better idea. Underneath that were three other points: Tell Ryland who really broke his new headphones; Buy Ryland new headphones; and Apologize to Nate for framing him so well for breaking Ryland's headphones. It had been a stroke of genius, really. Gabe had been used Ryland's headphones in the back lounge one day and instead of putting them back where he had found them, Gabe had accidentally left them on the floor. It wasn't that they were particularly nice headphones, but they were Ryland's, and he was particular about which brand and model he used. On the floor, they'd gotten mixed up with a blanket and some dirty laundry. When Gabe had walked back there to collect the laundry one day, he'd stepped on the headphones and snapped the earpiece off one end. Rather than admit the truth, he'd stuffed the broken headphones in Nate's laundry bag, knowing that Nate just dumped everything into the washer and pressed wash. Someone truly should have taught him about separating colors from whites and darks. While Gabe was on that thought, he added Teach Nate how to properly do laundry. When Ryland had seen his headphones come out of Nate's laundry, he was furious and hadn't spoken to Nate for the rest of the day. It was difficult since it was their day to act out a Friends episode for their tourmates. Ryland, ever the thinker, had chosen the one where Chandler was in the box on Thanksgiving. Hilarious for Gabe to get to see Nate stuffed in a box because Ryland was angry at him, but certainly damaging to their band dynamic. Gabe knew he would have to buy Ryland another pair of headphones and probably make it up to Nate by buying him something to drink. He was probably going to have to add Stop contributing to the delinquency of minors to his list. But that was definitely going to have to be later. He was a musician, after all. The next day they were stopped in a city large enough for him to go to a store and buy Ryland a new set of headphones, Gabe was in a taxi on his way to the store. He'd refused offers of company from Elisa, Alex, and Ryan. He couldn't let any of them spoil the surprise. When Gabe returned to the bus, he was holding tightly to two different shopping bags. It was never easy being seen buying Disarono; Nate's drink of choice, but even harder was picking up the ridiculous pink Skull Candy headphones Ryland liked so much. As he was already in a sour mood from shopping when he returned to the bus, he essentially threw both bags at the intended recipients and walked back to his bunk. "Nate, I'm sorry I got you in trouble for breaking Ryland's headphones, enjoy your girly booze. Ryland, I'm sorry I broke your headphones and let Nate take the fall for it. Enjoy your girly headphones." Gabe opened the list and crossed off the three points related to Ryland's headphones. When he realized he didn't feel good about crossing them off, which was probably something he should feel, Gabe uncapped his pen again to write a new line. Stop being an asshole about fixing the things on the list because they wouldn't be on here if you weren't such a giant douchebag sometimes. * One of the worst things Gabe had to put on the list, even worse than Stop peeing in public pools just to gross out other people, was Apologize to Heath, Tyler, and Rob for being such a fuck-up and ruining a really good thing, even though other good things came from it. That one made Gabe's head hurt just to think about. He didn't want them to remember him as the asshole that ruined it for them. Even though he knew he wasn't the only one responsible for Midtown’s demise, he knew he was the one most responsible. It was hard to write a record when you were strung out half the time and high out of your mind the other half. He had to time it right. There was no room for error on that item on his list. It wasn't something he wanted to do face to face, but it was something he knew he needed to do in person. Gabe hated apologizing in general. He was good at it, could make it sound as sincere as he wanted it to, but he hated to admit he was wrong. Gabe thought about what everyone was up to now that Midtown was over. Heath was in Senses Fail, enjoying his time with a band that partied but never to the extreme that he'd partied. Rob, ever the business-minded individual, had decided to form a record label. Tyler had struggled for a few months before hooking up with a new band. Gabe knew that none of them were enjoying even the novelty type of success he was having, and it twisted at the pit of his stomach, making him nauseated. Finally, he decided he'd have to call each one of them. After calling in multiple favors from people, he managed to track down their cell phone numbers. Heath and Rob weren't terrible. They agreed to meet with him when they were both in the same place at the same time. Tyler, for some reason, had taken the band’s break up the hardest. If Gabe had to guess, and he really had to because he couldn't really remember the dissolution of the band, he'd say Tyler took it the hardest because he was the one who had finally said, "Fuck it, guys, I don't think we should be a band anymore if we want to stay friends with each other." Gabe remembered that phrase clearly. Tyler had been the one for a pre-emptive action. Ultimately, Tyler had been wrong. There was no love lost between the guys. There were no calls from different tours updating the other friends on current statuses. Christ, even calling to discuss what should be done about the old website had required a few drinks and more than a few pills on Gabe's part. They'd ended their band to remain friends, but they hadn't even ended up casual acquaintances. "Hello?" Tyler answered the phone in a cautious tone. Gabe checked the time to make sure he hadn't accidentally waited until it was far too late in the day to politely call someone. "Tyler? It's um. It's Gabe." Gabe cleared his throat and dug his fingers into his phone. His other hand was holding a cigarette and it was shakier than Gabe liked to admit. "Gabe. Hi." If there was surprise in Tyler's voice, it was faint and only noticeable from the years Gabe had spent with him. "How are you?" Gabe tried to go the polite route. He knew this would be the hardest call because they'd been the closest. "I mean, how have you been?" "I'm good. Things have been going good." Even from just his voice, Gabe could see Tyler leaning up against the wall and chewing the inside of his cheek. "What about you? I mean, I saw your video. It looks like things are going really well for you." "Yeah, well. Yeah, things are going okay. I kind of wanted to ask you for sort of like, half a favor, maybe?" Gabe flicked off a half-inch of ash on his cigarette and then flicked again even though there was nothing new collected. He'd hardly even smoked any of the cigarette; it was more a comfort thing. "Oh. Okay." Tyler's voice had immediately stiffened, blocked any of his real emotion from Gabe. "It's nothing bad. I'm not in any trouble. I don't need you to come bail me out again. Well, you know, not in the traditional sense of the phrase. I just kind of want to. Look, when I'm in town again, would it be cool if we met up or something? I don't know. Went for a drink? Maybe caught a show?" Gabe babbled the words before he could give them any actual thought. "You want to hang out when you're back in the city." Tyler exhaled softly, sounding as though he was giving the matter a great deal of thought. "Gabe, I don't really know if that's such a good idea. I mean. Look, you're. I'm happy for you, man. I am. I just don't know if we've got anything left to talk about." He'd never been one to mince words. He genuinely thought there was nothing that could be salvaged from their friendship. Gabe dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his big toe. "There is. I'm trying this thing, like, I'm trying to write down all these things that I have to change and one of the things is this. You and the guys. I want to make up for what happened there." "That isn't just something you can make up. I mean, it happened, it's in the past, so if you're going to AA and you want my support or you want to talk through whatever messed-up shit you were going through, that's great. I mean, really, it's awesome. I'm happy you're getting clean or whatever, but you don't need to make up for this. It happened and we all moved on." Tyler exhaled loudly again. "No, it's not AA. It's not one of those religious experience things. I just. I want to make things okay because what I did really sucked…" "It did, okay? You know it and we know it and this would've happened eventually anyway. There's no way we could've kept recording and touring and doing everything we were doing. You weren't the only one responsible. The band would've ended one day regardless. We're all culpable, all right?" Tyler's voice was almost unnaturally calm as he cut Gabe off. "It's not that I don't think you mean well, because I know you do, man. I just don't think this is something you should be trying to do." "Change my life?" Gabe turned his lighter over in his hand. "No, this. The band. Me. I mean, we tried to help you. We tried so hard, man. We took the time off, we switched labels. We did everything we could and you just. It's like you took a giant shit on it. I walked away, and maybe that was wrong, but you can only help someone who doesn't want to be helped for so long. And maybe it's petty, maybe it's vindictive, but I don't want to help you anymore, Gabe. So just. Move on from this. Lose my number, man." Gabe heard the distinctive click of being hung up on before his phone indicated the call had ended. He stared at the phone for a moment. He had no idea how to react to what Tyler had just told him. Thinking back, Tyler had tried to help him. Everyone had. Gabe always knew there was a soft landing waiting at one of their places. He gritted his teeth and pulled his list out of his front pocket. In black Sharpie, he wrote Apologize to the people who genuinely tried to help me that I turned my back ondirectly under the point about his old bandmates. * As Gabe continued to cross things off his list (Stop smoking where the secondhand smoke can affect other people; Leave a penny; and Make a donation to a homeless shelter, you've had enough come downs in them), he noticed Spencer watching him. Instead of smiling and waving as he had on that first day when he was so proud of his one accomplishment, Gabe ducked his head and looked away. Spencer was no saint; Gabe had seen him duck off into dark corners of bars and venues with Tom and come back looking suitably rumpled, but he seemed to have it together. He wasn't constantly at the whims of his addictions or desires. He seemed to be holding some sort of relationship together with Tom. When Gabe thought neither of them were paying attention, he watched them. He tried not to do it in a creepy way or in a way that made either of them notice he was watching. There were little things like Tom bringing Spencer coffee the way he liked it, or Spencer making sure to grab a cheese Danish rather than a cherry Danish for Tom. Think of others more often than I think of myself was added to his list after he saw Spencer come back to the venue with a pack of black and white film for Tom. * "Okay, I have to ask, what's with the list?" Demar asked, walking up to Gabe one day and flicking the piece of paper Gabe was scribbling on. Learn one new thing about everyone on tour. "How do you know it's a list?" Gabe immediately folded it up and placed it down the front of his pants. "Because I always see you crossing things off on it." Demar shrugged and took a step back. Gabe had been counting on Demar’s curiosity only taking him so far. "It's just this thing I'm trying to do." Gabe tried to play it off as no big deal. He knew to everyone else it wasn't a big deal. "All right, it's cool. You keep your secrets, Gabe." Demar grinned and began walking away. "Demar? Hold up a second. Did you ever have a dog growing up?" Gabe saw Demar internally try to process what Gabe was talking about. Lists one second, dogs the next. "Yeah, I had two. Chocolate labs. Minnie and Mickey. Are you high, man? You want me to stay here and talk with you?" It was common knowledge among Gabe’s many acquaintances that he was chatty when he was high. "No, I'm flying straight today." He knew Demar wouldn't believe him about not having taken anything for a week, so he kept quiet about that. Gabe did point to his pupils as proof, though. He wanted to at least be believed. "All right, cool. I gotta soundcheck, but we'll hang later, okay?" And just like that, Demar was gone again. Spencer was clearly teaching the rest of the tour that ninja thing he did so well. After a moment of consideration, Gabe took the list back out and looked around before adding Be nicer to Spencer because he's smart and had to grow up way too fucking fast, not just because he's a ninja and might one day teach you his secrets. * Gabe's list had proven itself useful time and again. Because he definitely had the world's worst memory, he was constantly writing things down or typing them into his Sidekick. That was how he'd come to have everyone's Starbucks order in his phone. Having everyone's order in his phone led to his trying to balance three trays of drinks. He had a sneaking suspicion that Starbucks had shorted him a drink, but he had no way of checking until he got into the venue and was able to open his phone again. Gabe would have demanded that Tom come with him, but he was still trying to get on Spencer's good side. The best way to get on Spencer's good side probably had nothing to do with taking his boyfriend away from him during his limited free time. Gabe arrived at the backstage area in time to see everyone congregate in the room. "Okay, I've got a ton of really hot coffee. Please don't attack me." They allowed him to set the trays down before swarming them, removing the beverages they'd ordered. "Bren, you know you shouldn't have dairy before the show." Ryan took Brendon's large frappucino from him. "No, no. He's fine to have it. It's soy. I made sure to get his with soy so he could drink it." Gabe plucked the drink from Ryan's hand and turned it back over to Brendon. He leaned in close to Spencer and spoke softly. "It's also decaf." For the first time in a long time, Spencer smiled at Gabe and it was almost as nice as the smile that flickered over Brendon’s cheeks as he took a drink from his soy, decaf frappucino. * Gabe crossed a few more things off his list as the tour progressed. Delete numbers of all my dealers happened the week after the worst of his cravings. He could feel the dirty itch building up under his skin, and he only had to look around to see people using. Even if they weren't using anything hard, they were still escaping. The first night of withdrawal, Gabe sat in a hotel room watching Alex sleep. It would've been so easy to flip open his phone and make a few calls. He could've had something to him in less than half an hour. Rather than do that, Gabe had turned on the lights, the TV, his laptop, and his iPod. When Alex woke up in the morning, Gabe was staring at a blank laptop with headphones on his head and a televangelist playing on the TV. To his credit, Alex had talked to Gabe and made sure he was all right. After being reassured that the cobra hadn't come back and that the world was nowhere near ending, Alex had disappeared into the shower and Gabe had gone down to the hotel’s continental breakfast. He had no appetite and no desire to be around food, but he needed to reassure himself there were other people in the world. Rather than sitting a few tables over with Tom, Spencer dragged Tom over with their trays full of food. "You look like hell." Spencer hadn't bothered with pleasantries. "I feel like hell. I didn't sleep last night." Gabe's hands shook as he tried to smooth out the tablecloth. "I couldn't sleep." "What did you take?" Spencer asked it while spreading cream cheese over a bagel, deliberately casual. "Nothing. I haven't had anything in a day or two. I just couldn't sleep. You know? It's like, you take the uppers and then you take the downers and without the uppers there shouldn't be a reason for the downers but there is. Sort of. I don't know if I can do this, Spencer." Gabe tried to pour himself a cup of coffee from the carafe in the middle of the table, but he couldn't hold the mug steady. "Wait, do what?" Spencer raised his eyebrows and set down the bagel. “Make myself a different person for Brendon. I mean, I'm trying and I've got the no drinking down and the waking up. I mean, if I actually went to sleep. But I can't sleep and I don't really know how long this will last." Gabe rested his head on the table, ignoring the fact that he was likely drawing the attention of other patrons now. "Oh, Christ. You're actually. Gabe, did you actually take what I said to heart?" Spencer cocked his head to the side and looked carefully at Gabe as he spoke. "Well, yeah. I mean. You were right, weren't you? Brendon, he's not a saint or anything, but he deserves someone good. Like, a really good person who doesn't have to go through coke withdrawals or set their phone to go off three different times so they can wake up at 9:59 a.m." Gabe lifted his head to look at Spencer. “I didn’t know you had brown eyes. I honestly think this might be the first I’ve seen you without your pupils totally blown.” Spencer shook his head in what appeared to be disbelief. “I really want this. I kind of thought it was going to go away, you know? But I mean. I watch him. Not in a creepy way, don’t worry. Just like backstage and stuff. He doesn’t talk down to the techs. I guess it looks like he’s grateful and I really like that about him.” Gabe ducked his head for just a moment. "You're actually serious about this," Spencer said, his voice softening. "I made a list. There's like. I've crossed some things off." Gabe reached into his pocket and fidgeted with it before handing it over. "You made a list." Tom also seemed impressed. "And don't worry, you're on there." Gabe pointed to the bottom of the sheet. Accidentally exposed a roll of Tom's film. "I haven't figured out how to make up for that. I mean. I apologized, I think. I was really high, man." "You apologized, profusely. But then you called me your favourite queermo photographer." Tom looked as though he vividly recalled the incident. "The only thing wrecked on that roll was the soundtrack release party. You screwed yourself out of some promo shots." "Would you have sold the pictures?" Gabe scratched at his inner thigh to try to occupy his hands. Tom looked supremely offended at the question. "No." The word was short, clipped, and Tom couldn't have looked colder saying it if he'd tried. Gabe tried to think back to the release party. He remembered most of it, and remembered how Tom had watched Mike at the side of the stage. More accurately, Gabe remembered how Tom had watched Mike watch William onstage. Gabe swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "Right. I should just. I'll go back to my room. I'll see you guys when it's bus call." He excused himself from the table and stumbled out of the dining hall. * "Hey, Tom, can I talk to you?" Gabe waited until Spencer had gone onstage before tugging at the sleeve of Tom's hoodie. Since their conversation in the dining room, Gabe had been frozen out by Tom. He wasn't sure if he'd somehow insulted Tom by asking if he'd sell his pictures, or if he'd simply brought up memories Tom would rather not deal with. "What do you want?" Tom seemed distracted as they stood backstage, just slightly away from the hustle and bustle of everyone packing up. "I want to apologize. For whatever I did that insulted you. I really never meant to. Or if I brought something up I shouldn't have." Gabe looked down at his feet in embarrassment. "I'm happier out here, okay? I don't feel like I felt back then. I feel really good about myself right now and I don't want that to change anytime soon. I don't want." Tom paused for a moment. "I don't want Spencer to remember what I was like back then and change his mind. Because I really couldn't take that." "Was he the reason you turned it all around?" Gabe had never heard Tom speak this freely without the aid of drugs or alcohol. "One of them. Look, I want to catch the set but tomorrow we'll get coffee or something. This isn't the time or place to have this conversation." Tom reached up and squeezed Gabe's shoulder before turning around and walking back to the side of the stage. Gabe stood in the same position and nodded at Tom's words. True to his word, Tom brought coffee over to Gabe's bus during the drive and dragged him into the back, balancing two large coffees in a tray as he guided Gabe onto the couch. "Okay. So. You're going to do this." "Just so we're clear 'this' means…" Gabe trailed off and looked over at Tom before pulling the flap back on his coffee and taking a sip. "Trying to woo Brendon or however you refer to it. Do you actually use the word ‘woo’?" Tom raised his eyebrows. "Because seriously, that's the gayest thing I've ever heard. And I mean, I have sex with another guy. So." "I don't refer to it as wooing! I'm not from some British novel. I refer to it as enticing him into the warm embrace of my love." Gabe shook his head and huffed. Tom just gaped for a moment as he popped open the lid on his own coffee. "I. Oh, my God. I can't even. I don't have words for this, Gabe." Tom set down his cup to keep from dropping it when he fell off the couch laughing. After a moment he had to clutch at his side. "Hey, asshole, you said you were going to have a talk. Can we not discuss what I may or may not call my plan on how to get Brendon to agree to be my one and only?" Gabe was starting to look pouty, and that was never a good look for him. Tom attempted to calm himself down and lift his body back onto the couch. It took three tries and Gabe threatening to pants him the next time Tom was taking pictures at the side of the stage. "Fine. Fine, okay. So. You want to entice Brendon. And you think the best way to do this is to get clean." Tom reached for the list in a cautious manner, trying to keep from laughing. "Well. No, not just get clean. Like. Be a really good person. Because I've been watching him and he's one of those people who everyone seems to really like and I know I probably won’t get everyone to love me the way they do him but maybe but maybe I could be a really good person and then together we'd average out to being two awesome people." Gabe ran his fingers through his hair and took another sip of coffee as he tried to explain. “I still don’t get it. What is it about him that has you so up in arms?” Tom kept the list folded as he took another drink from his coffee cup. “I can’t even really explain it. I feel like I know him and I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to do. There’s something I know about him.” Gabe shook his head. He couldn’t explain the dream to Tom, not without making himself look completely insane. “But I won’t be able to do it until I work through all of this. Even I can feel there’s something holding me back.” "So you think that by apologizing to Stephanie for telling her to fuck off when she tried to tell you that you had a problem, you'll suddenly become a better person and you’ll magically be able to sweep Brendon off his feet?" Tom scanned down the list. As Gabe listened to Tom read, Gabe realized there were points on there that wouldn't necessarily make him a better person, but they'd help. "I think the fact that I want to do it makes me a better person and if being a better person is what it takes to finally get past this block, then I’ll do it. I should anyway because that was probably the worst thing I’ve ever done. There was a time when I wouldn't listen to her and it just about cost me everything. I could've died. I really, honestly could have and that would've been fucked up because I would've been just a footnote in Drive Thru's history." Gabe stared down at the carpet in the lounge. "I think you and I have more in common than we realized." Tom let out a small laugh. "Look. Just know this. You're happier, right? You get to dance every night. And you want to get better. It wasn't easy for me, and it won't be easy for you but if Spencer's permission is what it takes for you to do this, I'm behind you. I want to see you get better as much as the next person does. If you need help or anything, I'm here for you." Gabe looked back up with a curious expression on his face. "You really mean that?" "I do. Okay, I've been through it. Fuck it, I've done it, okay? I had to tell my parents that I was going to school plastered when I was seventeen. I went through the rock bottom and I'm kind of amazed that I even came through it. I don't want you to lose another band over this. Everyone deserves another chance." Tom's voice was quiet, his tone serious. An emotion rushed through Gabe he hadn't felt for a long time. He didn't want to let go of it. "Spencer doesn't think this is…" "Spencer has his own issues with what you do. Did. Okay? He's seen it all firsthand. It's totally normal that he doesn't want Brendon to go through any of that. It's not really my place to say anything else. If you really want to know what's going on with that, you've gotta talk to him." Tom shook his head and took another drink of his coffee. "But I will tell him what I know. You've got my word on that one." Gabe just nodded in response. He trusted Tom. He could trust him with this. Even as Gabe continued drinking his coffee, he could feel himself getting lighter, feeling freer. He was no longer in this alone. * There were easier things to cross off his list. Stop stealing Nate's coffee; Be nicer to Elisa when she gets sensitive about being the only girl on the tour; and Only play horror movies on my laptop in my bunk because Ryland has nightmares. He stayed out longer with fans because it gave him an excuse to not do any of his old nightly activities. Tom was as good as his word. When everyone was in a hotel for the night, Tom stayed in a room with him and they watched whatever movie happened to be on that night. They chainsmoked pack after pack of cigarettes, just talking and not talking about what they were both missing more than they admitted. On the hotel nights Tom wanted to spend with Spencer, Gabe took to texting people on his Sidekick. There were plenty of people more than willing to talk to him and keep him from trying to recover any of the numbers he had deleted. Had he decided to tempt fate, he would’ve looked for Brendon. After their last meeting, which had ended with Brendon shrieking about how Gabe didn’t appreciate pulp in his orange juice and how it was good for you. Sometimes, not often, Gabe wondered what exactly Spencer was telling Brendon about him. More often than not, he ended up texting Travis, who didn't understand, but was willing to talk to keep Gabe talking. "This kid must be something, if you're going through all this trouble and you aren't even sure it's going to turn into something." Gabe could tell Travis was smoking in his bathtub at the moment. "He is, man. I know he is. And even if he wasn't. There's this. I don't even know. I used to dream about him, you know? Those fucked up dreams I had, he was in them. When I met him, it was like I knew right away that he was it. He was that little shit that used to drive me fucking nuts all the time." Gabe sat on the bed, holding the phone to his ear while he clipped his toenails. There was something unnatural about the way they grew so fast. "No shit. Man, sometimes when you did the wake and bake, you'd tell me about those dreams, you know? I asked you about them once when you slept over but you had no idea what I was talking about." Travis began to laugh his wheezy little laugh. "You told me once that in your dream you told him he wasn't worth the jail time. Guess you must've at least known something about him." "You're a sick man, Travie. All right, I'll let you go while you smoke. Call if you get bored, I'll be in all night." Gabe hung up and began flipping channels. He'd been at it for a few minutes, aimlessly surfing when he heard a knock on the hotel room door. Anxious for the pizza he'd ordered half an hour earlier, Gabe opened it. "Hi." Rather than the pizza he'd been hoping for, Spencer and Tom stood outside, Tom looking suitably frustrated. "You really aren't in Alex's room." Spencer sounded impressed. "No. Not uh. Not for a while now." Gabe stood at the door of the room, immobile. He had no idea what they wanted, and it hadn't occurred to him they might want in to visit him. "So. You're just going to stand in the door or are you going to invite us in? The word around our bus is that you know the best place to order pizza from." Spencer nudged Gabe to the side and walked in. Sprawling across the bed as if it were his own, Spencer grabbed the remote and began flipping through channels. "Tom, come on." And as simple as that, Gabe had Spencer on his side. * The very next day, Gabe got a gift he never expected. Brendon approached him with caution. For a moment, Gabe was sure he was dreaming. When he rubbed his eyes and looked again, Brendon was three feet closer. “What are you doing?” “Hi?” Brendon maintained a distance of four feet. Gabe could respect that; if Brendon had a personal bubble, Gabe could totally respect it. “Oh, right. Hi. What are you doing?” Gabe shoved his hands in his pocket. If they were out, they were likely to get him in trouble. One of his plans, pre-deleting dealer’s numbers, had been to carry Brendon off to Uruguay, where he didn’t speak the language and would be easily hidden away. “I don’t even know. Spencer told me to come talk to you. He says we should go out for coffee.” Brendon shrugged, taking an additional step back. “Coffee? That’s great! I can take you out for coffee! I’m great with picking coffee places!” Gabe was trying to hold back from doing a Toyota jump and hollering to the rest of the tour that Brendon wanted to go out for coffee with him. “Right. Um. Well, we have coffee in our dressing room. I was thinking we could just grab that and maybe go outside? You can smoke or. Do whatever it is you do.” Brendon adjusted his glasses and seriously, Gabe was going to die from that if he ever did it again. “Smoke. No! No, being around smoke is bad for your throat. I don’t want to do anything that’ll hurt your performance.” Gabe shook his head and quickly closed the distance between them to lock his hand around Brendon’s wrist. “Come on, we’ll get coffee and go outside, though.” “Okay?” Brendon sounded completely unsure about their plans. Gabe concentrated on not being too forward. Too forward included not sticking his hand down the front or back of Brendon’s pants, not giving him an article of clothing, not linking their fingers, and not texting Pete to announce his engagement to Brendon. Those were things that would come with time. Spencer had sent Brendon to Gabe, he was definitely doing something right. Though his gait was calm and composed, Gabe was dancing on the inside. * “So. You’re enjoying this tour?” Brendon seemed to be grasping at things they could talk about. Gabe didn’t want to mention too many of his past experiences, in case they scared Brendon off. “Yeah, well, it’s nice to be on a tour with so many friendly faces.” Gabe nodded and leaned against the wall. It was taking a lot of concentration to keep his eyes on Brendon’s face and not let them sink any lower. “That’s good. I don’t know. This tour’s kind of weird for me, you know? It’s like, we’re headlining and I kind of don’t feel like we should be. The album is selling well, which is great, and even though we say we don’t give a shit about people saying we haven’t paid our dues, it feels like we should.” Brendon took a sip of his coffee and sighed over it. “Maybe it’s where you’re supposed to be. You’re a Mormon, but you believe in fate, right?” Gabe cocked his head curiously. He’d only recently been made aware of Brendon’s upbringing. “Kind of. It’s. I don’t want to do a theological debate with you, but yeah. I think there’s a reason for everything that happens.” Brendon shrugged slightly. “I totally believe in fate. I think there’s always a reason for what happens and that where you are is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Right here for example.” Gabe considered making eyes at Brendon but held off on them. Appropriate, he had to be appropriate. “Here in this moment or here on tour or here in life?” “All three. You’re supposed to be a musician, you were meant for tour, and we’re supposed to be having this conversation.” Gabe watched as all the blood drained from Brendon’s face. “Do you ever have déjà vu, Gabe?” Brendon peeled the rim of his coffee cup up. “Lately I feel like everything that I’m doing, I’ve done before. Everything I’m seeing, I’ve seen before. This conversation, we’ve had it before.” That was when recognition hit Brendon’s face and his hands shook to the point he dropped the coffee cup. “You’re. I’m sorry, I have to go now. We have an interview.” * Gabe held off on adding the last item to the list. Find a way to make Brendon's adolescence and childhood up to him because you were, no doubt, intimidating as fuck. The list spanned the majority of two pages and while a lot of things had been crossed off, there were certain ones Gabe had never planned on crossing off because, while he'd made the change, he didn't want to ever forget to keep making up for it. He called his mother as the tour was drawing to a close. He didn't get an answer but that wasn't unusual. Gabe had taught his mother how to screen calls and not to answer private numbers. "Mama? It's Gabriel. I have some time off for Hanukkah and I was thinking I'd come spend it with you and Papa. Call me back to let me know what you think about that idea. Te quiero, Mama." After hanging up, Gabe looked at his list. It never left him and he was pleased to see the number of objects on the list left to be crossed off was almost down to nothing. All that was left were the items he refused to cross off and the ones he wished he could. Brendon still avoided his eyes, even when Gabe brought everyone their coffee. He wasn’t sure what it would take to fix that. Every other day, Gabe would send a movie to the Panic bus through Ryan. It was usually something he thought Brendon would enjoy. Brendon never sent them back and gradually, he started looking at Gabe again. Once, Gabe even thought he caught a hint of a smile. The second to last show, Spencer approached Gabe after the Cobra set. "Gabe, can I talk to you really quickly?" Since the night in the hotel and Spencer seeing the list, there'd been more open communication between the two of them. "Yeah, of course." Gabe nodded and followed as Spencer led the way into a back hallway unused by the rest of the crew. "What's up? I already told Ryan I wasn't letting him paint on my face." For the first time in Gabe's memory, Spencer smiled directly at him. He was fairly certain ninjas weren't allowed to smile like that. "No. No, that isn't it." Spencer was actually laughing and shaking his head. "No. I wanted to tell you that I think you should go for it tonight. We've got some time off coming up, and you know we'll all be in New York for New Year’s Eve, right?" Gabe's heart stopped beating for a moment. "You are serious, aren't you? You think I've changed enough." "I think there was not nearly as much to change as I thought because you have a lot of good in you. And if Brendon brings it out. Look, I don't know what he is to you or anything. I don't know why you seem to think this has to happen but you've. You've shown a lot of dedication to this and he needs that now." Spencer didn't elaborate on his statement and his face indicated he wasn't going to give any more away. "Tonight, after the show. I'll make sure he knows you don't really think Hobbes is imaginary and you know that Vitamin C is good for your immune system. Oh, and that you don’t actually go out of your way to kill caterpillars. You deserve at least that bit of help." "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were warming up to me, Spencer." Gabe folded him in a hug. "And as soon as I've gotten Brendon to fall in love with me, you can teach me your stealthy ninja secrets." Spencer laughed again and broke the embrace. "Let's go, then." * "How am I supposed to make some sort of move? Coffee was a complete fucking disaster" Gabe was pacing the length of the dressing room and staring at his bandmates. They weren't providing any sort of help. Alex was at least attempting, Ryland was just laughing hysterically and suggesting that Gabe just slide his hand into Brendon's pants and give him a friendly hello. "Maybe you should try talking to him. See if he wants to go out for food or something." Alex placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. "I mean. Have you even talked to him since you started that stupid list? Other than to get coffee and to get told that you’re a horrible person who probably kicks puppies in their spare time?" "He didn’t say I kicked puppies and the list isn't stupid! It's my path to a better life! A life with Brendon phone calls, maybe." Gabe looked hurt as he stood. Really, he didn't have to take this. He was leaving. Outside his door, he ran smack into the object of his affection. "Brendon! You're just who I was looking for." "Oh, why?" Brendon began backing away from Gabe until he realized he was pressed against the wall. "I don't want to argue more about Hobbes." "No, no. Spencer and I had a misunderstanding about that. I know that Hobbes is Calvin's best friend and that if he's real to Calvin that doesn't make him any less real to us." Gabe twisted his hands in his hoodie sleeves and looked down at Brendon. "Okay." Brendon didn't move. He had the look of someone being hunted. “I don’t want to get philosophical, either.” “No, it’s not that.” Gabe didn’t know how to apologize for what he’d done to Brendon without even knowing. He could never explain attacking Brendon in their dreams. The only explanation he had was that somehow their fates were intertwined, in a way far too big for either one of them to comprehend just yet. “Okay, so?” Brendon just looked confused. “Oh. Um, thank you for the movies. They’re nice. I mean, it’s nice to have something new to watch.” “Oh, hey. Don’t worry about them. It’s fine.” Gabe was frustrated at his own inability to speak. All he wanted to do was ask Brendon to go get food with him. It shouldn’t have been this hard. "Um, you know what? Never mind. It's not a big deal." Gabe turned on his heel and began speed walking away from Brendon. He didn't expect to be followed, so it was no surprise when he ended up alone outside the venue. It was almost a welcome moment. Sitting against the side of the venue, Gabe lit a cigarette and thought. There were the usual avenues. Mixtape, flowers, clothing. None of it seemed right. He wanted this to be different. Brendon had to be so wowed that he would think nothing of saying yes to Gabe and then jumping into his arms for a hot night of making out in a bunk with Gabe's legs dangling out. Okay, maybe not that last part. But it would be nice for Brendon to not be so wary around him. Gabe was so ready for non-wary. After a moment, Gabe pulled out his phone and looked through his contacts. Selecting Tom's number, Gabe dialed quickly. He waited as the phone connected and Tom's voice came through. "Gabe?" "Yeah, you want to come out back for a smoke? I want to run an idea by you and then I'm going to need your help." Gabe flicked away the ash that had built up on the end of his cigarette. Tom appeared at the door almost before Gabe had disconnected the call. They looked at each other. "Spencer told me he told you to make your move tonight." "Yeah. I kind of want to send Brendon a voicemail. And I want you to let me know if it's a good idea." He stood up and walked closer to Tom. "I want to pick a song and play it on guitar and send it to him. And then ask him if he wants to meet me for hot chocolate when we get to the hotel." "What song?" Tom shoved a hand into his pocket while he smoked. "I don't really know. It feels really fucking cheesy to do one of my own songs. And obviously I can't really do one of their songs." Gabe shrugged and looked sheepishly at Tom. "You really want this to happen. Holy shit." Tom nodded his approval, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "All right. I think you should go with something that appeals to him." "I know it's kind of lame. Like, really lame. But I was thinking of ‘Nose Over Tail’, you know? It's. There's the really obvious reference to the proving something but. I really think he saved me, even if he doesn't know it yet. Or ‘Blue in the Face.’" Gabe kicked his feet. "They both kind of fit." "I think when the time comes, you're going to know what song you should sing." Tom's face broke into a full-fledged smile. "I'll make sure he listens to the whole voicemail if you want to leave it while they're on stage." "Thanks, man. I know I've said it but I really need to say it again." Reaching forward, Gabe wrapped Tom in a large hug. "For everything, really." He tossed away his cigarette and watched as it landed in a puddle in the gutter. He couldn't waste his time smoking anymore -- he had work to do. The first thing he did was find Elisa, who was busy vamping in front of her computer , taking webcam pictures of herself. Shaking his head, Gabe tapped her shoulder. "'Lisa, I need your help. Do you think you could keytar a song for me?" The look she shot him gave him his answer, and he slowly backed out of the room. Gabe didn't trust Ryland to not, like, completely ruin the song, so he realized he'd have to do it himself. Acoustic. Which meant he had to find tabs. Ten minutes later, Gabe strummed his guitar quietly and tried to figure out if this was even possible. Tom was trying to watch him while at the same time trying to seem as if he wasn't watching him. It was going reasonably well. "Okay, I need you to hold the phone close enough to my mouth that he can hear me singing but not so close that he can't hear me playing guitar. I'm not as talented as he is, but I've got fucking soul." Tom stifled a laugh as he nodded in agreement. "Whatever you say, big man." He dutifully held up the phone as Gabe continued to warm up. It ended up only taking them three tries to get the song onto Brendon's voicemail without Gabe laughing or his fingers slipping on one of the chords. He wanted to do Stevie Wonder the justice he deserved. "I guess. I guess I wait." Gabe flipped his phone open and closed before grabbing his cigarettes. "Hey, you'll make sure he hears it, right?" Tom nodded and ushered Gabe out the door. "Relax, man. You won't be any good to Brendon if you have some sort of stroke before he can even hear the message. Go have a cigarette and just, lower your stress or something." Tom practically kicked him out of the room. * Gabe sat outside the venue, hidden between the buses and the walls. He'd already made his way through three cigarettes and had sent so many text messages to William that even he was no longer answering them. Fans had been rushing out of the venue and behind the fence for the last half hour. Just thirty seconds after sending Tom a message that said, "asshole, did he listen to it?" Gabe's phone vibrated and indicated a voicemail waiting for him. As he hadn't missed a call, he tried to think who other than Brendon could be leaving him a voicemail. Gabe almost never left messages on the phone and replying to a voicemail was the only way someone could leave him a message without calling him. His other option was Mama. Gabe didn't want to allow himself to get excited over something that might not even be true, but, as he dialed, his fingers shook so badly that he had to throw away his cigarette. Punching in his access code, Gabe skipped through his saved voicemails to get to the new one. Throughout his life, he'd never understood when people talked about having their hearts in their throats, but suddenly he understood. Of course his heart had relocated. Other major organs had decided to move north as well. His stomach felt like it might have been fighting with his heart for all the real estate in his throat. He swallowed hard and pressed play for the message. Brendon's voice, always surprisingly deep, came through clear. He skipped the verses and went straight into the chorus, altering the words Gabe had sang only a short while earlier. I just called to say I like you I just called to say how curious I am I just called to say I like you And I mean it from the bottom of my heart. The message ended there and nearby, someone cleared their throat. Gabe nearly dropped his phone in shock when he looked up and Brendon was standing over him. Scrambling to his feet, Gabe brushed himself off and stood in front of Brendon, their knuckles brushing. “Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t stand for the butchering of Stevie Wonder’s genius.” Gabe’s hands moved, brushing his fingertips over the back of Brendon’s hands. The featherlight touches left Brendon’s eyes fluttering closed. “I guess I’m just kind of hoping that we can eventually get to the real lyrics.” He stopped the movement of his hands, waiting for a response. Brendon opened his eyes as if waking from a pleasant dream and smiled.

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hindsywrites · 7 years

Text

Dangerous Li(v)es of Altar Boys

The first time Tom sees Spencer, it's the kind of raining that Tom likes to blame on global warming. It should be freezing but there's sweat dripping over his shoulders, attempting to cool him. The sun is shining and there's no escaping it. Tom looks over and talking animatedly to Pete is the most attractive boy he's ever seen in his life. He is a boy, despite the soft curves of his body. That thought isn't particularly new to Tom, finding a male attractive; there was something about Mike and no one could deny that they wanted to curl their hands over Bill's hips and just pull him close. Without realizing exactly what he's doing, Tom walks over to Pete. He's not an idiot. He knows this boy is part of Pete's new pet project and that he's from Vegas. It explains why the boy is hardly breaking a sweat, even with the humidity. "Thomas Conrad. If it isn't my favourite fucker ever." Pete pulls him in for a kiss and almost throws Tom off-balance. He can choose to blame that instead of the four shots of jag he had half an hour ago. "Tom, this is Spencer Smith. I've told you about him, right?" Tom has to think about it for a moment before he nods and looks between the two of them. Spencer is squinting and it looks like the corners of his mouth are turned down just the tiniest bit. "I think so. Hi, I'm Tom Conrad." Tom extends his hand and watches Spencer examine it for a moment before taking it and gripping it firmly. "So Pete said," Spencer lifts an eyebrow, clearly not all that interested in extending the conversation if his tone is anything to go by. He lets go of Tom's hand and turns back to Pete. Tom can’t quite look away just yet. "As I was saying..." "No more business today, not if these fuckers showed up." Pete claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder and either doesn't notice the way Spencer freezes or does a damn good job of pretending. "Come on, we'll introduce you guys around. It'll be good for you to meet them, especially if we want to get you on the road with them next year." Spencer backs away an inch and Tom feels voyeuristic for watching this exchange as closely as he does. There's an itch in his palms for the weight of his camera, something to capture the tension with. If he took a picture, would there be a physical manifestation of the walls Spencer has around himself? "Let me find everyone else and we'll meet you guys in the venue, yeah?" Spencer says as he backs away from Tom's close examination and like that, the itch is gone. Pete nods and Spencer turns without another word. When Tom's eyes follow Spencer, Pete smacks his shoulder lightly. "You leave your boys somewhere?" Tom breaks his stare to consider Pete's question. "I think everyone but Sisky is here. He's getting dropped off by Jason before the show. Something about packing. I don't know." "Good idea, definitely." When Pete meets Tom's eyes, it feels like he is holding back from saying something. He opens his mouth but is cut off. "Tom Fuck! Beer bong!" And just like that, Dirty saves Tom from any awkward conversation. The next time Tom sees Spencer, it's as he is being pointed to the bathroom after a few too many beer shots. It wasn't the first three that screwed him up, but the ten after definitely didn't mix well with the Jagermeister. Or the whiskey. Spencer ends up being the one with an arm wrapped around his waist and guiding him. "Ugh, you're fucking heavy." Spencer grunts, trying to adjust Tom's weight. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy, even the way Spencer is holding tightly to him. "Smell good," Tom's vaguely aware of speaking but he finds that it distracts him from the smell of Spencer's hair. "Come to my place. Make it smell good." "I think you need to go to the bathroom and puke until you're human enough that I can look at you." Spencer deposits him on the floor in front of the toilet. Tom looks up a half second later and Mike is standing over him, looking a little more than upset. "It's 2 a.m., we need to get the fuck out of here. You've been in here for three hours." Mike's hands feel rough against his sides and it's probably because they are as they haul him up. "Where is everyone?" Tom tries to reconcile the almost empty lot with the full one he saw earlier. The Fall Out Boy bus is still there, but it's the only one. "Wanted to say sorry to Spencer. I think I puked on his shoes." "You did. And you can say you're sorry when we're on tour with them. And you can say sorry to everyone else for making us miss the train." The tension is coming off Mike and twisting Tom's stomach again. He feels it flip over and he can't help it. There's not much left in Tom's stomach but it ends up all over his own feet. Tom doesn't see Spencer before the tour to apologize, which he didn't think he would, but it's the furthest thing from his mind when there's Mike and vans and hotel rooms and venue bathrooms to deal with. It happens by accident the first time but each successive time it becomes less and less accidental. Mike seeks him out, sits next to him in interviews, twines their fingers during long van rides. That they're rooming is a forgone conclusion by the end of tour, except for the part where it isn't when they get back to Chicago for the holidays. Tom is an idiot ninety percent of the time, but even he isn't dumb enough to believe Mike's explanation that it was just an experiment thing. People who experiment don't generally bottom the first time. It doesn't escape Tom's notice that immediately after their conversation, Bill pretty well stopped seeking him out for conversation. Putting two and two together isn't particularly difficult. Tom alternates his time off between bottles of wine while editing pictures, and cups of coffee while shaking on his couch. He plays the same records on loop until even he can tell where the hisses and crackles are on the vinyl, to the exact second. Everyone stops by at some point, everyone except Bill and Mike, until the day Mike does stop by. He's got a package under his arm and it's wrapped in the Sunday comics. Some things are never going to change, and Mike being too much of a lazy bastard to go to the store to get wrapping paper is one of them. Tom has been smoking since he woke up in the afternoon, and it's late evening right now; the apartment holds the smell of stale smoke. "Hey, Merry Christmas." Mike tries to smile but it doesn't quite go all the way to his eyes. "Right. Merry Christmas." Tom doesn't want to sneer, but he thinks it might come out anyway. "What are you doing here?" "Well, I came to wish you a Merry Christmas and to bring you your present." Mike holds the gift out helpfully, as if that will illustrate his point, the reason he chose to come over rather than call. "Okay." Tom stares at Mike, as if that will make his hidden motive easier to determine. Mike kicks a bit at the ground before looking up at Tom. "Look, I'm sorry about the way shit went down. I am." Mike looks up at Tom, his eyes softer than they normally are. One thing people didn't notice often enough about Mike is his fucking eyes. Tom always says that. "If you came over to do that, just save your breath. I'm over it. You were trying to sort your shirt out. So what the fuck ever." Tom purses his lips together, deliberately avoiding looking at Mike. His eyes would suck Tom in, and there was no way he was falling for that again. "Tom, I mean it." Mike stands in place, wringing his hands slightly. Tom focuses on his hands because it's looking at Mike without really looking at Mike. "So do I. You were a great fuck and I'm sorry if you thought you owed me anymore explanation than you gave me." Tom turns and walks to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. Sure, family dinner is tomorrow, but that's no reason not to have drinks tonight. "Do you want a beer?" "Yeah, sure." Mike's face tightens, the soft look replaced with something far less easy to read. Really, Tom doesn't know what he's supposed to say to Mike's apology. 'It's cool, stomp on my heart all you want. It's not like I use it anyway,' somehow doesn't sound quite right. Tom grabs them both tall cans of PBR from the back of the fridge and settles on the couch. It takes a several more beers before Mike says, "it wasn't my idea, you know? I mean. Shit has to go through the proper channels and apparently shit was not going through the proper channels. I mean shit." Mike laughs softly for a few moments before looking over at Tom. "Shit, you are hot, if I wasn't fucking Bill, I'd be all over you." "Shut up, Mike, you're fucking loaded." All Tom can hear is Mike's drunken laughter, admitting that he's fucking Bill. "No, I'm totally fucking loaded, but you're still really, ridiculously hot. Do you even know what you look like?" Mike doesn't stop looking Tom up and down. It gets to the point that even Tom has to laugh about it, because Mike isn't even subtle about it at all and the situation is too ridiculous for words. The laughter comes out wrong and it's the kind of laughing that sounds like crying, because that's what Tom feels like doing at the moment. "I know I'm not the best looking or the smartest and I don't have a lot to offer, but you have these eyes that just sucked me in. I'm such a sucker for your eyes, Mike. I don't care how much of a chick that makes me." Tom's maybe feeling lightheaded. Maybe. It's not like anyone has conclusive evidence stating this. "And like. The way you look at me sometimes. It kind of made me think it could actually work, you know?" "I know, man. I know, but Bill." Mike sprawls over the couch and half in Tom's lap. "What he wants, he gets and he wants what he shouldn't want because it's already taken, but he'll take it again because he's never happy unless he's got it all." Mike snorts and looks up at Tom. "And he wants me because he doesn't want you to have me. It's fucking ridiculous." "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." It's stupid, but Tom can hear the truth in it. Bill has always wanted what's just out of reach. "He should want you for you, and that thing you can do with your tongue." Mike turns a dark red and laughs so hard he falls off the couch and pops back up to grin at Tom. "I haven't done that thing I do with my tongue to Bill. He's not into kissing. I wish he'd kiss like you kiss." "You decided you wanted to stop kissing me. You're an asshole," Tom points this out helpfully. He slips down to the ground and gets eye-level with Mike, grinning lazily. "I'm very mad at you." "Don't be mad. You can't be mad. You'd do the same thing. It's fucking Bill. You know how he is, I don't even know what to say." Mike's chewing on his lips, a sure sign of his level of intoxication. "I think I'll get another beer. That would be good right now." "Hey, hey, hey, wait! Stop." Tom sets his beer on the coffee table, bottle on its side. "Look, my beer is broken. Can you bring me a good one?" Mike snorts and leans against the wall for support as he laughs silently into his hands. "Oh man, that was lame, dude, that was so fucking lame. For that, you get another beer." "Two beers! Two! I want to two-fist!" Tom makes the appropriate hand-motion before checking to see that his beer is really empty. It is and he leans against the couch, scrubbing his face with the back of his wrist. This isn't the situation he imagined himself in when he began his day. He'd had his evening all planned out and it involved a lot more beer and several holiday specials and the list of drinking rules to go with each one. "Two fisting? Man. You. Fucking, you can't do that on Christmas! That's for like, Halloween or something." Mike reappears with four beers all the same and looks down at Tom. "I'm sorry. If you want to drink on Christmas, you drink on Christmas." Mike grins as he flops across Tom's lap before sitting up to open his beer on his belt buckle. "I fucking want to drink on Christmas. It's like, it's the only thing that's going to plan, you know?" After the words are out of his mouth, Tom regrets speaking them. Immediately after regretting them, he shakes his head. Regret is pretty pointless. "I didn't plan on this either, Tom, it just sort of fucking happened." Mike leans against Tom's shoulder and his breath comes out hot and damp against Tom's neck. The ensuing silence is broken only at the sound of both of them chugging from their bottles of beer. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, I'm too drunk to talk about this." "Fuck talking, then." Tom turns his head and presses his lips against Mike's. It's natural still, even after a month of not kissing Mike. It's almost too easy to slip back into the easy touches and meandering kisses. "Mmm, we shouldn't." Mike's words are full of protest but his tone and actions don't match up. He's making no real effort to stop Tom from undoing his jeans, from tugging down his boxers, from doing anything they were familiar with as recently as a month ago. It has lost some of its finesse, but the ease is still there. After, as Mike is slipping back into his jeans, boxers long since lost to the dark corners of the room, he avoids meeting Tom's eyes. "That can't happen again. I'm sorry." He swallows and tries to exit the room without looking up. "Are you. You're fucking serious? You're going to sit there and tell me that means nothing to you? I mean nothing to you?" Tom looks at Mike, tries to force him to make eye contact. He directly blocks Mike's path, reaching out and pushing at his shoulders. "Answer me, jackass. You really want to sit here and lie to me like that?" Tom almost can't believe that Mike would really think he could get away with something like that. "It's not a lie." "Bullshit it's not a lie. Maybe Bill fucking knew that you'd do something like this if given the chance. Maybe he's not the one wanting what he isn't supposed to want, hm? It's not like he held a fucking gun to your head and made you do what you did." Tom just shakes his head and moves to the side. Mike's eyes immediately go down to the ground and he keeps them trained on a stain at the foot of the bed. "You know what would've happened. You saw what happened to AJ. I don't want to be the next AJ because this? This isn't really my thing. This is his thing and it's always going to be his thing and there's not a fucking thing either one of us can do about it. If he wanted either of us out after this, he could do it and we couldn't change it." Mike doesn't say anything else before walking out, leaving his scarf draped over the back of the couch in his haste to vacate the suddenly suffocating apartment. Turning the package over in his hands, Tom tries to figure out what the present is that Mike had gotten for him. What did he need so badly that Mike couldn't wait to give it to him until the next time they were conveniently near each other? Tom opens the wrapping paper, taking care not to wreck Garfield, and runs his fingers over a small gift box. Inside is a small medal, silver in color. It figures, Mike would play to Tom's religion, knowing what a sensitive subject that still is for him. Delicately carved into the solid silver is an image of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of bachelors and travellers. Rather than thinking about what a gift like that would set someone back, Tom sets box down to the ground and turns back to his room. There's an angry text somewhere inside him but he can't be bothered to send it to someone who won't read it and won't understand it even if they do. Stale smoke has been pushed out by stale sex in his bedroom. Tom has never in his entire life been as nauseous as he is right now. It takes all the energy he can muster to open the window and breathe in crisp winter air until his lungs feel like exploding. Once the tightness is gone, there's only emptiness and Tom can't do this, he's far too sober for this. There are only three more beers in the fridge and the liquor store is too far in the current weather, so Tom does the only thing he can think of. Tom calls Jon. Jon has a home and other friends and other family to be visiting on Christmas Eve, but he shows up with a bottle of red wine he'd pilfered from his parents and a plate full of Christmas cookies. He's got his backpack, which means he has his camera equipment and a two-six of something the two of them can share. "You, Jonny Reb, are my savior, my comrade in arms. One day I'll be able to thank you properly and then we'll be even." Tom drapes an arm around Jon's shoulders as much for balance as for anything else. "Hey, none of that. You don't owe me shit and you never will." Jon laughs and tugs Tom over to the couch. Tom-the-emotional-drunk is not an unheard of visitor, but he's a rare guest to the parties these days. Tom's pout turns into a somewhat affectionate grin when he looks up at Jon. "If I could ever repay you, I would; but I'm hard up for cash and memory lacks initiative. Goddamn, the liquor store's closed. We were so close to scoring. It hurts; it destroys 'til it kills. I'm afraid I'm alone and entirely useless… in this department." He rolls from the couch without singing any of the rest of the lyrics. Tom knows that with the way his voice sounds, Jon probably considers that a blessing. "Listen, shithead, if I ever hear you talking about getting fucked up and dying, I'm probably going to have to kill you and that would suck. I'm way too fucking babyfaced for prison." Jon rubs at his cheeks. Tom knows he's trying to lighten the mood, so he runs with it. He's sent pictures to Jon while he was drunk, those pictures of Mike. Thankfully, Jon has never asked Tom about them or the stream of consciousness captions he's added. "Man, if I went to prison and you were with me? I'd never run out of cigarettes." Tom wants to pout and yell and kick and punch until he can't remember the feeling of Mike's lips on his. That's not really an option, so the banter with his best friend will have to suffice. "If you sold me for cigarettes, I'd bite and you'd get the worst reputation. You'd have to smoke fucking Parliaments or something." Jon reaches for the pack Tom has on the coffee table and pulls two out. "Come on, we'll smoke and you can try to sober up a little before we drink the rest of what I brought." "Fuck that noise, man." Tom shakes his head and tries to stand up before collapsing down against the couch. "Jonny Walker, you must bring the alcohol to me. You shall be favored among my servants and when I ascend, you'll take my place." Tom smiles, attempting to look like Christ in the picture of the Last Supper. "Jesus fuck, Tom, if you're going to get biblical on me I'll get your alcohol." Jon ruffles Tom's hair as he stands and walks to the kitchen. "Chaser or no?" "Do I look like your mother? Just. Bring the bottle over and I'm gonna start the movie." Tom manages to roll off the couch and crawl to the DVD player to press play. He really had been planning to spend the evening getting shit-faced while watching Christmas specials. "Okay, I brought more beer out, because I'm not as manly as you. My mangina requires a beer chaser." Jon flops down on the couch just in time for Randy to start whining in A Christmas Story and the first drink to be taken. * "A bus, man. An honest-to-God bus." Siska is bouncing up and down directly in front of Tom. Personally, Tom doesn't see what the huge deal is. Yes, they have a bus and it'll be nice to travel in but it's not like they really need one. They could be doing so many more things with the money the bus is costing them. He's not going to say that and ruin the general good mood. Everyone is happy about the bus. They now have the illusion of privacy when they go to bed. Even Bill seems to be in a good mood as they board the bus and begin to drive away from the parking lot. "The babies are meeting us in the first city?" Tom settles onto the couch, a cold beer in hand. He's got nothing else to do on this trip, Jon is busy editing photos in the back and the understanding he feels for the act prevents him from even occupying the same room as Jon while he does it. "If they're babies, then Sisky's a fetus, so be careful." Butcher settles across from Tom with a beer in hand as well. "I'm pretty sure Brendon emailed me with how excited he was to be on this tour and to thank us for this opportunity. They're pretty much fresh from the womb. He ended it with regards and his full name." Bill looks up from fiddling with the DVD player. They're trying to decide what their first DVD as a band on their very own bus should be and it's been decided that they're going to watch Before Sunrise. Sometimes Tom thinks Bill gets off on his own pretension. After a while, the movie has gotten dull and everyone has wandered off. Bill is in his bunk, writing something that just came to him. Mike is off reading. Butcher and Siska are playing a very involved game of Go Fish, which seems to involve losing clothing. Tom looks down at his half-empty beer and goes to the back to see Jon. Jon looks up when the door opens, as if his concentration has been broken. At first he glares, but when he sees Tom standing in the doorway, his face softens. "Hey man, movie getting boring?" "Yeah, everyone's off doing their own thing. Figured I'd come back here and see what you're doing." Tom knows full well what Jon is doing, but he never feels quite right when he's up having a beer and no one else is. "Hey, you're playing tonight, right?" Jon looks up from his laptop long enough to look pointedly at Tom's beer. "Relax. You're sounding like Mike, I'll be fine." Tom shrugs and makes a mental limit to only have one or two more on the drive. "All right, chill." Jon waves his hand in a careless fashion and looks back to the screen. The next few hours drag on and Tom hates that he can't find something to do. The point of a bus was that they were supposed to always be able to find something to do. By the time they arrive at the venue, Tom is feeling lightheaded and pleasant. It makes unloading the gear a little more of a pain than it should, so he does the bare minimum he can get away with before ducking out the back for a cigarette. He's alternating between messaging Danielle and Nick on AIM when he hears someone come around the corner. "Hey, Bill's looking for you. You're doing soundcheck soon and I guess he wants to try to initiate the Panic kids." Jon ducks his head around and reaches for Tom's cigarette. Placing it between his lips and taking a drag, Jon walks off. Tom rolls his eyes and follows back toward the venue. He'd be lying if he said he was in the mood to take instructions from Bill right now but he knows that as soon as the first show is over, Bill will be in a better mood. First shows have always gotten to Bill, as much as he'll never admit it. Everyone's sitting on the stage when it comes time to actually soundcheck, drinks balanced by their feet. It's painful to hear all their instruments together after the few weeks they had off. Relearning the proper levels takes longer than it will for the rest of the tour and by the end, Tom's head hurts with a mid-day hangover. He shrugs and goes to the backstage area, hoping another beer will take the edge off. Forrest is inspecting a large hot dog costume and Tom has to shake his head again. Sometimes he wonders when things like this became normal. He takes his beer and heads in the direction of outside again, waiting to actually light his cigarette. He takes his time with this beer, feeling his headache dissipate until even the memory of it is gone. Tom smokes only one cigarette before going in search of another beer. When he finds the dressing room this time, everyone has a beer and there's laughter spilling from under the door cracks. "Fuck, where is everyone? We need the babies in here." Bill stands up to make this grand announcement. He walks from the room, head held high as he searches the hallways for traces of their new tour mates. When they're back, Tom wishes they were still in their own closet of a dressing room. Ryan and Spencer are shooting disapproving glances at everyone in the room while Brendon looks longingly at the bottles of beer. Given his age, and his upbringing, Tom doubts Brendon's ever even had a drink, let alone enjoys the taste of beer. To be honest, he's surprised the answer to his unspoken questions haven't just spilled out of Brendon's mouth. Brendon seems to be a nervous talker and now Tom knows a lot more about Brent's porn collection and Brendon's own love of The Simpsons than he would've thought possible to find out in fifteen minutes. Spencer and Ryan are huddled in a corner, talking quietly. They're not being anti-social per se, because they're in the room, but they're not making an effort to be friendly or to make conversation outside the two of them. "Oh, they're like that sometimes. When I first met them…" Brendon launches into a story about the first time he met them and how he was sure they weren't going to like him and how it would've made his life so miserable that he would've had to drown himself in one of the fountains at the Bellagio. Tom tunes it out halfway through to look at Spencer and Ryan, still talking so quietly and so intently to each other. It's clear that this is still new to them. They haven't even been signed for a year and they already have a bus and a spot opening for a band they were fans of not that long ago. Tom takes his beer and heads for the exit again. He doesn't like smoking in enclosed spaces when it's warm enough that he can be outside. While it isn't overly warm, it's still warm enough that he can be outside without having to bundle up. Butcher decides to come out with Tom this time. It's a sight, this skinny guy leaning against the building, exhaling the most elegant smoke rings Tom has ever seen. "I've never really known how to do that," Tom admits. Butcher makes it look almost elegant and Tom thinks about watching it backward, thinks that must be what smoking looks from the inside. "It's hard to do in the wind, I'm lucky any of them are even working." Butcher grins, wide and easy, and Tom forgets his train of thought about smoke rings. "I think the guys are going out tonight, celebrating the start of tour. You going?" Tom tries to think of the words to express the feeling of not being invited, despite the obvious invitation. "I don't know, probably." He'll feel like an intruder, like he always does. One day, he'll ask Butcher how he keeps from feeling like that but he knows that whatever Butcher answers, it won't quite work for him. From the beginning, Butcher hadn't felt like an outsider, like no matter what he did, it wasn't quite the direction they wanted to go. "Cool. Well, I'm heading back in. Do you want me to see if anyone else will come out here?" Butcher nods down toward Tom's half-finished cigarette. Tom shrugs. "I'll see you when I get in there." Tom brings his beer back up to his lips. It's gone slightly warm and it almost seems like it's lost a bit of the flavor, but it'll do until after the show. No one else appears to keep him company, so he goes back inside to find the groupings have changed slightly. Brendon appears to be discussing something with Butcher, his hands swooping in large arcs to illustrate his story. Bill and Ryan are now tucked in a corner, discussing something that looks like it's of utmost importance. There's a game of Mario going on in the corner that has drawn the attention of the remaining people. From the back, Tom can easily pick out Jon and the way he and Spencer are seated together on the couch, Mike on one of the arms. "Tombo! Spencer says you owe him a pair of shoes." Mike looks over his shoulder and grins; Tom hates that grin. He hates how it's nothing but fake and anyone who knows Mike at all knows that. He throws on his own grin and settles on the other arm of the couch, right next to Spencer. "Is that so, Smith?" He can put on his flirting face if he wants to, he doesn't need Mike to make him feel like a complete person again. "You, uh, you kind of wrecked a pair of mine last time we saw you guys. When you guys came to the Chicago show." Spencer seems almost embarrassed to be speaking about it in front of everyone. "You know, I remember thinking that I was going to have to apologize to you for something. I'm just sorry it turned out to be that and not something better." His smile turns genuine when he realizes the tips of Spencer's ears have gone red. "It's fine, whatever." Spencer turns back to watch the game of Mario just as Chad somehow manages to get killed by the slowest moving enemy in the game. His ears are still red and Mike's look the same. Tom grins to himself, taking a longer drink of his beer. * After the show, Tom is still riding his earlier buzz and it's only being added to by the adrenaline coursing through him. "Hey, hey, Xbox on our bus, I'm getting the kids," Bill calls over his shoulder as he runs by Tom. Tom nods in acknowledgement before shaking out another cigarette. Despite the drinks before, he'd played a good set. Better than good, really. The only complaint anyone had was that about a quarter of the audience had left after Panic's set to go try to meet them by the buses. Jason was griping about it backstage, loud enough for everyone to hear. All Tom could do was shake his head. People wanted to hear what they wanted to hear. Mike walks up to him from behind. There are few people who drag their feet while walking the way Mike does, and the gravel does nothing to hide the noise. "Hey," Mike mutters, shaking out a cigarette as well. His hands are trembling the way they only ever do from nerves and Tom rolls his eyes. Bill will get nervous before a show but only Mike gets nervous about actually having to meet people. He's always saying he didn't sign on for that part, he just wanted to play. "Relax, we did good. No one's going to be telling you that you sucked donkey dick tonight." Tom avoids reaching over and taking Mike's hands between his own and forcing them to stop trembling. It's almost painful to watch Mike with his matches, hands shaking too hard for him to even light one. If this were three months ago, Tom would've already had an arm around Mike's waist and been holding on to remind him that this was something real. No one was taking it away. Tom knew better than anyone now how fast a dream could evaporate into thin air. "I know, I know. It's just." Mike shrugs and flicks ash away from himself, almost without thinking about it. "I don't want this to be the peak, you know? I don't want this to be the best show. And I really don't want kids not sticking around to watch us. That really sucks." Mike leans against the venue wall, shirt riding up a little in the back. "I'll be honest, I'd rather have them leave than them stick around if they don't want to see us. No one should feel obligated to do that." Tom doesn't want to argue this with Mike. There's no way things will even end civilly given the current feelings between the two of them. "Look, finish your cigarette, go on the bus, have a beer and just calm the fuck down." "Yeah, I think that's a good idea." Mike nods and pushes off the wall. He flicks ash in the direction of Tom's feet and begins walking toward the buses and vans parked a dozen yards away. "I'm just going to be out here for another few minutes." Tom waves as Mike turns to look at him before walking onto the bus. "Don't worry, I have the code in my phone." Tom's memory for numbers and facts and codes is legendary. It just doesn't exist. On a good day, he can remember his own number. On a bad day, he's grateful for the information section on his phone. He's never claimed to be good at remembering things, but he doesn't like that people call him on it. "If you can't get in, just call one of us." Mike calls over to him before closing the door. Tom's left by himself for another minute before Bill comes back, one long arm wound around Ryan's shoulder and another around Brent's. Brendon walks over to Tom and looks longingly at the cigarette. Tom doesn't bother to hide his confusion. Brendon is a singer and a Mormon. There's little to no chance he's a smoker. Spencer follows Brendon over and looks down at Tom's cigarette. "Marlboros? Isn't that the cigarette that'll pretty much have you coughing up tar?" Spencer wrinkles his nose and looks up at Tom. "Probably, but everything good will kill you eventually." Tom's been put in a sour mood by the thought of Mike on the bus, waiting for Bill to come back with a small harem of small boys. "Not everything," Spencer shakes his head and looks at the door of the bus. "We should go in, Bren. They're probably going to start playing without us." "So? They'll be playing all night, it doesn't matter if we miss the first game or not." Brendon leans against the venue in the same manner Tom does. Tom just does his best not to smirk, it is clear these kids have been taught safety in numbers and they aren't about to split up for anything. "Fine, you're almost done that cigarette, right?" Spencer looks at the cigarette that has almost completely burned to the filter. Tom nods and raises it up to his lips one last time. "Done," Tom mutters as he tosses the butt off to the side, giving no care as to where it lands. He looks over at Spencer and Brendon to indicate he's ready to let them onto the bus and into the joyous party that awaits. Brendon grins and walks in as confident as he's ever walked into any situation. Tom just rolls his eyes and follows before looking over at Spencer. There's a carefully blank look on Spencer's face the second Tom looks over at him. Tom meets his eyes for only a moment before brushing past him and walking to his bunk. There are always good pictures to be had from Academy parties. When he returns, people have settled, though Ryan is no longer anywhere to be seen. Spencer's lips are set in a thin line as he sits on the couch. Tom isn't sure what to blame the difference on until he sees Brent and Brendon both holding onto bottles of beer, not even sipping from them. That's when Tom makes the decision he knows is going to change his life forever. Or for tonight. Whatever. He takes the bottle of Jack he could've sworn was fuller when he left the bus that morning and takes Spencer's wrist. "Come on, they're just going to play Halo all night. We've got a back lounge. We'll put on a movie and they'll start drifting back." Spencer nods, seeming to find it better to watch Tom drink than his own bandmates. Apparently since Tom isn't his responsibility, it isn't as bad. Spencer clutches his pop as if it's the only thing keeping him together at that moment. "Want to tell me why you look like that?" Tom looks him up and down as he pours the whiskey into bottle of pop, swirling it to mix it around enough that he can drink it. That seems to be when Spencer notices he's in the back lounge with Tom. "It's just, Brendon knows, you know? He shouldn't. I mean, we're all underage, you guys know that, and Brendon's such a fucking lightweight. Brent shouldn't have said yes, because then there's no way Brendon's going to say no and we have a fucking show tomorrow and this." Spencer cuts himself off there, looking carefully at Tom. He seems to realize he might have said too much. "Sorry, it's nothing." "Well that, that didn't sound like nothing. If you need to let it out, it's cool." Tom gets the sense that his first impression of Spencer, uptight and needing to have a firm grasp on every situation before he enters it, was a correct impression. "No, it's fine. We don't have to stay back here. There's nothing wrong." Spencer stands and opens the door to go back to where the hoots and hollers are coming from. Tom stands just as quickly and follows him out. "Hey, it wasn't just for your sanity that we're back here." Tom holds the door closed quickly. "I'm not really in for a party tonight. I just don't want to bring everyone else down and you kind of look like you're already down, so…" Tom trails off and removes his hand from the door. "For a drunk, you're observant." Tom's surprised with the speed the comeback comes out at. "For a drummer, you're actually pretty smart." They both crack a smile at that and move back to the couch. "Okay, we've got three choices back here and surprisingly only one of them is porn. So. Do you want A Bug's Life or do you want Die Hard?" Tom crouches in front of the DVD player and holds up two DVD cases. "I think I'll take my chances with Die Hard. The fewer animated children's shows I have to watch, the better." Spencer rolls his eyes and takes a drink from his bottle of pop. "Not a Disney fan, I take it." Tom nods and sets up the movie, skipping through the advertisements that seem to be becoming more common in DVDs. "Well, I've just had my fill of them." Spencer doesn't explain and Tom doesn't ask him to. Once the movie starts, they sit in companionable silence, snorting occasionally at some of the onscreen violence. Tom looks over once to see Spencer tapping out a message on his sidekick. Instead of commenting, Tom just turns back to the film. The second time he sees it, he can't help it. "You know, you're missing landmark American cinema right here. It's got everything, explosions, car chases, and guns." Tom takes another drink from his bottle, swishing it around to try to taste the whiskey. "Tom, I wasn't even a year old when this movie came out." Spencer obviously feels the need to point this out. "So? All the more reason to appreciate it now. I wasn't born when The Sting was released, but you can't tell me that movie wasn't badass." Tom fumbles for his cigarettes and debates opening one of the windows to the screen. Oddly enough, it's the driver that complains about the smell of smoke. Bill will occasionally come back while someone is smoking and steal drags of their cigarettes. "Paul Newman is different, he's classic. Bruce Willis is a fucking joke now." Right there, Tom hits the pause button. "Wait, wait. I'm sorry. Did you just say that? Did you honestly? My God, you did say that." Tom looks around the room for something soft enough to hit Spencer with. "Are you defending his honor? Dude, you're so gay for Bruce Willis right now. I should go back up front. I don't think there's room for you, me, and your boner for Bruce Willis. Do you keep a lock of his chest hair in your necklace?" Spencer snickers and doesn't make a move to get up and leave. "I can't believe you… The Sixth Sense? The Whole Nine Yards? Fuckin' Twelve Monkeys?" Tom is still staring at Spencer in disbelief. "Have a drink, watch him kill his first terrorist again, and tell me he's not the motherfuckin' man. And for the record, this isn't a love necklace for Bruce Willis." Tom holds out the medal for Spencer to examine carefully. Spencer rolls his eyes and, despite his earlier apprehension, reaches for the bottle of whiskey, moving away from Tom and the medal. It's late enough that Tom assumes everyone is on this bus for the night. They can make their way back in the morning. "This didn't happen." Spencer motions to the bottle before pouring a generous amount into his bottle of pop. Tom nods and goes back to the proper point in the film and prepares to start it again. "I would just like to point a few things out before you put this back on." Spencer stops Tom and motions to the TV before taking a swig from his bottle. "Point away." "Well, first off Bandits, The Kid, and Beavis and Butthead Do America. Second of all, that's totally a girl's necklace. Now press play." Spencer is grinning and Tom can't help but grin back before stealing the whiskey to freshen his own drink. Tom frowns and tries to watch the level on Spencer's pop, but it doesn't seem to go down, even though he does offer a small amount of respect for Bruce Willis after he kills his first terrorist. "See? Classic American cinema." "I'm gonna have to disagree with you there, Tom. Classic American cinema would be like, Casablanca, or the original Ocean's Eleven. Not this. This is…" Spencer trails off, looking for the right word. "This is modern in the worst way possible." "What the fuck? Modern in the worst way?" Tom almost chokes on his drink. "This is meant to be a total America movie. Yay, look at us beat the terrorists. In reality, it just makes us sick for wanting to watch other people get blown up, shot, killed, and what have you. It makes us these voyeurs on the worst days of people's lives. And obviously he had two bad days after this, right? There were two more Die Hards? Anyway, classic American cinema had sad endings, but we didn't have to see people's guts in our faces. Now even our love stories don't always end happily and we eat them up. We do it not because we want them to be unhappy, but because we don't think they should be happy if we're not happy. We've turned into a culture that feeds off other people's sorrows." Spencer seems to realize he's been rambling and he turns a soft pink. Tom pauses for a moment before he speaks, choosing his words carefully. "I don't think that makes us sick. I don't think we feed off it. I think we're just tired of being lied to and Disney movies setting unrealistic explanations of love for us. Love sucks sometimes and you don't always get the guy-girl." Tom covers his slip of the tongue by taking another drink. "And I think we revolted against that and got movies with sad endings. Because sad endings, they give you hope that the next time will be better." "I don't think you're talking just about movies anymore." Spencer looks toward the TV, not meeting Tom's eyes. "So what if I'm not? Bruce Willis, man, he's awesome and yeah, I'm watching a guy kill a shit ton of other guys. And yeah, I watched Saw and saw the guy cutting his own foot off. But you know what? I don't think that makes me a sick person. Well, maybe Saw does. But Bruce Willis doesn't. When was the last time you saw acting as fucking awesome as that?" Tom tries to bring the point back to the movie, but all he can think about now is sad endings and how he needs Mike and how this tour is going to kill him. "I think the last time I saw acting that good was in the dressing room this afternoon when you were talking to Mike." Spencer's wry grin shows, even in the flickering light of the television. "Wow. I was right, smart." Tom's voice has fallen flat and he lacks the energy to make it sound normal. "What? You think people don't notice? You're not the only one who's observant, rummy." Spencer takes a small sip of his pop, still not turning to Tom. "No, but I was kind of hoping no one else was observant enough to catch that." Tom taps out a cigarette, opening the back window and hearing things roll by along the highway. "Look, you want to be more conservative about who knows you're in love with your guitarist? Try not looking at him with baby cow eyes, or putting all those fucking pictures of him on your website." Spencer huffs and his bangs fly up just slightly. "Oh, I'm not fucking in love with him." "Right, right. You just always happen to catch your bandmates who don't photograph well and make them look fucking spectacular." Spencer's voice is going as flat as Tom's. "It's really, really not what you think." Tom's fingers shake as he tries to hold his lighter steady. "You don't know what I think it is." Spencer takes the lighter, their fingers brushing, and holds it steady for Tom. Exhaling a stream of smoke, Tom mutters a thanks. "Look, straight up? We were sort of a thing. And now we're not a thing." "Ah, that does explain it." Spencer doesn't elaborate on his statement and that pisses Tom off. It's said in that smug tone that suggests Spencer knows everything about that situation, when he really knows nothing. No one knows what they're talking about when it comes to how Tom feels about Mike. And of course, because Tom's life is a fucking movie, Mike opens the back lounge as soon as Tom turns to look at Spencer, about to give him a piece of his mind. "Oh, hey, you guys are back here." Mike looks between the two of them with a contemplative look. To Tom it looks like he's trying to figure something out and Tom is having none of that. He throws his arm around Spencer's shoulder and squeezes him tightly. "Yeah, we're watching Die Hard." Tom knows it's one of Mike's favourite movies, it's the reason it's even back here to begin with. "Don't worry, we'll put it back when we're done." Mike doesn't say anything else before leaving and the only thing that makes Tom freeze up is the way Spencer is suddenly tense, hardly moving to breathe beside him. "Sorry," Tom mutters, removing his arm from around Spencer. "Don't apologize. Just tell me what the fuck that was about?" Spencer's rubbing at his upper arm and maybe Tom did grab Spencer's arm harder than he thought. "I thought. You said it made sense." Tom looks over at Spencer, confused and not bothering to hide it. "You can be as hung up on him as you want, but you're not dragging me into it, okay? You're both co-workers, sort of, and I'm not getting in the middle of whatever weird shit you two are doing around each other." Spencer shakes his head and it looks like he's going to stand up again. If Spencer leaves the back now, Mike will know that nothing was going on back here and he'll lord that over Tom for the rest of the tour. Tom decides that thinking is overrated anyway, so he stands and blocks the door again, watching as Spencer tries to work out what's going on. When Spencer seems to have concluded that Tom isn't behaving logically, he speaks. "I don't know what you think is going to happen if I go out there. It's not like I'm going to run over and tell Mike that the second he walked in the door, you turned into someone else completely." "I didn't." Tom argues only to argue at this point. "You did, you threw your arm around me and you did the same thing in the dressing room. Like I said, Tom, I'm not getting in the middle of this thing." Spencer sits back down on the couch, face no longer open and laughing like it was before. Tom considers this for a moment before sitting down on the couch and taking another drink from his bottle of pop. It's gone flat and the whiskey taste is still there. "Then don't get in the middle, but don't leave me to get drunk on my own. That's just sad, dude." * Tom notices a pattern as the tour progresses. Headliner invites openers to bus to drink. Openers come. Opener Guitarist leaves when booze is pulled out. Headliner Guitarist gets drunk while talking the ear off Opener Drummer. Opener Drummer does not get drunk. "Spencer Smith, you never let your hair down with us!" Tom exclaims as he and Spencer walk to the convenience store the desk clerk swore was a block from the hotel. Five blocks back they decided he was a liar. There's very little beer left in the hotel room the Academy is currently trashing with the help of Brendon and Brent. More so Brendon than Brent. "Did you actually use the phrase 'let your hair down?' Are you my grandfather?" Spencer can only laugh and switch sides with Tom as Tom switches the hand he's holding his cigarette in. "Fuck you, it's an acceptable phrase! Well. It's a phrase, anyway." Tom shakes his head and tries to tap ash so the wind won't pick it up and carry it to Spencer's eyes. "Yes, it's a phrase that people used when girls still pinned their hair up all the time and letting your hair down meant relaxing at home where you didn't have to impress anyone." "Well, then it's still an acceptable phrase, because you're awfully pretty, Spencer." Tom grins over at Spencer and receives an elbow to the side for his effort. "Hear me out! Okay, so you don't let your hair down. You never get drunk with us, you hardly even laugh except to laugh at me while I'm drunk and yet you're the only one who'll be with me while I'm drunk and not actually laugh at me." "For a drunk, you're pretty observant." "And for a drummer, you're pretty smart. So, why don't you just relax, take a load off?" Tom looks Spencer up and down after a moment and takes in the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. "Whatever shit you're carrying around isn't healthy." "You're not one to lecture about carrying around unhealthy baggage." Maybe Spencer doesn't mean the words to sound as sharp as they do but they come out sharp as hell and all Tom can do is flinch. "Maybe I'm not, but—" "Look, we're doing a beer run, okay? Then I'll go to my room and relax and you don't have to worry about what I'm carrying around." Spencer's voice indicates the topic is closed. "No, look. I. I just want you to talk about it, okay? I want to know why the hell you look like sometimes you want to kill someone and other times you watch me with that look of complete concern, because I've seen you do it." Tom stands in front of Spencer, blocking his path and crossing his arms. "Did it ever occur to you that the concern might be because I don't want the tour to get cancelled because you choke on your own vomit? I don't want to lose this because you couldn't put down the bottle of Jack." Spencer took his own defensive stance, albeit much less effectively. "But you've never told me to put down the bottle, or the pipe, or anything. Spencer, if you're so concerned, why are you just being on the outside of this? You're watching all the time and I don't know what to think about that." "Okay, you're seriously dense. You're really fucking idiotic. You didn't even think about the fact that I'm here preventing that. I'm here, hanging out with you when no one else will sometimes. I come out for cigarettes when it's cold and I'm tired because I don't want something bad to happen to you and know that I could've helped just by being there and I wasn't. Tom, you don't get so drunk that you pass out in your own vomit anymore. You don't drink enough to get alcohol poisoning now." Spencer takes the cigarette from between Tom's lips and drops it to the ground, stepping on it. "I've been there, having to watch a friend deal with someone having alcohol poisoning, someone so drunk they can barely even walk without falling over. I don't want to see someone else get to that point." Tom starts to speak, starts to protest that he isn't that bad, but Spencer cuts him off. "No, I've watched it happen and I know the signs and I know the slippery slope you're on right now and I'm not going to let you go through that and I don't know how to help except just being here because I don't want you to turn into someone like him. If you do… I don't know what, Tom, but I know it isn't good." Tom stands there for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he tries to comprehend how Spencer Smith just told him off on a street corner. The more he thinks about it, he's not even sure it was entirely about him. "Come on, they're going to run out of beer if we're not back soon." Tom looks down at the ground, for once not even attempting to look at Spencer. They're silent during the interaction with the clerk, silent when they get their change back, silent on the walk back, and silent during the too-long elevator ride up to the floor they're all staying on. "I'm going to my room." Spencer pulls out his card key and, for the first time since the tour began, Tom is drunk and alone. He returns with the beer and everybody cheers but nobody notices when he slips out with a six-pack and goes to the stairwell of the hotel, popping open a can and drinking it while sitting on the stairs. After awhile, Tom texts Jon and asks him to come outside for a cigarette. Jon obliges and says he'll meet him outside. Jon comes with Brendon in tow, like a tiny monkey that will cling onto any limb if he's given an opening. "Wow. Wow, you guys are so awesome." Brendon grins blearily at Tom and then at Jon. "I'd hug Tom but Jon says that's a bad idea. He says that you don't hug unless you initiate it, otherwise it's like hugging a really, really soft tree." Brendon snickers. "A really soft tree." Tom muses over the thought and takes a drink from the can of beer he brought outside with him. "Hey, I might hit the hay early tonight—" "What does that expression even mean? Hit the hay? We're not pioneers, Tom." Brendon seems like he's choosing to only drift in and out of the conversation, so Tom humors him. "We're definitely pioneers, Bren. We just have better wagons." He ruffles the Brendon's carefully sculpted hair. "Watch the ‘do! I spent time on it today! It's going to get me laid one day!" Brendon pouts with both lips pushed out as far as they can go. "Anyway, I'm going to bed early, who has the keys to the other room?" Normally Tom will take the room with the party going on, because he'll stick out a party until the last drop has been drunk from the last bottle but there's something in the way Spencer said what he said that's sticking. At least, Tom tells himself it's the way Spencer spoke and not what he said that's sticking into him like a knife. "Tommy Conrad, ducking out of a party early?" Jon makes a surprised face and reaches for Tom's forehead. They both know it's a joke for the sake of Brendon. He doesn't really need to know how unusual this is. "Ducking out early to bang your Mom," Tom reaches into Jon's back pocket to take the key for himself. "No way, dude, that's why I'm ducking out early! My mom, though, not yours." Jon takes it in stride, the way he takes all jokes of this nature. "Aw, phew, at least I know I don't have to worry about there being any competition." Tom turns to Brendon and speaks in as serious a tone as he can manage. "Jon's hung like a baby." "Yeah, dude. Nine pounds and twenty-two inches!" Jon high-fives an imaginary peanut gallery and Brendon actually falls over laughing. "Nah, Bren, in all honesty, it's only six inches," Jon pauses, "from the floor!" "You're a sick man, Jonny Walker. A sick, sick man. Take care of this key, I'm off to eat crackers and do other unmentionable things between your sheets." Tom hands Jon the other key-card and walks toward the stairwell, ready to let himself in and grab the rest of his beer. There are still four cans there, the same number he left, but for some reason they look off to Tom. He chalks it up to the swirling thoughts in his head and returns to his floor, looking for the correct room. Siska's in the room as well, excused from the festivities because he's coming down with something and when Siska gets sick it's enough to make anyone else get sick just from looking at him. Even his hair looks sick, it just lays there. He's asleep when Tom enters the room and Tom is grateful for that. It means no questioning looks about what he's doing there when the party is still clearly going on a few doors down. Under his breath, Tom starts humming the song about the party two doors down where they're laughing and singing. He's pretty sure anyone but Siska waking up to him humming Dolly Parton would be the most humiliating thing in the world. Siska named his cats Baby, Little Girl, and Little Boy. He isn't allowed to laugh at anyone about anything, ever. Looking down at the beer in his hand, Tom decides to save the remaining for morning when they'll all need a hair of the dog that bit them in order for them to feel human again. His jeans stay crumpled on the floor after he steps out of them and unbuttons his shirt. The day feels longer than the standard twenty-four hours and Tom falls asleep without even pulling his arms from his shirt or slipping under the covers.

Tom looks over at Spencer, in the corner of the room and talking to Butcher while Butcher smokes from a small pipe and blows out the window. No one is watching Butcher as he proceeds to get higher and higher. Tom decides to stumble over and talk to Spencer. What's the worst that could happen? Spencer could tell him off again and Tom already lived through that. "Butcher, Butchski, I'm stealing your friend for a few minutes." "Give 'er! I'm hungry and I'm totally raiding the vending machine." Tom rolls his eyes as Butcher disappears from the room. Spencer holds his hands on his hips and looks at Tom. "I'm sorry, why did you decide to steal me?" He's not giving an inch and Tom can't help but let his hands go to his sides. "I'm here to steal you because you're right." Tom leans his forehead on Spencer's shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist. "I'm right. And what did you finally realize I was right about? It's obviously not shaving." Spencer allows his hand to graze over Tom's cheek for an all too brief moment before he pulls it back. "No, but you were the one who said you were worried about me and you wanted me to be safe. You were right about being safe and so I'm doing what I need to do to be safe." Tom looks up at Spencer, smiling with half-lidded eyes. "Forgive me for assuming anything, but it doesn't look like you're safe right now." Spencer shakes Tom off him and moves back. "It looks like you're drunk." "Ah, but you're forgetting the most important part. I'm drunk and with you. Which means I'm safe." Tom tries to close the distance between the two of them again. "Tom, I don't know what you're thinking, but it isn't right. So just go back to your band of merry men and keep drinking with them." Spencer turns, probably to look for some escape for this conversation. Instead of letting him escape, Tom leans in and presses his lips to the juncture between Spencer's neck and shoulder. "Let's get out of here, then. You can make sure I'm safe and maybe I can do the same for you." He wraps a hand around Spencer's waist. "Jesus, Tom. I don't know what you think you're up to, but I told you once. I won't be with someone who thinks it's fine to use me to get over someone else. And remember, for a drummer, I'm pretty smart." Spencer takes a step back and crosses his arms. "For a drunk, I'm pretty observant and I observe that you don't go keep anyone else company. Not even Brendon!" Tom takes Spencer's wrist in his hand and tugs him out of the room. "Come outside, I want to smoke." Without waiting for an affirmative from Spencer, Tom tugs Spencer to the open stairwell and looks out at the sky. "I like stairwells like this. I fuckin' love California." "That's nice, if you brought me out here to talk about how much you love California, I'm going back in." Spencer looks back toward the door to the hall. "No, I didn't. I swear, I didn't. I brought you out here because I miss you." Tom reaches forward with his free hand and touches Spencer's cheek. "I miss your face." Spencer backs away and looks at Tom with disgust. "Fuck! Were you even in there? I told you, I'm not going to be your rebound fuck, okay?" This circular conversation is hurting Tom's head and it's way too early for him to be hungover, not to mention the fact that he's still drunk. Shaking his head to try to clear a path for his thoughts to come out, Tom exhales smoke. "No, no, not a rebound. I like you for you, like the fuckin' song said. You're fat with a p-h, like Cindy Crawford." When Spencer stares blankly at Tom, he knows he has to try again. "It's like, there's Mike and he was but you are. You're present tense, he's past tense. In the present tense, there's you." "I think you're trying to tell me you like me, but you could just be singing obscure nineties rock at me." "Not obscure, it was top forty." Tom flicks ash from his cigarette, already trying to remember which album it had come from and how high it had reached on the charts. "That's not the point, you were right the first time. I like you, I just kind of suck at showing it. And at life." Tom lets out a loud sigh and rests his forehead against the railing of the stairwell. "So, this isn't just you singing songs about Leonardo DiCaprio at me." Spencer still seems a little overly cautious, so Tom lifts his head and tosses his cigarette away before pressing his lips to Spencer's. "No, not so much about that." Tom's voice is muffled by Spencer's lips and he really wishes he could sound like that onstage. He wouldn't dread the stage nearly as much as he does. Tom pushes the thought of Spencer being eighteen out of his mind as soon as Spencer threads his fingers through his hair. He finds that it's easier to forget about Spencer's age when their hips are pressed together and Spencer isn't pushing him away for once. "Hey, hey, let's. Why don't we go back to one of the rooms? Everyone's going to be at the party for a while." Spencer doesn't meet his eyes as he winds his fingers through Tom's belt loops. It happens in a bit of a blur, the alcohol taking the edge off everything, and it doesn't take long before Spencer is under Tom on the bed, desperately pressing up to get friction and some sort of relief. Spencer's a teenager, Tom does pause himself long enough to remember that, but it's when Spencer's jeans are open and Tom's hand is inside, palming him through his boxers. "We, fuck, Spence, we don't have to hurry this. We have time." Tom's words are lost against Spencer's skin. There's so much of it exposed that Tom can't ever touch enough of it at once. Spencer mutters something that sounds a lot like "drunk" but Tom can't make it out. He won't ask Spencer to repeat it but he also won't pressure Spencer. If Spencer wants something more, he can take the next step. Spencer seems reluctant to take that step and it seems like just minutes since they stepped into the room but the clock says it's been an hour and Spencer is struggling to zip his jeans up and adjust them so nothing shows. "I'm. I'll just be a minute in the bathroom." Even Spencer's voice sounds fucked out and there's nothing Tom wants more at that moment than to press Spencer back down to the bed and take his jeans completely off. Fuck, having morals is so overrated. It's the thought Tom falls asleep to, curled on his side with his own jeans still open, in Spencer's bed. * There's no shit in the morning from his band or from Spencer's, but he feels like he has a sign hanging over his head warning everyone to tread lightly. Jon can't even meet his eyes when they wander off to film for the website. "What? I fell asleep in his bed, I didn't want to go back into the party. It was getting too loud and nobody wants to hear Mike ramble on and on about being the naked guy." "Tombo, if that's all that happened, then I want to sleep in his bed because the bite marks on your neck say he's an awesome drinking bed buddy." Jon can't help but snort as he reaches for the cigarettes in Tom's shirt pocket. "Oh, fuck you very much. Nothing happened. He's a kid." Still, Tom pulls his own scarf tighter around his neck. "With teeth like a vampire. Jesus, I didn't know biting was your thing; unless that's just payback for what you did to him. I didn't even stop to look at his neck. We can go back, you know." Jon looks down the street in the direction they came. "You're an asshole. All that happened is that he got hot and bothered but clearly didn't want to take it any further because he went to the bathroom to rub one out. I left it up to him because I'm not a complete skeeze." Tom shrugs and lights up his cigarette. "Oh my God! You're totally into him! You're so into him. What the fuck?" Jon doesn't even sound like he's confused, just amused and ready to rib the shit out of Tom. "Shut up, just shut the hell up." Tom looks around the block to try to find an escape from this conversation. "We're not talking about this." "Sure, not talking about it." Jon fiddles with the lens on the camera before looking up at Tom and grinning slyly. "It goes without saying that I'm the best man at the wedding, right?" "Oh, you're an ass." Tom throws his lighter at Jon's head and begins walking back to the buses. He doesn't get far, Spencer and Brendon are on their way out and from the flush on Spencer's face, he's getting it as bad as Tom would be if he'd stayed for Jon's harassment. "Oh, hey Tom!" Brendon grins at Tom and doesn't even bother to be discreet when he looks between the two of them. "I guess you two have a lot to talk about, huh." Apparently he spots Jon and decides to run off to join him. "Don't have the talk or anything else in my bunk! I sleep there!" "So, Brendon's borderline retarded, I'm sorry you had to see that. And I'm really sorry that the tour will be cancelled when he turns up dead and I have to go to prison." Spencer's cheeks are still tinted pink as he takes a step back from Tom. "Oh. Uh. No, he's fine. Don't kill him trying to protect my honor." Tom feels too sober for this conversation, like the words will mess themselves up without any help from him. "Is he right, though? Do we need to talk about this?" Spencer kicks at the ground and then curses under his breath at the scuff it creates on the toe of his shoe. "Uh, no? I don't think we need to talk anything through." Tom shrugs and looks at Spencer, crouched down and rubbing at the slight mark on the white leather. "Oh. Um, okay. Nothing to talk about?" Spencer's tone has shifted slightly and Tom can't quite catch with the subtle change means. Spencer almost sounds like not talking about this is a negative thing. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I said what I had to say last night?" Tom suddenly wonders if there's a portion he doesn't remember from last night. If he did something ridiculous like tell Spencer he's in love with him. It wouldn't be the first time that's landed him in hot water the next day. It's almost never been with someone he likes, though, just someone he wanted to fuck. "So. Are you going to explain what happened in the hotel room?" Spencer looks up and for the first time, Tom notices the faint dusting of freckles on the end of Spencer's nose. "I fell asleep? I don't know, it seemed like you were taking about ten years in the bathroom. I must have dozed off." Tom doesn't know why he feels defensive about this. He really doesn't need to apologize. It wasn’t like he fell asleep in the middle of sex. "I meant about why I was in the bathroom and not in bed with you." Spencer's cheeks are now flaming and it clicks in. Tom can't help but bark out a laugh because Spencer is serious. "Wait, did you think that…" Tom trails off, laughing again before managing to calm himself down. "Okay, tell me why you think you were in the bathroom." Spencer blinks his eyes wide a few times before turning on his heel and walking straight back to the door of his bus. By the time Tom registers the movement, Spencer is inside and the lock is clicked into place. Tom hardly knows the code for his own bus, let alone any of the other buses on tour so he can't open it up to follow Spencer inside. This is something that will have to be cleared up later. * "I can't fucking win with this kid. I tell him I like him and he just shits on it. It's so stupid." Tom exhales acrid smoke out the open bus window while Butcher sits with a notepad and a pair of Bill's glasses on. Every so often, Tom wonders if his band really is made up of short bus kids, but then he remembers that he doesn't care as long as it pays the bills. "And how does that make you feel?" Butcher can barely keep a straight face while he asks this. "You know, I could take you more seriously as a therapist if you weren't naked." Tom hates to bring it up, but Butcher's junk is something he really doesn't enjoy looking at. It's a nice dick and all, but it's kind of like seeing Brad Pitt on another magazine cover. It's just overkill at this point. "Be that as it may, this is how I do my best work." Butcher scratches at his thigh and Tom focuses on the skyline from the bus window. "Okay, whatever. The whole thing makes me feel sick. I don't even know what to do. I can't fix it because he won't even talk to me right now." Tom sets down the pipe and picks up his pack of cigarettes. "Okay, now, I don't normally interfere in patient's lives, but you're a serious fucking buzzkill when you're making mooney eyes over Spencer. So, I'm going to go talk to him on your behalf. I'm going to tell him that you're retarded over him." Butcher taps his pencil against the paper and looks up at Tom. "No, you fuckwad, you can't do that! I actually like him. It's like. Okay, you know how when you're in a good thing, you both care about each other and you both want things to be good for the other person. And it feels like that. I mean, I want good things for him. It's why I didn't fuck him into the mattress springs the other night." Tom's eyes widen when he realizes what he said. "Whoa! Wait! You hooked up with him? Actually hooked up? What, did you blow him or something? Did he blow you?" Butcher suddenly looks far too interested in this conversation for Tom's taste. "Oh fuck. Really? Butcher, that's between me and him." Tom shakes his head and flicks ash haphazardly in Butcher's direction. "Oooh. Nothing happened, but not for lack of wanting it. You totally want him. But nothing happened. Who made sure nothing happened?" Butcher leans forward and actually appears to make an effort to cover himself to keep from grossing Tom out. "It was kind of a decision we didn't talk about? I don't know, he's a kid? I didn't want to rush him. Like, yeah, I want to fuck him but he doesn't deserve a shitty first time." Tom shrugs and closes his eyes. This isn't the conversation he wanted to have with Butcher at all. "Okay, you calling him a kid is not going to make him like you. He's an adult, probably more than you are and definitely more than I am." "Well, yeah, you're naked and playing therapist." Tom rolls his eyes. No one can see it, his eyes are still closed, but he does it. "Hey, I may not have a lot of credentials, or a degree, or even any experience, but there's one thing I do know. And it's not that I look good naked, even though I know that. I know that you probably made Spencer feel really fucking ugly and like you didn't want him because you didn't take it further." Butcher reaches for Tom's pack and steals a cigarette. "How do you ever get laid? Jesus. Okay, this conversation didn't happen and you don't know anything about this." Tom shakes his head and leaves the lounge of the bus feeling like quite possibly the worst person ever. He has no idea how he could've thought Butcher would be a helpful person. Sitting in the front of the bus, Tom's leg jiggles as he tries to see how long it'll be until they get to stop and he gets to see someone who isn't naked and who isn't a complete asshole. Siska doesn't count, he'll get naked as soon as he sees someone else is naked. That's a whole other can of worms. "Jon? Do you know when we're stopping?" Tom shouts to the back of the bus. He's there somewhere. He's always there somewhere. "Um, half an hour?" Jon ducks his head out of the bunk. He spots Tom slumped on the couch, leg jiggling. "Uh oh, wedding planning happening in your head? I gotta say, I think you need to be the one in the suit. I know you've got a hot ass and everything, but I'm pretty sure he gets mistaken for a girl at least twice a day." "What does Cassie even see in you?" Tom covers his own face with a pillow. He doesn't know how he could've agreed to something like this. His best friend on tour with him? That's the worst idea he's ever had. "She's seen my dick. Trust me. If you were straight, it'd be enough to turn you gay." Jon pats his crotch gently. "Good boy." "Oh my God. I need off this bus and I need off it now. Do I really have to wait half an hour to get the hell away from you guys?" Tom pulls the pillow down and throws it at Jon's head. It's three feet wide, but he feels slightly better. "Look, you're pissy, he's pissy, so you two better work this the fuck out or we're going to have to have some words." Jon looks at Tom and crosses his arms. "You've got it bad for him and we can all see it, okay? Just, try staying sober and telling him you want in his girljeans." "I tried that! I fucked it up without even trying to fuck it up." Tom shuts his mouth. "Whatever, I'll get over him. I'm already over him." Tom decides those are going to be the last words on the subject. Unfortunately, they're not. They never are when his friends decide to meddle. That's how Spencer and Tom end up having to go to the corner store to pick up mix for the hotel party. Tom regards Spencer with caution. He doesn't want Spencer to explode on him or worse, walk away. "You know, you can stop looking at me like I'm going to break, okay?" "I-" "And I don't know what you were thinking, having Butcher and Jon try to talk to me about this? Are you really that fucking stupid?" Spencer looks at Tom as though he's a complete moron. "Did you not realize that it's completely obvious? What you're trying to do?" "What I'm trying to do?" Tom manages a full sentence before Spencer turns and rests his hands on his hips. "Yes, if you really wanted in my pants, you would've done it at the hotel that night instead of sending your little… gaggle of geese! That's what they're acting like, you know. Gossipy fucking geese!" Spencer seems to be working himself up to yell at Tom for the rest of the walk to the store. "And I don't need geese, I've got shit that I need to do and if you're too much a pussy to just admit you like someone and-" Tom cuts Spencer off by pushing him into an alley just off the street and pressing him to the wall. Spencer stops talking quite as much when he's busy sucking Tom's tongue into his own mouth. Tom is grateful for the peace, but even more grateful that Spencer isn't pushing him away. "Fuck you, this doesn't just make everything okay." Spencer pants when they pull apart, wiping at his lips as if the taste of Tom is somehow equal to that of vomit. "No, but it's a start. You think I wanted you to have a shitty first time when I was drunk out of my mind?" Tom shrugs and tugs Spencer out of the alley. As far as he's concerned that's all the talking they're going to have to do on the subject. Spencer seems to agree because he just walks in silence to the store with Tom, letting their arms brush occasionally. When they return, people are still drinking despite the lack of mix. Sometimes Tom's friends are total assholes. Sometimes meaning whenever they feel like meddling in Tom's life, which was going fine and was going to be fine as soon as he got over Spencer Smith. He grudgingly gives Butcher a smile when Butcher nudges his side hard enough to bruise. "The Captain and I give great advice!" Jon pats his crotch again and grins at Tom. "It's all a matter of what you're thinking with, Tombo." Immediately after Tom sees that, he reaches for the bottle of Jack Daniels and one of the cans of Coke. * Tom may or may not be drunk. He's not trying to deny it, he's just in the floaty state that's a little too drunk to be sober but a little too sober to be drunk. Tom may or may not be whispering this against Spencer's neck as he fumbles with the card key to Tom and Jon's room. Jon proudly announced to everyone at the party that he was going to take one for the team so Spencer could take one for Tom. Fortunately for Tom and Tom's Captain, Ryan had already left and Brendon was too engrossed in Siska's hair to notice that Spencer and Tom were on their way to another room. "Thought you didn't want my first time to be when you were drunk?" Spencer's tone is teasing, Tom knows enough to know that now. "I might be drunk, but I might also not be. And anyway, you totally won't notice, I'm an awesome lay." Tom is already trying to work his hand into the front of Spencer's jeans but they're so tight that it isn't going over well at all. "Fuck, how do you get these off?" "Practice." Spencer manages to open the door and they both tumble into the room, quickly latching the door. Jon still has his key and a fuckton of cameras. Tom wouldn't put it past him to try to get photographic evidence of Tom "getting over himself and getting a piece of ass." "Fine, how about practice getting them off while I make sure that this door is Jon-proof?" Tom looks around the room for something he can push against the door. Jon is a man that isn't to be trusted any further than Tom can throw him, and Tom can't throw anything very far. Once he's satisfied that the chair will at least give them ample time to throw clothes back on or find something to bludgeon Jon with, Tom turns back to the bed and sees Spencer sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him with an amused smile on his face. "See something funny?" Tom looks at the room around him and maybe it is just a little funny. The door is locked with the chain and the deadbolt in addition to the chair pushed against it. "I see you not nearly as close as you should be?" Spencer says it as more of a question. Tom takes it as an invitation to kick off his flip-flops and walk toward Spencer. He's anxious for that first press of lips, the exploration of Spencer's skin. It scares him for a moment. He's never wanted anything as badly as he's wanted this for the last two months. Months? Has it really been that long? Tom has to stop to think about this. He pauses just before he reaches Spencer and thinks about the time they have left together. It's a week or two at best and he's just getting into this with Spencer? He swallows when Spencer makes an impatient noise and reaches out for him. The contact draws him back and he leans in, touching their lips together. It's a chaste kiss compared to every other kiss they've shared but for some reason it settles in Tom's stomach the way the others haven’t. When Tom tries to reflect on the reason for the butterflies, it's only natural to assume that it's because Spencer has taken it upon himself to unthread Tom's belt. "You know what would make this go a lot smoother? If you maybe helped. Or took some clothes off me?" Spencer remains so calm through all of this that Tom has to wonder if he could've avoided the last few weeks of misery just by noticing how ready Spencer seemed for everything in the last hotel room. Tom nods in response to Spencer's statement and reaches down to push Spencer's t-shirt up, feeling his fingers touch skin too smooth to resist. Spencer shivers in response and looks up at Tom, his pupils larger than they were half an hour earlier. Instead of slowing down or stopping to see if Spencer is okay with this, Tom leans down and presses a harsh kiss to Spencer's lips, nipping and biting until they part. Their legs are tangled together to the point where it's difficult to tell which limb belongs to which person. Spencer has a thigh wedged between Tom's and they're both moving together, too hard to have any finesse. Tom manages to pull Spencer's t-shirt over his head and toss it somewhere in the direction of the window. Though neither had remembered the air conditioning when they entered the room, it is obvious now with the way Spencer shivers and goosebumps raise all over. Tom slips a little further down, pressing his mouth to the curve of Spencer's neck. "Your jeans, how am I supposed to get them off?" "Fuck, Tom, you're talking like they're Ryan's jeans." Spencer hooks his thumbs into the waistband and wriggles them down so his hips are further exposed. "Okay, unbutton, unzip, pull." "Sure, make it sound easy," Tom mutters as he unbuttons Spencer's jeans. He presses his thumb into the tiny sliver of skin revealed. The zipper seems too loud, even amidst their heavy breathing and the dull hum of the air conditioner. When Tom finally tugs the jeans off and tosses them in the same direction as his shirt, he notices that he's still fully dressed. "Hey, maybe you should take some clothes off me? That might be a good idea if you want me to fuck you." Spencer inhales sharply and nods, reaching for the buttons of Tom's shirt. It's easy to slip off, even though Spencer's hands are shaking. They're not shaking hard, just enough that Spencer has to pull back once to clench his hands into fists. "Sorry, I'm not always nervous about things." Tom laughs off the comment and slips his own jeans down, letting Spencer's hands rest for a moment. "It's cool. I'd be worried if you weren't at all nervous." He takes a look at Spencer's eyes and wonders if it's possible that they went from blue to black in the three seconds Tom wasn't looking at Spencer. "You're leering," Spencer whispers as he slides a hand into Tom's boxer shorts, palming him easily. "I was looking at the change in your eye color. It changed." Tom touches his thumb under Spencer's eye and rubs along the cheekbone. "For a drunk, you're pretty observant." Spencer says the words without any venom. "And for a drummer, you're pretty smart." Tom grins, ducking down to press their lips together and end the conversation. * In the morning, Tom kind of rolls and hits someone. For the first moment, he tries to remember what he was doing last night. There was a party and he got drunk. But he didn't get so phenomenally drunk that he didn't end up at home. These are definitely still hotel sheets and hotel paintings and a naked Spencer Smith. Spencer isn't awake yet but Tom's heart is pounding. Why is he in bed with Spencer? He remembers kissing him in the alley, remembers getting back and Jon patting his crotch. He doesn't remember going to a room that would've resulted in a naked Spencer. But he's here, and there are chairs pressed against the door, like they'd keep anything out. Tom looks at Spencer's neck and spots the trail of bite marks leading down to his collarbone. "Fuck." Tom tries to slip out of one side of the bed without disturbing Spencer. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be when he was drunk. He was supposed to wait and make it good for Spencer, as good as possible for Spencer. Tom wipes his face with his palm and swallows down the nauseous feeling building in his stomach. "Mmm, Tom?" Spencer stirs and opens one eye, reaching out for him. "S'early, come back to bed. Nowhere to be today." Spencer double-checks his statement by flipping open his phone. Once he closes it, he reaches for Tom again. "C'mon, you're making the bed cold." Wrapped tight in the covers, Spencer doesn't crowd Tom, just rests his head against Tom's shoulder as he starts to drift back into sleep. "Had a good night, Tom, thanks." The last thing Tom feels before drifting back into sleep is Spencer's lips, ghosting over his shoulder. * When Tom wakes again, he can smell coffee brewing and thinks for a minute that he must've passed out at Jon's. The coffee smells a little off and the bed isn't soft enough to be Jon's, so he forces his eyes open. Once he has, he immediately regrets it. There's so much light coming into the room and far too much of it is natural. Spencer seems to have thrown open the curtains when he got up. Making a noise in the back of his throat, Tom rolls onto his stomach and tries to hide his face in the pillow. The morning after has never been Tom's strong suit. Only one had ever gone well, and it going well hadn't kept the relationship from being over almost immediately after it began. "It's just shitty hotel coffee, but I figured it was better than nothing." Spencer is standing over Tom, a concerned look on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand. "I put Advil and water on the dresser." If Tom didn't know better, he'd say Spencer was nervous. A little slow on the uptake this morning, Tom doesn't realize that Spencer has probably not had a lot of good experiences around drunken people. "Hey, when is bus call?" Tom rubs at his eyes and takes the coffee from Spencer's hand, only to set it on the bedside table. "In a few hours. I just like to wake up early and make sure everything's going to go well for the day and…" Spencer gets cut off when Tom reaches out and tugs him back into bed. "Good, then unless you have any objections, I'm going to go brush my teeth and see if maybe I can't do right by you this morning." Tom rolls over Spencer to go to the bathroom. He returns after swishing toothpaste and mouthwash around in his mouth. He only has a few hours with Spencer, he's not going to waste the precious time he has with hunting down his own toothbrush. Some people can afford to be classy, because they don't have Spencer Smith waiting in their bed. "So you're gonna make an honest boy out of me?" The words would be funny if Spencer's cheeks weren't so rosy and his voice wasn't quite so breathy. Tom pulls the covers back and oh, Spencer took the time to get naked while he was making his breath a little fresher. Tom's voice can't be described as anything but strangled when he says, "Something like that, yeah." * An hour later, Tom is watching Spencer, blinking only as often as he needs to in order to keep his eyes from burning. "You know, it's kind of creepy when you do that." "I'm watching to make sure you're safe. You don't know the hidden dangers of hotel rooms." Tom stretches his hand out to smooth up Spencer's side. He hates doing it because it reminds him how young Spencer really is, but he can't stop. It's worse than a craving for a cigarette, because that he can have whenever he wants, but this? It's for a few more weeks at best. Whenever the thought hits him, Tom gets short of breath and he wants to mark Spencer. Since it's early in the day and Tom isn't thinking much beyond needwanttouchspencer, he leans forward and nips Spencer's collarbone. "See, that? Not so much safe." Spencer doesn’t exactly try to stop Tom, just tilts his head back. Tom’s hit with a sense of urgency. There are only so many more hotel nights on the tour, only so many nights of tour, period. There isn’t enough time. Tom reaches around his own neck and unhooks the medal he'd had for so long. The weight is heavy in his hands. "Hey, Spence. Spencer, I want you to have something that'll keep you safe when I'm not here." The words come out too fast, tripped over. Tom doesn't know how to say this without it sounding cheesy, so he just goes for it. "St. Christopher. He's the patron saint of travelers." Tom feels his chest go tight again and he forces himself to continue. "If you wear it, he'll watch out for you when you're not with me." He presses the medal into Spencer's hand, sealing the fumbled words with a kiss. Spencer clasps his hands tight around the warm metal and looks at Tom. The expression on his face isn't easily read, especially not by Tom. The kisses, however, can't be mistaken for anything but what they are. "I got it just before I went away on my first tour and I've carried it ever since. I don't know if you believe or don't believe or whatever, but, I want you to take it now." Tom mumbles each word between the kisses Spencer is planting on his lips. "Okay," and Spencer sounds as breathless as he had this morning. "You'll take it? You like it?" Tom tries to pull back from Spencer's kiss. "Are you still trying to talk?" Spencer might sound more stern if he stopped trying to lean in and press his lips to Tom's again. Tom just laughs and gives up holding a conversation as he shifts close to Spencer under the covers. * It's not a huge thing to ride on another bus. Sometimes people get sick of completely familiar places and want to see something that's at least a little out of the ordinary. Panic's bus is completely out of the ordinary. For one, there are no empty bottles lining the counter, like some bizarre trophy display. Another thing? Ryan Ross is on this bus and he's watching Tom closely, like Tom is going to steal something and run back to his own bus. "So, Spencer spent the night in your room last night." Ryan's always seemed a bit off to Tom and this is doing nothing to help his case. Spencer is napping, his feet resting in Tom's lap, when Ryan chooses to speak. "Um, yeah, he stayed with me. Sorry, was he supposed to come back to your room last night?" Tom wants to fidget but he thinks that'll wake Spencer up and he doesn't need that right now "I'm onto you, Tom." That's all Ryan says before standing up and going to the back lounge, where sounds of The Parent Trap are quickly replaced with sounds of Moulin Rouge. Tom pretends not to think about what Ryan just said, about the way his stomach knots whenever he looks at Spencer, and most importantly, the way he feels when he's near Spencer. Tom's stomach turns and it has nothing to do with the alcohol from the previous night or the way Spencer looks when he's stretched across the couch. He'd let himself fall for Spencer? That wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to love Spencer. He was in love with Mike. Tom thinks back over the weeks and tries to find that moment of change, where suddenly he didn't want Mike looking at him, but Spencer. It's impossible to find, even as he sifts through every memory he has. Tom's disturbed to discover that when he gets back to the start of tour, he no longer has memories of the way Mike's face looked when he walked in on Spencer and Tom watching a movie in the lounge, but of the way Spencer had felt, pressed up next to him. Drinks in hotel rooms during parties spent watching Mike and Bill have Deep Discussions had faded into drinks in hotel rooms during parties spent stealing Spencer for cigarette breaks outside, even though Spencer didn't smoke and Butcher was always more than willing to light up. Suddenly the oxygen on the bus is gone and Tom finds himself trying to push Spencer's legs off his own. He was definitely not supposed to fall for Spencer. But where along the line did it turn into something more than making Mike jealous? Tom knows there's a rest stop coming soon, there has to be, they've been on the road for more than three hours and everyone will be in need of coffee. When that happens, Tom will slip out of the bus and go back to his own. Suddenly the two weeks from this morning, the ones that seemed so short, are stretching in front of him. Two weeks around Spencer with these feelings clawing at his chest? He can't do that. All he can manage are short, rasping inhales and they aren't enough to keep his head from spinning. He shakes with the effort of getting enough air into his lungs to sustain him. Just to the next rest stop, he repeats over and over in his head. When the bus pulls in, everyone seems to come to the front, though Spencer sleeps through the whole thing. Tom carefully pulls himself free and pulls a blanket over Spencer. It should be enough to keep him warm. As if in a dream, Tom walks down the bus steps and pauses between the two parked buses. There's enough air out here for him to breathe but before he has a chance to enjoy it, he's doubled over and throwing up against the tires. In the distance, below the buzz in his ears, he can hear someone shouting "Gross!" but he can't bring himself to react. There's not a lot to throw up. Water, coffee, a Danish from the hotel breakfast. He wipes his hand over his mouth and grimaces. The buzzing hasn't subsided and he feels like he could throw up again, if there was anything left in his stomach. There isn't and the feeling passes, even though the buzzing doesn't. When Tom enters his own bus, Butcher is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. "You know, Tombo, meditation will cure what ails you." "Or a drink will cure what ails me." Tom goes to open the fridge, certain to find something in there that will make his thoughts slow down until he can make sense of them. Meditation works for some and while Tom does believe in God and saints, he doesn't really know how much he buys into the idea of a balanced body and mind, especially not when Butcher, the completely balanced body and mind, has been eyeing booty shorts whenever he goes shopping lately. "Aren't you already drunk?" Siska walks onto the bus, eyeing the beer in Tom's hand. "I could've sworn I saw you puking between the buses." The last part is all Mike and Bill hear when they come back on the bus. "Jesus, Tom, it's not even noon." Mike doesn't say anything further, just pushes past him and walks to the back with Bill in tow. Tom swallows another wave of nausea, caused by the fact that he didn't care about Mike's reaction. "I'm not drunk, it wasn't a hangover puke." Tom settles himself onto the couch, still holding the beer. "Well, I'd hope you aren't drinking after a hangover puke. Hair of the dog is before the hangover puke, to avoid the hangover puke." Siska settles himself on the other couch and pulls out his phone, fingers moving rapidly over the keys. "Hey, are you actually going to stick around tonight? Forrest and Jesse are going green and they invited us." Tom considers it for a moment. It'll be a pleasant escape from everything his mind is forcing him to think about and he nods when he realizes he needs that. "Yeah, I think I will." * Tom doesn't. Not for lack of wanting to or lack of trying on Jesse and Forrest's part, but he's curled up over a toilet, emptying an entire bottle of Jagermeister from his stomach. There are snatches of conversation going on all around him. At some point, he's pretty sure that Butcher pees in the shower rather than try to move Tom. All in all, the one thought that sticks with Tom before he passes out against the toilet seat is that Spencer is nowhere to be found. * The next time Tom sees Spencer, the next day, Spencer approaches him. "Hey, so. I heard things got pretty out of hand." He's trying to make light of it, Tom can see it clearly. "I didn't even know you guys were getting up to anything last night." The implication of his words, that Tom hadn't invited Spencer, was obvious. "Yeah, I don't know, it was just a thing, you know?" Tom shrugs, trying not to move too much. He had a hangover puke today and he's not anxious for another one. "Oh," and Spencer's face falls. That's the only way to describe it. Tom bites back a groan at the way his expression turns his stomach. "Well, um, if you want, I can come and you know, do my thing and keep you safe?" Tom's eyes flick to the medal Spencer is wearing around his neck and he shrugs again. He's going to keep himself safe, that's what he's going to do. And that means making sure he doesn't make the same mistakes he made earlier, letting Spencer too far in. "Yeah, sure, maybe. Look, I'm gonna go find Butcher, he said he wanted to go have a cigarette before we get locked in the venue." Tom turns without waiting for Spencer to respond and begins combing the halls for the Butcher. It takes him a few minutes before he manages to track down Butcher and drag him outside. "Hey man, don't take this the wrong way, but you look like shit." "Thanks, that's exactly what I wanted to hear," Tom mutters and lights the cigarette between his lips. He looks at Butcher and tries to convey that he doesn't want to talk about why he was puking into the toilet for the better part of four hours. "Better than Forrest looks today. I don't even know how you green out, but he managed it and he looks like death today." Butcher laughs and launches into a story from the previous evening that Tom should know but doesn't. It gives Tom an excuse to tune out and think about the look on Spencer's face before he walked away. Just picturing it in his memory makes his stomach turn. He's not going to do this, regardless of what his heart is trying to tell him to do. He knows better than to listen to his heart again. When Tom looks over, he realizes Butcher is waiting for a reaction to his story. Tom just laughs and says, "shit, really?" Butcher takes that as a response and continues on with the story. Tom tries to get into it, but all he can hear is Spencer's breathing in his ear. It's ridiculous, he knows he's alone, but he can't seem to relax enough to pay attention to what Butcher is actually telling him. Tom finishes his cigarettes and looks at Butcher. "I'm going to get in there and tune up, okay? I'll meet you back inside." Suddenly, Tom feels like he needs about three more drinks and a lot more time to figure out what he's actually going to say to Spencer. It turns out not to be much of a problem, because Spencer isn't waiting in their dressing room, he's off doing some press with the rest of his band. Tom doesn't actually see him until after the show, almost like their first meeting. "You're drunk." Spencer's arms are crossed when he exits the hotel and sees Tom sitting on a small retaining wall that borders the parking lot. "I think I'm supposed to say you're smart?" Tom wants this playful banter to stretch on, to not have to say what he's going to say next. "Somehow I don't think I'm all that smart." Spencer shrugs and takes a seat next to Tom, pressing the sides of their thighs together. "Oh, you're doing the self-deprecation shit. That's original. God, which crappy teen movie are we in right now?" Tom taps ash away from himself. "I doubt we're in any teen movie right now. You wouldn't be some drunk asshole if we were. You know, I really don't get you." Spencer doesn't move away, but he doesn't move any closer. "I'm a pretty uncomplicated guy, Spencer Smith. It's not like what we did means something huge. It was sex." The words cost Tom a great deal more effort than they should. He looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye. Spencer stiffens up at Tom's words. "Jesus, I said I like you, it's not like I asked you to wear my school pin or my letterman's jacket." Spencer remains silent, looking down at the slightly wet pavement. "Did you think it meant we were going steady or something?" Tom's words are making both of them sick, but only one of them is dangerously close to vomiting on the sidewalk. "Are you done?" Spencer's voice is even, taut as anything Tom has ever heard. It sounds almost the way Siska does when he's talking on the phone to his parents. "Yeah, I'm done." Tom thinks he made his point. They're not in a relationship, the end. "I mean, you keep me safe, but that's hardly enough to build anything on." "I keep you safe. Right." Spencer shakes his head and before Tom knows what's going on, Spencer is taking his hand. "You know, Tom, it's not me, it's you." "You don't get to use that line on someone you aren't dating." Tom likes to think he's the smarter one here. He keeps that delusion only long enough to realize that Spencer didn't take his hand to actually hold it. In the middle of Tom's palm is his St. Christopher medal. "Your faith can't keep me safe. You can't even keep yourself safe, jackass." Spencer doesn't say anything else before looking back at the hotel. "From now on, you just stay away from me, okay? I don't want to waste any more time on you." Before Tom can formulate a response, Spencer is gone and there's only the slightly drizzle to keep him company. If Tom sleeps that night, he doesn't remember it. His throat is sore like he smoked the rest of his pack of cigarettes and his jeans say he was outside in damp weather, so he's assuming he didn't go back to the party. Just as well, he thinks, Spencer might have been there and Spencer wants space. * Spencer gets all the space he wants for the rest of the tour. Tom says exactly four words to him – "Please pass the ketchup" – before it's time for everyone to head their separate ways and not think about this tour and how everyone could see that it was tearing people apart. The tour ends in Chicago and everyone is there, friends, family, enemies. Everyone is there, wishing the bands the best of luck. It feels more like a homecoming than anything else Tom has experienced with the band to date. True to his word, Tom avoids Spencer, playing the show drunker than he's ever played any of the shows on tour. When he wakes up on Nick's couch later, he doesn't remember how he got there. "Nick?" He only knows for sure that it's Nick's place, because he recognizes the pictures on the wall. "Welcome to the land of the living, Tombo." Nick pokes his head in the room, carrying the best cup of coffee Tom has ever smelled in his life. "If you tell me that's for me and that the delicate aroma is a shot of rum to keep my stomach from shooting out of my chest a la Alien, you can have my first born child. And my second born." Tom holds his hands out for the cup of coffee, cradling it close to his chest when Nick hands it over. "You're a good man, Nick, never let anyone tell you any differently." "Crazy night, Tom." Nick looks out the window and grins. "I didn't think that people actually did decide to wear lamp shades on their heads, but apparently after Mike is done being the naked dude, he likes a lampshade hat to hide his shame." "He has no shame," Tom answers on autopilot. "I think you actually told him that before he disappeared into a bedroom with Bill. Then you just laughed and laughed, pulling out your phone to text someone. Didn't get off the damn thing all night." Nick sits down on the arm of the couch and steals the coffee mug from Tom's hands. "Oops. Probably wasn't the life of the party." Tom tries to remember what he felt was so important for him to text, but he knows it was probably just a bunch of gibberish to one number. "I wouldn't say that, you did announce your intention to open your arms and heart to minorities. You said you wanted to be the new Angelina Jolie, and you even let Siska tell you that you already had the lips and the ass." Nick grins, reaching for the remote and flicking on the TV. He switches to the weather channel. "Jesus, Grandpa, the weather channel?" Tom sits up and is amazed to discover that the coffee and it's additive really did keep him from wanting to throw up all over Nick's floor. "Hey, some of us need to know what the weather will be like. We're not going from state to state in a bus that someone else drives." Nick doesn't sound bitter, so Tom knows he's not actually upset about this. "Don't give me that, Nick, you wouldn't trade what you've got here for a life on the road again. You'd miss Steph too much." Tom looks over just fast enough to see a hint of pink on Nick's cheeks. Instead of making him feel warm inside, it just makes his stomach turn. Setting the coffee down, Tom pulls the covers up and looks at Nick. "Anyway, you don't miss it." "Yeah, yeah, just make sure you're taking pictures of everything you can. Us poor souls in Chicago need to know there's a world beyond the border." Nick laughs and looks at Tom, no hint of the blush left on his cheeks. Tom nods in return and looks at the forecast for the day. "I promise I'll take as many pictures as you want." * Warped Tour is everything Tom remembers from being an attendee and so much more. It's hot and there are few hotel nights to wash the grime off himself. He has little time to escape and take pictures, which is just as well, because he hasn't opened his lens cap in a few days. A cold beer is always more of a temptation than beautiful scenery in blistering hot sun. If anybody notices that Bill drapes himself over Tom more and more these days, they don't say anything and Tom just does what he can to stay sane, let alone stay happy. There's pressure on Warped Tour. There's always pressure, they're in a band, but there's more pressure than just that these days. An album needs to be written. Bill's words and Mike's chords need to fit together in a way they haven't before. They need to make this something that will last. Neither of them asks Tom for help and he doesn't offer it. They have their own system worked out and it's all Tom can do to keep from throwing up when he looks at them. They'll sit in the front lounge and throw ideas back and forth. When Bill is too stressed out from the weight of his own genius, he leaves for the Gym Class bus and comes back only when the line of his shoulders isn't so tight. Tom avoids looking at what that does to Mike. For some reason or another, Mike has always needed to care for the people he cares about. It's something he would consider a defect but it's something Tom considers a piece of evidence that under everything Mike is actually a nice guy. When Bill disappears, Mike is a little more on edge, like he can't be enough for Bill, enough to bring that smile back to his cheeks. Eventually, Bill stops leaving to go the Gym Class bus and Tom hears music coming from the back lounge at all hours of the night. It's soothing, almost, that they've regained their musical partnership. Tom puts earphones in as soon as he hears the music stop for the night. He doesn't want to know if they've continued any other sort of partnership. It's easier to lie to himself about the marks on Bill's neck if he doesn't hear what goes on between them at night. Retreating seems easier than talking to anyone, so Tom hides behind his camera, behind his beer, and behind his cigarettes. All three are poisoning him at different rates and it's his camera he gives up first. The camera reminds him of Jon. The same Jon who is currently making his way across the country in a bus with Spencer Smith. Every day Jon sends him pictures, and every day Tom feels a little more miserable that Jon isn't with them. He'd take Jon talking about his own dick over some of the other stuff he has to think about when he's alone. Tom sends him emails that don't make any sense, even to him, and Jon just texts back that he's been spending too much time with William. They call as often as schedules permit but Tom feels guilty about taking Jon from his new bandmates for too long. It isn't official yet, though everyone can see that the one-man Team Jon Walker campaign that Brendon has been putting on is swaying the remaining two judges. Tom thinks about the last tour he was on, how even though Jon was a total idiot and clearly in love with his own dick, he was there. It was easier to breathe with Jon. All he has now is Tony and while Tom loves Tony to death, it isn't quite the same. There's history but less familiarity. By the time Warped Tour draws to a close, Tom is only talking to Butcher for fear that anyone else will upset the delicate balance of his mind. Tom can avoid thinking of Bill and Mike but only so long as he doesn't talk to either one of them or Siska isn't telling Mike something his brother told him. There's no escaping the situation, really, so Tom has to contain it. Tom spends more time alone than ever and he's never been so glad to see Chicago's streets as he is after Warped Tour. They've all agreed to taking some time apart, to regrouping later. There's only so much of each other they can handle, even for people as tight as Butcher and Siska. Cracks were starting to show in every relationship within the band.

The first thing Tom does when he gets home is pick up his acoustic and tune it. It's a familiar process, one that requires him to focus on the sounds his fingers produce. He could do it on autopilot, but he feels like everything he does is on autopilot these days and it's the last thing he wants. He wants to feel connected to his music again. He strums softly at first, ignoring the blinking light of his answering machine. His parents know he's home but he doesn't want to see anyone right. Correction, he doesn't want to see just anyone right now. He wants to maybe see Jon, Spencer, even Brendon and Ryan. They were fun. They knew that he was more than just the sum of his parts. Unfortunately, they're winding their way around the country again, another tour for Jon to take pictures on. He's looking at it as an opportunity only while it's there. Once it's over, Jon will be back in school, finishing his degree. Tom quickly scribbles down a chord progression that he likes the sound of. It's got almost a haunting sound to it and it's been in his head since before he got home. He didn't dare try it out on the bus, not while everyone else was writing and doing their own bit for the next album. It was odd, the lack of pressure he felt at home. There was no Bill or Mike telling him not to play a part that way, and then playing it for him to demonstrate. For the first time since joining with Academy, Tom feels free to write whatever he wants. He can try out a riff and if it doesn't fit with the sound Mike and Bill have in their heads, it's okay. Grabbing himself a beer, he decides to continue working on it. The days pass like that, empty 24-packs building around him. Every so often he'll leave. There are still groceries to contend with, but for the most part Tom stays home and receives few visitors. The only person he'd like to see, he isn't allowing himself to think about. The month runs out and Bill starts making noise about getting back together to rehearse and look over the stuff they've written. When Tom gets the first message, he looks down at the sheets of music that surround him. He's not ready to give these up, to have them torn apart by Bill and Mike. Siska and Butcher have picked their sides and it isn't Tom's. Tom completely skips the first band meeting, too involved in working out the finer points of his latest creation. When Mike stops by later, Tom pretends he doesn't hear the buzzer. It's not healthy, is what Butcher tries to tell him when he stops by the next day. Butcher's beard is gone and somehow he thinks that qualifies him to give Tom real advice that should be taken seriously. "Have you even left since we got back?" Butcher looks at the piles of clothes, dishes, everything. "It's not like food brings itself here, Butcher." Tom looks around and wonders when he got to living like this. "Are you sure about that?" Butcher nudges a pizza box with his toe and Tom half-wonders if something's going to come crawling out of there. "Come on, just come out with us tonight, show us what you've got and just. Stop staying in, man, everyone misses you. I get texts from the guys when they're out and they say it isn't the same." "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'm not staying home for a reason, okay? I just haven't felt like going out." Tom shakes his head and looks back down at the pizza box. Butcher looks like he's going to speak for a moment and Tom can hear the words before they're formed. You need to get over Mike. I thought you were over Mike. You were doing so much better. Have you even talked to Spencer? Why did you stop talking to Spencer? Wanting to cut these questions off before they're spoken, Tom says, "I'll come out tonight, fine. Jeez. It's like you missed my pretty face or something." "Or something," Butcher agrees. "Now go shower, you smell like you rolled around in sewage. I'll be here smoking." Butcher is as good as his word. As soon as Tom steps out of the shower, he can smell Butcher's cigarettes. "I hope you opened a window, asshole," Tom shouts down the hallway. "Least of your concerns, good buddy. Wear that grey shirt you have. Bring the ladies to the table," Butcher calls back. "With that cocktail wiener you have between your legs, it wouldn't matter what I wore." Tom enjoys the good-natured ribbing that he and Butcher have always shared. It distracts him momentarily from the fact that he's going to be sharing a table with Bill and Mike. They're never obvious about what's going on between them, but it's always obvious to those who know them. "It's not the size of the ship, Tombo, it's the motion of the ocean." Tom knows that right now Butcher is doing an obscene dance in front of his window and he really should care more about what the neighbors are seeing, but he doesn't. "Okay, do I look hot enough to bring ladies to the table?" Tom enters the living room and he's uncomfortably aware of how he looks. In all honesty, he looks like he's trying too hard, but Butcher gives his thumbs up. Butcher is wearing plaid pants, so he might not be the most qualified judge. It's the first time Tom's worn something that doesn't have a stain in over a month. "You look like the sexiest asshole this side of Bob Barker." Butcher blows Tom a kiss before ashing out his cigarette. Tom just laughs and reaches for his jacket. "Sometimes I don't even know about you." * The bar turns out to be the worst idea they've ever had. Siska barely gets let in; using his brother's ID is never a good idea. It would go a lot better if Siska weighed more than a pre-pubescent girl. Bill insists on Porn Star shots for the table, something that earns a groan from everyone but Butcher. By the end of the fourth round, Tom is ready to settle in with a beer and listen to the goings on around him. After a while, Butcher starts chatting up people he knows, and Siska is still looking around nervously at his surroundings. "I think I'm going to head out, guys. I'll take the El home," Siska says while gathering his jacket in his arms. Bill just nods, fingers of one hand wrapped around the neck of a beer, and fingers of the other under the table on Mike's knee. "So how come you skipped out?" Bill's voice is a little louder than it needs to be, words slurring just slightly. "Just slipped my mind, man. Sorry. I've been doing a lot around the apartment." Tom doesn't know how much Butcher told them about what his place is like, but they accept his words at face value. "Well, you gotta come next time, we want to see what you've got for the new record." Mike looks up and meets Tom's eyes. For the first time all night, Tom flinches and looks away. He doesn't want to be involved in this. He stands abruptly from the table, making some excuse about the bathroom. Instead, he wanders to the bar, settles his tab and sneaks out. He'd been right all along, going out with them was a bad idea. * The band meeting that Tom attends isn't anything like he thought it would be. Though he has all the composed music in a messenger bag, Bill and Mike essentially tell him how the next album is going to sound, what his guitar parts will be like. Tom just nods through the conversation and feels the weight of his bag. They didn't want his contribution, they never did. They just need someone to fill out the sound, the same way the soundboard fills out Bill's voice from time to time. "This stuff looks good to you?" Mike leans over a piece of sheet music with Tom, their shoulders brushing. "Yeah, it's fine. I just don't know why you told us to take some time and work out stuff we liked if you were just going to tell us what to play anyway." Tom knows he's crossing a line, going into something he can't get out of. "Hey, we're just trying to make this sound tight. Make people forget what they saw on Warped and the last tour." Mike's voice is a little too tight for Tom to be comfortable, so he backs off. "Fine, fine. It's cool. I'll take this home and run through it. Saturday, right?" Tom looks up and meets Mike's eyes. Mike nods only once and Tom packs the music in with his own, in need of air that isn't so full of asshole. * Saturday comes and Saturday goes with Tom still in his apartment, more drunk than he's ever been in his life. He hasn't sobered up in more than a week, sleeping and waking drunk. There's a knock on his door and without even thinking to check who it is, he opens it. Mike, Bill, Siska, and Butcher are all there. Tom just has to snort, thinking that it looks like it's so serious, whatever reason they have to be here. Tom is about to tell them they should've called first, but he remembers that sometime the previous week, his phone died. He hasn't bothered charging it since, not wanting to hear from anyone. No one looks at ease, which puts Tom on edge. They're here to deliver some sort of bad news. Tom offers everyone a seat and he's grateful the place looks better than the last time Butcher was here. The cases of empties line the hall to his room and the laundry has been done. All this doesn't change Tom's level of sobriety and he finds himself wishing it did. When the small talk runs out, when the circular talk about drinking runs out, when even Bill looks at a loss for something to say, Butcher speaks up. "Fuck it. Tom, I don't think you should be in the band anymore." For Tom, the moment freezes and he looks between everyone. No one will meet his eyes except Butcher. Tom almost wants to smile at that. The only one who had the guts to say what they were all thinking and the only one who will look him in the eyes after. "You're not happy. Not even just not happy, you're miserable. And you're still our friend. All of us. We want you to be happy and I don't know if everyone agrees on this part, but you're developing a problem. I don't think being in this band is the best way to deal with that problem and I think being out of it will make you happier." When Butcher says this, it isn't unkind, which is perhaps why it hits Tom harder than if anyone else had said it. "Fuck you guys. A problem? I have a problem because I like a drink to unwind?" Tom can't believe the audacity of Bill, telling him that he has a drinking problem. Tom can't even count the number of times he had to hide Bill's drunken ass from his parents. Same goes for Mike. Siska looks just as uncomfortable as Butcher during this, but even so, Tom knows that he's no saint when it comes to drinking. "Tom, we're not trying to judge you, we're just trying to help you. And I'm sorry, but we agreed that you being out of the band is the best way to do that. For you and for us." Butcher looks down at the ground, as if he finally realizes exactly what he's doing. "Fine, I'm out of the band, but you guys are out of my apartment." Tom stands, not wanting to hear the rest of this discussion and how his friends just want to help him. If that were really the case, someone would've been there when Mike tore his heart out. They would've listened when he had new ideas to throw at them. They would've even made a conscious effort to not have booze on the bus at all times. Fuck them and their sanctimonious little ways. As Tom ushers them out of the small apartment, he knows that Butcher wants to stop and say something to him but Tom just holds up his hand. "Just get out. I don't want to hear it." Butcher nods and puts his head down as he leaves. * Tom sobers up the next day. He wasn't in the mood to drink after his bandmates (ex-bandmates, the voice inside his head likes to remind him), left. It feels awful, the awareness creeping back into his brain. It hits him that he no longer has a job, or a band, or even four of his closest friends. In the afternoon, he gets the shakes so badly that he can't even light a cigarette. On his couch, he curls up in a ball and tries to hum to himself. He hums everything from a lullaby he used to know when he was younger to the songs he's been composing for himself. When he charges his phone, there are a dozen messages from his ex-bandmates from the previous week. They get more irate as they come in. They want to know why he isn't answering, why he isn't showing up anywhere. Tom goes into the voicemail and forces himself to listen to each one on speakerphone. For some reason, it's Siska's that hits him the hardest. "Hey Tombo, we're uh. We're at my place. It's me, Sisky, we're having a meeting and you really should be here for this. I miss you, buddy." Siska. He was Bill's best friend, even though the age difference was significant when they were both in high school. Bill collects people like Siska, ones who admire him and who think he can do no wrong. It makes Tom sick, thinking that he could ever be like that. Tom shudders and looks at a crack in the ceiling. He deletes the message and hangs up his phone. He doesn't want to be in this apartment right now. Not with the way the walls are closing in on him. He does the first thing he can think of to keep himself from throwing up. Tom calls Jon. Tom has his own suspicions about Jon having heard the news already, but he doesn't call him on them. Just says, "I can't even be in Chicago right now, but I don't know where I'm going to go." "Don't be an idiot, you're going to come and see me. We both know that." Jon sounds like he can't even fathom any other course of action on Tom's behalf. "You guys are on a new tour. This is the last thing you need." Tom thinks of being in the way, thinks of seeing Spencer with someone new, someone who understands what he needs. "What are you even saying? I think this might actually be my finest idea. You can come out here, spend a week taking pictures of me, and it'll give you something to jerk off over when you're home." Jon sounds way too amused with himself for his own good. "How does everyone else feel about that?" Tom doesn't want to rub anyone the wrong way, especially after the way the last tour with Panic ended. "I think they're going to be pretty okay with it, you know? Brendon says he misses having someone with him who has an ass almost as big as his." Jon's laughter is dopey, slow. "You know, you joined the weirdest band ever. Okay. When should I be out there?" Tom wants the details hammered out before he goes to tell his parents what's happened. They're going to be worried, he knows, but he's going to tell them not to listen to anything they hear about it. "I'll email you the dates and stuff." Jon sounds distracted now and Tom can hear other voices in the room. "Hey, look. Is um. Is Spencer going to care that I'm there?" Tom doesn't want to ask it, but he needs to know. If Spencer doesn't want him there or is going to make some sort of big deal about why he's there, Tom is out. "Lemme check." And like that, Tom remembers why he hates Jon. True, Jon is his brother from another mother, but he's also the least complicated guy Tom knows. Give him a dime bag and a skin mag and he can entertain himself for hours. He also doesn't believe in letting Tom wallow in his own bullshit and he was never one for talking around an issue. "He says he doesn't care what you do, also that I shouldn't stick my nose where it doesn't belong. Not really sure why he said that, since you're my friend and this is clearly where my nose belongs." "Idiot, he's still salty. Forget it, I won't come out there. I'll just harass Nick or something." Tom looks around the room and tries to imagine an eternity here. Maybe he'll die and no one will notice because no one is expecting him to be anywhere. "No, because if you stay home you're just going to stay in your apartment until it becomes a cesspool and your body becomes a leaker and then I'm going to be out a best friend and Nick will kill me and I don't really want to die from Nick killing me. It's always been my biggest fear. Hey, you won't tell him I told you that, right?" Jon suddenly sounds like he's extremely paranoid. "No, no, I won't mention it to him." Tom stores the information away for future blackmail, but only in the event of an emergency. Like Jon being a complete dick. "If you mention it, I'm going to stick my dick in your mouth while you sleep and take pictures." Jon tries to sound threatening, but mostly he sounds high. "That just makes you look like a creep because it's your dick on film and I'm clearly passed out." Tom looks around his room and tries to determine what he needs to be packing. "What can I say, the Captain likes exploring new places. And maybe your mouth isn't completely uncharted territory, but it's certainly unfamiliar." "You know, one day I'm going to record a conversation with you and let Cassie hear it. She needs to know what kind of man she shares a bed with." Tom just shakes his head and cradles his phone between his ear and his shoulder. "And it won't be my fault when she runs screaming in the opposite direction." "Man, you wish you could hear the conversations we have when I'm home." Jon burps loudly into the receiver. "Anyway, are you going to quit being a pussy about coming out here or do I have to fly out there and smack you myself?" "Okay, I'll come out. Just give me some dates and I'll let you know my flight information." Tom clicks off the call, knowing Jon will email him everything he needs to know in order to make his arrangements. He's halfway through picking up the garbage that's been littering his floor since he got home from tour when he feels the email buzz through. The dates don't give him much time to make any plans, but he's fairly certain he can find a good deal on one of those cheapie websites. It's not like he's going to have to pay change fees or anything. Once the email to Jon has been sent, Tom sits down on his kitchen counter and breathes a little easier. He's getting out of Chicago and that's the most important thing right now. He can deal with seeing Spencer as long as he doesn't have to think about his own band and his "friends." At least, that's what Tom tells himself while he's packing and discarding shirt after shirt because he thinks Spencer will think he looks like an idiot. * Jon's waiting in the airport with a large security guard hovering nearby. Tom wants to laugh because he never thought Jon would be in a band that needed security the way these Panic boys apparently did now. "What's with the guard?" Tom whispers into Jon's ear when they hug hello. "He has a name, Tom. It's Zack, and he has protected me and my harem." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder, even though he's taller, and squeezes. "My bevy of beauties must be protected at all times lest they go missing." "Jesus, are you high already?" Tom has just noticed the faint pot smell clinging to Jon and rolls his eyes. Jon crooks a finger to Tom, motioning him to come closer. In a whisper that speaks of extreme secrecy, Jon says, "It makes the make-up easier to deal with." * It's as easy as Tom thought it would be to avoid Spencer because Spencer spends the vast majority of his time avoiding him. Even though Jon has become Spencer's favourite, he never seems to be in the room with Jon when Tom enters. It's some sort of extra sense he seems to have, exiting a room as Tom enters it. "Or it could be that when you're drunk you sound like a herd of elephants stampeding." Jon just shrugs as he looks up from his laptop. They're splitting a bottle of wine because sometime after joining the Panic pile, Jon decided he was classy. Tom has enough photographic evidence disputing this that he's not concerned about it. "Your mom sounds like a stampeding elephant," Tom mutters in return, flipping through pictures on his own laptop. Jon just nods absently in return as he types. Tom is pretty sure he's chatting with Cassie at the moment and he's also pretty sure that he doesn't want to read whatever's going on in that chat window. "No, but seriously, you're not hard to avoid. Especially if someone wants to avoid you." Nine months earlier and that sentence would've sounded like Jon was talking about Mike. Nine months earlier and that's what Tom would've heard. Present tense and with half a bottle of Pinot Noir running through his veins and all Tom can think about is Spencer and the way he'd looked at the end of the last tour. "Fuck it, I don't want to fight with him anymore, you know? He was-" "Please don't talk about your rebound sex with my bandmate? Hearing you and Mike was bad enough. I don't know why you think hotel walls are thicker in England than they are in the states, but they're not. Future reference." Jon cuts Tom off and reaches for his glass of wine, draining the last of it in one gulp. "Future reference? I don't want to hear you and Cass having sex on my couch at the next house party. Just saying." Tom tries to deflect it, like he doesn't want to talk about Spencer anymore. He knows he could count on Brendon if he really wanted to talk about Spencer. For reasons unknown to Tom, Brendon loves talking about Spencer's love life and which male celebrity Spencer would be best with. His personal opinion is that Kevin Spacey and Spencer would make the best couple. Tom tries to argue that two bottoms wouldn't work, but Brendon doesn't seem magnificently concerned with the mechanics of gay sex as he's saving himself for Prince Eric. He's also not magnificently concerned that his life is not Who Framed Roger Rabbit and he can't actually interact with cartoon characters. * "So, no, think about it, Spencer showing up at a red carpet with Kevin Spacey? His hips tilting toward Kevin's? It'd look so perfect." Brendon lets out an audible sigh and Tom has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. "No, I don't want him with Kevin Spacey! I want him to show up at a red carpet with me, tilting his hips at me!" Tom thinks he's made this point before but after the fourth or fifth Corona, it's kind of hard to be sure. "But you don't look anything like Kevin Spacey! How would that even work?" Brendon doesn't think this is as good a plan as Tom thinks it is and Tom kind of wants to shake Brendon until he agrees that it is a good plan and that Spencer's tilty, tilty hips should be tilted at him. He looks at Brendon to see him resting his eyes and leaning back against the pillows in the hotel bed Tom shakes his head and reaches for his beer, draining it in a few long pulls. Spencer, he needs to find Spencer and apologize. That would be a start. Rather than use his phone, the number to which Spencer has and recognizes, Tom takes Brendon's phone from his hand and scrolls through the contacts. Most are entered as "that guy from Kinkos with the bangin' ass." Spencer is listed under his own name, thank goodness. Tom doesn't think he's sober enough to remember Spencer's number from memory. That should've been his first clue. That should've been what told him this was a bad idea. Instead, he looks over at Brendon and decides that the bathroom will offer more privacy. Jon isn't in the room yet. He's down in the hotel bar with everyone else, probably wishing Cassie was nearby so he could do something disgusting with her. Jon is really disgusting, Tom decides as he locks the door to the bathroom, holding the ringing phone to his ear. When Spencer answers, he sounds tired. He sounds like he could use another two hours of sleep before he even considers waking up for a phone call from Brendon. He sounds like he hasn't even gotten to bed yet. "Brendon, I don't care if you're too drunk to remember calling your parents is a bad idea. It is and you know it is, so go the fuck to bed." Tom snorts because Spencer kind of sounded like a girl at the end of that sentence. "You're so pissed off right now, aren't you?" "Tom?" Spencer's voice takes on a strange quality that Tom doesn't know how to interpret. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, nodding until he remembers that Spencer can't hear a nod. He looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. Was there always that man in the mirror? Did he always look like that? "Tom? If you're just calling to tell me I'm pissed off, then I'm really not interested in this conversation." That tone is one Tom recognizes. Spencer's cool, frosty tone is one that Tom is now intimately familiar with. Whenever Tom hasn't been able to avoid them, when Jon has insisted that Tom and Spencer are in the same room because he's a meddling bastard, that's the tone Spencer uses with everyone until he's permitted to leave. "Jon is a meddling bastard," Tom announces this to Spencer like it's news, like Spencer hasn't spent the past few months getting to know that on the road. "Okay, if you're calling to tell me that, I'm hanging up." Spencer's voice sounds like it's getting further away from the mouthpiece of his phone. "Wait!" Tom just got up the guts to call Spencer. It can't be over this quickly. "What, Tom?" The voice on the other end of the signal sounds is too open to interpretation. Tom can't figure out what this one means. He looks over at the mirror again and decides that it either needs to be smashed, or he does. After a moment, Tom answers. "Come outside for a cigarette with me?" It's where everything started, it might as well be what helps everything come together, right? "Tom, you're drunk. There's absolutely no way that I'm coming downstairs to go out for a cigarette with you so just go to bed." Spencer's voice is unreadable, something Tom hates. Spencer and Ryan have that uncanny ability to go monotone whenever they have something important that needs to be kept close to their chest. "Spence, I'm drunk and I need to talk to you." "Pardon me for not giving a flying fuck about what you need while you're drunk, you're always drunk when you come to me," Spencer says dryly. "I need to sleep and you need to do the same." Tom doesn't have a chance to say anything else before Spencer clicks off the call. Tom looks at Brendon's phone, glaring when he realizes Spencer isn't on the other end any longer. He shakes his head and sets the phone down on the bathroom counter. His pack of cigarettes is in the other room, so he can't actually just smoke in here, but he does decide to sit in there and think. He's drunk. Spencer thinks he's always drunk. Spencer thinks he's always a douchebag. Is he drunk because he's a douchebag or is he a douchebag because he's drunk? Is Spencer even right? Tom looks in the mirror again and nods; Spencer is right. Once Tom has reached that conclusion, he realizes that he needs to come up with some sort of plan. But a plan much better than his previous plans, because every plan he's had when it comes to Spencer has been complete shit. Spencer deserves more than that, especially after putting up with what Tom put him through. That's the thought that has Tom leaning over the toilet to vomit up the beer churning in his stomach. * In the morning, with the light streaming into the window, Tom wants to die. He doesn't think he's ever been so hungover from so few beers in his life. Of course, he'd been drinking before he came to Brendon's room and the beer probably hadn't helped, but still. Tom Conrad wants to die. He has a vague memory of calling Spencer but has no idea what the conversation could have been about. It takes half an hour of mentally prepping himself before Tom is ready to get off the floor of the bathroom and face the world. Unfortunately, the face in the mirror isn't ready to greet the world. Tom is a pale green color, lips a stark red in contrast. Just the thought of leaving this tiny room has him ready to bend over the toilet again. A pounding on the door stops him. "Tom, if you're dead, I'm moving you because I need to use the bathroom. You can puke in the sink." Tom groans. Brendon's room. Of course that's where he'd pick to pass out. They were talking the previous evening about Kevin Spacey. How had he gone from Kevin Spacey to calling Spencer? Oh, God. Did he tell Spencer not to date Kevin Spacey? Tom hits the redial button on Brendon's phone and steps out of the bathroom, gesturing for Brendon to go on in. There's a balcony attached to the room, so Tom goes out onto it. Patting his pockets produces a pack of half-crushed cigarettes. He rolls one back into shape and places it between his lips, waiting for Spencer to answer. It goes straight to voicemail and the cigarette drops from Tom's lips to the pavement below. He sputters out "Spencer" before disconnecting the call. Not trusting himself not to drop the phone, Tom pockets it. He's only got another day here, another day where he has to face Spencer and not shake him and ask him what he has to do to fix this. He has some pride. Except for the times where he doesn't actually have any. Like today's bus ride, which he spends practically staring at Spencer while Spencer watches episodes of C.S.I. on the television with unwavering focus. He doesn't even answer his phone, probably because he might take his attention away from the episode and accidentally make eye contact with Tom. "Tom, you're staring," Jon tries to mutter casually. Only it comes out in the same voice Jon uses for everything. Brendon and Ryan start snickering to each other and look at Spencer, watching him turn red. "Okay, come on." Jon hauls Tom to the back lounge and closes the door. "Okay, you have to stop staring. Ryan is probably messaging me right now to ask if you're actually retarded. I keep having to tell him that you're not." "I'm not retarded." This distracts Tom long enough for him to look up at Jon, just in time to get slapped in the face. "Then stop mooning like a teenage girl about him! I swear to God, I feel like I'm going to look over at you writing Mrs. Tom Smith in the front cover of your purple unicorn notebook. Pull yourself together before I have to slap you with my dick." "It's not that bad." Tom really doesn't think he's been staring like that. Maybe he let his eyes linger, but it wasn't like he was about to sigh and burst into songs about the two of them being made for each other. "Tom, I love you, you're my best friend in the entire world. Right now, you're being a total idiot. If you want him, you tell him and you do whatever it takes to get him. If that means that you have to grovel, you grovel." "Wait a minute, if I'm your best friend in the entire world, why aren't you yelling at him to treat me better?" Tom catches the discrepancy in Jon's words. "Okay, hold on, I'm going to message Ryan and back and tell him I was wrong." Jon rolls his eyes and opens the door to the back lounge. "He's not the one who screwed this up, Tom. You and I both know that." * That night in the hotel room after the show, Jon's laughter is loose and easy, flowing at the same rate the wine is. "I'm gonna miss you, you know. It's not the same. I have my tiny, tiny boys, but I don't have the men." "Do you miss it, though?" Tom tries to think of any time he hasn't seen Jon completely happy on this tour. "I'd be lying if I said I really missed it. I have my own techs now. Maybe I would've finished school, maybe not, but this chance. Tom, that's one thing you have to learn to do. You have to take chances. That's the Tom I became friends with." Jon is just drunk enough to be soft around the edges he'd usually cover up with comments about his dick. "I take chances," Tom starts to protest. "Not anymore, man. Not really. I don't know what Mike did but it fucked you up. If you ever need to tell someone, you know I'm here for you and I'll listen but it really... Anyway, it fucked you up royally and turned you into this," Jon gestures up and down with his free hand before taking a sip of wine. "You don't take risks anymore, Tom. And that really sucks. Because when you bet big, yeah, you can lose big but you also at least have a chance to win big." "If you tell me to put it all on black, you won't wake up with the Captain still attached to you," Tom's too drunk to actually have a serious conversation where he gets told what to do with his life and his emotions. "If you cut off the Captain, Cass'll have words for you and I promise they won't be of the 'Oh, Tom, that shirt looks good on you' variety," Jon drains his wine glass and stretches before slipping off his jeans. Jon moves to turn down the covers on the large bed they were sharing for the evening. "Okay, come on, you have a flight to catch. I'll be the big spoon and I won't even try to stick it in and swish it around." "I'm never coming to visit you on a tour again." He looks at Jon, shaking his head before climbing into the bed with him. "That's a lie, Tom, and we both know it," Jon mutters before his breathing evens out and sleep overtakes the room. * The flight home is mercifully short and Tom sleeps through most of it. He remembers the seatbelt sign turning off, because that's his everything's okay sign, and then he remembers feeling the plane touch down at O'Hare. There's no one to get him and Tom doesn't feel like blowing money on a cab, so he hauls his bags through the transit system of his beloved city, and walks the last few blocks to his front door. For the first time in months, Tom doesn't want to be drunk. He thinks about the empty bottles in his apartment, the dregs of which are probably fermenting to create a super-alcohol. He doesn't want that in his system. Unfortunately, he doesn't know any other way to be at the moment. Tomorrow, he'll figure that out tomorrow, because right now, all he wants is to forget the way Spencer said goodbye to him. "Well, it's a shame to see you go, Tom." Insincere bastard couldn't even sound like he meant it. Ryan was definitely on Tom's shit list. He's had more than enough of Ryan's opinions swaying Spencer, pretending he was a perfect saint himself. "Yeah, but you'll get over it," Tom shrugged. He wanted to say goodbye to Jon in peace. Even Brendon, not normally a thorn in Tom's side, was grating and far too chipper. When Jon hugged Tom, he muttered, "just hug him. This is how he shows he's actually going to miss you, fuckwad." Tom took Jon's advice and was surprised at the tight grip Brendon had on him and the way he took a moment longer than he should have to let go. "Don't be a stranger, you're welcome on my doorstep any time, Tom." Then Tom turned to Spencer, who was busy tapping out messages on his cell phone to some unknown recipient. "Guys, we should get going. We're running off schedule." When he noticed Tom's shoulders slumped, he pocketed his phone. "Travel safe," he finally said before turning and heading back over to the door of the airport. Jon squeezed Tom's shoulder and tried to manage a smile. "Figure it out, dude. That's all I got for you. I'll see you when I get home." Tom doesn't want to think about Spencer's goodbye, so he focuses on what Jon had said. Jon had told him twice to figure it out. Tom knows this is his fault. That has never been in question. He knows that his reactions in the days after sleeping with Spencer were not the best reactions to have. He looks at himself in the mirror and rubs at his jaw. The conversation from the bathroom of the hotel comes back to him. Drinking. Tom looks at his cases of bottles and shakes his head. Those have to go. * A few days later, Jon calls Tom. "Holy shit, you're never going to guess where we're going after the New Year. Just guess. You won't, but you're going to have to anyway or I won't tell you." "You're going to Barbados," Tom throws out the first location that pops into his head. "I wish!" Tom recognizes the tone Jon uses, the one that says Jon is about to forget the point of his initial story and tell Tom about the many and varied things his dick could do in Barbados. Tom decides immediately to nip that in the bud. "So where are you off to, then?" "We're going to a cabin in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere to write the next album." Jon says it like it's the most incredible thing in the world, like he's actually really excited. Tom tries to muster up the same level of enthusiasm. "Are you sure they aren't taking you out there to kill you and dispose of the body?" "No, but what a way to go. If I don't get cell phone reception, I'll try to figure out how to get a telegraph to you that says I'm in danger." Tom smiles at Jon's words. "But the point is, I want you to come visit for a week or so. Get your head out of Chicago." Jon apparently knows without needing to be told that Tom is still hiding out in his apartment as if all of Chicago, not just his ex-bandmates, consider him persona non grata. "I don't know, I've got a lot going on here." It isn't a lie, not really. Tom has things that are going on. They just don't involve what used to go on for him. "You've got time to think about it, okay? I just." Jon cuts himself off, not letting himself say he's worried about Tom. The thought weighs more than the action to Tom. That's when he decides Jon deserves to know what's really going on. "It's just, I've got these meetings. And they're. I don't know, they seem like they're helping." Tom knows this part, he knows that he needs to admit to Jon he has a problem, but it almost doesn't seem like the conversation for it, miles and wires keeping them apart. "So, you admitted you had a problem?" Jon asks the question as casually as he would ask what Tom had for breakfast that morning. This draws another smile across Tom's face. He nods, even though Jon can't see it, before continuing. "Yeah, I admitted I have a problem." He's careful to use present tense, because if there's one thing he knows, it's that it's on-going and that a few meetings don't just fix it, no matter how much he'd like it to be that simple. "Generally this results in a huge spiritual awakening, Tombo, am I going to come home to a bible salesman for a best friend?" And just like that, Tom knows Jon is okay with it. He won't joke about something he doesn't feel comfortable about. "Yeah, you are. I'm going to drag your heathen ass to church and make you and the Captain repent of all your sins." "Hey, man is responsible for his own sins and not for the fall of Siska. I'm not responsible for the Captain's indulgences, as many and varied as they are. Should've paid better attention when you were studying to be an altar boy." "Fuck you! I was never an altar boy," Tom's voice gets shrill when he thinks about having to wear those robes and have to participate in mass. His knees ache just thinking about the hard wooden floors of his church. "Mmmm, right. Well, look, I'm being called away, but keep me up to date on this stuff, okay? I don't like feeling this out of the loop," Jon goes for indignant but it doesn't come out quite right. "You're the one who picked the harem over the stables, Jonny, just remember that." Tom disconnects the call before having to hear another comment about Jon's perception of religion. When he looks in the mirror, he notices that the smile is still there, even when his eyes travel down to the St. Christopher medal, hanging around his neck as heavy as a millstone. * When Tom decides to go to the cabin, it's because Jon thinks he might kill his bandmates otherwise. "I'm too pretty for prison, Tom. Even you said you'd sell me for cigarettes!" "I would, your ass would fetch a pretty penny," Tom clamps the phone between his ear and his shoulders as he tries to figure out how many pairs of underwear is too many. He hasn't packed for tour in forever and it's enough to have made him forget that the idea is to pack light. He knows he can just steal clothes from Jon if it comes down to it, but there's something comforting in packing clothes and removing them. It gives him a chance to forget about his nerves over seeing Spencer for the first time since starting his meetings. "So, I'm not supposed to say anything because I'm sworn to secrecy in the order of Panic, but it's come to my attention that a certain boy has been asking about when you'll be here." Tom drops his phone at the statement. Dropping a pair of socks and tripping as he scrambles for the phone, Tom manages to sputter, "What?" "Someone has been asking when you were getting here," Jon laughs and it sounds genuine. "No shit. Swear you're not yanking my chain." Tom sits on the floor and tries to think about how he can possibly convince Spencer that he isn't a person with diminished mental capacities. He needs to make that better impression. "Tom, of all the things to yank on you, your chain would be the last thing I'd pick. Brendon's been asking when your fine ass is coming." Jon apparently has no concept of what it means to cup the phone so the person on the other hand doesn't have to listen to him shout, "I'll be right there, Brendon! No, I'm coming, I'm just on the phone!" "The harem calls?" "Bitchy little harem girl wants to play Guitar Hero because he hasn't kicked my ass enough at it this week," Jon huffs and Tom guess it's time to let him go. "Call me when you get to the airport and I'll come get you. By myself, even." "Harems don't need protection in the woods?" "If they want them, they're welcome to them. Did you know Ryan started doing calisthenics at ass o'clock this morning? And then tried to make us join in with him! I don't even know, man. It's too weird here some days. Anyway, I'll talk to you later." Like that, Jon hangs up. The train ride to the airport isn't so bad, not really. It's not as familiar as it once was, but it's by no means terrible. People leave him alone and he boards his flight without thinking about whether or not they'll serve alcohol. His bank account is thanking him for the meetings, for the way it doesn't get drained to the bottom any longer. The flight seems shorter than it is as Tom flips through photos on his laptop, carefully edits some of them. It's only a few minutes, or so it seems, before the captain announces their decent and the local temperature. As promised, Jon is waiting at the airport for him with a sign that says "TOM!!!" and has a few stickers. "Brendon had shit leftover from when he went to go see his nephews. Said it would make you feel more welcome than just me," Jon explains when they've parted. "Well, it worked. Just you? Pfft, give me a sign with Spongebob on it." Tom hefts his bags and follows Jon to the rental car. "We also have to do a grocery run. We're completely out of Cheetos and Funyons. I don't even know who eats the Funyons." Jon is babbling a little nervously, so Tom knows something's up. "What happened? Did someone use someone else's last pair of clean socks?" Tom doesn't particularly want to walk into the middle of one of those fights. They're almost always about something bigger. Even if they aren't about anything bigger, they still get fucking vicious when you're cramped together in a small space. "It's just, I know you're doing really awesome with the meetings and stuff and there's. Well, there's drinking at the cabin." Jon keeps his hands at ten and two as he navigates the roads leading out of the airport. Tom laughs for a moment before he realizes that Jon is truly ill at ease. "Jon, I don't give two shits if you guys drink. It's really okay with me. It's not like I'll always be in situations where there isn't booze. This is real life." "Yeah, I know, I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable or that there's pressure to drink or anything. And if you want me to stay sober with you, I will." "Jesus, no. No way, this is your time to do whatever you need to do to write this next album. It's not like any of you guys are waking up in puddles of your own puke or blacking out and not remembering long sections of a day." Tom is inadvertently admitting to Jon what happened to him. "No, it's not like that. It's usually just a couple of beers while we watch a movie. I don't know. We go green more than anything else." "And that's something I can get on board with." Tom punches Jon's shoulder as lightly as he can. "Hope you remembered how to get back, because I'm not hitchhiking to the gas station when you run out and insist you can't be the hitchhiker because sexual predators would pick you up and I'd never hear from you again." "A valid concern when you look as good as I do. And now, we pick up food," Jon pulls into a convenience store parking lot and pulls his hood up. * The days at the cabin don't pass as quickly as the days on tour. There's no place to go when things get tense but up on the roof. That's where Tom ends up running Spencer most often. At first, Spencer just smokes his joint in silence while Tom puffs away on his own cigarette. The fourth time it happens, Spencer offers his joint to Tom and looks shocked when he turns it down. "Sorry, I'm trying to…" "Yeah, Jon explained it. Sort of." Spencer's voice sounds strained as he holds the smoke in. "I'm guessing that's why you don't drink any of the beer." "Well, that and the beer is Corona. If I'm going to get drunk, you better believe it'll be off something slightly better than that." Tom makes a face at the thought of the beer, thinking instead of the beer from Sam's, the place down the street from his apartment. "Oh, well, I'm sorry our beer isn't up to your refined palate." Spencer's smiling when he says it, so he knows it isn't meant to be mean. "It's okay, you can't be perfect." It slips out without Tom meaning it to. The silence it causes is louder than anything Tom has ever heard. "I mean." "Don't worry about it," Spencer cuts Tom off. "I just meant, you guys, not you in particular," Tom stammers, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks around at the surrounding woods. "Are we still not talking about that?" Tom freezes with the cigarette halfway to his lips. In all the months that had passed since their last real conversation, Tom had never guessed that Spencer had anything to say he hadn't already said. "I didn't realize there was anything left you wanted to say to me." "You never really asked." Spencer ashes carefully into the lid of a jam jar. "Oh. Well, is there anything left you wanted to say to me?" Tom looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye. "Yes. No. Yes." Spencer looks like he's considering things, judging by the emotions that pass over his face. "What you did really sucked, you know that. You do know that, right?" The tone isn't chastising, it's curious. "I know that." Tom does know. It's in his journal. There are things he needs to make amends for. The sad part is, Spencer is fairly low on that list. "I just don't really understand why you were such a d-bag. You never tried to explain anything to me. I know that part of it was Mike. I don't know what he did that fucked you up so bad, and I don't expect you to tell me. I guess I just want to know if that was what was keeping you back." Spencer doesn't make eye contact the entire time he's speaking. "Yes. No. Yes." Tom tries to remember everything he's spent the last few months sorting through. "I. I have problems. I've acknowledged them, but they're still problems." "I really wish you hadn't dragged me into the middle of them," Spencer mutters. "I wasn't trying to. Well, I was at first. But then I realized some shit and I realized I didn't want to drag you into it. And I," Tom takes a deep breath. He can't believe he's admitting this. "I was trying to protect myself." "Protect yourself?" "If you don't let anyone in, they can't hurt you." "It's a lonely life though." Spencer shifts over on the roof, reaching for Tom's cigarettes, lighting one for himself. "I've seen other people do that, Tom." "I know it's lonely. I was just trying to keep myself safe, the same way you were trying to." Tom's mouth quirks up at the thought of that conversation. "The difference there is that I wasn't hurting someone else to keep you safe. There wasn't really a reason for self-defense, to hurt me." "I know that now. Believe me, I know that." The breeze has turned cold outside and Tom wishes for the other half of Jon's bed, where the covers can be pulled up and the monsters can't get him. It worked when he was little, it should work now. "Maybe it's time to take that knowledge and turn it into action." Again, the words aren't condescending. It's the closest thing that he's had to an invitation from Spencer for a year, at least, and Tom doesn't intend to waste it. "Come visit me in Chicago." "Pardon me?" "I'm taking my knowledge, making it action. Come visit me in Chicago. You can see everything you haven't seen yet." Tom knows Spencer can take that however he wants to and he's praying as hard as he ever has in his life for Spencer to say yes. The only things he's ever prayed for as hard as this was getting out of his parents' house, was for his bands to make it. Those prayers weren't half as important as this one. "No, Tom." Spencer stands, not before pressing his cigarette into the jam jar lid. He doesn't waste a moment before climbing back into the window and leaving it open. Tom knows that he won't be in the room when he climbs back in, so he finishes the rest of his cigarette, trying to keep from putting it out on his palm to feel something. * The rest of the days at the cabin are quite without incident. Ryan breaks Brendon's lucky bong; Jon beats Tom at Guitar Hero; Spencer plays the acoustic guitar one night and Tom recognizes the chords of Kumbaya. The final night at the cabin, Jon decides to barbecue in honor of Tom's visit. There are beers passed around, and as usual Tom waves his off. It's more interesting to watch the dynamic of the group the more alcohol is introduced. "You're not impressing anyone, you know." Ryan has had enough pot to come over and seat himself next to Tom, stealing one of his potato wedges. "I'm not doing this to impress anyone. If that's what you think I'm doing this for, you're sorely mistaken." Tom is a little crabby, he can admit that. He didn't get enough sleep the night before and now he's wishing he could just be in bed, given his early flight out. "Oh, I didn't mean the sobriety. I meant this brooding artist shit you're pulling right now. You're. Well. To be honest, you're not fooling me. You're sure as hell not fooling Spencer." Ryan leans in, stealing another potato wedge. "He'll get over you, everyone does." "Ryan, I know you're trying to look out for your best friend right now. I respect that, I really do, I asked around about you guys when you wanted Jon for your own. Ultimately though, the decision was his. I would do the same thing if Jon decided to dump Cassie and date someone else. But ultimately, you need to remember that this decision isn't yours." Tom is trying as hard as he can not to drive a fist right through Ryan Ross' smirk. "If he does make the wrong decision and you do hurt him again, I'll kill you and they'll never find the body, Tom. Just remember that." Ryan claps Tom on the shoulder and stands up, leaving Tom to ponder whether he'd really just heard Ryan threaten him with bodily harm. Toward the end of the evening, it dwindles down to Jon and Tom passing a joint back and forth. "I'm thinking you got shit done while you were out here, right?" "Is that what you were hoping would happen?" "Fuck no, I just missed your ugly face." Jon shrugs and exhales a slow series of smoke rings. "Are we getting deep? If so, I'm going to need another joint." "No, we're not going to get deep. I got some shit figured out, so I guess we'll see. It's not like I'm not going to text you, whatever I do decide to do." Tom reaches for his cigarettes, anxious to get the taste of pot out of his mouth. "You better. I think you know what'll happen if you don't text me as soon as you get past security. I'm needy, Tom, I don't think you know." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder and squeezes. Tom laughs and leans into Jon briefly. "You're like a phone that vibrates for no reason." "I'm an NRB, Tombo, no reason for me to be there, but I demand attention. Don't you forget it. But seriously, you figured your shit out with Spencer, right? He didn't look like he wanted to murder your ass." Jon steals Tom's cigarette, placing it between his own lips. "I guess you could say we figured it out," Tom thinks that's the right way to phrase their conversation. "Hey, don't worry so much, okay? He'll come around. He always does when it's something worth fighting for." * Tom returns to his apartment, phone pressed to his ear. "No, Sean, trust me, that's not the chord progression you want. No, we'll talk about it when you're done work. You have coffee to be serving." Without waiting for a response from his new bandmate, Tom hangs up his sidekick and tries to place what's off about his apartment. It seems warmer than it did when he left. It isn't that unusual during the spring. He has great windows but the place cooks on sunny days. Ordinarily he's good about closing the curtains, but in the two weeks he's had Jon back in Chicago with him, little things like that have been slipping. He's been attending his meetings, going to work, writing songs. He's been keeping busy so he doesn't have to think about exactly what is missing in his life. Spencer hadn't returned with Jon, nor had he called Tom since he'd been back. At this point, there was nothing Tom wanted more than to be able to write Spencer off as a lost cause, but he still couldn't let go of the memory of waking up next to him in the weak light of morning in a hotel room. Jon has done his best to keep Tom's mind off it, offering endless videogame championships. It isn't the same as falling asleep next to a warm body, but it's close enough. Companionship during the day is enough. Tom sets his bag on the kitchen floor and sets the kettle up to boil. Hot tea will calm him down and it'll help him sleep tonight when his thoughts start to drift. It occurs to him that there's a slight rustling coming from his bedroom and he prays he didn't just walk into a home invasion in progress. He doesn't even know what they would get. Then it occurs to him that his cameras are in there. Grabbing a baseball bat from the front entry, Tom begins to creep toward his bedroom. When he kicks open the unlatched door, bat raised high above his head, he nearly screams at what he sees. Spencer. Spencer stretched across his bed. His eyes are closed but the noise of the bat clattering to the floor opens them at once. He sits up, his hair flying in different directions. "Huh?" "Spencer?" Tom isn't sure this isn't a dream. If he's relapsed and is hallucinating from drinking too much, he'll take this hallucination. "Hi, Tom," Spencer sits up and looks down at the duvet cover on Tom's bed. "You. You're here." "Jon let me in, I hope that's okay. When you left, I started thinking. And I realized that was really putting yourself on the line. Since I made you take action, the least I could do was at least try to meet you half-way." Spencer smiles and Tom realizes he'll stop breathing if he doesn't start kissing him right now. It takes Tom a few attempts at separating from him before he finally manages to tip his forehead against Spencer's and murmur, "best thing he's ever brought into this apartment, and you can tell him that includes himself."

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