behindthec | full moons & minor keys (2/7) (Reply)

Title: Full Moons and Minor Keys (2/7)

Author: lolab

Pairing: William Beckett/Gabe Saporta

Rating: R. ish.

Summary: I’ve always thought William could convert an asexual, a priest, even a motorcycle dyke; and being nothing so extreme myself, I sure as fuck had no hope.

Disclaimer: The keyword in fan fiction is FICTION. Don’t own Bilvy or Gabanti; I respect them very much; just can't help seeing the world through slashy subtext-tinted glasses, and once a story starts writing itself in my head, I have to get it out.

Warnings: BOYSECKZ (warning? more like incentive), plenty of creative swearing, Gabe being all dirty and Gabe-like, flagrant abuse of the '70s handkerchief code, shameless disregard for reality (i.e. girlfriends, etc.).

Notes: So... yeah. Chapter two, as promised. :) A little hotter, a little flirtier, a little angstier... all the good stuff (even a special appearance by one Brendon B. Urie).

Comments = happiness. I also accept ~~hand jobs~~ cookies in place of feedback. <3

Previous Chapters:
- Chapter 1 and Chapter 1b

You left a small track down my back

So chain me up, I'm in too deep

Too much of you is never enough

- All Time Low

The second time it happened, a month later, we had an excuse: it was pitch dark.

"Jesus, God, Gabe..."

Well, I was certainly in good company.

"Shut up, Beckett. Lightproof doesn't mean soundproof."

"Do you have to call me by my last name when we're naked?"

"I'm not naked, just you. Sort of. And you're not in a position to complain about anything right now."

"God, you're romantic."

"Oh, you want romantic?"

"Shut up."

"Mmm, William, querido, your skin is so soft and creamy, you get me so -- "

"Shut UP!"

And with that, giggling, he shoved his tongue in my mouth and his hand down my pants.

"Shit, Bill. Fuck."

He smiled against my lips, moving his hand like he was born to do it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I smiled back, and paused. "You really want me to shut up?"

"Depends on what you're saying," he managed to choke out.

Brat.

"How about," I started between ragged breaths, "if I tell you I've been hard since the second you walked through the door tonight..."

"Oh...God."

The way he moved then, the way he was breathing, the way his elegant frame shuddered against me... it was in all this that I discovered a very valuable bit of info: William Beckett went absolutely wild for dirty talk.

...But I should back up.

So, as I was saying, the second time it happened, we had an excuse: it was pitch dark.

No, seriously, the electricity went out and we happened to be in the one bathroom at Pete's house that didn't have a window, so not even the full moon just beyond the skyline could have saved us.

I should probably explain why we were in Pete's bathroom together.

A brief break from touring naturally meant relaxing, catching up on sleep, enjoying some well earned peace and quiet... and of course, manic FBR parties at Pete's house.

We hadn’t talked about it since it happened, and things between us went on almost the same as before, largely untouched – at least on the outside.

Inside, I was screaming.

Screaming “I love you, you fuckhead, can’t you fucking see it?” every time I saw him. Screaming at the random, unbidden flashes that would pop into my head at the most disastrous moments, of the memory of what his skin felt like under my fingers, leaving me wondering how long I’d survive until I needed it again so badly I’d just accost him after his set (or possibly during). Screaming frustration every time I looked up and caught him watching me a little too intently -- he’d smile and look away fast enough, only not fast enough at all. I knew he was thinking, because he was William Beckett and if he wasn’t thinking, he wasn’t breathing: I just didn’t know what he was thinking.

That made me scream inside too, because there were only two things he could’ve been thinking when he looked at me that way, only one of which was good: “God, I want to do that again,” or “Ew, I can’t believe we did that.”

William was on some levels excruciatingly predictable, and on others, an enigma maybe even to himself – which made solving this pretty much an impossibility.

...I was getting way too emo for my own damn good.

Seriously, all I was missing was a pair of Vans slip-ons and some sort of visually impairing hairstyle.

I hadn’t seen him in over a week when I got to Pete’s, fashionably late as ever – “fashionably,” of course, meaning not wanting to look too wildly desperate to seduce any lead singers with long flowing brown hair. Not like it mattered, because he fucking wasn’t even there anyway, so I grabbed a drink and wound up in a corner of the packed room with Brendon, which at any normal time would have been fine: Brendon’s presence had this magic of making everyone around him shine, not to mention he tended to fangirl pretty much any FBR boy who had any remote level of seniority, and... what can I say. Gabe Saporta, professional attention whore, at your service.

Only now, he was far too busy fangirling Ryan from a distance, who was in another corner of the room, doing things with his girlfriend that the universe really could have gone without witnessing and just... ew.

I squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t watch, man. It’s nasty. And you’ve got this really, really pitiful emo look on your face and I don’t know whether to laugh or, like, punch you, or just fuck you senseless or something.”

That at least got him laughing and earned me a bright, stunning gaze from those huge brown eyes. And damn, but that boy had some smile. Brendon was just ridiculously gorgeous: sweet as hell and always, always kind, a brilliant musician... not to mention more traditionally charming and suave than William would ever be and with twice the social skills, but I loved Bill all the more for it.

At any rate, it sucked seeing him so miserable and I could only assume Ryan was legally blind, brainwashed, or somehow deceptively comatose.

Brendon nudged me. “Not like you’ve never had that look before,” he teased.

“Excuse me?” I effected the pseudo-drama with as much spirit as I could muster in the midst of genuine curiosity. “When?”

“Oh, just about every time you look at William.”

“Wh—what? What are you – I do not!”

As always, my eloquence continued to strike at the timeliest moments.

“Dude!” he smiled. “Come on. You cannot look me in the eye and tell me you’re not in love with him.”

“I – I.” Fucking shit, how did he know? In fact, that was a good question: “How did you know?”

He gave me an incredibly Williamesque look that very clearly read, “Bitch, please.”

“Jesus,” I sighed, suddenly aware of my own embarrassing presence. “Does Pete know?”

“Yes.”

“What?! And – and Travis?”

“Duh.”

“And – ”

“Oh sweetheart, everyone knows.”

“No fucking way, Urie, you are so full of it!”

He raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. “You’re fucking adorable, Gabe. Really, you are. If I weren’t totally lost over Ry, you’d be in trouble.”

He poked me in the chest for punctuation – god, that little smirk, and fuck if this kid couldn’t flirt.

As if that was going to distract me from the matter at hand.

“Are you serious, everyone knows?”

“Yeah,” he sighed in a bored voice.

“Patrick too?”

“No, because clearly Patrick is insignificant and cannot be included in ‘everyone.’”

“Smartass.”

“I try.” He grinned.

“Jesus, fuck, wait – does William know?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s...” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly fighting his amusement for the sake of sympathy. “I don’t know, he’s too close to the situation? Can’t see the forest or whatever?”

That... did not sound convincing.

He patted me on the back, apparently reading my mind. “Trust me, he doesn’t know. Oh, but he just walked in.”

My head whipped around and those junior-high butterflies swirled predictably in the pit of my stomach. There was nothing unusual about him whatsoever after a week apart -- same hair, same leather jacket, same skintight jeans, same boots -- and that's what made the sight all the more beautiful.

And then it got bad.

He turned around, revealing something attached to his arm. Something I'd never seen before. Something blonde and female and kind of gorgeous in that nasty-ho way.

I glared at Brendon like it was somehow his fault, but he just went wide-eyed and shrugged.

Then of course I made the dumbass mistake of staring at William and his accessory of doom until he met my eyes, at which point I smiled stupidly and returned to glaring at poor Brendon before I could even catch Bill's reaction.

"Who is that?" I hissed.

"That?" Brendon glanced nervously over my shoulder. "Uh, that would be William Beckett. Sings with Academy Is. Not a bad piece of ass, huh?"

"Brendon!"

"I don't know, dude, I don't know who she --"

He broke off, eyes focused rather deliberately on something behind me.

"Am I interrupting something?"

I spun around to find those smiling, liquid cat-eyes inches from mine. The grin already set in his features spread over his whole face, and he whispered "Hi" before throwing his arms around my neck. For a few precious seconds I lost myself in all those beautiful luxuries of the senses, wondering how I'd gone a week without it and realizing I was kind of a disgusting little addict, to be honest.

He pulled away and exchanged greetings with Brendon, who then informed us a bit theatrically that he needed another drink, and set off with a wink as I caught his last glance.

"So," I declared, maybe a little too cheerfully. "Who's your, uh..." Slut? Groupie? Mistress? Slutty groupie mistress?

"Oh, Jen? She's just a friend, she's like all in love with Pete... I promised I'd bring her to one of these things once."

Validating his words, Jen already had Pete cornered against a wall across the room. Pete, unsurprisingly, did not seem to have much of a problem with this. (Patrick, on the other hand, spying them from a distance, was visibly less than amused.)

"Oh," I said dumbly, relocating my ability to breathe. "Yeah. Cool. Okay." Wow; one-syllable sentences in succession are so sexy, Gabe. "So, uh, want me to get you a drink?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. Let me just, uh... make the rounds, y'know. Say hi to a few peeps."

"Yeah. Okay."

We'd been staring at each other for a few seconds, and about half a second too late, we realized that we'd been staring at each other, and even later than too late, I noticed it was there again, that damn look of his that could only have meant two things, and he was working it shamelessly, as though he was fully aware of how much it was torturing me and somehow got off on it.

Fucking perv. Fucking perv who’d stolen my heart with all his fucking pervy-ness and apparently made me so obvious about it that, between Brendon and me (and don’t think we haven’t seen all those looks between our boss and little Mikey Way), Pete might as well rename the label Degaydance.

He smiled. "You look good."

I smirked. "I know."

He raised an eyebrow and made his way into the crowd. He turned around once, almost like the little ego-driven bastard knew I’d still be trailing after him with my eyes, and when he caught my gaze, he looked down at... his own ass, what the fuck? -- and back up at me. I followed his eyes, and I saw it:

The ubiquitous handkerchief -- stuffed into his back pocket. His right back pocket.

Well, good, it's about time he owned up to his status as a lifelong sub and holy SHIT did I just get propositioned?

Psh. Yeah, and Brendon’s straight.

Apparently I’d forgotten that flirtation was a necessary and foundational part of my relationship with William; had been since the day we met. Still, my mouth sort of dropped open like a complete retard, but I glanced back up at his face for some kind of clue. He just winked at me and disappeared into the mass of bodies circulating the space.

Christ. What I wouldn't have given to know what the hell was going on with us.

I went and got him a drink as promised, wandered around, and after five minutes I couldn't see him anywhere and figured he could damn well wait for his drink while I took a bathroom break.

One floor up and ten steps from the bathroom, the electricity went out.

I half tripped over myself, reaching out to the wall for security and inching toward the bathroom door, when a slight shuffling noise halted me in my tracks.

I held my breath, feeling around the floor with one foot. “...Hemingway?”

A snort – not a dog snort, a laughter snort.

“Hey! Who’s – ”

One step and I’d tripped over some stupid plant table in the hallway and plummeted straight forward, when a body and a pair of arms broke my fall, followed by a solid, malicious giggle.

“You dickhead.”

“Bill?!”

“No, Hemingway.”

“Oh, suck it. Ouch.”

He helped me up, hands still clasped around my arms and his mouth so close to my face I could feel the words leave his lips. “You okay?”

God, I am now. Shit.

“Uh... yeah, I just... ran into a fucking table,” I whined, rubbing my hip where the sharp corner had hit.

“The ugly one with the weird orange thing on it?”

“I think so.” We laughed. Vaguely I registered the muffled hum of mixed voices downstairs – or was that just my ears ringing?

“Um.” He released one of my arms, guiding me forward until I felt the doorframe against my shoulder. “The bathroom’s right here.”

“Well I can’t go now, I can’t see anything!”

“Bad aim, huh?”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try.”

He snorted. “You just want to get my pants off.”

I could neither shame myself to admit it, nor debase myself to deny it – and worse still, I couldn’t read his tone to save my life (annoyed? hopeful? god forbid, repulsed?), so I said nothing. Which was probably not the wittiest of responses.

And there I was, leaning against the door now, and he hadn’t really let go of me and I didn’t know where my other hand was until I felt his hand clasp it and realized it was resting between his legs, not doing much of anything but very, very much there all the same and, as one terrified unit, we fell still as ice.

A whole solid unexaggerated sixty fucking seconds crept past us, unsuspected but blinding. Slowly, I tuned out the distant noise from downstairs until all my awareness was split between two burning focal points: the line of fire where our hands touched, and his breath against my cheek, smelling of Tic-Tacs and honey and enough to make me drown.

“...William?”

The second syllable was barely out before his tongue was in my mouth, his hand behind my head, and I felt the door shoot open as we fell back into the bathroom. In my shock I grasped at the darkness and yanked down the shower curtain before I gathered some fraction of my senses and started responding. Our first time, I’d made sure to hold back, let him set the pace – after all, I figured it was the first time either of us had fucked another guy – but here, now, all I could think was fuck it as I picked him up and sat him down on the countertop, his legs around my waist, our tongues still fighting for dominance.

I stepped back long enough to whip off his pants and holy fucking shit, no underwear again and he was already hard as a rock. Dizzy from what I knew wasn’t the blackout, I slipped a hand between our bodies and started stroking him, just soft, light, dying to tease him, aching to make this last as long as humanly possible – or as long as the dark would shut out those villains of reality and inhibitions.

...And I suppose that brings us to where we started, getting each other off in a blackout in Pete’s bathroom – me slipping seductions into his ear and practically drunk from the sensation of his hand wrapped around me – and him, impossibly gorgeous even in total darkness, arching to meet my strokes and gasping hard enough to make me think maybe I wasn’t the only one drowning.

Despite the alluring, uncertain thrill of visual impairment, I missed looking at him, watching him, seeing him. But even without visuals, even if I could read nothing else about him, I knew then -- could sense it in the shuddering rhythms of his body -- that as much as he wanted this, part of him inside was terrified, wishing he didn’t, wishing it so hard he had to sink into me even further just to escape it.

It was hardly the time to analyze it, but when I felt his free arm wrap around me so tightly as if I were the only thing keeping him afloat – alive, even – I snapped into awareness, ran a hand through his tangled hair, cradling his head until our foreheads touched, a melting of hot skin and sweat and trembling.

“Bill?” I breathed. “You okay, man?”

He nodded against me, not trusting speech.

“You sure?”

He pressed a smile into my lips. “You have no idea, angel.”

Fuck.

That did it for me, and I fucking whimpered like a puppy, and apparently that did it for him because his nails slipped under my shirt and gripped my shoulder like they were trying to break through (they did, I found out later) – he spilled into my hand and I followed a split second after because god knows I’d follow him anywhere.

When we opened our eyes, the electricity was back.

I think I blushed when I finally saw him.

He just stared, unblinking, breath unstable at best and still preserving that vice-grip hold on my shoulder. His eyes were giving off this crazy golden tint, and his face gleamed, damp and flushed: the most achingly beautiful sight I’d ever seen. The mess in our hands, warm, validating, dripped onto our clothes as proof, ensuring we’d never be able to pretend it never happened -- but I couldn’t muster any desire to move. When he finally released me it was only to lift his hand to my cheek, stroking softly and gently drawing my mouth to his.

The kisses that followed could’ve (should’ve?) been so easy, so familiar and uneventful, but instead they were like a climax all on their own. Not the wild, drowning kisses I’d come to expect from him, deliriously desperate like he was trying to lose himself in me... but somehow just the opposite – soft, searching, deep and deliberate and slow... like this time he was trying to find himself.

When he finally spoke, it was the first predictable response I’d had from him all night:

“We should, uh.”

Go. Right. As always.

I must have been pretty transparent because he touched my arm, crumbling to nerves. “No, I just – I mean, the downstairs bathroom is being remodeled, you know, people will probably need to...”

“Yeah.”

When I looked up at him his eyes were pleading with me, please, trust me, I want to talk, I just...

...Can’t. At least I could relate to that much.

The one thing I did know, talking was only going to get harder the longer we waited.

We gathered our clothes and ourselves together in silence, and when we’d cleaned up and had nothing left to do but break the silence, once again my mind offered me only two options: the usual ‘I’m in love with you, idiot,’ which of course went ignored, and, most unbelievably...

“I still have to pee.”

Jesus, Gabe.

“Uh, yeah,” he half-laughed. “I’ll just... see you downstairs.”

I watched him shuffle his long, lanky frame out of the bathroom and I ached for how much I didn’t want him to go, so much that –

“Becks?”

He spun around, his face bright and, if I dared to hope, hopeful.

“Dance with me tonight?”

His eyes lit up. “You bet.”

“I’m gonna dance with Brendon first though, ’cause I feel sorry for him.”

He grinned. “Okay.”

We shared that silent, dangerous stare for the thousandth time. He broke it first, rested a hand nervously on the doorframe. Bit his lip. Looked back at me.

“Iloveyouyouknowthatright?”

His Brendon-worthy awkwardness drew a smile out of me.

But he’d made it safe, set the words’ significance to friendship mode, so in that moment it became the easiest thing in the world to say:

“I love you too.”

After shutting the door, I listened for the last audible footstep before taking a breath.

I was fucked. Completely.

/ch. 2