full moons & minor keys (6/7)

[behindthec]

Title: Full Moons and Minor Keys (6/7)

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: Hope you guys enjoyed the piano sex, you insatiable whores. :P This one’s for my 13DF gang, a.k.a. The Clandestine Collective. Watch out, everyone. We’re coming, and we’ve got slash.

 

Prepare for FM&MK’s one and only sort-of cliffhanger! CLIFFHANGERS FTW!!!

 

xposted to hell and back, no doubt.

 

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

Previous Chapters:

- Chapter 1 and Chapter 1b

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

6.

 

Tired boys with wired eyes

Exposing imperfections...

- G.C.H.

 

 

 

His plane arrived at 10:18 that night, and by 8:30 I was pacing the balcony of my apartment, chain-smoking and ignoring the full moon that reminded me of his skin.

 

When my eyes finally singled him out in the crowd at baggage claim, I absorbed him in pieces, by distinction -- first the fact that not one of the some three billion other travelers had a scraggly bandana tied around their leg, nor was anyone else wearing my "Save a tour bus -- ride a rock star" t-shirt (stolen from my hotel room the last time we'd seen each other). I think he only finally spotted me by the fact that I was laughing at him.

 

He was on his cell, but not so lost in it that his face didn't shine like the top of the fucking Chrysler building when we finally made eye contact. I caught the tail end of his conversation as he approached:

 

"No, not the red door, the dragon's behind that one. Well, yeah, but you don't wanna -- no, take the sword if you can reach it -- but you've gotta have enough gold first. Okay. I've gotta go, buddy. Good luck."

 

I had no words at this point, giddy nervousness having been compounded by sheer bewilderment.

 

He set down his guitar case and grinned. "Sorry. My little cousin, Matt. Apparently he's addicted to the same shit I was at his age."

 

"Oh my god, you were a gamer geek!"

 

"Shut up! Only till I discovered guitars and sex."

 

"More like guitars and your own hand, dude."

 

"Well, we didn't all get to do it at thirteen with our babysitters, Saporta."

 

I could only shrug, smug and stupidly proud, and I beamed at him.

 

"Like your shirt," I remarked.

 

A flirty little eyebrow raise answered for him before he circled his arms around my neck and vanished the space between our bodies. A soft "Missed you" against my ear made me shiver, and knowing what kind of bodily reactions often followed a shiver when William was involved, I forced myself to break the embrace and drag him to the baggage carousel.

 

"I can't believe you brought your guitar," I bitched when we were home and I'd accepted the task of lugging it up to the apartment.

 

"I'm writing a new song!" he protested, as though this were both a surprise and a justification. "I wanted you to hear it. It's in A flat... just for you."

 

Okay, that was a little bit precious.

 

"I have a guitar, you know."

 

"Yeah, well." He smirked like that would excuse it, and because I was just that weak, it did.

 

It took all of thirty seconds to get ourselves and the luggage into my living room and realize we pretty much had no idea what to do now.

 

"You, uh, want a drink?" I offered.

 

"Yeah, thanks."

 

Three and a half steps toward the kitchen was, apparently, as long as he could wait.

 

"Gabe?"

 

I stopped; turned around. Caught brief sight of a William-resembling blur before my back hit the wall and somewhere inches away, a picture rattled in its frame. I had enough awareness left to register the taste of airplane peanuts and spearmint gum before the little whimpers he was making against my mouth turned my brain to mush and my legs to jelly.

 

 

 

One hour, five orgasms, and three pieces of newly christened furniture later, I got the nerve to ask.

 

"Can I hear your song?"

 

The silence answered before he could; but he shifted his weight on the mattress until his head was pillowed on my stomach, and took a breath.

 

"Not right now."

 

"...Not right now?"

 

His eyes found mine. "I'm not ready yet."

 

That really, really didn't sound music-related.

 

I twirled a strand of his hair around my finger. "Okay. Are you ready for dinner?"

 

"Real dinner? At one in the morning?"

 

"It'll be more like two by the time I'm done cooking..."

 

"You're cooking?!"

 

"Well, not if you don't want me to," I sulked.

 

"No, I do!" He flipped over onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows as I slunk out of bed and started pulling on a pair of jeans. "What are you making?"

 

I leaned over, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. "The best vegetarian Latino meal you've ever fucking had."

 

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze momentarily darting between my legs. "I thought I just had that."

 

"William Eugene Beckett!"

 

He giggled and rolled onto his side, pulling a pillow to his chest and grinning Cheshire Cat-style.

 

"You're a slut," I informed him, still struggling with the jeans. "And in case you didn't notice, that wasn't technically vegetarian."

 

"Hmm... true. You know those are my pants, right?"

 

I looked down at the zipper that still lay stubbornly at the bottom of the fly, despite my best yanking efforts. "Shit. You're skinny."

 

"So fatten me up."

 

"I will. Screw pants."

 

So I cooked dinner at one in the morning in my underwear, and some forty-five minutes later found us half-naked on my couch with plates on our laps, beers perched on the floor, and Gizmo nestled between us, watching The 40-Year-Old Virgin and discovering we could quote about seventy percent of the lines between mouthfuls of rice (or, more frequently, during mouthfuls of rice, leaving my living room floor dotted with grains that Gizmo would periodically leap up to snatch).

 

If I'd been a little drunker, I might have asked him to move in with me.

 

...Fucking hell.

 

 

 

 

By the second morning he had his own towel in the bathroom.

 

By the third morning I was used to waking up next to him, so much so that I expected it.

 

By the fourth morning the bedroom smelled like him, even when he wasn't in it.

 

By the fifth morning he had his own drawer in the top of my dresser. Because I was sick of picking up all his shit, I insisted, and threw a sock at him.

 

By the sixth morning I knew just how he liked his eggs and he knew how to make my coffee to perfection, complete with two and a half shakes of the cinnamon jar. He was the only one who’d ever been able to do it. Ever.

 

The seventh morning, his flight would leave at 7:24 a.m.

 

And I still hadn’t heard his song.

 

We’d written some stuff together though, smoking joints in our underwear in the middle of my living room, me on the piano and him on the guitar, resulting in a sound fusion somewhere between Panic! and October Fall – which happened to be pretty fucking awesome, despite William’s sort of adorable obsession with slipping into minor keys in the middle of perfectly uplifting melodies.

 

Our evenings had managed to escape the week’s tendency toward habit, falling instead to impulse, and had ranged from club-hopping, to DVD marathons, to sex marathons, to strip poker with a group of my friends (“He’s a keeper,” Chelsea joked to me on the side, just loud enough to inspire my paranoia as well as the urge to slap her with a spatula – a manly comeback for sure).

 

The last night was quiet, eventful only in its uneventfulness, removed from sentiment by the markedly un-full moon fighting its way through the New York smog.

 

In the interest of bonding and family ties, we broke open packets of ramen for a 10:30 dinner. William, whose forehead had been crinkled since we woke up, insisted on cutting up a tomato for his bowl, and carried out the task like he had a personal vendetta against the poor fruit.

 

The string of swears (including several delicious ones in Spanish he’d picked up in the past week) told me in no uncertain terms that the knife had slipped, and I was out of my chair in about half a heartbeat.

 

“Fuck, I don’t know if I have any band-aids...”

 

“I think I’ve got some,” he winced as I cradled the injured finger. “Somewhere in my suitcase.”

 

I took off for the bedroom and started rifling through the layers he’d quietly packed earlier in the evening, making only small notice of a couple of my own t-shirts amidst the pile. After a minute of no luck, I finally located a zipped pocket hidden under the top, and pulled out an assortment of band-aids, backstage ID’s, and a single photograph, unframed, corners wrinkled and weak.

 

I forgot about band-aids – about pretty much everything then – as I studied the picture. A slightly younger William, eyes bright to match his smile – and, in the midst of planting a kiss on the corner of Bill’s mouth, Tom Conrad occupied the other half of he frame, one hand apparently snapping the picture and the other cupping Bill’s face. Despite Tom’s lips being otherwise occupied, a smile was evident, warm and affectionately possessive.

 

“Dude, what the fuck’s taking you so – ”

 

And of course, there was William standing in the doorway with a paper towel wrapped around his finger, eyes sharp and dark when he saw the object in my hand.

 

“What are you doing.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I – I just – it was – nothing, I – ”

 

He swept forward, dropped to his knees beside me and snatched the picture from my grasp, stuffing it and all but one large band-aid back in the zipped pocket and struggling with a hand and a half to peel off the wrapper.

 

“Here, let me – ”

 

Honestly I expected this to be one of those times he worked so hard to look anywhere but at me; instead, he kept his eyes so rigidly fixed on mine that I had to look away, focusing my efforts and vision on wrapping the band-aid around his finger as gently as possible.

 

But his eyes never faltered, and when I met them again, I understood.

 

It wasn’t bravado – it was a dare and a warning: daring me to ask, and warning me not to.

 

“I – ” I stammered. “I’m sorry, I – ”

 

He sighed, face softening. “No, don’t apologize. I just – look, I’m sorry, I know I’ve been...”

 

I smirked. “A complete bitch all day?”

 

“Pretty much, yeah.”

 

I nudged my shoulder against his, universal code for ‘Fuck it, man, it’s cool.’

 

“You wanna talk about anything?”

 

“Um, not really.” His uninjured fingers plucked at a piece of carpet.

 

“Wanna play for me?” I jerked my head toward his guitar.

 

“Um, hello?” He grinned, holding up his bandaged hand.

 

“Oh. Right. Um.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Want a lap dance?”

 

He smiled. “Can I move in with you?”

 

Oh. Well. Wow. Okay. Also, yes.

 

My face must’ve been priceless because he set off laughing. “I’m just kidding.”

 

“I know,” I answered way too fast. “I – y’know, it’s not that I – I mean, if you were serious, it’s not like – I mean, if you really wanted to, I just – ”

 

“Gabriel, stop talking.”

 

And he kissed me.

 

We must’ve kissed for hours, or so it seemed, just kissing, trying to outdo each other in stupid conversation between breaths (“Are you wearing cherry lip gloss, man?” “Are you wearing a fuckin’ Shrek band-aid?” “Shut up.” “You started it.”), dissolving passion to soft giggles and softer touches, and by the time we made it to the bed and got our clothes off, the intimacy was so heightened that actual sex would’ve just been superfluous.

 

So we stroked each other off under the covers (and fuck if the texture of that Shrek band-aid didn’t add a little something), and spent the next two hours lying on our sides facing each other and talking about our first crushes, favorite Jolly Rancher flavor, worst live show ever, and finding more things to laugh about than I’d have ever thought possible, like how Pete would snort when he got to giggling too hard, how Patrick sneezed like a six-year-old girl, and how I thought carbon copies smelled like parakeets.

 

I woke up at some ungodly pitch-black hour, surprised to find I’d fallen asleep at all, and even more surprised to find myself alone.

 

His name was one breath from leaving my mouth when the tiniest noise crept from the kitchen. Spotting Gizmo at the foot of the bed, adorably oblivious, there was pretty much one option left.

 

Bill was slouched on the tile floor against the refrigerator in nothing but a pair of my boxers, one hand on a bottle of beer and the other arm resting atop one bent knee. The wannabe light above the stove betrayed a hint of shine beneath his eyes, two wet trails leading down to his chin.

 

Fuck.

 

“Hey,” I said softly. “What – ”

 

“What are we doing?”

 

He hadn’t looked at me when he said it, and for all I knew he was completely sloshed and talking to himself and hadn’t even noticed me at all.

 

But when his eyes shot up, lucid and focused... that theory flew out the window.

 

“I – what?”

 

“What are we doing?” he repeated. “What the hell are we doing, Gabe?”

 

“I – I don’t know what you – ”

 

Except I did, knew all too well and was stalling because at 3:47 in the morning I was hardcore underprepared for this conversation – a conversation that had been put off for so long I’d started to forget it was inevitable.

 

He got to his feet, slowly. Set down the bottle. Took a breath, a really fucking deep one, and looked me straight in the eye.

 

“What is this?”

 

“What is wh—”

 

“This, Gabe. Us. What are we doing?”

 

“What, you want like a – a play-by-play, I mean – ”

 

He pursed his lips. He wasn’t angry – not yet – and the goal was to keep it that way. ‘Part’ Irish my ass – I’d seen his temper exactly once and never wanted to again.

 

“Don’t fuck with me, just tell me. What is this to you?”

 

Shit, shit, shit. To me. What was it to me. Now it wasn’t a factual question anymore, it was that ‘in your own words’ bullshit they put on history and poli-sci exams.

 

I stared at the stove, helpless. “I don’t know, William.”

 

He delayed himself with one shaky breath. “Am I just a good fuck – if that?”

 

“Fuck! No! Don’t be dramatic, you know it’s not like that.”

 

“Then what?” he begged. “Friends with benefits?”

 

“No, I... I...”

 

“Say it.”

 

...What?

 

“What?”

 

“Say it!”

 

“Say what?!”

 

“Gabe!”

 

“Fuck, Bill, I’m in love with you! Okay? I’m fucking in love with you! Have been forever, maybe since the day I met you. Maybe before.”

 

Silence – silence would have been okay. I expected silence. Long, awkward, drawn-out silence.

 

But I barely got three seconds of it before –

 

“I know.”

 

Soft, weak, tired even – relieved? Fucking apologetic? But beyond all – fully unsurprised.

 

I studied his eyes, terrified. It was the worst response possible. Ever. In the history of responses. And more confusing still, his eyes were pleading for what looked like fucking forgiveness.

 

Before I could say anything, he was crying – quiet, subtle, just like the first time. How weirdly full-circle, somehow.

 

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I – I’m sorry, I can’t.”

 

I took a cautious step forward, and another. Risked one more and rested a hand on his hip.

 

“Can’t what?”

 

He just shook his head, like he was trying to shake something out of it – memories, or fears, or... something.

 

“...Bill? You can’t what?”

 

He pulled away – the first time in memory he’d ever recoiled from my touch.

 

“William – ”

 

“I can’t fall in love with a guy again. I’m sorry.”

 

And he swept from the room, leaving me shell-shocked and distracted by the sounds of suitcases and clothing coming from the bedroom. Because I couldn’t bear to do anything else, I followed him – found him closing his guitar case, his suitcase already snapped shut and propped decidedly against the door.

 

“Dude, what – you’re leaving?”

 

“My flight leaves in a few hours anyway.”

 

Jesus. Fuck. No.

 

“Bill, stop. Just fucking talk to me, man, okay? Please.”

 

He headed for the bathroom, scrounging for his toothbrush and I had an untimely wondering of how long it would be after he left until my bedroom stopped smelling like him and fuck, I didn’t want it to ever stop smelling like him.

 

I watched him stuff a few toiletries into a bag.

 

“Seriously, you’re gonna leave? Like this?”

 

“I’m sorry,” was all he said, quiet but resolute.

 

I sighed. “I’ll get my keys.”

 

“No.” For the first time, he looked at me. “It’s okay, I’ll take a cab.”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“Gabe... please.”

 

“Bill, it’s four in the fucking morning, it’s New York, and you’re gorgeous. I’m not letting you wander around – ”

 

“I’m not wandering, there’s like three cabs downstairs, look out the window.”

 

“Beckett.  Dude.”

 

He halted all nervous movement, looked at me, and set his bags down. I started to breathe again as he stopped forward and hugged me, but before my brain could even tell my arms to hug back, he whispered “I’m sorry, angel,” and released me.

 

His bags were in his hands again, and as he managed to trek through the living room and out the door, I could only watch, paralyzed and voiceless.

 

 

/ch. 6.