Pushing the Boundaries [1/2]
Title: Pushing the Boundaries
Pairing: Gabe/William
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Warning: Bondage
Summary: “This isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you said retreat, bro,” Gabe comments, fingers digging into muscle just enough to make William’s shoulders rise.
Notes: Thanks to cupiscent, who was there to encourage me from the first words and who stayed with me all the way to tweaking the final paragraphs. This is really for her.
It’s a few weeks after the conversation that William finds himself being buzzed into Gabe’s New York apartment. Not the last conversation they had, obviously - they don’t go for more than three days without talking, unless there are extenuating circumstances - but the important one.
The pertinent portion of the conversation itself had gone something like this:
“I’m not writing anything,” William had said, looking out the windows of the bus as it rolled on toward the next venue, the next show, the next change of scene. “I’m thinking too much about everything, and nothing’s coming out.”
“Under pressure,” Gabe had said wisely, with noise in the background from Ryland’s guitar, low and rumbling. “You can’t force it.”
William’s fingers drummed against fabric too soft for a beat. “I need to get out of my head. Get away. Maybe just for a few days, some kind of artists’ retreat.”
“You know where I live,” Gabe told him.
Which is why he’s here now, climbing the steps because he hates being closed into elevators when he already feels trapped. It hadn’t even really been a question, once Gabe had said it - like there was anywhere else William would go to get away, to be alone. Gabe had been in his life for so long that being around him was more like being with an extension of William himself, someone else to finish his sentences and say the words out loud when he got stuck. He thinks there might be a song in that, but it wouldn’t be as obvious as he’d just made it seem. It never is.
He pushes the book into Gabe’s hands as soon as the door opens, brushing past him and heading for the liquor cabinet. He needs a drink after the insanity of LaGuardia, and Gabe doesn’t stand on the ceremony of backslapping and small talk greetings. William isn’t entirely lacking in courtesy, though, so he grabs two glasses from the cabinet above the sink and pours a drink for Gabe while he’s at it.
Gabe barely glances at the cover, ambling over after he shuts the door to squeeze the back of William’s neck. William isn’t all that surprised by his lack of interest, actually; Gabe has probably already read the book.
“This isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you said retreat, bro,” Gabe comments, fingers digging into muscle just enough to make William’s shoulders rise. He forces them back down again and knocks back the first burning swallow of strong alcohol. Gabe squeezes again, and says, “One of those for me, or was LaGuardia even more of a hellhole than usual?”
“Yeah,” William answers. He twists around to lean against the counter, Gabe’s hand dropping from his neck in the process. The cabinet is cooler when he rests his head against it. “I don’t know, I was just thinking about it.”
“You’re way too vanilla for this,” Gabe says, dropping the book onto the counter beside them. William doesn’t look down, even though the sound of it sparks the impulse. He already knows what’s on the cover. “You get freaked out by anything even mildly kinky.”
“That thing you did with the bottle is not normal,” William says automatically, having heard the story more than enough times to be sure. He shudders just thinking about it. “It’s not.”
“It’s not that kinky, though,” Gabe counters, leaning one hip against the counter next to William. “Not in comparison. That’s all I’m saying.” He still hasn’t reached for the second glass; William nudges it in his direction, unable to stay still.
“I need to stop thinking so much, though,” William tells him, his eyes falling closed. He’s frustrated that he can’t even put this into words, how he thinks it might help, the way the book’s promises dance constantly through his waking mind. “Just. I can’t…”
“Yeah,” Gabe agrees easily, not even needing to hear what he hasn’t been able to articulate. William lets his breath push out in a long exhale, shoulders slumping. Gabe knuckles his shoulder again and William leans into the touch. “You got someone in mind, though? Shit like this, you’re going to need someone you actually trust enough not to fuck you up.”
William opens his eyes. Gabe takes less than a second to get it, and then he doubles over laughing, one hand gripping the edge of the counter for balance.
“Fuck,” he gasps finally. “No. You’re not serious.”
William’s own knuckles are white on the counter; he forces them to loosen and release slowly as he breathes. “I thought we could do, like, some of it. Without the sex.”
Gabe’s eyebrows lift and scrunch expressively. William’s watching him out of the corner of his eyes, too nervous to maintain direct contact. “Bondage without sex? That’s like saying tantric sex without sex is anything but fucking yoga, because it isn’t.” He’s looking speculative, though, under the disbelief, enough for William to take a deep breath and turn to face him.
“Please,” he says. He rushes out the rest as Gabe inhales, cutting him off before he can say anything else and crush William’s hopes for this weekend about getting his own brain to shut up for a little while. “Two days. That’s all. Just the easy stuff. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Gabe shuts his mouth. He studies William for long enough that it makes his skin itch, but finally smirks in a way that William knows immediately means surrender, capitulation. His shoulders sag with relief before Gabe even says, “I’m going to be comfortable with way more than you are.”
Which is probably true. That just makes it easier, though, for Gabe to be the one to do this. He’s tried everything once, and even if he hasn’t, he’s up for it. It’s immeasurably reassuring. “I trust you,” he says.
Gabe picks up the forgotten glass and drains it in three long swallows. He sets it down with a heavy thunk on the counter - William’s eyes flick toward the sound before he can stop it, this time - and says, “I guess we’d better find some rope.”
* * *
William fucking Beckett, Gabe thinks. What are you thinking? Considering that they’re currently in a home improvement warehouse shopping for bondage rope - not just a few pieces, either, no, Bill wants to go all the way straight to fucking shibari - Gabe thinks the real question here might be Gabe fucking Saporta, what the fuck are you doing?
Bill keeps picking up all the wrong sorts of rope; rough hemp, cable, parachute cord. “What’s wrong with that one?” he asks, as Gabe takes the cotton rope out of his hands and puts it back on the shelf, the same as he’s done with the last three.
“Too tough to undo the knots,” Gabe says, because he got a lecture on this once from a seriously hot elementary school teacher who had a thing for tying up her one-night stands. “Fine if you’re a pro, maybe, but if you panic we’re getting that shit undone in a hurry.”
Bill eyes him sideways. “You know a lot about this,” he comments, and Gabe can’t figure if there’s something underneath that or not. Bill doesn’t judge anyone’s sex life, but he does sometimes give you weird looks when you stop fitting into the box he’s made for you.
“What did I tell you?” Gabe asks rhetorically, and pulls down a thick bundle of rope, tossing it to Bill after inspection. “Try that.”
Bill turns the rope over in his hands, considering. “I thought you said no hemp,” he says suspiciously.
“I said no rough hemp. The shit you picked out would have scratched you to pieces. We can’t go chafing your lily-white skin,” Gabe says, grinning. Bill rolls his eyes, but un-tucks one end of the rope and winds it around his wrist a few times, giving it a good tug.
Gabe knew, in theory, how this was going to work. Tie Bill up, let him experience whatever, have some chips and check out lolcats, then undo the whole thing, clap Bill on the back and go out for pizza.
Only now Bill’s actually wrapping the rope around his wrists, wearing a little frown of concentration, and Gabe is having far too easy a time picturing him just like that and naked.
“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning against a shelf of assorted hardware.
Bill directs the frown up at Gabe. “You said to test it. This is good, I think. Should we get the whole thing?”
Gabe’s original plan was to measure out the approximate length they needed and take that up to the counter for some helpful, pimply sales kid to cut, but now he’s having a vision of Bill figuring out how much rope they should get by having Gabe tie him up right here in the store, and even if they’re not all that famous, that’s not the best plan Gabe’s ever heard.
“Yep,” he says, snagging the whole fucking thing from Bill’s hands and looping it like a cable over his shoulder. “To the checkout.”
Bill lags behind as they head towards the front, and Gabe doesn’t know if it’s because he’s embarrassed to be seen with Gabe and a large amount of rope, or if he’s starting to have second thoughts. “You sure about this?” Gabe asks after he drops the rope onto the counter, waiting for the clerk to come over and ring them up. “We can call the whole thing off and go get some lunch, no biggie.”
Bill takes a minute, but his shoulders square, thin and obvious in his worn t-shirt, and he shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I want to try it.” He gives Gabe a small smile. “I wouldn’t turn down lunch first, though.”
“Bagelwich,” Gabe says decisively, flashing a grin at the clerk who finally makes it over to greet them.
“Bagel wizard,” Bill counters absently, looking out the front windows of the store. “Arguably more robust.”
“Mmm, mmm, Harry Potter,” Gabe agrees, rubbing his stomach. “Tastiest lunchmeat out there.”
Bill smiles at him and rolls his eyes. Mission accomplished. “$35.92,” the kid at the register says, and Bill starts to get out his card but Gabe beats him to it.
“This one’s on me,” he says, flashing another grin. “We give full-service treatment out here at the Saporta Day Spa.”
“You don’t have to…” Bill begins to protest. Gabe waves him down.
“Make it up to me, rock star,” he says, sliding his sunglasses on as they walk out with their bag of newly-acquired bondage gear. “Lunch is on you.”
“A bagelwich,” Bill says drily.
“Damn right,” Gabe agrees. “I don’t know about you, but I can eat a shit-ton of bagels in one sitting.”
“Give me that,” Bill says, sighing, and Gabe lets him have the bag only because Bill can sometimes be an ass about things being fair and equal, and allowing him to carry the bag is easier than the fight that would ensue if he didn’t.
“Cross here,” Gabe says, steering them to the curb and punching the button for the crossing signal. “Two blocks that way for lunch, and then let’s get home and tie your ass up.”
* * *
William uses the bathroom when they get back to Gabe’s place, because he probably won’t get another chance for a while, and he finds that thinking about this practically chases off a lot of the anxiety about actually doing it. He takes off his belt when he comes out, because the buckle will probably dig in, depending on what position Gabe ties him in, and he doesn’t want to be distracted by pain or discomfort.
Gabe’s leaning against the counter watching him, arms folded over his chest. “Stretch first,” he suggests. “You’re thinking hard-core long-term, you don’t want to cramp.”
“Not that hard core,” William argues, but he takes the advice, bending over to touch his toes and wrapping his arms around his calves. When he straightens up, Gabe’s giving him an inscrutable look, and William’s stomach does a weird almost-dropping thing he isn’t sure how to interpret.
“Come here,” Gabe says when William’s stretched out briefly, arms over his head and back, rolling his shoulders out. He beckons, and William almost - almost - balks at the sight of the rope in Gabe’s hand, but fuck it. This is what he wants.
“How do you want me?” he asks without thinking, and feels his face heat almost before Gabe wolf-whistles through his teeth in response.
Gabe grins, turning him a little with one hand on his arm. “Easy there, porn star,” he replies. “You ready for this?”
“I think so.” He frowns, running through his mental list of preparation, shrugging his shoulders out. Gabe nudges him closer to the couch, which has been divested of its usual assortment of magazines, throw pillows and articles of clothing.
“Hold this,” Gabe says, and William closes his hand agreeably around one end of the hemp rope. It’s soft, a little rough against his skin but not abrasive, thick enough that it doesn’t bite in when Gabe wraps the first loop around his wrists.
William closes his eyes, counting backwards from ten to clear his mind the way the book had suggested. He’s aware of everything, in a general sense; the hum of the HVAC in the background, the smell of cheese and old socks, the tag of his shirt flipped up in the back and brushing the nape of his neck. Gabe’s hands feel even larger than they look when he’s encircling both of William’s wrists with just one of them, thumb pressing in a little more firmly than his fingers as he winds the rope. William exhales.
“How flexible are you feeling?” Gabe asks, quieter than he had been a moment ago.
William rolls his shoulders out, feeling Gabe’s grip tighten automatically to keep hold of his wrists. “Go ahead and do it,” he answers. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
“You’d better,” Gabe replies, a teasing crack at a joke. “We’ve got a hell of a lot of rope to go, and loosening it up from the beginning is going to be shit.”
“Just do it,” William says again. Gabe’s already working, wrapping the rope in coils around and around, starting to climb up William’s arms. Gabe lets go of his wrists and puts both hands on his elbows, applying gentle but firm pressure to force William’s shoulders back. William has to take a few yoga breaths to release enough tension, but Gabe eventually gets his elbows close together, forearms brushing.
The rope winds its way higher, up over William’s forearms to hook around the thin skin in the crook of his elbows, tugging gently until William yields another inch. Gabe does something complicated with the rope, looping it under and tying something off with casual efficiency.
“Comfortable?” he asks, hands on William’s arms, encouraging him to flex. There’s practically no give, and it’s not the easiest position in the world, but William thinks he can handle it for a couple of hours.
“Yeah,” he says, taking another breath. “Keep going.”
Gabe walks around him, in a slow circle, and William watches him warily for the first part of the circuit but then has to close his eyes. It’s a little too much, with his eyes open. He feels Gabe’s arms brush his sides, and then the rope again, criss-crossing over his stomach, binding his torso. It’s somehow an even stronger feeling of restraint than the rope tying his arms, and he shifts automatically to test it out, but Gabe’s hand presses warm on his stomach below the ‘x’ of the rope, holding him still.
The rope loops over his chest, another criss-cross just above the first one, and then Gabe layers a third over both of them, working his way back down. It doesn’t interfere with William’s breathing, exactly, but it does make him more aware of it, somehow. Every breath pulls the rope taut against his skin, reminding him of how helpless he is. It’s not the greatest feeling, but it’s serving its purpose.
“Going down,” Gabe says lightly, joking again. “Curl your fingers up for a minute.”
He has to pull his shoulders up even further to do what Gabe’s urging, and there he can feel the first throbbing ache in his back, warning him against muscles that aren’t accustomed to being used like this. Gabe coils the rope around his waist and then his hips, the hemp rustling against denim. It’s nothing fancy, no loops through his legs or down the crack of his ass, but it’s still a strange feeling, having Gabe’s hands guide the rope along the front of his jeans by his crotch.
“Okay, sit down,” Gabe commands, and William bends awkwardly, his balance off with his arms tied behind his back. Gabe guides him down with one hand on his arm and the other at the small of his back, getting him seated on the edge of the couch. “And down,” Gabe says, and gives William a little push that knocks him over sideways, where he hits the cushions with a soft ‘whoomph.’
“On your back, bitch,” Gabe says, and William glares at him, wriggling around awkwardly until he’s mostly there, his arms jamming uncomfortably into his spine. He imagines his expression must be one of eloquent reproach, because Gabe says, “Don’t worry, I’ll make this quick,” and wraps the length of rope in a deceptively simple pattern down William’s legs where he’s holding them raised awkwardly off the couch.
“You’re good at this,” William comments, watching Gabe work.
He gets a grin in return, lazy and practiced. “Yeah, well,” Gabe replies, wrapping the remainder of the rope in a thick coil around William’s ankles. “I read the book.”
There’s a little more left over than is ideal, but Gabe just keeps wrapping it around William’s ankles until he runs out, tying the end off in a quick slip knot. He bumps William’s knees back and forth for a few seconds, then rolls him over onto his side. William would help, but he’s suddenly very aware that he’s trussed up like a calf at a rodeo and fairly helpless.
“Woah, hey,” Gabe says, appearing in his field of vision and crouching down beside him. “No panicking. You say the word, I can get all this shit off in less than a minute. Anytime.”
William breathes out, forcing his muscles to relax. “Why do you think I was panicking?”
“Your breathing got all weird,” Gabe says, squeezing his shoulder. William likes the contact; it makes him feel less isolated. “I know you, bro, no shitting me. You good?”
“Yeah,” William says, exhaling slowly. “Good.”
* * *
Bill’s been tied up for twenty-three minutes. Gabe has avoided thinking about sex for approximately fourteen of those minutes, and that’s mostly because he’d been cleaning up and putting some shit away. Still, it’s not a horrible ratio. He’s over 50%.
Bill’s eyes keep tracking him across the apartment, though, and it’s not relaxing for either of them like this. Gabe spends another few trips across the apartment considering the problem, and then disappears into his bedroom. Bill doesn’t call after him and ask what he’s doing, but he is looking at the bedroom doorway when Gabe walks back out, a navy blue bandana in his hand.
“Trust me on this one, I think it’ll help,” he says, squatting down next to where Bill’s head is, resting on a squishy throw pillow. He holds up the bandana, dangling it where Bill can see. “You game?”
Bill looks suspicious again, but he nods, lifting his head a little in permission. Gabe cradles his skull, making sure he doesn’t catch Bill’s hair when he pulls the loose ends together and ties them into a snug knot. He smoothes the fabric down over Bill’s eyes, sliding a finger under the edge of the blindfold to make sure it isn’t too tight.
“Feel good?” he asks, voice low. Bill nods, slowly, and Gabe guides his head back down to the pillow. “No more thinking,” he says, palm against William’s chest where the ropes cross. “Get out of your head, remember?”
Having Bill here like this is weirdly freeing for Gabe as well. He tries to keep quiet so that Bill can focus, which means there’s no dance music blasting from his speakers the way it often is when he’s home, the XM radio turned off. He doesn’t call anyone to shoot the shit like he normally would, and he doesn’t turn on a video game because he knows Bill would be able to figure out what he was doing and which one he was playing even blindfolded with the game on mute, and then he’d be imagining the game, which wouldn’t help either.
The first time his phone goes off Bill jerks, startled by the brassy ringtone after more than an hour of near-silence, and almost falls off the couch. He makes a soft pained noise and Gabe’s crouched down next to him in a heartbeat, saying some nonsense shit about how everything’s fine and rubbing Bill’s shoulder with his thumb, right at the edge of his sleeve where the fabric is worn thin.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s going off now, don’t worry about it. Everything cool?” He should have turned it off earlier, but he hadn’t thought about it; his phone is an extension of his hand most of the time, and it’s strange even turning it to mute, much less ignoring calls.
“Yeah,” Bill says, quieter than normal, but calm again, his breathing slowing down and even. “I wrenched my shoulder, but it’s fine.”
Gabe stays for a while, being reassuring, and when he finally drops his hand away from Bill’s sleeve it’s only to make himself more comfortable on the floor. He leans back against the couch, close enough that he can still faintly feel Bill’s body heat, and texts a reply to his missed call, making up some bullshit about resting his voice.
He keeps texting for a while, because the keys don’t make much noise, and the next time he checks the clock, another half-hour has gone by. He stretches, tossing his phone down under the edge of the couch, and stands up.
“Time to move,” he warns. “You’re not really ready for longer than this in one position. You need to piss or anything? Take a break?”
Bill shakes his head, and follows Gabe’s lead more easily than he’d expected, honestly, considering how disorienting the blindfold must be. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, and he responds to the pressure of Gabe’s hands without faltering, letting Gabe maneuver him as he unwinds the rope from Bill’s ankles and works slowly upward.
Bill hadn’t exactly been difficult to work with before, but now he’s a dream. Most of the tension has leeched out of his muscles, and when Gabe handles him he goes easily, bending and twisting in Gabe’s hands. The blindfold is still on; Gabe had originally planned on taking it off for a while, but Bill is so calm when Gabe repositions him that he decides to just fuck it and leave things as they are. If it’s working, he’s not going to mess with it.
He’d meant to change Bill’s position to something just as simple, maybe even easier, but the way Bill’s folding like warm clay in his hands is hard to resist. Gabe has every intention of tying his hands in front of him and maybe bending his knees a little for variety, but when he pulls the last of the rope from between Bill’s palms and guides his arms up to stretch his shoulders out, Bill gives this soft little sigh against Gabe’s neck and Gabe almost has a physical reaction that’s entirely inappropriate for the situation. Not that Bill would be able to see it, but even so.
He ends up guiding Bill forward instead, bending his legs and curving his arms around them, binding him into a gentle curve that shows nearly every one of the bumps traveling up his spine. He coils the rope high over Bill’s shoulders and carefully avoids his throat, hooking the rope back over itself to make sure it can’t slip and accidentally fall over Bill’s neck. Bill doesn’t make a sound the entire time, breathing softly and letting Gabe manipulate him, pliant and bendable, and after Gabe gets finished with the whole thing he has to take a time-out in the bedroom for a few minutes to chill out.
When he comes back out again, as silently as he can be due to the stillness that’s permeating his apartment, he stands by the kitchen bar for a while and just watches Bill, lying there and breathing. His lips aren’t parted but his mouth is soft, and his hair is ruffled on the side where the blindfold covers the tip of his ear. The cuff of his left pant leg has gotten turned up somehow, exposing a glimpse of argyle sock.
Bill’s breathing changes slightly, just enough for Gabe to notice before he says, “I can feel you staring at me.”
Gabe swallows, pushing off the bar and coming closer. “Yeah?” he replies, and his voice has gone low and throaty without his permission.
He thinks Bill hears it, too, because his tongue flickers out to wet his lips before he says, “Yeah,” and his breathing is faster. Anticipation, Gabe thinks, thrill of the unknown, a little daring, and if these were different circumstances and Bill was tied up at Gabe’s mercy for another reason, that would have been the sign Gabe was waiting for.
It isn’t, though, so he just crosses to the couch and half-sits on the arm next to Bill’s head. Bill is starting to fidget, not restlessness but tension of a different sort, nervous flutters and his fingers picking anxiously at the end of the rope, so Gabe reaches down with one arm to press a hand against Bill’s chest, palm to heart. Bill goes instantly still, melting back into the couch and his bonds, and Gabe looks down helplessly and thinks fuck.
* * *
Being blindfolded is an interesting experience. At first it had been a little strange, leaving William uncertain and tense because he couldn’t see, he didn’t know what was going on, he’d suddenly had one of his senses taken away and he wasn’t sure quite what to do without it.
The longer the blindfold has remained on, however, the easier it’s gotten, to the point that it feels natural now. It’s just like having his eyes closed during a nap, only the choice of opening them has been removed and is no longer his to make. Which is a relief in its own way, having decisions like that taken out of his hands, and he’s beginning to feel grateful for it.
The blindfold lets him focus on other things, for one; the sounds of traffic outside and Gabe moving around quietly inside; the smell of Gabe’s couch, old liquor and sweaty socked feet; the texture of the rope where it touches his skin and the way it squeezes gently around him with every inhale. He’d felt heightened awareness before, when he’d been bound the first time, but this is pushing him to new levels. He thinks he can feel the raised pattern in the weave of the upholstery beneath the back of his hand, and he knows when Gabe switches from reading a magazine to a novel by the sound of the pages as he turns them.
His head isn’t completely silent, of course, still darting from one thing to another the way it always does, but it doesn’t seem quite so overwhelming as it had before. He’s beginning to drift, a bit, wandering from one topic to another so easily that he catches himself thinking of penguins at one point and can’t for the life of him trace how he’s gotten there.
Gabe hasn’t touched him in a while, which William is actually fine with. It feels nice when he does, reassuring, but there’s a deeper sense of calm in this isolation, almost like his limbs are floating with nothing to ground him. He still knows exactly where Gabe is by the sound of pages and fabric rustling, the squeak of the tap when Gabe goes over to the sink to pour a glass of water and sets the tumbler down on the wooden side table, and that’s enough.
He’s drifting again when he realizes with a start that he’s thinking in lyrics, that the words flowing through his head are broken into stanzas and measured in meter. He has a complete thought in his head, about the last sunrise shared with someone as their hand slipped out of yours, and suddenly the peace and calm of the last few hours is shattered, overridden by the need to get this down on paper before it’s gone.
“Gabe,” he says, and the words feel foreign in his mouth, sour and echoing with disuse. “I think I’m done now. I need a pen, and paper.” His notebook is in his bag, he thinks. Maybe not; the point had been to get away from all of that, so his notebook may be lying on a coffee table in Chicago, abandoned, but he doesn’t think so. Even meaning to leave it behind, he has a tendency to pack it out of habit. Maybe blank paper is what he needs more, though. A clean slate.
He realizes belatedly that he hasn’t heard the familiar sounds of Gabe moving, coming closer. “Gabe?” he tries, berating himself for how small it comes out.
“I thought you wanted to let the words go for a while,” Gabe says, smooth and even, which for some reason makes William feel even smaller. If he shied away less from self-analysis, he might be more interested in his psychological reactions to this experiment, but right now he just wants to push them aside.
“I have…I need to get them down, though,” he says, trying to explain. “Before I forget them.” Gabe knows how that is; Gabe texts him and Pete at all hours of the morning with stray lines and a reminder to don’t let me forget this.
Gabe moves a little, rustling in the armchair by the window. “How about you tell me, instead?” he suggests finally.
He’s not going to let me, William thinks, and his stomach twists with a mix of emotions he can’t individually identify. He forces himself to breathe and think about it, because there’s not a lot else he can do, if Gabe point-blank refuses to untie him. He realizes his eyes are open and closes them, because having them open doesn’t do him any good anyway, and concentrates on relaxing his muscles again, which have jumped back to full tension.
He doesn’t like sharing unfinished lyrics, not with anyone. Gabe is the sometimes-exception to the rule, but even then it’s only when William has gotten stuck in the middle of something and needs someone to talk things out with, to give him a second opinion. It’s not raw and unplanned, stream-of-consciousness before he’s had the chance to look up synonyms and shift commas three times over.
It’s talking, though, which is different than passing him a sheet of paper covered in scribbling and waiting for Gabe to pass judgment. It’s not all that different from when they get sauced together and William starts rambling at four in the morning about loveseats as metaphors. He can feel the words slipping away even as he deliberates, refusing to be kept waiting in the face of so many other thoughts.
He opens his mouth and starts talking.
Gabe listens silently, and once William starts, it’s like the floodgates open and he can’t stop. He reels off entire verses, whole and unpolished, follows the spark of his brain when it leaps even when he doesn’t necessarily know why, and voices things out loud that he’s carried next to his heart for years without ever trusting himself enough to try to commit to paper.
He talks until his voice is starting to wear thin and dry, like old parchment paper, and the tide of words has begun to ebb. He takes a deep breath, feeling more at peace than he has in months, maybe even years, and only then does he hear the soft scratch of a ballpoint pen.
He turns even though he knows it doesn’t matter, tilting his head toward the sound. “You’re writing all of this down for me, aren’t you?” he asks, and he doesn’t know what emotion that is that’s messing up his voice, but he thinks at least part of it is gratitude, and a soft wash of warmth that must be friendship.
Gabe doesn’t answer, just moves from the chair over to the couch, the soft clink of a pen hitting the table giving him away even before he rises. He puts his hand on William’s cheek, palm cradling his jaw, and William turns into the touch unconsciously like a plant seeking sunlight.
Gabe’s thumb strokes his cheekbone, rough with calluses, and he chuckles softly at a joke William doesn’t know and doesn’t care about before asking, “You want some water?”
William exhales. “Please,” he says, skin warm even when Gabe takes his hand away. He’s back before long, William tracking his movements through the sounds he makes as he moves through the apartment, and then Gabe is lifting his head, guiding him to the rim of the water glass so he can drink. It’s surprisingly intimate, even for someone who’s held his hair while he puked up an entire bottle of cheap tequila outside a shitty bar at three in the morning.
William swallows until the water is gone, and licks the remainder from his lips, wet and clinging, when Gabe guides him back down. “You’re doing all right,” Gabe says, the tone intimate as well, and William can’t even make himself care about how he starts to glow.
* * *
It’s possible that this thing with Bill is fucking with his head more than expected.
He’d known that it would mess with him at least somewhat, because he’s not blind. Bill is attractive even when he’s not at his best, and right now he certainly isn’t at his worst. There’s enough of whatever it is between them for Gabe to know what it’s like to kiss him - usually drunk - and grope him - definitely drunk, often also high - but they’ve also been on the same page about where the lines are. Bill’s a good friend, and he looks good in skinny jeans, but neither of them have ever wanted to push it farther.
Gabe is thinking, with the worst possible timing, about how much he’d like to push it farther now.
It’s not just physical, either, which is the real bitch of the thing. If it were just that, Gabe could look his fill, jerk off in the bathroom to the mental image, wallow in guilt for a good half-hour and move on with life. Instead he’s got Bill’s smile whenever Gabe teases him gently about something, Bill’s intellect and three pages of freshly-conceived poetry that’s going to end up on an album within the year, Bill’s history with him and the weight of friendship giving everything more depth than Gabe is really comfortable with right now.
And part of it, he’s willing to admit, is the bondage. He gets off on tying up and being tied up as much as the next guy, sure, but this is even more than that. He puts off changing Bill’s position for as long as he feels safe doing it, because he knows, he knows, what Bill is going to feel like in his hands when he finally does.
Bill folds for him like a paper doll, letting Gabe stretch his muscles out before binding him up again, flexing into the new position as Gabe directs with the pressure of his hands. It’s either masochism or genius that has him tying Bill’s legs out straight, securing the rope from his ankles to the coil around his hips so that his legs are forced to stay slightly more than hip-width apart.
Bill doesn’t murmur a word of protest, just breathes soft and steady in Gabe’s ear as he rigs the knots, even when Gabe ends up without enough rope to do what he’d originally planned and has to improvise. He pulls Bill’s hands back behind his head, stretching his torso out and emphasizing the slim curl of his biceps, and winds the rope around his wrists to hold them there. The lack of leftover rope means that Gabe has to force Bill to arch, just enough to tie the knot, a shallow curve that lifts his spine off the couch cushion and highlights every breath he takes.
His chest rises and falls slightly faster than before, now that he can’t take the same deep breaths, and Gabe lays his hand across it for the first few minutes to make sure he’s getting enough air. Well, that and to feel the swell of Bill’s ribcage beneath his t-shirt, the steady quick beat of his heart.
“Getting trickier,” Bill murmurs when they’ve both gone still for a while, reminding Gabe that he may have to come up with a few more ideas for this before the night is out and Bill is ready to sleep.
Bill, Gabe reflects dourly, wants to do this for an entire second day.
“You said you were up for it,” Gabe reminds him, and the joke only comes out half as lame as he’d thought when he cracked it. It’s only half-lame because it’s at least half-flirty, and he tells himself sternly to get it the fuck together before the blindfold comes off and Bill goes back to being insightful and perceptive.
Maybe Bill doesn’t even need the blindfold off, because he’s quiet for a minute before he asks, “You okay?”
Gabe snorts. “Yeah,” he says, easily now, leaning in against the couch. “I’m supposed to be the one asking you that, bro.” Bill doesn’t reply, and there’s a little crease edging its way into his expression above the blindfold, so Gabe gives him a little squeeze and asks, “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Whatever,” Bill says, which makes Gabe mentally kick himself in the face because hello, bondage session, of course Bill doesn’t feel like making the decisions right now. And fuck, how did his hand end up on Bill’s hip, rubbing the waistband of his jeans?
“There’s a Spanish place just around the corner with vegan options,” he offers, the first thing that comes to mind. “They do a pretty good paella.”
Bill’s quiet again, and Gabe realizes belatedly that he might not want to go out, to leave this retreat for the noisy bustle of New York in the middle of their little experiment. Gabe could untie his hands and let him eat, that might still work. The idea of running out to grab something is dismissed almost as soon as he thinks it; there’s no way he’s leaving Bill here on his own and still bound, or even untied but still in an altered state of mind. The idea of feeding Bill one spoonful at a time is far too tempting for Gabe to consider closely.
“I don’t think I have anything here,” he says regretfully, mentally rifling through his freezer and fridge. There’s maybe a frozen burrito and a carton of OJ, but nothing like a proper meal for two. “I didn’t think about it, shit. I could get take-out.”
Take-out actually seems like the best option. Gabe’s just starting to stand and try to locate his phone when Bill says, “No, that’s…paella sounds good, actually. We can go out.”
Gabe’s still casting around, about to ask Bill if he’s sure, when he gets a flash of himself feeding Bill take-out Spanish food, Bill’s hair falling like silk between his fingers as Gabe cradles his head and his lips parted obediently to wait for the next bite.
Fuck fuck fuck, he thinks, doing a little dance around the living room to encourage his dick to lie down and play dead. Of all the times, he has to be doing this now, when Bill’s basically entrusted him with the most important thing he possibly could. Gabe is not fucking breaking that trust.
“Okay,” he says in a rush, clapping his hands together. “Paella it is.”
A break, he reflects, might be exactly what they need right now.
Part Two
Pairing: Gabe/William
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Warning: Bondage
Summary: “This isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you said retreat, bro,” Gabe comments, fingers digging into muscle just enough to make William’s shoulders rise.
Notes: Thanks to cupiscent, who was there to encourage me from the first words and who stayed with me all the way to tweaking the final paragraphs. This is really for her.
It’s a few weeks after the conversation that William finds himself being buzzed into Gabe’s New York apartment. Not the last conversation they had, obviously - they don’t go for more than three days without talking, unless there are extenuating circumstances - but the important one.
The pertinent portion of the conversation itself had gone something like this:
“I’m not writing anything,” William had said, looking out the windows of the bus as it rolled on toward the next venue, the next show, the next change of scene. “I’m thinking too much about everything, and nothing’s coming out.”
“Under pressure,” Gabe had said wisely, with noise in the background from Ryland’s guitar, low and rumbling. “You can’t force it.”
William’s fingers drummed against fabric too soft for a beat. “I need to get out of my head. Get away. Maybe just for a few days, some kind of artists’ retreat.”
“You know where I live,” Gabe told him.
Which is why he’s here now, climbing the steps because he hates being closed into elevators when he already feels trapped. It hadn’t even really been a question, once Gabe had said it - like there was anywhere else William would go to get away, to be alone. Gabe had been in his life for so long that being around him was more like being with an extension of William himself, someone else to finish his sentences and say the words out loud when he got stuck. He thinks there might be a song in that, but it wouldn’t be as obvious as he’d just made it seem. It never is.
He pushes the book into Gabe’s hands as soon as the door opens, brushing past him and heading for the liquor cabinet. He needs a drink after the insanity of LaGuardia, and Gabe doesn’t stand on the ceremony of backslapping and small talk greetings. William isn’t entirely lacking in courtesy, though, so he grabs two glasses from the cabinet above the sink and pours a drink for Gabe while he’s at it.
Gabe barely glances at the cover, ambling over after he shuts the door to squeeze the back of William’s neck. William isn’t all that surprised by his lack of interest, actually; Gabe has probably already read the book.
“This isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you said retreat, bro,” Gabe comments, fingers digging into muscle just enough to make William’s shoulders rise. He forces them back down again and knocks back the first burning swallow of strong alcohol. Gabe squeezes again, and says, “One of those for me, or was LaGuardia even more of a hellhole than usual?”
“Yeah,” William answers. He twists around to lean against the counter, Gabe’s hand dropping from his neck in the process. The cabinet is cooler when he rests his head against it. “I don’t know, I was just thinking about it.”
“You’re way too vanilla for this,” Gabe says, dropping the book onto the counter beside them. William doesn’t look down, even though the sound of it sparks the impulse. He already knows what’s on the cover. “You get freaked out by anything even mildly kinky.”
“That thing you did with the bottle is not normal,” William says automatically, having heard the story more than enough times to be sure. He shudders just thinking about it. “It’s not.”
“It’s not that kinky, though,” Gabe counters, leaning one hip against the counter next to William. “Not in comparison. That’s all I’m saying.” He still hasn’t reached for the second glass; William nudges it in his direction, unable to stay still.
“I need to stop thinking so much, though,” William tells him, his eyes falling closed. He’s frustrated that he can’t even put this into words, how he thinks it might help, the way the book’s promises dance constantly through his waking mind. “Just. I can’t…”
“Yeah,” Gabe agrees easily, not even needing to hear what he hasn’t been able to articulate. William lets his breath push out in a long exhale, shoulders slumping. Gabe knuckles his shoulder again and William leans into the touch. “You got someone in mind, though? Shit like this, you’re going to need someone you actually trust enough not to fuck you up.”
William opens his eyes. Gabe takes less than a second to get it, and then he doubles over laughing, one hand gripping the edge of the counter for balance.
“Fuck,” he gasps finally. “No. You’re not serious.”
William’s own knuckles are white on the counter; he forces them to loosen and release slowly as he breathes. “I thought we could do, like, some of it. Without the sex.”
Gabe’s eyebrows lift and scrunch expressively. William’s watching him out of the corner of his eyes, too nervous to maintain direct contact. “Bondage without sex? That’s like saying tantric sex without sex is anything but fucking yoga, because it isn’t.” He’s looking speculative, though, under the disbelief, enough for William to take a deep breath and turn to face him.
“Please,” he says. He rushes out the rest as Gabe inhales, cutting him off before he can say anything else and crush William’s hopes for this weekend about getting his own brain to shut up for a little while. “Two days. That’s all. Just the easy stuff. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Gabe shuts his mouth. He studies William for long enough that it makes his skin itch, but finally smirks in a way that William knows immediately means surrender, capitulation. His shoulders sag with relief before Gabe even says, “I’m going to be comfortable with way more than you are.”
Which is probably true. That just makes it easier, though, for Gabe to be the one to do this. He’s tried everything once, and even if he hasn’t, he’s up for it. It’s immeasurably reassuring. “I trust you,” he says.
Gabe picks up the forgotten glass and drains it in three long swallows. He sets it down with a heavy thunk on the counter - William’s eyes flick toward the sound before he can stop it, this time - and says, “I guess we’d better find some rope.”
* * *
William fucking Beckett, Gabe thinks. What are you thinking? Considering that they’re currently in a home improvement warehouse shopping for bondage rope - not just a few pieces, either, no, Bill wants to go all the way straight to fucking shibari - Gabe thinks the real question here might be Gabe fucking Saporta, what the fuck are you doing?
Bill keeps picking up all the wrong sorts of rope; rough hemp, cable, parachute cord. “What’s wrong with that one?” he asks, as Gabe takes the cotton rope out of his hands and puts it back on the shelf, the same as he’s done with the last three.
“Too tough to undo the knots,” Gabe says, because he got a lecture on this once from a seriously hot elementary school teacher who had a thing for tying up her one-night stands. “Fine if you’re a pro, maybe, but if you panic we’re getting that shit undone in a hurry.”
Bill eyes him sideways. “You know a lot about this,” he comments, and Gabe can’t figure if there’s something underneath that or not. Bill doesn’t judge anyone’s sex life, but he does sometimes give you weird looks when you stop fitting into the box he’s made for you.
“What did I tell you?” Gabe asks rhetorically, and pulls down a thick bundle of rope, tossing it to Bill after inspection. “Try that.”
Bill turns the rope over in his hands, considering. “I thought you said no hemp,” he says suspiciously.
“I said no rough hemp. The shit you picked out would have scratched you to pieces. We can’t go chafing your lily-white skin,” Gabe says, grinning. Bill rolls his eyes, but un-tucks one end of the rope and winds it around his wrist a few times, giving it a good tug.
Gabe knew, in theory, how this was going to work. Tie Bill up, let him experience whatever, have some chips and check out lolcats, then undo the whole thing, clap Bill on the back and go out for pizza.
Only now Bill’s actually wrapping the rope around his wrists, wearing a little frown of concentration, and Gabe is having far too easy a time picturing him just like that and naked.
“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning against a shelf of assorted hardware.
Bill directs the frown up at Gabe. “You said to test it. This is good, I think. Should we get the whole thing?”
Gabe’s original plan was to measure out the approximate length they needed and take that up to the counter for some helpful, pimply sales kid to cut, but now he’s having a vision of Bill figuring out how much rope they should get by having Gabe tie him up right here in the store, and even if they’re not all that famous, that’s not the best plan Gabe’s ever heard.
“Yep,” he says, snagging the whole fucking thing from Bill’s hands and looping it like a cable over his shoulder. “To the checkout.”
Bill lags behind as they head towards the front, and Gabe doesn’t know if it’s because he’s embarrassed to be seen with Gabe and a large amount of rope, or if he’s starting to have second thoughts. “You sure about this?” Gabe asks after he drops the rope onto the counter, waiting for the clerk to come over and ring them up. “We can call the whole thing off and go get some lunch, no biggie.”
Bill takes a minute, but his shoulders square, thin and obvious in his worn t-shirt, and he shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I want to try it.” He gives Gabe a small smile. “I wouldn’t turn down lunch first, though.”
“Bagelwich,” Gabe says decisively, flashing a grin at the clerk who finally makes it over to greet them.
“Bagel wizard,” Bill counters absently, looking out the front windows of the store. “Arguably more robust.”
“Mmm, mmm, Harry Potter,” Gabe agrees, rubbing his stomach. “Tastiest lunchmeat out there.”
Bill smiles at him and rolls his eyes. Mission accomplished. “$35.92,” the kid at the register says, and Bill starts to get out his card but Gabe beats him to it.
“This one’s on me,” he says, flashing another grin. “We give full-service treatment out here at the Saporta Day Spa.”
“You don’t have to…” Bill begins to protest. Gabe waves him down.
“Make it up to me, rock star,” he says, sliding his sunglasses on as they walk out with their bag of newly-acquired bondage gear. “Lunch is on you.”
“A bagelwich,” Bill says drily.
“Damn right,” Gabe agrees. “I don’t know about you, but I can eat a shit-ton of bagels in one sitting.”
“Give me that,” Bill says, sighing, and Gabe lets him have the bag only because Bill can sometimes be an ass about things being fair and equal, and allowing him to carry the bag is easier than the fight that would ensue if he didn’t.
“Cross here,” Gabe says, steering them to the curb and punching the button for the crossing signal. “Two blocks that way for lunch, and then let’s get home and tie your ass up.”
* * *
William uses the bathroom when they get back to Gabe’s place, because he probably won’t get another chance for a while, and he finds that thinking about this practically chases off a lot of the anxiety about actually doing it. He takes off his belt when he comes out, because the buckle will probably dig in, depending on what position Gabe ties him in, and he doesn’t want to be distracted by pain or discomfort.
Gabe’s leaning against the counter watching him, arms folded over his chest. “Stretch first,” he suggests. “You’re thinking hard-core long-term, you don’t want to cramp.”
“Not that hard core,” William argues, but he takes the advice, bending over to touch his toes and wrapping his arms around his calves. When he straightens up, Gabe’s giving him an inscrutable look, and William’s stomach does a weird almost-dropping thing he isn’t sure how to interpret.
“Come here,” Gabe says when William’s stretched out briefly, arms over his head and back, rolling his shoulders out. He beckons, and William almost - almost - balks at the sight of the rope in Gabe’s hand, but fuck it. This is what he wants.
“How do you want me?” he asks without thinking, and feels his face heat almost before Gabe wolf-whistles through his teeth in response.
Gabe grins, turning him a little with one hand on his arm. “Easy there, porn star,” he replies. “You ready for this?”
“I think so.” He frowns, running through his mental list of preparation, shrugging his shoulders out. Gabe nudges him closer to the couch, which has been divested of its usual assortment of magazines, throw pillows and articles of clothing.
“Hold this,” Gabe says, and William closes his hand agreeably around one end of the hemp rope. It’s soft, a little rough against his skin but not abrasive, thick enough that it doesn’t bite in when Gabe wraps the first loop around his wrists.
William closes his eyes, counting backwards from ten to clear his mind the way the book had suggested. He’s aware of everything, in a general sense; the hum of the HVAC in the background, the smell of cheese and old socks, the tag of his shirt flipped up in the back and brushing the nape of his neck. Gabe’s hands feel even larger than they look when he’s encircling both of William’s wrists with just one of them, thumb pressing in a little more firmly than his fingers as he winds the rope. William exhales.
“How flexible are you feeling?” Gabe asks, quieter than he had been a moment ago.
William rolls his shoulders out, feeling Gabe’s grip tighten automatically to keep hold of his wrists. “Go ahead and do it,” he answers. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
“You’d better,” Gabe replies, a teasing crack at a joke. “We’ve got a hell of a lot of rope to go, and loosening it up from the beginning is going to be shit.”
“Just do it,” William says again. Gabe’s already working, wrapping the rope in coils around and around, starting to climb up William’s arms. Gabe lets go of his wrists and puts both hands on his elbows, applying gentle but firm pressure to force William’s shoulders back. William has to take a few yoga breaths to release enough tension, but Gabe eventually gets his elbows close together, forearms brushing.
The rope winds its way higher, up over William’s forearms to hook around the thin skin in the crook of his elbows, tugging gently until William yields another inch. Gabe does something complicated with the rope, looping it under and tying something off with casual efficiency.
“Comfortable?” he asks, hands on William’s arms, encouraging him to flex. There’s practically no give, and it’s not the easiest position in the world, but William thinks he can handle it for a couple of hours.
“Yeah,” he says, taking another breath. “Keep going.”
Gabe walks around him, in a slow circle, and William watches him warily for the first part of the circuit but then has to close his eyes. It’s a little too much, with his eyes open. He feels Gabe’s arms brush his sides, and then the rope again, criss-crossing over his stomach, binding his torso. It’s somehow an even stronger feeling of restraint than the rope tying his arms, and he shifts automatically to test it out, but Gabe’s hand presses warm on his stomach below the ‘x’ of the rope, holding him still.
The rope loops over his chest, another criss-cross just above the first one, and then Gabe layers a third over both of them, working his way back down. It doesn’t interfere with William’s breathing, exactly, but it does make him more aware of it, somehow. Every breath pulls the rope taut against his skin, reminding him of how helpless he is. It’s not the greatest feeling, but it’s serving its purpose.
“Going down,” Gabe says lightly, joking again. “Curl your fingers up for a minute.”
He has to pull his shoulders up even further to do what Gabe’s urging, and there he can feel the first throbbing ache in his back, warning him against muscles that aren’t accustomed to being used like this. Gabe coils the rope around his waist and then his hips, the hemp rustling against denim. It’s nothing fancy, no loops through his legs or down the crack of his ass, but it’s still a strange feeling, having Gabe’s hands guide the rope along the front of his jeans by his crotch.
“Okay, sit down,” Gabe commands, and William bends awkwardly, his balance off with his arms tied behind his back. Gabe guides him down with one hand on his arm and the other at the small of his back, getting him seated on the edge of the couch. “And down,” Gabe says, and gives William a little push that knocks him over sideways, where he hits the cushions with a soft ‘whoomph.’
“On your back, bitch,” Gabe says, and William glares at him, wriggling around awkwardly until he’s mostly there, his arms jamming uncomfortably into his spine. He imagines his expression must be one of eloquent reproach, because Gabe says, “Don’t worry, I’ll make this quick,” and wraps the length of rope in a deceptively simple pattern down William’s legs where he’s holding them raised awkwardly off the couch.
“You’re good at this,” William comments, watching Gabe work.
He gets a grin in return, lazy and practiced. “Yeah, well,” Gabe replies, wrapping the remainder of the rope in a thick coil around William’s ankles. “I read the book.”
There’s a little more left over than is ideal, but Gabe just keeps wrapping it around William’s ankles until he runs out, tying the end off in a quick slip knot. He bumps William’s knees back and forth for a few seconds, then rolls him over onto his side. William would help, but he’s suddenly very aware that he’s trussed up like a calf at a rodeo and fairly helpless.
“Woah, hey,” Gabe says, appearing in his field of vision and crouching down beside him. “No panicking. You say the word, I can get all this shit off in less than a minute. Anytime.”
William breathes out, forcing his muscles to relax. “Why do you think I was panicking?”
“Your breathing got all weird,” Gabe says, squeezing his shoulder. William likes the contact; it makes him feel less isolated. “I know you, bro, no shitting me. You good?”
“Yeah,” William says, exhaling slowly. “Good.”
* * *
Bill’s been tied up for twenty-three minutes. Gabe has avoided thinking about sex for approximately fourteen of those minutes, and that’s mostly because he’d been cleaning up and putting some shit away. Still, it’s not a horrible ratio. He’s over 50%.
Bill’s eyes keep tracking him across the apartment, though, and it’s not relaxing for either of them like this. Gabe spends another few trips across the apartment considering the problem, and then disappears into his bedroom. Bill doesn’t call after him and ask what he’s doing, but he is looking at the bedroom doorway when Gabe walks back out, a navy blue bandana in his hand.
“Trust me on this one, I think it’ll help,” he says, squatting down next to where Bill’s head is, resting on a squishy throw pillow. He holds up the bandana, dangling it where Bill can see. “You game?”
Bill looks suspicious again, but he nods, lifting his head a little in permission. Gabe cradles his skull, making sure he doesn’t catch Bill’s hair when he pulls the loose ends together and ties them into a snug knot. He smoothes the fabric down over Bill’s eyes, sliding a finger under the edge of the blindfold to make sure it isn’t too tight.
“Feel good?” he asks, voice low. Bill nods, slowly, and Gabe guides his head back down to the pillow. “No more thinking,” he says, palm against William’s chest where the ropes cross. “Get out of your head, remember?”
Having Bill here like this is weirdly freeing for Gabe as well. He tries to keep quiet so that Bill can focus, which means there’s no dance music blasting from his speakers the way it often is when he’s home, the XM radio turned off. He doesn’t call anyone to shoot the shit like he normally would, and he doesn’t turn on a video game because he knows Bill would be able to figure out what he was doing and which one he was playing even blindfolded with the game on mute, and then he’d be imagining the game, which wouldn’t help either.
The first time his phone goes off Bill jerks, startled by the brassy ringtone after more than an hour of near-silence, and almost falls off the couch. He makes a soft pained noise and Gabe’s crouched down next to him in a heartbeat, saying some nonsense shit about how everything’s fine and rubbing Bill’s shoulder with his thumb, right at the edge of his sleeve where the fabric is worn thin.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s going off now, don’t worry about it. Everything cool?” He should have turned it off earlier, but he hadn’t thought about it; his phone is an extension of his hand most of the time, and it’s strange even turning it to mute, much less ignoring calls.
“Yeah,” Bill says, quieter than normal, but calm again, his breathing slowing down and even. “I wrenched my shoulder, but it’s fine.”
Gabe stays for a while, being reassuring, and when he finally drops his hand away from Bill’s sleeve it’s only to make himself more comfortable on the floor. He leans back against the couch, close enough that he can still faintly feel Bill’s body heat, and texts a reply to his missed call, making up some bullshit about resting his voice.
He keeps texting for a while, because the keys don’t make much noise, and the next time he checks the clock, another half-hour has gone by. He stretches, tossing his phone down under the edge of the couch, and stands up.
“Time to move,” he warns. “You’re not really ready for longer than this in one position. You need to piss or anything? Take a break?”
Bill shakes his head, and follows Gabe’s lead more easily than he’d expected, honestly, considering how disorienting the blindfold must be. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, and he responds to the pressure of Gabe’s hands without faltering, letting Gabe maneuver him as he unwinds the rope from Bill’s ankles and works slowly upward.
Bill hadn’t exactly been difficult to work with before, but now he’s a dream. Most of the tension has leeched out of his muscles, and when Gabe handles him he goes easily, bending and twisting in Gabe’s hands. The blindfold is still on; Gabe had originally planned on taking it off for a while, but Bill is so calm when Gabe repositions him that he decides to just fuck it and leave things as they are. If it’s working, he’s not going to mess with it.
He’d meant to change Bill’s position to something just as simple, maybe even easier, but the way Bill’s folding like warm clay in his hands is hard to resist. Gabe has every intention of tying his hands in front of him and maybe bending his knees a little for variety, but when he pulls the last of the rope from between Bill’s palms and guides his arms up to stretch his shoulders out, Bill gives this soft little sigh against Gabe’s neck and Gabe almost has a physical reaction that’s entirely inappropriate for the situation. Not that Bill would be able to see it, but even so.
He ends up guiding Bill forward instead, bending his legs and curving his arms around them, binding him into a gentle curve that shows nearly every one of the bumps traveling up his spine. He coils the rope high over Bill’s shoulders and carefully avoids his throat, hooking the rope back over itself to make sure it can’t slip and accidentally fall over Bill’s neck. Bill doesn’t make a sound the entire time, breathing softly and letting Gabe manipulate him, pliant and bendable, and after Gabe gets finished with the whole thing he has to take a time-out in the bedroom for a few minutes to chill out.
When he comes back out again, as silently as he can be due to the stillness that’s permeating his apartment, he stands by the kitchen bar for a while and just watches Bill, lying there and breathing. His lips aren’t parted but his mouth is soft, and his hair is ruffled on the side where the blindfold covers the tip of his ear. The cuff of his left pant leg has gotten turned up somehow, exposing a glimpse of argyle sock.
Bill’s breathing changes slightly, just enough for Gabe to notice before he says, “I can feel you staring at me.”
Gabe swallows, pushing off the bar and coming closer. “Yeah?” he replies, and his voice has gone low and throaty without his permission.
He thinks Bill hears it, too, because his tongue flickers out to wet his lips before he says, “Yeah,” and his breathing is faster. Anticipation, Gabe thinks, thrill of the unknown, a little daring, and if these were different circumstances and Bill was tied up at Gabe’s mercy for another reason, that would have been the sign Gabe was waiting for.
It isn’t, though, so he just crosses to the couch and half-sits on the arm next to Bill’s head. Bill is starting to fidget, not restlessness but tension of a different sort, nervous flutters and his fingers picking anxiously at the end of the rope, so Gabe reaches down with one arm to press a hand against Bill’s chest, palm to heart. Bill goes instantly still, melting back into the couch and his bonds, and Gabe looks down helplessly and thinks fuck.
* * *
Being blindfolded is an interesting experience. At first it had been a little strange, leaving William uncertain and tense because he couldn’t see, he didn’t know what was going on, he’d suddenly had one of his senses taken away and he wasn’t sure quite what to do without it.
The longer the blindfold has remained on, however, the easier it’s gotten, to the point that it feels natural now. It’s just like having his eyes closed during a nap, only the choice of opening them has been removed and is no longer his to make. Which is a relief in its own way, having decisions like that taken out of his hands, and he’s beginning to feel grateful for it.
The blindfold lets him focus on other things, for one; the sounds of traffic outside and Gabe moving around quietly inside; the smell of Gabe’s couch, old liquor and sweaty socked feet; the texture of the rope where it touches his skin and the way it squeezes gently around him with every inhale. He’d felt heightened awareness before, when he’d been bound the first time, but this is pushing him to new levels. He thinks he can feel the raised pattern in the weave of the upholstery beneath the back of his hand, and he knows when Gabe switches from reading a magazine to a novel by the sound of the pages as he turns them.
His head isn’t completely silent, of course, still darting from one thing to another the way it always does, but it doesn’t seem quite so overwhelming as it had before. He’s beginning to drift, a bit, wandering from one topic to another so easily that he catches himself thinking of penguins at one point and can’t for the life of him trace how he’s gotten there.
Gabe hasn’t touched him in a while, which William is actually fine with. It feels nice when he does, reassuring, but there’s a deeper sense of calm in this isolation, almost like his limbs are floating with nothing to ground him. He still knows exactly where Gabe is by the sound of pages and fabric rustling, the squeak of the tap when Gabe goes over to the sink to pour a glass of water and sets the tumbler down on the wooden side table, and that’s enough.
He’s drifting again when he realizes with a start that he’s thinking in lyrics, that the words flowing through his head are broken into stanzas and measured in meter. He has a complete thought in his head, about the last sunrise shared with someone as their hand slipped out of yours, and suddenly the peace and calm of the last few hours is shattered, overridden by the need to get this down on paper before it’s gone.
“Gabe,” he says, and the words feel foreign in his mouth, sour and echoing with disuse. “I think I’m done now. I need a pen, and paper.” His notebook is in his bag, he thinks. Maybe not; the point had been to get away from all of that, so his notebook may be lying on a coffee table in Chicago, abandoned, but he doesn’t think so. Even meaning to leave it behind, he has a tendency to pack it out of habit. Maybe blank paper is what he needs more, though. A clean slate.
He realizes belatedly that he hasn’t heard the familiar sounds of Gabe moving, coming closer. “Gabe?” he tries, berating himself for how small it comes out.
“I thought you wanted to let the words go for a while,” Gabe says, smooth and even, which for some reason makes William feel even smaller. If he shied away less from self-analysis, he might be more interested in his psychological reactions to this experiment, but right now he just wants to push them aside.
“I have…I need to get them down, though,” he says, trying to explain. “Before I forget them.” Gabe knows how that is; Gabe texts him and Pete at all hours of the morning with stray lines and a reminder to don’t let me forget this.
Gabe moves a little, rustling in the armchair by the window. “How about you tell me, instead?” he suggests finally.
He’s not going to let me, William thinks, and his stomach twists with a mix of emotions he can’t individually identify. He forces himself to breathe and think about it, because there’s not a lot else he can do, if Gabe point-blank refuses to untie him. He realizes his eyes are open and closes them, because having them open doesn’t do him any good anyway, and concentrates on relaxing his muscles again, which have jumped back to full tension.
He doesn’t like sharing unfinished lyrics, not with anyone. Gabe is the sometimes-exception to the rule, but even then it’s only when William has gotten stuck in the middle of something and needs someone to talk things out with, to give him a second opinion. It’s not raw and unplanned, stream-of-consciousness before he’s had the chance to look up synonyms and shift commas three times over.
It’s talking, though, which is different than passing him a sheet of paper covered in scribbling and waiting for Gabe to pass judgment. It’s not all that different from when they get sauced together and William starts rambling at four in the morning about loveseats as metaphors. He can feel the words slipping away even as he deliberates, refusing to be kept waiting in the face of so many other thoughts.
He opens his mouth and starts talking.
Gabe listens silently, and once William starts, it’s like the floodgates open and he can’t stop. He reels off entire verses, whole and unpolished, follows the spark of his brain when it leaps even when he doesn’t necessarily know why, and voices things out loud that he’s carried next to his heart for years without ever trusting himself enough to try to commit to paper.
He talks until his voice is starting to wear thin and dry, like old parchment paper, and the tide of words has begun to ebb. He takes a deep breath, feeling more at peace than he has in months, maybe even years, and only then does he hear the soft scratch of a ballpoint pen.
He turns even though he knows it doesn’t matter, tilting his head toward the sound. “You’re writing all of this down for me, aren’t you?” he asks, and he doesn’t know what emotion that is that’s messing up his voice, but he thinks at least part of it is gratitude, and a soft wash of warmth that must be friendship.
Gabe doesn’t answer, just moves from the chair over to the couch, the soft clink of a pen hitting the table giving him away even before he rises. He puts his hand on William’s cheek, palm cradling his jaw, and William turns into the touch unconsciously like a plant seeking sunlight.
Gabe’s thumb strokes his cheekbone, rough with calluses, and he chuckles softly at a joke William doesn’t know and doesn’t care about before asking, “You want some water?”
William exhales. “Please,” he says, skin warm even when Gabe takes his hand away. He’s back before long, William tracking his movements through the sounds he makes as he moves through the apartment, and then Gabe is lifting his head, guiding him to the rim of the water glass so he can drink. It’s surprisingly intimate, even for someone who’s held his hair while he puked up an entire bottle of cheap tequila outside a shitty bar at three in the morning.
William swallows until the water is gone, and licks the remainder from his lips, wet and clinging, when Gabe guides him back down. “You’re doing all right,” Gabe says, the tone intimate as well, and William can’t even make himself care about how he starts to glow.
* * *
It’s possible that this thing with Bill is fucking with his head more than expected.
He’d known that it would mess with him at least somewhat, because he’s not blind. Bill is attractive even when he’s not at his best, and right now he certainly isn’t at his worst. There’s enough of whatever it is between them for Gabe to know what it’s like to kiss him - usually drunk - and grope him - definitely drunk, often also high - but they’ve also been on the same page about where the lines are. Bill’s a good friend, and he looks good in skinny jeans, but neither of them have ever wanted to push it farther.
Gabe is thinking, with the worst possible timing, about how much he’d like to push it farther now.
It’s not just physical, either, which is the real bitch of the thing. If it were just that, Gabe could look his fill, jerk off in the bathroom to the mental image, wallow in guilt for a good half-hour and move on with life. Instead he’s got Bill’s smile whenever Gabe teases him gently about something, Bill’s intellect and three pages of freshly-conceived poetry that’s going to end up on an album within the year, Bill’s history with him and the weight of friendship giving everything more depth than Gabe is really comfortable with right now.
And part of it, he’s willing to admit, is the bondage. He gets off on tying up and being tied up as much as the next guy, sure, but this is even more than that. He puts off changing Bill’s position for as long as he feels safe doing it, because he knows, he knows, what Bill is going to feel like in his hands when he finally does.
Bill folds for him like a paper doll, letting Gabe stretch his muscles out before binding him up again, flexing into the new position as Gabe directs with the pressure of his hands. It’s either masochism or genius that has him tying Bill’s legs out straight, securing the rope from his ankles to the coil around his hips so that his legs are forced to stay slightly more than hip-width apart.
Bill doesn’t murmur a word of protest, just breathes soft and steady in Gabe’s ear as he rigs the knots, even when Gabe ends up without enough rope to do what he’d originally planned and has to improvise. He pulls Bill’s hands back behind his head, stretching his torso out and emphasizing the slim curl of his biceps, and winds the rope around his wrists to hold them there. The lack of leftover rope means that Gabe has to force Bill to arch, just enough to tie the knot, a shallow curve that lifts his spine off the couch cushion and highlights every breath he takes.
His chest rises and falls slightly faster than before, now that he can’t take the same deep breaths, and Gabe lays his hand across it for the first few minutes to make sure he’s getting enough air. Well, that and to feel the swell of Bill’s ribcage beneath his t-shirt, the steady quick beat of his heart.
“Getting trickier,” Bill murmurs when they’ve both gone still for a while, reminding Gabe that he may have to come up with a few more ideas for this before the night is out and Bill is ready to sleep.
Bill, Gabe reflects dourly, wants to do this for an entire second day.
“You said you were up for it,” Gabe reminds him, and the joke only comes out half as lame as he’d thought when he cracked it. It’s only half-lame because it’s at least half-flirty, and he tells himself sternly to get it the fuck together before the blindfold comes off and Bill goes back to being insightful and perceptive.
Maybe Bill doesn’t even need the blindfold off, because he’s quiet for a minute before he asks, “You okay?”
Gabe snorts. “Yeah,” he says, easily now, leaning in against the couch. “I’m supposed to be the one asking you that, bro.” Bill doesn’t reply, and there’s a little crease edging its way into his expression above the blindfold, so Gabe gives him a little squeeze and asks, “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Whatever,” Bill says, which makes Gabe mentally kick himself in the face because hello, bondage session, of course Bill doesn’t feel like making the decisions right now. And fuck, how did his hand end up on Bill’s hip, rubbing the waistband of his jeans?
“There’s a Spanish place just around the corner with vegan options,” he offers, the first thing that comes to mind. “They do a pretty good paella.”
Bill’s quiet again, and Gabe realizes belatedly that he might not want to go out, to leave this retreat for the noisy bustle of New York in the middle of their little experiment. Gabe could untie his hands and let him eat, that might still work. The idea of running out to grab something is dismissed almost as soon as he thinks it; there’s no way he’s leaving Bill here on his own and still bound, or even untied but still in an altered state of mind. The idea of feeding Bill one spoonful at a time is far too tempting for Gabe to consider closely.
“I don’t think I have anything here,” he says regretfully, mentally rifling through his freezer and fridge. There’s maybe a frozen burrito and a carton of OJ, but nothing like a proper meal for two. “I didn’t think about it, shit. I could get take-out.”
Take-out actually seems like the best option. Gabe’s just starting to stand and try to locate his phone when Bill says, “No, that’s…paella sounds good, actually. We can go out.”
Gabe’s still casting around, about to ask Bill if he’s sure, when he gets a flash of himself feeding Bill take-out Spanish food, Bill’s hair falling like silk between his fingers as Gabe cradles his head and his lips parted obediently to wait for the next bite.
Fuck fuck fuck, he thinks, doing a little dance around the living room to encourage his dick to lie down and play dead. Of all the times, he has to be doing this now, when Bill’s basically entrusted him with the most important thing he possibly could. Gabe is not fucking breaking that trust.
“Okay,” he says in a rush, clapping his hands together. “Paella it is.”
A break, he reflects, might be exactly what they need right now.
Part Two