Pushing the Boundaries [2/2]
Pushing the Boundaries
Part One
If truth be told, William is a little relieved that they’re going out. The last position Gabe has put him in binds his legs apart, ankles shackled too securely to resist. Not obscenely, not in any position William would have thought to protest, but enough that he’s aware of it. It makes him feel strangely vulnerable, exposed, and it doesn’t seem to matter that Gabe is the only one who can see him like this.
Maybe it does matter that Gabe’s seeing him like this. Maybe that’s the reason.
The vulnerable feeling doesn’t leave him entirely when Gabe picks apart the knots and helps him sit up, but William pushes it firmly to the back of his mind. He rubs his arms, the movement strange and unaccustomed after the afternoon of remaining perfectly still. He aches in odd places, twinges of muscle that remind him of how he’d been bound here, or there.
He can’t seem to get his bearings. Gabe has to remind him that he doesn’t need his keys; that he should grab his jacket; that his belt is on the counter. It’s a good thing that Gabe knows where they’re going, because William isn’t entirely sure he could find his way down the street to the corner right now.
The restaurant isn’t far, just long enough that the walk and the crisp air help to clear his head a little by the time they reach their destination. It’s a hole-in-the-wall establishment of the type Gabe usually enjoys; no roaches in the kitchen, but no tourists sipping Evian either. They get a table in the corner and William opens his menu like a shield to screen himself from the other patrons. He still feels a little raw, and too exposed even when he knows, logically, that none of these people know who he is or what he’s been doing, nor are they in any position to start hassling him for it.
There are indentations in his skin from the rope, abrasions circling his wrists that feel rough to the touch. He doesn’t even realize he’s been rubbing at them until Gabe reaches over and casually pulls his hand away.
He’s been staring at his menu for at least five minutes when Gabe says, “You ready to order?” and William’s mind goes blank.
“I don’t know what I want to get,” he says. There’s an invisible iron band starting to clamp shut around his chest, and he can’t get enough air. He reaches for something to drink and knocks his glass over, spilling water and tinkling ice across the tablecloth.
“Woah,” Gabe says, and he’s suddenly not across the table anymore but in the seat next to William, reaching out to catch his wrist where he’s ineffectually chasing ice cubes with numb fingers. “Hey. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what I want,” William repeats, high with panic. He knows, logically, that this shouldn’t be upsetting, that it’s only dinner. Gabe usually chooses for him anyway, when they go somewhere Spanish or South American and William doesn’t know what to order. But this is different, that’s because he knows the cuisine and William trusts him, it’s not because William is incapable of making the decision on his own.
Gabe seems to get it, though, because he just says, “Okay, okay,” and pries the ice cube out of William’s fingers, pulling his hand down under the table and squeezing it. William takes a deep breath and turns his head to rest on Gabe’s shoulder, inhaling the reassuring scent of his aftershave.
“Sorry,” he mutters, thoroughly annoyed at himself, and only notices then that Gabe’s shoulder is shaking slightly with silent laughter. He lifts his head, puzzled, and Gabe actually lets out a guffaw, lifting the hand that isn’t holding William’s to cover his eyes.
“Man,” Gabe says, shaking his head. “I have you tied up on my couch all afternoon, and you start flipping the fuck out when we go out for dinner.”
“I am not,” William objects, disgruntled, but his cheeks are warm and Gabe is still laughing.
Gabe wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and tugs the menu out from under William’s hand. “Only you,” he says, and William wants to be irritated with him, but Gabe’s smile says, you’re the only one in on the joke, and he’s using the warm, fond tone of voice that William never hears him use with anyone else. It dissolves the last of the tight pressure around his chest.
The waiter comes to clean up the mess, and when he asks if they’re ready, Gabe doesn’t even spare William a glance before replying. “Paella Valenciana y Paella Vegetal, gracias.”
“Valenciana?” William asks after the waiter’s gone, leaving them with fresh water and a tablecloth that’s only slightly soggy.
“You’ll like it. Trust me.” Gabe’s confidence is cool and smooth, no cracks that William can see. It’s such an ordinary thing for him to say, but so strange at the same time, considering what they’ve been doing.
“I do,” he says anyway, because it feels like the right reply and the right moment for it, and Gabe catches his eye with a little crease in his brow that looks like a question. William finds himself speaking without consciously deciding to, just spilling the first words on his lips. “Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe we shouldn’t have come out.”
Gabe squeezes his hand his hand under the table, startling William a little because he’d forgotten they were still touching. He searches William’s eyes for long enough that William starts to doubt himself, fighting the urge to squirm. Then he says, low and even, “What do you want?”
It’s such a simple question, and so very much like the one William hadn’t been able to answer, five minutes ago. He takes a while to actually think about it, though, to debate staying here and eating a nice dinner in a restaurant versus shutting themselves back inside Gabe’s apartment with take-out.
“I want to watch a movie with you on your couch,” he says finally. “Something stupid. And I want to eat whatever it is you ordered for me while we do it.”
“Okay,” Gabe says. “We can do that.” He twists in his chair, attracting the attention of their waiter from across the room with one lifted finger, and says, “Make that to go.”
William’s phone goes off in his pocket, and he bangs his elbow on the bottom of the table when he jerks back reflexively. Gabe drops his hand so he can pull it out of his pocket, and William sits there for a long minute staring at the name on the caller ID.
Gabe cranes his neck over to look, disregarding William’s personal space as always, and tilts the display a little so he can see it better. Neither of them move for the next few seconds, just watching the phone blink and trill.
William reluctantly starts to flip it open, but Gabe’s fingers suddenly provide resistance, applying pressure against William’s knuckles. “Why are you here?” he asks, when William looks up at him in surprise.
The corners of William’s lips curl up slowly. “A retreat,” he admits.
Gabe grins back at him, lazy and smug. “And what do people on retreats not do?”
The insistent rings finally cut off, service going to voicemail. “Check their phones,” William answers, and Gabe’s grin widens with approval. He flips the phone open for long enough to turn it off again and then slips it back into his pocket.
Gabe stands and reaches for him, tugging him up out of his seat. “Our food’s done,” he says, chin jutting towards the counter. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the spa.”
* * *
For as ruffled as Bill had been at the restaurant, he calms down quick enough once Gabe gets home. Part of it is probably low blood sugar, and the rest is likely the absence of strangers staring at him when he feels vulnerable. Bill’s armor is pretty thick, but he’s not really in a good headspace to deal with shit right now. Thank fuck they hadn’t run into any fans.
Gabe installs him on the couch with the paella container and a fork, pours some OJ for each of them along with another set of glasses filled with water, and pops in Hudson Hawk because Bill makes the same faces every time, no matter how often they see it.
Gabe eats a metric ton of vegetables and rice while they watch, slouched down on the couch. Bill doesn’t eat quite as much, picking at his paella ingredient by ingredient, but he still puts a respectable amount away by the time they abandon their meals and push the containers out of the way on the floor.
Bill’s being the Bill-version of sneaky, which is actually painfully fucking obvious to anyone who knows him. He’s been stealing looks at the rope on the floor for the past five minutes, growing gradually twitchier as the seconds tick by. Gabe’s been keeping an eye on him, waiting for Bill to initiate, and just when he’s almost convinced that it isn’t going to happen, Bill looks sideways and catches his eye.
“You want?” Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow without judgment.
Bill hesitates, looking guilty, which Gabe is hazarding a guess means ‘no, but I feel like I should, so maybe.’ Gabe saves him the trouble and slides sideways on the couch, tugging Bill down until they’re sprawled together sideways on the couch, Bill’s back against Gabe’s front, angled so they can both see the screen.
“You can decide later,” he suggests, propping his chin up on his elbow. “Let’s just watch the movie. I want cuddle time.”
Sure enough, it works like a charm. They watch the movie and Bill doesn’t fidget at all, just makes faces at the same places he always does and then makes more at Gabe when he laughs. When they hit the credits Gabe doesn’t even move much, just reaches lazily over Bill’s head for the remote and channel-surfs until he finds a John Hughes flick playing on cable. He and Bill both eat that shit up when it’s on, so he sets down the remote again and doesn’t bother moving. He’s comfortable.
Bill, however, has apparently taken the ‘decide at the end of the movie’ thing to heart, and is tensing up again. Gabe reaches down before both of them over-think things and catches Bill’s wrists in one hand, squeezing just hard enough to get his attention.
“Not yet,” he says, and even before he’s relaxed his grip, Bill has gone limp like a wet noodle. Gabe catches himself looking at Bill’s eyelashes, highlighted in the glow of the screen, and tells himself sternly to watch the damn movie.
Bill gets fidgety about half an hour in, and this time Gabe doesn’t even need to think, he just hooks his ankle over both of Bill’s legs, effectively trapping him against Gabe’s body and the couch. Bill’s wrists flex once in his grip, almost testing, and then he gives a little sigh and melts bonelessly into the confinement.
And this, right here, this is the problem. This is what Gabe has avoided thinking about since the first time he untied Bill to reposition him and felt the way Bill flowed into his hands like softened butter. Gabe gets off on bondage as much as the next guy, and he’s equal opportunity about which way it goes, but what really gets him going is when he’s with someone who stays put without being held there, just because it’s how he wants them. Bill is, apparently, one of those people. The way he is now, the way he has been for most of the afternoon, Gabe would hardly have to lift a finger. Bill would never need to be restrained, now that he’s discovered how this feels and the way to get himself there. Bill would do all of the work for him.
Gabe becomes aware, with horrifying abruptness, that he’s about to be hard against Bill’s back. And as tightly pressed as they are together, there’s not really going to be any room for misinterpretation.
With anyone else, this really wouldn’t be a problem. He and his guys have long passed the point of familiarity where a stiff dick is no longer embarrassing and something they’ve all seen, Victoria included. He and Ryland have even jerked off to porn together, some really crazy leather dominatrix shit that they found on pay-per-view once in a hotel.
There’s a strict code of conduct, though, about dudes making each other hard. If you notice it, you pretend you didn’t, and you either politely ignore it or you offer to take care of the situation, depending on your mood and the dude in question. Gabe ignored when Pete got a boner during their ‘gay is great’ makeout session back on the last big Midtown tour, and Mikey ignored when Gabe popped one that time they were grinding on the dance floor in Jersey. It happened. They were guys, they were open-minded, they were frequently sexually frustrated. No big deal.
Bill, however, is a whole rulebook unto himself, and Gabe doesn’t think he knows about the code. Gabe is fairly sure of this fact, actually, considering a conversation he had once with Ryland and another with a mortified Sisky Biz. Bill will want to ask questions. He’ll want to talk about it. He’ll want to make sure, with extreme earnestness, that everyone involved is okay and that no one’s feelings are hurt and things are hunky-fucking-dory before he’ll finally let it drop.
Normally Gabe would just lie. He’s a master bullshitter, he could spin something even Bill would believe, something about the chick onscreen and her fucking mouth and by the end of whatever story he’d cooked up, it might not even be a lie.
Tonight, though, with this trust thing hanging over them like the fucking Sword of Damocles and Bill lying quiescent in Gabe’s hold, he can’t do it.
He pulls back, just enough that Bill’s not pressed up against his crotch anymore, and sits up, letting go of Bill’s wrists. Bill looks up immediately, but he doesn’t move, not even the smallest reflexive twitch, wrists still pressed tight together and still. And that’s it, that’s more than enough to push the situation in Gabe’s pants from ‘impending threat’ into ‘red alert.’
“Gabe?” Bill’s voice, soft and unsure. Gabe does not - does not - look down, because he thinks Bill might be hard too, and he doesn’t know if that would make things better or worse.
“Toilet,” he says easily, and that’s totally not a lie. He squeezes Bill’s arm and says, “Be right back.”
He shuts the door to the bathroom behind him, runs some water onto a washcloth and tosses it over his hard-on, because if there’s one thing his dick doesn’t like, it’s cold fucking water. He’s not jerking off in here, there’s too much of a chance Bill could hear and misinterpret. Or not misinterpret, which would probably be worse. He’d rather blue-ball himself than deal with Bill watching him knowingly when he opens that door, especially because he thinks that in his current frame of mind, Bill might be willing to make an offer.
His dick strives valiantly at that thought to remain upright, but he warns, “I’ll get colder water,” and his hard-on finally grumpily subsides.
That issue taken care of, he zips his pants back up and splashes some water over his hands and face, pointing at his reflection in the mirror. “Do not fuck this up,” he tells himself seriously, and goes back out to watch the rest of the movie.
* * *
They call it a night after the second movie, for which William is grateful. Gabe can be a night owl, the two of them staying up far into the early hours of the morning, drunk on tequila, high on life and each other’s company. They haven’t had anything to drink since that first shot, William realizes, which is unusual. Nothing about this visit has been precisely ordinary, though.
He suspects he’s more tired than he thinks he is, after the airport and the flight and the shopping trip and the afternoon-into-evening roller coaster of experiences. He’s still feeling alert right now, buzzed on a contact high from Gabe’s hands forcing him into stillness, but he knows himself well enough to guess that the crash is imminent. When Gabe suggests they pack it up for the night, William merely blinks lethargically and goes to find the spare toothbrush.
He walks by Gabe in the kitchen on his way to get a glass of water, and sees the rope now lying neatly in a coil on the countertop. He stops, unsure how he feels right now about being tied up again. It had been satisfying, and he thinks it might put him right to sleep, but there’d also been a difference between the supple, all-encompassing embrace of the hemp, and the heated points of contact when Gabe had held him. He doesn’t really want to trade the second for the first.
“Should I…?” he begins anyway, because he trusts Gabe to know about these things, and what he really needs. If Gabe thinks they should go back to rope, then rope it is.
“Not a chance,” is Gabe’s reply, given with a grin. “I don’t like leaving you for more than an hour and a half, there’s no fucking way you’re staying in one position all night.”
“Okay,” he agrees, inexplicably relieved. Gabe bumps his shoulder on his way out of the kitchen.
When he finishes his nighttime ablutions and pads back to Gabe’s bedroom in a loose borrowed t-shirt and boxers, Gabe’s already in bed. William hesitates on the threshold, uncertain. Gabe’s hedonist enough to own a queen-sized bed, and as tall as they both are, neither of them have ever spent the night on the couch. For the first time, though, William wonders if he should give Gabe some space.
He only realizes that Gabe’s opened his eyes when his gaze drifts back to Gabe’s face. There’s a smile there, too, soft and secret. “Get in,” Gabe says, tossing back the corner of the top sheet. “I could make you an invitation, but it would take too long to print.”
William laughs, almost startled by the sound of it, and curls up under the sheet, on the edge of the bed. He wonders if Gabe was right about the bondage-without-sex thing, if the curl of heat in his stomach when they’d watched the movie earlier had been inevitable because of the restraint, or if it had been inevitable because it’s Gabe. Gabe has always made him feel the way the rope does, to a certain degree. Safe, supported. Cherished.
Fingers spider-walk up his spine and he shivers, twisting around onto his back. Gabe’s grin is barely visible in the dark. “You’re thinking too loud,” Gabe says without any reproach. “I can’t sleep.”
“Sorry,” William says, smiling back, and follows the tug when Gabe pulls him back into the center of the bed. Gabe’s arm drapes warm and loose around his torso, and that feeling returns, even without the binding, of safety and security.
“How’s the retreat going?” Gabe asks, low near his ear. “Is it helping?”
William takes a moment to consider it. He hasn’t thought about the album all day, or at least not seriously. He has several pages of freeform lyrics to browse through on his flight back to Chicago. He hasn’t felt the knot of anxiety build up under his sternum when he thinks about the band and the future since the moment he set foot inside Gabe’s apartment. Even now, when he’s usually lying awake suffering from insomnia because of how much is weighing on his mind, he feels calm and clear-headed.
“Yeah,” he says finally, letting out a breath. “Yeah, it’s helping.”
“Good,” Gabe says, his mouth still close and warm next to William’s ear, and before he thinks about it too much, William turns and catches it with his own.
They’ve kissed like this before. They’ve kissed like this in this bed, even, drunk and happy, giggling into each other’s mouths. William knows exactly how to angle his head and how to slide his tongue along Gabe’s to get him to sound that low rumble of approval. He knows when Gabe is going to reach up to touch his face and exactly where he’s going to cradle William’s jaw in the palm of his hand.
They kiss for long minutes, slow and soft, and if this feels different from those other times it’s only because they’re both sober. William slides into Gabe’s arms easily when they both shift for a better angle, and then they’re kissing even more deeply, fingertips brushing skin and tongues licking at each other slowly, like they’re dragging through honey.
William shuffles even closer and feels, for a moment, Gabe hard and heated against his thigh, and he’s sure then that both of them want this, whatever this turns out to be. He makes a noise when Gabe moves back, out of full-body contact, but Gabe’s mouth is still gentle when he eases them out of the kiss.
Gabe’s voice is low and warm, curling close next to his ear, when he says, “It’s been a long day, you should get some sleep.”
And that…is not what William had expected to hear.
He pulls back as well, forehead creasing, but Gabe doesn’t give him the room or the time to work himself into a sulk, just leans forward and kisses him again, deeply, until William stops thinking about or even wanting to protest.
It doesn’t really change anything when he pulls back, though. “Gabe,” William says, quiet but serious.
“Tomorrow,” Gabe says, and if it’s a lie William can’t tell, lying this close to him in the dark. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. When we’re both in a better headspace.”
William frowns. “Gabe,” he says again.
“Cross my heart and swear to die,” Gabe promises, and William can’t really say anything to that, so he rolls over onto his side facing the edge of the bed and closes his eyes.
He’s been there, perfectly still and breathing evenly, for quite some time before he hears Gabe’s breathy laughter near his ear, and the warmth of supple limbs infiltrating his personal space.
“I’ve seen you sleep, we both know you’re not going to get any rest like that,” Gabe teases, and William rolls his eyes but doesn’t fight it when Gabe grabs his arm and rolls them both over. He wraps William’s arm around his waist and tucks it securely under his own elbow, and William feels absurdly better already just holding him like this.
“You never fall asleep unless you’re the big spoon,” Gabe murmurs, drowsy and muffled now from being farther away, but the smile is still apparent in his voice. “You always need to be holding on.”
Gabe’s back is warm and solid against William’s chest, and he falls asleep almost before he hears the final word.
* * *
Gabe wakes up well-rested, comfortable, and needing to piss. His belly itches a little, too, but he’s not quite awake enough to remember how to move his hands to take care of that. There’s a warm weight in bed next to him, and he thinks it wouldn’t be too much effort at all to just roll forward a little and rub his morning wood against someone’s sleep-loosened body.
Then he remembers it’s Bill in his bed, Bill’s hair tickling his nose, and the idea doesn’t actually lose any of its appeal, but he does achieve the willpower to resist temptation. Bill snuffles into the pillow when Gabe gets out of bed, one foot worming its way across the empty space before he promptly rolls into the warm spot.
Gabe visits the toilet and makes a half-assed attempt at brushing his teeth even though he wouldn’t normally, for reasons he chooses not to dwell on. Bill is just being slightly unpredictable, what with this whole shibari situation, and Gabe likes to be prepared.
There’s OJ in the fridge, but Gabe just stares at it, scratching his belly absently, until he realizes his mouth tastes like toothpaste. Not the best combination. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher instead and thinks about starting some coffee, because he doesn’t drink espresso like breathing the way Suarez does, but he still appreciates it some mornings, and Bill probably will too, when he wakes up.
He doesn’t know what that was all about last night, and he doesn’t think Bill does, either. Hormones and electric energy, maybe, something like that. Shit, he can’t even blame this one on alcohol the way he usually does. That was some stone cold sober, gay-ass groping and making out they did back there.
He drinks the water and is still just not-awake enough that some of it goes astray and ends up dribbling down his chin. He wipes it off with his shirt sleeve and sets the glass down on the kitchen island, leaning forward against it. It’s a little cold on his bare thighs, and he thinks he should probably go put some clothes on, something more than boxers and a t-shirt, but that would likely mean waking Bill up and he doesn’t want to do that.
He’s still contemplating it, staring across his living room at the couch and blinking every few minutes, when he feels a whisper of movement behind him and both his wrists are caught up and twisted gently behind his back. There’s the stiff-soft friction of hemp against his skin and Bill’s breath laughing quietly across the side of his face. He leans forward, warmth against Gabe’s back, and whispers, “Gotcha.”
Gabe is completely, achingly hard against the counter within a heartbeat.
He closes his eyes and leans back just a little into that warmth. “Is that how we’re playing it now?” he jokes, and hopes Bill can’t tell how breathy his voice has gone.
“Maybe,” Bill replies, coy and smiling, pressing up closer against Gabe’s back. “Good morning.”
Gabe takes another second to think about whether he really wants to do this, and then he breaks the hold Bill has on his wrists and twists then both around in one smooth motion, trapping Bill against the counter. “Good morning,” he responds, low and gravelly. And there’s really no mistaking, in this position, what he’s thinking right now.
Bill’s eyes flicker, searching his face. Gabe doesn’t move, doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything; and just as he’s finally inhaling to speak, Bill surges forward and kisses him.
Bill tastes like toothpaste as well, with a little bit of sour sleep hiding at the very back of his mouth when Gabe goes questing after it. Bill makes noise when he sucks on Gabe’s tongue, little breathy whimpers, and Gabe shifts his hips forward harder, seeking heat through two sets of boxer shorts.
When Gabe pushes, Bill resists him, shifting his weight to stay balanced. Gabe can feel the smile against his mouth, and then the warning bite of Bill’s teeth sinking delicately into his lip. Not going quietly, then. He turns the kiss coaxing, licking a little into Bill’s mouth before he tries again, and this time Bill bends easily over the counter, just like Gabe knew he would. It’s not the easiest angle for Bill to sustain, stomach muscles rigid and breath coming in shallow gasps, but Gabe puts him there and he fucking stays put, and Gabe is even harder now than he was two minutes ago when Bill started this game.
He thinks about hoisting Bill onto the counter and kissing him there, touching him, maybe even giving him a handjob. Gabe is a very open-minded guy, and right now, with Bill dragging air against Gabe’s mouth in quick, panting breaths, he’s feeling even more open-minded than usual. But that would mean giving this up, the control and the feel of Bill’s muscles bunched tight to hold himself up above the counter.
Bill moans, the sound buzzing against Gabe’s lips, which is just enough for Gabe to think big brain, not little brain and slowly ease up.
Gabe hadn’t been willing to do this last night, not when Bill was still in a weird headspace and more than a little fucked-up, whether he realized it or not.
This morning is an entirely different story.
Bill straightens once Gabe backs off, with just enough sex-glaze in his eyes that Gabe has to fight the urge to lay him right back onto this counter and crawl on top of him so they can grind against each other until they both come.
He doesn’t, though, just presses his thumb against Bill’s lower lip and asks, “You sure about this?”
With anyone else, he wouldn’t even be asking, he’d just be thinking hell yes and ripping the clothes off. One of Bill’s superpowers, along with a freakish talent for Rubik’s cubes and the gift of sounding like an angel at six in the morning after three hours of sleep and a bottle of Jäger, is apparently the ability to turn Gabe into a fifteen-year-old girl who wants to talk about his fucking feelings.
Bill doesn’t go for the obvious, sucking Gabe’s thumb and making come-hither eyes to get the message across. He just smiles softly all the way up to his eyes, which is so much fucking worse.
“No,” he says honestly. “Are you?”
“Not even close,” Gabe answers, hauling Bill close against his chest, sliding his palm across the curve of a hip and another into the slender dip of Bill’s spine. “Bedroom?”
Bill laughs, and Gabe kisses him again, which feels more like a yes than a maybe. He could be making the worst decision of his life and fucking up one of his closest friendships beyond repair. On the other hand, he thinks as Bill’s tongue slides sweet and sly across his, he could finally be doing something he should have done a long fucking time ago.
They pull apart to switch rooms and Bill’s eyes flick down and away, at the coil of hemp still half-unraveled between the counter and the floor, then dart back up to Gabe with a question in them.
“Leave it,” Gabe says, with the low growl in his voice that Bill put there, and Bill’s eyes widen a little like he’s only now recognizing the look Gabe’s sending his way. It feels something like the desire to peel Bill’s clothes off and lick every subsequently exposed inch of skin, but Gabe’s not looking in a mirror, so he can’t be sure. He thinks that’s probably close, though.
Gabe kicks the rope out of the way as he reaches forward, and follows Bill’s laughter all the way to the bedroom.
Part One
If truth be told, William is a little relieved that they’re going out. The last position Gabe has put him in binds his legs apart, ankles shackled too securely to resist. Not obscenely, not in any position William would have thought to protest, but enough that he’s aware of it. It makes him feel strangely vulnerable, exposed, and it doesn’t seem to matter that Gabe is the only one who can see him like this.
Maybe it does matter that Gabe’s seeing him like this. Maybe that’s the reason.
The vulnerable feeling doesn’t leave him entirely when Gabe picks apart the knots and helps him sit up, but William pushes it firmly to the back of his mind. He rubs his arms, the movement strange and unaccustomed after the afternoon of remaining perfectly still. He aches in odd places, twinges of muscle that remind him of how he’d been bound here, or there.
He can’t seem to get his bearings. Gabe has to remind him that he doesn’t need his keys; that he should grab his jacket; that his belt is on the counter. It’s a good thing that Gabe knows where they’re going, because William isn’t entirely sure he could find his way down the street to the corner right now.
The restaurant isn’t far, just long enough that the walk and the crisp air help to clear his head a little by the time they reach their destination. It’s a hole-in-the-wall establishment of the type Gabe usually enjoys; no roaches in the kitchen, but no tourists sipping Evian either. They get a table in the corner and William opens his menu like a shield to screen himself from the other patrons. He still feels a little raw, and too exposed even when he knows, logically, that none of these people know who he is or what he’s been doing, nor are they in any position to start hassling him for it.
There are indentations in his skin from the rope, abrasions circling his wrists that feel rough to the touch. He doesn’t even realize he’s been rubbing at them until Gabe reaches over and casually pulls his hand away.
He’s been staring at his menu for at least five minutes when Gabe says, “You ready to order?” and William’s mind goes blank.
“I don’t know what I want to get,” he says. There’s an invisible iron band starting to clamp shut around his chest, and he can’t get enough air. He reaches for something to drink and knocks his glass over, spilling water and tinkling ice across the tablecloth.
“Woah,” Gabe says, and he’s suddenly not across the table anymore but in the seat next to William, reaching out to catch his wrist where he’s ineffectually chasing ice cubes with numb fingers. “Hey. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what I want,” William repeats, high with panic. He knows, logically, that this shouldn’t be upsetting, that it’s only dinner. Gabe usually chooses for him anyway, when they go somewhere Spanish or South American and William doesn’t know what to order. But this is different, that’s because he knows the cuisine and William trusts him, it’s not because William is incapable of making the decision on his own.
Gabe seems to get it, though, because he just says, “Okay, okay,” and pries the ice cube out of William’s fingers, pulling his hand down under the table and squeezing it. William takes a deep breath and turns his head to rest on Gabe’s shoulder, inhaling the reassuring scent of his aftershave.
“Sorry,” he mutters, thoroughly annoyed at himself, and only notices then that Gabe’s shoulder is shaking slightly with silent laughter. He lifts his head, puzzled, and Gabe actually lets out a guffaw, lifting the hand that isn’t holding William’s to cover his eyes.
“Man,” Gabe says, shaking his head. “I have you tied up on my couch all afternoon, and you start flipping the fuck out when we go out for dinner.”
“I am not,” William objects, disgruntled, but his cheeks are warm and Gabe is still laughing.
Gabe wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and tugs the menu out from under William’s hand. “Only you,” he says, and William wants to be irritated with him, but Gabe’s smile says, you’re the only one in on the joke, and he’s using the warm, fond tone of voice that William never hears him use with anyone else. It dissolves the last of the tight pressure around his chest.
The waiter comes to clean up the mess, and when he asks if they’re ready, Gabe doesn’t even spare William a glance before replying. “Paella Valenciana y Paella Vegetal, gracias.”
“Valenciana?” William asks after the waiter’s gone, leaving them with fresh water and a tablecloth that’s only slightly soggy.
“You’ll like it. Trust me.” Gabe’s confidence is cool and smooth, no cracks that William can see. It’s such an ordinary thing for him to say, but so strange at the same time, considering what they’ve been doing.
“I do,” he says anyway, because it feels like the right reply and the right moment for it, and Gabe catches his eye with a little crease in his brow that looks like a question. William finds himself speaking without consciously deciding to, just spilling the first words on his lips. “Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe we shouldn’t have come out.”
Gabe squeezes his hand his hand under the table, startling William a little because he’d forgotten they were still touching. He searches William’s eyes for long enough that William starts to doubt himself, fighting the urge to squirm. Then he says, low and even, “What do you want?”
It’s such a simple question, and so very much like the one William hadn’t been able to answer, five minutes ago. He takes a while to actually think about it, though, to debate staying here and eating a nice dinner in a restaurant versus shutting themselves back inside Gabe’s apartment with take-out.
“I want to watch a movie with you on your couch,” he says finally. “Something stupid. And I want to eat whatever it is you ordered for me while we do it.”
“Okay,” Gabe says. “We can do that.” He twists in his chair, attracting the attention of their waiter from across the room with one lifted finger, and says, “Make that to go.”
William’s phone goes off in his pocket, and he bangs his elbow on the bottom of the table when he jerks back reflexively. Gabe drops his hand so he can pull it out of his pocket, and William sits there for a long minute staring at the name on the caller ID.
Gabe cranes his neck over to look, disregarding William’s personal space as always, and tilts the display a little so he can see it better. Neither of them move for the next few seconds, just watching the phone blink and trill.
William reluctantly starts to flip it open, but Gabe’s fingers suddenly provide resistance, applying pressure against William’s knuckles. “Why are you here?” he asks, when William looks up at him in surprise.
The corners of William’s lips curl up slowly. “A retreat,” he admits.
Gabe grins back at him, lazy and smug. “And what do people on retreats not do?”
The insistent rings finally cut off, service going to voicemail. “Check their phones,” William answers, and Gabe’s grin widens with approval. He flips the phone open for long enough to turn it off again and then slips it back into his pocket.
Gabe stands and reaches for him, tugging him up out of his seat. “Our food’s done,” he says, chin jutting towards the counter. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the spa.”
* * *
For as ruffled as Bill had been at the restaurant, he calms down quick enough once Gabe gets home. Part of it is probably low blood sugar, and the rest is likely the absence of strangers staring at him when he feels vulnerable. Bill’s armor is pretty thick, but he’s not really in a good headspace to deal with shit right now. Thank fuck they hadn’t run into any fans.
Gabe installs him on the couch with the paella container and a fork, pours some OJ for each of them along with another set of glasses filled with water, and pops in Hudson Hawk because Bill makes the same faces every time, no matter how often they see it.
Gabe eats a metric ton of vegetables and rice while they watch, slouched down on the couch. Bill doesn’t eat quite as much, picking at his paella ingredient by ingredient, but he still puts a respectable amount away by the time they abandon their meals and push the containers out of the way on the floor.
Bill’s being the Bill-version of sneaky, which is actually painfully fucking obvious to anyone who knows him. He’s been stealing looks at the rope on the floor for the past five minutes, growing gradually twitchier as the seconds tick by. Gabe’s been keeping an eye on him, waiting for Bill to initiate, and just when he’s almost convinced that it isn’t going to happen, Bill looks sideways and catches his eye.
“You want?” Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow without judgment.
Bill hesitates, looking guilty, which Gabe is hazarding a guess means ‘no, but I feel like I should, so maybe.’ Gabe saves him the trouble and slides sideways on the couch, tugging Bill down until they’re sprawled together sideways on the couch, Bill’s back against Gabe’s front, angled so they can both see the screen.
“You can decide later,” he suggests, propping his chin up on his elbow. “Let’s just watch the movie. I want cuddle time.”
Sure enough, it works like a charm. They watch the movie and Bill doesn’t fidget at all, just makes faces at the same places he always does and then makes more at Gabe when he laughs. When they hit the credits Gabe doesn’t even move much, just reaches lazily over Bill’s head for the remote and channel-surfs until he finds a John Hughes flick playing on cable. He and Bill both eat that shit up when it’s on, so he sets down the remote again and doesn’t bother moving. He’s comfortable.
Bill, however, has apparently taken the ‘decide at the end of the movie’ thing to heart, and is tensing up again. Gabe reaches down before both of them over-think things and catches Bill’s wrists in one hand, squeezing just hard enough to get his attention.
“Not yet,” he says, and even before he’s relaxed his grip, Bill has gone limp like a wet noodle. Gabe catches himself looking at Bill’s eyelashes, highlighted in the glow of the screen, and tells himself sternly to watch the damn movie.
Bill gets fidgety about half an hour in, and this time Gabe doesn’t even need to think, he just hooks his ankle over both of Bill’s legs, effectively trapping him against Gabe’s body and the couch. Bill’s wrists flex once in his grip, almost testing, and then he gives a little sigh and melts bonelessly into the confinement.
And this, right here, this is the problem. This is what Gabe has avoided thinking about since the first time he untied Bill to reposition him and felt the way Bill flowed into his hands like softened butter. Gabe gets off on bondage as much as the next guy, and he’s equal opportunity about which way it goes, but what really gets him going is when he’s with someone who stays put without being held there, just because it’s how he wants them. Bill is, apparently, one of those people. The way he is now, the way he has been for most of the afternoon, Gabe would hardly have to lift a finger. Bill would never need to be restrained, now that he’s discovered how this feels and the way to get himself there. Bill would do all of the work for him.
Gabe becomes aware, with horrifying abruptness, that he’s about to be hard against Bill’s back. And as tightly pressed as they are together, there’s not really going to be any room for misinterpretation.
With anyone else, this really wouldn’t be a problem. He and his guys have long passed the point of familiarity where a stiff dick is no longer embarrassing and something they’ve all seen, Victoria included. He and Ryland have even jerked off to porn together, some really crazy leather dominatrix shit that they found on pay-per-view once in a hotel.
There’s a strict code of conduct, though, about dudes making each other hard. If you notice it, you pretend you didn’t, and you either politely ignore it or you offer to take care of the situation, depending on your mood and the dude in question. Gabe ignored when Pete got a boner during their ‘gay is great’ makeout session back on the last big Midtown tour, and Mikey ignored when Gabe popped one that time they were grinding on the dance floor in Jersey. It happened. They were guys, they were open-minded, they were frequently sexually frustrated. No big deal.
Bill, however, is a whole rulebook unto himself, and Gabe doesn’t think he knows about the code. Gabe is fairly sure of this fact, actually, considering a conversation he had once with Ryland and another with a mortified Sisky Biz. Bill will want to ask questions. He’ll want to talk about it. He’ll want to make sure, with extreme earnestness, that everyone involved is okay and that no one’s feelings are hurt and things are hunky-fucking-dory before he’ll finally let it drop.
Normally Gabe would just lie. He’s a master bullshitter, he could spin something even Bill would believe, something about the chick onscreen and her fucking mouth and by the end of whatever story he’d cooked up, it might not even be a lie.
Tonight, though, with this trust thing hanging over them like the fucking Sword of Damocles and Bill lying quiescent in Gabe’s hold, he can’t do it.
He pulls back, just enough that Bill’s not pressed up against his crotch anymore, and sits up, letting go of Bill’s wrists. Bill looks up immediately, but he doesn’t move, not even the smallest reflexive twitch, wrists still pressed tight together and still. And that’s it, that’s more than enough to push the situation in Gabe’s pants from ‘impending threat’ into ‘red alert.’
“Gabe?” Bill’s voice, soft and unsure. Gabe does not - does not - look down, because he thinks Bill might be hard too, and he doesn’t know if that would make things better or worse.
“Toilet,” he says easily, and that’s totally not a lie. He squeezes Bill’s arm and says, “Be right back.”
He shuts the door to the bathroom behind him, runs some water onto a washcloth and tosses it over his hard-on, because if there’s one thing his dick doesn’t like, it’s cold fucking water. He’s not jerking off in here, there’s too much of a chance Bill could hear and misinterpret. Or not misinterpret, which would probably be worse. He’d rather blue-ball himself than deal with Bill watching him knowingly when he opens that door, especially because he thinks that in his current frame of mind, Bill might be willing to make an offer.
His dick strives valiantly at that thought to remain upright, but he warns, “I’ll get colder water,” and his hard-on finally grumpily subsides.
That issue taken care of, he zips his pants back up and splashes some water over his hands and face, pointing at his reflection in the mirror. “Do not fuck this up,” he tells himself seriously, and goes back out to watch the rest of the movie.
* * *
They call it a night after the second movie, for which William is grateful. Gabe can be a night owl, the two of them staying up far into the early hours of the morning, drunk on tequila, high on life and each other’s company. They haven’t had anything to drink since that first shot, William realizes, which is unusual. Nothing about this visit has been precisely ordinary, though.
He suspects he’s more tired than he thinks he is, after the airport and the flight and the shopping trip and the afternoon-into-evening roller coaster of experiences. He’s still feeling alert right now, buzzed on a contact high from Gabe’s hands forcing him into stillness, but he knows himself well enough to guess that the crash is imminent. When Gabe suggests they pack it up for the night, William merely blinks lethargically and goes to find the spare toothbrush.
He walks by Gabe in the kitchen on his way to get a glass of water, and sees the rope now lying neatly in a coil on the countertop. He stops, unsure how he feels right now about being tied up again. It had been satisfying, and he thinks it might put him right to sleep, but there’d also been a difference between the supple, all-encompassing embrace of the hemp, and the heated points of contact when Gabe had held him. He doesn’t really want to trade the second for the first.
“Should I…?” he begins anyway, because he trusts Gabe to know about these things, and what he really needs. If Gabe thinks they should go back to rope, then rope it is.
“Not a chance,” is Gabe’s reply, given with a grin. “I don’t like leaving you for more than an hour and a half, there’s no fucking way you’re staying in one position all night.”
“Okay,” he agrees, inexplicably relieved. Gabe bumps his shoulder on his way out of the kitchen.
When he finishes his nighttime ablutions and pads back to Gabe’s bedroom in a loose borrowed t-shirt and boxers, Gabe’s already in bed. William hesitates on the threshold, uncertain. Gabe’s hedonist enough to own a queen-sized bed, and as tall as they both are, neither of them have ever spent the night on the couch. For the first time, though, William wonders if he should give Gabe some space.
He only realizes that Gabe’s opened his eyes when his gaze drifts back to Gabe’s face. There’s a smile there, too, soft and secret. “Get in,” Gabe says, tossing back the corner of the top sheet. “I could make you an invitation, but it would take too long to print.”
William laughs, almost startled by the sound of it, and curls up under the sheet, on the edge of the bed. He wonders if Gabe was right about the bondage-without-sex thing, if the curl of heat in his stomach when they’d watched the movie earlier had been inevitable because of the restraint, or if it had been inevitable because it’s Gabe. Gabe has always made him feel the way the rope does, to a certain degree. Safe, supported. Cherished.
Fingers spider-walk up his spine and he shivers, twisting around onto his back. Gabe’s grin is barely visible in the dark. “You’re thinking too loud,” Gabe says without any reproach. “I can’t sleep.”
“Sorry,” William says, smiling back, and follows the tug when Gabe pulls him back into the center of the bed. Gabe’s arm drapes warm and loose around his torso, and that feeling returns, even without the binding, of safety and security.
“How’s the retreat going?” Gabe asks, low near his ear. “Is it helping?”
William takes a moment to consider it. He hasn’t thought about the album all day, or at least not seriously. He has several pages of freeform lyrics to browse through on his flight back to Chicago. He hasn’t felt the knot of anxiety build up under his sternum when he thinks about the band and the future since the moment he set foot inside Gabe’s apartment. Even now, when he’s usually lying awake suffering from insomnia because of how much is weighing on his mind, he feels calm and clear-headed.
“Yeah,” he says finally, letting out a breath. “Yeah, it’s helping.”
“Good,” Gabe says, his mouth still close and warm next to William’s ear, and before he thinks about it too much, William turns and catches it with his own.
They’ve kissed like this before. They’ve kissed like this in this bed, even, drunk and happy, giggling into each other’s mouths. William knows exactly how to angle his head and how to slide his tongue along Gabe’s to get him to sound that low rumble of approval. He knows when Gabe is going to reach up to touch his face and exactly where he’s going to cradle William’s jaw in the palm of his hand.
They kiss for long minutes, slow and soft, and if this feels different from those other times it’s only because they’re both sober. William slides into Gabe’s arms easily when they both shift for a better angle, and then they’re kissing even more deeply, fingertips brushing skin and tongues licking at each other slowly, like they’re dragging through honey.
William shuffles even closer and feels, for a moment, Gabe hard and heated against his thigh, and he’s sure then that both of them want this, whatever this turns out to be. He makes a noise when Gabe moves back, out of full-body contact, but Gabe’s mouth is still gentle when he eases them out of the kiss.
Gabe’s voice is low and warm, curling close next to his ear, when he says, “It’s been a long day, you should get some sleep.”
And that…is not what William had expected to hear.
He pulls back as well, forehead creasing, but Gabe doesn’t give him the room or the time to work himself into a sulk, just leans forward and kisses him again, deeply, until William stops thinking about or even wanting to protest.
It doesn’t really change anything when he pulls back, though. “Gabe,” William says, quiet but serious.
“Tomorrow,” Gabe says, and if it’s a lie William can’t tell, lying this close to him in the dark. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. When we’re both in a better headspace.”
William frowns. “Gabe,” he says again.
“Cross my heart and swear to die,” Gabe promises, and William can’t really say anything to that, so he rolls over onto his side facing the edge of the bed and closes his eyes.
He’s been there, perfectly still and breathing evenly, for quite some time before he hears Gabe’s breathy laughter near his ear, and the warmth of supple limbs infiltrating his personal space.
“I’ve seen you sleep, we both know you’re not going to get any rest like that,” Gabe teases, and William rolls his eyes but doesn’t fight it when Gabe grabs his arm and rolls them both over. He wraps William’s arm around his waist and tucks it securely under his own elbow, and William feels absurdly better already just holding him like this.
“You never fall asleep unless you’re the big spoon,” Gabe murmurs, drowsy and muffled now from being farther away, but the smile is still apparent in his voice. “You always need to be holding on.”
Gabe’s back is warm and solid against William’s chest, and he falls asleep almost before he hears the final word.
* * *
Gabe wakes up well-rested, comfortable, and needing to piss. His belly itches a little, too, but he’s not quite awake enough to remember how to move his hands to take care of that. There’s a warm weight in bed next to him, and he thinks it wouldn’t be too much effort at all to just roll forward a little and rub his morning wood against someone’s sleep-loosened body.
Then he remembers it’s Bill in his bed, Bill’s hair tickling his nose, and the idea doesn’t actually lose any of its appeal, but he does achieve the willpower to resist temptation. Bill snuffles into the pillow when Gabe gets out of bed, one foot worming its way across the empty space before he promptly rolls into the warm spot.
Gabe visits the toilet and makes a half-assed attempt at brushing his teeth even though he wouldn’t normally, for reasons he chooses not to dwell on. Bill is just being slightly unpredictable, what with this whole shibari situation, and Gabe likes to be prepared.
There’s OJ in the fridge, but Gabe just stares at it, scratching his belly absently, until he realizes his mouth tastes like toothpaste. Not the best combination. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher instead and thinks about starting some coffee, because he doesn’t drink espresso like breathing the way Suarez does, but he still appreciates it some mornings, and Bill probably will too, when he wakes up.
He doesn’t know what that was all about last night, and he doesn’t think Bill does, either. Hormones and electric energy, maybe, something like that. Shit, he can’t even blame this one on alcohol the way he usually does. That was some stone cold sober, gay-ass groping and making out they did back there.
He drinks the water and is still just not-awake enough that some of it goes astray and ends up dribbling down his chin. He wipes it off with his shirt sleeve and sets the glass down on the kitchen island, leaning forward against it. It’s a little cold on his bare thighs, and he thinks he should probably go put some clothes on, something more than boxers and a t-shirt, but that would likely mean waking Bill up and he doesn’t want to do that.
He’s still contemplating it, staring across his living room at the couch and blinking every few minutes, when he feels a whisper of movement behind him and both his wrists are caught up and twisted gently behind his back. There’s the stiff-soft friction of hemp against his skin and Bill’s breath laughing quietly across the side of his face. He leans forward, warmth against Gabe’s back, and whispers, “Gotcha.”
Gabe is completely, achingly hard against the counter within a heartbeat.
He closes his eyes and leans back just a little into that warmth. “Is that how we’re playing it now?” he jokes, and hopes Bill can’t tell how breathy his voice has gone.
“Maybe,” Bill replies, coy and smiling, pressing up closer against Gabe’s back. “Good morning.”
Gabe takes another second to think about whether he really wants to do this, and then he breaks the hold Bill has on his wrists and twists then both around in one smooth motion, trapping Bill against the counter. “Good morning,” he responds, low and gravelly. And there’s really no mistaking, in this position, what he’s thinking right now.
Bill’s eyes flicker, searching his face. Gabe doesn’t move, doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything; and just as he’s finally inhaling to speak, Bill surges forward and kisses him.
Bill tastes like toothpaste as well, with a little bit of sour sleep hiding at the very back of his mouth when Gabe goes questing after it. Bill makes noise when he sucks on Gabe’s tongue, little breathy whimpers, and Gabe shifts his hips forward harder, seeking heat through two sets of boxer shorts.
When Gabe pushes, Bill resists him, shifting his weight to stay balanced. Gabe can feel the smile against his mouth, and then the warning bite of Bill’s teeth sinking delicately into his lip. Not going quietly, then. He turns the kiss coaxing, licking a little into Bill’s mouth before he tries again, and this time Bill bends easily over the counter, just like Gabe knew he would. It’s not the easiest angle for Bill to sustain, stomach muscles rigid and breath coming in shallow gasps, but Gabe puts him there and he fucking stays put, and Gabe is even harder now than he was two minutes ago when Bill started this game.
He thinks about hoisting Bill onto the counter and kissing him there, touching him, maybe even giving him a handjob. Gabe is a very open-minded guy, and right now, with Bill dragging air against Gabe’s mouth in quick, panting breaths, he’s feeling even more open-minded than usual. But that would mean giving this up, the control and the feel of Bill’s muscles bunched tight to hold himself up above the counter.
Bill moans, the sound buzzing against Gabe’s lips, which is just enough for Gabe to think big brain, not little brain and slowly ease up.
Gabe hadn’t been willing to do this last night, not when Bill was still in a weird headspace and more than a little fucked-up, whether he realized it or not.
This morning is an entirely different story.
Bill straightens once Gabe backs off, with just enough sex-glaze in his eyes that Gabe has to fight the urge to lay him right back onto this counter and crawl on top of him so they can grind against each other until they both come.
He doesn’t, though, just presses his thumb against Bill’s lower lip and asks, “You sure about this?”
With anyone else, he wouldn’t even be asking, he’d just be thinking hell yes and ripping the clothes off. One of Bill’s superpowers, along with a freakish talent for Rubik’s cubes and the gift of sounding like an angel at six in the morning after three hours of sleep and a bottle of Jäger, is apparently the ability to turn Gabe into a fifteen-year-old girl who wants to talk about his fucking feelings.
Bill doesn’t go for the obvious, sucking Gabe’s thumb and making come-hither eyes to get the message across. He just smiles softly all the way up to his eyes, which is so much fucking worse.
“No,” he says honestly. “Are you?”
“Not even close,” Gabe answers, hauling Bill close against his chest, sliding his palm across the curve of a hip and another into the slender dip of Bill’s spine. “Bedroom?”
Bill laughs, and Gabe kisses him again, which feels more like a yes than a maybe. He could be making the worst decision of his life and fucking up one of his closest friendships beyond repair. On the other hand, he thinks as Bill’s tongue slides sweet and sly across his, he could finally be doing something he should have done a long fucking time ago.
They pull apart to switch rooms and Bill’s eyes flick down and away, at the coil of hemp still half-unraveled between the counter and the floor, then dart back up to Gabe with a question in them.
“Leave it,” Gabe says, with the low growl in his voice that Bill put there, and Bill’s eyes widen a little like he’s only now recognizing the look Gabe’s sending his way. It feels something like the desire to peel Bill’s clothes off and lick every subsequently exposed inch of skin, but Gabe’s not looking in a mirror, so he can’t be sure. He thinks that’s probably close, though.
Gabe kicks the rope out of the way as he reaches forward, and follows Bill’s laughter all the way to the bedroom.