fic: Ask Yourself What Matters [Gabe/William, R]

[formerlydf]

title: Ask Yourself What Matters
author: formerlydf
fandom: Wentzdom
pairing: Gabe/William
warnings: I guess for the lack of control inherent in sex pollen, even if there's no sex in here.
disclaimer: Completely fictional, by which I mean not in any sense real. Title taken from Bill's blog.
notes: Thanks until the end of the universe to airgiodslv who beta-read this and was still excited about it. And, you know, is probably to blame in some way for every single Gabe/William fic I write, ever, so there's that.

There's a voice inside his head telling him that this is Bill, this is Bill in pain, he should be there, he should try to make it better, he shouldn't leave Bill alone, and there's another voice reminding him of how much Bill likes his privacy, that he should respect the few intact boundaries they have left.



Gabe doesn't like the guy's face, and not just because he's hitting on Bill. Gabe likes plenty of people who've hit on Bill at some point. If nothing else, it proves that they have awesome taste. There's just something about this guy that makes Gabe a little antsy.

He makes his excuses to the gorgeous brunette he's been flirting aimlessly with and winds his way over to the bar, draping an arm over Bill's shoulder. "Hey!" he shouts over the so-loud-it's-nearly-indistinguishable music. He can feel the bass thrumming up his feet to his stomach, making him feel a little nauseous. He doesn't know why; he's been in clubs with louder music than this. He likes to turn it up to eleven. "I think we should get out of here!"

"But you haven't finished your drink yet, sweetheart," Bad Face says to Bill, not even looking at Gabe. He sounds pleasant, but Gabe doesn't trust it, and he's a musician. He makes a living following his instincts about sounds.

Besides, who calls a fucking stranger sweetheart? Creep.

Bill looks down at his half-full drink, then back up at Gabe. "Yeah," he says slowly, and the asshole's face twists in satisfaction until Bill continues, "Yeah, I think we should go."

Gabe grabs a bill out of his wallet - any bill; he doesn't have anything larger than a twenty right now, and it doesn't matter how much he overpays the bartender as long as they get out of here - and leaves it under the glass.

Bill stands up, giving the asshole an awkward nod and letting Gabe lead him out of there. He stumbles on the doorframe, but Gabe catches him before he can do more than lurch forward.

When Gabe hails a cab, one pulls up almost instantly. It's good luck of the kind that rarely occurs in New York, but Gabe isn't really in the mood to appreciate his good fortune right now. He's more focused on the feel of William, leaning against him more and more heavily with every passing minute.

If that asshole got Bill drunk - if he tried to take advantage of a drunk Bill - if he tried anything, Gabe is going to be so pissed. He can't think about that right now, though, as nice as it is to imagine himself slamming a fist into that creepy face. He can't even think about Bill's sharp angles encroaching on his personal space; he needs to focus on practicalities, on paying the driver and maneuvering Bill out of the cab, into the elevator. Gabe has never before been so annoyed to live in an apartment, but Bill just keeps slumping farther and farther and Gabe is worried that he's going to collapse before they walk through Gabe's door.

(Bill trips twice more - on the way out of the cab, and then into the elevator - which is weird, a little. Bill is many things when he's drunk, but he's generally not clumsy. Besides, Bill knows his limit, and he and Gabe have been pretty responsible about the whole getting drunk thing recently. Mostly that means they just get drunk at parties full of their friends, usually on tour, but still.)

They both manage to stay upright, though, as hard as it is to work the key with Bill draped over him like some sort of incredibly beautiful, living coat. Gabe sets Bill up on the couch - on his side, duh, he's not an idiot - and hurries to get a glass of water.

"Bill, babe, drink this," he urges, trying to get Bill to hold the glass.

Bill props himself up on one elbow so he can drink without spilling, but once he's chugged all the water, he shakes his head. "'m not drunk," he explains, putting the empty glass down on the floor so he doesn't drop it. "That was only my firs' drink. Y'know I've got a better tol'rance than that."

"The way you're slurring your words isn't doing anything to prove your point," Gabe tells him, but he believes Bill. They hadn't even been at the club for that long - maybe thirty minutes, tops, long enough for them to have a couple of dances before Gabe broke to flirt and Bill broke to get a drink.

"'m fine," Bill insists, struggling upright and accidentally knocking the glass over with his foot. Luckily, it's plastic. Gabe has a whole collection of cups he got from Burger King back when they actually gave out good shit with their kids meals. "Seriously, Gabe."

Gabe studies him for a moment. It's not exactly a hardship; he likes looking at Bill, whatever chance he gets. "Okay," he agrees finally. "Let's hang for a little while. Daily Show should be on."

Jon Stewart is the cure for whatever ails you. A few extra glasses of water don't hurt either, even if Bill makes it clear that he's just humoring Gabe by drinking them. Gabe doesn't care; if he isn't allowed to mother hen Bill who is?

"My mother?" Bill retorts dryly when Gabe voices that opinion, and Gabe rolls his eyes.

"Claro, but she's not here right now, and I am. Anyway, she'll hunt me down if I return you in bad shape." Gabe is actually serious about this. Mrs. Beckett can be fierce, given the provocation. It's a Beckett trait, passed down through countless generations of improbably-attractive boys and girls. "Now be quiet, the toss is coming up."

Gabe is mostly convinced that Bill is fine by the middle of the Colbert Report, which is about when Bill takes an abrupt - abrupt and fucking terrifying - turn for the worse. And by worse, Gabe means the whole deal: sweating, glassy eyes, unfocused gaze, and these weird little cut-off moans that might sound sexy in another context but as it is just freak Gabe out.

This isn't Bill being drunk. This is something else entirely.

"Billiam?" he asks concernedly, feeling Bill's forehead with the back of his hand. He doesn't think he can interpret the resulting sensory data quite as accurately as an actual parent, but even he can feel that Bill is burning up. "What's going on?"

"Oh, fuck," Bill groans, spastically jerking from leaning forward, elbows on knees, to almost fully reclined. He's panting, hot, sharp breaths that snap in Gabe's ears.

"Bill? Are you sick? Did that asshole put something in your drink?" It doesn't look like any roofie Gabe's ever heard of, but there are always freaks out there coming up with new things. Gabe's going to find that fucking pervert and kill him, he's -

"Gabe!"

It's not fair, it really isn't, that Gabe would give anything to have Bill sound like this at any other time, and now he can't even properly enjoy it because Bill is completely fucked up and that would be so, so wrong. How can he take this - the panting, Bill hissing out his name on a long breath - and imagine it in a different setting, when the source material is so horrible?

"I'm here, Bill," Gabe says reassuringly, kneeling beside Bill and trying to meet his eyes. It's almost impossible; Bill keeps on jerking his head to the side as he arches his back, and then when Gabe manages to keep Bill's head still for more than three seconds at a time, Bill's eyes dart wildly around the room. He stares at the lamp, the window, the pile of magazines Gabe left on the floor because he's a slob, the dishes on the coffee table (see previous), the TV, nothing at all.

Gabe's thumb is on Bill's chin, his fingers spread over Bill's jaw and neck. His pulse is fucking jumping under Gabe's ring finger and pinky, lightning-fast, hummingbird-fast, like he's been sprinting to outrun a fucking train or something, demonios, fucking Christ.

Gabe doesn't know what's wrong. Gabe doesn't know what's wrong.

"Focus, Bill," he orders, hoping he doesn't sound quite as terrified as he feels and knowing he doesn't have a chance in hell of that actually happening. He leaves his hand on Bill's jaw and puts the other hand on top of Bill's head, thumb sweeping across his forehead. Bill is sweating; his hair is getting progressively damper, the collar of his shirt more and more soaked. "Look at me. William. Look at me."

Bill shudders and closes his eyes, and Gabe doesn't think that's good. His breath is still coming rapidly, one minute erratically and the next in rhythm so perfect that Nate could drum it in his sleep.

Fever. Okay, Bill's got a fever, probably because of something that douchebag did, but Gabe doesn't know what that asshole could have put in the drink, so he should probably just focus on getting the fever down. And now is definitely not the time to be thinking of Panic at the Disco jokes, but Gabe can't help it. (If they were going to write about fevers you can't sweat out, the damn album should've at least come with medical advice!)

It's probably a defense mechanism designed to keep him from freaking out. It's not really working that well.

"Okay, Bill, I think we need to get your shirt off to help you cool down," Gabe explains, trying to keep calm. Bill's eyes are wide and unfocused, but he doesn't shudder too badly as Gabe tugs the shirt over his head and off. His nipples are peaked. His skin is flushed, looking almost as bad as it did on Warped when he got that horrible sunburn. "Fuck."

He starts to get up, but Bill scrabbles for his arm with clumsy fingers. "Gabe -"

"I'm just going to wet a washcloth to try and cool you down," he tells Bill, trying to gently remove Bill's hand so he can actually stand up. "I'm coming back. You're just really hot. And I'm not even hitting on you this time, I mean temperature-hot."

Bill chokes out what Gabe thinks might be a desperate attempt at a laugh, something harsh and high that sounds as if it's tearing at his throat. The knot of anxiety at the bottom of Gabe's stomach turns out to not be exclusively a knot, because ribbons of it untwist to twine through the rest of his body, making his legs shake as he runs to the bathroom. It's lucky that his apartment is small.

He grabs a washcloth and soaks it in cold water, wrings it out, hurries back to the couch. When he swirls it over Bill's face and chest, Bill gasps and pushes into it, arching his back. "'scold," he sighs.

Something seems awfully familiar about this.

Not entirely, of course; Gabe's never seen Bill with a fever, or anything. But the way he's acting - groaning, panting, arching, sweating, not just the little sounds but all of it - it's the way people act during sex. Gabe should know, he has enough experience with it.

Almost of their own accord, Gabe's eyes flick down. Bill's pants are too tight to hide that he's hard.

It fucking figures, doesn't it? He's got William fucking Beckett on his couch, looking unbearably turned on, and it's not even because Gabe finally grew some balls. No, it's all because of some asswipe who gets his kicks from date-raping attractive strangers.

When Gabe makes one more pass across Bill's chest with the washcloth, Bill grabs his hand and drags it down, across his stomach to the waistband of his jeans. Gabe only just manages to yank his hand away in time, leaving the washcloth draped over Bill's belly button.

"Whoa, there," he laughs, tries to laugh, wiping his palm absently on his thigh. "You're gorgeous, Bilvy, but you're kind of drugged out of your mind right now."

"It hurts," Bill groans, "Gabe, it hurts so much -"

That asshole is dead. He's practically buried already. Gabe doesn't think any jury in the world would convict him for killing that fucker, but he wouldn't really care if they did. Pete would make sure he got put in one of the nicer jails, his band would come visit him; as long as the jail had vegan options, it would all be fine.

"I don't -" Where is Gabe supposed to draw the line, here? He doesn't want to take advantage of Bill under the influence, he knows that. It's not like there haven't been opportunities in the past, but all he's done is help Bill to bed. He's not slime, and Bill hasn't exactly been giving him any signals before this, other than the flirting that comes tied into their friendship.

But if Bill is hurting, if Bill is in pain and jerking him off could help - where's the fucking line? What the hell is he supposed to do, rape his best friend or leave him in pain?

"I can give you some privacy," he offers weakly, finally, because Bill's hand has already started to migrate down to his very obvious hard-on. "If you need..."

He's focusing too hard on not watching Bill's hands, either of them, which might be a mistake because the unoccupied one reaches out to pull Gabe sideways. Bill's strong, when he's got reason, or when he's hopped up on drugs, and Gabe wasn't expecting it. He ends up sprawled over Bill, one thigh against Bill's crotch.

Bill pulls him into a kiss and ruts up against him, like a fucking cat in heat, and Gabe -

Gabe doesn't have a chance to find out what he would do, because almost as soon as Bill's too-warm arms are around him they're gone again. Instead, his ass is bruised and the carpet is scratching the inch of skin between his jeans and the hem of his hiked-up shirt. His lips are warm and wet and lonely, and Bill is doing his best to curl up into the fetal position.

His wide eyes desperately lock on to Gabe's. "Gabe, this, this isn't me," he stutters, spitting the words out like they won't go willingly and he has to force them to leave his mouth. This. Isn't. Me. "This, I didn't - I wouldn't -"

It looks like Gabe has his answer.

"Shh, I know," he whispers, grabbing the washcloth from where it's fallen to the floor. It's drying out, only slightly damp now, not even wet enough for a cat to take offense. "I know, it's okay."

He scrambles to his feet and runs to re-wet the cloth, almost tripping over the coffee table on his way back. It's just one more bruise. He places it across Bill's forehead when he gets back, trying to avoid problem areas - chest, stomach. He didn't wring it out as thoroughly this time, and water drips down Bill's face, down his eyelids, into his ears. His hair is curling where it isn't soaked through by sweat and water.

Bill's whole body convulses and his face shifts, like all of his features have dropped suddenly; his eyebrows furrow, his eyes droop shut, his mouth falls open. His breathing hitches almost imperceptibly, but Gabe is paying attention.

"What's wrong, corazon?" he asks, slipping into Spanish because Bill says it relaxes him, like the aural equivalent of hot chocolate or a really comfortable blanket. "What's -"

The button of Bill's jeans is undone. Gabe's eyes are drawn to it as Bill's long fingers slip under the waistband, past the navy blue underwear (with pants as tight as those, Gabe is a little amazed that Bill is even wearing underwear), and oh, hey, Bill's jerking off in front of Gabe.

Gabe's heard members of his band and other bands jerking off, having sex, everything. He's even seen Bill naked before. They've toured together about a thousand times; it's sort of inevitable, by this point. Touring presses you into all facets of everybody else's lives.

This, though, this seems more intimate than everything else. The unwritten rule of thumb with bus-turbation is to pretend not to hear a thing. Next-morning mockery is permitted, but you don't listen. You just reach for your headphones or shove a pillow over your head. And seeing Bill naked, while a treat, was still just a brief glimpse of equipment that Gabe has seen before. Not Bill's in specific, obviously, but it's just a dick. Gabe has seen a lot of dicks in his life.

But now he has the picture to go with the audio, the faces Bill makes as his thumb runs over the head, and Gabe -

Gabe feels like shit. Fucking figures. Life would be a lot easier if he didn't have any morals.

He can't watch this. Gabe backs away abruptly, almost tripping over the coffee table and spilling the various detritus accumulated there. "I'm going to give you some privacy, okay, Bilvy?" he asks with half a laugh. "Because I don't think you're going to be happy in the morning if I watch this -"

Bill gives a low groan, and Gabe flees. He doesn't want to leave Bill alone right now, not while Bill is sick, or roofied, or whatever, but he's not exactly sure what else to do. Bill just seems to be groping himself now; that can't be dangerous, can it?

He paces in his own kitchen for approximately six minutes, trying to ignore his own cowardice and the sounds coming from the other room. All seems to be going well, and if he has to deep-clean his couch tomorrow - or hire someone to clean, whichever, and if he's not famous enough to afford to do that all the time, at least it means that the cleaners won't take pictures and sell them to the tabloids - well, that's par for the course when the guy you're into gets something slipped into his drink by a sleazebag.

"Gabe," Bill whimpers, and something at the bottom of Gabe's heart twists sharply, like it's tearing pieces out, "Gabe, it hurts, it's not working, I'm so - so hot, god, burning."

Jador. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, conchetumare, fuck.

There's a voice inside his head telling him that this is Bill, this is Bill in pain, he should be there, he should try to make it better, he shouldn't leave Bill alone, and there's another voice reminding him of how much Bill likes his privacy, that he should respect the few intact boundaries they have left.

Gabe can't decide which voice is his conscience and which one is the bad idea, but it doesn't matter when Bill moans again. "It hurts, don't leave me alone, don't -"

Okay. Fine, Gabe can get over himself and try to watch Bill jerking off and then immediately erase the image from his head. Maybe he can do something about the fever, anyway, even if he can't do anything else.

In seconds he's back in the living room, slipping his hands under Bill's body to pick him up like a bride. Bill goes easily, one arm wrapping around Gabe's neck, the other still wrapped around his dick. Gabe tries not to look, to just focus on Bill being feverish and affected.

Bill needs to eat a damn cake or something (Gabe knows a great recipe for vegan cake), because the only difficult part of lifting him is the fact that he's wriggling around in Gabe's arms, his hips moving, his right arm working diligently, his head sliding forward and back across Gabe's chest. Strands of Bill's hair whisper across Gabe's skin, sweaty but still oddly soft and silky. The haircut, which Bill has stubbornly kept up, leaves his neck bare and pale, glimmering damply.

Bill's grasping hand runs up and down the back of Gabe's neck, under the collar of Gabe's shirt, fingernails just lightly scratching. His nose rubs against Gabe's collarbone, the dip below Gabe's throat, like it's questing for any inch of bare skin.

Bill's nose moves up and the rest of Bill's head goes with it, Bill's lips brushing Gabe's pulse point, his earlobe; Bill's eyelashes flutter against Gabe's temple, his the tip of his nose rests against Gabe's cheekbone, his tongue flickers out to taste Gabe's jawline and the hint of stubble there.

Gabe shudders. Bill's right hand works faster and he comes across Gabe's shirt, his choked gasp whispering over Gabe's face.

Gabe wasn't exactly expecting that. He wonders if Bill will be okay now, if it's all been worked out of his system, but Bill is still burning up. Gabe shoulders the bathroom door open and lowers Bill into the tub. He's about to tug Bill's jeans off - that, at least, is something they've done before, when they've been drunk and the jeans were inhibiting their snuggling - when he notices that Bill is still hard, and that. What?

Nobody has that short of a refractory period, not even the horniest sixteen-year-old. It's not physically possible.

"Mierda," Gabe mutters, and as it turns out, he doesn't even have to worry about tugging Bill's jeans off, since Bill won't let him go. Gabe just shrugs inwardly and reaches up - still leaning over the tub, Bill's arm hooked tight around his neck, their foreheads pressed together - to turn on the faucet.

A blast of cold water comes streaming out of the shower head, soaking Bill as well as Gabe's head and his shoulders. It warms up after a moment, and Gabe feels thankful that this is an actually nice apartment, and he doesn't have to worry that the neighbours are going to use up all the hot water so that it's impossible to take a shower at any temperature higher than glacial.

Bill loosens his hold on Gabe, maybe out of surprise, and Gabe slips away, out of the bathroom and into the kitchen again. Almost immediately, he hears little noises of pain assault his ears again, but this time he isn't pacing the tiled floors trying to ignore it; this time, he has a purpose.

He uses a kitchen towel to roughly mop most of the water away from his ear and picks up his cell, pressing five on his speed dial. Almost unconsciously, he drifts out of the kitchen again, letting himself stop moving right outside the bathroom door.

He can hear Pete's phone ringing and waits impatiently, his own cell humming against his ear. He listens to the chorus of whimpers coming from inside the bathroom that reminds him every second that Bill's in pain - as if he could forget, what a joke.

"Pete," he says hurriedly when Pete finally picks up. "What's the name of that doctor, the one Ash went to when you guys were in New York and she got sick?"

He'd been impressed, then, at how prepared they were, already knowing where to find a doctor who would handle everything discreetly. Ash didn't want to go to a regular hospital, worried about getting swarmed by paparazzi, and Gabe thinks he knows how she feels now. Maybe Bill's not famous enough to get swarmed, but if Gabe knows anything at all about William fucking Beckett, he knows that Bill's not going to want to be surrounded by strangers in this condition. ER, nurses, doctors - no.

"Beckerman," Pete says after a split second, sounding surprised. "Gabe, what's going on?"

"What's his number?" Gabe demands, already dashing to the living room to fumble for a pen and paper.

Pete's voice is suddenly muffled; Gabe thinks he's calling for Ashlee, covering the end of the phone. "You're going to have to explain this to me tomorrow," he says after a moment, and reads Gabe the number.

"Sure," Gabe says, and hangs up.

He calls Dr. Beckerman. He doesn't even get funneled through the usual hell of receptionists - this must be a private number, or Beckerman's cell. Gabe takes the space of a breath to bless Pete Wentz.

"Pete and Ashlee gave me your number," he says, and, "My friend's sick," and, "I don't know what to do."

"Tell me what's wrong," Dr. Beckerman says, sounding reassuringly calm, like no matter what it is, he can handle it. Gabe reels off the list of symptoms, everything from the stumbling to Bill's case of Viagra-gone-wrong, and Dr. Beckerman pauses for a moment before telling him, "I'll be there as fast as I can."

Gabe hears the sound of a car starting up in the background, right as he edges back into the bathroom, before Dr. Beckerman hangs up. Bill is sprawled out in the tub, looking like drenched sin. His bare feet press against the bottom curves of the tub, toes spread wide to keep their grip on the porcelain. His hair, two shades darker because of the water, curls across his face, a few strands clinging to the side of the tub the way that wet hair inevitably does.

Bill's sodden jeans are even tighter around his thighs, and a steady stream of water runs off the curled edges of his open zip, diagonal to the up-and-down spray of the shower. Water puddles at the base of his throat, lingers for a moment in his belly button before spilling down his chest to hit the floor of the tub.

Bill's hips are tilted up, and he moves them in rhythm with his hand, but it doesn't seem to be helping. He only stops keening when Gabe lays a hand on his forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. It's hard to tell with the cool water still spraying, but Bill is still too warm, so warm Gabe is a little surprised that the water isn't simply evaporating into steam when it hits his skin.

He runs out to the kitchen again to grab his ice trays and hears the small noises of pain start up again. He's back as soon as possible, dumping the contents of the trays into the shower next to Bill, trying to arrange the ice cubes around his body. Bill reaches out for Gabe again, but his hand is slippery, and the only thing he seems to be able to grasp with any real firmness is his own dick. Gabe manages to back away before Bill does anything he'll regret - or hate Gabe for permitting - in the morning.

The splashes of drippy white on his shirt are beginning to dry, like some strange, three-dimensional design. He'll have to wash this shirt before Bill gets back to normal - he doesn't really care, but he doesn't want Bill to be even embarrassed or anything.

Gabe spends the next ten minutes that way, fussing over Bill while still trying to avoid being intrusive. It's a shitty balance which doesn't really work, but what the fuck else is he going to do? Give in and let Bill tug his hand down?

No. He has to make sure Bill will still be able to look at him in the morning. Bill got drugged; he doesn't actually want this. He doesn't want Gabe.

It hurts, a little, to remind himself that, but it's true. He doesn't need to dwell on it, though, so instead he thinks about how if he hadn't stepped in, that asshole from the bar would be taking advantage of Bill right now. Raging fury is a great distraction. So is planning the variety of ways he could break that schmuck's nose.

Dr. Beckerman rings his apartment after about ten minutes, which almost definitely means he broke some sort of speed limit getting here, but Gabe can't bring himself to care. He buzzes the good doctor in and waits, jittering and wishing that the elevator were faster.

He opens the door almost before Dr. Beckerman knocks, then hurries into the bathroom, where he turns off the shower and gently helps Bill stand up, wrapping an oversized, green-blue-and-purple towel around his bare shoulders.

"Bill, this is Dr. Beckerman." Bill looks at Gabe, his eyes a little betrayed under the mindless lust, and Gabe looks back helplessly. "Bilvy, you're not okay. I kind of needed to call in the professionals on this one."

And god, that just leads to all sorts of jokes about Ghostbusters that he could make - who you gonna call? - which is so incredibly unhelpful that Gabe kind of wants to smack his own brain.

"I'm a friend of Ashlee's," Dr. Beckerman supplies, glancing at Bill reassuringly, steadily. He looks just the way Gabe remembers from when Ashlee dragged them all to his office when she had that scare - ten years or so older than Gabe, curling black hair, small wrinkles around his eyes. "I'm just here to help."

Bill just curls in closer to Gabe, his hips jerking spasmodically, and Gabe strokes his back through the towel. Bill seems like he's making an effort not to reach down to his dick, but Gabe doesn't think his resolve is going to last long.

Dr. Beckerman looks at Gabe now, almost like he thinks Gabe could potentially be helpful. What a joke. "Is there somewhere he can lie down? I'm going to need to examine him."

Gabe just nods and leads Bill back towards the couch, helping him curl up on it again. He keeps his hands on Bill's shoulders, the already-damp towel between his skin and Bill's. Dr. Beckerman pulls on a pair of latex gloves - Gabe bites back the dirty joke he refuses to allow himself to make, even in his head - and grips Bill's chin lightly, turning his head this way and that. He takes out a small flashlight and shines it into Bill's eyes, then swabs the inside of his cheek and sticks the swab into some small, electronic contraption. Maybe Gabe's dad, as a doctor, would know what the hell it is, but Gabe has no idea. All he knows is that when Dr. Beckerman puts the swab in and pushes the button, the gizmo beeps repeatedly and flashes a series of numbers on its screen.

The numbers are meaningless to Gabe, but Dr. Beckerman sighs - it sounds relieved, so Gabe can only hope there's good news in here somewhere - and puts the contraption away.

Through all this, Bill has been groaning softly, his toes moving back and forth against the upholstery of the couch. He's succumbed to the desire to jack off and his has hand migrated down south again, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything for him.

Dr. Beckerman finally looks at Gabe again. "He's going to be okay. You didn't give him anything, did you? To take the fever down? Any aspirin or anything -"

"No," Gabe answers, shaking his head quickly. "I didn't know how it would react."

"Good. I have a sedative that will subdue the worst effects and help him go to sleep, but I'll need his permission."

Damn straight he'll need Bill's permission. Nobody's doing anything to Bill without Bill's consent. "Bilvy?" Gabe asks, looking down into Bill's eyes. He feels a little like Spiderman right now, except without the kissing. "What do you think?"

It takes a few moments before Bill slides into lucidity again, but when he does, he nods. "Yes," he says hoarsely, and Gabe can see him try to swallow. "Please."

"Okay," Dr. Beckerman responds placidly, like he's used to situations like this and doctor-patient confidentiality is the only thing preventing him from spilling his other tales to try and make Gabe and Bill more comfortable. "If you could open your mouth?"

Bill's slipped back into gasping incoherence, but his mouth opens on every inhale. Dr. Beckerman paints something across his tongue and Bill shuts his mouth almost immediately, making a face while still jerking off desperately.

"How soon does it work?" Gabe inquires, but he can already see Bill's body slowing down, the near-convulsions fading in strength. Bill is still stroking himself, but it's more absent than desperate.

"He'll wake up in ten hours or so. He'll need to go to the bathroom almost immediately. Let him, and don't worry too much if he vomits. While he sleeps, his body's defense system will be clearing out the toxin, and he'll need to release it in one way or another." Dr. Beckerman's voice is perfectly easygoing, detached without being clinical, kind without being overly solicitous. "He'll be fine for the rest of the night. I'll come back in the morning for a follow-up."

"What the hell, dude?" Gabe demands, letting his hand slip down to squeeze Bill's arm lightly. "Aren't you going to explain anything?"

Dr. Beckerman blinks at him. "I was going to explain tomorrow, so both of you could hear it and you wouldn't have to listen twice. I'm sorry; of course you want to know as soon as possible. Your friend consumed a very rare toxin, most likely through a liquid of some sort, that effectively fired up his libido, but I'm sure you've already guessed that much."

Well, duh.

Dr. Beckerman continues, "I'm going to have to test that swab to make certain what type of toxin it was, but the important thing is that his system is flushing it out as we speak. I can assure you of that much." His pager beeps, and he looks down at it. "I'm sorry, I have to run - but I will be back in ten hours, never fear. Get some rest."

He's out the door before Gabe can say anything else. Gabe makes a face and lifts Bill up again, carrying him into the bedroom. If Bill is going to be conked out for ten hours, he's going to conk out in a bed, not on a couch that will only cramp his neck by the morning.

Once Bill is settled in the bed, Gabe drags out his old, worn futon and settles down for the night, close enough to hear if Bill is having any problems without actually being in the bed himself. He and Bill have slept together plenty of times, but tonight it would feel too... invasive.

He rests his head on the pillow, listening to the pattern of Bill's breathing. He can at least rest, even if he doesn't think he'll get much sleep. Doesn't matter; he knows from past experience that he can survive on about two hours, if he needs to. No matter what Dr. Beckerman said, he wants to make sure Bill is okay for the whole night.

\

"It came from a flower," Bill says incredulously.

Gabe was so fucking relieved this morning, when Bill woke up with clear eyes and a clear head. He was relieved, too, when Dr. Beckerman arrived promptly as Bill was busy in the bathroom, so Gabe didn't have to look at Bill and flounder, not knowing what to say.

Bill's made him speechless before, but never quite like this. Gabe doesn't like it; he doesn't want to be awkward, doesn't want to make Bill feel awkward.

"What, he had an allergic reaction or something?" Gabe asks, a little disbelievingly. Dr. Beckerman had finally gotten down to the business of explanations, which is good, because Bill was starting to look a little steely-eyed. "Like instead of breaking out in hives, he broke out in horniness?"

"Not exactly," Dr. Beckerman explains, coughing slightly. It's the first time Gabe's seen him so much as fidget. Gabe wonders again how often this happens to him. "It's the survival mechanism of the plant. Some plants use poison as a deterrent, to keep their seeds from being eaten. This one - the common name is the agroponfarr - sprays a form of pollen that excites the reproductive system, essentially to distract potential predators." He shrugs. "It wasn't too viable of a survival technique, so the agroponfarr is the last type of plant that we know of which still uses it."

Gabe just stares. "So it's organic Viagra?" This - what the hell? Last night's entire nightmare was because of a flower?

"No," Dr. Beckerman says vehemently, shaking his head. "Trust me, I've dealt with this before. It can be extremely dangerous in high quantities. Luckily, Mr. Beckett only got a partial dose."

Gabe flashes back to a half-empty (or half-full) glass leaving rings of condensation on the surface of the bar. But you haven't finished your drink yet, sweetheart.

"What would have happened if he'd gotten a full dose?" he asks abruptly, crossing his arms and flicking a glance at Bill, who's staring down at his knees.

"If he'd had sex?" Dr. Beckerman begins frankly. "Nothing. Well, nothing except the inevitable physical strain of having sex approximately ten times in a single night. Intercourse is best, but any form of skin-to-skin contact will do. Agroponfarr is used as a date rape drug because if the affected individual doesn't have any contact with another person, they won't be able to bring themselves to completion - and because once under the influence, they're willing to do anything as long as it gets them that contact."

Anything, like grabbing for Gabe, whom Bill would ordinarily never want. "What if he hadn't?" Gabe demands, hearing the strain in his voice and hoping that Bill won't notice.

"He most likely would have died," Dr. Beckerman tells him solemnly, before adding quickly, "But you were absolutely right to do as you did, Mr. Saporta."

Yeah, right. Gabe feels like the bottom of his stomach suddenly dropped out. Bill could have died because of him. He'd thought he had good reasons to keep from touching Bill, but what if they weren't so good after all? What if Bill had finished his drink and Gabe had brought him home? He would have had the same justifications, he would have stayed away from Bill, and Bill would have died. What's a little help between friends, if it saves someone's life?

"But I'm okay now?" Bill asks his knees, shaking his hair so that it falls in his face. It doesn't work as well with the haircut, but for someone so tall and gorgeous, Bill's always been surprisingly good at hiding. "It's all done?"

"You might have a relapse in the next few weeks, but nothing nearly this severe," Dr. Beckerman assures him. "It'll just be like you got a dose of pheromones. You'll be able to handle it alone."

Bill nods, and Gabe - Jesus fucking Christ on a waterbed.

Gabe waits until Dr. Beckerman is gone to say, with a sort of laugh that doesn't turn out nearly the way he intended, "Well, that was crazy." And then, sliding his voice from brash to concerned, "You okay, Bilvy?"

Bill flinches slightly. "Yeah," he says finally, pushing his hair out of his eyes so he can look at Gabe. Then he just goes for the punch in the stomach: "I think I need to change my flight to tonight."

Well, fuck.

\

Gabe lets him go, of course. How can he not? How can he do anything - ask Bill to stay with every inch of charming persuasiveness he has - with that hanging over both their heads, clouding through the walls and rooms of Gabe's apartment like really pervasive cigarette smoke?

It would be easier if Gabe were certain that he made the wrong call. Then he could grovel and beg Bill for forgiveness, and hopefully Bill would find it somewhere in the depths of his incredibly generous spirit to forgive Gabe, and everything would be okay again, eventually. (It might take a while, but Gabe has faith in his and Bill's friendship. It's managed to survive at least three years of Gabe's hopeless - crush, that's a good enough word for it - so it's got to be a strong motherfucker.)

Gabe isn't certain that he made the wrong call, though. He's not sure if he made the right call, either. He's beginning to think that maybe there wasn't a right call at all.

Bill's okay, though, and that's going to have to be enough, even if Bill's okay and in Chicago again when he was supposed to stay in New York for another week.

It's fine. Really, it is. Gabe's not going to be alone or anything. This is his city, he rules the streets, blah blah blah all that other quoting-his-own-songs crap that purposefully makes him sound like a douche and generally makes everyone else roll their eyes and smile despite themselves.

He doesn't call anyone up that night, though. Instead, after he drives Bill to the airport and watches him disappear through the security checkpoint, he goes back to the club. That's what he calls it in his head: 'the club', like it's the only one in all of New York City. Fucking might as well be, shit.

He waits two hours, threading his way through the crowd, dancing with random people, drinking a beer whenever he needs a break, before the asshole shows up. He's at the bar again, hitting on a girl this time, a beautiful Asian woman in a red dress. The woman gestures for the bartender and the creep smiles scuzzily; Gabe just makes his way towards the bar as quickly as possible, feeling a smidge of deja-vu.

He's wanted to punch out that creep's lights since he first saw the jerk. He's planned all the different things he could do - uppercut to the jaw, a fist right in his eyes, a broken nose, a punch to the gut, a knee to the groin, and those are just his options for step number one. Gabe's not really a violent person, but he's picked things up over the years, pressure points and weak spots and places that just plain fucking hurt.

He wants to break this fuckface's fingers one by one. He wants to pound his face against the pavement. He wants to feed him a full dose of that freaking flower and lock him in an empty room and see how he likes it.

He doesn't, though.

Instead, he says, "Hey, asshole!" when he reaches them, just loudly enough that the woman and her two giggling friends (or, at least, the two women - seriously, they don't even look like they're out of fucking college yet - watching her from the other end of the bar) will overhear. "You gave my friend gonorrhea!"

Gonorrhea is just a better word than herpes, okay. Plus, everybody accuses each other of having herpes nowadays. Start talking about gonorrhea or hepatitis, though, and people think you're actually telling the truth.

The woman gapes, a little stunned. Gabe leans forward and tells her urgently, "Don't drink anything he gives you, I mean it," and waits until she nods unsteadily before moving off.

The assface looks like he's deciding whether or not to try to talk it through or cut his losses and move on to another unsuspecting victim. It doesn't matter, though, because by that point, Gabe has found security.

All it takes is a few quiet murmurs and the security team is nodding and pushing through the crowd to the bar. Gabe's been here often enough that he knows the guys here, management and security, especially after a whole bunch of Cobra fans came in here and there was a mild mob scene. They're good guys, and two things really matter to them - not letting customers hurt or take advantage of other customers, and not losing celebrity clientele. The idea of Gabe as a celebrity is laughable, since he's pretty sure he's not even on the D-list, the Z-list or any fucking list at all, but now's not really the time to be debating his status, not when it means the bouncers are going to deal with the sleazeball and make sure he never returns to the club. Gabe suspects that "dealing" might, in this case, be painful. He wonders if he should be horrified, because he really, really isn't.

He could have started a brawl, landed the punch he's been dreaming about ever since Bill stumbled that first time. And then he would have gotten thrown out of the club and possibly charged with assault, and maybe he could have charged that asshole with attempted rape, but he doesn't want to drag Bill into anything and he's not sure the charges would stick, anyway, since Gabe dragged Bill away before anything happened.

This - it's better, Gabe thinks, even if he doesn't get to make that motherfucker cry.

\

He doesn't tell Bill about his revenge. Bill's been trying to act like things are normal again, like instead of a night of clubbing followed by flower-fueled sex mania, they just sat around and watched John Hughes movies and went to bed to dream about Jake Ryan, and then the next day Bill decided to leave early for totally normal reasons.

So far the attempted amnesia hasn't really been working for Gabe, but he's perfectly willing to keep on trying if that's what Bill wants. Gabe is kind of gone for this man.

"What do you think, Teen Wolf or Labyrinth?" Bill asks reflectively. Gabe knows Bill's probably using the cordless phone, but he likes to imagine Bill sitting on the sofa, twirling the phone cord around his finger as he ponders his late-night television choices.

"Holy shit, Labyrinth's on?" Gabe asks, slapping the couch cushion next to him in his excitement, even though he knows Bill can't see. Gabe doesn't have the thing for Bowie that Patrick does, but come on. Labyrinth. It's a fucking classic. "Why are you even asking that question?"

Bill laughs into Gabe's ear. It's not as great as an in-person laugh, but Gabe's still thankful for the magic of telephones. "I wasn't. It was all in your head."

"Damn well better have been," Gabe informs him, grinning. "Aw, man, I'm going to have to wait an hour for it to come on."

"What, you don't have a copy lying around?" Bill teases. Gabe sharply, abruptly, wishes he could see him, curled up on the couch in pajama pants and an oversized shirt because Bill is a dork like that and sometimes he'd rather just watch awesome eighties movies on TV instead of going out. Sometimes he likes going out - it's not like Gabe dragged him to that club - but. Bill, that's all. "I guess I know what I'm getting you for your birthday."

This is the part where Gabe would usually make some kind of innuendo, something with a leer exaggerated enough that Bill would probably be able to hear it over the phone, but Gabe doesn't. He's not sure where the lines are, now.

"What, you're not getting me Pete Wentz's autograph?" he asks, feigning disappointment, and smiles when Bill laughs.

It goes like that through Labyrinth, the phone on speaker so Gabe can listen along to David Bowie and the weird little dudes who toss their heads around. He's always liked those guys. And then the ballroom scene, of course, because Gabe secretly loves watching Jareth sweep Sarah around the room, and Bill loves to try to get him to admit it.

It's normal, almost.

It goes like that until the end of the movie when Bill says, "Thanks for that."

"Hey," Gabe says, "you know I'm always just a phone call away."

"Yeah." They're both silent for a moment, until Bill breaks the hush by yawning so loudly that Gabe can't help but laugh. "Guess that means I should go to bed."

"Night, man," Gabe tells him, leaning his head back against the couch arm. "Que sueñes con los angelitos."

Gabe doesn't even think before it slips out; he's said it to Bill before, may you dream with the angels, when Bill's about to go to sleep, because Bill says he likes hearing Gabe speak Spanish even if he doesn't know what it means.

He and Bill have never really talked about what happened, that night. Gabe doesn't know what Bill remembers, but it's pretty clear that Bill remembers some of the Spanish, because he freezes so suddenly that Gabe can hear it over the phone.

"William?" Gabe asks, concerned.

"What?" Bill asks with half a laugh. The laugh is a lie, Gabe knows, but he's not going to call Bill on it right now. "Sorry, zoned out for a second. Good night, Gabe."

"Night," Gabe repeats, and listens to the dial tone hum in his ear for a while.

They don't mention it again, not for the rest of that week, and then Pete calls Gabe and tells him that Bill had a relapse. Bill had a relapse a week ago, before they watched Labyrinth together, even, and Bill's had approximately twelve million chances to tell him and took exactly zero of them.

Pete doesn't say that Bill relapsed, just mentions in passing that Bill got sick and Sisky freaked out, but Gabe can infer a lot from that.

"What the hell?" Gabe demands. He told Pete the bare details - someone slipped something in Bill's drink and Bill got sick. He doesn't know how much Pete has figured out about it; sometimes Pete leaves things alone, and other times he doesn't rest until he knows the whole picture. He can be surprisingly sly about finding things out. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"Yeah. Sisky Biz says he locked himself in the bathroom for two hours." Pete sounds tired. Gabe will make fun of him, later, for being whipped and staying up late to take care of Bronx. Pete will, in return, probably threaten to sic Ashlee on Gabe, and Gabe will be appropriately scared, since Ashlee can be terrifying when she sets her mind to it. Not quite as scary as the thought of Bill hurting, though, hundreds of miles away from where Gabe is sitting on his ass on his couch. "Does this have something to do with your needing Dr. Beckerman's phone number?"

"It might," Gabe allows, already making plans. He chews his lip in thought for a moment. "Hey, Pete, I gotta go. Don't let Ashlee whip your ass too hard, it's bad for your ego."

"Ha ha, asshole," Pete retorts, snickering. "Talk to you later."

"Later," Gabe says vaguely, already eight hundred miles away.

\

He calls Bill from right outside his door; if Bill calls him cliche, he'll just say it's a tribute to John Hughes-ian dramatic gestures or something. Anyway, Gabe's never minded being cliche in pursuit of a good cause.

"Hey," Bill says, sounding distracted. "What's going on?"

"What, I can't just want to hear your voice?" Gabe asks dramatically, the kind of voice that really requires a hand clutched to the heart to complete the effect.

"Fine," Bill says with the ghost of a laugh. Gabe hears clattering in the background, like Bill just woke up and is making breakfast for himself, reaching for a bowl and a spoon while blinking sleep out of his eyes. "What do you want me to say?"

"What are you wearing?" Gabe wonders, amping the suggestiveness in his voice up to eleven. He already has an idea of what Bill is wearing; he just wants to see what Bill will do.

Bill goes silent, and the noise of the dishes in the background doubles. Gabe sighs.

"Or," he adds gently, "you could just open the door."

Bill doesn't call Gabe cliche when he opens the door, he just stares. "Hi," he says eventually. There's a red line on his cheek that looks like it came from his pillow; strands of wavy hair, curled at the ends, have fallen in front of his eyes.

"Surprise?" Gabe offers, and Bill silently steps back so Gabe can come inside.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Bill asks, and it's good, he's good, except the corners of his mouth keep trying and failing to twitch into a smile.

"Well, you know, you cut your visit to New York short, so I thought I'd come see you instead," Gabe explains brightly. "Plus, you know, if you relapse again Sisky will probably freak out less if there's somebody else in the room who knows what's going on."

Bill leans against the wall and closes his eyes. "Who told you?" he asks, wincing slightly.

"Pete. Hey, you know who didn't tell me? You." Maybe Gabe is being too harsh. Maybe not, though, because when Pete told him that Bill had gotten sick Gabe's heart stopped, and Gabe really, really wishes he'd actually heard it straight from the source. He wishes Bill hadn't just run away.

He's let Bill have it his way so far, pretending nothing ever happened, but their lives aren't actually a movie. Gabe doesn't want to spend years ignoring this, feeling the divide between him and Bill, until things finally break. He's not that patient or that masochistic. Fuck giving Bill space, he'd rather just deal with it now.

"I'm sorry," Bill mutters, blinking his eyes open but still wincing, and that - Gabe can't stand watching Bill in pain. He sits down on the couch (the ridiculously comfortable couch - Bill has great taste in furniture) and beckons Bill to sit next to him. Bill ends up sitting one and a half cushions away, drawing his feet up to sit cross-legged, but it's a start.

Gabe gentles his voice a little. "Look, I'm pretty sure I fucked up somewhere in there, and I'm really, really sorry, but I need you to actually talk to me." Gabe's not always a huge sharer, okay, but Bill has a very small group of people with whom he's actually himself, and Gabe doesn't think he could stand not being one of those people. He and Bill have been friends for so many years; it's one of the constants of his life.

Maybe it's selfish, but Gabe is a selfish person sometimes. He's willing to admit it. He's just not willing to let an asshole with a daisy fuck up one of the best things that's ever happened to him.

Bill frowns. "Why are you sorry?" he asks, his voice edged and perplexed. "None of this was your fault."

"I know it's not my fault that guy was a douchebag nobody could love," Gabe dismisses, making a face before getting serious again. "But - crap, Bill, you were in pain, and I didn't help! You could have died! Or - I should have called the doctor earlier, or we shouldn't have gone to that club, or -"

"Gabe, I tried to make you have sex with me," Bill reminds him incredulously. "I came all over your shirt. You're not bothered by that at all?"

"You were drugged!" Gabe argues, feeling a little incredulous himself. It's not like it was something Bill could really control. And anyway, doesn't he know that Gabe would let him get away with murder? Who the fuck cares about a little semen here and there? "It's not like you can really be held responsible for any of that."

Bill just curls into himself tighter, hunching down and pulling his knees up to his chest with one graceful movement. "Someone put a flower in my drink and I tried to rape you," he states flatly, like it's not complete bullshit. Well, the flower part is true, but - what the fuck? Is this why Bill ran away from Gabe?

"Dude, I don't care," Gabe insists. They've gotten their wires crossed somewhere, he's pretty sure. "And you weren't trying to rape me, you were trying to stop hurting. I just wish you had been with someone you were comfortable having sex with, so they could have actually helped you, I don't know, not be in excruciating pain?"

Bill looks up at that, his eyes wide in bewilderment. "You think -" He shakes his head and rubs his eyes with his fingers. His nails are a little worn, like he's been chewing on them; it's not one of Bill's usual tics, but everybody switches things up occasionally. "Okay," he says, sounding resigned. "So I'm not angry at you for actually taking care of me and being a perfect gentleman - seriously, Gabe, what the hell? - and you're not actually freaked out by the fact that I tried to force you to have sex with me and then came on you. Are we all clear now?"

Gabe looks at him closely. Bill's hair is messy, flatter on the side that he slept on; there are faint freckles on his cheeks and a hint of stubble on his chin, just barely, because it takes actual effort for Bill to grow anything approximating real facial hair. There's a hint of pink around the edges of his eyes, the way there always is when Bill is tired but has been getting more than enough sleep. His shirt is wrinkled, the collar stretched, the skin on his neck and shoulders and chest silvery-pale where it falls under the edges of the cloth. His hands open and close on the fabric of his plaid pajama pants.

There's something wrong here, too; Gabe can't pinpoint what, exactly, but it's instinct, and instinct is the only reason why that glass was left half-finished, so Gabe's really, really willing to trust instinct at this point.

"Bill," he says, scooting forward so he's a half-cushion away from Bill instead of one and a half cushions, close enough that his knees are almost touching Bill's feet, "William, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Bill responds, and wow, he could at least try to make an effort at lying.

"Bill," Gabe repeats, maybe a little pleadingly, and Bill hisses out a breath and looks at Gabe darkly.

"Just let it go," he orders, his voice soft but strong, a little angry. "I don't have to tell you everything."

"Isn't that what we do?" Gabe asks without thinking, because they share whatever's going through their heads, they've shared some things that probably weren't meant to be shared, things Gabe might never tell even his blood family or his band. Isn't that everything?

And then Gabe realizes,yeah, that's actually a lie. Gabe doesn't tell Bill everything. Gabe tells Bill everything but one thing. Well, and what his presents are going to be, but that's different, that doesn't count.

"No, we don't," Bill informs him tensely. He slides backwards a little, letting his knees fall back down so he's sitting cross-legged again. It's a less defensive position, Gabe thinks, but it also puts Bill farther away. There's something slightly desperate in Bill's tone. "We don't, and we didn't even before - even before I, I got drugged, and so obviously it doesn't matter, it hasn't mattered, so just drop it, okay?"

Gabe stares at Bill, and then he stares some more for good measure.

"Stop looking at me like that," Bill tells him, crossing his arms over his chest and shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. "If you had just - it would have been okay." He sounds like he's begging, like if he pleads enough that'll make it true. "We could have just ignored it."

"I couldn't have," Gabe admits, still watching Bill raptly.

Bill uncrosses his arms, fluttering his hands in the air like he's been watching Bring It On too many times, or spending too much time with Gerard. "Look, nobody tells anybody everything, okay? There are just some things that you just - don't."

"Right," Gabe agrees. He understands what Bill means, even if he still wants to know everything about Bill. Maybe it wouldn't be fair, anyway, since Gabe hasn't exactly been a model of openness. "Because you're worried about how they would react, or that it would make them look at you differently and even if they don't really care, it's still going to be one more thing to feel weird about."

He would've learned from Midtown, if nowhere else, that one of the most common side effects of putting yourself out there is getting hurt. He's safe with Bill, for the most part, Bill who's just as wary as he is, Bill who's one of the most non-judgmental people he knows. When you start talking about feelings, though, especially feelings combined with sex, you're always walking a line so fine that it's nearly invisible.

Bill looks at him searchingly. "Hypocrite," he says simply, and without even thinking, in what might be a brilliant move or an incredibly stupid one, Gabe blurts out, "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours."

"What?" Bill asks, blinking. Stupefied is a good look on him, and Gabe feels bizarrely like laughing.

He shrugs instead. "So we've both got these secrets that we've been freaking out about telling each other. Why not just do it? Maybe your freak-out will cancel mine, and mine will cancel yours."

"That doesn't make any logical sense," Bill points out, but he's got that look on that face that means he's turning it over, thinking up arguments and counter-arguments. "And what if you hear mine and then - change yours or something?"

"We'll write them down," Gabe promises immediately, amazed at the way this is all coming to his head. Bill is usually the smart one, not Gabe. Bill's the prince and Gabe is the clown. "And look at them at the same time."

"What if mine is worse than yours?" Bill persists stubbornly, and Gabe loves Bill's stubbornness, but right now he also kind of wants to shake him.

"William. Just trust me," Gabe says intently, and Bill sits there for a moment before moving slowly to grab paper and pens.

Bill finishes writing his out even more quickly than Gabe does, and just sits there for a moment, looking at Gabe. Gabe can feel the weight of his eyes on the top of Gabe's bent head.

"Done," Gabe says after a moment, and Bill nods. They make as if to hand their folded papers over to each other, but both of them suddenly hesitate. Gabe snorts. "This is so anti-climactic."

Bill dissolves into a hopeless bout of giggles - giggles. It's the most adorable thing Gabe has ever seen in his entire fucking life. "I know!" he says through his laughter, ducking his head and covering his face with his hands. "I feel like we need more fanfare or something."

"Drumroll?" Gabe asks, grinning, and Bill shakes his head, still giggling. Gabe waits for a moment and then says, "Fuck it, let's get it over with." He crumples his paper into a ball and tosses it into Bill's lap, grabbing Bill's paper right out of his hand.

Bill smoothes out the wad of paper and reads it, his laughter choking to a halt. Gabe wonders what line he's reading now, which word made the giggles stop. It's not like it's that long of a note.

I can't decide whether it's worse that I didn't do anything that could have made you feel better, or that I even considered taking advantage of you when you were drugged. And all night long I was wishing it was me who made you make those noises - the good ones, not the pain ones.

Also, I'm in love with you.

It's the first time he's ever written the words down, the first time he's admitted it at all - even to himself, maybe, although he's always known it, deep down. Words like 'crush', though, they make life easier, they make it sound like you don't fall asleep at night wanting to hear someone breathing, like you don't feel everything brighten just a little when you see someone enter a room, like you don't want to spend the rest of your life with even the traits that piss you off.

Bill looks up, but Gabe just shakes his head and looks down at what Bill wrote in his familiar slanting handwriting.

I wanted you to want it, too.

It's Gabe's turn to look up now, his throat suddenly feeling a little dry. "Just - just that night, or..." He can't even think of what to say, which is out of the ordinary, but then again Gabe is always in new and unusual ways around William fucking Beckett. Because Gabe doesn't take anything seriously, didn't you know? But this, his best friends, Bill - those he does, even when he's joking around. It's sort of an always thing.

"A long time," Bill tells him, and that makes sense, doesn't it, since Bill said it was before that night, but the words still keep on reverberating around in Gabe's head. Bill's eyes are wide, his voice intent, like it's vitally important that Gabe understand what he's saying. "A really long time. And then I woke up that morning and I, I wanted you to have let me - I wanted - and I couldn't believe how selfish I was, because you were such a perfect gentleman, and of course you didn't - I mean - and I wanted to take advantage, and I - I just -"

Gabe scoots about two feet forward on the couch so he can press one finger against Bill's mouth. He wraps his free hand around the back of Bill's neck, Bill's hair brushing against his knuckles. Gabe brings their foreheads together gently, feeling Bill's breath on his chin, watching the sweep of Bill's eyelashes and the shadows they cast on his cheeks.

"I've been in love with you for at least the past three years," Gabe murmurs, speaking almost onto Bill's lower lip. He lets his nose bump against Bill's, drawing his finger away from Bill's mouth. "I'd really like it if I could kiss you now."

"You could probably go ahead and do that," Bill replies, his voice just as hushed as Gabe's. "You know. If you wanted."

"Oh, trust me, I do," Gabe says, and then he leans forward and presses his lips against Bill's, because while he's all for banter, sometimes talking is just overrated.

They start soft, trading off light kisses, almost nothing more than light brushes of their mouths, until Bill slides his hands up to grip Gabe's shoulders and doesn't let either of them pull their mouth away, even for the smallest moment or the tiniest breath of air.

Gabe rests one hand on Bill's lower back, feeling bare skin underneath two fingers, and pulls Bill even closer. Bill comes willingly, sighing into Gabe's mouth. In theory, it's nothing they haven't done before; their friendship has always been tactile, which was a blessing and curse. They've cuddled before, kissed before. Gabe's even eaten chocolate off of Bill's stomach, which was pretty fun. They've just never done any of it with intent before.

Turns out, it really is the thought that counts.

Gabe gently bites Bill's lower lip as Bill slips one hand underneath Gabe's shirt collar to run his nails across Gabe's shoulder blades. Their eyes are both wide open. Gabe twines one hand into Bill's hair as he licks into Bill's mouth, uses the other hand to push up Bill's shirt.

He doesn't feel any need to thank that asshole for this. Maybe the flower set off some sort of chain of events, but Gabe's pretty sure something would have happened eventually. He's not going to give that sleazebag credit for one of the best things in his life. Bill loves him, Bill's loved him for years, and some stupid flower had nothing to do with it.

This is them, it's all them, and if Gabe has his way, it's always going to be.

I said, ‘hey you, this is me. The idealist inside that holds your hope on a string, wound and tied like kites to all of your dreams and regrets. What a tangled mess that they’ve turned out to be. Take a breath, and ask yourself what matters.’
Days like masquerades, silent, hiding in the shadows,
stripped of their disguise leave you haunted as you scatter.
But you’re always on my mind.

-William Beckett