Sometimes Magic has a Sense of Humor; Gabe/various
Title: Sometimes Magic has a Sense of Humor
Pairing: Gabe/various
Rating, Wordcount: NC-17, 2000
Disclaimer: I think Gabe is magic, but possibly not like this.
Summary: Sometimes, it's got to be more than coincidence.
(Thanks to Sky for the quick beta, and to Gabe for being Gabe.)
2003
He meets Mikey first, everyone always meets Mikey first, and Gabe thinks that he's pretty awesome, with his glasses and his weird hair and his easy smile and his slim hips. "He always looks bored," Rob screams in his ear over the pounding music, the first time he drags him to an Eyeball party.
"That just means you're doing it wrong," he screams back with a manic grin. He's drunk, way drunk, so fucking monumentally drunk, and when he finds Mikey two rooms away he just wraps himself around him and yells "I hear the bathroom door has a lock" in his ear.
They don't fuck that night, they just fool around. And the next time, and the next time. Gabe fucks Frank in Geoff's bed sometime in July, and Mikey watches, lower lip red and bitten, but it's not until October that Mikey's at Gabe's, naked and panting and Gabe thinks "finally, fucking finally".
"I haven't--" Mikey says, hoarse and slow, his pupils blown.
Gabe kisses his neck, his shoulder. "It's okay, I've gotcha, I've gotcha," he says, even though he feels big, clumsy as he pushes in. It's good, it's pretty fucking good, and Gabe's glad he's not too drunk to remember this later, the way Mikey's fingers scrabble along his back, the choked sound he makes when he comes.
"You okay?" he asks, and his hand feels huge where it rests on Mikey's slim hip. Mikey just nods and burrows under the covers, half under Gabe's arm.
Midtown falls apart.
Bullets needs a second printing, then a third. Mikey thanks Gabe in the liner notes on Three Cheers, though Gabe isn't really sure why.
*
2004
He's pretty sure Patrick doesn't like him much, but that's okay, because they just met. A lot of people don't like Gabe when they first meet. Gabe's pretty used to it.
Pete Wentz, however, likes Gabe a lot. And Gabe likes him back. They have a sort of understanding that only shitty dudes have, where they know they aren't crazy, but everyone else likes to think they are. Pete's band is pretty good-- they're still touring in a van, playing shows to 50 kids, and Gabe tells Pete that that's the way to do it, that's the way to get it done. Pete nods. Gabe's drunk and Pete's sober, but that doesn't stop him from sticking his tongue in Pete's mouth and sliding a hand up under his hoodie. Pete doesn't seem to mind.
The next time they're in the same town, Pete ends up in Gabe's dingy hotel room, and they're both a little drunk this time, talking about language and philosophy and bullshit. Pete's got his shirt off, and he's asking Gabe "what do you do, though, like. When shitty assholes say they're fans and then call your best friend a faggot?" Gabe just sighs and rests his head on Pete's stomach.
"I usually just tell them to fuck off, unless they want my dick in their mouth," he says, and he's pretty sure he's actually said that, once or twice. Pete laughs and then wags his eyebrows a little, angles his hips up so that Gabe's head rolls on his stomach. "Faggot," Gabe says with a grin.
"Fuck off," Pete says, "Unless..."
Gabe's good at sloppy blowjobs and Pete loves sloppy blowjobs, and it's easy for Gabe to slick up a finger with spit and come and press it inside. Pete pants, Pete grunts and curses and hooks his knee over Gabe's shoulder. Gabe pulls off with a wet pop, and presses a second finger in, slow, slow. He's hard, so hard he's amazed he hasn't put a hole in the fucking mattress. "Wanna fuck you," he rasps and twists his fingers just a little. Pete whines and twists his hands in the sheets. Gabe gets to his knees, fumbles up Pete's body until he can bite at his stomach, his nipple, his jaw. "Wanna--" he starts again and Pete groans low in his chest as they kiss.
"I'm not--" Pete says as Gabe lines up. He's slick with some off-brand hand lotion, those tiny bottles they leave in the bathroom.
"Fuck labels," Gabe says and Pete laughs and pulls Gabe's hair as they fuck.
A year later, he catches the video for 'Dance, Dance' on MTV, and smiles as Pete licks the fret of Joe's guitar.
*
2005
"Look at that ass," he says to Travis. The kid is tiny, and his hair is ridiculous, but he's built just right-- nothing gangly or out of proportion, nothing but his wide, red mouth and his high, apple-round ass.
Travis smiles slow and amused. "You should check he's legal," he says, like he knows Gabe so well.
"Hey kid," he yells across the grass where they're all sitting, waiting for things to start happening. He's here for the girls and the free Nintendo, and meeting Travis has been pretty much a bonus, but this kid might make it worth his money, following Pete and his boys around for a while. "Kid, you legal?" he tosses out and the kid looks up, startled, but he laughs as quickly as he blushes. The kid with him, with the birds nest hair and perpetually sour expression, flips Gabe off, but Gabe just raises his bottle of Jack in salute. The sour kid's jaw clenches tight and Gabe takes a long, hard pull. Fucking straightedge kids piss him off.
The kid with the ass finds him a few days later, hair slicked back with sweat from a show, tight pants riding low enough that Gabe can see the rise of his ass over the edge of them. Fall Out Boy are playing now, and Gabe is chilling in the bus, just him and his pipe and a few minutes of quiet.
"I'm legal," is all he says, and Gabe ignores the way his voice shakes a little. He gives the kid a long toke ("Brendon, my name's Brendon") and they make out for half an hour before the kid is shoving Gabe's hand down the back of his jeans with an impatient whimper.
The kid has a condom and a packet of lube tucked away in his pants and Gabe wasn't thinking he'd fuck the kid, not really, but he gets two fingers inside and Brendon's panting into his neck, muttering "please, fuck, please," and it's nothing for Gabe to unfold them, to fuck Brendon over the edge of the bus's formica kitchen table, Brendon's grunts almost drowned out by the screams of the crowd outside.
Brendon's drummer walks up to Gabe the next day and lands a sucker punch square to his jaw. He's small enough that Gabe should be able to take him, but something in his eyes makes him take a step back instead. "What the actual fuck?" he manages, fingers pressing into what's sure to be a decent bruise.
"It shouldn't have been you," the kid says, his voice low and threatening. Things get weird enough after that that Gabe takes off for the comfort of New Jersey.
Five months later, William is bitching on the phone to him. "We're the fucking headliners, they've been around for, what? Six months? How the fuck are they bigger than us?"
Gabe thinks of Brendon's shaking fingers, of his dark eyes and wide, wet mouth. He says "I don't even know, dude."
*
Gabe has never fucked William Beckett.
William calls them "homosocial life partners" and they snuggle under blankets and get too drunk to get it up most of the time.
Looking back, this should have been a clue.
*
2006
"Yo, Travie," Gabe says, stoned and loose and all-too-serious.
Travis glances up from the TV, and Gabe smiles at the way his face catches the glow from it. Travis always seems to fucking glow.
"So I have this theory, right?" Travis nods and leans in, elbows on his knees. Gabe is sitting on the floor, his shirt somewhere lost in the madness of Travis' apartment, his shoes tucked neatly next to the couch. He tilts his head, and Travis tilts his too. "You ever been fucked by a guy?" he asks, and Travis squints at him.
"You know I haven't, dude. Not my style."
"Yeah, okay," Gabe says, and shit, shit, he's sure he's right. And if he's right, Travie deserves it, deserves all of it. "So I have this theory, and I think you should let me fuck you." Travis' laugh is warm and quick, and Gabe just laughs right along with him, but he gets to his knees, his hands slide up the outside of Travis' thighs, and he says "No, no, I mean it, come on. Just lemme tell you--"
Even when they're naked, Travis doesn't believe him, not really, but Gabe can talk pretty much anyone into anything, and more than that, Travis trusts him in this way that makes Gabe's chest hurt sometimes. "Wanna do this, wanna do this for you," Gabe says against his throat and Travis winds his fingers in Gabe's hair and sighs and says "Just you, just you," and Gabe almost comes before he can do it, before he can slide into Travis and feel him tense and release around his dick.
"Fuck, fuck," Gabe practically sobs, and Travis is holding onto his headboard, his face a mixture of tension and uncertainty, and Gabe has to be right about this, he is, and he jerks Travis off in sure, quick strokes as he fucks him; he doesn't feel the tightness around his heart let up until Travis's face goes slack as Gabe hits just the right spot, until Travis is arching under him with a growl, and Gabe's fingers are sticky and wet with his come.
"You're gonna be a star," he murmurs into Travie's throat as they drift off, and Gabe can feel Travis laugh.
"You're fuckin' crazy," he says.
When 'Cupid's Chokehold' hits it's sixth week on the Billboard Top 10, Travis calls Gabe. "Fuck, son. Maybe you were onto something."
*
2007
Gabe's already got an album before he has a band. He really needs a band. He really needs a motherfucking kickass band, and Rob's friends Ryland and Alex are already making noises about how they could be talked into it, but really he needs...
"Hey," his smile is quick and bright, and Nate looks up at him from under dark bangs and smiles. "Let me take your shit," Gabe says, and shoulders the heavy duffle. "You don't mind that you're bunking in the basement for a while, right?"
"Dude, no," Nate says with a laugh, and Gabe thinks this might work, maybe, maybe.
It's not until a month later that they're sitting on the futon that doubles as Nate's bed, both of them dying firey MarioKart deaths, that Nate says "For the sluttiest guy in the scene, you sure can't take a fucking hint," and Gabe practically bruises himself getting them untangled from their controllers, tugging Nate's shirt over his head.
Cobra Starship sells out most of their first headlining tour in under a week.
*
Epilogue: 2008
They look young, younger than Nate, younger than half the fans in the audience. They're good, though, and they'd probably make it anyway, with their fresh faces and Pete's backing. But Gabe likes these kids, and when one of them lays out on the floor of Cobra's bus, stoned and smiling, Gabe says "I can make you a star, kid."
Ian blinks up at him from the floor, and Nate shakes his head and smiles. "Trust him, he's magic."
Pairing: Gabe/various
Rating, Wordcount: NC-17, 2000
Disclaimer: I think Gabe is magic, but possibly not like this.
Summary: Sometimes, it's got to be more than coincidence.
(Thanks to Sky for the quick beta, and to Gabe for being Gabe.)
2003
He meets Mikey first, everyone always meets Mikey first, and Gabe thinks that he's pretty awesome, with his glasses and his weird hair and his easy smile and his slim hips. "He always looks bored," Rob screams in his ear over the pounding music, the first time he drags him to an Eyeball party.
"That just means you're doing it wrong," he screams back with a manic grin. He's drunk, way drunk, so fucking monumentally drunk, and when he finds Mikey two rooms away he just wraps himself around him and yells "I hear the bathroom door has a lock" in his ear.
They don't fuck that night, they just fool around. And the next time, and the next time. Gabe fucks Frank in Geoff's bed sometime in July, and Mikey watches, lower lip red and bitten, but it's not until October that Mikey's at Gabe's, naked and panting and Gabe thinks "finally, fucking finally".
"I haven't--" Mikey says, hoarse and slow, his pupils blown.
Gabe kisses his neck, his shoulder. "It's okay, I've gotcha, I've gotcha," he says, even though he feels big, clumsy as he pushes in. It's good, it's pretty fucking good, and Gabe's glad he's not too drunk to remember this later, the way Mikey's fingers scrabble along his back, the choked sound he makes when he comes.
"You okay?" he asks, and his hand feels huge where it rests on Mikey's slim hip. Mikey just nods and burrows under the covers, half under Gabe's arm.
Midtown falls apart.
Bullets needs a second printing, then a third. Mikey thanks Gabe in the liner notes on Three Cheers, though Gabe isn't really sure why.
*
2004
He's pretty sure Patrick doesn't like him much, but that's okay, because they just met. A lot of people don't like Gabe when they first meet. Gabe's pretty used to it.
Pete Wentz, however, likes Gabe a lot. And Gabe likes him back. They have a sort of understanding that only shitty dudes have, where they know they aren't crazy, but everyone else likes to think they are. Pete's band is pretty good-- they're still touring in a van, playing shows to 50 kids, and Gabe tells Pete that that's the way to do it, that's the way to get it done. Pete nods. Gabe's drunk and Pete's sober, but that doesn't stop him from sticking his tongue in Pete's mouth and sliding a hand up under his hoodie. Pete doesn't seem to mind.
The next time they're in the same town, Pete ends up in Gabe's dingy hotel room, and they're both a little drunk this time, talking about language and philosophy and bullshit. Pete's got his shirt off, and he's asking Gabe "what do you do, though, like. When shitty assholes say they're fans and then call your best friend a faggot?" Gabe just sighs and rests his head on Pete's stomach.
"I usually just tell them to fuck off, unless they want my dick in their mouth," he says, and he's pretty sure he's actually said that, once or twice. Pete laughs and then wags his eyebrows a little, angles his hips up so that Gabe's head rolls on his stomach. "Faggot," Gabe says with a grin.
"Fuck off," Pete says, "Unless..."
Gabe's good at sloppy blowjobs and Pete loves sloppy blowjobs, and it's easy for Gabe to slick up a finger with spit and come and press it inside. Pete pants, Pete grunts and curses and hooks his knee over Gabe's shoulder. Gabe pulls off with a wet pop, and presses a second finger in, slow, slow. He's hard, so hard he's amazed he hasn't put a hole in the fucking mattress. "Wanna fuck you," he rasps and twists his fingers just a little. Pete whines and twists his hands in the sheets. Gabe gets to his knees, fumbles up Pete's body until he can bite at his stomach, his nipple, his jaw. "Wanna--" he starts again and Pete groans low in his chest as they kiss.
"I'm not--" Pete says as Gabe lines up. He's slick with some off-brand hand lotion, those tiny bottles they leave in the bathroom.
"Fuck labels," Gabe says and Pete laughs and pulls Gabe's hair as they fuck.
A year later, he catches the video for 'Dance, Dance' on MTV, and smiles as Pete licks the fret of Joe's guitar.
*
2005
"Look at that ass," he says to Travis. The kid is tiny, and his hair is ridiculous, but he's built just right-- nothing gangly or out of proportion, nothing but his wide, red mouth and his high, apple-round ass.
Travis smiles slow and amused. "You should check he's legal," he says, like he knows Gabe so well.
"Hey kid," he yells across the grass where they're all sitting, waiting for things to start happening. He's here for the girls and the free Nintendo, and meeting Travis has been pretty much a bonus, but this kid might make it worth his money, following Pete and his boys around for a while. "Kid, you legal?" he tosses out and the kid looks up, startled, but he laughs as quickly as he blushes. The kid with him, with the birds nest hair and perpetually sour expression, flips Gabe off, but Gabe just raises his bottle of Jack in salute. The sour kid's jaw clenches tight and Gabe takes a long, hard pull. Fucking straightedge kids piss him off.
The kid with the ass finds him a few days later, hair slicked back with sweat from a show, tight pants riding low enough that Gabe can see the rise of his ass over the edge of them. Fall Out Boy are playing now, and Gabe is chilling in the bus, just him and his pipe and a few minutes of quiet.
"I'm legal," is all he says, and Gabe ignores the way his voice shakes a little. He gives the kid a long toke ("Brendon, my name's Brendon") and they make out for half an hour before the kid is shoving Gabe's hand down the back of his jeans with an impatient whimper.
The kid has a condom and a packet of lube tucked away in his pants and Gabe wasn't thinking he'd fuck the kid, not really, but he gets two fingers inside and Brendon's panting into his neck, muttering "please, fuck, please," and it's nothing for Gabe to unfold them, to fuck Brendon over the edge of the bus's formica kitchen table, Brendon's grunts almost drowned out by the screams of the crowd outside.
Brendon's drummer walks up to Gabe the next day and lands a sucker punch square to his jaw. He's small enough that Gabe should be able to take him, but something in his eyes makes him take a step back instead. "What the actual fuck?" he manages, fingers pressing into what's sure to be a decent bruise.
"It shouldn't have been you," the kid says, his voice low and threatening. Things get weird enough after that that Gabe takes off for the comfort of New Jersey.
Five months later, William is bitching on the phone to him. "We're the fucking headliners, they've been around for, what? Six months? How the fuck are they bigger than us?"
Gabe thinks of Brendon's shaking fingers, of his dark eyes and wide, wet mouth. He says "I don't even know, dude."
*
Gabe has never fucked William Beckett.
William calls them "homosocial life partners" and they snuggle under blankets and get too drunk to get it up most of the time.
Looking back, this should have been a clue.
*
2006
"Yo, Travie," Gabe says, stoned and loose and all-too-serious.
Travis glances up from the TV, and Gabe smiles at the way his face catches the glow from it. Travis always seems to fucking glow.
"So I have this theory, right?" Travis nods and leans in, elbows on his knees. Gabe is sitting on the floor, his shirt somewhere lost in the madness of Travis' apartment, his shoes tucked neatly next to the couch. He tilts his head, and Travis tilts his too. "You ever been fucked by a guy?" he asks, and Travis squints at him.
"You know I haven't, dude. Not my style."
"Yeah, okay," Gabe says, and shit, shit, he's sure he's right. And if he's right, Travie deserves it, deserves all of it. "So I have this theory, and I think you should let me fuck you." Travis' laugh is warm and quick, and Gabe just laughs right along with him, but he gets to his knees, his hands slide up the outside of Travis' thighs, and he says "No, no, I mean it, come on. Just lemme tell you--"
Even when they're naked, Travis doesn't believe him, not really, but Gabe can talk pretty much anyone into anything, and more than that, Travis trusts him in this way that makes Gabe's chest hurt sometimes. "Wanna do this, wanna do this for you," Gabe says against his throat and Travis winds his fingers in Gabe's hair and sighs and says "Just you, just you," and Gabe almost comes before he can do it, before he can slide into Travis and feel him tense and release around his dick.
"Fuck, fuck," Gabe practically sobs, and Travis is holding onto his headboard, his face a mixture of tension and uncertainty, and Gabe has to be right about this, he is, and he jerks Travis off in sure, quick strokes as he fucks him; he doesn't feel the tightness around his heart let up until Travis's face goes slack as Gabe hits just the right spot, until Travis is arching under him with a growl, and Gabe's fingers are sticky and wet with his come.
"You're gonna be a star," he murmurs into Travie's throat as they drift off, and Gabe can feel Travis laugh.
"You're fuckin' crazy," he says.
When 'Cupid's Chokehold' hits it's sixth week on the Billboard Top 10, Travis calls Gabe. "Fuck, son. Maybe you were onto something."
*
2007
Gabe's already got an album before he has a band. He really needs a band. He really needs a motherfucking kickass band, and Rob's friends Ryland and Alex are already making noises about how they could be talked into it, but really he needs...
"Hey," his smile is quick and bright, and Nate looks up at him from under dark bangs and smiles. "Let me take your shit," Gabe says, and shoulders the heavy duffle. "You don't mind that you're bunking in the basement for a while, right?"
"Dude, no," Nate says with a laugh, and Gabe thinks this might work, maybe, maybe.
It's not until a month later that they're sitting on the futon that doubles as Nate's bed, both of them dying firey MarioKart deaths, that Nate says "For the sluttiest guy in the scene, you sure can't take a fucking hint," and Gabe practically bruises himself getting them untangled from their controllers, tugging Nate's shirt over his head.
Cobra Starship sells out most of their first headlining tour in under a week.
*
Epilogue: 2008
They look young, younger than Nate, younger than half the fans in the audience. They're good, though, and they'd probably make it anyway, with their fresh faces and Pete's backing. But Gabe likes these kids, and when one of them lays out on the floor of Cobra's bus, stoned and smiling, Gabe says "I can make you a star, kid."
Ian blinks up at him from the floor, and Nate shakes his head and smiles. "Trust him, he's magic."