Something sharp
Title: Something sharp
Author:
alles_luege
Pairing: Gabe/William
Rating: PG
Summary: This is a story about Gabe Saporta noticing William Beckett the sweaty kid, the singer and maybe the person behind it all.
Warning(s): none
Author’s Notes: So, I wrote Gabe/William fic again…it’s more about Gabe…and a companion piece to 'Chasing butterflies', but can be read on its own.
Word Count: 741
Beta:
stronger_now_x (Who explains lovely why I should use a semi colon more often.)
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, not real.
~1~
Gabe remembers that kid. He remembers that kid from countless shows in Chicago and the surrounding area. From countless dates, out of countless faces he can’t remember at all.
He remembers screaming into a mic, and that kid - like so many others- screaming right back at him. Giving back what he gave or even more.
He remembers that kid: sweaty, excited and high on music.
So fucking high on the music.
~*~
He remembers seeing him on tour. First he didn’t think anything about it, because that kid was always there, somehow. But seeing that kid with Pete Wentz, talking, laughing, his sharp features in the unforgiving summer sun; he realises that this kid has a band.
That kid still watches every show Midtown plays. Gabe doesn’t go to see the kid’s band.
And the kid is there, like always, when Midtown breaks up and plays that last show.
Screaming, sweat dripping, drenched.
~*~
It’s a little bit of a shock to his system seeing that kid on TV. And he isn’t really a kid anymore. He wasn’t much of a kid on tour, he supposes, but he looked so fucking young; still does, Gabe thinks. Walking through that dollhouse; all sharp hips, elbows and words.
~2~
He doesn’t even know why he goes to see Beckett’s little band play after all. Maybe, because he doesn’t has anything else to do. Now that he hasn’t a band anymore, that he can’t scream into a mic for attention or whatever he was screaming for. He isn’t sure - not anymore. He feels like something is missing, a sharp part of him that was him, that was stolen, ripped away. He isn’t sure how to deal with it best. So he goes to shows, sees other people do what he wants to do, what he needs to do. And he listens. Listens to Beckett’s voice.
The club is big enough and dark enough that he doesn’t stand out, isn’t noticed, recognised as the former singer of Midtown. The former singer, he thinks, it tastes bitter. He leaves before the band finishes the set.
~*~
Sometimes he just stands in the shadows and doesn’t listen at all. The bodies around him are moving and screaming. He doesn’t care.
He watches.
Watches Beckett on stage; full of energy, vibrating youth and innocent happiness. Catches flashes of skin and hipbones he sometimes reads about when he stumbles upon some crazy girl’s blog on the internet.
~*~
He writes lyrics about sharp things when he gets back home late at night, and is frustrated with them and himself for writing something so obvious afterwards. It’s not like him, he thinks. It’s just not like him. He knows he isn’t fascinated…maybe he is. Maybe partly he is fascinated with that kid, that seemed so fascinated with him, the singer Beckett, but he knows that partly it’s envy. Just pure, pristine, sharp envy.
That knowledge doesn’t help matters at all.
~3~
It’s one of those dark, frustrating, cold nights. He takes a drag from his cigarette outside the club, the band has finished the set a few minutes ago; he asks himself why the hell he came again. He takes another drag, inhales deeply, closes his eyes as he exhales.
He knows when he gets home he will put that goddamned album into his CD-player, pour himself some Tequila and try to write something that doesn’t involve the words: sharp and skin. He although knows he will fail. Because he always does.
~*~
The problem is, Gabe knows, that William is a singer. He uses his voice to communicate, to manipulate, uses words like weapons. He knows that, because he does it too. Used to do it. Tries to do it again.
And because William has a voice now and words, he isn’t just another kid in a crowd, another singer on stage. When Gabe’s honest with himself - which sometimes he is - then he has to admit that William never was just a kid in a crowd to him.
~*~
He can’t deny that there is something that draws him to William. And he knows there is something that draws William to him.
“It’s a little bit like walking on glass or the shards of a broken heart,” William says, his sharp hipbone digging slightly into Gabe’s side, as he’s leaning against the brick wall smoking in the cold autumn night.
“Yeah…” he answers, because it really is.
~end~