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Fic: In Production (5/7)
Master Post | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
Previous
***
Pete wakes up on Saturday with sand all over his body. It's in his hair, itching behind his neck, stuck under his arms and behind his knees. It should make him feel dirty and gross, but it just reminds him of Patrick. It's proof that he didn't just dream up their tussle in the sand, it really happened and Pete's attaching way too much meaning to it.
He wasn't able to convince Patrick to come with him to his apartment. He tried, so hard, and they were stuck together like glue on the corner of Tedder and Hughes for at least half an hour, Pete kissing Patrick breathless and Patrick shaking his head, tugging his arm from Pete's hand and trying to walk away.
Pete made his best argument. All his best arguments, but to no avail. Patrick was insistent and Pete ended up sleeping alone, cold sheets at his side, grit of sand under his fingernails.
It isn't a smart move to go searching for Patrick, but Pete's never been one to shy away from bad ideas. Showered and dressed, but not fed or coffee'd, he buzzes Patrick's apartment with no idea what he wants to say. He throws a half dozen excuses at the intercom, all work related and he can hear the reluctance in Patrick's voice when he buzzes him up.
Patrick's apartment is on the twentieth floor. It has an ocean view. This might have meant something to Pete two nights ago but now he doesn't care. The moment Patrick opens his door Pete grabs him around the neck, kissing him before the door even closes behind him and, against all odds and logic, Patrick kisses him back. They melt into each other, stroking tongues and rubbing lips for long moments before Patrick breaks it, panting.
"This is a bad idea."
"But it's such a fucking good one, too," Pete argues, fingers still locked in Patrick's hair, his hat long gone. Pete tries to kiss him again, but Patrick turns his head, holding fast to his self control so Pete aims for his neck instead, sucking at the hollow behind his ear, making Patrick's body curve insistently towards him.
"Fuck Pete, if we do this now we can't write it off. This is like, on purpose." Patrick's barely getting the words out and Pete can feel the thumping pulse under his lips.
"Don't you want to do it on purpose?" he growls into Patrick's neck, stroking his tongue up under his chin. He presses Patrick back against the door, fumbling at his belt and Patrick reaches for his hands, trying to snare his wrists.
"Fuck, Pete, you know how dangerous this is," he chokes out, fingers tight around Pete's wrists but Pete pushes on, flicking the button on Patrick's slacks. If he can just get Patrick's dick in his mouth he can convince him. He'll let him do it then. God, he wants it so much.
"Pete-"
"Shhhh." Pete's breath hisses over Patrick's lips, their mouths a breath apart until Pete presses them together, taking Patrick's mouth the same moment he slides his hand into his pants. Patrick groans into the kiss, melting against the door and into Pete as he finds his grip.
"It doesn't have to mean anything," Pete whispers into his mouth, trying to sound enticing as he starts to stroke. Patrick shakes his head, brow furrowed, mouth tight with denial.
"Yes it does. There's no point doing it if it's meaningless," he grits out, unable to keep his hips from shifting in response to Pete's movements.
Pete pulls his hand from Patrick's hair, gentle fingers sliding down to cup his cheek and Patrick leans into it. With his hat off and his hair falling all over his forehead he looks painfully young, and Pete just wants him more.
"It doesn't have to mean everything," Pete insists, fingers dancing over Patrick's cheekbone and he sees the moment when it becomes clear, when the heat wins over the hesitation in Patrick's eyes.
He crushes his mouth over Pete's, hard and demanding and Pete folds into it, moaning and handing over the reins. When Patrick breaks the kiss his breath is harsh, thumb stroking over Pete's wet bottom lip.
"We do this, we do it my way," he states, voice strong, and it's the same tone he uses when he's talking no-bullshit-budget stuff, but it's way hotter. Pete presses into him eagerly, rubbing up against him and nodding.
"Your way, sure. Yeah," he agrees, already starved for more contact, wanting Patrick's mouth again.
"Pete." Patrick's hand is strong on Pete's jaw, his thumb resting right under Pete's eye and he turns his head so Pete has no choice but to look him straight in the eye. "My way. Means. I'm going to fuck you."
All the strength melts out of Pete's legs at those words. It's easily the hottest moment in his life so far. Patrick's voice is a promise that Pete's body is already delivering on and fuck he's so hard, so ready, and they're still crushed up against Patrick's front door.
"Bedroom. Now." Patrick's soft voice carries more authority than Joe with a megaphone and Pete takes the instruction, tearing at his shirt buttons as he stumbles to the door he hopes is the bedroom.
He gets his shirt off but his pants are trickier because he forgets he's wearing shoes. He falls back to sit on the bed, tussling with his shoes and jeans, hard-on insistently pushing against his belly. He loses track of what he's doing when he glances up at Patrick, who's pulled his shirt off over his head, leaving his hair messed up, but his eyes are hot and boiling green at Pete, robbing him of all motor function.
Luckily Patrick notices and takes the lead, approaching the bed and rolling Pete onto his stomach with no-nonsense hands. He shoves Pete's jeans and shoes off with his foot as he strokes firm hands down Pete's naked back, the movement pressing Pete's aching dick into the mattress, making him squirm for more contact.
Hot mouth and breath follow on Pete's neck, tracing down his spine and he shivers with goosebumps, groaning in a way that should be embarrassing, but it's just what he's feeling made verbal. Patrick's body covers his, denim clad legs rough against the backs of Pete's bare ones. Patrick shimmies down, hot mouth shifting to suck at Pete's shoulder blade, the small of his back, to bite gently at the soft globes of his ass.
All Pete can do is pant and twitch and push back into it. He wants to flip over, pull Patrick down onto him and touch him everywhere but he knows that's not the deal. That would be like the runner trying to talk over the director, so he just shuts up; the only sound allowed out of his mouth is a moan.
Warm breath on his ass is the only warning he gets before Patrick's pressing his cheeks apart and fuck, right there, Patrick's mouth hot and wet, his tongue pressing against the opening and the noise Pete makes is somewhere between shock and desperation. His ass twitches up, looking for more contact but Patrick's fingers are tight on his hips, holding him in place.
"Pete." There's a note of command in his voice and it's pushing warm air onto the inside of Pete's thigh. Pete's barely able to concentrate on it, he's too busy trying to rub his cock against the bed. He hasn't felt this desperate since he was a horny teenager. "Pete, can you reach the drawer?" It's a simple question but it takes Pete way too long to unravel it from the keening want that's bellowing through his mind.
When he's able to string the words together and make sense of them he reaches for the bedside drawer, fingers trailing over books and reading glasses until he finds the tube and foil-wrapped packages he knows he's looking for. He presses them into Patrick's grasp with shaking hands, gaining a hard kiss in thanks that melts him boneless into the mattress.
Patrick's hands find his ass again, wet and slick, making Pete groan and push back into the touch.
"You ready for me, Pete?" Patrick's body stretches over Pete's again, bare chest against his back and fuck yes, Pete is fucking ready. He tells Patrick as much in desperate words, face pressed into the mattress and he can feel Patrick's smile against his neck in reply. Then Patrick's pressing a gentle finger into his ass and Pete's keening and pressing back into the touch, groaning and begging until he gets another one.
Two of Patrick's fingers inside him and fuck, it's been a while. Enough that he's feeling the stretch, not painful, just intense. He glances over his shoulder and gets stuck looking at Patrick's face. His cheeks are flushed pink, fine hairs around his forehead dark and wet with sweat, a look of absolute concentration on his features. He catches Pete's look, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a wicked smile as he adds a third finger.
Pete's whole body shudders in response, his eyes falling shut and robbing him of the pornography of Patrick's reaction. Fuck, three fingers and he's already so full. He's so ready. He struggles an arm behind him, searching for Patrick's cock. He fumbles his way blindly into Patrick's jeans and then jesusfuck he's got a handful of cock warm and hard. He squeezes, drawing a gasp from Patrick that makes him smile until Patrick twists his fingers inside him, erasing his spine. He collapses forwards, catching himself on one elbow and just trying to breathe. His cock is throbbing insistently now, so hard, so ready and he hasn't even touched it yet.
He firms his grip on Patrick's dick, guiding it towards his ass with intent, the motion earning him a gasp stuttered into his shoulder. When Patrick's fingers leave his ass it's hard not to whine, to grab hold of Patrick's wrist and keep him there, but the rip of a foil packet opening is all the promise he needs to grit his teeth and wait.
He’s rewarded with the blunt press of Patrick’s cock at his ass, tearing a groan from his throat. He tries to push back, fill himself up, but Patrick’s gripping Pete’s hips so hard he’s going to leave finger marks and Pete’s just going to have to take it as it comes. Patrick gives it out slowly, sliding in incrementally until Pete wants to scream with frustration. When he finally gets all the way in it’s like a revelation, and Pete just has to close his eyes and feel it right down to his toes.
He can sense every droplet of sweat standing out on his skin, the weight of his body suddenly too heavy for his arms to hold up and he’s shaking, trembling and so completely full. It’s so much, he’s over-stimulated and strung right out, but it’s still not enough. Patrick’s fingers remain tight on his hips but Pete pushes against the hold, pushes back against Patrick, starting the movement he’s so desperate for.
The noise Patrick makes is animal, his body falling forward to crush down on Pete’s, sweat-slick chest against his back, hot mouth finding his neck as his hips start to drive forward and back. It’s a mind-burningly slow movement that has Pete gasping into the mattress, fingers clenching reflexively around handfuls of bedding. Patrick’s breath is warm behind his ear; the sounds he makes as he moves are throaty and guttural and Pete simply can’t get enough.
"More. Fuck, please, faster." His voice is wrecked, broken and needy. Patrick doesn’t answer him with words, just grabs a handful of his hair, gripping tight enough to draw his head back. His mouths Pete’s neck wetly, adding an edge of teeth and Pete has to fight the urge to whine. He loses the battle immediately and starts to keen as Patrick’s hips rock forwards, pushing the breath right out of him.
It’s good, fuck, so good. Every motion presses him down into the bed, fabric of the bedspread rubbing on his cock, but it’s nowhere near enough contact. He grinds hard, down into the mattress, up against Patrick, his whole body squirming despite the tight grip Patrick’s got in his hair and on his hip.
The fingers in his hair tighten, Patrick’s teeth against his neck nip at him, catching enough flesh to flare up a blossom of pain and it only adds edge to his pleasure, the driving want racing through his bloodstream. He twitches his head sideways, pulling against Patrick’s grip, forcing the hard tug against his scalp and moaning when he gets it.
Patrick’s low chuckle is warm against his neck, raising goosebumps. He doesn’t loosen his grip though, if anything it tightens, pulling Pete’s head to the side and Patrick bites him again, harder this time. Pete groans loud, his hips stuttering backwards, pushing Patrick’s cock into his ass at the same time as he’s rewarded with a sharp flare of pain in his neck. He lets out a strangled cry, feeling like his cock might explode from the combination. Jesusfuck who knew?
"Like that, is it?" Patrick’s muttering hot into his neck, shoving his hips forward on the word ‘that’ and Pete’s got to press his mouth into the mattress to muffle his moan. Fuck, he wants more. He wants it so hard he can feel it all down and through him.
He shoves his hips backwards at Patrick, groaning "Harder" in a voice that doesn't sound like his own, it's too thick and needy.
"Jesus Pete." Patrick's voice is breathy, awed and slightly anxious.
"Please." Pete's begging now and he knows it. He twists his head around to see Patrick, show him how much he means it and the expression on Patrick's face is heart-stopping. He looks like he's burning up, cheeks red and blotchy, hair damp and mussed. It should be all kinds of unattractive, but the pieces put together just steal Pete's breath. It's his eyes, the way he's looking at Pete like he wants to devour him and fuck if that doesn't set Pete on fire.
Pete pitches towards Patrick, joining their mouths in a kiss that's messy and sideways. It's awkward, all teeth and tongue, and Pete's wet all around his mouth when they separate but it does the job. Patrick's fingers lock on Pete's hip once more, pulling him back to meet a hard thrust, shoving into him and Pete can only groan his appreciation, hips stammering backwards to meet Patrick's motions.
It's almost enough, fuck, almost. Patrick's hand shifts from Pete's hip to find his dick, squeezing hard at the same time his teeth find Pete's neck again and Pete makes a noise like he's dying, soul deep and throaty. He's barely able to keep himself up on a shaking elbow, reaching behind him to grip Patrick's hip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh, pulling forwards, begging.
Patrick keeps going, shoving in hard, then pulling out nearly all the way before pounding back in. His low throaty grunts on every thrust paint heat up the back of Pete's neck. He firms his grip on Pete's cock, stroking in time with his movements and Pete starts to unravel. It's like their bodies are melting together, sweat slick and pulsing, and Patrick drives into him, right through him.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," Pete moans into the mattress on every bone-melting push, fingers still gripping Patrick's ass, feeling everything, wanting everything. Fuck, it's coming, he can feel it coiling deep in his belly and balls, rattling loose every time Patrick bottoms out. His ass feels raw and his neck's tingling with sharp pin-pricks all over the bitten areas of his neck. And his cock, fuck, it's wet and leaking in Patrick's grip, pulsing and ready to blow.
"Fuck that's it. Yeah, come on," Patrick growls hot into his neck, "You gonna come? Come on. Come for me, Pete."
Pete could white-out from his voice alone, he's so fucking close.
Patrick must know, must read it in the way Pete's moaning and shaking, because his free hand finds Pete's nipple, twisting hard as he bites on his neck, hips scissoring forwards as he speeds his thrusts. The combination of sensation tips Pete over, shaking his orgasm free until it bubbles out of his mouth in a strangled groan. Pete jack-knifes forwards, body going stiff as it pulses hot and liquid from his cock, Patrick stroking it loose with deft fingers as he pounds into his ass.
Pete's arms collapse, aftershocks buzzing through him, riding it out. Patrick's grip on his hips is the only thing keeping his ass up, as Patrick chases his own release, hips stuttering forwards hard and fast into Pete who's so boneless he can take anything now.
Pete sends a lazy arm behind him, curling fingers around the back of Patrick's neck, into the damp hair. He's shaking on every thrust, bathing in the sound of Patrick's voice, every animal grunt he makes. He twists his head around, trying to see, getting a glimpse of Patrick's face, tight and agonized, his eyes creased closed.
"Come on," Pete groans, wanting to see it, wanting to watch Patrick come apart.
Patrick's eyes fly open at the words, locking on to Pete as his mouth falls open and his hips shudder forwards, faster, harder than Pete ever thought he could take. But he takes it, feels the pulse in his ass as Patrick shoots, gripping his hair. He savors the vision of Patrick's eyes fluttering, the way his face twists in ecstasy, the throaty strangled sound that comes out of his mouth as it happens.
All Patrick's weight collapses onto him and Pete lets it press him flat into the mattress, covered in Patrick, all sweaty and panting into his neck. He's aching and tingling in so many places he can't count, feeling raw and used and so completely satisfied.
Patrick eventually rolls off him and out of him, and Pete hears the snap of the condom coming off. He rolls onto his side, leaning on his arm to study Patrick. His color is still high and he looks fucked-out and shell-shocked. Pete reaches out a hand, fingers tracing over the red blotches on his cheeks, pushing wet locks of hair up off his forehead.
Patrick tears his eyes from his careful study of the ceiling to fix on Pete and looking deep into those greens makes the bottom of Pete’s stomach fall out. Because if he thought he was in trouble before, he is in so much more trouble now.
He rolls closer, pressing his face into Patrick’s sweaty neck so he doesn’t have to keep looking into those drowning pools. But it’s not enough to stop his mind. It’s racing ahead at a million miles an hour, his fingers twitching closed on Patrick’s shoulder as a single word echoes through his head.
Mine.
It’s not true. Not even a little. Patrick belongs to the studio, to Tom, to himself, but not to Pete. Never to Pete.
That doesn’t stop Pete’s grip tightening on Patrick’s shoulder, fingernails digging in hard enough for Patrick to draw in a sharp breath.
"Pete." There’s a question in Patrick’s voice, and he can feel Patrick’s eyes on him before he even looks up, biting his lip to keep that word in his mind, not let it out into the room. It’s so hard not to say it. Patrick’s eyes are hypnotic, soaking up his will, so Pete lifts his chin and kisses him, slow and lazy and searching, feeling Patrick’s hand trace up his neck, fingers smoothing over the tender marks his mouth left.
Pete pours it all into the kiss, everything he can’t say and when they break apart they’re both breathless. Patrick’s cheeks have settled to a dusky pink and his mouth is wet and swollen. His eyes are still distracting, infinitely so, but Pete pulls himself out the hole he fell in and smiles his most charming smile at him, showing all his teeth.
"You’re not gonna sue for sexual harassment are you? Because I’m pretty sure we just violated half the crew Sexual Harassment and Discrimination Policy." It’s a half-ass jibe, not one of his best, but it cracks Patrick’s face into a smile that quickens Pete’s heartbeat. Oh, he’s got it bad.
"I won’t sue you if you don’t sue me." Patrick grins around the words and Pete stifles a chuckle into Patrick’s neck.
It takes real effort to pry his stiff fingers from Patrick’s shoulder, squashing the mineminemine voice down as he offers Patrick his hand to shake on it.
"Deal."
***
Brian stays the whole weekend. By some unspoken truce he and Gerard don't talk about work, or about the flight Brian's got to be on Monday morning. The one that will take him to Prague for sixteen weeks shooting another film with another director.
No, they don't talk about that, but everything else is fair game, from favorite films and music to first loves and childhood. They drag themselves from the cocoon of Gerard's apartment long enough to get coffee and eat, but aside from that they hibernate, lazing around and talking and fucking.
Gerard's never had so many orgasms in such a short space of time; he should be exhausted, but there's something about Brian that just keeps him simmering in a near-constant state of arousal. The clock ticking down the hours until they'll be separated by miles and miles of ocean and sky doesn't help, reminding Gerard to take his fill now, because it could be his last meal.
Sunday night finds them curled up on Gerard's couch watching some random action film on cable. Gerard's not really paying attention to it and Brian keep snorting and tearing apart the bad stuntwork, so he doesn't feel guilty about dragging his attention from the screen, lazy hands tracing down Brian's chest, fingers dipping under the waistband of his pants.
Brian sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling shut and Gerard has to fight a satisfied smile. He's learned a lot about what Brian likes in the last forty-eight hours. So it's a surprise when Brian's hand covers his, holding tight to stop him going any lower.
"Gee, I really..." He catches a breath again, hips shifting under their hands and Gerard knows he's getting hard. "God, I really want to but... fuck man, I have to go. I fly out tomorrow; I haven't even packed yet."
Gerard presses a kiss to Brian's mouth, knowing it won't stop the words, but wanting to delay them just a little while. He knows all this, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He wishes he could forget about the flight, but the date is burned into his mind from the moment he saw it on the production diary.
He’s not ready for real life to intrude on them, not yet. Probably not ever.
He kisses Brian deeply, pressing him back into the couch and Brian goes liquid beneath him, his hands sliding up to tangle in Gerard’s hair, tugging lightly the way he knows Gerard likes it. Their bodies unfold until they’re flat on the couch, Gerard on top, chest to chest and thigh to thigh, hardness finding hardness between layers of fabric. The urgency of their movements betrays nothing of the lazy mutual handjobs they indulged in just hours before on the very same couch. Gerard just needs to take as much as he can right now, fill himself with Brian because it feels too much like it’s all about to end. Brian’s going to leave and the next time they see each other it will be as a director and a stunt coordinator again, erasing everything else.
That thought presses on him as he slides down Brian’s body, prying his pants down to swallow his cock. He works his mouth over Brian's length, tongue stroking and tasting, memorizing the flavor, the texture of Brian’s skin beneath his fingers, soft with firm muscles beneath, crisp wiry hairs of Brian’s sex under his fingers.
The guttural moans Brian makes are filed away with the tug of his fingers in Gerard’s hair. Gerard glances up, etching Brian’s face into his mind, slack mouth and tightly closed eyes. He shifts a hand to cup Brian’s balls, stroking a finger between his cheeks to just rest at his opening and that’s the button. Brian’s eyes fly open, moaning loud and long as he releases in Gerard’s mouth, giving him one more thing to remember.
He keeps Brian in his mouth until the last pulses flicker out, pulling off and licking his lips. He sits up slowly to his knees, stroking the soft skin of Brian’s hip absently.
"You should go. It’s nearly midnight ."
Brian pries his eyes open, sitting up clumsily, looking hazy and knocked out. He leans in to kiss Gerard’s too-tender lips, but when his hand dances towards his crotch Gerard catches it.
"Really. It’s fine. I don’t want to keep you."
Brian reels back, looking hard at Gerard like this is a test. He tries to tug his hand loose but Gerard doesn’t let him.
"I said it was fine, I mean..." He glances up, feeling suddenly shy, "I wanted to do that for you."
"Really?"
"Really. Come on. I’ve kept you too long already. Go pack ."
Gerard rolls back on the couch, tapping Brian’s leg encouragingly. Brian’s movements are less clumsy when he does his pants up and clambers to his feet. He catches Gerard’s mouth in a final kiss that’s comfortable and slow and sated. He breaks it with a smile and a final squeeze to Gerard’s ass before he heads for the door.
Gerard stays on the couch, keeping his eyes trained forward, heart beating hard in his ears trying not to hear Brian's motions, the scuff of his footsteps as he makes his way out. It almost works until he hears the door creak open.
"Brian!" His voice comes out in a squeak. Calling himself seven shades of idiot, he stumbles to his feet, snatching up his spare key and pressing it into the Brian’s hand without looking at his face. "If you want to come back. In case, I mean..." He cuts himself off, staring at Brian’s shoulder and trying to will away the blush he can feel crawling up his neck.
Brian doesn’t say anything, but he pockets the keys and kisses Gerard on the forehead before he slips out of the apartment.
***
Gerard’s in bed, nearly asleep, when he hears the door crack open, the creak of a suitcase being hauled inside. He stares into the darkness, listening to the slide of fabric on skin as Brian undresses and crawls into bed beside him, curling his body around Gerard’s and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Gerard twists in his arms, turning his head to kiss Brian’s mouth, soft and brief, before burrowing back into Brian’s embrace.
He falls asleep with Brian’s fingers twined in his.
***
Gerard's pretty sure he wasn't asleep more than five minutes when he opens his eyes to the milky light of barely-dawn. The bed beside him is cold, but he can hear the shower running so he knows Brian hasn't left yet. He rolls slowly onto his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck he's doing.
He still hasn't figured it out when Brian walks into the bedroom, clean shaven and dressed comfortably for travelling in relaxed jeans and a hoodie.
"You're awake." Brian's voice is quiet in the soft hours of morning.
"Why do they always schedule flights so early? Or so late? It's inhumane," Gerard argues, not because he wants to know, it's just something to say.
"It's not about when you leave, it's about when you get there," Brian says calmly, and Gerard's certain there's more meaning in there, but there's no way he's going to find it before he's had coffee. He pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, the sheet falling down around his waist, reminding him he's naked, and for the first time this weekend it makes him feel vulnerable.
"So, Prague," Gerard utters, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah. Prague," Brian agrees. It's the first time they've talked about it.
"And Greengrass."
"Yeah. Paul Greengrass. Matt Damon. You know, the usual." Brian waves an airy hand like they're talking about something a lot less important.
Gerard tries to smile but it's too hard. A crippling regret settles over him. Why did he wait so long? He could've had so much more than two days. Two blissful days, but still, only two days.
"Four months," Gerard says, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.
"You'll have the film cut by the time I'm back in LA."
"More like we'll be trying to keep the studio from pulling it apart." The bitterness leaks into Gerard's voice and he hopes Brian thinks it's for the studio.
"You'll be fine. It's a good one Gee. It was always gonna be a good one." The smile Brian gives him is gentle and has an edge of sadness. It feels too much like goodbye and Gerard's not ready for that. He pushes himself up off the head board and crawls across the bed to get closer to Brian.
"Come here," he whispers, grabbing a handful of Brian's shirt as soon as he's in reach, dragging him forwards for a kiss. It starts gentle but heats up fast until Gerard's gripping Brian's shirt so hard he might tear it, plunging his tongue inside, desperate to leave an impression, something Brian can't forget. Brian's hands rest lightly on his bare ass, fingers squeezing and Gerard's getting hard behind the crumpled sheets, even though there's no time to do anything about it.
Almost like it's reading his thoughts, Brian's phone trills and they reluctantly break apart.
"That'll be my ride to the airport," Brian says, checking the message, one hand still locked in Gerard's hair. He looks up from the screen, eyes searching Gerard's face, but for what Gerard doesn't know. "I have to go. They're downstairs," is all he says.
"Of course." It's an effort for Gerard to keep his voice matter-of-fact, particularly with the way Brian's looking at him.
"Okay." Brian's eyes flick to the door and back again, the hand he holds the phone in hovering with indecision. His fingers slide from Gerard's hair, brushing across his cheek as he pulls his hand away.
He hesitates for an agonizing moment and it takes all of Gerard's willpower not to speak, to ask any of the burning questions screaming through his mind, fighting even harder not to just grab Brian and kiss him again because this could be the last time he ever gets to do that. Because who the fuck knows what's going to happen in Prague, or even what happened here? Gerard can't begin to fathom what it all means, what they are, whether he can expect to hold any claim on Brian. He's fucking useless at this and he always knew he would be. He doesn't know what the rules are and he doesn't much care beyond wanting to see Brian again and not as a fucking director and a stunt coordinator. He wants something much deeper than that.
It all runs through his head but none of it makes it out of his mouth. Brian pockets his phone and walks into the living room and Gerard trails after him, sheet clutched tight to his chest and dragging on the floor. Brian gets his suitcase upright and on its wheels, his hand on the door before Gerard's resistance gives out and he takes the last step to close the distance between him, kissing everything he can't say into Brian's lips, hoping any little piece of it gets through.
Brian breaks the kiss as his phone startles again, pressing his nose to Gerard's and brushing an errant lock of hair from Gerard's forehead with a familiar hand. He gives Gerard a small smile, holding him there, hand warm on Gerard's face for a long heartbeat before reaching for the doorknob again.
He wheels his suitcase outside and Gerard tries not to look too pathetic as he closes the door behind him, pausing briefly to tell Gerard, "Keep in touch," to which Gerard can only nod and smile weakly. Then the door pulls closed the rest of the way and it takes pretty much everything Gerard's got not to open it right back up again. It helps that he's not wearing any clothes, though.
So instead of opening the door he just leans against it.
Keep in touch. Keep in touch? Fuck Brian, just be more cryptic already.
***
Brisbane to Los Angeles is not the most comfortable flight Pete's ever had. It's business class, of course, but there are some things even a completely flat-reclining seat won't help with. It's been a long time since Pete's been on the receiving end, and he and Patrick were somewhat enthusiastic, so he's feeling it on Monday when they fly. It doesn't help that he's a little sleep deprived and, even though he knows Patrick is on the same flight, he can't see him anywhere .
Fuck, he's never been this clingy. But then he's never fucked the fucking studio exec babysitter before, so there's a first time for everything, right?
He twitches in his seat, waving away the flight attendant when she offers him champagne, juice or water, wishing he could just plug in his headphones and distract himself already. Damn these airlines and their stupid rules about electronics before take-off. He's stuck for at least fifteen minutes, drumming his fingers on his knees and wishing he had even a passing interest in the Financial Review so he could pay attention to something other than the noise of his own mind.
When he can't distract himself any longer he closes his eyes and dips his toe in the pool of crazy that's rolling around in his upstairs. He tries to work through what the fuck he's doing, but all his brain will settle on is how Patrick tasted. How warm and solid he felt to sleep beside. How he looked post-orgasm, all sweat damp and green eyes and pink cheeks.
This isn't helping him fix his problem and it may well get him into trouble with one of the flight attendants, so he gives himself a mental slap and tries again.
They're calling it a two-off, he and Patrick. A two-off, much like a one-off, a single freak event that won't recur - except it did - but just once. Well, Pete is insisting that the lazy blowjob that happened on Saturday afternoon doesn't qualify as a third strike since it was technically still part of Occasion Number Two. Patrick had a hard time verbalizing his protest because Pete was sucking him off at the time, so Pete's fairly certain he won that round.
Except there'll be no winning the game. They shouldn't even be playing it. Both of their careers are on the line and pretty much the entire Umbrella Academy feature film is tied to the same tracks. It shouldn't really; it completely sucks how the future of a 50 million dollar feature film seems to currently be balancing on Pete's dick, but facts are facts and there's no escaping it.
He knows if Gerard found out how he's now acquainted with Patrick in the biblical way, the carefully earned trust they've developed would crumble. The lines between studio and production are like razor-wire, sharp and permanent. Even the lowliest runner knows crossing those lines upsets the delicate balance of power and information, and if a stray email CC'ed to the wrong person can get half a dozen crew fired, or a budget sliced, Pete doesn't want to think about what fucking across the razor-wire can do.
They both know that and that's why they made a pact, not only to never speak of it, but also to never do it again. A pact Pete sealed with a kiss because everyone knows kisses are much more trustworthy than handshakes. In fact, a deal built on mutual handjobs would never fall apart; they really need to cotton on to this when they're doing peace negotiations, it could save thousands of lives .
When the fasten seatbelt sign switches off Pete breathes a deep sigh of relief, cramming the loudest, noisiest music he can into his ears and popping a sleeping tablet. He flips through the in-flight entertainment until there's something flashy and action-packed on his screen. He's gonna drown out his brain one way or the other.
He falls into a fitful doze, waking up to a dry mouth, itchy eyes and a dim plane. After laying with his eyes closed, but not sleeping, for at least ten minutes he gives up, unbuckles his seatbelt and heads for the tiny bathroom. He doesn't intend to scan the faces of sleeping passengers on the way, it just happens. His feet drag to a stop when he finds what he doesn't realize he was looking for; Patrick in row twelve, his face slack and his hat askew.
Pete hovers in the aisle by Patrick's seat, eyes scanning over Patrick's sleeping face; his delicate eyelashes, the curve of his cheek, the plump line of his lips. It physically hurts him not to touch, to just look, but that's all he does. For far longer than he should.
He's nearly committed enough to memory that he’s ready to move on when Patrick stirs, lips pulling to the side in a frown as his eyes blink open. He focuses hazily on Pete in the dim light and for one long heart-stopping moment Pete gets to see all his longing mirrored right back at him in Patrick’s eyes, before Patrick wakes up properly and schools his features back to neutral. He shakes his head ever-so-slightly at Pete, a silent warning that twists his insides up, but yeah, Pete gets it.
Before he can talk himself out of it he reaches down, taking Patrick’s hand and giving it a light squeeze. Patrick’s expression doesn’t shift at all, but he presses back before he lets go, that tiny squeeze giving Pete the strength to move his feet and continue down the aisle.
Knowing all the reasons why he needs to walk away doesn’t stop it from being the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.
***
The new cutting rooms in LA are much less primitive than their setup on the Gold Coast. They have every modern convenience known to man, but Gerard can’t help feeling like they’re a bit soulless. It doesn’t help that the hallway has no identifying features whatsoever, and every door to every office is evenly spaced and identical. Gerard accidentally walks into Pete’s office at least three times a day thinking it’s his, until Pete doesn’t even look up and point next door anymore. It just becomes part of the daily routine.
Bob’s suite is pretty much the same as his set up in Australia, except he has a view of the Universal lot instead of a mosquito-infested swamp. Gerard hangs out on his couch for hours each day, half watching and half working on whatever paperwork he’s got at hand. Bob doesn’t like it when Gerard’s focused solely on him; he has a habit of jumping in and asking about things Bob is still in the middle of, so he’s learned to keep himself distracted until Bob calls for his attention. It’s a well oiled system after three films together, so they fall into it without any fanfare.
Gerard’s working on a publicity scrapbook when Bob takes a break from cutting the carnival to go... wherever it is Bob goes when he leaves the cutting room. Gerard glances up as Bob leaves the room, his eye catching briefly on the large plasma screen monitor, and the image frozen on the screen changes his look from a glance to a stare.
Bob must have paused at the end of a take because it’s Brian on the screen, in his usual on set uniform of cut-offs and a wifebeater, tattoos on show and his hair mussed and wilting from the heat. He’s barely in shot, hovering on the edge of frame giving Cillian some kind of direction, but he’s all Gerard can focus on.
It’s really stupid for his heart to be pounding so hard, for what’s basically some pixels on a screen, but he can’t help it. He pushes his paperwork off his lap, glancing at the door as he gets up and approaches the Avid desk. He doesn’t know much about how it works, but he knows where the play button is and he hits it, staring at Brian on the screen until the footage freezes to a stop when he runs out of frames. He finds the rewind button and rolls back until Brian is offscreen, and then he presses play again.
It’s barely ten seconds of footage, just Brian stepping in, saying something to Cillian that Gerard can’t even hear because he’s not mic’ed, but he rolls it back and plays it over and over. Brian appears unaware that the camera is still filming; his stance is casual and the smile he gives Cillian is unselfconscious and genuine, and Gerard can't stop looking at it. It's probably stalker-levels of creepy, but at the moment he's not thinking about that. He's just thinking about how much he misses that smile, those eyes, that man on the screen.
He forgets to be cautious so he's still bent over Bob's desk, eyes boring holes into the screen, when Bob comes back in. He hits the space bar quickly, stopping the footage from rolling but capturing Brian on the screen frozen.
Bob gives him a stern look. "Jesus Gerard, will you just call him already?"
"Sorry?" Gerard's voice pitches up too high and he doesn't quite manage to sound as casual as he wants to.
Bob just rolls his eyes and shoos Gerard away from the keyboard. "You're using my editing system to perve on the stunt coordinator. This is not healthy behavior. Stop being a freak and just call him already. Or, you know, Skype him - then you can have video, too."
"Bob, I... video?" The idea of video conferencing with Brian in Prague tempts Gerard's brain into his pants for a moment. Luckily, Bob's spun his chair to face his monitors so he doesn't see; he's already zipping through footage and Brian's image vanishes from the screen as Bob's fingers fire over the keyboard with practiced ease.
"Yeah, video. I don't think Ryan and I would've survived that wrap week when he was still stuck in Australia without it. So much better than just a voice on the line, you know?"
"Bob, I think I just found out way too much about your personal life."
"Whatever. Who cares? Call him already and stop being pathetic."
Gerard collapses back onto the couch, shoving his various art supplies to the floor so he can stretch out properly.
"I can't call him. I don't know... what we are." Gerard's not even aware of what the words mean until they're out of his mouth.
Bob's still flipping through coverage on his screen, for all intents and purposes looking like he's not concentrating on the conversation. "Since when do you need to label things?"
"I don't know." Gerard rubs a hand over his face, "I don't know Bob, I just.. what if it was just a one off thing?"
"Did it feel like a one off thing?"
Gerard sighs, rolling onto his side and curling into a fetal shape, mind full of Brian's eyes, the way he touched him, the way they fit. "It didn't feel like it." He doesn't add it felt like forever because that's cheesy even for him.
Bob doesn't have a rejoinder for that; he runs some takes, letting Gerard chew over the thought for a while and giving him the option to drop it.
"So what... we talk on the phone for sixteen weeks and try to figure it out when he's back in LA?" Gerard's voice sounds very small, but Bob hears him.
"Something like that." Bob's tone is dismissive but the words aren't.
"Really Bob, does this ever work?"
"This being?" Bob asks pointedly, fingers still quick on the keys.
"Cross-departmental on-set hookups. God, this is such a bad idea. This shit never goes anywhere; I am fucking kidding myself."
Bob's fingers fall still on the keyboard. He spins his chair to face Gerard, the way he only does when he has something of utter importance to say - usually dropping a scene or requesting a reshoot; this time all he says is, "Ryan's moving in with me."
Gerard feels his face flush red as he realizes exactly what he's been saying and how his grand statements don't only apply to himself.
Bob doesn't look angry or even hurt, in fact he's nearly smiling and Gerard's willing to lay money on that being more about Ryan than it is about him .
"Bob, I'm sorry, I didn't mean you and Ryan."
"We qualify though don't we, by your criteria, as a pointless relationship?"
"Don't guilt-trip me Bobert, please?"
"Just saying." Bob spins back to face his monitor, letting Gerard off the hook. He hits a few buttons, images flashing on his client monitor and Gerard's just starting to think the conversation might be over when Bob throws one last nugget his way. "If you don't call, it'll definitely stay a one off thing. Is that what you really want?"
Gerard sighs and rolls onto his back. This is everything and nothing he wants to think about.
"Do you ever get sick of being right all the time ?"
Bob hits a few more keys with devastating efficiency. "Nope."
Gerard can't help feeling a little bit sorry for Ryan.
***
"Pete?" Somehow, just hearing Patrick's voice on the other end of the phone line is enough to send Pete's head into a spin.
"Patrick, hi!" Pete tries not to shriek, but it's the first time he's heard his voice in nearly two weeks and he's feeling starved. Being back in LA is weird; it's too much like he pressed rewind to before he left for Australia, and trying to live life pre-Patrick is messing with his head. He keeps glancing around his too-white, too-empty office feeling like he's missing something. Or someone. "How is it being back? All settled in again? You miss me?"
"Pete." There's a note of warning in Patrick's voice.
"You know, I miss sharing a room with you. It gets lonely. Ryan keeps sneaking off to hang out in Editorial with Bob." Pete keeps his voice light, but he's giving too much away and he knows it.
"Pete, can I-"
"Why don't you come and see me? You're making me feel all slighted. Cheap and used."
"Pete!" Patrick nearly shouts, the familiar exasperation in his voice bringing a smile to Pete's lips. "I actually have a reason for calling."
"Of course you do, Trick. You miss me."
"We need to talk." Pete's heartbeat triples. This sounds like the phone call he's been dreaming of getting from Patrick since he set foot back in LA.
He glances toward the door, lowering his voice. "Of course. Whatever you want to talk about, Trick." He tries very hard to keep his voice level, but the excitement is there.
"Not on the phone. Can I see you?"
Pete has to sit down, gripping the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. "Sure, of course. You know where my office is. I have a door that locks and everything." Fuck, if he isn't already getting hard at the thought.
Patrick is silent for a long moment before he continues, "Okay, I'll stop by tonight, say six?"
Pete nods, his head swimming too much to remember Patrick can't see him.
"Pete?" Patrick prompts, reminding Pete he hasn't verbalized anything yet.
"Sure. Six is great. I'll see you then." It takes the better part of Pete's willpower not to add an endearment after that. He sits with the phone pressed to his ear, his heart still racing long after the line goes dead.
***
"Mikey, what time is it in the Czech Republic?" Gerard pokes his head into his brother's office, trying to pretend it's an idle question, like he got it from a crossword puzzle.
"Two seconds." Mikey's usual monotone betrays nothing as he types something spiritedly into his computer. "Seven twenty five PM," he reads off the screen. "Oh, and I programmed the number into your phone."
"What number?" Gerard asks, even though he's already turning slightly pink at Mikey's knowing look.
"Brian's number in Prague. I added it to your contacts - it's the one that starts with double O, double one, four two zero." Mikey snatches a pile of stapled paper off his desk and hands it to Gerard. "And this is the latest VFX package. Andy wants you to call once you've looked at it. And Brendon's doing a lunch run to Rubio's, you just want the usual?"
Gerard nods, not really sure what's in his hand or what he's just agreed to; he's too busy being amazed that Mikey's not laying a pile of shit on him for wanting to call Brian. When the corner of Mikey's mouth twitches up into one of his almost-smiles Gerard figures, not for the first time, that he has the best brother in the world and he should just be thankful and stop trying to analyze it. Either that or Mikey's been talking to Bob.
In the end he decides he doesn't care and wanders back to his office, already thumbing through his contacts for Brian's number.
He stands in the middle of his room, phone in his hand, thumb on the send button for way too long, trying to convince himself he can do this. It's part of his job to make phone calls, to connect with people, to create with them. He can practically talk underwater. He can do this.
Right after he has a cigarette .
He shoves the phone in his pocket and grabs his smokes, going outside to the half-assed balcony the smokers have been allotted for feeding their habit. Lighting up and sucking in his first hit just reminds him of the wrap party, the way Brian looked when he lit his cigarette, the way he tasted when they first kissed. Gerard's ashamed to see his hand is shaking.
He paces the balcony. What if Brian doesn't want to talk to him? What if he blows him off? What if he laughs and tells him it was just a fling? Fuck, does it even qualify as a fling?
Gerard pulls his phone out and stares at the number on the screen. He tells himself he's an idiot, a complete fucking idiot, and then he presses send.
It takes forever to connect, dialing its way through the countries and Gerard takes another hit from his cigarette as he hears it start to ring. The cool Californian breeze isn't enough to stop his cheeks from burning as he listens, heart beating fit to burst when the ringing cuts off and Brian's voice is in his ear finally, familiar and only a little bit staticky.
He fumbles out a hello, voice breathy and strained before he realizes it's a voicemail message.
"Hi this is Brian, I can't take your call so leave me a message and I'll get you back, or you can call my agent-"
Gerard stares at the phone, thumb hovering over the cancel button until he hears the message beep. He takes a breath, trying to order his thoughts enough to speak, but it's too hard, and the idea of whatever comes out of his mouth being recorded for posterity is too much to take. He hits cancel, shoves the phone back into his pocket and lights another cigarette with sharp, angry motions.
He's really quite terrible at this.
***
It's an impulse. There is no conscious thought involved at all on Pete's part. He sees Patrick in the doorway of his office and he moves on instinct, dragging him inside by the front of his shirt, shoving the door closed and pushing Patrick up against the wall, kissing him hard.
It doesn't enter his mind that this isn't the time or place to be doing this. Or really even register that Patrick's grip on his upper arms is pushing away more than it is pulling towards. There's no room in his head for anything but Patrick. Patrick's kissing him back with an equal desperation, mouth, lips and tongues crashing and Pete's grinding onto him. He locks a hand on Patrick's neck, the other sliding down to grasp his waist, fingers gripping bare flesh under his shirt and it's so completely not enough contact he wants to whine into Patrick's mouth.
There's not a sound in the room but sharp nasal breathing and the wetness of them devouring each other's mouths. Patrick's grip on Pete's arms tightens and he pushes, forcing his arms straight until their lips separate with a wet noise.
Patrick whispers, "Pete, we can't," but his eyes don't agree; they're lust-shot and dark with want, the familiar stain of pink in his cheeks telling Pete he's not the only one who wants this. He gets stuck looking at Patrick's lips, wet with his own spit, all plump, shiny and kissable. He can't think of a reason why not.
"Tell me you don't want it and I'll stop," he whispers back, sliding his hand from Patrick's neck to his cheek, cupping the flushed curve in his fingers the way he did the night of the wrap party. Patrick's mouth falls open like he wants to say something but forgot what, and Pete just wants in that mouth. He presses closer to Patrick, forcing his arms to bend until he's a breath away from Patrick's lips. "Just a little longer. You can time it, please, just let me..." He knows he sounds desperate and he doesn't care. It's too soon for this to stop, it shouldn't ever have to stop, not when they both want it - need it.
The words vanish into Patrick's mouth and he doesn't pull away, he lets Pete close the last inch and kiss him again, gently this time, like he's something precious and fragile. Patrick lets out a small whine and sinks into him, arms going slack and curling around Pete's neck. Pete presses his tongue inside to find Patrick's, pulling him closer until they're flush and fuck that's it, that's better. This is what he's been missing, what he needs.
Patrick folds into him, fingers tight in Pete's hair, and he knows they're both lost.
"Holy fuck!" Gerard's aghast exclamation is teamed with the bang of the door crashing open and it throws Pete and Patrick apart like a physical shove.
Pete wipes his mouth off, cheeks burning as he turns to face the glare of the director fuming in his doorway. "Not your office," he breathes, hoping helplessly that that'll be the end of it.
"Jesus fucking Christ Pete! What the hell? What are you doing?" Gerard glances between Patrick and Pete, shock and anger written all over him.
"I think that part's obvious." Pete pulls himself to his fullest height, calling up all his defiance, not daring to look at Patrick for even a second.
"Is this your plan to deal with the studio? Fucking the exec? How long has this been going on?" Gerard practically spits the words across the room and Pete's never been so thankful for auto-closing doors in his life. There's still a chance this hasn't been heard in the hallway.
"Gerard calm down."
"No, I will not fucking calm down! What the fuck Pete? What have you told him?" A sudden flare of panic crosses Gerard's face and he shifts his fire to Patrick. "What have you told Tom? Because whatever you found out isn't-"
"Gerard, I haven't told Tom anything." Patrick cuts Gerard off, his voice level and sane. "I know how it looks, but I think I can say for sure that neither of us planned this. It just happened and I'm sorry, but this is the least of your problems right now."
"Excuse me?" Gerard blinks between the two of them like he's not quite able to process. He's opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, and it would be incredibly amusing if Pete weren't so worried about Gerard throwing something heavy at him screaming 'traitor' any moment now.
"I'm sorry - least of my problems? How the fuck is my producer crossing the line with you the least of my problems? Is my house on fire? Did you bring a bomb with you?"
"Kind of." Patrick's statement is ominous. Pete feels like he should be contributing something but he's too busy gawping at Patrick. "I came over because I've got some information, about the film, and I... I think it's important that you hear it."
Gerard looks doubtful but he's not screaming or breathing fire, so that's a start. Pete finally discovers he has something to say, "We should probably sit down." This draws Gerard's gaze, shooting Pete a do you know about this? glare to which Pete returns a I have no idea what this is look and they settle gingerly on Pete's couch while Patrick drops into an office chair. If he wasn't gripping the arms so tightly Pete probably wouldn't identify any tension in the executive at all. He's way too good at this.
"It's about the edit," Patrick starts.
"Don't say they want to replace Bob. I will walk off the goddamn film."
"They know that, Gerard. They don't want to replace him, they want - Tom wants..." Patrick takes a breath and for the briefest moment Pete can see the turmoil he's going through, how hard it is for him to keep steady. "They want to add another editor. To help." Pete can hear the air quotes around the word 'help'. Studio help isn't help, it's control. They want to try and gain an inside hand, steer the film from the cutting room. It's a way to cut Gerard down without having to touch him directly and Pete's seen it before. Usually they wouldn't tell you first, they'd just spring it on you.
That's when it clicks for Pete.
"Wait a second, Patrick. You're not supposed to be telling us this, are you?" He's amazed how calm his voice comes out sounding, given the level of panic he's fighting.
"No," Patrick admits.
The explosion from that statement comes from Gerard and Pete simultaneously. Gerard spurts forth a stream of bile about studios being manipulative controlling morons who can't just trust him to do his job, where all Pete has to say is, "Jesus Christ, Patrick, you could lose your job."
"I know." Patrick says it like it's a thought he's already very familiar with. Pete feels like his heart might explode, but at the same time he just wants to slap Patrick for being so goddamn stupid to risk his neck like this.
"Why tell us then?" The words are out of Pete's mouth before he's even finished thinking them. He can't tear his eyes from Patrick's face while he waits for the answer, but he can feel Gerard staring at him from his peripheral vision.
"I thought you needed to know," Patrick says, just like that. Like it's not even a big deal. Like his career isn't his life and he wouldn't be ruined not only for Universal, but for any other studio if this got out.
Pete's never wanted to kiss someone quite so much in his entire life.
After staring between Pete and Patrick for an endless moment, Gerard asks the most pressing question of all. "So what do we do?"
It doesn't need to be said that the last thing they want on the film is to be saddled with a studio editor, spying and pressing all the buttons Tom wants pressed, tearing the film up the way the studio sees fit and likely ripping it to pieces.
"If we're not supposed to know about it, what can we do? If we do anything they'll know you told us," Pete points out, his fingers twitching.
"What about my Bob clause?" Gerard asks, referring to the clause in his contract that the hiring and firing of his editor needs to have his sign off. He had it added to his contract after Revenge.
"It only covers your main editor, not any additionals or associate editors, and they're not trying to fire Bob. I can get the lawyer to look at it, but I don't think it'll cover it," Pete admits with some frustration.
"Well, what the fuck then?" Gerard launches himself off the couch and starts pacing, shoving his hands through his hair until it's sticking out in all directions. "I'll talk to Tom, I'll talk to the fucking Director's Guild - I'm still in my eight weeks of director's cut, they can't touch me."
"They were going to wait until the eight weeks were up, and bring the Maddens on," Patrick adds, keeping his voice spookily calm.
"The fucking Maddens? No. Hell no!" Gerard's voice pitches up so high there's probably dogs out there squealing. "They are so deeply in Tom's pocket there's no way they'll take direction from me. I'll lose the film."
"No you won't Gerard, there'll be a way." Pete tries to sound reassuring, but the look on his face when he glances at Patrick is beseeching. Please god, let Patrick have a plan.
"I have a suggestion, but you're not going to like it." It's not exactly what Pete was hoping to hear, but it's something. Gerard twists on heel to face Patrick, his thin appearance of calm betrayed by the madness in his eyes. "Tell me."
"Screen the film early, before the eight weeks are up, just for Tom. Say you want his input." Patrick leans forward on his knees, keeping his voice matter-of-fact.
"But I don't."
"But he wants to give it. He hasn't seen any cut footage yet, no one has - which was totally your call to make-"
"Fuck," Gerard swears, pacing. "He wouldn't be doing this if I'd just sent the scenes in the first place."
This would be Patrick's cue to say 'I told you so', but he doesn't. He just rattles on, "It's not too late, I think if you let Tom in now, he'd chill out. You'll still be covered by the DGA, so any notes he gives, you can take on or ignore as you will, but I reckon if you invite him out for a drive, it'll make him feel less like he has to take the wheel by force - if that makes sense."
The room falls silent while both Gerard and Pete roll that one around in their minds. Pete's fairly certain that Gerard hates what the plan means, but he has to admit it's genius in its simplicity. If they can get Tom on side now it could avoid a whole lot of mess.
"So, you think if we fall in line now, he'll back off later?" Pete queries.
"I think so." Patrick swipes an escaped lock of hair back under his hat and Pete just wants to pounce on him. He's having trouble fathoming how someone as awesome as Patrick can even exist in the world.
"Gee, I think it'll work," Pete says, thinking if it does they'll both owe Patrick big. Very big.
Gerard flops down on the couch beside Pete, looking entirely unimpressed but a lot less lost and angry. "Bob won't like it," he points out with a sigh.
"He'll like it better than getting lumped with the Maddens," Pete counters.
"True," Gerard agrees, rubbing a hand over his eyes and looking way too tired. "It shouldn't have to be this hard."
"It shouldn't. But it is," Pete says, catching Patrick's eye and realizing he's not just talking about the film.
***
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no one ever wants the maddens, ever.
THEY WILL CRAP ON GEE'S VISION, SAVE 'EM PATTYCAKES.
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RUN. RUN FROM THE MADDENS. NOT BENJI AND JOEL, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. GOD NOT THE MADDENS!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(it totes works foxxy, nice call back to the earlier stuff)
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RUN FROM THEM!
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YOU LOVE THE MADDENS AS VILLIANS.
I honestly had no idea that was going to be quite as comedy gold as it ended up being.
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IT'S COMEDY GOLD AND RUBIES AND SPARKLES.
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OH NOT NOT THE MADDENS.
lolol. thanks bb.
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The thought of anything metaphorically balancing on Pete's dick is terrifying.
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