Fic: In Production (6/7)

[ladyfoxxx]

Master Post | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Previous

***

Gerard needs a cigarette. In fact, he needs an entire pack, but he'll start with one and see how he goes. He's still steaming at Pete for putting him in a position where he actually has to trust a studio executive. The words 'trust' and 'studio executive' shouldn't even be used in the same sentence.

He's leaning on the metal rail of the balcony, halfway through his second smoke when Pete slides in beside him, his producer face fraying around the edges.

"I'm sorry you had to find out that way."

"So am I," Gerard retorts with acid in his voice, but he regrets it straight away. "Am I that hard to talk to? Couldn't you have told me and saved me the heart attack?"

"It's not supposed to be happening. It was supposed to be a one-off. Well... a two-off." There's a self-deprecating smile dancing on Pete's lips.

"A three-off?" Gerard poses.

"Well, I guess it is now." Pete leans forward, twisting his fingers between the metal bars holding the railing up like he needs something to distract his hands. "Besides, you never told me about you and Brian."

"You say that like there's something to talk about."

"Isn't there?"

Gerard sighs, collapsing forward onto the rail until he's balancing almost all his weight on it. "I don't know. I think I'm fucking it up." Pete doesn't say anything, just nods and leans on the railing, echoing Gerard's posture. "It's been two weeks since I've talked to him."

"You gonna call?" Pete's head twitches to the side, considering.

"Yeah, I suppose I should." Gerard can't help feeling like it's still a bad idea.

"Well, tell him I said hi."

"Yeah, sure I will," Gerard responds. That's two people who've told him to call Brian now, three if you count Mikey who managed to get the message across non-verbally. He doesn't really have much of a choice.

Pete shoots Gerard his best producer smile and starts to turn. Gerard hesitates briefly before giving in to the impulse to ask, "Patrick kind of saved our asses back there didn't he?"

"Yeah, he kind of did."

"Even though we could really hang him out to dry with the studio for telling us that."

"Yeah," Pete agrees, eyes shining with something that looks a lot like pride.

Gerard turns back to the railing, digging another cigarette out and lighting it."You know if it ends up being a four-off or a five-off, I probably won't mind so much."

"Maybe you could tell Patrick that for me. He needs some convincing."

Gerard snorts. "Since when do you need help convincing anyone of anything?" He shoots the question over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, and for once Pete doesn't have a rejoinder. He just gives Gerard his most charming smile and slips back inside.

Gerard takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke out into the Californian sunshine. "That's my boy."

Time to practice what he preaches. He pulls out his phone, scrolls through to the Brian contact and presses send on the long international number before he can talk himself out of it. This time Brian answers on the third ring, and Gerard nearly gasps at how strongly the sound of his voice hits him, how much he's missed it.

"Brian, it's Gerard." It's a relief to hear his voice coming out sounding relatively normal.

"Gerard, hey! Fuck, awesome to hear from you. Two seconds, alright?" There's a lot of phone shuffling noises and Gerard can hear Brian yelling to someone about taking a break. When he comes back to the phone his voice sounds less echoey, and there's not as much background noise, like he's slipped outside. "Hey, I'm back, how are you?" He sounds energized and a little breathless, like Gerard caught him in the middle of a rehearsal.

"Fine, yeah. Director's cut so it's all a bit crazy as usual, but I'm coping." Gerard plays with his hair as he speaks, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette in an unseen show of nerves. "How's Prague?"

"Fucking cold." Brian's laugh sounds forced and Gerard wonders if maybe he isn't the only one who's nervous. "Good though, the crew's really good and Paul's great, Matt's great; everyone's fucking great."

"Glad to hear it." Gerard grins, searching his mind for something to talk about that isn't Tom or Pete and Patrick. He ends up telling a story about Bob and Ryan and a Red Bull shortage which sets Brian off on a story about a flood in the catering tent. They trade tales for a while until Gerard registers the babble in the background of Brian's phone, reminding him Brian's at work and he should probably let him get back to doing his job. Brian agrees and they play the game of trying to end the phone call.

"Is this the best number to reach you on? I mean, if I ever work out these time zones?" Brian asks, making Gerard feel like a teenager the way it shoots excitement through him in that he's gonna call way.

"Yeah sure. And you know me, I keep weird hours, I wouldn't worry about time zones that much. If I'm asleep I won't answer." Gerard winces into the phone at just how desperate that sounds.

"Sure Geeway, I'll remember that. If I ever accidentally call you at 5am and wake you up, you are officially not allowed to yell at me now." There's a smile in Brian's voice that pulls at Gerard's lip.

"Deal," Gerard says with a laugh.

There's a slight pause before Brian continues, "I'm really glad you called."

"Yeah, me too." Gerard's still smiling through the endless goodbyes and the click of the line going dead. He puts the phone back in his pocket, habit making him reach for his cigarettes before he realizes he doesn't want one. He shoves them back in his hoodie and heads back to the cutting room, ready to work.

***

Bob's not happy with the plan, not at all. The idea of dragging the studio head through the cutting room doors four weeks early puts his entire schedule on fast forward. Looking down the barrel of long days and weekend work does not make for a cheery editing team, but Bob is a trooper and he doesn't grumble a lot even though Pete really thinks he's entitled to. He makes it Brendon's responsibility under pain of death to ensure the kitchenette is always well stocked with Red Bull and a wide variety of sugary treats and, once they get in the swing of the new breakneck pace, the days slide past too fast.

Pete doesn't bat an eye when Brendon puts another round of timesheets with seven days marked down for everyone in front of him to sign. It's been an expensive few weeks of overtime and petty cash meals, but it can't be helped. Every time he wanders past Bob's door, he and Gerard are in the middle of something intense and Pete can't help feeling useless. They drag him into the room and show him things when they need a fresh pair of eyes, but for the most part there's nothing he can do to help them push forwards.

His only option is to stay out of their way, make sure they're fed, and keep any extraneous demands on them at bay. That doesn't leave him with much to do for the bulk of his day, so when he's answered all his emails he decides it's time to tackle a new challenge.

He unlocks his secure drawer and pulls out his Black Parade script.

Flicking through the pages and glancing at his handwritten pencil marks in the margin, he shuffles his mental paperwork, pushing the most important and time-consuming tasks to the top of the pile. Obviously money is the first port of call, he needs to figure out which studios and production companies deserve a shot at backing the project. He scribbles out a list of the companies he's aware of, adding a few more names to the list after some internet searches and a few well placed phone calls.

When the list feels exhaustive, he taps a finger down it, thinking he wants to get it down from twenty-odd to maybe three options before he puts it in front of Gerard. Those three options better be damn shiny, too.

Before he's even realized what he's doing, he's plucked up the phone handset and hit Patrick's number on speed dial. Patrick's shit-hot at this kind of thing, he can probably help Pete cull it to at least half the length.

"Patrick Stump." Patrick's got his business voice on, which is great, that's the exact voice Pete wants to hear.

"Hey Trick, what do you think of Dark Castle?"

"Are you making a horror film or a psychological thriller?" Patrick rattles back without even a pause and Pete's suddenly so glad he called.

"No, neither," he answers, rocking back in his chair and listening.

"Well, that's what they do. That's pretty much all they do - genre films. What's this about anyway?"

Pete explains in as much detail as he feels comfortable, not letting on that it's Gerard's project. It's a promising script with an established director attached, and Pete wants to figure out his options for financial backing. He can practically hear Patrick's brain ticking, but he seems to abide by his super-spidey-exec senses and doesn't push for any specifics, sticking to generic questions about budget and genre.

"So how about Revolution?" Pete presses, tracing his finger over the name on his list.

Patrick makes a noise that to most ears would sound non-committal but Pete can hear the 'no' hiding in there.

"Why not?" Pete asks, already hovering his pen over the list, ready to cross Revolution off.

"They're a bit... interfere-y," Patrick offers.

"Oh. Right." Pete gets the message clearly and swipes his pen across the page, crossing them out and shifting to the next candidate. "Fox?" he asks.

Patrick makes that noise again and Pete asks, "Hmm, because?"

"Whatever budget you actually need, they'll slice twenty percent off it. At least."

"Right.' Pete's pen swipes again and he continues down the list. And down and down and down. Budget skimping and interference make second and third appearances; some companies are just too small to offer the kind of money they need, and then there's the ones with religious ties that will want script changes and no blood onscreen whatsoever.

He's left looking at a mess of pen scribbles, without even one option that satisfies his most basic criteria.

"Fuck man, are there really no production companies that can secure a hundred million without bringing a bunch of bullshit with them? Patrick, come on, what am I missing?" Pete taps the pen in frustration, waiting for the big answer.

"That's the business man, take it or leave it." There's a familiar resignation in Patrick's tone.

"You're kidding right? Man, you know my production company would get it right. We'd pick the right projects, give them the budget they need to really fly and not get in the way of actually making the movie unless it was off the rails," Pete rants, so frustrated with this process his skin is itching. It's so clear to him what he needs, and it's just ridiculous that it doesn't already exist.

"Your production company?" Patrick asks, and Pete can hear the knowing smile in his voice. He sits up, suddenly uncomfortable. He hasn't actually talked aloud about this idea to anyone seriously.

"So I have a hypothetical production company. Doesn't everyone?" A nervous laugh leaks out after the words and he really hopes Patrick will let it slide.

"Why is it only hypothetical?" Patrick presses, and Pete's hand finds its way to his forehead, rubbing his temples. He really doesn't want to discuss this.

"Yeah, so, maybe I'm not ready for it to not be hypothetical."

"But you've got a project, and it sounds pretty promising."

"Patrick come on, one hundred million? I can't spearhead that, no way. No one's gonna give me that kind of money."

"Bullshit," Patrick spits, and suddenly Pete's sitting bolt upright, his heart pounding. "I've seen bigger idiots than you get money for projects that wouldn't make it into my maybe-if-you're-desperate script pile. With Umbrella Academy you'll have five films under your belt, and they've all made profit. Fuck Pete, you could totally do it."

Pete opens and closes his mouth a few times, unable to find the words to counter that. There's no argument to make, because it's Patrick and Patrick knows his fucking shit. If Patrick thinks it's possible, then fuck, maybe it actually is.

Long after he's hung up the phone, he still can't stop thinking about it. The possibility niggles at his mind until he finally gives up on trying to distract himself from it with other work and decides to exorcise it by putting it down on paper.

Hours leak away before Pete is staring at a scrawly handwritten page of notes that is basically a blueprint of Decaydence Films, the company he’s always dreamed of helming. There’s notes about who he’d employ, what the mission statement would be, and a rough sketch of a logo. There's a million scribbled question marks next to pay scales, rent, financials, connections and dozens more logistical concerns.

Having it all on paper brings him a strange kind of calm. At a glance, he can see the frightening amount of work he'd need to do, but it also makes it feel very, very real. Even with the dozens of question marks in front of him Pete already knows there are two items on the blueprint that are essential to the success of his new business.

One is Decaydance Films first project, Gerard Way’s The Black Parade.

The other is Patrick Stump.

***

Gerard pretty much moves into Bob's edit suite during working hours, which is the bulk of his time. They're eating three meals day at the cutting room, and Gerard's really only home long enough to sleep and shower. It's exhausting but exhilarating; however, it means Gerard is far from thrilled when his cell phone chime wakes him up one morning while it's still dark out. After stabbing violently at his alarm clock with no effect, he realizes it's his phone and shoves it to his ear, pressing send.

"Yes?" His voice is thick with sleep.

"Gerard, hey." Brian's voice is low and liquid in his ear. "Did I wake you?"

"No. Well, yeah. But it's okay. It's good to hear your voice." Gerard rolls onto his back and stretches, feeling all warm and catlike. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing much. Finished up early at the studios so I'm bumming around at home. I waited a whole hour so it wouldn't be crazy early for you, aren't you proud?"

"Mmmph." Gerard glances at the clock, the numbers swimming in front of him. "Six am is still crazy early, just for the record."

Brian's chuckle is low and sultry, drawing Gerard's attention to the fact that he's just woken up and that's not the only thing that's up.

"You're not allowed to be mad, remember?" Brian reminds him, a smirk in his voice.

"I'm not mad." Gerard rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his dick into the mattress and wriggling a little. It doesn't do anything to assuage his desire but it feels good, tearing a ragged breath from him, which escapes down the phone.

"Gerard..." Brian's voice drops even lower and it makes Gerard's dick clench to hear his name spoken like that. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing,"Gerard lies, grinding down on the bed again. Fuck, he wants to roll onto his back and stick his hands down his pants. It should be illegal for Brian to have a voice like that.

"Try again." Brian's tone goes lower and more teasing; Gerard can hear a shift and a breath and the slide of fabric. "If you tell me what you're doing, I'll tell you what I'm doing." Gerard has to suck in a breath at that. He presses his hips down harder, feeling the pressure of his cock against his belly.

"Well..." Gerard can feel his face burning as he searches for the words. "I've just woken up, I'm still in bed, I'm wearing flannel pajamas and..."

"And?" Brian prompts, sounding breathless and it makes Gerard burn.

"And I'm hard. Really hard." He flushes with heat saying it, something between embarrassment and lust, and it just makes him harder.

"Mmm," Brian hums, voice deliciously rumbly and Gerard has to bite his lip to keep from whining. "Well I'm lying on the couch. TV's on but I'm not watching it. Oh and did I mention I'm naked?"

"Oh." The word comes out on a sigh as Gerard's mind embraces the picture. "What color is the couch?"

"Really, Gee?"

"What? I'm a visual person."

Brian's laugh is warm in his ear. "It's blue. Light blue, okay?"

"Yeah okay, I've got that." Gerard updates his mental picture, starting to feel way too warm in his pajamas and covered in sheets. "What are you doing?" he breathes.

"Jerking off." Brian's reply is so casual Gerard nearly chokes on his own breath. "Want to join me?"

"Yeah. Fuck yeah," Gerard pants, wrestling his shirt off and flipping over to struggle with the drawstring on his pants, which has decided to be stubborn. He finally gets it undone and kicks the pajamas off, leaving him lying on his bed bare-assed and clutching his phone to his ear.

"So, I'm... not wearing anything now."

"Good," Brian purrs, voice all gravelly. "I bet that's a sight."

"I'm sure it is," Gerard murmurs, holding back a bitter laugh.

"I know it is," Brian presses on, sounding sinfully breathy and hot. "You gonna jerk off for me, Gerard?"

Gerard sucks his breath in sharply and he knows Brian hears it. He puts his free hand on his cock, holding low and tight, fingers forming a tight circle around the base. He tries to hold still but his hips buck up without his permission, tearing a low, needy noise from him.

"That sounds good." Brian's voice hitches and Gerard knows he's stroking himself now. Fuck, he wishes he could see that, all that skin and ink. Brian's hand, Brian's cock. Fuck, he has a really nice cock.

"Thanks. I like your cock too."

"That was my out-loud voice wasn't it?" Gerard's voice quivers as heat floods him from head to toe.

"Yeah." Brian's chuckle in response is warm. "But it's good, keep talking. Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You, obviously," Gerard chuckles and the breathy noise Brian makes is so worth it. Gerard starts to move his hand, sliding it up and down and not even trying to contain the moan it drags out of him.

"Yeah, what else?" Brian's voice is breathless and eager and Gerard knows his hand is busy; he keeps his own going as he searches for words.

"Thinking about... about..." Gerard has to slow his strokes a little to make some brain room. "What it's like when you fuck me."

Brian releases a long breath and there's a growl buried in it. "Yeah. Fuck Gerard. I've been thinking about that too."

The heat in his voice speeds Gerard's hand. Heat flushes up his arms, across his chest, blossoming in his cheeks and nesting deep in his belly and crotch. "Brian, fuck, your cock, I want you to fuck me so deep."

"Yeah, fuck yeah. Gee I wanna fuck your ass, jerk your cock 'til you come everywhere."

Gerard makes a strangled noise, every word out of Brian's mouth sending fire right down and through him. He quickens his hand, fingers squeezing on every stroke, running his thumb of the head of his cock, spreading thick slippery precome over himself.

"Brian," he pants, shuddering, "Brian I'm so close, so fucking close."

"You gonna come for me Gee?" Brian sounds breathless and eager, "Make it loud so I can hear it, so I can jerk off to it?" Brian's harsh breaths keep pushing into the phone, blowing against the mic and Gerard can see it in his mind, Brian on the couch, one hand on the phone, the other on his cock and it's so fucking hot he could expire. "I'm gonna come so fucking hard."

"Brian. Please. I... ah..." Gerard's hips shudder upwards, cock pulsing in his hand as he strokes faster, firmer.

"Come for me Gee. Come like I'm fucking you." It's the demand in Brian’s voice that does it. Gerard tosses his head back, pressing his eyes closed as he burns all over. He falls into Brian’s voice, into the moment, letting his words fall out unchecked with the stroke of his hand.

"Fuck me, oh fuck Brian I'm... I'm-" The noise Gerard makes is deep and strangled and so loud. His hips leap up off the bed, hand moving in a blur, pulling his orgasm out his cock as he explodes; spurting in his hand and keening down the phone loud and desperate.

"Gee, fuck..." Brian groans, panting and huffing hard into the phone. Gerard hears it, actually hears it in his voice, the deep groan of his completion and it's got to be the hottest thing he's ever heard.

There’s no sound on the line but their agonized breathing for long minutes. The haze in Gerard’s head clears slowly as his pulse calms. He’s boneless and sweaty, sated and smeared with his own release. He feels amazing.

"Well that was messy." There’s a laugh in Brian’s voice and Gerard can hear him shifting around, probably cleaning up.

"Yeah. And hot," Gerard adds on a sigh.

"Yes. Very hot." There’s a grin in Brian’s voice and Gerard can feel an answering one pulling at his own mouth. "So, tell me about the rest of your day."

Gerard rolls onto his side, burying himself in the sheets as they slip back into the kind of conversation they’ve been having every few days lately. Gerard tends to call when he’s having a smoke break and Brian saves his calls for after he gets home, which usually times with Gerard’s lunch break.

It’s nothing earth shattering, but it’s familiar and comfortable and Gerard is reluctant to sign off. He’s already going to be late to work and, as he tells Brian, "Bob’s gonna kick my ass."

"Tell him to go easy on you. I need your ass in good shape when I get back to LA."

Gerard laughs loud and abrupt at that, but there’s no way he’s telling Bob.

***

It's edging close to three am in on the morning of the day Tom Meyer's due at the cutting rooms when Gerard finally stumbles into Pete's office. Pete's nodding off in front of his computer, his presence probably unnecessary, but he's unwilling to leave until everything's in hand. He won't be able to sleep properly until he knows there's something ready for Tom to see, anyway.

Gerard looks exhausted, his eyes rimmed in red and his hair is a scraggled mess. He's still wired though, fingers twitchy and he keeps shifting on his feet like he can't keep still.

"All done?" Pete asks.

"Yeah. Well, as done as it can be four weeks early. Bob and Spencer are gonna stay another hour or so, clean up the sound, you know?' Gerard paces a little, looking nervous. "Fuck Pete, it's rough. It's still so rough, no visual effects and Spencer's doing his best, but we're missing so many sound effects and the temp music is so temp."

"So we do our little speech before we screen it and explain all that."

"Yeah, I know. And he'll say he gets it, but he won't because he's a fucking hack. Fuck, I would've loved a sound mix for this one."

"That would've taken some of the "casual" out of our casual personal screening." Pete repeats the reasoning they both settled on weeks ago and Gerard nods, they've been over this.

"I don't know, Pete. I just don't know. It feels too soon, like it's all just gonna blow up in our faces."

"You want me to pull the screening? I can, but we may as well open the doors and let the Maddens waltz on in." Pete keeps his voice matter-of-fact, but the words are still incendiary.

"I fucking know, okay?" Gerard twists a hand into his hair. It's too late to punk out now; Tom will be in at 9am sharp and they're just going to have to show him what they've got. Whatever that is.

"Gerard, it's good. The performances are there, the story is there, everything else is just window dressing. If Tom can't see that, we've got such bigger problems than the Maddens, it's not even funny."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Gerard seems to settle a little, still restless but not pacing as much. "Fuck, I hope Patrick's right about this screening."

"I trust him on this one. He's good at this kind of shit." Pete feels like he's going out on a limb saying it, particularly since Gerard's aware of his less-than-professional encounters with Patrick, but it doesn't make the statement any less true. Gerard looks at him hard with bloodshot eyes.

"Yeah well, I really hope you're right."

"I try to be," Pete says with a grin. "You should go, try and catch some sleep before tomorrow."

Gerard nods again, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, I will. Hey, Pete?"

Pete glances up at the question. "Yeah?"

"You mind staying, just until Bob and Spencer are finished? Make sure they leave and everything?"

"Course. No problem. I don't want either of them driving; I'll organize cars for them. It'll give me something to do."

"Thanks." Gerard's smile is tired but genuine. "See you tomorrow. Bright and early." He yawns, padding out of Pete's office, already pulling out his phone and Pete can hear him quietly talking to Brian, voice fading as he vanishes down the hallway. Sometimes time zones can be a blessing instead of a curse.

Now if Pete can just get through the next eight hours, everything will be just peachy.

***

Tom Meyer is not a tall man, or a particularly attractive one, but he's powerful. Pete ushers him into Bob's cutting room with a warm smile, like they're old friends. Gerard pushes himself to his feet from where he's perched nervously on the arm of Bob's couch, crossing the two steps to press palms with the man who could make or break his film.

He's careful to keep his expression schooled to pleasant, trying to get a read on Tom, but the man is damn near unreadable. He smiles and greets Gerard, shakes hands with Bob and they all make small talk for a solid five minutes about the fucking weather. Gerard thinks he's doing a pretty good job of keeping his nerves from showing, but he wants to get the screening started already. The sooner it starts, the sooner it'll be over and maybe he won't feel quite so much like throwing up.

Thankfully, Pete steps in.

"We know you're a busy guy, Tom; we should probably get this thing started so we don't keep you too long. Thanks so much for coming, we really appreciate you fitting us in to your schedule like this." Pete's good, so fucking good at this. He makes it sound like Tom's doing them a favor, not that they've been breaking their backs to put it in front of him under great duress. Gerard's pretty sure he couldn't have pulled that off anywhere near as convincingly.

They settle on the couch. Given the whole "casual" feel they've been aiming for, they'd decided the best approach would be just to show it in the cutting room, not a theatre, because that would create too much expectation of something more finished. It's as polished as it can be given that they only wrapped shooting six weeks ago, but there's still a lot missing.

"So you'll see a lot of blue screens, a lot of empty frames where there should be Terminauts, visible wires, missing set extensions, that kind of thing, you know?" Gerard explains and Tom nods and smiles like he's heard it all before, which he no doubt has. "Also, as you know, it's all production sound. We have some temp music in, but it's not quite right, and of course a lot of the offscreen lines and all of Pogo's dialogue are just scratch recordings of Bob here, and his assistant Spencer."

"Hey you never know, maybe we'll keep them in?" Tom jokes and Gerard forces a stiff laugh that mixes with Bob and Pete's. Yeah, they've never heard that one before.

"So let's get this thing going then," Gerard wraps up, never happier to finish talking in his life.

He settles into one corner of the couch, Pete takes the middle and Tom sits at the other end. Bob flicks out the light and hovers his hand over the space bar, glancing up to Gerard's eyes. Gerard gives him a nervous smile, and Bob nods, hitting the button to start the screening before dropping into his own chair and wheeling backwards to a good vantage point.

From the moment the Universal logo flares across the screen Gerard's heart is in his mouth. It stays there for pretty much the entire screening.

There's a term Bob sometimes uses - "bad screening". It doesn't refer to technical difficulties, or audience reactions, it's talking about his own reaction to the film. It's those times he just can't focus, can't get into the story, it doesn't work for him. It might be a great screening for everyone else in the room, but for Bob it's a "bad screening".

Today, for Gerard, it's a "bad screening".

He doesn't take in the story at all. He can't focus. His eyes stay stuck to the screen, but all his concentration is focused on the man at the other end of the couch. Every time Tom moves, shifts, coughs, fuck if he breathes too loudly Gerard notices, his mind awhirl with possible problems with whatever is in the screen at that point in time. He knows it's paranoid, he knows it's irrational, but he can't stop himself. When Tom sneezes during the Conductor's speech Gerard almost has a heart attack.

The screening can't end soon enough. By the time they fade to black on the final shot, Gerard's nearly ill with worry, but he forces a smile and turns to look down the couch at Tom, steeling himself for disaster.

Tom doesn't even wait to be prompted, he starts running right in. "You know, I couldn't tell from the dailies. I knew they were good, but it's seeing it cut together now, I can tell."

Gerard holds his breath, waiting for the rest.

"This film is going to make money," Tom finishes with a wide grin and Gerard just about faints with relief. Tom launches into a spiel about demographics and advertising and a "higher calibre of superhero movie" but Gerard stopped listening after the money line. That's as much as he could ever have hoped for from Tom Meyer. If he thinks the film is going to make money then shit on a stick, the man is fucking happy.

Tom prattles on for a while about the promise of the film and how they'll need to market it right and Gerard and Pete nod along. The relief in the room is almost tangible and when Gerard meets Bob's eyes past Tom's profile, there's a smile lurking on Bob's lips.

There are stupid questions of course. There will always be stupid questions. Of course they'll be adding CG explosions to the carnival. Yes, they'll be filling out the sound in the fight scenes. Yes, there'll be more blood in the diner. No, the music in the rooftop scene isn't quite working. The fact that Tom's focusing on details rather than big picture notes is really satisfying, because it means there aren't glaring problems with big ticket items like story and performance. Those are two issues that are really hard to remedy without reshoots or a lot of dialogue looping.

By the time Tom checks his watch and announces he's got somewhere else to be, Gerard is feels almost normal. They usher Tom out, all smiles and niceties and paying lip service to social lunches that will never happen. After the door closes behind him Gerard says aloud what they're all thinking.

"I sure hope that worked."

Pete shoots him a grin. "Well, all we can do now is wait. How about we grab some lunch?"

The entire post team straggles down to the commissary and it isn't until Gerard's finished his burger that Pete's phone rings. Pete glances at the screen, muttering "It's Patrick" and the whole table goes silent.

Pete slips outside to take the call so Gerard doesn't even get to hear one half of the conversation. He picks at Mikey's fries nervously until Pete gets back to the table.

He knows they're good before Pete's even opened his mouth; he's grinning too wide for it to be bad news.

"No more Maddens. They've called off the hounds." Pete sticks up his hand for a high five and Ryan shoots out of his chair to comply.

"Fucking yes!" Spencer whoops and then it's high fives all round like they've just won the fucking Superbowl. Gerard can't move for a moment, just sits at the table feeling his whole body get light. Bob wraps an arm around him and Gerard can feel the answering relief when he hugs Bob back. It's been a rough few weeks for Bob, but fuck, he came through like a star.

"Thanks, Bob," he says softly into his ear, before turning to the table, "Thanks so much, everyone, really, it was a long hard push, but we really made it." He raises his bottle of coke and everyone grabs their cans and plastic cups to chink with his.

The finish line isn't any closer than it was five minutes ago; there's still the director's cut, studio notes, audience screenings, visual effects finals, scoring and sound mixing to get through, but when Gerard looks around at his shit-hot post team, it definitely feels in range.

This screening with Tom is only a small victory, but he'll take it.

***

Pete rings the doorbell on Patrick’s two story house in the hills, slightly freaked out by how large and expensive the place looks. He’s a little peeved that this is the first time he’s been here and he had to invite himself, and he hangs on tight to that feeling rather than letting himself be overwhelmed by the stench of money.

When Patrick answers the door he’s wearing a nearly-destroyed Prince t-shirt, jeans worn-through at the knees and a battered baseball cap that looks like he just threw it on as he walked to the door. He’s also sporting an exasperated expression.

"Pete, you know it’s polite to call first."

"Then you’d just tell me not to come." He shoves a white cardboard pastry box at Patrick stating, "I brought you cake!"

Patrick rolls his eyes but he takes the box that’s being shoved at him.

"It’s thank you cake. For calling off the wolves." Pete gives Patrick his most charming smile.

"We’re not talking about that Pete, remember? Didn’t happen." Patrick stays firmly planted in the doorway, his expression serious but Pete can see the smile hiding in his eyes. It gets brighter when Pete mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

"You’re not going to invite me in?" Pete challenges, stepping up to the top step so he can look Patrick in the eye. "You don’t want to eat all those by yourself, you’ll get a sugar high."

"Pete." The note of warning in Patrick’s voice should be enough, but it just makes Pete want to push harder.

"Come on, we’re allowed to be friendly; I promise I won’t rape you. I have honest-to-goodness real work-related questions, too." Pete snatches a neatly folded list from his back pocket and waves it at Patrick. Patrick snatches it from his hand, unfolds it and scans it before stepping back to let Pete past.

Inside is more homely than outside; comfortable but not flashy furniture that feels more like Patrick's style. It's still larger than anything Pete could dream of affording, and he's starting to wonder if he's kidding himself that Patrick would ever be willing to leave a studio job that puts him in this kind of a tax bracket for some harebrained scheme Pete's cooked up. But he's damned if he's not gonna try.

There's a television the size of Pete's entire bathroom in the corner, quietly muttering a news report to the comfortable looking sofa that's strewn with notebooks, pens and a laptop. Patrick dumps the cake box on the coffee table and shoves the various crap off to one end of the sofa. Pete settles into the newly cleared space, nodding when Patrick asks "Coffee?"

Pete picks the cake box open as Patrick makes banging noises in the kitchen with various coffee-related accoutrements. He's already liberated one of the half dozen cupcakes from the box and is picking carefully at the frosting.

"Hey, they're supposed to be mine. Don't I get first pick?" Patrick deposits two steaming mugs on the coffee table, dropping onto the couch and peering into the box.

"I'm the guest, you should offer me one first."

"The guest who invited himself. And I can't offer you one, you already took one." If Pete didn't know better he'd say Patrick was sulking.

"Semantics." Pete shakes his head, poking his cupcake with a finger so it comes away covered in butter cream. He shoves the coated finger towards Patrick, "Want some?"

Patrick shrinks away from the offered hand. "No, I'm good, thanks."

"Come on Trick... it's good, try some." Pete keeps pushing and Patrick keeps trying to duck away until Pete launches himself bodily at him, tackling him onto his back and smearing sweet cream all over his cheek and upper lip.

"Pete. Get off me." Patrick's voice is level but he's breathing hard. He feels warm, solid and delicious under Pete, their chests touching and one of Pete's legs is hitched over Patrick's knee.

Pete doesn't make a move to get up; in fact, he leans closer, breath coming hard as he lets his face sway down towards Patrick's. This wasn't supposed to be the plan, but it's better than his other plan. This is the plan where Patrick is right there, and how the hell is Pete supposed to resist that?

"Pete," Patrick whispers, and it's a warning, but Patrick's not moving, not struggling which Pete reads as an invitation, swiping his tongue at the smear of cream on Patrick's upper lip and savoring the way it makes him shiver.

When he leans that last half inch closer and covers Patrick's mouth with his own, he tastes like sugar and chocolate. It only takes a moment for Patrick's mouth to melt open under his, taking Pete's tongue, swallowing the little moan he makes. Pete gets bolder, sliding a hand up into Patrick's hair, knocking his hat sideways and sliding down on him so their bodies press tight. God, he's missed this. He's been starving for it so long and he can tell by the way Patrick's sucking his tongue and gripping his waist that he's not the only one.

He growls low in his throat, grinding down on Patrick and the hand Patrick's got on his waist tightens. He bites at Patrick's lower lip, reveling at his indrawn hiss of breath in response. He pulls back, eyes darting over Patrick's face, taking in the flushed cheeks and hazy green eyes. And Patrick's mouth, fuck, he has to kiss him again.

Pete crushes their mouths together, eagerly welcoming Patrick's tongue as his whole body goes liquid. He slides a hand between them, fingers dancing along the soft flesh or Patrick's waist, slipping inside the top of his jeans. He's nearly found enough room to push inside when Patrick's hands find his wrists, grasping firmly and holding tight. Patrick's head twists sideways, breaking the kiss and leaving them both panting.

"Pete, don't. Please." Patrick's voice is throaty and raw, and his words stop Pete short. His first instinct is to tug his hands loose and get back to what he was doing, but the way Patrick's looking at him, the desperate pleading in his eyes, is his undoing.

Pete wants to ask 'why'. To scream it at him until he's blue in the face, but he already knows the reasons and there's too many of them and he hates every last one.

The tension on Patrick's face betrays how hard it is for him to stop. Pete knows like he knows his own name that if he ignores the words and trusts that look, leans down and takes Patrick's mouth again he'll have him. Patrick's resolve will fold like a cheap tent and they could fuck right here on his giant couch and they'd both love it.

But Patrick said please. Fucking please and as much as Pete wants to reach out and grab this with both hands, fuck the consequences, he knows it's only going to fuck things up worse.

He clenches his hands to fists slowly, schooling his breathing and trying to calm down. He's hard as hell where their crotches are flush and he tries to ignore it as he shifts gingerly to sit up. He climbs off Patrick, flopping back on couch and staring at the coffee table because he can't look at Patrick right now without wanting to jump right back on him.

"I'm sorry." His voice is small and breathless.

"I know," Patrick breathes, too quiet.

Pete clenches his hands together in his lap, feet jittering on the carpet. His self control is seriously dissipating. It's okay though. He can do this. "Only four more months, right?" He tries to inject some enthusiasm into the words, but it comes out false.

"Four months... what?" Patrick asks and the question flips Pete's stomach over.

When Pete looks up, Patrick's expression is completely blank. "In four months, the film will done." There's a mild nag in his voice, a come on, Patrick that suddenly feels desperate. Pete rattles on, "We won't be on opposite sides anymore. You'll be on something else, I'll be on something else. Nothing to stop us." There's a hopeful smile hovering at his lips, but the way Patrick's staring at him, uncomprehending, is keeping it from finding its place.

"Patrick?" he asks, his voice nearly shaking with anticipation.

"No. Pete." Patrick's head shakes slowly. "No it's not..." Pete's stomach twists violently and he honestly thinks he might throw up. "Pete, we'll always be on opposite sides. I'm studio. I'll always be studio."

Pete's hands itch to slap him, shake him, tell him to take it back. But Patrick looks so sad, so shattered, that he can't. It becomes all too clear why Pete was always the one pushing and Patrick was the one stepping back. He's known this all along.

"This is fucked. This is so fucked," Pete spits, shoving himself off the couch and stalking towards the door because if he doesn't he doesn't get out, right now, he's gonna do something they'll both regret. Or at least Patrick will. When he gets to the front door it's got some kind of lock on it he can't work out, so he shoves and shakes it and swears at it, pounding his fist on the door.

Patrick catches his hands, pulling them down with soft fingers and even that simple contact makes Pete's breath hitch. He keeps his eyes on the door, not letting him himself look as Patrick slips the bolt for him, swinging the door open and Pete steps outside into the cold slap of night air. When he turns around and lets himself look at Patrick, he has to stiffen his legs so he doesn't step right back inside.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, his pink-cheeked face framed by the door and Pete can't help himself. He takes that last step, crushes his mouth to Patrick's and kisses him, tastes him, commits him to memory. He pulls back when he feels Patrick start to soften, when the hand on his shoulder starts to fist in his shirt. It's a really fucking hard thing to do.

He stands on the doorstep, panting for breath, drinking in the sight of Patrick, kiss-swollen and hungry as he gently pulls the door shut. He stares at the closed door for a long minute before he's ready to walk away.

Taking the stairs two at a time he makes a decision. This is the last time he'll ever have to walk away from Patrick. He's going to fix this. He's going to make Patrick an offer he can't say no to, and he'll never have to walk away again.

***

The days start to blur together for Gerard. He's present and awake every moment he's in the cutting room, all his focus directed at whatever he and Bob are working on, but the rest of the time starts to slide into unremarkable repetitiveness. Eating and sleeping are merely fuel. The only times he really feels switched on when he's not at work are when he's talking to Brian, hanging onto his voice funneled through a cable to him.

He gets Mikey to install the Skype software on his laptop, feeding him some bullshit line about work related conference calls which they both know Mikey doesn't buy for a moment. Mikey does it anyway, because it's his job and he's the best little brother on the East Coast. When he shows Gerard how to launch the software and use it, Gerard's not surprised to find Brian's already on his contact list. Mikey doesn't even rib him about it, even though he has every right to.

It’s not like they have phone sex all the time. Okay, so Gerard does end up getting the hang of the Skype thing enough to jerk-off on camera for Brian on a semi-regular basis. And yes, it’s hotter than the hottest porn he's ever seen and he had no idea he had this narcissistic show-off mode, but Brian really gets off on it. The intense expression he wears when he’s watching Gerard is so incinerating, Gerard's pretty sure it could result in hands-free orgasms if he channeled it right.

The hot sessions and phone calls are the punctuation to his film-focused existence. Something to look forward to and savor, when he can stop making decisions and just feel.

The director's cut screens well for the studio hacks, and there's barely a two day weekend of fleeting relief before the team shift gears. The next phase has them working through pages of creative notes from the executives which range in stupidity levels from "are you sure about that?" to "what the fuck?" The creative head of Universal wants to revoice Pogo, after being told more than once that the voice they had was a placeholder (ie. Spencer). The Vice President of Physical Production suggests the carnival "needs more explosions," like they could just shake them out of nowhere. This displays some exemplary selective memory given that he was the one who sliced the special effects budget in half in the first place.

The closest anyone comes to complimenting Bob on the editing is a cryptic note that the fight between Spaceboy and Kraken is "elegant" which just makes Bob thump the table and groan, "What the fuck does that even mean? It's a fight sequence! It's not supposed to be fucking elegant." He waves the offending paper at Gerard, "Is it supposed to be insulting? Because it really is!" Gerard just reminds him that at least he doesn't have the Maddens breathing down his neck and hands him another Red Bull.

As the weeks leak away, Gerard's social life shrinks to the odd after-work gathering and the semi-frequent occasions when Mikey and Alicia drag him along to a gig or film. Because they're officially dating now, and Gerard learned the hard way not to peek over his brother's shoulder when he's texting her. Apparently they're kinky. He really didn't need to know that.

Brian's return to LA conveniently coincides with their first audience screening. Of course conveniently, in this case, actually means not at all. Gerard is running on just three hours sleep after a late night at the sound mix when he picks Brian up from the airport. He should be dead on his feet, but he's absolutely wired and Brian is a sight for sore eyes, despite being both sleep-deprived and travel-rumpled.

Gerard drinks in every detail of his face, skin and body as Brian strides towards him at the arrivals gate, so much hotter in the flesh than the images on a grainy video screen. He stops in front of Gerard, arms folded across his chest, smirk pulling up his mouth at the side.

"You look like shit, Gee."

"Right back at you."

The words are barely out of his mouth before Brian grabs a handful of his shirt, mouth coming down hard over his, kissing him long and deep. Gerard's cheeks grow warm as his heartbeat multiplies, and he has to clench his hands to keep from groping. He's glad for the tide of passengers shuffling past them on all sides, a human barrier from prying eyes. Amongst all the bodies they're just another couple reuniting after a long separation.

The drive to Brian's apartment is an exercise in restraint and they barely get in the door before they're stuck together again, tearing at clothes and drowning in each other's mouths. They don't even make it to the bedroom; Brian does Gerard bent over the back of the couch, half their clothes still hanging off them. Brian's lips are warm on the back of Gerard's neck, his cock shoving home so deep it's almost painful after a hurried prep they were both too impatient for. It's an edge Gerard's happy to get off on, moaning out his appreciation as Brian's hand strokes his cock in time.

"Fuck Gee, do you any idea how much I've been thinking about this?" Brian's hand squeezes and twists as he grunts the words hot into his ear.

"Probably about as much as I have;" Gerard finishes the comment on a desperate moan. Brian's got an arm clutched across his chest and the whole couch is shifting with every thrust now. Gerard’s hair hangs in sweaty tendrils that slap against his face as they move; his grip on the back of the couch so tight his knuckles are white.

Brian doesn't tease, they're both too desperate; he fucks him hard and fast and keeps the stroke of his hand firm and quick. That, teamed with the push of Brian's cock inside him, tips Gerard over the edge fast. He chokes out a cry as orgasm swamps him, knees softening until Brian's the only thing holding him up, clutching him close, hips snapping forwards as he groans his own completion into Gerard's shoulder.

They sway, sweaty and sated, panting loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. Brian's mouth is warm on Gerard's shoulder, tracing a delicate pattern with his tongue until Gerard turns around and steals his mouth. They kiss, slow and messy until Gerard's heartbeat winds down. His hands find Brian's cheeks and he pulls back to look at him. He's tired, sure, but still gorgeous and the way he's looking at Gerard could get addictive.

Brian's fingers are gentle as he pushes Gerard's three-days-unwashed hair out of his face, with a soft, "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Gerard replies, voice raw. He brushes the pads of his fingers across Brian's damp lips as they stretch into a contagious smile. "Welcome home."

***

Pete spends a lot of time over the next weeks researching his 'hypothetical' production company. It starts with curiosity; a few google searches and fact-seeking phone calls lead to a few more and a few more. He's really just daring himself, searching for that one fact, that single problem that will prove this is beyond his reach. But the more he learns about the actual mechanics of establishing a company, the less out of reach it all seems.

Quotes and projections that he's fetched just to get an idea of cost find their way back into his hands so often the paper they're printed on gets soft and rumpled. Rough sketches of staffing structures and yearly budgets right down to smaller costs like rent and web presence get scribbled down in his notebook. It's a lot like budgeting a film, except the project isn't finite; instead of ending with release it'll go on, build, expand. At least, it will if he gets it right.

He spends a lot of time on the phone to Patrick, quizzing him on everything from good locations for premises, to how much he should pay his staff. Patrick puts up with the incessant questions with an amazing amount of patience, considering most of this stuff falls way outside his job description. But then, it's not Patrick's experience as a studio exec that gives him such awesome insights; it's that inherent logic of his, teamed with years of simply paying attention to the industry.

He's not afraid to tell Pete when he's over reaching, but he's also quick to push him when he needs to take things further.

It's impossible to pinpoint exactly when it stops being hypothetical musings and becomes a Plan, but it's probably around the time he drags Patrick across town to look at a commercial office space that's up for rent. His shoes echo off the floorboards as they walk around the empty rooms, Pete trailing after Patrick as he noses into every door and cupboard, turning the water on in the kitchenette and seeing how long it takes to get hot.

"What do you think?" Pete asks, eyes scanning the front room. "Pretty close to everything, studios, post houses, food."

"You know, you're not actually going to be spending that much time here," Patrick points out. It's hot as hell and stale in the offices from being shut up so long and Patrick's sweating, making his stiff button-up shirt cling in ways that are distracting. Pete presses his mind back to the business at hand. He's definitely not thinking about licking under the damp line of Patrick's collar.

"Sure, when I'm shooting. But it'll be great for pre-production. Not working from home will probably increase my productivity tenfold."

"Or you could just, you know, focus," Patrick teases. "Not everyone has to take breaks all the time."

"It's not my fault the internet's full of porn." Pete throws his hands up and Patrick shakes his head, a smile pulling at his lips.

"It's in a good spot, fittings seem alright, plumbing's fine, air-con works. Lick of paint and some furniture and you're set."

Patrick being Patrick, he turns the conversation carefully back to business and while Pete saw it coming, he's still disappointed. They've been being so careful. Ever since Gerard busted them, Pete's been holding himself in check and Patrick has too. This is the first time they've been alone together since the cupcake incident and for good reason it seems, given just how hard it is to keep himself out of Patrick's personal space.

Pete tunes back in to whatever Patrick's saying and finds him staring, one eyebrow quirked up like he's waiting for an answer to a question Pete didn't hear.

"Sorry?" Pete asks, forcing himself to focus. "What was that?"

"So you're really serious about this then?"

"As cancer," Pete decrees, hoisting his ass up to sit on the kitchen counter and nearly braining himself on the overhead cupboards. Patrick doesn't laugh at him, but his eyes do.

"Well then, you should get them to knock fifty bucks of the monthly rent and it would be about right." Patrick pulls a Kleenex out of his pocket and mops his face with it. "I'd better get back before I die of heat exhaustion, you need a ride?" Patrick offers, and Pete would really like to take him up on that, but he shakes his head.

"Brendon's swinging past on his way back from Kerplunk to get me, I'm good."

"See you around then," Patrick says with a small smile, taking steps towards the door but Pete catches him around the wrist and pulls him in for a completely workmate appropriate goodbye hug. Patrick makes an exasperated noise but he doesn't fight it. After a moment he even softens and leans into Pete's arms a little. Pete's not sure if that makes it better or worse given just how starved for Patrick contact he is.

It goes on longer than it probably should but Pete's not going to say anything if Patrick doesn't bring it up first. He doesn't, just shoots Pete a grin that twists his heart and slips out the front door. Pete watches through the wide front windows until Patrick turns a corner and he can't see him anymore.

Soon, he reminds himself. Soon.

The final lap he does of the offices is more a formality than a check-over; he's already made up his mind. He scribbles down the property details into his notebook, pulls out his phone and calls the real estate agent to get them to knock fifty off the price on his lease.

***

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