It’s the fourth album that does it. The mix of music and passion that comes out of just the three of them, the tenacity that lasted them through Mike and AJ and Tom and Andy and Michael. Whatever it is, the album takes off, crossing over in more markets than Pete knew existed, topping charts and making them actual names in the business. It’s strange, since none of the other DecayDance bands are up there, out there. Even Cobra’s running a distant second.
Pete doesn’t know how to deal with it, really. He feels like he did when Bronx was born, proud enough to burst and scared to death all at once. Beckett’s been his since the beginning, the reason he’s done so much of what he did. He wants him to succeed, wants him to triumph. He just wishes…
Well, he wishes that he didn’t feel like he wasn’t a part of it anymore
It’s stupid to feel that way, he knows. He’s here at the party. Hell, he’s on the VIP list. He’s here to see and be seen, the elder fucking statesman of the hipster scene. The Academy is where he’s always seen them – at the top, name in lights, fucking headliners in bigger venues, people talking about them, radio stations playing them. This is what they want. This is what he wants for them.
“It is a party, you know.” He recognizes William’s stupid, nasally, Chicago voice without even trying. “You could pretend to be happy.”
“I’m happy.”
“You look like you’re constipated.”
“Maybe I am.” He sighs and rolls his neck and turns around, looking up. William’s wearing black jeans and a pale blue button down shirt, a black vest and a tie that Pete gave him when Beckett told him he was going to be a dad. It’s a hideous tie. “That’s a hideous fucking tie.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I know. Since when do you trust my sartorial tastes?” He manages a lopsided smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. Shit. He didn’t intend to bring this down, doesn’t want to ruin this for William. “Don’t tell people I gave it to you. And take it off.”
“You take it off me.”
Pete stops for a moment, because William doesn’t say shit like that to him anymore, and certainly not in that tone. They got past the teasing, flirting stage quickly because William was a stubborn ass who needed to do it on his own, and Pete didn’t handle rejection well and so it was sort of a relief when Travie and Gabe stepped in and provided a buffer between them. “What?”
William shrugs a little, smiling something wicked that Pete recognizes and wants and doesn’t have any fucking clue what to do with. William turns, smooth and easy, and Pete wonders when he grew up, when he got all this confidence, as he follows him. He knows the answers to his questions, of course. William’s always had confidence in himself, he just needed other people to share it to feel like it fit him right.
There’s a back room, because there’s always a back room, and since Pete’s co-owner of the club, no one questions when he goes into the storage room. There are shelves of booze that look fairly depleted, attesting to the fact that this is a DecayDance party, as well as towels and glasses and napkins, pens and trays and rolls of receipt tape. William doesn’t turn on the light, but there are emergency lights in the room, so they’re bathed in a greenish glow.
Re: Crossover, Pete/William: Wish You Were Here
Pete doesn’t know how to deal with it, really. He feels like he did when Bronx was born, proud enough to burst and scared to death all at once. Beckett’s been his since the beginning, the reason he’s done so much of what he did. He wants him to succeed, wants him to triumph. He just wishes…
Well, he wishes that he didn’t feel like he wasn’t a part of it anymore
It’s stupid to feel that way, he knows. He’s here at the party. Hell, he’s on the VIP list. He’s here to see and be seen, the elder fucking statesman of the hipster scene. The Academy is where he’s always seen them – at the top, name in lights, fucking headliners in bigger venues, people talking about them, radio stations playing them. This is what they want. This is what he wants for them.
“It is a party, you know.” He recognizes William’s stupid, nasally, Chicago voice without even trying. “You could pretend to be happy.”
“I’m happy.”
“You look like you’re constipated.”
“Maybe I am.” He sighs and rolls his neck and turns around, looking up. William’s wearing black jeans and a pale blue button down shirt, a black vest and a tie that Pete gave him when Beckett told him he was going to be a dad. It’s a hideous tie. “That’s a hideous fucking tie.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I know. Since when do you trust my sartorial tastes?” He manages a lopsided smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. Shit. He didn’t intend to bring this down, doesn’t want to ruin this for William. “Don’t tell people I gave it to you. And take it off.”
“You take it off me.”
Pete stops for a moment, because William doesn’t say shit like that to him anymore, and certainly not in that tone. They got past the teasing, flirting stage quickly because William was a stubborn ass who needed to do it on his own, and Pete didn’t handle rejection well and so it was sort of a relief when Travie and Gabe stepped in and provided a buffer between them. “What?”
William shrugs a little, smiling something wicked that Pete recognizes and wants and doesn’t have any fucking clue what to do with. William turns, smooth and easy, and Pete wonders when he grew up, when he got all this confidence, as he follows him. He knows the answers to his questions, of course. William’s always had confidence in himself, he just needed other people to share it to feel like it fit him right.
There’s a back room, because there’s always a back room, and since Pete’s co-owner of the club, no one questions when he goes into the storage room. There are shelves of booze that look fairly depleted, attesting to the fact that this is a DecayDance party, as well as towels and glasses and napkins, pens and trays and rolls of receipt tape. William doesn’t turn on the light, but there are emergency lights in the room, so they’re bathed in a greenish glow.