His brain is still buzzing from the paparazzi and the lights, the cameras and microphones and crowds of people. There are parties all around him, and people waiting to see him, and it feels fucking awesome, because he’s riding a upswing and he only needs a net if he has a plan to fall.
“Gabanti. Gab-fucking-banti.” He slings an arm around Gabe’s shoulder, tugging him down closer to his own height to do it. Gabe goes easily, because that’s what they do. They’re best friends, fucking BFFs, riding the high life and owning the night. “We’re fucking rock stars, man.”
“No shit,” Gabe agrees, looping his arm around Pete’s waist and lifting him off the ground. Gabe’s thin and wiry, all sleek muscle. Pete’s compact and solid, but that doesn’t mean Gabe can’t make him feel like he’s flying. “Prime vodka. All the Red Bull we can drink. Hot and dirty boys and girls. People want to do us.”
“Fuck that. People want to be us.” Pete bounces on the balls of his feet then launches himself up, wrapping his legs around Gabe and hugging him tight, giving him a solid kiss on the lips. Gabe laughs and takes a few steps back, bumping into Jay-Z’s table and they both offer fawning and ridiculous apologies to Jay and Beyonce and everyone pausing to worship at their table. “Okay, they’re rock stars.”
“We’re angels and kings,” Gabe intones, still carrying Pete around. He finds a table and sits down, Pete straddling his lap now, bouncing slightly.
“The walrus fucking said, man.” Pete hugs him tight and kisses him, impulse overriding inhibition. This is the kind of party where cameras disappear until you walk out the door, the kind of party Pete still doesn’t believe he gets to attend. “This is it, duder.”
Gabe nods and pulls Pete close, hugging him until it’s hard to breathe the rarified air. “Fuck that, man. This is only the beginning.”
Re: Crossover, Pete/Gabe: Some Kind of Wonderful
His brain is still buzzing from the paparazzi and the lights, the cameras and microphones and crowds of people. There are parties all around him, and people waiting to see him, and it feels fucking awesome, because he’s riding a upswing and he only needs a net if he has a plan to fall.
“Gabanti. Gab-fucking-banti.” He slings an arm around Gabe’s shoulder, tugging him down closer to his own height to do it. Gabe goes easily, because that’s what they do. They’re best friends, fucking BFFs, riding the high life and owning the night. “We’re fucking rock stars, man.”
“No shit,” Gabe agrees, looping his arm around Pete’s waist and lifting him off the ground. Gabe’s thin and wiry, all sleek muscle. Pete’s compact and solid, but that doesn’t mean Gabe can’t make him feel like he’s flying. “Prime vodka. All the Red Bull we can drink. Hot and dirty boys and girls. People want to do us.”
“Fuck that. People want to be us.” Pete bounces on the balls of his feet then launches himself up, wrapping his legs around Gabe and hugging him tight, giving him a solid kiss on the lips. Gabe laughs and takes a few steps back, bumping into Jay-Z’s table and they both offer fawning and ridiculous apologies to Jay and Beyonce and everyone pausing to worship at their table. “Okay, they’re rock stars.”
“We’re angels and kings,” Gabe intones, still carrying Pete around. He finds a table and sits down, Pete straddling his lap now, bouncing slightly.
“The walrus fucking said, man.” Pete hugs him tight and kisses him, impulse overriding inhibition. This is the kind of party where cameras disappear until you walk out the door, the kind of party Pete still doesn’t believe he gets to attend. “This is it, duder.”
Gabe nods and pulls Pete close, hugging him until it’s hard to breathe the rarified air. “Fuck that, man. This is only the beginning.”