Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Part 1 - Pre-Wedding (Summer 2013)

Even from above, Gabe can tell the crowd is abuzz with anticipation. Those at the front of the venue hold drinks with X-marked hands, procured from their cool older friends, and with the other grip the barricade tightly. Some of them are bright-eyed and blue-haired teenagers whose eyeliner is a little smudged, and the rest are seasoned fans who still listen to last decade’s emo bands on the morning commute and spend paychecks to tattoo their favorite lyrics across their arms. This is why Gabe and Pete stand on the balcony with their cans of beer– they’d stick out like sore thumbs.

“Did you listen to the new album yet?” Pete asks. Gabe automatically turns his head, but sees the question has been directed to Patrick, who stands on Pete’s other side.

Disgruntled, Gabe takes a sip of his beer. There’s only one person here who could ruin his pre-show excitement.

“A couple songs,” Patrick says, tipping his plastic cup of water toward the empty stage. “Mostly the singles. And the one about Twiggy.”

“Of course,” Gabe mutters under his breath. He goes unheard, lost in the crowd’s chatter.

“What about the last track?” Pete asks.

“You were the one who said it was too sad,” Patrick says. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Everyone says it’s too fucking depressing.”

“I never said it was too sad. Just that it was really sad.”

“I got to hear Ryan bemoan his suffering more than any person should.” Patrick shrugs. “So I think I’m good.”

Gabe purses his lips for a moment and then leans over. “But you know what it’s about, right?”

“No, but I can take a few guesses. Why?”

Just as Gabe opens his mouth, he’s startled by a tap on his shoulder. Flinching, he turns to see William. “Bill!” With a grin, Gabe pulls him in for a hug with one arm, patting him on the back. “Glad you could make it.”

But with an arm around him, it’s hard not to shudder– Gabe can feel the difference in William’s build. He’s narrower, bones harder, the bumps of his spine prodding into Gabe’s skin even through the fabric of a t-shirt. It’s even noticeable in William’s smile, emphasizing his emerging cheekbones and the straightness of his jaw.

He’s said it’s the meds he’s been on, that’s all. Antidepressants with a side of inadvertent appetite suppression. He’s trying to eat, he really is.

Gabe doesn’t believe it for a second, and nobody else does either. But since Z’s hospitalization, William has seemed to learn his lesson about interfering with another’s recovery process, and that’s enough to start to move on from the past.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” William replies. “I’m too curious about the new album for my own good. Pete, hey! And… Patrick, nice to see you.”

Pete briefly hugs William too, also in the casual we’re-just-bros sort of way. Patrick waves and smiles, a silent reassurance that says “oh, water under the bridge,” but gazes at Pete’s beer can with longing that says otherwise.

“Does Z know you’re here?” Gabe asks.

“Oh yeah, don’t worry. I asked and everything– she said she was glad to have me come.”

Gabe nods. He’d be willing to bet Z’s forgiveness was out of pity, rather than a genuine desire to reconcile, but he can’t exactly blame her.

The lights dim, the fog machines turn on, and the opening band steps on stage.

The opening band is forgettable, and Gabe uses the crowd’s distraction as a chance to go down to the bar and buy a second round of beers for everyone (and get another water for Patrick, of course.) It’s not that they’re bad , per say, they’re just okay and everyone’s waiting for the headliner of the night. Plus, it’s hard for Gabe to focus on the music and dissect it with a professional’s perspective when Pete’s hand is clasped over his on the railing, fingertips gently brushing over his knuckles and the engagement ring on his finger.

Between sets, while Pete and Patrick are busy talking about their recording session tomorrow and which guitars and pedalboards they’ll need to bring in, Gabe rubs his engagement ring with his own finger and stares at William’s own slender fingers as he texts on his phone. He wonders how those fingers would feel– probably bony and cold, of course.

Then, the lights dim again. Pete and Patrick’s discussion is finally drowned out by the crowd’s screams as The Young Veins step on stage.

The real show has begun.

The first thing to catch the crowd’s eye is Ryan’s outfit; the already-enthusiastic screaming is sent into an exhilarated frenzy at the return of the iconic rose vest. However, this one is made of tawny fabric, pinned with wilted flowers that have turned dull and curled in on themselves.

Jon’s look is far less grand, wearing a solid-colored brown button-up and dark jeans as he picks up his guitar off to the side.

All attention is on Ryan, and he knows it– keeping an unaffected disposition, he slowly picks up the microphone and looks out into the crowd as the band starts playing one of their newer and slightly-popular singles. The tempo is slow and filled with longing, but the lyrics are what catches one’s attention. It is purple prose strewn with art history vocab, from the point of view of the ‘ghost’ of classical art as it observes the rise of post-modernism, from Duchamp to Warhol, framed as an obvious metaphor for the decline of modern society.

Gabe isn’t exactly sure what that means, but that’s about what Pete had described the song as when he first heard the demos and sang his usual praises for Ryan’s writing. The critics, however, were not as kind. The music itself had gone over well–after all, you can’t go wrong by capitalizing off of 60s nostalgia–but once you started trying to understand the lyrics, that was about the point where the critics probably cracked their knuckles and got ready for the real meat and potatoes of their review. The Young Veins were accused of everything from “practically plagiarizing a U.S. history textbook” to “transcribing the ramblings of an abstract artist high on LSD.” It was called too ambitious, daring to the point of detriment, and an over-complex mockery of the entire Cold War sociopolitical atmosphere. 

However, Ryan took it in stride, considering the criticism to just be confirmation he was a genius, misunderstood in his own lifetime. Pete egged him on. Gabe stood on the sidelines and went along with it–  it was good music, albeit deeply flawed, but still good enough to get some radio airtime and ITunes album presales. Plus, Gabe supposed he was glad Ryan was well enough to do a second album in the first place, and that in itself is a victory.

But that still doesn’t keep him from dunking on it when he’s out of Ryan and Jon’s earshot, of course. When the song ends and there’s a brief break as Ryan gulps a water bottle, Gabe turns to William and shouts over the crowd, “I feel like I just took the SAT!”

William laughs. “If that was the SAT, I don’t think I can even speak English.”

Pete nudges Gabe. “Come on, babe, it’s good! It’s supposed to be like that!”

Gabe nods, while William takes out his phone. A few moments later, Gabe’s own phone buzzes with the text: Like what? Incomprehensible?

Luckily, the beginning of the next song covers Gabe’s sudden burst of laughter. This one is much more digestible, being their classic single from the first album, ‘Cape Town,’ followed by ‘Maybe I Will, Maybe I Won’t.” Then Ryan has a bit of the expected banter with the audience about being glad to be back on stage and see everyone’s faces once again.

“Thank you so much for continuing to support this little project of mine,” Ryan says. “It really means a lot to us, really. I don’t really give a shit what the critics say. This music is for you guys, and you all get it, right?”

The crowd cheers, of course. Someone screams, “WE LOVE YOU RYAN!” and a much more immature fan yells “MARRY ME!”, which elicits a chuckle from Ryan to hide his annoyance.

“You’re all very flattering, but I’ve already got a ring on my finger.” He holds up his hand, showing off his own gleaming engagement ring before he blows a kiss to Jon. “If you want to be able to say you helped pay for Jon and I’s wedding, head on over to the merch stand after the show if you haven’t already. No pressure of course, but we genuinely appreciate your support, tonight and during the past few years. We wouldn’t be here without you. Now, we’ve got a special guest for the next song… please give a warm welcome to my dear friend, Z Berg!”

Z jogs on stage, and Gabe watches as William tenses next to him– they haven’t seen each other since he inadvertently triggered Z to the point of hospitalization, subsequently ending in their breakup as soon as she’d woken up and gotten her hands on a phone. Now that nearly a year has passed, it’s clear she’s doing just fine, if not better, without him. Although she still has her lithe nymph-like figure, it’s clear she has gained a few pounds, but in the way that makes her appear healthy and glowing, her eyes shining and cheeks rosy. There’s an energy thrumming in her swift movements as she picks up the second mic and grins, waving at the crowd.

As the two sing ‘Nothing Matters but You’ from the first album, Gabe can’t help but keep glancing over at William. His face is dim in the low lighting, but it’s plainly visible the way he’s schooled his features into an almost-blankness, failing due to the intensity of his unwavering stare. Gabe wonders what he feels– a deep and yawning chasm of guilt, fuzzy butterflies that whisper of past memories, or even a spark of envy. Probably a tangled mass of all three.

Gabe rubs his engagement ring, glad he doesn’t have to worry about those kinds of feelings anymore. There is Pete, and only Pete, and it’s a sort of relief– sure, he’s not perfect, but he’s a stability Gabe can cling to, a life raft in the occasional typhoon.

Gabe reaches for Pete’s hand, locking their fingers together. Pete leans into him, emanating cozy warmth, and Gabe’s train of thought melts away until the song ends and the crowd screams and claps.

“Give it up for Z Berg,” Ryan says into the mic, and he sips water as the crowd cheers. “Now, we’re going to play another one of our songs from the new album, also featuring Z. This is ‘Nantucket.’”

Pete nudges Patrick’s shoulder. “This is the sad one!”

Patrick groans. “Spare me.”

It begins with a swaying rhythm, a steadying beat. The way Jon strums his guitar is mournful, reflecting the song’s mood. Ryan opens his mouth and sings:

“California was bleak,

So we retreated for a week,

But Nantucket couldn’t erase,

My lack of wish to be saved,

The guilt pounds like rain,

Creeping through the window pane,

Despite the years gone by,

My past won’t die.”

As soon as the words float into the air, the atmosphere around the former members of the Decaydance Weightloss Competition tightens. Although Ryan is all the way there on the stage below and they are just specks in a sea of people, suddenly it’s as if there is no boundary; they are vulnerable, exposed. Like the song is a formulated attack and not only a release of past emotions, as Pete had explained when he’d first showed the song to Gabe. The lyrics are worded just vaguely enough that nobody but their inner-circle could recognize what is truly being alluded to.

“The villain was a mirror image,

Anorexia, alcoholism,

Horror, ostracism,

Starving works until it hurts,

And he falls down to the floor,

Too emaciated for emotion,

Too numb to see the implosion.”

Z’s part, however, is slightly more evident. 

“The sirens of an ambulance,

Couldn’t break into my trance,

My lover drove me to bone,

I couldn’t be more alone,

His words were a waste of breath,

No romance in the kiss of death,

And when the years go by,

For the past I won’t cry.”

Although Gabe couldn’t see Patrick’s expression, blocked by Pete between them, William’s reaction is easy to read. His stoic look is broken by the tear that drips down his cheek. He wipes it away quickly, gulps back the lump in his throat, and once more tries to look like the cool, unaffected ex he wants to be so badly.

When the song ends, Gabe leans forward slightly over the balcony, curious as to Patrick’s initial reaction to the full song– his face is pale and washed out, the shame so draining it’s turned him into a still ghost. Catching Gabe’s gaze, Patrick shoots him an annoyed glare and tries to stand up a little straighter.

“You know he doesn’t mean it like that,” Pete tells Patrick, also spotting his expression.

“I know.” Patrick shrugs as an attempt to fake nonchalance, but his voice trembles as he raises it to be heard over the crowd. “It’s fine. He can do what he wants.”

Pete pats Patrick’s shoulder, but it’s thin reassurance; everyone knows he deserves the jab. Gabe doesn’t feel sorry at all– in fact, rerolling the image of Patrick’s shock over and over in his head brings a smug smile of self-satisfaction to his lips. He feels a little sorry for William, though. Maybe it’s a little hypocritical, but Gabe doesn’t care; Patrick hurt him personally. And William may have been a little horrible too, but at least he’s trying to change. At least William had left Z alone and could tell when he wasn’t wanted, while Patrick continued to cling to Pete like a leech due to medical expenses, another shot in the spotlight, and an unwillingness to move on from the most pathetic crush in history.

Maybe that makes Gabe just as much of a hypocrite, but it doesn’t matter– after all, he’s the one who had gotten Pete in the end. He’s the one with a ring on his finger and a celebrity wedding planner on speed-dial.

Gabe knows he’s won the real competition. And if Patrick can’t deal with it, that isn’t his problem.

Chapter Text

After the encore ends and the venue brightens, it’s a chain reaction; one fan notices Pete, and another and another, until there’s a line going all the way down the balcony stairs of teens wanting to get a picture or request he write beloved lyrics on the backs of their tickets so it can be tattooed across them. About half recognize Gabe and pull him in for the picture, suggesting “Let’s do Fangs Up!” Fewer recognize William, but he still beams at the attention and the fact that people still remember his music after his band’s break-up.

Patrick already left right before the encore, citing he wouldn’t want to start any rumors about the Fall Out Boy reunion if a few too many fans inevitably saw him with Pete. The upcoming album is still strictly under wraps. However, Gabe caught a glance of Patrick at the bar ordering a drink right before he left– but if he was in Patrick’s shoes, he supposes he wouldn’t show up to the afterparty sober either, so he opted not to point it out to Pete. Not Gabe’s problem, after all.

Finally, after the venue’s security tiredly tells the fans to hurry it up, Pete, Gabe, and William leave. They pack into Pete’s car to head to where the afterparty is being held, a bar a few blocks away that has been reserved specifically for the occasion. 

While they walk from the parking garage to the bar, William whispers to Gabe, “What am I gonna say to Z if I see her?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Gabe says.

“I’m not just going to say nothing.” William rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s like… she’s my ex. I have to say something and seem like I’ve totally moved on with my life and I’m doing great, but in a way that implies I wouldn’t mind getting back with her again, but not because I’m desperate– you know?”

“I don’t think you guys getting back together is a good idea in any universe,” Pete chimes in. “Just find another one of Ryan’s exes to hook up with. It’s not like it’s hard.”

“You would know.” William nervously chuckles. “I just don’t know how to face Z in general, really. Maybe getting drunk will help. God, this is going to be the worst.”

“We don’t have to go to the afterparty,” Gabe says. “They’d understand.”

“No, we have to go to the afterparty,” Pete insists. “We gotta show up and support Ryan’s music– this album is on its way to becoming a hit! Don’t worry about Z, just have a few shots and it’ll be fine.”

William shrugs, but Gabe tugs Pete’s shoulder and whispers to him, “Let’s not encourage him drinking.”

“He’s an adult,” Pete whispers back. “What else am I supposed to tell him? I suck at breakup advice.”

“I’m literally right next to you,” William says. “I appreciate the concern, but trust me; I can still handle my drink. Alcohol has too many calories to make blacking out worth anything.”

“Sure, Bill. I trust you.” Gabe, however, still makes a note to check on William throughout the night. Alcohol may contain calories, but if anyone is stupid enough to somehow sneak in hard drugs… well, those certainly don’t have calories.

“And I am on antidepressants,” William adds, almost as an afterthought. “So I really can’t drink that much anyway.”

That doesn’t really assuage Gabe’s concerns in the slightest, but he nods.

After it’s verified they’re on the guest list, the three enter the bar– it’s nothing particularly fancy, just brick walls spruced up by hanging plants and dangling bulb-shaped lights. Gabe is a little disappointed; he would have expected The Young Veins to find some cool vintage place with a jukebox to really lean on their aesthetic, but he supposes with the wedding coming up so soon, the couple’s schedule must already be packed enough.

As soon as Pete spots Ryan, he makes a beeline across the room. “There you are!” Pete yells, causing a few heads to turn at the commotion. He wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. Unprepared, Ryan’s drink sloshes a little over the sides of the glass, but he quickly recovers and laughs.

“Hey there.” Ryan uses his free hand to pat his shoulder. “You’re making me spill my drink.”

“Oh, sorry.” Pete pulls back. “I just… man, that was an incredible show! Dude, I just wanted to scream ‘ Ryan Ross is a fucking genius!’ the entire time until you’d hear me and ask me to shut the fuck up. The postmodernism song? Amazing! Like, actually haunting. I got chills, man! You need to make a music video for it, stat.”

“Aw, thanks.” Ryan grins. “I’ve been telling Jon we need to do a music video.”

“Hi,” Jon says from beside Ryan, making Pete realize he hadn’t even seen him.

“Oh, hey Jon!” Pete says. “You did amazing, too. Only you could create the perfect accompaniment for– shit, are those Jell-o shots?”

Jon looks behind him to the bar and shrugs. “Uh, yeah.”

“Wait just one second while I get a little buzzed,” Pete promises, “and then we’ll do a few real shots together and talk music video concepts. This is brainstorming that can’t be done while sober.”

“Oh, sure.” Ryan smiles and sips his drink. “Sounds like a blast. Go enjoy the Jell-o shots. It’s an open bar, after all.”

Gabe, having followed Pete, opens his mouth to tell Ryan he enjoyed the show too, but Pete whirls around and takes Gabe and William by their shoulders. “Come on guys! To the bar!”

As Pete drags them over, William glances around nervously and asks Gabe, “Do you see her anywhere?”

Gabe turns his head to look, but just as they get to the bar and Pete releases his hand,  the acceleration causes William to bump into someone. She stumbles back.

“Sorry–” William immediately apologizes, but when their eyes meet, his stomach twists into knots; it’s Z. Her red-painted lips part in surprise, eyes roaming over the state of his body, from his toothpick legs up to the broad collarbones poking out from under his shirt collar.

“Bill,” she finally says, forcing a smile. “Hey.”

“Hi.” William holds out his hand for her to shake. “You did great tonight. I mean, I never got to see you perform live, so… um, that was cool. Went above and beyond my expectations. Not that I expected it to be bad, of course. I knew you’d be great. But you were, like, amazing.”

“Thanks,” Z says, her smile still as stiff as plastic. “That’s so kind. I’m glad you could be there.”

“Yeah, really great.” William reaches behind him to the fresh tray of Jell-o shots that Pete had asked the bartender for in the meantime. “Have you had any of these yet? They look good.” He holds up the glass of green gelatin and vodka, inspecting it. “I wonder if they use the real Jell-o or the zero sugar version.”

“Sugar isn’t going to kill you.”

“You know what the most common cause of death is in America?” William points to the shot glass. “Heart disease.”

“You know what also causes death?” Z’s smile curls into a frown. “Starving yourself.”

William rolls his eyes. Z huffs a sigh and reaches behind him to grab a shot. After using the toothpick to separate the gelatin from the glass and throwing it aside, she brings the glass to her lips and tilts her head, swishing it in her mouth and swallowing it. She slams the glass back on the counter and smiles.

“Go ahead, drink it,” she says. “It’s good. You can barely taste the sugar.”

William hands her his glass. “I think I’ll get something that’ll actually get me drunk, thanks.”

“You know you’re not really living,” Z says, and downs the second Jell-o shot.

“I know that very well, thanks,” William snaps. He turns around, hoping Pete and Gabe would be there to escape to. However, Pete’s already back with Ryan, probably babbling about his talent once more. Gabe, nearby and keeping Jon company; meeting William’s gaze, Gabe waves him over.

William turns toward Z, opening his mouth, but then Z touches his shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry for getting off on the wrong foot. Do you want to talk or…”

Talk? William raises a brow, his heart already pounding thinking of what talking could potentially lead to, if only he plays all his cards right…

“Yeah!” He nods eagerly. “Let’s talk.”

Gabe decides he’s heard enough of Pete’s tipsy ramblings of suggestions for Ryan’s music video–there’s no way they could get their hands on Warhol’s actual Brillo Boxes no matter how successful Ryan’s song turns out–and wanders into the crowd. He talks to Alex Greenwald for a little bit and tries to pick his brain to find out how he had allowed Ryan to write such a song; the guy just shrugs and says they’d compromised by not adding a truly dreadful fifteen minute instrumental introduction that apparently would have to be played by a full-sized orchestra. This piece of information makes Gabe wonder how much the years of malnutrition have affected Ryan’s prefrontal cortex, and he decides to soon get another drink to try to forget that thought. 

After wandering around some more, Gabe finds William and Z have disappeared from the bar, replaced by Patrick grabbing a can of reduced-calorie beer.

“Don’t let Pete see you with that,” Gabe says, leaning against the bar. “You’re already lucky he didn’t spot you getting a drink at the venue, too.”

“He’s not going to see me.” Patrick points to where Pete and Ryan have settled at a booth, furiously scribbling on napkins surrounded by empty glasses. “Too busy with his prodige. Besides, why do you care?”

“You did tell Pete you’d be the designated driver...”

“The night’s young. I’ll be plenty sober before we go.”

“Yeah, right,” Gabe scoffs. “Thanks to you, I’m going to have to cut myself off now if anyone wants a ride home. You can’t just keep fucking hiding this kind of stuff from Pete. He’s the one paying for your treatment.”

“Then tell him,” Patrick fires back defensively. “I’m sure you’d be happy to have me out of your fucking vicinity.”

“I would, but I’d also rather you didn’t isolate yourself to starve and drop dead.”

“I’m sure you’d like that, too,” Patrick mumbles, sipping his beer.

“Look, you can’t say you’re not shocked by Ryan’s song about the Decaydance Weightloss Competition,” Gabe says. “This is what it’s about, isn’t it?”

“He’s allowed to express himself, and I’m allowed to be upset about it.”

“ Upset?” Gabe demands. “Oh, please. I’m not even allowed to be upset at the fact you’re hanging around us like a fucking parasite, but you get to wallow in the fact you violated us and you’re getting reminded of it, even though he never even namedropped you?”

Patrick’s mouth hangs open. “I wasn’t thinking right that night, I was drinking and I got hospitalized–”

“Go ahead and drink as much as you want,” Gabe interrupts, “because if Pete notices on his own that you’re getting drunk tonight and finally cuts you off, I sure as hell won’t be sad about it.”

Cheeks flushed and the room suddenly sweltering hot, Patrick chews on his lip as Gabe turns around and walks away. He wishes he could call Gabe fat, just to bring his ego down a notch, but then Gabe would probably call Patrick fat back, and then they’d have Pete after them for starting a good ol’ fashioned bar fight.

Patrick grip tightens on the can of beer, squeezing the flimsy metal. Why can’t he just get over what happened at Ryan’s birthday party? It was a year ago. A YEAR ago! They’re the ones who should have known better, having sex in Ryan’s bed with the door open… what did Gabe really expect?

He glances across the room, where Pete’s still occupied with Ryan. Patrick almost snorts. How could Gabe be so bothered about Patrick, but not Ryan? The fact Ryan is engaged certainly doesn’t change the fact Ryan owes his entire career to Pete– a power imbalance would always exist. If Pete ever wanted an affair, he’d get it. How could Gabe be jealous of Patrick when the perfect culprit is right there?

Patrick pushes away his beer, resolving not to take another sip. He won’t get drunk tonight– if only for the chance to eventually show Gabe that he could be a real threat if he tried. Patrick could bide his time. If he could yearn for over a decade, he could be patient for just a little longer.

Gabe slides into the booth next to Pete. “How’s the planning going?”

“Babe!” Pete happily shrieks, his elbow knocking over an empty shot glass. “Oops. Anyways, we’ve moved on from the Brillo Boxes. We’re going to fill an entire room with urinals–”

“No, we’re not!” Ryan swats at Pete’s arm. “We won’t be taken seriously. No one is going to think a second thought about a room full of urinals!”

“Great stuff you’ve got here,” Gabe says, dripping with sarcasm. “I guess at least nobody’s suggesting using pyrotechnics in an art museum–”

“Write that down!” Pete nearly screams, and Ryan rushes for a napkin. “Pyrotechnics in an art museum! Now we’re talking!”

Gabe sighs. “Maybe that’s enough business for tonight. You gotta kick back and enjoy yourself. We’ve all been so busy, with music and the weddings…”

“It’s partially your own fault,” Ryan points out. “Who the fuck plans a destination wedding across the Pacific? There are plenty of perfectly good islands within a reasonable distance. Like the Florida Keys.”

“But New Caledonia is perfect,” Gabe insists. “Gay marriage isn’t legal in Florida. But it’s legal there, because it’s a French territory.”

“I’m sure there are French territories in the Caribbean, too.”

“And it’s so convenient for our honeymoon,” Gabe says. “Afterward we’re going to Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Taiwan, and Thailand.”

Ryan raises a brow. “You don’t think that’ll be stressful? That’s a lot of travel and planning for right after your wedding.”

“Eh, we’re used to it by now with all the touring we’ve done. And we haven’t had a chance to really see Asia outside a tight touring schedule, anyway. It’s going to be great– lots of hiking and pretty views.”

Pete giggles and touches Gabe’s lips. “But you’re the prettiest view.”

Gabe chuckles. “Babe, please.”

“I swear, we’re barely going to be spending any time in our hotel rooms,” Pete says. “But like, that’s the whole point of a honeymoon! Why go hiking to see some mountain when I could stay in and see Gabe on his back–”

“Pete, please,” Gabe interjects. Usually he doesn’t mind Pete’s innuendos, but lately it’s begun to make him uncomfortable– the last thing he wants is his sex life exposed even more than it already has been. “So, Ryan, how’s your wedding planning been? I assume it’s stressful, especially when you had an album being produced at the same time.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely was stressful,” Ryan says. “At least Jon doesn’t want any fancy destination wedding. A small wedding in a pretty Washington forest is a little less complicated, but the album and this show on top of that… after tonight, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted now that it’s over with. I don’t want to even think about a tour. Honestly, we haven’t even started planning the honeymoon yet. We know we’re going to Europe, but nothing beyond that.”

Gabe nods. “Where are you considering in–”

But before he can finish the question, William slams his palms on the table and wails, “Z doesn’t want to get back with me!”

Pete laughs. “Are you surprised?”

“Pete, shut up,” Gabe hisses at him, although he’s secretly relieved. He scooches to the side to allow William room in the booth seat. “Sit. You’ll be alright, Bill. Want another drink?”

William shakes his head as he slides in and slings an arm around Gabe, leaning his head on his shoulder. “I don’t want another drink. I just want you.”

Gabe rubs William’s back. “It’s better off this way. You guys had an awful relationship.”

“I mean, I know, but what could one hook-up hurt?”

“Z doesn’t work like that,” Ryan says. “Trust me, I’ve been down that road, and it’s a waste of time. She moves on quickly.”

“But she led me on!” William moans. “She told me I look like shit and suckered me into spilling all my baggage to her for her to just recommend I look into residential treatment! I told her all my deepest, darkest secrets, and she tells me to recover!”

“What did you expect?” Pete asks.

“Sex, obviously!” William slams a palm against the table, and clumsily reaches for one of the empty glasses. “You know what, I need a fucking drink– oh, come on, there’s nothing in this one!”

“What do you want?” Ryan asks. “I’ll grab you something.”

“Hmmm.” William rests his chin on the rim of the empty glass and drums his fingers against the table. “A few shots of vodka. Preferably five.”

“I’m not getting you five shots of vodka,” Ryan states. “You’re already drunk.”

William holds up three fingers and says, “Two.”

“Okay, two. Anyone else want anything?”

Pete stands and squeezes past Gabe and William. “I could use another shot myself. Gabe?”

Gabe shakes his head. “I gotta drive.”

“I thought Patrick was driving.”

Gabe points across the room. “Go ask him yourself why he doesn’t want to drive.”

Pete naively shrugs, not understanding the implication. “Sure.”

As Ryan and Pete walk away to grab the shots, William leans toward Gabe again and says, “I’m never going to find a love like that again.”

“No, don’t say that,” Gabe says. “You’re going to find someone even better.”

“You know that’s not true.” William takes Gabe’s hand to play with his fingers, twisting the engagement ring. He glances up toward Gabe. “Love doesn’t exist for people like us. The ‘til death do us part’ is a load of bull when you're already dying.”

“Dying people get married all the time.”

“Not people who are trying to die.”

“You’re not going to die, Bill.” Gabe entwines his fingers with William’s, closing their hands together. “Z is just a blip in your long, sexy history of lovers. You’ll find another.”

William shakes his head. “No, she was the last. I’m going to spend the rest of my life miserable and wishing I hadn’t fucked up so bad. She could have been the one. She was the one.”

Gabe squeezes William’s hand. “No, she wasn’t. You deserve better.”

“Easy for you all to say. You’re getting married, even Ryan’s getting married… maybe I do deserve no one.” William frowns, staring down at Gabe’s ring. “I don’t want to die alone.”

Fear shoots through Gabe’s veins. “Bill, are you sure you’re doing alright? All this talk of death…”

“Don’t worry. Watching the numbers on the scales drop is my form of therapy. I’m not going to do anything anytime soon.” William smiles lightly. “Even if I’m fucking sad, I’m too excited for the weddings. I want to at least see someone else happy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” William pokes Gabe’s nose and giggles. “You’re going to have to deal with me for a long time. A looooong time.”

Pete and Ryan return to the table, placing down two shots of vodka and a few slices of lemon. “Patrick wouldn’t answer my question and said you’re acting like a jerk.”

“Sounds about right,” Gabe mumbles.

William picks up a shot, and hands the other to Gabe. “To love.”

“I really shouldn’t be drinking any more–”

“We’ve still got time.” William clinks his glass against Gabe’s. “Come on. To love. Or something.”

“To love,” Gabe says with a shrug. “Or something.”

William drunkenly laughs at that. They swallow back the shots and bite down on the lemons. The sourness doesn’t remove the burn; it only eases it.

Chapter Text

Despite their hangovers, Pete and Patrick have managed to make it to the recording studio almost on time. A few minutes late, maybe. Being famous, however, does not stop Butch Walker from chastising their tardiness.

“We only have so much time to get this album recorded before you fly out for Ross and Walker’s wedding,” Butch tells them. “And then there’s Pete’s wedding and month-long honeymoon– we cannot rush your comeback album! This is going to define the band!”

Pete shrugs too casually. “We’re aware, but if you saw some of the ideas I was coming up with for a Young Veins music video last night…”

“We’re only talking about Fall Out Boy today, no other bands.” Butch tosses a pair of headphones at Patrick, who fumbles to catch them. “Now take some painkillers and sing away that headache.”

Patrick nods, slinging the headphones around his neck so he can grab a bottle of painkillers and water. “What are we recording today?”

“Starting off with ‘The Phoenix.’ You got the energy for that?”

“Sure, I got this.” Patrick guzzles down a few extra gulps of water, then takes a sheet of lyrics from Joe. “Let’s go.”

Patrick steps into the recording booth and slides the headphones over his ears. Pete settles on the couch next to Joe and Andy.

“So, he’s drinking again?” Andy asks, hushed.

“Apparently so,” Pete says. “He was hiding it pretty well until he threw up at my apartment and it reeked of alcohol. I think it was the Jell-o shots that weakened his resolve. It was downhill from there.”

“Ouch,” Joe says. “Are you sure he’s doing okay, though?”

“Oh yeah, totally. Besides that, he’s been doing great. Making lots of progress. I mean, you can see the weight he’s put on, right?” Pete motions to the recording booth window. “This is just one slip-up. He’ll bounce back. The band will really be good for him, finally having something to do again.”

“I hope so.” Andy’s tone is wistful. “But it’s not going to be a smooth road.”

“True. But you should’ve seen Bill Beckett last night. He’s a fucking living skeleton. Patrick could be way worse.”

Joe shoots Pete a weird look. “I don’t know. You should look out for him. It’s easy to swap one addiction for another.”

“I’m already looking out for him, and so is Gabe. I don’t want to be too suffocating. He’s an adult, after all.”

“You should talk with him,” Butch suggests and tosses the three of them headphones. “I think Joe’s right. After all, you both showed up late. This might just be the first of many red flags as you get the band back together.”

“Late by a few minutes,” Pete insists. “I think he just made a few bad decisions, and if there’s more to it, then we’ll talk. Patrick’s serious about the band. Now, since you’re so concerned about time: let’s start recording.”

Despite his persistent headache, Patrick pours his heart and soul into singing ‘The Phoenix.’ The words flow, and he hits every note with ease. Throwing himself into a song immediately erases all memory of last night, eases the weight of the emotions he’s been bottling up and frees them to the air; he becomes the music itself, belting out lyric after lyric with fiery passion.

Hey, young blood, doesn't it feel

Like our time is running out?

I'm going to change you like a remix

Then I'll raise you like a phoenix

Wearing our vintage misery

No, I think it looked a little better on me

I'm going to change you like a remix

Then I'll raise you like a phoenix

By the end, Patrick truly has been raised from the ashes; he is the phoenix, reborn anew. This band is the wings he’ll once again use to soar up, up, up, and never come down.

“That’s a wrap!” Butch’s voice fills the recording booth, as the rest of the band claps and grins, eyes wide in awe. “At least for one song. Are you sure you’re hungover?”

Patrick smiles, and comes out of the booth for a sip of water. Pete immediately embraces Patrick, pulling him in for an eager hug. “Dude! You’re fucking incredible! The power you had in your voice– this is going to be one of our best songs on the album, for sure.”

Patrick chuckles, but on the inside, his heart warms at Pete’s attention and praise. “Thanks.”

“We’re off to a roaring start,” Butch remarks.

“Yeah! He’s, like, on fire!” Pete adds. “Exactly like a phoenix, you know? Patrick, you’re literally going to save rock and roll!”

Flustered, the warmth creeps into Patrick’s cheeks. “Oh, please.”

“No, really, I–” Pete’s phone starts ringing. “Oh, one sec.” His smile brightens reading the screen and he answers, “Hey, babe! You’re here? Great, I’ll run down and let you in…”

As Pete jogs into the hall, Patrick’s brows furl. “Why is Gabe here? Is he dropping off lunch or something?”

“Nah.” Joe shakes his head. “Didn’t Pete tell you? He decided he wants Gabe to have a feature on the album.”

“What?” Patrick’s headache comes crashing back with his fury. “He didn’t inform me of this. What song?”

“Er…” Butch flips through a pile of papers. “‘Miss Missing You.’”

“God, really?” Patrick groans, grabbing the bottle of aspirin again. “Kill me. Strike me dead now.”

Andy reaches for the bottle, apprehensive. “I don’t think you should take more aspirin right away–”

“Trust me; being in the same room as those lovebirds, I’m going to need it.” Patrick shakes out several tablets, and swallows them back.

“Aren’t you going to the wedding, though?” Joe asks. “You’ll have to learn to put up with it.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ll probably be taking painkillers that whole week too.”

The door swings open, and Pete enters with Gabe, who smiles and waves to the others. “Hey.”

“Oh, uh, hi.” Joe quickly recovers from his surprise at Patrick’s adverse reaction to smile back. “So… ‘Miss Missing You,’ huh?”

“Yeah, I’m pumped!” Gabe sips a Starbucks coffee. “I even got an extra shot of espresso today.”

“How about we take ten so Gabe can go over his part of the song, and get started?” Pete suggests. “Sound good?”

“Great.” Patrick doesn’t bother hiding his chagrin as he stands. “I’m going to use the bathroom quickly.”

The bathroom is only across the hall from the recording studio; while they wait for Patrick, everyone hears the thud of someone kicking the wall and a scream let loose. Nothing is said when Patrick comes back.

Ryan shoots up in bed early in the morning, the room still cloaked in darkness and Jon dreamily murmuring sweet nothings beside him. Reaching up for the solidness of his collarbones, Ryan sighs in relief. It was just a nightmare– he didn’t waddle up to the altar as a six-hundred pound monstrosity while Jon screamed and threw a chair at him.

Even so, he can’t get the image out of his head. It’s not even an anatomically correct image– from his dream’s detached and yet visceral bird’s eye view, he had most resembled the girl that blew up in Willy Wonka. Ryan gently rolls out of bed, careful not to disturb his fiance, and pads into the bathroom to make sure he is not a comically-oversized blueberry. Of course, he’s just the same as when he’d fallen asleep, pale-skinned and one-hundred-eighty pounds. Still, he drowsily rubs his collarbones, pulling off his shirt to inspect his figure.

“Where did my ribs go?” he wonders aloud with a frown. He turns, inspecting how his belly juts out, and pinches the fat. “I might as well be Santa Claus.”

He stares at himself a little longer in the mirror. He’s getting married in less than two months, looking like this?

Ryan shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought, and pulls his shirt back on. Jon’s been working hard to get better and overcome his fear of choking, blown out of proportion by his ARFID, and if Ryan decides to relapse into anorexia, all the work and tears would be for naught. Jon has kissed every inch of Ryan’s skin and told him he thinks he’s beautiful just the way he is, how overjoyed he is to soon be his husband.

But… the thought of a real relapse is tempting. Oh, Ryan’s certainly been trying to cut out snacks, eat more salads, and go for a jog every now and then, but progress is so torturously slow compared to the days when Ryan could go days without eating and feel his brain sizzle with the fasting high. With the second album, he hadn’t wanted to risk restricting too hard, but now with only the wedding to worry about… he does have plenty of energy to spare. Don’t you want to look good in the wedding photos? Don’t you want to look good for Jon?

The thoughts are too loud to go back to bed. Ryan creeps into the dark living room with his laptop and hunkers down on the couch, wrapped in a quilt. Resting it on his knees, he cracks open the laptop, flooding his eyes with bright blue light. He goes immediately to YouTube and searches ‘young veins show 2013’ , clicking the first result.

It’s the postmodernism song, and listening back, Ryan feels smug at first. The complexity of his lyrics remind him of all of Pete’s compliments. He’s still right– he truly is an underappreciated genius in his time.

But then he really focuses on his body. The wilted rose vest helps to disguise the thickness of his waist, but the jeans do nothing for his legs, wide and flabby from late nights of raiding the fridge for chocolate pudding and sliced deli meat and leftover Chinese and whatever else he could get his grubby hands on. There’s fat under his chin, and maybe that’s just the angle the video was taken from in the audience, but it’s still dangerously close to becoming a double-chin. Every time video-Ryan opens his mouth to sing, the fat is all that present-Ryan can focus on. The genius of his lyrics doesn’t matter if there’s no pretty face to back it up– who would even want to listen to a deteriorating wreck like him? He should color himself lucky there hasn’t been a public outcry for a refund after an imposter walked on stage rather than the skinny Ryan everyone adores and loves.

He scrolls into the comments, curious not if anyone else has noticed, but rather how many. Surprisingly, there are a lack of comments about his figure– most only pertain to the lyrics of his song. what the fuck is this even about? and ryan blink twice if you need help!!! seem to sum up the majority of commenters’ thoughts. Ryan should be glad nobody has noticed; the closest anyone gets to mentioning his looks is the wilted rose vest, and even they are unusually positive, considering the fact the internet is basically the Wild West.

However, Ryan craves that criticism, just one troll comment telling him he’s fat and ugly, to give him a springboard to increase the intensity of his restriction. He watches one more video, and then another, and then another, reading every single comment. What should be an easy task turns out to be more difficult than he thought; in creating what he considers to be lyrics filled with depth and layers, he’s accidentally created a shield for himself. Everyone wants to complain about how supposedly dreadful his lyrics are, not about Ryan’s body. Hell, at this point he would even take a bit of homophobia as a last resort, but nobody even seems to notice what he said about Jon being his fiance. Damn 2013 and his open-minded mostly-gay fanbase.

By the time he’s thoroughly searched YouTube for every single video of the show he can possibly find, the sun has risen, light trickling through the curtains, and his eyes burn from staring at a laptop screen. Jon taps Ryan on the shoulder and kisses his cheek when he turns his head.

“You’re up early,” Jon comments. “What are you watching?”

“Videos from the other night. I couldn’t fall back asleep.”

“Bad dream?”

“Mhm.”

“Sorry babe.” Jon pecks another kiss to the top of Ryan’s head. “What about?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Ah.” A pause. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yeah,” Ryan smoothly lies.

“Ah. I was thinking maybe we could go out to brunch. A little solo celebration for our hard work.”

Ryan chews his lip as Jon waits for his answer. On one hand, if he says no, he wouldn’t have to eat at all that morning… but on the other hand, a stack of warm buttery pancakes sounds absolutely delicious…

“Come on, you deserve it.” From behind the couch, Jon wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders and whispers into his ear, “Nobody else can write like you, babe. You worked so hard.”

“You always know how to get me.” Ryan groans. “Fine. Brunch.”

Jon smirks and pats his shoulder. “Throw on some real clothes and we’ll get going.”

Even as Ryan closes his laptop, the image of himself has been burned into his retinas. He dwells on it as he picks out a pair of jeans for the day– no, not jeans today, he’d be bursting at the seams. Instead, he throws on a pair of sweatpants; not perfect, but it helps.

You’ve got to get yourself together, he tells himself. Two months until the wedding and you’ve lost almost nothing.

Over a plate of blueberry pancakes, Ryan resolves to do better. Starting after brunch, of course.

Chapter Text

Part 2 - Ryan and Jon’s Wedding (Autumn 2013)

For the first time in a month, Jon opens the vegetable drawer. He’s greeted by a large plastic bag filled with a large clump of some kind of green plant. “What’s that?”

Ryan, sitting at the kitchen table, looks up from his laptop. “What?”

Jon points. “The green stuff.”

“Watercress.” Ryan returns to typing on his laptop. “I’ve been putting it in my soups.”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “Oh. Sounds gross.”

“It’s really nutritious,” Ryan says. “You should try it.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Jon shuts the vegetable drawer. “What’s with the sudden soup obsession? It’s all I’ve seen you eat lately.”

In preparation for the wedding, now only days away, Ryan has decided to try out the watercress soup diet. In theory, it’s very easy to follow; for every meal, all he eats is watercress soup, made with watercress, chicken stock, and a potato, with salt and pepper to taste. For a month, he’s been alternating between this and low restriction to keep himself sane; the watercress coats his tongue green like algae, and it’s easy to get sick of the taste when it’s all he eats. At first it was filling, the warmth satisfying, but now it only makes him crave something more hearty. A chunky beef stew with carrots and more than one tiny potato would really hit the spot– if only he didn’t have to worry about how he’d look in his wedding photos. The only thing that keeps him going is the weight loss– the pounds just keep dropping off.

“There’s nothing like warm soup,” Ryan says. “And it’s really low-effort.”

“Have you been eating anything else, though?”

Ryan bristles at the accusation, but keeps his eyes on his laptop– all day he’s been researching things to do in Amsterdam, one of the cities they’ve decided upon for their honeymoon, but with how his attention drifts out and in like a wave at sea, numb to the words on the screen, he’s barely accomplished anything past staring at the Rijksmuseum’s art collection for an hour. “Of course.”

That’s partially-true– of course he eats when he’s taking his periodic breaks from watercress soup, even if it’s not much, but he eats. And when he’s on the diet, just to keep up the pretense of eating enough when he’s sharing an apartment with his fiance, Ryan will take handfuls from a bag of chips or bag of marshmallows and store it in his pocket, tossing it into the neighbors’ trash every time he goes outside. When Jon wants to go out to eat, Ryan always suggests the Vietnamese restaurant down the street so he can order a bowl of vegetable pho–hold the tofu–and evade any possible suspicion.

Jon shrugs. “Anyways, we should probably try to get rid of whatever we’ve got in the fridge before we leave for the wedding. How do you feel about burgers for dinner? I think we’ve still got some slices of gouda– oh, never mind, that’s definitely moldy.” Cringing, he tosses the cheese into the trash. “So, burgers?”

Ryan taps the edge of his laptop, pondering the consequences of such a vital decision. A juicy burger between a cheap mushy bun sounds delicious… his greedy stomach pangs with hunger at the thought, demanding protein. But even with how much weight you’ve lost, you have to save all your calories for the wedding… you haven’t been working hard enough at all.

Eventually, Ryan shakes his head. “I’m more in the mood for soup.”

“I mean, you could have both a burger and soup,” Jon suggests.

Ryan frowns. “I’m in a soup mood, not a burger mood.”

“We can’t just let the meat go to waste, babe. We’re leaving in a few days, and when we get back, we’re not going to be at home long before we fly out to Europe…”

“I’m not stopping you from eating a burger. I just want soup.”

Jon huffs. “I just want you to eat something more than soup. It’s all you’ve been eating.”

“Fine. If it’s such a big deal to you, I’ll have a burger.” Ryan shuts his laptop, chair scraping against the floor as he stands up. “I’m going for a walk before dinner.”

“Is everything okay?”

Ryan pauses in the doorway; he inhales and exhales before turning back to Jon with a light smile. “Yeah. Sorry, I guess I’m a bit frazzled from looking up honeymoon stuff all day. I just need to clear my mind before I snap or something.”

Jon nods in understanding, but there’s still a hint of doubt in his eyes. “I get it. If you want, I can take over the planning so you can take a break. I’ll run everything by you, of course.”

“That would be nice, actually. Thanks.”

“Of course, babe. Look… we don’t have to eat the burgers tonight. We could just order takeout and chill with a movie, if you want.”

Takeout? The alarm bells ring in Ryan’s head. Danger, danger, danger! “Maybe some other night.” Ryan grabs a sneaker, shoving it on his foot. “Burgers are fine.”

Gabe has recently taken up the habit of locking himself in the bedroom and spending all day on real estate websites looking at all the houses for sale in L.A. Although he and Pete had just moved from NYC to California for the convenience it would provide each in their music careers and have barely been in the new apartment for a year, the lease would be up soon, and the last thing Gabe wants is to renew it. Another year in this place would be another year Patrick would be able to crash in the guest room as much as he wanted, as he currently is before they all fly out tomorrow for Ryan and Jon’s wedding, as well as any other time he can come up with a weak excuse, like working on music with Pete or needing “accountability” for a few days while going through a rough patch. It isn’t necessarily always bullshit, but Gabe hates each time anyway. In order to avoid Patrick, he either gets out of the house as much as possible or isolates himself in one room– today is the latter.

A new house would be a fresh new start, especially when starting his and Pete’s married life in a few short months. Gabe is sure he could make the argument to Pete that in this new phase of their lives, they would need new boundaries lest Patrick became the third wheel in the marriage.

In addition to their big, expensive wedding, owning a big, expensive house worth millions would be the pièce de résistance of Gabe and Pete’s relationship, an intimidating and physical reminder that the marriage would not only be set in stone, but that they now would have the space to eventually have a few children too. Patrick would have to give up on any of his little remaining hope after that, while Gabe would finally be secure and content, sipping mimosas by the pool in the warm California sun.

It’s certainly a far-flung dream, and stupid to hope Patrick could ever be one-hundred-percent out of his life (as nice as that would be) but Gabe supposes he could put up with the occasional sighting as long as Fall Out Boy’s new album and future endeavors pay for his dream home and dream marriage with dream children. He just doesn’t want Patrick in their space every waking second of the day, thank you very much.

Speaking of pools, Gabe finds a nice six bedroom home in Beverly Hills, with a pool, tennis court, newly-renovated kitchen, and not far from a dog park– Hemingway would love that. He copies the link and shoots it off to Pete in the email thread they’ve recently started of house listings. Babe, please note: it has a TENNIS COURT!!! he adds, just to make sure this one won’t escape Pete’s notice. He’s open to buying a house, although not quite as passionate about it as Gabe is.

Gabe only glances at a few more houses before his stomach growls. Combing through listings all day can work up more of an appetite than he initially thought– with a sigh, he pushes his laptop off his lap and climbs out of bed to head to the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten since this morning, and breakfast was only a banana and a square of dark chocolate… maybe a sandwich would be okay even if he’s pretty sure Pete will order pizza later. Gabe thinks he’s been doing pretty well this week anyway, since wanting to avoid Patrick is surprisingly a good deterrent from venturing into the kitchen.

On that note, maybe Gabe did have the right idea trying to stay out of the kitchen. As soon as he walks in, he spots Patrick bent over the trashcan, fingers in his mouth. They both freeze.

“Really?” Gabe’s face twists into disgust. “You couldn’t do it in the toilet?”

Patrick slowly removes his spit-soaked fingers from his mouth. “I was going to take out the trash afterward. And Pete’s out.”

“Well, I’m here,” Gabe says. “And maybe I don’t want to walk into the kitchen to see you purging. But thanks for making me lose my appetite, I guess.”

“Please don’t tell Pete. I don’t want to ruin going to Ryan and Jon’s w–”

Gabe laughs curtly. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t care. Keep digging your own grave if you want, it’s none of my business.”

As he retreats back to the master bedroom, Patrick’s sob bleeds through the walls, but Gabe doesn’t turn back to look– as he said, none of his business.

When Pete returns with a warm box of pizza, the gooey cheese shining with a thick layer of oil, Gabe only takes one slice to gnaw on and leaves the crust. Pete and Patrick bounce ideas off each other for promotional material as they eat, but nothing really sticks like the grease does at the back of Gabe’s throat.

Afterward, Pete excuses himself to their office-slash-studio room to work. Patrick says he’s driving to Target to buy more deodorant. As soon as the car leaves the driveway, Gabe goes to the door of the office-studio and knocks. He hears Pete’s headphones lightly clatter on the desk. “Yeah?”

Gabe pokes his head in. The room is dim except for the glow of the computer screen. “You’re going to ruin your eyes like this, babe.”

“You’re my fiance, not my mom.” Pete rolls his chair across the room to flick a lightswitch. “There. Anyways, what’s up?”

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah.” Pete motions to the second desk chair in the corner– that’s how much Patrick had been coming over, to the point they spent a few hundred more dollars on a second chair that had words like ‘ergonomic’ and ‘PU leather’ on the packaging.

Gabe settles into the cushy chair. “I wanted to talk to you about Patrick.”

“What about him?” Pete’s brows crease in concern. “Is he okay? Is he drinking again?”

“Oh, no, no. He’s fine. Fine, really.” Gabe rests his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist, absentmindedly swerving the chair slightly with his feet. “I just…”

“What?”

“I mean, I didn’t want to say anything before, but now that he seems to be doing better lately… maybe you could, like, limit how much he’s around here. I don’t really feel comfortable with him being around all the damn time.”

“Why wouldn’t you feel comfortable?”

“Uh, what happened at Ryan’s birthday party last year? Remember?”

“Right. Yeah, of course.” Pete nods sympathetically and takes Gabe’s hand. “I totally get where you’re coming from, babe. I do really get it. I know you felt violated, and you were. You totally were. But… we were all drunk, and we all did things we regret, and since there hasn’t been any repeats I think it’s safe to say that we can trust him again. Yeah?”

Gabe stares at Pete for a moment, silent. His hand has gone stiff inside his. “I think it’s all a little fast, that’s all.”

“You said you were okay with the band getting back together.”

“I didn’t realize that meant he’d be around this much.”

“He’s Patrick, of course he’s going to be.”

“Look, I thought I could get over it at first. I really did try to be open-minded about this. I want to give him a chance, and I did. But I don’t… I just can’t shake that icky feeling, that’s all.”

“But he hasn’t done anything, right?”

“No,” Gabe quietly admits, but his blood boils. He removes his hand from Pete’s so he won’t feel the heat. “He hasn’t.”

“Look, I’m not trying to excuse what he did. If he did something like that again, he’s out of here, the album would be called off, the whole shabang. But he hasn’t, he’s really trying and he regrets what he did.”

If he regretted it, he’d admit his big, fat crush on you, Gabe thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut, balling his hands into fists. His skin crawls, and even in their air-conditioned apartment, his clothes have suddenly become suffocating. I can’t trust him. I want to, but I can’t!

“There’s not much I can do. I doubt we can change our seats for the flight tomorrow at this point. But I’ll see what I can do after Ryan’s wedding– I’ll try to get Patrick out of here more, maybe we’ll go and work over at the Fuelled by Ramen office or something. I can’t promise to completely cut him out, though– I mean, we both know that’s impossible. You’ve just gotta keep giving him a chance for a little longer, okay?”

Gabe looks up from his lap and says, “I don’t want him at our wedding.”

Pete’s jaw drops. “Babe, what?”

“I don’t want him at our wedding,” Gabe states. He stands up, pushing away the chair to pace the tiny room. “I don’t want him to fly all the way to New Caledonia to watch me walk down the aisle for him to stand up and say he objects just to humiliate us–”

“What are you even talking about?” Pete demands. “He would not do that. That doesn’t even make sense. Why would he object?”

Gabe opens his mouth, but the words don’t leave his tongue.

“See?” Pete insists. “You don’t know. This is just… it’s just pre-wedding anxiety. I get it. It’s a big day and we’ve been planning it for a while, but it’s not fair to just put all that on Patrick, babe. You’re just stressed.”

“Stressed?” Gabe snaps. “I want to uninvite the guy who watched us fuck from our wedding, and you’re telling me it’s just anxiety? It’s not just your wedding, Pete, it’s fucking mine too!”

“Oh, but you’re fine with inviting the guy who sold out our engagement for the tabloids?”

“You know that’s not the same thing!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“No matter how you feel about it, Patrick is coming to our wedding. It’s too late to uninvite him, and it wouldn’t be a good look for the band if he wasn’t there. The last thing we need is rumors at a time like this. Just… just deal with it, alright? The guest list is huge, you won’t even notice he’s there– Gabe, Gabe, where are you going?”

Eyes burning, Gabe wrenches the door open and storms out, slamming it behind him.

Patrick over his own fiance. Great. Just GREAT!

Chapter Text

The drive in the rental car from the airport to where the wedding will take place is uneventful— and extremely quiet. Gabe sits in the front and stares out the window at the lush green forests of Washington, especially to avoid glancing in the rearview mirror where he would spot Patrick in the back. He and Pete haven’t talked much since last night, except for the necessities at the airport. You’ve got your ID, right? Do we have to pay for a checked bag? Is Patrick in the bathroom? Gabe, if you don’t fucking eat, I’m dragging your ass to Starbucks and ordering for you like a goddamn child.

Gabe wants to say he understands the tension, but that would be a lie. He doesn’t get why Pete is so stubborn about Patrick, clinging onto the long-gone hope that he’ll become normal again, the past ten years erased like they never existed. Is it that much to ask for him to be uninvited from their wedding? Gabe doesn’t think he’s being a total bridezilla yet. However, for the time being, it’ll all have to be smiles and cordiality as soon as they leave the car. They’ll never be safe from the camera, even in the forests of Washington.

Rain begins to drum against the windows, and Pete flicks on the windshield wipers. They squeak against the glass, clearing away the droplets. But as the minutes tick by, the dampness grows thick, obscuring the road ahead.

“Patrick, could you look at my phone and help with the GPS?” Pete hands his phone back. “I can’t tell where to turn. It’s getting foggy and there’s too many trees.”

“I’m right here,” Gabe says.

“Please.” Pete scoffs. “You’ve been ignoring me basically all day.”

Gabe rolls the window down. “I need some air.”

“It’s raining.”

Gabe ignores him, and sticks his head out of the window like a dog. The air is cool and wet. Rain patters onto his scalp and trickles down his nose. This only lasts a few moments before Pete groans and rolls up the window a few inches in warning. “Gabe, that’s dangerous. You could slam your head into a branch or something.”

Gabe pulls his head back into the car. “What, so Hemingway can do it, but I can’t?”

“Hemingway isn’t six feet tall.”

“Y’know, if I did that back in the van days, nobody would give a shit.”

“This isn’t the van days.”

“Oh, I know.” Gabe glances up at the rearview mirror. “I know that very well.”

“Look,” Pete says, hushed. “We’ll talk about this when we get to our room, alright?”

Gabe shoots him a glare, but doesn’t protest.

Patrick uneasily speaks up. “We missed the turn.”

“Oh shoot, they even gave us complimentary chocolate.” Pete says, picking up a ribbon-wrapped box from the desk. He holds it out toward Gabe as he lugs in a suitcase. “Peace offering?”

Gabe shakes his head. “The bachelor party is tonight, right?”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a chocolate now.”

“I’ll just… save the junk for later.” Gabe pulls the room door shut. Accommodations were included as part of the wedding package, so they’re staying right on site at the quaint resort. Although the room is small, the decorations evoke a sense of hominess, from the flannel blanket folded on the rustic wood-frame bed to the glass sliding doors that show the forest— apparently it’s not uncommon to wake up to a deer watching you sleep.

“So, uh… want to talk again?” Pete asks, perching at the end of the bed. “I’m sorry about the car. And for being snippy today.”

“I’m sorry for ignoring you.” Gabe walks over to the sliding doors, and pulls the curtains shut. Can’t be too careful. “I just… maybe I should have waited until we got home. I don’t want this to ruin Ryan and Jon’s wedding for us. Maybe we can just… pretend it didn’t happen for a few days, yeah?”

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t think we can pretend that didn’t happen. This is one of the worst fights we’ve had, babe.”

“It’s just a few days,” Gabe says, crossing his arms. “A few days to be happy. And then we can go home and figure it out.”

“ Pretending to be happy,” Pete corrects.

Gabe shrugs. “Fake it ‘til you make it. Always works.”

“I don’t want it to become worse than it already is. It’s not like… it’s not a ‘fake it until you make it’ kind of situation. You obviously care about this. A lot.”

“It can wait.”

“I don’t think—”

“It can wait.”

“Fine.” Pete tears the plastic off the chocolate box and pops a piece into his mouth. “If you say so.”

Ignoring the slight derision in his tone, Gabe hauls his suitcase onto a dresser to pick out an outfit he wouldn’t mind getting vomit on. Not that he plans on it, but just in case.

Ryan is knotting a red satin tie around his neck in the bathroom mirror when there comes a rap at the door. “It’s me,” he hears Jon call out. “Ready to go?”

“Almost,” Ryan calls out, tightening the tie and flattening the collar of his patterned black button-up over it. He walks to the door, opening it wide for his fiancé. “Wanna come in?”

“You sure about that?” Jon asks, looking him up and down. “I’m already having a hard enough time trying not to ravage you until the wedding night.”

“Oh, please.” Ryan giggles. “Get in here. And no take-backs. It’ll make it more romantic.”

Jon walks in. “What about one kiss?”

Ryan grins. “Fine. One."

Jon gently takes Ryan by the chin and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “One more.”

Ryan kisses him again. “There.”

“Okay, but what about just one more—”

“You’d be smarter to ask that when I’m drunk, sweetheart.” Ryan gently pushes Jon’s hand away and walks back into the bathroom. “How long do we have until the limo gets here?”

Jon checks his watch. “Twenty minutes or so.”

“Great.” Ryan plugs in a hair straightener. “We’re good on time, then.”

Jon wanders in the bathroom and picks up a folded washcloth, embroidered with Ryan + Jon, 2013 . “So they gave you custom towels too, huh?”

“And a robe.” Ryan points the hair straightener at the hook next to the closet. “Because everyone knows a few embroidered amenities ensure marital bliss.”

“It’s cute, though. I’ll enjoy looking back on our wedding day every time I dry my hair.”

“They left a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine, too. We could crack that open and do some pregaming.”

“I can get behind that. Let’s see how drunk we can get on one bottle in twenty minutes.”

Ryan grabs a piece of his hair and clamps the straightener down on it. “Probably not very drunk.”

“I’ve got an empty stomach that says otherwise.”

Unamused, Ryan is silent as he straightens another piece of hair. Even though they’d been traveling most of the day, he hadn’t even known Jon would probably skip a meal. And yet, Ryan had gorged himself on a bag of pita chips he’d bought at the airport. Seriously, Ryan? What a fucking failure fatass you are.

“Hey, I… I didn’t mean it like that,” Jon says. “I was planning on eating something at the club. I don’t wanna trigger you or anything—”

“You’re fine” Ryan says quietly. “I’m just concentrating on my hair. Don’t worry, I know what you mean.”

However, under Jon’s scrutiny, Ryan can’t really hide his true emotions. They know each other too well. But Jon doesn’t press; he nods and says, “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“Thanks.” Ryan smiles. “Now open up that bottle. I gotta loosen up a little.”

When William slides into the limo, he’s a little taken aback by the faces sitting across from him. “They invited you?” he demands.

Brendon and Spencer gape for a second at the brashness of William’s question. “Uh… yeah. That’s why we’re here.” Brendon forces a smile. “Nice to see you again, dude. It’s clearly… it’s clearly been a while.”

William knows Brendon is looking at his bony hands and washed-out skin. He’s quite used to the stares by now, and today has been no exception with all the familiar faces he’s run into today. “Well, nice to see you two here too. Ryan is such a saint for the fact he found it in his heart to make amends with you.”

“It’s been… what, six years? I’ve changed. At the end of the day, Ryan and Jon saw that and wanted us here. So take the stick out of your ass and relax a little.”

“Okay, dude, I think he’s got the point.” Spencer nudges Brendon and whispers, “I think he’s got cancer or something. Be nice.”

Brendon’s face washes over with regret, while William rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a terminal illness. You can say whatever you want.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should see a doctor or something—”

Thankfully, Gabe and Pete enter the limo. “Brendon!” Pete cheers. “Spence! Nice to see you guys again. How’s that new Panic album coming along?”

The trio hugs briefly while Gabe sits next to William, his head bumping the ceiling. “Ow.” Gabe rubs his head. “Limos are not for tall people.” When William doesn’t laugh, he leans over to whisper, “Don’t worry, they won’t be at my wedding. Or at least, as far as I know.”

“Do I sense something you gotta talk about?” William asks with a sly smile.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get to hear all about it after a few drinks.” Gabe pats William on the back and starts looking around. “Now, does this limo got any alcohol? I need to get wasted as soon as possible.”

“Great idea,” William mumbles as he sees Z crawl into the limo.

Chapter Text

Ryan and Jon get in the limo to a chorus of applause and cheers for the soon-to-be husbands, and they head on their way to the club a town away, reserved just for the bachelor party. They’ve already given the DJ a list of their favorite party songs, a mix of 80s and 2000s hits including instant crowd-pleasers like Whitney Houston and The Killers.

The good music combined with drinking helps to lighten everyone’s moods. They swallow back alcohol like a dying man in the desert gulps water, only taking breaks to dance or run to the bathroom for a quick pee. No purging yet, though— maybe it is shaping up to be a good night of letting go and forgetting after all. The DJ even plays a remix of ‘I Write Sins,’ and while it doesn’t even sound that great, it gets everyone out on the dance floor, too drunk to care. The animosity disappears into a sheen of sweat and neon lights. For a moment it is 2005 again. There are no wrinkles under the flashing lights. Nobody is sick, nobody is tangled up in commitment and love, and there is only a clean slate ahead, a gleaming and star-lit future of possibilities.

“You and Ryan were dancing close,” Gabe says with a giggle, as he and Pete drop onto a bench, exhausted.

“Not as close as that stripper did.” They both laugh. Pete clumsily puts a hand on Gabe’s collarbone, then his shoulder. “How about another shot? Yeah?”

“Okay, but only if you let me come with you to the bar.” Gabe wraps his arms around Pete’s waist. “I don’t trust you without me. You’re gonna, like… you’re totally gonna go dance up on him again if I’m not careful.”

Pete laughs as Gabe strokes his hair. “Okay, but I’ll escape. Like a hamster or something. My neighbor growing up had a hamster. Once he found it under the porch.”

“Can’t even fucking trust hamsters these days.”

“Mhm. Really can’t. What were we talking about again?”

“More shots.”

“Right! Yeah! Okay. Let’s get more shots.”

They stumble over to the bar and swallow back another shot. Watching the others on the dance floor, Pete says boldly, “Let’s play a game.”

“What kinda game?”

“I tell you a secret,” Pete says, “and then you tell me a secret. Something neither of us knows about each other.”

“That’s a shitty game.”

“Nah, it’s probably, like, a marriage trust exercise or something. I want you to trust me again, babe. I don’t want us to be like, hiding everything about how we feel. You won’t regret it.”

“Okay, okay. Fine.” Gabe taps the bar a few times and then leans in toward Pete. “My secret is that…” He giggles, unable to contain himself. “Okay, my secret is that I’ve lost five pounds this month.”

Pete’s eyes widen. “No way! Is that even fucking possible?”

“Sure, if you try hard enough. Are you mad?”

Pete shakes his head, barely able to hold back a snort. “No. Mine is bad. Really, really bad.”

“Tell me, then.” Gabe shakes Pete’s shoulder. “Come on, babe! I gotta know!”

“Okay, okay. So…” Pete leans toward Gabe and spills, “I kissed Ryan!”

Gabe shakes his head, his smile incredulous. “Babe, I know. Everyone knows that.”

“No, no, I’m not talking about then. It was, like… three years ago.”

Gabe’s smile fades. “What?”

“Yeah. Three years ago. We were working on music together and got a little distracted.” Pete pulls back. “What, are you mad or something?”

“What the fuck, Pete?” Gabe demands. “That’s not the kind of secret I wanted to hear! You kissed him? While we were dating seriously?”

“Nothing else!” Pete holds up his hands. “I promise! I just… I couldn’t resist! He has really kissable lips, Gabey. Haven’t you ever looked at his lips?”

“What, so I don’t have kissable lips?”

“No, I’m not saying that! You’re kissable! You’re really kissable, dude, I promise. But Ryan is like… he’s the forbidden fruit!”

“You’re an asshole!” Gabe jabs his finger at Pete’s chest. “Asshole!”

“I am not! If you think about it, it’s not really cheating because– no, wait, babe, come back!”

Patrick doesn’t know how he’s survived thus far on only sipping soda while everyone else around him is raucous and inebriated, alcohol always within line of sight. Since Pete caught him throwing up after the album release party, he’s been careful to keep his drinking private. It’s not a relapse as long as he keeps it behind locked doors, a scale for company and the bottle his sole confidant. His friendship with Pete and the new album stand on a fault line between the continents of his mental illnesses. As long as everything remains balanced, it’ll be smooth-sailing on his voyage to all he has ever wanted. He must keep reminding himself of his goal; even if it isn’t on the horizon yet, he’s on his way. 

But dear lord, if that purple-tinted cocktail in Brendon’s hand isn’t tempting him…

Even conversation is barely an ample distraction– that is, if he can even hold a conversation. Everyone is drunk and giggly and slurring their speech. Everyone except for him.

“What do you think of Ryan and Jon’s new album?” he tries asking Brendon, in an attempt to catch up.

“That shit?” Brendon shrugs. “I listened… I listened to, like, one . I don’t know what it was about. Who the fuck writes a song about art? Nobody cares about it. Art. Do you, you the people want?”

“Uh… what?”

“Sex!” Brendon slams his hand on the wall, his drink sloshing in the glass. “Drugs! Money! That kind of shit! That’s totally what I would– no, what I will doing in my next-est album– sex and drugs and money and sex. It’s the formula, man. The algor… algaerism… algorithmic, yeah. That’s what, like, the people want. Maybe if you did that in your own music too…”

Patrick has never been so relieved for Pete to burst out of nowhere and throw his arms around him, bawling.

“Oh. Um…” Patrick glances between Brendon and Pete. “Excuse us.”

Brendon is easily shooed away, rushing away to the stripper he’s already had his wandering eyes on.

“Pete, what’s wrong?” Patrick gently asks. He’s sure that it’s going to be something absolutely ridiculous considering his state, but if his plan is going to go anywhere, he has to at least seem like he cares. It’s probably easier to penetrate the psyche of Pete when he’s drunk, anyway.

Pete sniffles and sobs, “Gabe hates me!”

“Let’s sit down. He does not hate you, Pete. You’re literally engaged.”

“He hates me and it’s all my fault. I told him I kissed Ryan.”

“What? Everyone knows that.”

“No, no.” Pete shakes his head. “A few years ago. And now he’s pissed.”

“Just tell him you were drunk.”

Pete shakes his head again.

“You… weren’t drunk?” Patrick asks, making a mental note just how easy it apparently is to wear down Pete’s inhibitions.

“It’s complicated,” Pete says. “Well, not really complicated. Ryan is so kissable. But obviously I wouldn’t do that now– he’s getting married, I’m getting married. It’s just… it was different. It’s like… it’s like how everyone was gay for each other in ancient civilization because they thought intelligence was super sexy and it was, like, a bro thing. That’s what me and Ryan are. Or were. Sexy bros. David and Jonathan, Marx and Engels kind of shit.”

“I don’t think Gabe would find that explanation reassuring.”

“I mean, I obviously love Gabe. I just love Ryan’s brain too. I would kiss his brain, but I can't. So I had to kiss his lips, right?

“Again, I don’t think your fiance would appreciate that sentiment either.”

“I obviously wouldn’t do it now that Ryan’s getting married. But it was just a kiss. I don’t know why he’s mad.”

“Look, Pete, I’m sorry, but he’s drunk and of course he’s going to overreact. Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to tell him right now.”

“But we were exchanging secrets. I don’t know what else I have to hide from him besides that, really– he told me he lost five pounds in a month, what else do I have on that level?”

The breath is stolen from Patrick’s lungs. “Wait, wait, he lost five pounds?” he demands. “In a month? Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” Pete nods. “Sucks, but we’ll talk about it later, I guess. He wants to talk about everything later. Don’t even get me started.”

Envy bubbling up to surface, Patrick swiftly maneuvers tactics. “He was clearly just overreacting because he’s not thinking right. I mean, starving yourself makes you have mood swings and he’s probably not getting enough nutrients to his brain– anyone would know that you wouldn’t do something like kissing Ryan now. In fact, I think it’s very honest of you to tell him about it instead of hiding it. He’s just insecure and looking for reasons to amplify it. There’s no way he’s thinking right at all.”

“You always know what to say, ‘Trick.” Pete pats his shoulder. “Thanks. He’s overreacting. He totally is. He’s drunk and not eating enough… it makes sense. Thanks.”

“Of course. Don’t let Gabe get you down. Just because he’s wallowing in misery doesn’t mean you need to, too. Go dance and enjoy yourself— Ryan’s only going to have one bachelor party. Well, at least that I hope.”

“Come dance with me.” Pete shoots up from the seat and grabs Patrick by the wrist. “We’re gonna have fun together until Gabe stops sulking. It’s a bachelor party, let’s act like it.”

Although Patrick knows Pete won’t act like a bachelor with him quite yet, he gladly lets Pete drag him to the dancefloor. And yes, Pete steps on his foot quite a lot while dancing to the Spice Girls, and Patrick is pretty sure his toenail will fall off in the morning– but even if Pete doesn’t remember next morning, maybe there are some synapses firing, possibly the foundations of something Patrick has only ever dreamed of.

Ryan can’t help but keep track of the calories he drinks– it’s not an exact science, especially as his mind becomes more murky and muddled, but he can take a fair guess that the alcohol is probably about half of his intake today. Which is a lot, unfortunately. He tries to distract himself with dancing and rationalizes that maybe he did a lot of walking at the airport today, and it’s his bachelor party and he’s supposed to enjoy it. One night of drinking won’t ruin his figure for the wedding day… right?

At least dancing burns some of it off. Ryan’s sweating and his muscles are sore and his heart is pounding, so that’s a good sign. Just relax, Ryan. Relax. Worry about the calories when you get home.

He’s just starting to get the hang of it when he spots Brendon coming toward him and Jon. The awareness of his own body comes crashing back to the forefront of his mind– he’s going to think I’m fat, why did I ever think it was a good idea to extend an olive branch and invite him…

Ryan tugs Jon by the arm and subtly jerks his head toward Brendon coming toward them. Reading Ryan’s stiff smile, Jon takes his hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Hey!” Brendon shouts over the music, at first moving to hug them, but stops when he realizes he’s still got a drink in hand. “Can we talk? I just want to… heart-to-heart, you know. Since we only like, said ‘hi’ to each other so far. Cool?”

Ryan and Jon exchange a glance, and Jon says, “We’re all drunk, man. Tomorrow.”

Brendon waves that off. “Pfff. Come on!”

Ryan and Jon look at each other once more and shrug. So far, drunk Brendon seems pretty harmless, so they may as well. They push through the crowd and follow Brendon to the hallway that leads to the bathrooms, where the music still thrums but they can actually hear each other without having to raise their voices. Brendon takes a swig of his cocktail.

“Right, okay, so.” Brendon reaches out his arm, which lands on Jon’s shoulder. “I just want to like, say to both of you guys, that’s it’s really cool you invited me and Spence. Like, so cool. I’m really happy to be here and for you guys, and that this band stuff isn’t messing us up anymore.”

“Thanks, man,” Ryan says. “I’m… uh, I’m really glad. If it wasn’t for the band, Jon and I wouldn’t have ever met, so we thought it would be worth it to give you another chance. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too.” Brendon takes another sip of his cocktail and moves his hand on Ryan’s shoulder, which he clumsily pats a few times. “Like, so glad.”

“Um, thanks.”

“No, really. I am like… you don’t know how sorry I feel for all the shit I used to say to you back in the day. And if that’s what drove you out of Panic, I’m so sorry. I regret it. Tons.”

“I mean, it wasn’t all that,” Ryan states, although it was certainly the largest contributing factor. “You just wanted a different sound and we didn’t. I mean, it’s worked out pretty well for all of us.”

“Hell yeah it has!” Brendon cheers. “Your weird fucking song is on the charts! That’s something!”

“We’re only at eighty-seven or something,” says Jon. “Not nearly as successful as your last album.”

“It’s only popular because of Panic. Under my own name, it wouldn’t have been jack shit.”

“Wouldn’t have been much without my lyrics, either,” Ryan mumbles.

“Hey, I only used your lyrics on Vices,” Brendon claims. “On the newest, I only stole from my touring bassist.”

“I don’t think that’s anything to be proud of…”

“Whatever.” Brendon waves his drink around and takes another sip. “The point is I’m really sorry. You’re not really that fat. I just always wanted to annoy you, you know? Like, get you off your high horse and take the ass out of your stick. No, wait–” He snorts and unbearably giggles. “The stick out of your ass, that’s it.”

Ryan bites the inside of his cheek. “Not that fat? What do you mean by that?”

“That you’re not fat. Gosh, relax. That’s what I mean– like, relax, dude.”

“It doesn’t seem to me like you regret shit,” Jon snaps. “You know full well Ryan spent months in and out of hospitals, and far longer trying to recover. He’s worked hard, while you steal–”

“Babe, it’s fine, don’t worry,” Ryan interjects. “He’s drunk, we’re all drunk. Really, it’s fine.”

“Fine? It’s his fucking fault you attempted–”

“It’s no one’s fault but mine, okay? Just leave it.” Ryan leans toward Jon’s ear and whispers, “The wedding is in two days. I don’t want to start anything– I think he’s trying.”

“You know what we all need?” Brendon suggests. “More drinks! Come on!”

Although Jon glowers, he follows the two to the bar. It’s their bachelor party, and Brendon won’t ruin their night.

“You know, I love that dress,” William says, pointing at Z’s cocktail dress covered in blue sequins. “The lights reflect off it really cool when you’re on the dancefloor. Like, I can’t help staring at it. It’s distracting. But in a good way.”

“Uh… thanks,” Z says. Right as the bartender slides her drink onto the bar, she snatches it up. “Well, I’m gonna go touch up my lipstick in the bathroom. See ‘ya.”

“But you just got that.” William points to the drink. “I’ll watch it for you, actually! I don’t have anything to slip in it except for diet pills… hah. That was a joke. You know I’m totally kidding, right?”

Z’s cringing is thinly veiled. “I’m good, actually.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” William pleads. “Like, I just wanna talk. I just want to know what I did wrong.”

Z huffs, but patiently sits down at the stool next to him. “Bill, you know I will always be your friend. But this is a little… pathetic.”

William’s smile drops. “Oh.”

“You basically have your pick of nearly anyone here. Don’t be so hung-up over an old flame. It’s not happening. And please stop drunk-texting me every Friday night, okay? We’re both moving on to bigger, better things.”

“What if I recovered? Would you fuck me then?”

Z exhales a long breath. “No, Bill, I honestly wouldn’t.”

He frowns. “I guess that’s fair, yeah.”

“I wish you the best of luck, really. I want you to be happy. Please, go out there and flirt with anyone but me, okay?” She stands, offering a brief smile before turning around and walking off.

William drums his fingers against the bar and murmurs to himself as he looks across the crowd. “Anyone but Z… anyone but Z…”

His gaze lands on a familiar face, and suddenly, the desperation dissipates. Oh, of course. You. Why didn’t I think of this before?

It’s nearly four A.M. when he returns to the room. Gabe stumbles in and collapses on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Pete, having gotten back half an hour earlier, comes out of the bathroom rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

“Hey, you alright?” Pete asks, starting to sober up after his cold shower. “You kinda disappeared after we got back.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Gabe scrubs a hand across his lips. “I had to throw up after that bumpy fucking limo ride. So I ran into the woods. And I sat there for a few minutes.”

“You could have texted. I’d have helped you back.”

“S’fine, really.” Gabe rolls over to look up at Pete. “Didn’t want to trouble you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Pete sits down beside him and strokes Gabe’s hair. “You have every right to be mad at me. I can’t make an excuse. There isn’t one. I was stupid. So, so stupid.”

“It’s okay.” Gabe sits up with a stupid grin on his face, barely able to contain a giggle. His breath stinks of vomit. “You know, we’re even now.”

Pete’s brows furrow. “Huh?”

Gabe leans forward and whispers, “I kissed William.”

“I… you what?”

Just as Gabe opens his mouth, he slaps his own hand over it and bolts up, jogging to the bathroom. Retching ensues, echoing off the bathroom walls as he throws up again.

Pete runs to the bathroom. Despite his racing thoughts, he kneels next to Gabe, rubbing his back, whispering “it’s okay, you’re okay,” as his fiance shakes and empties his stomach.

Yet, those words are empty. Pete can’t ask him why exactly he did it as he wipes vomit off of Gabe’s mouth. He can’t ask how far it went as he helps him into the shower. Rubbing the complimentary shampoo into Gabe’s hair, Pete’s stomach is heavy as he contemplates, Is this cheating? Did he want to cheat on me?

But there’s still that inking of a doubt he clings onto; it’s only fair. Pete kissed Ryan a few years ago, of course Gabe was perfectly justified in kissing William. And he was drunk, he’s starving, his judgment is impaired. He didn’t really mean anything by it. Isn’t it even now? Isn’t it one less problem?

Whatever the answer may be, Pete can wait for the morning. It’s no big deal, really. Really. It really is fine.

Chapter Text

“Last night? No, I don’t remember shit.” Gabe pulls a graphic tee over his head and turns toward Pete. “Oh god. You’re totally giving me that look. What did I do while drunk?”

“Whaaat? No, you didn't do anything.” Pete turns back to his suitcase and sifts through his clothes. “I was just curious if you remembered anything. You got super drunk.”

“I can tell you’re full of shit.” Gabe sighs, crossing his arms. “Babe, if I almost got arrested for urinating in public again, I would really like to know.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Nothing happened.”

“Babe.”

“Babe, I swear.”

“Pete,” Gabe warns.  

Pete spins around. “Okay, nothing happened. Maybe some not-so-great things were said, but that’s it. We were both drunk. Do you really not remember anything? Really?”

“Barely anything. After the first drink or two, it’s just blank. What did I say?”

“It’s really not that important. Forget it.”

Gabe storms across the room and grabs Pete by the shoulders, eyes shooting daggers. “Tell. Me.”

Pete’s stare pierces back. “Fine.” He opens his mouth, falters, and then says, “You told me you’ve lost five pounds in a month. Happy?”

Gabe goes pale. He lowers his hands from Pete’s shoulders. “Oh.”

“Don’t get me wrong, of course I care and it’s concerning, but you said you just want to get through the wedding and address the other issue after, so I assumed you wouldn’t want to talk about it right now…”

“I don’t know why you would listen to something like that when I was drunk,” Gabe scoffs. “It’s physically impossible to do that. I must have… wanted, like, attention or something.”

“No, you don’t lie about that kind of stuff. Not even when you’re drunk.”

“Well, I did.” Gabe shrugs. “Can we go to breakfast now?”

“So we’re not going to talk about it?”

“Oh, like how we talk about everything else?” In the moment of silence that ensues, Gabe observes Pete’s expression fall. “Yeah, I thought so. I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

Due to the expected mass number of hangovers, breakfast is more of an early-afternoon affair. A buffet is set up in the resort’s dining room, stocked with everything including fresh cut fruit, bacon glistening with grease, flaky pastries, and even a separate station for pillowy pancakes and a waffle-maker with a variety of toppings.

Although the breakfast menu had already been vetted by the couple, Ryan stands there with his plate and stares down all the options, the aromas all tangled together in one mass of desire. There is only so much you can pile on your plate before the anxiety eats you for breakfast instead, and he must choose carefully. One meal turns into incessant strategizing, constant calculations, a nutritional neurosis.

He takes a step toward the buffet. Surveying his options once more, he nearly reaches for the tongs to pick up a few little breakfast sausages but drops his hand. Imagine, how much fat does it contain? Instead he takes a heaping of scrambled eggs for protein, and yet the generous portion looks miniscule on his huge plate. The eggs are joined by a smattering of fresh fruit and one piece of whole-grain toast, adorned with a thin pat of butter. Ignore the basket of blueberry muffins. Ignore the stack of croissants, and the platter of sliced cheese, and the crispy scent of freshly-fried home fries. Even if this is all for you, don’t forget your wedding is tomorrow, and don’t forget you want to look skinny.

Ryan sits across from Jon at an otherwise empty table; with everyone hungover and probably swallowing back some aspirin, it’s no surprise they’re one of the first to arrive at breakfast. Ryan leans over to press a kiss to Jon’s cheek. “Morning, babe.”

“Morning.” Jon smiles and sips his orange juice. “How’d you sleep?”

Ryan shrugs. “Not bad. You?”

“Would have been better with you next to me.”

Ryan gently punches Jon’s shoulder at his cheesy remark. “I can’t stand you. It’s only one more night.”

“Well, you can’t say you don’t miss me either.”

“Oh, I did miss you,” Ryan admits, smirking. “I couldn’t stop imagining our wedding night.”

Jon nearly spits out his juice but manages to swallow it back. He raises a brow. “Oh, you were?”

Looking around, Ryan leans over the table and whispers, “I was thinking–”

“GOOD FUCKING MORNING!” Brendon Urie screams, waltzing into the dining room. Startled, Ryan jumps back and falls off his chair. Jon’s spoon drops into his cereal and splashes milk onto the table. “Shit, did I scare you guys? Sorry.”

“How the fuck aren’t you hungover?” Ryan demands, scrambling to his feet. “You were, like, piss-drunk last night.”

“You tried to pee in the limo on the way back,” Jon adds. “And then you started slurring some random shit from the Book of Mormon.”

Brendon snorts. “Man, really? I can’t believe I did that. I mean, I swear I’m hungover, but you gotta fake it until you make it! I’m not gonna waste the day complaining about my pounding migraine when I could be gorging on this fucking breakfast! That seat taken?”

Ryan exchanges a look with Jon and ekes, “No?”

“Great!” Brendon grabs a plate and piles as much as he can possibly cram onto one plate– a blueberry muffin, breakfast sausages, raspberry danish, home fries, and a handful of bacon. He sets his plate down at the table, then dashes to grab both a coffee and a glass of chocolate milk, and finally sits down. Ryan stares at the breakfast abomination in front of him, beginning to think maybe buffets are overrated anyway. “This all looks delicious. You guys really picked a great place for your wedding. I mean, what’s not to love?” Brendon motions to the windows. “You can stare at these gorgeous forests and gain five pounds, all in one place! That was a joke, of course. You guys can take a joke, right?”

Ryan takes a bite of fruit to avoid answering that. “This mango is super juicy.”

“That’s all you guys got?” Brendon asks, narrowing his eyes at Ryan’s and Jon’s plates. “Jon, you could eat cereal and orange juice literally any morning. Same with you, Ryan– why have a balanced breakfast when you’re footing the bill, huh?”

“I mean, we’re going to Seattle later,” Ryan says. “I’m saving my appetite.”

“Saving your appetite for what? The overrated tiny-ass first Starbucks? Just pig out, dude. No one is going to care.”

Fortunately, Gabe and Pete walk into the dining room just that moment. Ryan waves them over a little too excitedly. “Hey, Pete! Weren’t you just telling me that thing you wanted to talk about with Brendon?”

Miraculously, Pete immediately registers Ryan’s plea for help. “Oh, yes! That thing! Brendon, let’s eat breakfast together. I’ve got to talk to you about… about this Fall Out Boy music video I want you to star in. The single is going to be huge, very huge, and you’re, like, the perfect face for it! Maybe we can even throw you in on the backing track.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Brendon downs his coffee in a few gulps before grabbing his plate and chocolate milk. “Sorry to ditch you guys, but this sounds fucking awesome.”

“No worries,” Jon says through gritted teeth. “No worries at all.”

As soon as Brendon’s back is turned, Pete gives Ryan a thumbs-up. Gabe, who has been watching with an air of disinterest, scoops fruit onto his plate and sighs.

As more people filter into breakfast, the air of discontent fades. Everyone laughs about last night’s shenanigans and verbally competes for the title of Most Hungover. After finishing their own food, Jon and Ryan make the rounds to various tables, taking the time to catch up with guests they otherwise haven’t talked to sober, all the while Pete keeps Brendon busy with empty promises of grandeur– business as usual. Jon’s family, having flown in that morning, arrive just in time to grab the last of the muffins and show Ryan old chubby-cheeked baby pictures of his fiance. Despite the lingering aftereffects of the bachelor party, it turns out to be quite a pleasant morning.

Pete manages to keep Brendon occupied as the resort staff begin to clear away the buffet. “Yeah, I mean, nothing is really set in stone yet, but I’m sure Patrick would have no problem with the whole body-switching plotline I think we should add. I mean, it’s all up to him and not me really, but like, I think it’ll work in our whole Youngblood Chronicles thing. But he’s planned this all out very meticulously, so really, who knows? Again, I cannot promise anything, but he’ll love it!”

“Oh, I’m sure Patrick will love it,” Brendon assures him. “I think what he’ll have a problem with is that I personally think it should be about drugs instead. More Breaking Bad, y’know? The whole thing about a music terrorist group or whatever is so contrived and overdone.”

Pete’s fingers twitch. “Contrived?”

“Well I mean, don’t tell him I said that, but maybe just add in a scene of me doing coke. I’ll bring my own–”

“Hey, Pete,” Gabe interrupts, approaching the table. “Sorry to butt in, but have either of you seen William this morning? He hasn’t shown up to breakfast and he’s not answering me or Patrick’s calls.”

“Really?” Pete asks, looking around the dining room. “You sure he didn’t end up fucking Z or something?”

“No, I saw Z putting croissants in her purse.”

“Huh.” Pete leans back in his chair for a moment. His eyes drift to Gabe’s, and in that gaze is a sudden, electrifying exchange of vague terror. Pete bolts up. “Sorry, Brendon. Gonna have to continue this conversation another time.”

“Oh, sure! I’ll call you after the wedding.”

“Please don’t,” Pete mutters under his breath as he walks away, Gabe by his side. “Where’s Z?”

Gabe spins around and points to the corner of the room, where she’s tapping away on her IPhone. “There.”

The two dash over to her. Pete screams, “Z!” 

Z startles, dropping her phone. She clutches her purse, exclaiming, “Don’t take my croissants! I thought the buffet was free! It’s been so long since I’ve had a good croissant–”

“No, keep your croissants, that’s not what this is about! Have you seen Bill? Has he texted you at all?”

“Uh… no.” Z picks up her phone and glances at the screen. “He’s actually leaving me alone for once, shockingly. Maybe I finally got through to him last night, as crazy as that may be.”

“Nobody’s seen him at breakfast,” Gabe states. “And I can’t get through to him– do you know his room number?”

Z’s eyes widen with fear. “Shit. Yeah, I know it. Second floor, let’s go!”

The three all race out of the dining room and up the staircase, following Z down the hall and to William’s room, number 211. Gabe knocks on the door. “Bill? You up?”

No response. Gabe knocks harder. “Bill! Bill, we really gotta talk!”

Still, silence.

Pete pushes Gabe aside and pounds on the door. “BILL!” He grasps at the doorknob, shaking it back and forth in futility. “BILL, OPEN THE DOOR NOW!” His fist slams against the door, again and again. 

“Maybe he left,” Z murmurs in a small voice. “Maybe he left, and told nobody…”

“But why would he do that?” Gabe asks. “He was– is fucking excited for the wedding!”

“I don’t know! But it’s the only explanation–”

Pete’s shaking of the door becomes violent, rattling on its hinges as he roars “ OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!” for the entire hotel to hear. He turns to Gabe. “Did he seem weird last night at all? You know, when you two were…”

“What?” Gabe asks. “When we were what?”

Pete shakes his head and takes a step back. “I’m going to break down the door. Step back!”

“We could just ask the staff for a key–”

“Step back!”

“Pete, you don’t need to–”

The door creaks open. William yawns, wearing only a robe and hair disheveled, and glares at Pete. “Why the fuck were you screaming about kicking down my door? You’d think a drug bust was going on or something.”

Pete falters, lowering his knee. “Uh…”

“Bill!” Gabe surges forward, throwing his arms around him. “Dude, what the hell were you doing? You scared us. You weren’t replying to my texts…”

“Oh, calm down,” William groans, but he pats Gabe on the back. “I just woke up and texted you back. You didn’t see?”

Gabe pulls back and takes out his phone. “Oh. Two minutes ago. I didn’t see. It’s just… you missed breakfast, and I was worried.”

“Wait, I missed breakfast?” William groans. “The one time I’m actually hungry. Great.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day.” Z opens up her purse and hands him a croissant. “I’ve got more, if you want.”

“No, one will do.” William holds up the croissant for closer inspection. “Oh my, it’s so flaky. I’m going to savor this one for sure. Thanks.”

“Anyways, if you’re feeling up to it, it seems like everyone will be going to Seattle soon,” Gabe says, eyes roaming over William’s robe. “So you might want to get dressed in more than… that.”

“Why?” William’s moodiness dissipating, he leans against the doorframe and poses sultrily, sticking a thigh out of his robe. “Liking what you see a little too much?” He giggles. “Don’t worry, I’m doing fine, really. I’ll chow this croissant down and throw something on, I’ll be ready in twenty.”

While Gabe and Z barely hold back a chuckle, Pete is wholly unamused. “You do that. Gabe, I need to get my wallet. Let’s go.”

“Okay.” Gabe nods. “Bill, I am again so sorry for the disruption. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“Believe me, I will. Don’t worry– I might have slept through the whole afternoon if not for the wake-up call.”

“Gabe,” Pete says, taking a step back. “Let’s go.”

“Jeez, there’s no hurry, babe,” Gabe remarks. “See ‘ya in a bit.”

William smiles and blows a kiss to all three before shutting the door. Pete rolls his eyes.

“I can’t believe you were so worried,” Pete hisses under his breath as they walk away. “I was about to kick down the door! He texted you and I was going to cause property damage!”

“He had every reason to be concerned,” Z fires back before Gabe even opens his mouth. “Bill is at the lowest weight he’s ever been– his life is worth more than a fucking door.”

“Yeah, why are you so pissy?” Gabe demands. “Something really could have happened!”

“You’re too worried. He’s an adult and he can take care of himself.”

“Really?” Gabe spins toward Pete. “Then why did I need to be hospitalized at the peak of my eating disorder? Why do you pay for Patrick’s treatment and watch him so dutifully– can’t he just take care of himself?”

“You know it’s not fair to bring Patrick into this!”

“Oh, really? But you can’t tell me you didn’t feel anything while you were pounding on the door– that spark of fear in your heart that Bill could have been dead and you’d have no fucking idea. You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Gabe takes a step back. “Go get your wallet by yourself. I’ll be waiting in the lobby with everyone else.”

As Gabe marches away, Z follows. Pete watches as she hands Gabe a compensatory croissant before they round a corner and disappear. Pete clenches his fists– yes, maybe there was a spark of terror in his heart when he was about to kick down the door, but when William posed like that and blew kisses… oh, how his heart had burned with fury, imagining that man’s lips drunkenly slobbering all over his own fiance. The fucking nerve he had. The fucking nerve. He had probably ignored his phone on purpose, just to see how Gabe would react…

It is at that moment Pete knows that if there is a hell, he’s convinced it has a special place reserved for William Beckett.

Chapter Text

William arrives in the lobby sipping a zero sugar energy drink. “Sorry for the wait. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“How much caffeine is in that thing?” Gabe asks.

William examines the label and taps the can. “Two-hundred milligrams. Why?”

“You know we’re stopping at the Pike Place Starbucks first, right? You might wanna wait on the caffeine if you’re getting coffee.”

“I don’t think I could have even gotten out of bed without an energy drink. I brought a six-pack of these in my suitcase– that’s how much I need them. Don’t worry about it. A little extra caffeine never hurt anyone.”

“I think it has hurt quite a few people, but your tolerance is through the roof now.” They walk outside to the sparse parking lot; most of the others have already left for Seattle. “Who are you driving with?”

“Jon offered me a ride with him and Ryan. There’s room if you want to come with.”

“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” Gabe sighs, looking across the parking lot to where his and Pete’s rental car sits. “I should go with Pete. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to ignore him again.”

“Why? What happened?”

“This morning he said when I was drunk last night, I told him I lost five pounds.”

William tips his head inquisitively. “That’s it?”

“Oh, well he’s also pissed I got him freaked out over nothing when you woke up late.”

“Nothing else?” William implores, a brow raised.

“I know! It’s the stupidest shit for him to get mad about. I just hope he gets over it by tomorrow.”

William hesitates for a moment and nods. “Yeah. Totally stupid.” He sips his energy drink. “Um, good luck. You’ll really need it.”

“Gabe!” Pete yells, head stretched out of the window of their rental car. “Can you just get in already?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking coming!” Gabe calls back, and turns to William. “Well, see you in Seattle.”

William pats him on the shoulder, hand lingering on Gabe’s sweater for a moment. He softly smiles. “See ‘ya.”

Unsurprisingly, the line for the Pike Place Starbucks is long, stretching down the block in front of several stores. Pete, whose mood had not lightened throughout the eerily quiet drive, scowls and crosses his arms. “I don’t even know why we’re here. We should just go get coffee at literally any other Starbucks.”

“I thought you were excited about it,” Gabe says. “Of course there’s a long line. It’s touristy, but that’s the fun of it.”

“Well, I didn’t realize it’d be this long. It’s probably going to take us thirty minutes to even fucking order.”

“Be quiet.” Gabe glances at the front of their group, and says hushed, “Ryan and Jon suggested it, and it’s their week.”

Pete groans and sticks his hands in his pockets, then hisses, “If we’re waiting in a line for this long, you better fucking order a real drink. No more anorexia bullshit.”

Gabe bristles, offended. “Coffee is a real drink. And I ate breakfast, may I remind you–”

“Five pounds, Gabe. Five. A latte or something won’t kill you.”

“I’m getting a normal coffee. I’m saving room for dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are. You always want to save room for dinner– God, don’t roll your eyes. You know I’m right.”

“So everytime Patrick skips breakfast he gets coddled, but I lose weight and you demand I act normal again? I see how it is.”

Patrick clears his throat from behind the couple. “Uh, that’s not exactly how it goes.”

“How about you lose five pounds and we’ll compare?” Gabe snaps.

Pete’s mouth hangs open. “Gabe, Jesus fucking Christ!”

“It’s fine,” Patrick pitifully mumbles. “Don’t worry about it.”

God, he’s pathetic, Gabe thinks with an expressive sigh. “Actually, I’m going to go wait with William. I’m sure he won’t give me shit if I, gasp, order a black coffee.”

As Gabe leaves his place in line and heads toward the back of the line, Patrick turns to Pete. “So, no luck since last night?”

Pete releases the breath he’d been holding and shakes his head grimly. “No. In fact, it’s worse.”

“Oh?”

Pete glances around, and leans toward Patrick. “If I tell you this, you cannot tell anyone. Gabe doesn’t even fucking remember it, and if he finds out…”

“Don’t worry, I’d never. What happened?”

Pete’s jaw is tight as he looks up toward the sky, gathering his resolve, and then whispers, “He kissed Bill to get even with me.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “No, what? That’s fucked up… that’s not even getting even, that’s like… revenge! Pete, god, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. And he doesn’t even remember?”

Pete shakes his head. “No. Not a bit. He doesn’t remember that I told him I kissed Ryan, either. I only told him that he said he’d lost weight. He really was clueless.”

“Does Bill remember?”

“For fucking sure. This morning when we went to wake him up, he didn’t answer the door. Probably to see if he could get a rise out of Gabe or something, I’d bet. I nearly had to kick the door down! And when he did finally open it, he was only wearing a robe, being all flirtatious and sticking his leg out and he blew a kiss at Gabe… it was, like, unabashedly slutty. I nearly threw up in my mouth. Gabe was just giggling the entire time like a teenage girl.”

“Ew.” Patrick shakes his head. “That’s an image I wish I could get out of my head. I know they were both drunk, but do you think maybe… it’s something he’s thought about before? Cheating?”

“I don’t know. I mean, maybe I’m the one making a big deal out of it… I’ve been acting like a total dick for the entire trip so far. I’ve been driving him away. I mean, I really shouldn’t be surprised he’d do something like that– it is only fair, after all.”

“Every couple fights sometimes. It doesn’t justify cheating.”

Pete bites his lip, grimacing. “But is it really cheating? Because if Gabe is cheating by kissing Bill once… then that means I cheated by kissing Ryan.”

“That’s up to you. You know better than me. But I know you wouldn’t do that again, especially now– the question is whether you think Gabe would do it again.”

“I don’t…” Pete trails off. “I mean, I don’t want to think he would. But I have no idea.” His voice trembles, bordering on a sob as his eyes well up. “I really don’t know, dude.”

“Look at me, man,” Patrick says, rubbing Pete’s shoulder. “You can’t hide this from him forever. You should tell him what happened, so you can really talk about it and get it all out in the open. He needs to know what he did, and exactly how it makes you feel. No fucking excuses, okay? If you excuse it, then he only has a reason to do it again. Same if you try to hide it– what if he remembers, and realizes he can get away with kissing whoever he wants?”

“I don’t think he’d necessarily do that…” 

“But you don’t one-hundred-percent know.”

“No,” Pete admits.

“So you need to tell him exactly what happened last night,” Patrick says, “and let him know you are absolutely not okay with it. It’s not fair for you to be struggling with these feelings while he just gets to prance around and basically brag about his weight loss without a care in the world.”

“I’ll think about it."

“Don’t think about it too long. The longer you wait, the worse it’ll get.”

While Pete nods slowly and considers his words, Patrick coughs to hide the smile bubbling up from his glee. This is the most tumultuous Pete and Gabe’s relationship has ever been, and the worst is yet to come– even with years under their belt, the point of no return is steadily approaching. Patrick can’t wait.

The line moves slowly, but at least by the front of the Starbucks store there’s a busker playing a lively jaunt on her violin that helps keep Ryan awake. He throws a ten into her tip jar, feeling a sense of solidarity in also being a musician, and she smiles at him.

As the line moves up into the store, it would be cozy if not for the throng of people crowding it and the constant chatter of customers, the espresso machines squeaking, and blenders grinding. The menu is written on a chalkboard hanging above the registers; Ryan squints to try and read it. Even in such a simplified form, the options are overwhelming: caffe lattes and caffe americano and caffe mochas, caramel macchiatos and cappuccinos, frappuccinos and hot chocolate… it’s all too much, perfectly good coffee poisoned by sugar and milk and crushed dreams.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Jon asks Ryan.

“Um…” Ryan scans the menu again. Black coffee or plain espresso is safe. So is tea. Tea. Tea is normal, right? Of course it is, normal people get tea. Nobody questions tea. “A chai tea.”

“Chai latte? Oh, I love that.”

“No, just regular tea.”

“Ah.” Jon nods. “You sure?”

“I already had coffee at breakfast, so I’m not really hankering for more.” That makes sense, right? Of course it does. Stop thinking. Tea is not one of my relapse orders, there’s no reason to suspect anything.

“Mm. I’m thinking about a pumpkin spice latte.”

Ryan nods and doesn’t take his eyes off the menu. A pumpkin spice sounds good, way too good.

“Oh, you’re getting a pumpkin spice?” Brendon cuts in. “That sounds good. Maybe I’ll get one too. Why are you only getting a chai, Ry? That’s so boring.”

“Chai tea isn’t boring, dude. It’s fun. It’s spicy.”

“Are you still afraid of real milk, dude?”

“Woah, they’re selling mugs!” Jon interrupts. “Babe, we should totally get one as a souvenir.”

“Oh, neat,” Ryan says. “Yeah, sure.”

“You know what?” Brendon takes out his wallet. “It’s on me. Coffee and whatever souvenirs you want.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“Think of it as an extra wedding gift.”

Ryan and Jon look at each other; Ryan shrugs and says, “Why not?”

“I mean, I’m basically loaded after the last few Panic albums,” Brendon continues unhelpfully. “It’s really the least I can do.”

“Uh… I think we’re good,” Jon says, turning away. “We don’t need any handouts.”

“No, that’s not what I meant– it’s a wedding present like I said. I know you’ve still got your music royalties–even if it’s probably not as much as mine–but like I’ve said, I just wanna make peace with you guys. It’s a mug. Let me buy you a mug. Maybe even a bag of coffee grounds. Come on, come on.”

Jon purses his lips skeptically, possibly debating whether he would ever use such a mug bought with Brendon’s own money. Ryan smiles forcefully. “Okay, but we owe you.”

“No, I owe you,” Brendon insists.

“You sure fucking do,” Jon murmurs under his breath. Ryan tugs at his sleeve, but fortunately Brendon doesn’t seem to notice the remark over the chatter of the crowded coffee shop.

After getting Starbucks, everyone agrees to split up to explore the market by themselves and meet up later to go to dinner. There are no words needed to know Gabe will not be accompanying Pete today– only a fleeting glance before he turns and wanders off with William, cradling Starbucks cups filled with bitter black coffee. At first, Gabe’s blood pounds in his ears as he walks away from his fiance in front of everyone, but the thought of one more moment– not now, definitely not now. He needs someone who gets it, and if anyone asks… well, he’s just keeping an eye on William.

The unease lifts as he and William dip in and out of the various shops, sniffing handmade candles together and skimming the shelves of an indie bookstore. Gabe buys William a pine and nutmeg scented candle just because he says the smell reminds him of the autumn wreaths his mom used to hang on their front door, and in return, William purchases a book from an author Gabe has never heard of and claims it’ll change his life– Gabe somehow believes him. In none of this does the thought of buying some sort of gift for Pete as a peace offering cross Gabe’s mind– in fact, his absence is a refreshing respite. It’s just Gabe and William, sipping their coffee and window-shopping, the kind of domesticity he’s subtly missed.

They don’t enter any of the many eateries and bakeries that fill the market’s air with the aromas of piroshkies and popcorn; rather, they take a whiff of the air and comment on how good it smells, never venturing to its origin. That’s the only part of Pete that Gabe misses right now, the fact he’s normal and doesn’t hesitate in the face of hunger. Instead, William simply looks sad for a moment and moves on, making sure to mention he’s just saving room for dinner later. Gabe makes sure to reply, “Oh yeah, me too.”

The only food-related thing they go near is the fish market, which to be fair does not have an appealing smell, and is apparently a must-see. “You gotta see them throw the fish,” William tells Gabe as they approach it. He shoots him an odd look. “What? I did my research before I came here, y’know. I had to know whether any of the food would be worth it.”

While they wait with the other tourists milling around, Gabe and William quietly stare at the dead fish. They stare back.

After a few minutes, someone purchases a fish, ensuing the fish throwing– Gabe takes out his phone, figuring he might as well take a few pictures. One of the fish market workers, dressed in orange overalls, picks up a fish and yells something, then tosses the fish over the counter to another employee. The fish is tossed back, and then over the counter yet again, the workers singing, “Ayeee!” The crowd cheers, and Gabe finds himself cheering too– it is quite fun to watch. He sneakily tilts his camera and snaps a picture of William’s grin too.

They stick around for a few minutes to watch another fish be thrown, and then look around at the fish for a bit before realizing the time to regroup for dinner is steadily approaching. Gabe is slightly glad– although the heavy smell of fish had tapered his appetite, it slowly returns at the thought of overpriced, calorie-laden Italian food.

“How did the pictures turn out?” William asks. “I forgot to take any, so I might have to steal some of yours to post later.”

“Oh, let me check.” Gabe stops to pull out his smartphone again and opens up his camera roll, scrolling through all their pictures while William peeks over his shoulder. “That’s a good one… that one’s also pretty good…”

“Dude, that one’s of me!”

“I was capturing the moment, okay? You have a pretty smile.”

William playfully rolls his eyes, but the grin makes a reappearance. “Okay, sure.”

They continue through the camera roll, looking at Gabe’s earlier shots of the market streets and shops, and then the Starbucks. They’d taken a few selfies together holding their coffee, William’s lips puckered in that silly 2013 kind of way and leaning toward Gabe. “This is a good one– you don’t mind if I post it on Instagram later?”

“Not at all. I’m sure everyone will be questioning why there’s no pictures with Pete, though.”

“He’s already got enough pictures on my account. I think the fans will just have to deal with it.” Gabe continues to scroll back. “Do I even have any pictures with him while we’ve been in Seattle?”

“If not, you’ll still have plenty of photo ops at the actual wedding.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gabe glances up and shrugs, not watching as his finger continues to swipe into dangerous territory– blurry and badly-lit pictures from the night before. “I’ll have that at least for appearances…” Trailing off, Gabe’s finger has frozen. He stares down at his phone.

It’s a picture dated that morning at three A.M, and there’s not just one of him and William making out– no, there’s at least twenty variations. Hands in hair, hands running across jawlines and shoulders and chests, all tongue and teeth and slobber, Gabe pushing William against a brick wall.

After a few moments of jaw-dropped silence, Gabe finally utters, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Do you remember any of this?”

William pauses, glancing between Gabe and the pictures before slowly nodding. “Yeah. We were really drunk… really drunk… I was pissed about Z and you were pissed about Pete and… yeah.”

“It was just kissing… right?”

“I think so?”

“You think so?” Gabe hisses under his breath. “What does that even mean?”

“Look,” William whispers, “all I remember is kissing, but when I was looking for a pair of pants this morning in my suitcase, there was… um, it seems there may have been some grinding. Or it just… happened, because I mean, we were really drunk. I don’t know, dude. But I don’t think it was anything past that, really.”

“Oh my God,” Gabe exhales, leaning against a pole. “Oh shit. Fucking shit.”

“It’s not really a big deal though, right?” William asks tentatively. “It’s not like it’s anything we haven’t done before.”

“But that was back then when we were young and nothing was serious, and now I’m engaged to Pete…” Gabe closes his eyes and drinks in a breath, ocean air tinged with city smoke. “We can’t do that again. Please, don’t tell anyone. I mean it. This is just… something that needs to be forgotten. We were drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.”

William nods sympathetically. “Are you going to delete the photos?”

“I…” The clear answer stalls on the tip of his tongue. And yet, the images haunt Gabe’s eyes. If he closes his eyes again, he can almost feel it now… alcohol-scented breath hot against his skin, tugging at his scalp, spit wetting his chin, little moans rising from the back of Bill’s throat and urging him to keep going, keep going, keep going like they used to and make him scream…

Gabe’s eyes fly open. “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“Yeah. I get it, either way.” William nods. “You okay, or need a minute?”

Gabe chokes back the lump in his throat and pockets his phone. “I’m alright. Let’s go. We can’t talk about this again.”

“We won’t,” William says, both of them knowing it’s a complete lie. Empty words for unacceptable desires.

At the Italian restaurant, Gabe across from Pete, a basket of complimentary garlic bread between them.

“So, what’d you do with William at the market?” Pete asks, glancing up from his menu. He takes a piece of garlic bread and dips it in the shallow bowl of olive oil.

“Oh, just the stuff everyone else probably did. Went in and out of shops, saw people throwing fish–”

Pete narrows his brows. “Fish throwing?” he asks, and then bites into his oil-oozing garlic bread. “Why were people throwing fish?”

“It’s a thing they do at the fish market. The workers throw it over the counters to each other.”

“Did you get any pics?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.” Pete double-dips his garlic bread into the oil, smearing it around. Gabe cringes– it’s like he wants to soak up as many calories as possible. “We didn’t really check out the fish market. Patrick said the smell made him feel sick.”

“So you were with Patrick today?”

“Did you get anything to eat?” Pete deflects. “We sampled some really great cheese, but I figured I don’t have the room in my suitcase for an entire cheese wheel.”

“The thought didn’t cross my mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Gabe picks up his menu. “The vegetarian options here suck. I think I’ll just have to go with a Mediterranean salad.”

Pete plucks a piece of bread from the basket and tosses it onto Gabe’s plate. “They’re not that bad. The four-cheese stuffed shells sound pretty good. Or we could split a margherita pizza.”

Gabe’s expression remains cool. He nods. “Let’s split a pizza.”

Back at the resort, the hallway is silent apart from Pete unlocking the door to their room. He holds it open for Gabe to enter, then shuts it behind them. Pete throws off his jacket and sinks onto the bed with a grunt. Barely a second later, Gabe is on him, lips pressed to his, hands sliding over his shoulders.

Pete pulls back. “Babe, what are you doing? You don’t wanna talk first?”

“No.” Gabe shakes his head, biting his lip. “I feel bad about today. I want to make it up to you, okay? I don’t want you to think I hate you.”

“No, of course I don’t think that. But maybe we should talk–”

“Nuh-uh. No talking. I just want to enjoy a moment of this trip with you. Please?”

Pete hesitates. “As long as we talk later–”

“Of course, baby, of course,” Gabe murmurs. He kisses Pete again, one hand roaming downward to undo his fly. “I’m just saying, it’d be hard to have a proper conversation with your dick in my mouth.”

“Fuuuck,” Pete moans at the image. How long has it even been since Gabe last sucked him off– two weeks? A month? “It’s been too long. Damn, I wanna see your pretty lips choking around my cock as I fuck your mouth.”

“Anything you want, babe.”

He gets Pete’s jeans off and then kneels between his parted legs. Pete’s already hard– no time is wasted, Gabe taking him into his mouth and running his tongue along his length. Pete groans at the warmth, grabbing Gabe’s hair and thrusting into his mouth. “God, that’s it. You’re always so fucking hot around my cock, ugh.”

He thrusts again, causing Gabe to gag slightly. Pete makes the mistake of glancing down at his fiance’s parted lips– suddenly, all he can imagine are those lips on William, callused fingers hooking onto a zipper, eyes watering as Bill hits the back of his throat. The heat on Pete’s skin alights into rage. Pete tries to keep his eyes open and focus on right here, right now, and yet all he hears is William’s moans over his own.

Pete pushes Gabe’s mouth off of him and grabs him by the shoulders, pushing him onto the bed. “No,” Pete breathes, finally able to get some air. “No. We’re fucking. I’m fucking you.”

“Oh,” Gabe mutters, his voice hoarse. Licking the precum off his lips, he nods quickly. “Okay.”

Pete peels off Gabe’s shirt and pushes him back, Gabe’s head hitting the pillow. The hotel air is cold on Gabe’s skin, goosebumps breaking out on his arms– where has the warmth gone?

Gabe keeps his eyes focused on the ceiling as Pete yanks off his pants. He can’t look down, or he’ll see his stomach bloated from half of an artisanal pizza, fat calves swollen from a long day of walking, love-handles as flabby as uncooked dough. There’s no delicious low buzz of hunger in his stomach, only the uncomfortable content of satiety. Why did you decide to eat that pizza? Why did you offer to give Pete a blowjob? Now he is naked and exposed, the exact opposite of his intentions in the first place.

But as Pete slicks his fingers up with lube, Gabe doesn’t think he has any reason to say no. He’s been denying this intimacy from his own fiance for far too long; something's got to give. It’s a small sacrifice to reassure him that through the tension, Gabe still loves him, Gabe is still willing to bear his flesh if not his soul.

Actually, no– not his flesh, either. Ew. Who do you think you are? “Can you turn off the lights?”

“What? Why?” Pete asks, boggled. His eyes roam Gabe’s body, laid out in front of him like a pig on a silver platter. God, a pig; Gabe gulps back vomit, and the aftertaste burns in his throat. “It’s been a while since we’ve fucked. You’re so sexy, I wanna see it all. ” Placing a palm on Gabe’s hip, dry fingers press into the pudge. Horrific.

“Just turn off the lights.”

“You know how much I love your recovery body–”

“Pete,” Gabe snaps. “The lights.”

Pete sighs and gets off the bed to flick off the light switch. The room is swallowed by inky-black darkness and relief; in the middle of nowhere, not even dim light trickles through the curtains. The bed is a short distance, yet Pete manages to stub his toe on the bedpost. “Ow! Shit.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Pete hisses, crawling onto the bed. “Fine, I’m fine. Can’t we at least turn on a lamp?”

“No.”

“Whatever.” The bed creaks as Pete readjusts his position and presses his lubed fingers against Gabe’s hole. Gabe shivers. His touch is freezing cold and stiff, unmistakable from ice. “Has anyone ever fucked you better than I do?”

“Why would you ask that? Just move your finger already.”

“Answer the question. I’m trying to dirty-talk, babe.”

“Ah.” Gabe wonders why he’d interpreted it as an accusation. Pete finally flexes his finger, and Gabe groans, glad to finally get the right kind of friction. “No, no one. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” Pete mutters under his breath. “No one could ever treat you as well as I do.”

“Yeah.”

“No one.”

“No one,” Gabe echoes, as Pete leans forward and presses his lips to his. The room isn’t exactly silent, filled with the squelch of lube and grunts, and yet it is deafening.

Although Ryan and Jon have officially decided not to see each other after getting back from Seattle up until the morning of the wedding, that doesn’t mean texting is completely off the table, right?

It starts out pretty innocent. Ryan reminds Jon to set an alarm for tomorrow morning. Jon says he will after he showers. Ryan tells him, Have fun. Jon says, Not as much as I would with you ;) and attaches a photo of himself in the mirror, bottom half only obscured by a custom embroidered towel. Ryan sends back a picture that is decidedly very not obscured, and barely a few moments later, his phone rings.

“So, what happened to no sex until our wedding night?” Ryan teases as soon as he picks up.

“I have to hear your voice. Phone sex doesn’t count.”

“One of those words is clearly ‘sex.’”

“You know you want to.”

“Okay, you may be right about that.”

“I can’t wait to see you in your suit tomorrow. All I’m going to be thinking about is the moment when I’ll finally be able to take it off.”

“Mm, me too.” Ryan reaches downward before his hand freezes. “Oh man, I haven’t tried on the suit since we bought it. I should try it on. Make sure it fits for tomorrow.”

“It’s gonna fit, babe.”

“Let me just try it on,” Ryan says. “Maybe you’ll get a picture if you’re lucky.”

“Really? Please? I can’t take the suspense anymore.”

“Well, not the entire get-up. Maybe, like, just a shot of me reaching my hand into my pants or whatever.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Go, put it on.”

Ryan grumbles as he gets off the bed, carrying his phone with one hand and using the other to unzip the suit bag laying on top of an armchair. The suit is a deep burgundy. He takes out the dress shirt and vest first, buttoning them up. They’re baggy and loose, bordering on ill-fitting; at least the suit jacket helps to hide it. Ryan pulls the pants over his legs; the fit of the waist is gaping, too much air between the fabric and his hips, and falls right to the floor as soon as he releases his grip. Even with a belt, the pants would be far too baggy.

Ryan pulls up the pants and holds them in place, shuffling to the bathroom mirror. It had fit perfectly just two months ago… and now, comically oversized, it seems as if it belongs to a stranger. He can’t wear this to his wedding tomorrow– for the first time, Ryan has gotten a glimpse of the magnitude of his true form. The shirt and jacket swallow up his form, and in comparison to the circumference of the pants, his waist is tiny and his thighs are disappearing into sticks. He lost too much. He went too far.

He’d known he was relapsing, but God, not like this. For once, he is terrifying, and it does not feel good in the slightest.

At least you’re skinny, the voice attempts to reassure. You are going to be beautiful in your wedding photos. Ethereal.

Yet, a sob bubbles up from the back of Ryan’s throat. Even if he is skinny, he doesn’t have anything to wear to his wedding. There’s no point in getting married tomorrow at all.

Fingers fumbling, he yanks the buttons loose and kicks away the pants. In the mirror, he can count his ribs. Ryan snatches up his phone and wails, tears spilling over, “It doesn’t fiiiIIIIIT!”

“What? What doesn’t fit?”

“ All of it! The–the pants, they–they fell down!”

“What about with a belt–”

“A belt is not going to fix it! Our wedding is ruined! We–we make ev–everyone fly to Washington and… and… and we can’t even g-get married!”

“It’s going to be alright, the wedding is going to go on. Can I come over to your room and see?”

Ryan sniffles, choking back tears. “Okay.”

Moments later, there’s a knock at the room door. Waiting, Ryan yanks the door open and throws his arms around Jon, hugging him tight in the way a baby koala clings for dear life. Jon closes the door behind him, and hugs Ryan for as long as he needs. Ryan only wears a pair of boxers, and his skin is ocean-cold while his tears drip warm onto Jon’s back.

When Ryan finally lifts his head away and steps away, his hands remain entwined with Jon’s. Jon doesn’t look at him like a freakshow– his eyes move over the visible ribs and hipbones, surely horrifying, but not anything he hasn’t seen before. Instead, his gaze remains fixated on Ryan, and he says, “I… I’m sorry I didn’t notice before. I should have. I thought something was up and I didn’t take it seriously enough.”

“It’s not your fault.” Ryan sniffles, slightly swinging his and Jon’s held hands back and forth. “I was trying to hide it. Um… so the suit…” Ryan pulls one of his hands away to wipe his bleary eyes. Jon reaches for the dresser to hand him a tissue, and after Ryan blots at his nose, he sniffles again and points to the crumpled suit laying on the floor. “It’s huge. There’s no fucking way I can wear it tomorrow. And I’m not trying it on again, no fucking way.”

“Don’t worry, I believe you.” Jon picks up the pants and holds them up. “Wow. That much. In a few months. I should have known, I… God, what are we going to do?”

Ryan crosses his arms and paces the room for a few moments, then stops. “Are you going to cancel the wedding?”

Jon turns to him. “Do you really want to?”

Ryan shakes his head. “No. I just… I don’t know what we’ll do without a suit. I want to get married, I want to get married so bad, but…” He chokes back tears, his voice a tremble. “I ruined it all.”

“No, hey, hey, you didn’t ruin anything.” Jon drops the pants, rushing to comfort Ryan. He kisses his forehead. “We’re going to figure this out. We’re going to get married tomorrow, and you’re going to have a suit. Whatever it costs to delay things by an hour or two or however long it takes, I’ll pay it. We’ll get up early to drive to Seattle and try on a new suit the minute the store opens. It’s going to work out, alright? I’m going to do whatever it takes to make it work. Does that sound okay?”

Ryan nods, smiling despite his tears. “Yeah. Thank you, babe. Thank you.”

“Of course. Do you want to talk more? If you want to talk, I’m here. I don’t want you to be bottling anything up during the wedding. We don’t have to right now, that’s okay, but… I at least want to know at some point why you relapsed.”

Ryan sinks down onto the bed. Jon hands him the box of tissues, just in case. “I guess… with the new album and our wedding being so close, I didn’t want to be fat. I want to look the same as I did during Panic, and I know that’s what our fans expect of me, too. If my body is going to be once more immortalized in music videos and concert photos, and then the wedding photos that not only our future children will be looking at but also the entire world when they inevitably get leaked to the press or all over the internet… I might as well look good, right?”

“But you already are gorgeous. And nobody expects you to look the same as you did when you were literally starving yourself, that’s unrealistic– and if anyone does expect you to look that way, fuck them. They don’t know shit about the miserable reality of it.”

“I guess. I tried looking for it, you know. I scoured Youtube for comments calling me fat and found nothing. So maybe it is irrational, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t hold myself to a high standard anyway. Letting myself go and gaining ten or twenty more pounds… then it all would have really fallen apart.”

“That was never going to happen, though. Your weight had been relatively stable since the recovery weight gain leveled out, and you really weren’t binging…”

Ryan shakes his head. “But I was still eating too much.”

“You were not. You were eating like a normal fucking person, and your therapist will echo the same exact thing. You should really call her soon– either tonight or after the wedding. Please?”

“It’s so late. I don’t want to bother her.”

“Eleven isn’t really that late. And we’re literally getting married tomorrow, so I think you can afford to be a diva for once. I’ll step out if you want me to– I should probably shoot off some emails about the potential delay anyway.”

As Jon moves to stand, Ryan takes his hand. “Please stay. I don’t mind if you hear.”

“Okay. You wanna call her now?”

Ryan nods. “Yeah. And Jon, baby, I… I’m so sorry for this. You’ve been trying so hard to get better to eat our wedding cake tomorrow, and I didn’t want to dampen the mood. I didn’t mean to ruin everything, I swear–”

“Ryan, you haven’t ruined anything. It’s a suit, okay? Just a suit. We can find a new one just like that.”

“It’s not just a suit. What if I can’t even take the first bite of cake with you in front of everyone? What if I don’t eat at all, or I eat too much and purge on our wedding night? People talk, especially when it’s worth money. Even William fucking snitched about our engagement. If it wasn’t for the fact he’s obviously relapsed too, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him– although he’s so damn skinny, I think I could throw him pretty far, but that’s not really the point.”

Jon stifles a chuckle. Ryan smiles. “You can laugh. You know I’m right.”

“I don’t want to encourage the return of bitchy anorexic Ryan Ross. But that was a good one.”

“Man, the relapse is getting real if I’m being a total bitch again.”

“Oh, hush, you’re nowhere near that. Anyways, just talk to your therapist about it, okay? And if you don’t want to take a first bite of cake, I’ll enlist Pete to comedically slip and fall face-first into the cake. Now that will be all over TMZ instead.”

“Can you? Please?”

“That was an expensive cake, so I’m not making any promises until after you call your therapist.”

“Ugh, you drive a hard bargain.” Ryan languidly reaches for his smartphone and points it at Jon. “But you’re making promises afterward.”

Chapter Text

The BEEPboopBEEPboopBEEP of the alarm on Jon’s phone not-so-gently awakens the couple, Ryan stirring in his arms. The two groan. Jon unfurls his limbs from their tangle, rubs his eyes and sits up, then turns off the alarm. He groggily slides out of bed and flicks on the light, making Ryan groan even louder.

“Up and at ‘em, Ry. We’ll stop for coffee on the way if you’re quick.”

Clutching the sheets, Ryan rolls over the side of the bed and onto the floor with a light thunk! He sits up and yawns. “Maybe I should just go to the altar naked.”

“Nice try. All you’ve gotta do is sit in a car and try on a suit. You can even nap on the way there and back.”

“Okay, okay.” Ryan gets to his feet and throws the crumpled mass of sheets back onto the bed, then drags himself to his suitcase to dig out the bare minimum of a t-shirt and jeans. “So much for trying to us trying to stay apart for a few nights.”

“Maybe that’s a good sign,” Jon suggests, stealing one of Ryan’s sweatshirts. “I mean, I honestly didn’t expect it to actually last.”

“Well, I do regard you as a human being and not, like, an object.”

“Okay, fair. I also regard you as a human– a very sexually-charged human at that, but a human nevertheless.”

“Great way to start off a marriage.”

“We’ve got a sex life and custom-embroidered towels; we’re set for life.”

“So if nothing can go wrong now, can I show up to the altar naked?”

“As much as I’d like to see that– no.”

Gabe wakes to pounding on the door.

“Gabey baby!” Pete calls out. “I forgot the room key!”

Not wanting Pete to try breaking down this door too, Gabe bolts to his feet. “Coming!”

When he opens the door, Pete is grinning, holding two plates piled with pancakes and maple syrup. “Don’t tell anyone I took plates from the buffet– I’ll return them later. I wanted to get you breakfast in bed.”

“Pete, you fucking goofball.” A smile spreads across Gabe’s face. “Get in here.” 

Pete hurries in with the plates, silverware clattering against them, and Gabe shuts the door behind him. They sit in bed and watch the morning news, leaning against one another as they lazily eat their pancakes. Gabe supposes it’s fine to treat himself today. After last night, maybe some fucking was all it took to fix their relationship. A little discomfort to soothe Pete’s bruised ego had been well worth it.

Although Gabe supposes he hasn’t really gotten what he wanted yet–for Patrick to fucking leave them alone– repairing his relationship with Pete would surely show him that Gabe is here to stay. And if Gabe can still eat the pancakes Pete brought him, pumped full of sugar, there’s no way the five pound weight loss could be a big deal anymore. Obviously, it’s not a real relapse if he can eat pancakes. Pete’s eyes are too soft and his shoulders too slack to imply any such anxiety.

By the time they get married, it’ll all be forgotten, or so Gabe is convinced– he may not be a mindreader, but he’s had enough experience with Pete to know this too will blow over. The new album, wedding preparations, and sex will be more than enough distraction to smooth over their cracks and start anew. Even if the fault lines remain below the surface, as long as nothing moves, there’s nothing to worry about.

Gabe just has to be perfect. And he already knows the most important part of perfection– being skinny.

After returning from Seattle and crashing for an hour-long morning nap, Ryan begrudgingly gets up for his hair to be styled and to put on the brand new suit. Staring himself down in the dressing room mirror while the hairstylist straightens his hair and shaves missed patches of stubble off his jaw, he decides he likes the way this suit fits. He’s worn mostly loose clothing as of late, but the tight fit around his waist of the belt makes him feel small; he can feel the shape of his figure, and the bones of his spine poking into the back of the chair he sits in. Now clean shaven, his jaw is less gaunt and more model-esque. Maybe Ryan’s therapist was wrong last night– how could she know he’s truly underweight if he can look this good for his wedding?

Of course, he is wearing concealer under his eyes, shadowed from lack of sleep. And the only reason he has enough energy to process a single thought is because Jon made him eat a granola bar before the two parted to get ready for pictures. All things aside, Ryan thinks now that he’s had effort put into his look, he looks perfectly healthy. A man worthy enough of marrying Jon– although he looks more like a boy playing dress-up, but he never wanted to look like a man anyway.

As the hair stylist finishes off Ryan’s hair and fixes a few strands, there’s a knock on the door. “Who is it?” Ryan calls out.

“It’s Pete!”

“Come in.” Ryan thanks the hairstylist and hands him his tip while Pete lingers in the doorway. Once the two are alone, Ryan stands up and pulls his suit jacket over his shoulders. He twirls for Pete. “So, what do you think?”

“Dude… incredible.” Pete’s eyes sparkle with admiration at the blue brocade suit. “You’re gorgeous. Jon’s a lucky man. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks.” Ryan sinks back into the chair. “Jon’s really amazing, making me wake up while it’s still dark out to drive to Seattle and buy me a new suit. Sorta ruins the surprise, since he’s already seen what I’ll be wearing. But it’s better. It really shows I’m marrying the right guy.”

“He is really a sweetheart. That’s why I’m here. To, er, clear the air. I mean, you already know I’m happy for you, but I just want to say it out loud anyway, considering our past and everything.”

Ryan pauses, a little blindsided by the mention of the past, but nods. “I appreciate that.”

“I just don’t want this to feel like it’s the ending of anything. It doesn’t feel like that, right?”

“No.” Ryan shakes his head and picks up the tube of concealer, turning it over in his hands as he pretends to study the label. “It’s been… god, Pete, it’s been how long since the last time we did anything? It already ended a long time ago.”

“Yeah, of course. That’s what I was thinking too. I just wanted to make sure.”

Ryan puts down the concealer and turns to Pete. “Okay, what’s going on? You’re shit at hiding your emotions.”

Pete sighs. “I told Gabe while we were drunk that I kissed you a few years ago.”

“Huh? Oh, that? That was barely anything– I can’t believe you still remember that.”

“Right, right.” Pete awkwardly chuckles. “I mean, Gabe doesn’t remember me telling him at least. But he kissed William to get back at me and he doesn’t remember at all…”

“Look,” Ryan says, “they were drunk. We were sober and it didn’t even mean anything. Even Jon and I had a good laugh about it afterward. If Gabe kissing William is giving you such a hard time, forget about it. There’s no point dwelling on drunk antics that Gabe doesn’t even remember.”

“I am moving on from it. This is me moving on from it– talking to you about it. That’s the first step, and then I’m going to talk to Gabe tonight and tell him…”

“You’re really going to tell him? You were lucky enough he forgot, and you’re putting yourself through that all over again why? Pete, I’m going to be honest… I mean, I know our entire last kiss was like, a joke, but I don’t really need to be thinking about the past on my wedding day. Y’know?”

“Patrick said I should talk to Gabe…”

“I love Patrick, but I wouldn’t take relationship advice from him.”

“Well, why not?”

“I think we all know why.”

Pete huffs an exhale of frustration. “You’re lucky it’s your wedding day.”

“Well, since it’s my wedding day and I can say whatever I want: you sure spend a lot more breath defending Patrick over your own fiance.”

Pete’s brows raise, bewildered. “That is so not true.”

“Everyone knows it except you.”

“It is so not true.” Pete looks around the empty room, as if searching for someone to defend him, shaking his head when there’s only silence. “So not true,” he mutters. “You know, Gabe also spends more time defending William than listening to me. I don’t know what he expects.”

“Are you going to keep hanging onto that excuse until you get married? The blame game isn’t doing you any favors.”

“I don’t want to. I just… damn, I came in here to just tell you I’m happy for you and this has turned into a couple’s therapy session.”

“Look, Pete, I just think you need to stop hanging onto the past, because you’re not living in it anymore. That’s all.”

“Says you,” Pete murmurs. “How would you feel if I told you to stop being anorexic and hanging onto the past?”

“That’s different and you know it. It’s a mental illness. You, on the other hand, just don’t want to listen.”

“Mhm. Well, good thing it was just a hypothetical statement, then.”

Ryan picks up his phone, glancing at the time. “I’ve got to be outside for pictures in a few minutes. I think we should just… save this conversation for another day. Not today, okay?”

“Okay.” Pete gets to his feet and hangs his head apologetically, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Sorry for this. I just wanted to clear the air and did the exact opposite. I really don’t mean any ill will, man. You know I never would."

“I know you don’t.” Ryan stands and places a hand on Pete’s shoulder, patting there a few times so it comes across as platonic as possible. Their eyes meet. “Don’t sweat it.”

Pete’s eyes flutter shut, and his head tilts in preparation to lean in. Ryan takes his hand off his shoulder and steps back. “Pete,” he says gently. “No.”

Pete opens his eyes, cheeks flushing with shame. “Right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Um… well, I’ll see you in a bit. When you walk down the aisle, I guess.”

“You know it can’t happen ever again. Not even as a joke.”

“No. Of course not.” Pete clears his throat, and turns toward the door. “Break a leg.”

Ryan can’t really say he’s that surprised by Pete’s attempt to make a move– but on the morning of his wedding? That’s bold, even for him. Something is direly wrong with his relationship with Gabe– Ryan decides to assume Pete is suffering from severe insecurity and not unresolved past feelings. This has never been a problem before, and Ryan sure isn’t going to let it become a problem on his wedding day. He has no regrets about the past, and if Pete does, it’s far too late for any of that.

As if nothing happened, shoulders held high, Ryan walks outside to the courtyard where they’ll be taking photos. He has nothing to hide– any and all misdeeds are courtesy of Pete, and Ryan’s just going to enjoy his damn wedding day.

Jon turns around, seeing his fiance in the corner of his eye. Even though he’s already seen Ryan’s suit at the store this morning, something about it here and now elicits emotion. Jon grins so wide the corners of his eyes crinkle, tears shining at his waterline. He takes Ryan’s hands, grasps firm and warm. The memories of the last twenty minutes tumble away, and already, Ryan feels reborn.

As the photographer lifts her camera, there will be nothing in the photos except for two lovers, secure in their love, radiant in their happiness; that’s all anyone needs to remember of today.

“Gorgeous,” Jon whispers, tightening his grip on Ryan’s hands.

“No, you. Look at you. You’re the gorgeous one.”

“Oh, hush.” Jon leans toward Ryan’s ear. “I can’t wait to call you my husband in a few hours.”

“Me too.” Ryan’s chest swells with pride. Looking back on the years behind them, filled with hospitals and therapist’s offices, tabloid covers and nutrition labels and a handful of pills, it’s a victory to be standing here.

Maybe Ryan will reconsider recovery tomorrow, but for now, wow, he made it here.

“Alright if I sit here?” William asks, pointing to the empty seat next to Gabe. 

Gabe nods eagerly. “Sure!”

On Gabe’s other side, Pete’s jaw tightens but says nothing. Gabe notices the shift but disregards it; Pete’s been quiet since speaking to Ryan before the wedding, and although Gabe has no idea what was said, he supposes it’s been a long morning anyway between breakfast, getting dressed, and posing for photos. Once the ceremony gets started, everyone’s energy will probably pick up in anticipation for the reception.

“I forgot pictures can be so damn exhausting,” William says, sinking into the chair. “I feel like I was standing and smiling for an hour.”

“Me too.” Gabe sighs. “But now at least we get to sit for an hour.”

“Thank goodness. I hope nobody will notice if I’m spacing out during vows. I got ten hours of sleep and I don’t know how I’m so tired.”

Gabe leans a few inches toward William and whispers, “Did you eat this morning?”

“Um…”

“Z told me she took some croissants this morning too. She’d probably give you another one.”

William stretches his head to look around the courtyard where the wedding altar has been set up, circled by rows of chairs and surrounded by the lush Washington forest towering over them. The air is crisp and clear but the kind of chill that seeps to your bones, so heat lamps have been discreetly set up at the altar and the back, leaving the guests toasty at the edges but frozen in the middle like an undercooked Hot Pocket. Z inhabits the soggy cold middle, wearing a sleek emerald dress. A clutch rests in her lap, a few suspicious crumbs stuck to the gray velvet.

William turns back around and shakes his head. “I can wait until–” He yawns. “--until the reception. Do you know what they’re serving?”

“I know the vegetarian option is baked ziti with some kind of spinach sauce. I don’t know what the meat one is, though.”

“That sounds good for a vegetarian meal. Maybe I should have chosen that on the RSVP.”

“It probably won’t be that good. I looked up the caterer’s reviews and it seems like the vegetarian dishes are always a little undercooked–”

Pete, who has been zoning out with crossed arms, glances around boredly. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised Gabe and William are discussing food– but something about the way it’s done so casually fans the flame of resentment. Sure, Pete regrets trying to make a move on Ryan, and he certainly intends to fully apologize later (after buying the most expensive gift off the wedding registry, just for good measure), but why harbor guilt when Gabe has been throwing himself in front of William for nearly the entire trip? Just because he doesn’t remember the kiss doesn’t mean Pete should let him forget it– there had to be an internal motivation subconsciously hidden, waiting for the right excuse to do only God knows with Bill. Last night and this morning– were they only a farce? Does Gabe even still love him?

Pete shakes his head. No, what are you thinking? Their relationship has only been on the rocks because Gabe’s taken his dislike of Patrick to an unreasonable extreme, probably because of the severe malnourishment as of late. It’ll really be fine, as soon as Pete speaks to Gabe and they talk it all out. Once Gabe realizes his hypocrisy by clinging to William so tight but scorning Patrick’s constant company, it’ll be back to normal. Talking will help. Talking is always a good thing, isn’t it?

He straightens his posture in the chair. Just enjoy the wedding, and it’ll be alright. You can fix this. You’re Pete fucking Wentz, and you’re going to fix everything.

Pete looks around again, wondering where Patrick is. Maybe he’ll invite him to sit nearby. If Gabe can invite William to sit with him, why can’t he himself invite Patrick? Scanning the crowd, in his periphery he catches a glimpse of the sun’s reflection against a camera lens– in the forest, though?

He leans forward, wanting to give the benefit of the doubt, but that’s definitely not the photographer or her assistant, who have dressed professionally and are flitting around the courtyard snapping pictures of guests and decorations. Instead, the camera in the forest belongs to some guy camped out under a bush, nearly hidden from view.

Pete groans. Someone tipped off a paparazzo about the wedding. Oh, great.

“What, Pete? You don’t like chocolate ganache?” Gabe innocently asks. Pete shakes his head and stands. “Where are you going? The ceremony starts in a few minutes.”

Pete. knowing it wouldn’t be smart to sow a seed of distrust–despite the fact they’ve already got a whole garden’s worth between them–leans down and whispers to Gabe, “Don’t look, but there’s a paparazzo in the forest.”

“What?” Gabe demands. “Who the fuck told them? Ryan and Jon already got their engagement plastered all over grocery store checkouts, and now this?”

Pete glares at William. “If it was you…”

William holds his hands up, expressing the perfect mask of innocence. “Woah, man, it was not me. I’m just as blindsided as you.”

Although Pete’s scowl is doubtful, he doesn’t press. “I’m going to go tell Ryan. I’ll be back.”

Ryan is taking one last look at himself in a hallway mirror inside the hotel when he spots Pete jogging toward him. “Pete, whatever it is you want to say, now is not the time.”

“This isn’t about that. The paparazzi found the wedding.”

Ryan spins on his heel. “What?”

“There’s a dude hiding under a bush with a camera. I just spotted him.”

“Damn it.” Ryan huffs. “I really thought it wouldn’t get out– I guess us hanging out in Seattle attracted attention. Apparently Brendon took a picture with a fan at the market, it’s probably all over Twitter by now. All the confirmation the tabloids would need for a rumor, but how would they find us here?”

“I’ll talk to the staff about this. I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy about someone trespassing on private property– sorry that this is probably going to delay the ceremony.”

“I’d rather get this taken care of than have the internet speculate on my wedding, so don’t worry. Thanks, Pete.”

Pete bows his head in deference and says, “Of course,” before dashing off.

Ryan looks in the mirror and sighs. Yet another delay before he can call Jon his husband, but the only wedding photos that will be published will be the ones that make Ryan look as skinny and yet glowing as possible, thank you very much.

After a brief altercation between the manager and the paparazzo, threatening to call the police for trespassing, the paparazzo begrudgingly leaves, muttering under his breath that nobody would care about such a B-lister wedding anyway. The closest he can get to the wedding while remaining off property is in front of the driveway to the resort, too far to see anything. Unless he climbs a tree, of course, and Ryan certainly wouldn’t put it past him, but this is, as said, a “B-list” wedding and not the royal family– the expected payout certainly wouldn’t be worth that effort. Plus, the paparazzo has a beer belly that implies he’s not at all fit enough for such an antic.

This, as well as combing the surrounding woods for any additional paparazzi–fortunately, only the one had been staking it out– takes about forty-five minutes. This late into the day, there’s just enough daylight left for the ceremony without any further interruptions.

Fairy lights twinkle above the altar. A group of several orchestral musicians begin to play “Wedding March.” Every head turns as Jon first walks down the aisle, accompanied by his parents, then Ryan with his mother. The music lingers as Ryan and Jon stand across from each other, unable to hide their beaming smiles, then it gently grows quiet.

The officiant is a guy they found online who officiates gay weddings with stellar reviews, covered in tattoos that poke out from under his suit. As Jon and Ryan take each other’s hands, the officiant clears his throat and begins. “Welcome, family and friends. We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the marriage of Ryan Ross and Jonathan Jacob Walker. This is not the beginning of a new relationship, but the acknowledgement of a new chapter in their lives together. Ryan and Jon have spent many years getting to know each other, as both bandmates and soulmates, through thick and thin, and now we are here to watch them reaffirm this commitment, formally, publicly, and proudly.

“Only one year ago, in February 2012, was same-sex marriage legalized in Washington state, and just recently was the decision issued in California that Prop 8 is not constitutional. It is with great joy and relief that Ryan and Jon wish to not only celebrate these historical victories with you all, but in addition, as a gay committed couple in the public eye, hopefully inspire others to see the same thing that is so clear in their eyes today: love.”

As the ceremony continues and the officiant reads off the custom vows that the couple had written together, Ryan and Jon grip each other’s hands tight, eyes shining with tears, in disbelief that the moment has finally come. As Gabe watches, he reaches for Pete’s hand. Although taken aback, Pete tries to exhale and loosen his muscles, allowing himself to absorb the moment. He is truly happy for Ryan and Jon despite earlier, truly. He can see him and Gabe at the altar now–a little different of course, considering the fact Gabe insists on a Jewish wedding and will die on that hill–but either way, it’s going to happen. Everything between them will be smoothed over and gleaming before then. There’s optimism in the air, and all Pete has to do is soak it in. If this is the overall mood, why wouldn’t speaking to Gabe go well? There is absolutely no way that he could argue, when today, in this time and place, love is above all else.

Especially now that the officiant is spouting off about compromise and healthy relationships– easy peasy, compromise is what mature adults do, so Gabe basically has to compromise now, right? It’s for marriage. It’s for their future. There’s no way he wouldn’t see it after this.

After the bit about compromise is over, Ryan begins his own vows. “Jon, you are the love of my life. You have not only been with me, but you have been there for me. You bought me books and visited me everyday while I was stuck in the hospital, you drove me back and forth to doctor and therapist and nutritionist appointments, and most importantly, you gave me a shoulder to cry on and the strength I needed to keep going when I was at my worst.

“You are not only so incredibly, superhumanly supportive, but also my muse. I can’t think of anyone else whose creative talents not only are a perfect match for mine, but also inspires me that warm feeling in my heart that is so difficult to put into words, yet set to music, it all flows so perfectly. With you by my side, you not only are the subject of my writing, but can tell me what phrase is on the tip of my tongue and, when necessary, you aren’t afraid to tell me when I’m being stupid but in the most respectful possible manner.

“There’s this French poem by Paul Verlaine called ‘In Muted Tone’ that I think the first few verses of expresses everything in this moment exactly:

“Gently, let us steep our love

In the silence deep, as thus,

Branches arching high above

Twine their shadows over us.

“Let us blend our souls as one,

Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,

Evergreen, in unison

With the pines’ vague lethargies.

“I already feel as if our souls are blended as one, and I think, standing up here with me, you feel the same– today, I want everyone to know exactly how much I love you, and how much we have weathered the storm and made it through, and I hope we will take on the future’s challenges in the same way: as one.

“I’d like to finish my vows by paraphrasing something in the Bible from Isaiah, because while neither of us may be very religious, we both know I went to Catholic school and I’m a sucker for religious imagery. I’m yours, until the earth starts to crumble and the heavens roll away.”

Jon wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, a little choked up, and says, “Wow, I don’t know how I’m ever going to beat that.” The guests laugh. “But I’ll sure try.”

Jon’s vows contain similar themes, of overcoming the past and starting a new life together, with nothing but pure unadulterated adoration in his bleary eyes. At some point, someone brings a guitar up to the altar and he sings a slow cover of “For Your Love” by The Yardbirds. Pete is a little shocked Ryan watches with a big smile and doesn’t seem to feel upstaged at all by it– if Gabe broke out into song at the altar, Pete would be… bewildered, to put it kindly.

After the performance is over and the guitar is taken away, Jon concludes his vows by referencing their band’s song, Heart of Mine. “Ryan Ross, I would say you should take this heart of mine, but you’ve always had it.

While Ryan blots away his own tears and the officiant speaks again, setting up to soon finish the ceremony, Pete whispers to Gabe, “Wasn’t that so cheesy?”

Gabe frowns. “I thought it was cute. Of course it’s sappy, it’s their wedding.”

Pete opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks around the crowd, wondering if anyone else is grasping how utterly ridiculous this is. There’s romance, and then there’s Ryan and Jon’s odd intellectually and musically enlightened version of romance– cute, but a bit much. But everyone is watching enraptured, small sweet smiles on their faces, and even Z has tears glistening in her eyes. The sole exception is Brendon, fiddling with a button on his sleeve and eyes darting around– typical considering his ADHD, Pete supposes.

He glances back at the ceremony. The rings have been given to each groom, ready to exchange.

“Do you, Ryan Ross, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

Ryan grins, cheeks flustered. “I–”

“I OBJECT!”

Everyone spins in their seats in the direction of the voice. Brendon has bolted up, standing defiantly in the aisle.

Ryan and Jon look at each other, slack-jawed. Muttering rises from the crowd, everyone whispering and wondering what could have provoked this. Even Spencer seems embarrassed and hisses, “Brendon, sit down!”

However, Brendon doubles down and announces, “Before anyone asks, I am not joking.”

Ryan turns to the officiant. “Didn’t you say you omit the ‘speak now and forever hold your peace’ part?”

“I did.” The officiant holds up his hands. “Everyone, settle down, settle down. Let’s take a moment to address the situation privately–”

Brendon completely ignores this and gazes directly at Ryan. “George Ryan Ross–”

“Don’t call me that,” Ryan mumbles, face red.

“--I can’t just sit here and let you marry Jon without saying: I am in love with you!”

“You’re what?” Jon spits. “No you’re fucking not!”

Brendon steps toward the altar and continues to plead. “Ryan, you are so talented and gorgeous and… I truly have made many mistakes in our time knowing each other, but that was because I didn’t know how to confront my internalized homophobia and decided to make fun of your ‘feminine’ weight to cope with my self-denial, but now that I’ve been to therapy and accepted myself–”

“I attempted suicide in your bathroom, Brendon!” Ryan screams.

“Pete, do something!” Gabe demands.

Pete slaps his knees and stands, shimmying through the full row of guests to the aisle. He grabs Brendon by the arm. “Alright man, I think that’s quite enough.”

“Knock it off, Pete! I have rights in this country– free speech and all that!” Brendon tries to push away his grip, but unfortunately, Pete is not the type to skip leg day– or arm day, for that matter. Flabbergasted, his eyes snap back to Ryan. “Are you really going to let him do this?”

“Yes, I am,” Ryan deadpans. “Thank you, Pete. Let’s resume.”

“You don’t want to take five?” the officiant asks. “We can–”

“It’s nearly over. We may as well finish what we started.” Ryan takes Jon’s hand. “They are not going to ruin our wedding.”

Jon hesitates, but nods, resolving the same. He squeezes Ryan’s hand. “Yeah. Let’s get back to it.”

The officiant nods and picks up where they left off. “Do you, Ryan Ross, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

Thankfully, there is silence.

“Do you, Jonathan Jacob Walker, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

“Ryan and Jon will now exchange rings.” As they take the rings from their boxes, the officiant recites, “Jon, as you place this ring on Ryan’s finger, please repeat after me. With this ring, I pledge you my love now and forever.”

“With this ring,” Ryan states, sliding the ring onto Jon’s finger. “I pledge you my love now and forever.”

Jon admires the ring and grins at Ryan, barely able to contain his glee.

“Ryan, as you place this ring on Jon’s finger, please repeat after me. With this ring, I pledge you my love now and forever.”

“With this ring.” Ryan slides it onto Jon’s finger. “I pledge you my love now and forever.”

“By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband!”

Cheers break out from the crowd as Ryan and Jon kiss. Gabe stands and claps, beaming. He turns to Pete before realizing– oh right, he isn’t beside him. He cranes his head, wondering where his fiance could be at this moment, before shrugging and turning his other side to pull William in for a hug. A shower of rose petals falls down on the crowd, red fluttering around them.

“That was… something,” Gabe says, patting William on the back.

“I’m fucking proud.” William sniffs. “He got just what he deserved.”

Rather than ask who he’s referring to, Gabe nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think he did.” Grip tightening, he feels the protrusion of William’s spine under his suit. “And so will we.”

“You will.”

“We will.”

Clinging to his torso, William rests his head on Gabe’s shoulder and watches as Ryan and Jon walk down the aisle hand-in-hand. “We will,” he repeats, before the resonant claps and whoops drown him out.

Chapter Text

Pete throws Brendon against the wall and demands, “What the hell was that?”

Brendon groans. Peeved, he brushes off his sleeves. “I can’t help what my heart feels, Pete! I promise I don’t harbor any ill will, Jon is nice– but I couldn’t let Ryan go to the altar without knowing!”

“I think you could have. He was already being too generous by inviting you to the wedding and giving you the millionth chance– and yet, you just had to draw attention to yourself!”

“I didn’t draw attention to myself–”

“Really? Because the rumors about your little stunt will be all over Livejournal by tomorrow, and there’s no way you didn’t realize that.”

“You mean Twitter. Everything’s happening on Twitter these days–”

“I think I know what I’m talking about,” Pete hisses, “so there’s no need to make me feel old.”

“I think you do know what I’m talking about. You just don’t have the guts to tell him.” As Pete stands there in shock, Brendon, emboldened, continues. “Yeah, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Pete’s hands shoot out, grabbing Brendon by the collar. “I don’t want your fucking opinion on my relationship. If you knew anything about us, you would know that I am Gabe’s soulmate.”

“Only Gabe’s soulmate? Isn’t he supposed to be your soulmate too?”

Pete laughs curtly. “God, Brendon. You’re an idiot.”

“So you don’t deny it?”

Right as Pete opens his mouth, applause and cheers ring from outside. His grip loosens, Brendon’s collar dropping from his hands. He turns toward the window, but his view of the altar is obscured by the guests standing to cheer and the shower of rose petals, red dancing in the air. Pete’s shoulders sink.

“I missed it.” He spins around. “I can’t believe I missed it because of your fucking lunacy!”

Even Brendon doesn’t have a snarky comeback, sullenly staring at the petals’ slow cascade. “So it’s over for both of us, huh?”

Pete’s nose wrinkles in offense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Spencer jogs into the hallway, a finger pointed at Brendon. “Do you have any fucking idea how much you just humiliated me?”

“Spence, you should know better than anyone else that I had to do it–”

“That’s not the kind of thing you do in the middle of a wedding! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we are not in the Brendon Urie movie!”

“Yet,” Brendon adds. Pete groans loudly.

Spencer spins around. “Pete, I am so sorry about all of this. I had no idea he would do this or I would have tried to stop him–”

“Don’t apologize for me!” Brendon protests. “I’m not a child!”

“Well, someone has to for a disaster of that magnitude!”

Jon enters, a rose petal fluttering in the lapel of his suit, unusually stern for the occasion. Without sparing a glance at Brendon, he turns to Pete and informs him, “Let him know he’s being kicked out of the wedding. Don’t be afraid to call management for help if you have to. Thanks for the help, dude.” He pats Pete’s shoulder, bestowing some brotherly kind of authority, and then dips back outside.

“Kicked out?” Brendon demands.

“You heard him,” Pete snaps without missing a beat. “I want your bags packed and out of here in thirty minutes.”

Brendon shakes his head in defeat. “Spencer, you won’t let me leave alone, right?”

“After you had the gall to pull some shit like that, I don’t even want to be seen here. Come on.” Spencer storms away. Brendon, fists clenched, takes a step away before he stops and turns back to Pete once last time.

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” Brendon spits. “Hypocrite.”

Once Brendon is out of his sight, Pete sighs a breath of relief and rubs his palm against his forehead, wiping away the dews of sweat that had formed from containing the full brute force of his anger. He needs just one moment, and then he’ll step back into the cool air and find Gabe to ask what happened while he was gone.

Leaning against the wall and taking inventory of his surroundings–brocade wallpaper, freshly-painted white French windows–his eye lands on a stray rose petal laying on the hardwood floor. It must have fallen off Jon’s jacket.

Pete kneels and picks up the rose petal, turning it over in his hands. An urge overtakes him– he crams the petal between his teeth and gnashes. It comes apart easily, vaguely sweet but coating his tongue in bitter pesticide. Clearly it was not meant to be eaten, but Pete gulps it down anyway.

“Introducing Mr. and Mr. Walker-Ross!” the DJ announces. Cheers rise from the crowd as the couple jogs out onto the dancefloor of the banquet room for the first dance. Rather than something slow, they’ve chosen the song “I’m a Believer” by The Monkees– maybe it was a good choice after all, because the energy is needed after the events of the ceremony. Ryan and Jon have decided to go elaborately above-and-beyond on it; they hired someone to choreograph the perfect dance for them, practicing weeks in advance. It was quite the effort for two musicians used to standing in one place and plucking at instruments as their preferred performance form, but they’d gotten the moves down eventually, working in harmony and blending into one. Plus, the burnt calories really aided with Ryan’s rapid weight loss.

Their lively and quick jive to the music is easily distracting. They move across the dance floor, swinging their legs and twirling each other. It is exactly the kind of shit you would expect them to pull at their own wedding.

“Of course they’d pull this shit,” William says to Gabe, the two watching from the fringes of the dancefloor. “But my gosh, is it cute. I think my heart could burst.”

Gabe, snapping grainy pictures with his IPhone, grins. “Me too. I never thought either of them would be so great at dancing.”

The IPhone camera continues to click as the dance draws to a close, Jon taking Ryan by the waist and dipping him in his arms, ensuing claps and cheers. Gabe only glances away from it when William staggers back a step and places a hand over his heart. “Oh, nevermind what I said about my heart could burst. I may need to sit down for a moment.”

Gabe quickly pockets his smartphone and takes William’s shoulder, leading him over to their assigned table. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just need a minute.” William nods, lowering himself into the seat at his namecard. “Oh, there’s your name. We’re sitting next to each other. That’s nice.”

Gabe grabs the water pitcher, pouring William a glass. A few cubes of ice clink against the rim. “It’s just palpitations, right?”

“Yeah. Nothing I’m not used to, don’t worry.” William takes the water with a smile. “Thanks. Who else is sitting at our table? I want to know who I’m going to be judged by.”

Gabe circles the table. “Pete is on the other side of me, of course. Patrick next to him– yikes. Brendon and Spencer are supposed to be next to him, but Pete texted me that Brendon got kicked out and Spencer left anyway.”

William shrugs. “The less people watching me eat, the better. Is Z with us?”

Gabe finishes circling the table and shakes his head. “No, but you do get to sit next to Greta.”

“Oh.” William watches the ice float in his glass and shrugs. “Well, it’ll be nice to chat with her. It’s been a while.”

Gabe pulls out his chair and sits next to him. “Look, William, have you thought about getting your heart checked out? An EKG, maybe a bone scan too…”

“It’s really nothing to worry about. I should have eaten more today, that’s all.” William rests a reassuring hand on Gabe’s knee. “But I promise, I’ll be gorging myself on cake.”

“How often are you having palpitations, man?”

“Usually when I’m trying to sleep.”

“Usually?”

“It’s becoming more frequent. I can’t tell if it’s just the meds I’m on, though.” William forces a smile. “It’s not bad, really. I need to get in the habit of drinking Gatorade Zero. More electrolytes would do me some good.”

“Definitely, but you know that you need more than that.”

William shakes his head. “I’m willing to drink electrolytes. Nothing else.”

“Look, I won’t push it. It’s a wedding, after all. Do you want me to go look around the hotel and see if there’s a vending machine anywhere?”

“No, no. After I get a bite of something to eat, I’ll be good.”

“It’ll be forever until dinner. Let me go see if Z has more croissants in her purse–”

As Gabe turns, William grabs his hand. “Don’t tell her. It’s… I mean, it’s embarrassing. You’re the only one who gets it, Gabey.”

“Of course I won’t tell her.” Gabe squeezes his hand. “I just have a hankering for day-old pastry that’s been sitting in shopping receipts and loose change, that’s all.”

While fanfare for the choreography subsides and the DJ puts on “Dance, Dance, Dance” by The Beach Boys, Pete watches as William takes Gabe’s hand. What exactly is that fucker playing at? He hasn’t seen Gabe at all since dragging Brendon out, busy ensuring the man had really packed his bags and left, and returned right as the first dance began. And rather than being able to reflect on the newly-inspired love and devotion in the air, there Gabe is, with William.

You need to tell him, says that little voice in Pete’s head, muffling the music around him, reddening his line of sight. But as quickly as the impulse came, Pete shakes it off. Later, in private. Not when the reception has just begun and Ryan has already had enough shit on his wedding day, part of which is his own fault to begin with– no, if anyone’s to blame for that attempted kiss, it’s not Pete.

“Just look at them,” says Patrick from behind before Pete can look away. “They have no shame.”

Pete shakes his head. “All they’re doing is–”

“Holding hands in public?” Patrick tsks. “It’s sort of worse than a kiss, if you think about it. It just radiates intimacy. They’re getting too comfortable with each other. You need to tell him, Pete. He needs to know that you know.”

“But should I really do that tonight?”

“I never said you have to do it tonight. But the sooner the better, man. It can’t go on forever. He needs to know how this makes you feel. He’s been disregarding your emotions and stepping all over you.”

Pete hesitates. “Okay. Tonight. After we eat.”

“I’m here for you, man. Find me after you do it, okay?"

“Yeah. Yeah. I will. I don’t know.” Pete shakes his head. “Should I even do it? Today has been exhausting enough. Kicking out Brendon and the paparazzo was such an ordeal.”

“It was. And instead of appreciating what an amazing person you are for doing that, he’s over there with Bill when he should be dancing with you. Are you really going to let this go on any longer?”

“I did it because I felt guilty.” Pete bites his bottom lip, eyes welling. “I’d be a hypocrite to tell Gabe–”

“Woah, woah, Pete.” Patrick’s brows furrow with concern. “No, you are the least hypocritical person I know. What’s with this sudden change?”

“I don’t know. I… I shouldn’t be holding on to any of this. It’s not fair if I do. I tried to–”

Patrick raises a finger to Pete’s lips. “No, don’t say it. Anything that you did, clearly was not your fault. Gabe doesn’t realize the effect he’s having on you.”

“So I should tell that I almost–”

“Well, that’s up to you. But you have to do it, Pete. I’m telling you, okay? Tonight. Or it’s just going to get worse.”

“It’s going to get worse no matter what.”

Patrick glances between Pete’s panic-stricken expression and the table, then tugs at his hand. “A little Beach Boys will make you feel better. Come on.”

Pete lets himself fall back a step, staring dead-on at the table and wishing Gabe would just look away from Bill to see exactly how he feels. But no– his fiance is leaning in, engrossed in whatever pitiful prose that William must be spewing. He shakes off the disappointment, allowing himself to be absorbed into the crowd.

After working up a sweat (along with an appetite), Pete follows the drift of the ravenous guests and goes to sit down at his table. Gabe and William haven’t budged at all from their seats. Pete sits down, straightens his place card, and clears his throat. Gabe turns and kisses Pete’s cheek. Only after, he notices the stiffness of Pete’s shoulders, the forced upturn of his lips. “Where were you? Was Brendon causing trouble?”

“No, I was dancing.” Pete’s chair scrapes the ground as he pulls it in.

“Oh, I had no idea.”

“You seemed busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have bothered us at all,” William chimes in. “Gabe just wanted to make sure I was doing okay since I was a little lightheaded. Too much standing, haha.”

“How long were you even standing?” Pete challenges. “Five minutes?”

“He hasn’t had that much to eat today,” Gabe hisses under his breath.

“I don’t see how that’s your problem.”

“Could you be any more insensitive, asshole?” Gabe whispers. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I…” Pete clenches and unclenches his fists, exhaling a sharp breath. “We need to talk later, after we eat.”

Gabe’s expression morphs into concern. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to worry about it now– oh, hey, Greta! It’s been a while!”

Dinner is either a carefully-curated menu of culinary delights or a sordid procession of never-ending gluttony, depending on who you ask. The appetizer is cranberry arugula salad and flatbread topped with butternut squash bruschetta and feta, followed by steaming potato leek soup served in tea cups. The main course is tagliatelle with mushroom and bacon topped with a creamy white wine sauce– along with the other vegetarians, Pete and Gabe instead get their baked ziti with spinach sauce. While Pete catches up with Greta and constantly invites Patrick to give his opinion on the state of the music industry or whether the new iPhone is too expensive, Gabe is left to quietly multitask between glancing at William’s plate to make sure he’s eating something and pondering what Pete would want to talk about– but is it really that bad, if he can talk with Greta and Patrick like nothing is wrong? There’s a sinking unease in watching it, something that unintentionally hints to Gabe that if there’s a problem, it’s him.

He pushes the ziti around his plate. The stinging disappointment fills his stomach too heavily to allow room for hunger. Gabe thought they’d decided to wait until after the wedding to confront their issues– is it really getting that bad? I thought I was trying. I even let him fuck me for the first time in a while, and that wasn’t enough? Is he ignoring Patrick too much? Pete doesn’t expect Gabe to actually interact with him, right?

Whatever it is, it’s certainly not Gabe relapsing into his eating disorder that’s at the forefront. Pete is too occupied with his idle chitter-chatter to look down and notice the fact that Gabe had only taken two bites of his salad and one sip of the soup, or that the ziti is now a pile of green mush in the middle of his plate. Only William shares a sympathetic glance with Gabe and texts to ask if he’s doing okay. Gabe musters a smile and texts back, Sure.

It’s when the wedding cake comes out that Ryan begins to feel quite stupid.

It’s three tiers of red velvet layered with mousse filling, iced with chocolate roses and two tiny plastic groomsmen adorning the top. The cake knife already sits beside it, ready to cut the first slice. It’s quite a gorgeous cake, but the plastic grooms, standing side by side and hand in hand, raise the inevitable realization– since they’d arrived in Washington and chaos began to ensue, Ryan has not once asked Jon if he’s okay.

Sure, after the cake-tasting incident in which Jon choked on a piece of eggshell resulting in the worsening of his ARFID and months of exposure therapy, Ryan had ensured that they’d only order a cake from a bakery with top reviews and stellar public health inspection reports. And Jon had been eating plenty of pastries since he’d mustered up the courage once more– however, Ryan’s encouragement had ended with his own impending relapse. If he suggested a date at a patisserie, Jon would naturally expect him to buy a treat as well. As the saying goes, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

“You got this?” Ryan whispers as Jon is taking the napkin off his lap and standing.

Jon smiles and places his hand over Ryan’s. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

“No, I’m asking you.”

That seems to make Jon pause for a moment, realizing what is really meant by the question. “Yeah.” He squeezes Ryan’s hand. “I am.”

“Because I know I’ve been such a pain in the ass and I haven’t really stopped to ask how you’re handling it–”

“I’m doing good. We can both handle just a bite of cake, right?”

Ryan glances over at the cake. One bite of decadent, sugar-infused chocolate-iced red velvet cake, sludgy mousse dripping down his esophagus in a slow creep to infest his blood stream. It is going to be so delicious and so disgusting and so filthy. But he won’t spit it out– he won’t, only for Jon, who has worked so hard on his fear of choking. If he can do that, Ryan can contaminate his insides just tonight.

They both hold the cake knife, surrounded on all sides. For a moment, Ryan wants to wrench the knife away and stab himself instead. Instead, he closes his eyes, inhales a breath, and lets Jon’s hand guide the knife toward the cake. It slices through with ease. Ryan opens his eyes. The slice flops onto a plate, and then Jon hands him a fork.

“Not too much,” Ryan mutters under his breath, for only him to hear. Jon seems to listen. Only a little bit of everything on the fork– about two by two inches of cake and a dab of mousse. Ryan does the same. They raise the forks toward each other. The photographer’s camera is snapping, and Ryan tries to grin. Look natural. Pretend to enjoy it.

The cool tines of the fork breach his lips. Chocolate melts on his tongue. Everyone is clapping.

“Mm,” says Ryan. Regret pulses through his veins. Why why why?

But when he looks up at Jon, it dissipates away– his husband is beaming and licks a smear of mousse off of his lip. He’s not only reached the top of the hill that Ryan keeps tumbling down, but conquered it, and Ryan couldn’t be prouder. Along with marriage, he has accepted the sacrifices and successes that come with it, as two individuals that have become one. And while Ryan would still very much like to stab himself, Jon’s grin is contagious.

Gabe doesn’t get up for a slice of cake, and neither does William. Pete turns and weakly badgers Gabe about it, probably for appearance’s sake: “Come on, no cake? Are you sure? Really sure?”

Gabe grits his teeth and nods. “Quite sure.”

Pete sighs, taps the back of his chair a few times, and goes off for his slice of cake.

“At risk of sounding like a broken record…” says William, looking around at the empty table. Everyone has gone for cake, save them. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t feel so great.”

When Pete returns, he eats in silence except for his off-handed mention: “You know there’s going to be cake at our wedding,” to which Gabe doesn’t bother saying anything but “Mhm.”

Some time later, when the music starts back up and the DJ announces a slow dance before putting on “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes, a sudden grin appears on Pete’s face. “Oh, we gotta dance to this.” He stands and offers a hand to Gabe, like he’s resolved to put behind this pettiness for the night. “Will you let me have this dance?”

Gabe glances over to William, who nods, urging him to go on without him. Gabe takes Pete’s hand. “Of course.”

He’s led to the dance floor. Pete places a hand on the small of Gabe’s back, and for a minute, they sway gently, absorbed in the music. Gabe looks down to Pete’s face, tinted mauve by the lights, and suddenly, he falls in love all over again, remembering the way Pete’s lips quirk when he smiles, how he used to push his straightened inky-black bangs out of his eyes, the steeliness of concentration in his eyes while focused on composing a melody just right. The way he used to kiss drunkenly on a tour bus couch at midnight, nose nudging against skin, biting at the scar where Gabe’s lip piercing used to be, when “gay above the waist” still held a meaning, and Gabe knew he wasn’t the only one being kissed but God he didn’t mind it at all. That night, New Years Eve 2008, when the meaning of their relationship changed forever and Gabe felt truly skinny, truly loved in the dark of his bedroom.

Gabe can’t help but bite his lip. “You’re so gorgeous.”

Pete chuckles, looking up at him. “You too.” The lights shift colors, mauve to violet, and Pete’s smile fades to a shadow. “I think we’re long overdue for a real heart-to-heart, both of us.”

“We are. We really are.” Gabe feels his heart sink slightly. He doesn’t want to be fighting with the love of his life, he really doesn’t. But since Pete has seemingly calmed down since dinner, maybe it’ll go over easier in a hushed tone.

“And I just… I need to get something off my chest right now. I’ve just been letting it sit on my shoulders the entire week and I have to say something. Okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I know you kissed William.”

The room turns red.

Gabe’s feet lock into place, and Pete nearly stumbles with the sudden stop. “What are you talking about?” Gabe hisses. “Why would you think that?”

“You told me when you were drunk.”

“It was a kiss on the cheek!"

“That's not what it sounded like.”

“I… I barely remember that night. And I was drunk. I don’t know what you think happened, Pete, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Pete leans in, balancing on his tip-toes to get close enough to Gabe’s line of sight. “Maybe I’d believe that if you haven’t spent this entire trip glued to William at the hip, flirting for everyone to see.”

“What the hell? I’ve told you, Pete, he’s sick– he needs someone to watch him. And don’t forget you made it an easy choice by picking Patrick over me.”

“When did I ever do that? The fact is that you kissed William and you don’t even feel sorry for it, and instead of apologizing, start making up excuses–”

“I’m not doing this right now.” Gabe pushes Pete’s hand off his back and steps away, glare sharp. “If you need me, I’ll be at the bar.”

Chapter Text

Pete retreats outside to the patio and leans against the stone balustrades, trying out those rhythmic breathing exercises his therapist told him about, which aren’t so bad in the clear and cool forest air. Aside from the thrum of music bleeding out from inside, there’s a silence of crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the air. He inhales deeply, and rather than dwell on Gabe’s denial– how could he say it didn’t happen when he said it himself?— Pete focuses on the rustle of leaves in the wind, the slow rush of a nearby stream. But I’ve fucked up too, haven’t I?

“You also needed some air?” Ryan asks, walking out to the patio with two flutes of expensive champagne. He hands one to Pete. “I saw you out here and didn’t want you to miss out on the drinks. But say the word and I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, I don’t mind. Thanks.” Pete lifts the champagne glass. “To you and Jon.”

Ryan gently smiles. “Me and Jon.” They clink their glasses, and Pete sips the champagne. It fizzes on his tongue.

From inside the venue, the current song crossfades into Touch Me When We’re Dancing . Pete asks, “The Carpenters at your wedding, huh?”

Ryan crosses his arms and takes a sip of his champagne. “I’m surprised you know this one.”

“Who doesn’t know the Carpenters?”

“Well, I know everyone does. But for most people, it’s more in a ‘my parents played one of their records a few times’ and not a ‘listened obsessively to not only all the records, but also Sonic Youth’s Song for Karen and feeling guilty for wishing ipecac was still sold’ kind of way.”

“I bet you’re fun at parties. No, I know it because you downloaded all the songs on your MP3 and made me listen to it when you were living with me.”

“Sounds like something I’d do.” Ryan takes another sip of champagne and clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I… I just wanted to say thanks. For getting rid of Brendon and those paparazzi. I’m really grateful, really. And… I’m not mad at you for this morning, just so you know.”

“You should be absolutely pissed at me,” Pete mutters.

“I have a hard time letting go of it, too,”  Ryan admits. “It’s just that things are so good with Jon, it’s easy to not take seriously most of the time. It’s not that I don’t want to remember, it’s just that I love Jon as much as I love you.”

“Really? You do?”

Ryan leans against the balustrade, sets down his glass, and faces Pete. “Of course, dumbass. There was a very clear difference in how I interacted with you versus Brendon today. But our love is a different kind of love. One that wasn’t meant to be tied down. Like… a passionate tryst between two closeted poets to last for the ages, except it’s contained in hit albums and Livejournal posts instead of yellowed letters. Jon and I are a homegrown, white picket fence kind of love. Sitting on the porch in rocking chairs and watching the kids ride tricycles around the driveway, strumming a guitar around the campfire, picking up box dye at the store for each other’s gray hairs– that love. And to me, both are equal. Both are soulmates. They’re just meant for different times.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Marriage just makes you think about this kind of stuff.”

“What are Gabe and I? I can’t see us as white picket fence lovers.”

“No, because you were fucking him at the same time as me,” Ryan says, almost bitterly, but releases the tension with a shrug. “But it’s lasted too long to be a poetic gay tryst. I don’t know. Only you can describe it.”

“I don’t think I want to really describe it.”

If that’s telling, Ryan doesn’t reveal his surprise. “You already know we can’t have a last kiss, but will a last dance make up for it?”

Pete finishes off his champagne and straightens his posture, offering a hand out to Ryan. “May I have this dance, Mr. Walker-Ross?”

Ryan giggles and takes his hand. “God, that’s crazy to hear from your lips. Yes, you may.”

Pete’s hand settles in the jut between Ryan’s torso and hip. The two sway to the music.

Come on and touch me

When we're dancing

You know you've got that loving touch

(Loving touch)

Touch me when we're dancing

I want to feel you when I'm falling in love

“I like how peaceful it is with you,” Pete murmurs.

“Well, Jon already does all the worrying for you."

“It always was better with you. Even before you had him.” Pete tucks his chin against Ryan’s shoulder. “Hell, I can’t even put my head on Gabe’s shoulder. He’s too damn tall.”

Ryan chuckles. “I guess there’s that too.”

“You’ll always be my favorite past lover.”

He doesn’t even expect a response to that, but he’s surprised when he feels Ryan’s hand snake through his hair. “I’m going to keep writing a million songs about you,” he says, looking straight up, eyes piercing through his soul.

It takes superhuman strength for Pete to keep his eyes from drifting to his lips, or he would never be able to resist. 

Through the French doors, Patrick watches.

Gabe sits at the bar with a gin and tonic, tapping a finger on the bar to the tune of The Carpenters. His phone is out. He doesn’t know why, but all this old music has made him start thinking about Brian Wilson’s binge eating and his abusive therapist Eugene Landy, and now this  song has got him googling Karen Carpenter’s anorexia and reading about her brief unhappy marriage, and how oh-so-easy it is to let your perceived control result in overshadowing your actual loss of it– not that Gabe thinks he’s being taken advantage of or anything, of course. He doesn’t intend on stopping his relapse, but Pete must think he’s vulnerable, distracted by dysmorphia, easy to push around.

“Why did you have to tell him, drunk Gabe?” he mutters to himself, although he’s pretty sure he’s already drunk Gabe once again, so the self-chastisement doesn’t hit quite the same. If he hadn’t told Pete while drunk that he’d kissed William–hell, if he’d had the self-restraint not to kiss him in the first place–maybe they would have actually had an okay week. “But he’s the one who kissed Ryan in the first place. Fucking idiot. He should have known.”

The bartender glances at the drunk guy talking to himself, and turns around to clean glasses. Gabe groans. Great, now he’s talking to himself. Better cut myself off now before I–God forbid–start smooching William again. “But it sure couldn’t make things any worse…”

Just as Gabe lifts his head to search the room, there’s a squeak from the barstool cushion next to him. He looks over to see Patrick leaning against it. “Good grief.” Gabe spits, rolling his eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

Patrick frowns. “I just thought I should let you know I saw Pete dancing with Ryan outside–”

“Oh, and you think I care? Well, Pete’s a fucking adult, and he doesn’t need me or you constantly hovering around to babysit. He could kiss Ryan again for all I care– hell, tell him he can fuck the shit out of that twink if he wants. I am done with you trying to interfere in our fucking lives, so piss the hell off.” Gabe lifts his gin and tonic, but pauses mid-sip to tilt his glass toward Patrick and add, “By the way, you’re uninvited from our wedding. I don’t care what Pete says about it. You. Are. Not. Coming.”

Patrick’s expression remains masked, although his long inhale and harsh exhale probably mean he isn’t exactly pleased. “You know that Princess Diana quote, ‘There were three of us in this marriage?’ I think you should think about it.”

He then turns on his heel and storms away. Behind, Gabe slams his glass on the bar and screeches, “Ditto, bitch! You’re the bulimic one!”

Infuriated, Patrick races into the hallway and toward the nearest restroom. Speaking of which, it’s just about time for that cake to come up. He throws open the men’s door. William, washing his hands at the marble sink, turns to look. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Patrick ignores him, walking right past and locking himself into a stall. He hardly bothers listening for the sink to stop running and the door to slam shut. If William rats him out to Pete, what does it matter? The only thing that matters is Pete will kiss anyone but him. And if he incidentally triggers William… well, Patrick figures he deserves it anyway.

Retching echoes off the brocade wallpaper, and the cake looks like some kind of toxic brown sludge. His heart pounds in his chest, ribs aching, throat sandpaper. A half-digested chunk of something orange shoots out of his nostril and fuck, that kinda burns.

“You trying to kill yourself, too?” William calls out. “Good fucking luck. It’s taking forever.”

Pete pinches his nose and slowly asks, “Please tell me you had a good reason for screaming, ‘Ditto, bitch! You’re the bulimic one!’ for all to hear.”

By now, Gabe has already started on his next drink, so his capacity for anger has decided to take its fifteen-minute break. Instead, there’s this glee bubbling up from inside. Although it really shouldn’t be such a big deal that Gabe caused a minor disturbance that Pete could somehow hear outside, he still came running to pick up the pieces. There’s satisfaction in that. Gabe retains his semblance of control and his relationship lives to fight another day.

Gabe reclines on the grand staircase he’s found a seat on and sips his highball with a smirk. “I told Patrick he’s uninvited from the wedding.”

Pete’s hands ball into fists. He stares down at Gabe for a moment, and starts pacing the carpet in front of the staircase. “What the hell, Gabe? You can’t just do something like that without talking to me first! And in public?”

Gabe shrugs and tilts his drink at Pete. “I did talk to you first. You just didn’t want to listen.”

“Well, I disagreed. You didn’t have any business saying that shit to his face–”

“You uninvited him back into our lives without my permission. So I think it’s absolutely fair.”

“What? You didn’t have any problems with Fall Out Boy getting back together!”

“I have a problem with Patrick spending every waking moment within my periphery. He has no fucking shame.”

“Exactly how? Because for once I’d like more examples than the one time he watched us!”

“I think it’s telling how you’ve cared more about trying to justify him to me and trying to accuse me of being unfaithful than the fact I’m relapsing.”

That well-aimed dagger hits Pete right in the chest. His expression is one of a wounded man. “I do care–”

“I’m sure you care. But not enough.” Gabe finishes off his drink and gets to his feet. He nearly loses footing on a step. Pete reaches for him, but Gabe catches himself in time. “I’m going back to the bar.”

Pete steps in front of him. “I think we should have a talk about this before you drink anymore–”

“In case you haven’t noticed–” Gabe comes down a step closer, “talking doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Let’s just have one conversation without bringing up Patrick at all. Completely mutually exclusive. We’ll sort through whatever is going on with us and address the Patrick issue when we’re sober.”

Gabe chuckles and points his empty glass at Pete, tapping it against his chest. “That’s the thing, Pete. We can’t ignore the elephant in the room. He’s deeply buried in all of this shit!”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Gabe opens his mouth, but burps. “I think… let’s just get another drink.”

“You’re not drinking any more tonight–”

“Fucking watch me,” Gabe fires back, and ambles away.

.

When Patrick finishes purging and steps out to wash his hands, William has finally left. Now having no eyes on himself for once, he takes the opportunity to make his escape. Another moment watching all these hypocrites celebrate blissful matrimony and false happy-ever-afters, and he’ll vomit again.

He texts Pete, I’m going to bed early if anyone asks – not that anyone will, of course– and turns off his phone before walking out of the hotel and down the dimly-lit road. He’s pretty sure there’s a small bar a mile down, and he’s proven right when he sees the lights of a brick-and-wood structure with a somewhat sagging roof that will probably be condemned within five years. The sign says Marley’s Bar. Not exactly the glitz and glamour of Ryan and Jon’s wedding, but it’ll do.

Patrick steps inside, takes a seat at the bar, and orders a beer from the white-haired bartender. Looking around, there’s a taxidermied deer head on the wall, framed black-and-white photos of trees, rusty bear traps hanging from the ceiling. The few patrons tonight are at the pool table, but there’s one person sitting alone in the corner and lighting up a cigarette– Brendon. Their eyes meet. Brendon exhales a puff of smoke and holds out the cigarette, inviting Patrick to come sit.

“I thought you couldn’t smoke in bars anymore.” Patrick gingerly takes the cigarette. He sucks in a puff and immediately begins coughing, smoke curling out. Even back in the day, he wasn’t one for the occasional cigarette while partying– as if he wasn’t destroying himself already.

Fortunately, Brendon pretends not to notice. “Well, I need it. I told the bartender I lost the love of my life and he let me off. And then I gave him a fifty dollar tip.”

“Ryan was not the love of your life.”

Brendon scowls. “Why are you here? To make me apologize? Because I’m not going to. I’m not a fucking sheep.”

“No, I’m not. But apologizing might be a good idea if you wanna stay signed.”

“I mean, I will. It’s not going to change how I feel though.”

“Nobody is asking you to do that.” Patrick takes another drag of the cigarette, and hands it back. He clears his throat and rasps, “Sorry to interrupt your wallowing.”

“No, I’d rather have company. My head is too quiet.” Brendon taps the cigarette against an empty glass, ash falling to the bottom. “Spencer’s already at the airport. He wanted to see if he could get his flight moved to tonight. I don’t think he wants to so much as be on the same plane as me, so I took the hint and decided to wait until the morning. Dude didn’t even blink when I said so.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Since when do you have history with Ryan?”

“No, I don’t mean that. Gabe uninvited me from his wedding. I’m sure Pete will get me back on the list… but man, that hurt.”

Brendon nods in sympathy. “Let me buy you a beer.”

He hands off the cigarette to Patrick and gets up to go to the bar. Patrick watches the smoke floating in the air while he waits, and his eyes drift to the cigarette and the fat fingers it’s balanced between. Pudgy, pale sausages. No wonder Gabe is so confident in himself. A fat lump like Patrick has no hope of drawing Pete’s attention.

When Brendon comes back with the beer, Patrick thanks him and takes a gulp. Immediately, he’s feeling gutsy. “You really used to rip Ryan apart, you know that?”

“Look, it’s nothing I’m proud of now—”

“I need you to do the same thing to me.”

About to reach for the cigarette, Brendon freezes and slowly recoils his hand. “What? Patrick, no, I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Look, I’m not gonna do anything crazy,” Patrick promises. “I’m pretty stable at the moment. I just need that push to lose a few pounds, you know?”

Brendon sighs and steals the cigarette back. “I don’t know. It’s too risky, I’m already in enough hot water. Can’t you wait until there’s time to draw up an NDA or something?”

“Brendon, I’m not gonna tell. It’s mutually-assured destruction— if anyone knew, Pete would financially cut me off for sure this time.”

“Well, that sure makes me feel a lot better.”

“It’ll help you let off some steam. Come on.”

Although his nervous eyes dart around to make sure nobody is listening, Brendon seems to consider. “If you’re serious about this, what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“A feature in one of your music videos. Pete told me it’s up to you, and I intend on getting my body-switching plotline.”

Patrick holds back a groan.“Fine. Deal. I’ll tell Pete you’re in.”

“Let’s continue this outside, then.”

Patrick picks up his beer, and follows Brendon out the door. They sit at a log bench at the edge of the gravel parking lot.

Brendon takes one last long drag before throwing the cigarette at the ground and stomping it out. “Shirt off.”

Patrick shrugs off his suit jacket, loosens his tie, and unbuttons his shirt. Brendon takes one look at the pouch of belly hanging over his jeans and snickers.

Revulsion ripples through Patrick’s body.

Chapter Text

Part 3 - Gabe and Pete’s Wedding (Winter 2014)

Pete stares up at the roofing, slowly rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Are you sure the seller fixed it?”

The real estate agent, a smartly-dressed blonde in her mid-thirties, bobs her head, turquoise earrings swinging back and forth. “Every single issue the home inspector found, the seller has fixed.” She hands her clipboard to Pete and leans forward, showing off a glimpse of cleavage. “We might be able to get a closer look if we head up to the balcony off the master bedroom. The roofing has been replaced with the closest color to the original they could find. They’re designer asphalt shingles, actually. Not only do they look stunning, but they’re thicker and will absorb the impact of hail, they’re algae-resistent… it could actually reduce your home insurance premium.” The woman pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and grins white and pearly teeth– are those veneers? “Just a drop in the bucket for our seller. No expense was spared. He told me he hoped the peace of mind would be an excellent moving-in gift for the two of you.”

Behind the two, Gabe squints at the roof, arms crossed. He doesn’t see much of a difference. However, Pete looks up at the roof and hums. “Huh, designer roof shingles. They got everything these days.”

Gabe clears his throat to get the two’s attention before Pete could dare sneak a peek at the realtor’s boobs. “Can we go inside? Pete’s got a busy schedule today.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Pete says, looking around the front lawn. “What about that badger hole?”

“It’s been filled in. I’ll show you.” The realtor’s black heels click across the driveway pavement. She steps gingerly into the grass, searching before pointing near the house foundation. “Here, come look.” As Pete and Gabe approach, she so happens to bend over the hole. A laughable attempt to show off her ass in the pencil skirt. Gabe has to resist rolling his eyes. No wonder this woman went into L.A. real estate, to work her way up to selling mansions and seduce celebrities. He would commend the effort if she wasn’t trying to have an affair with his fiance. “As you can see, it's completely filled in. You won’t ever know it was there.” She pokes it with her heel for emphasis. “The badger has been sent to a wildlife rescue in Pasadena, so no reason to feel guilty.”

Gabe scoffs. “Why did we have to get rid of the badger, Pete? It wasn’t doing anything.”

Pete ignores him. “Let’s continue with the walk-through.”

“Of course!” The turquoise earrings jangle as she stands up. “Let’s head inside.”

Gabe disgruntledly follows behind, walking through the empty, cavernous, and overpriced shell that will soon become their home. They can’t get a straight answer on who used to live here– all the realtor says is that it once belonged to a secretive 90s sitcom star she claims they’d recognize right away. Whoever it was at least had decent taste– no outlandishly lavish features like an indoor pool or gold-tiled bathroom, unlike other homes they’d looked at. Six bedrooms in a secure neighborhood at the cost of millions is outlandish in the first place, but it’s L.A. after all. At least there’s a backyard tennis court and two-story luxury dog house, which certainly convinced Pete. All that matters is that as soon as the keys have been handed over, Gabe will be one step closer to ridding himself of Patrick– as long as he plays all of his cards right.

They head into the living room, where Pete inspects the grout of the fireplace tiling. “That definitely looks better.”

“Aside from the fact that the tiling pattern is hideous, ” Gabe sneers.

“Well, there’s plenty of possibilities for remodeling the living room to suit your taste if you choose.” The real estate agent pats the wall. “This wall could be easily knocked down, opening up lots more space if you merge the library space–”

“We will not be getting rid of the library,” Gabe interjects.

Pete frowns. “I like the tiling pattern. It’s very art deco.”

Gabe tries not to roll his eyes. “Since when are you into art deco?”

As Pete opens his mouth, Gabe’s phone begins chiming. He takes it from his pocket. “Which country’s phone numbers start with six-eight-seven?”

“Uh, the country we’re having our wedding in?” Pete says flatly.

“Oh. I’ve been expecting a call from the hotel. Hang on.” Gabe answers, wandering off to the kitchen. “Hello? Yes, this is Mr. Saporta. Uh-huh…”

“Should we wait for your fiance, or do you want to continue with the walk-through?” asks the real estate agent. Pete kneels down in front of the fireplace.

“Let’s see how long that call takes first.” Pete tries gripping and tugging at pieces of tile, testing its stability.

“So, international wedding?” Her brows raise with a smile. “Where are you headed?”

“New Caledonia.”

“Oh, lovely! Where exactly is that?”

“It’s an island, not too far from Australia.”

“Must be stressful, getting closer to the big day and closing on a house.”

“Um, yeah. I suppose.” Pete jiggles a tile. “This one is loose.”

“Let me see that.” She kneels down. Reaching carefully, her hand brushes against Pete’s, slow and tantalizing. Grabbing hold of the tile in question, she tugs gently– it pries off the wall, and she giggles in surprise. “Oh dear! I didn’t expect that.” Setting the tile on the floor, fingers nudge against Pete’s with a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell the seller it fell off all on its own.”

“That’d be great.” Pete moves his hand away to scratch the back of his neck, somehow still clueless as to her advances. “I knew something was off with that fireplace.”

“You certainly have a great eye.” She sits on the stone hearth, paying little mind to how her skirt rides above her smoothly-shaven knees. “I don’t know about your fiance, however.”

Pete shrugs. “Different tastes, that’s all.”

She sighs nostalgically. “That’s what I used to say about my ex-husband.”

Pete’s head swivels to her. “Huh?”

Gabe walks back into the living room. “So sorry about that. Pete, the wedding is the same week as a biking competition. The hotel is already being booked up– there might not be as many rooms as we initially thought.”

“Well, who hasn’t booked a hotel room yet?”

“You’d be surprised. I really thought the group discount would be motivation in itself.” Gabe shakes his head, pocketing his cell. “So, what next?”

The real estate jolts to life, fumbling for her clipboard and shooting to her feet. “So, next on the list– the fixes to the nursery. Let’s head upstairs.”

“You know she’s into you, right?”

“Really?” Pete dips a sweet potato fry into some kind of green dip and gnaws on it. “I wouldn’t say she was that obvious.”

“Are you kidding? It’s pathetic. She was showing off her ass that whole time.”

“I try not to look at women’s asses anymore, thank you very much.”

Gabe leans back against the stiff, wooden booth of the hip vegetarian joint on Pico they’ve decided to eat lunch at. The brick walls are painted white and decorated with neon signs, and the napkins are a delightful orange. Pete’s been here for one-on-one meetings and already knew what he was ordering– a veggie burger with mushrooms and goat cheese, accompanied by a side of sweet potato fries and that dip Gabe has been staring at for five minutes. It may be bright green, but Gabe refuses to even think of swiping one of Pete’s fries to try a drop– it looks too good, it must be filled with oily mayo or thick cream. Gabe would much rather stick to his falafel and mediterranean side salad, the dressing left untouched. He’s already regretting telling the waitress he’d abstain from the included side of pita, hummus, and baba ghanoush– it feels like a crime to eat falafel so plain. But this is how you get skinny. You know how many calories are in that shit.

“She was totally coming onto you.” Gabe pokes a falafel ball around his half-finished plate. “It was painful, babe.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She did say something about her ex-husband right before you came in after the call.”

Pete, you are so incredibly dense, are the words Gabe bites back. “You didn’t think she was cute, right?”

Pete scoffs and wipes a drop of the green dip off his chin. “No, of course not. You saw her. Doesn’t even come close to you.”

“Aw,” says Gabe softly. He finally digs his form into the falafel ball, spearing it into tiny, green bites. Then he continues: “In what way?”

“First of all, she was nearly middle-aged and it’s blatantly obvious she had botox around her eyes– there’s something weird about the way she smiles. And honestly, she was a little out of shape.”

Ouch, that strikes Gabe right in the chest. What if he did slip like her? If directed at him, a comment like that would send him spiraling. Change the subject and brood over it on the treadmill later. Now! “We should talk about the guest list soon. I can think of a couple people who haven’t told me they’ve booked their rooms yet.”

“Oh yeah. Who?”

“Well, for one… Patrick hasn’t expressed much interest.”

“I can imagine why,” grumbles Pete, dipping another fry. “We’re not taking Patrick off the guest list.”

“He hasn’t booked his room yet. If he doesn’t before the hotel fills up, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Or we’ll just get Patrick a room at a hotel somewhere down the beach.”

“You can. I’m not helping with shit.”

“Gabe, are you upset that the realtor was flirting with me? I didn’t even realize what was going on. I thought we were doing better lately– and I want us to be doing better. I thought we had a silent agreement to lay off on Patrick.”

Gabe’s head snaps up. “What silent agreement?”

He had to be kidding. In actuality, it was exhausting to argue with Pete, who refused to listen, already forever convinced of Patrick’s muse-like qualities. Gabe had no choice but to take a break from pushing his case to actually plan the wedding, or there wouldn’t even be a wedding to argue over in the first place.

Unfortunately, that lack of resistance meant Gabe didn’t notice until it was too late that Patrick did get an invitation to the wedding, and now it’s going to be a thousand times harder to uninvite him. Pity.

“I mean… we did stop talking about it. I thought you were getting over it.”

“Do you think I’m going to ever get over what he did to us?”

“Babe, you keep using that word. ‘Us.’”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“I just don’t feel the same way about it that you do.”

“Don’t act like it didn’t affect you too.”

“It did, but I’ve moved on. He was drunk. He had a problem.”

“Pete, I have explained to you a thousand times why I don’t want to be around him. Why I don’t want him at our wedding.” The falafel grows blurry through Gabe’s tears. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Pete shifts uneasily in his seat. “Look, Gabe… by your logic, I shouldn’t forgive you for kissing William. But I damn try, because just like Patrick you were drunk, you and William both have issues–”

Gabe grits his teeth together, blood burning. “It isn’t the same thing and you know it.”

Before Pete can protest, their blue-haired waitress pops out of nowhere. “How’s the food?”

“Uh.” Taken aback, Pete forces a smile. “Oh, uh, great. Could we have the bill and takeout boxes? Thanks.”

Gabe remains silent, fists clenched in his lap while the waitress answers in the affirmative and walks away. When she’s out of earshot, Gabe blinks away the tears that have been brimming in his eyes and stands. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“You wouldn’t care either way,” Gabe mumbles to himself.

.

The gray skies of London-Heathrow are a profound contrast to the milder blue skies of Southern Europe. Just that morning, they were eating Seville oranges and lemony magdalenas , and sipping café con leche. Now, Ryan is standing in an overpriced airport shop as Jon inspects the soggy packaged sandwiches.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to find a restaurant?” Ryan asks. “We have plenty of time before boarding.”

“We’ve already spent so much on eating out.”

“The exchange rate for euros is great right now. We’re doing just fine.”

“I know, I just…” Jon picks up a ham and cheese sandwich, grimacing as he inspects it through the plastic. “Maybe I can stomach this shitty British sandwich if I try.”

“No, our appetites have been spoiled for five weeks. I want real food too. Come on.”

Jon puts down the sandwich with a smile. “Well, if you insist!”

After some walking around, they decide to try Gordon Ramsay’s Plane Food restaurant out of curiosity, not expecting much but maybe a few fancy burgers. When they look at the a la carte menu, it’s nothing to sneer at– nevermind, they actually sneer at it.

“Baby squid?” Jon whispers under his breath. “As a starter? That’s the last thing I’d want to eat before getting on a plane.”

“It could be worse,” says Ryan. “If you’re feeling unadventurous, get the burger.”

“I told you, I’m not ordering a single burger until we’re back in the U.S. Do you think they’ll judge me if I get the spinach and ricotta pancake without mushroom sauce?”

“Of course not. You’re a picky American.”

“Hey, I can be adventurous– I ate a fried artichoke in Rome.”

“Yeah. Emphasis on fried.”

Eventually they quit their banter to order. They decide to share a starter of smoked salmon, avocado, fennel and toasted bread. Jon, of course, ends up getting a spinach and ricotta pancake with a Burford brown egg and without mushroom sauce. Ryan errs on the side of caution with a small salad of crunchy beetroot, roasted seeds, and feta.

Ryan knows logically he doesn’t have to order a beetroot salad and there’s room to spoil himself a little– for weeks, they’ve been walking what feels like the entirety of the continent, from hiking in the Pyrenees to navigating the narrow streets of Athens. Their honeymoon had started in Iceland– bitterly cold at this time of year, but the warmth of the Hveravellir hot spring and their discounted hotel room made up for it. From there they continued to blustery London for a few days. The snow refused to let up, so most of their time was spent in museums and bookshops. Amsterdam was next on the list, where they ate weed-infused pastries after a jaunt at the Rijksmuseum. Then there were baguettes in Bordeaux, berliners in Berlin, and bejgli at Budapest’s Christmas market. Before 2013’s official end, they climbed the many steps to reach the ruins of the Parthenon, marvelling at the view and trying to imagine how it’d look with the stolen Elgin Marbles they’d seen at the British Museum just weeks ago. Ryan finished E.M. Forster’s novel Room with a View on the flight to Italy and insisted on trying to trace the characters’ steps in Florence, visiting the River Arno and Piazza della Signoria.

By the time they reached Spain, the exhaustion was beginning to catch up with them, so they slashed their itinerary in half. For a week, mornings were spent eating a light desayuno at the small cafe down the street, then the afternoon wandering the city or relaxing on their room’s balcony strumming a guitar they’d struggled to rent from a local music shop with only the aid of Google Translate. With how much material they’d accidentally written by the end of the week, Ryan had already decided the Young Veins’ next album would be about traveling Europe, except each song would be the view of one country from different classic authors. Spain would be Hemingway, of course. In the evenings, Jon would try not to contemplate his terror of the imagined Hemingway song while they dined on tapas and wine while watching flamenco, and he wondered how to suggest Ryan read Don Quixote instead without being too obvious about it– for everyone’s sake. As soon as Pete would hear that Ryan wanted to imitate Hemingway’s style, Jon would have no choice but to resign himself to such an abomination.

Sometimes they had sex, of course. That was nice too.

The point of this lengthy and unnecessarily detailed travel itinerary is that: their honeymoon was a good time, and Europe contains a lot of food– both the best and worst part.

If the curtain is pulled back on that first paragraph, it isn’t merely baguettes and berliners and bejgli– it’s standing shirtless in an Icelandic hot spring and trying not to look down at your paunchy stomach full of a tolerable airplane breakfast not even worth the calories. It’s aimlessly following Jon around the British museum with a grumbling belly and staring dully at some random stone, not realizing its importance until Jon snaps a picture and says, “Ryan! It’s the fucking Rosetta Stone! Wow!” It’s falling to your knees at the top of the Parthenon not out of sheer amazement, but because your knees ache and your head is pounding. It’s sitting on benches in Europe’s many city centers, Jon stroking your hand and asking, “Are you sure you want to keep going? We can book a flight back to the U.S. if it’s too much. We can always come back when you’re better.” But Ryan had to keep going– he wouldn’t ruin his own honeymoon, damn it. And Jon knew he was trying. Despite the fear, Ryan was gorging himself on gelato and pasta– it’s just that all that damn walking in Europe for five weeks straight will naturally cause weight loss.

Staring down at his overpriced beetroot salad, Ryan suddenly wishes they weren’t heading home. How nice it would be, to stay surrounded by an ancient city as his muse, to eat the same magdalenas and café con leche and oranges each morning and yet still lose weight. Maybe Europe is the solution to all his problems. As soon as they get back, Ryan will start googling which countries will give him a talent visa and recognize same-sex marriage. There’s a sense of optimism that laces his memories of the honeymoon. Even in the rough moments, they could stop to admire the yawning cities and towering castles, holding each other’s hands to marvel at the majesty of life, and the fact they won such an impossible chance to coexist together in this huge universe down to the fleeting moment of here and now.

Still, all the romance in the world will unfortunately not get Jon off Ryan’s back. He doesn’t comment on the salad or how Ryan has only eaten a few bites; instead, he simply says, “When we get back, you’re going to call your therapist, right?”

Ryan looks a little offended. “Of course, I promised you.”

“Well… even if she wants you to do more intensive treatment?”

“You mean inpatient hell?”

“Not necessarily. But if that’s her recommendation.”

“I don’t want to spend the first year of our marriage in the hospital. Can’t we just stay in Spain forever? I was doing just fine in Spain.”

Jon takes Ryan’s hand under the table and rubs his thumb across the back of his hand. “We can always come back to Spain.”

“Everyone is expecting a tour announcement any day now,” Ryan murmurs. “We can’t let them down, either.”

“They’ll just have to wait. Your health is far more important, Ryan.”

The tines of Ryan’s fork tap the plate in frustration as he looks out toward the windows of the nearest gate, at the vast stretches of concrete and ugly gray sky. A plane runs and shoots up from the distant runway, gliding through the air. Ryan wonders what destination awaits them after the flight attendants fatten them up with shitty plane food. Certainly something prettier than a hospital’s drab walls.

“Look, Ryan,” Jon says. “I know how hard you’ve been trying for me over this honeymoon. I mean, I’ve seen everything you’ve eaten, so I know.”

Yes, another unfortunate truth of being married; Jon had watched him eat nearly every morsel of food consumed on this trip, from garlic bread spread with seaweed butter in London to bags of potato chips and foreign chocolate bars bought from tiny corner stores where cats wandered in and slinked around their ankles. Despite how nicely it was said, there is no hiding the truth that Jon knows full well just how fat his husband is. And Ryan hates it. “Uh-huh.”

“I don’t know what the therapist is going to recommend for you, but whatever it is, I’m going to support you through it. Okay?”

Ryan musters a smile. “Thanks. But it better not be inpatient. I’m not doing inpatient again.”

“We’ll figure it out. You’re an adult, you have a say. I don’t think it’ll be inpatient this time around– at least, I hope not.”

Although it should be a reassuring thought, there’s a slight sting. Ryan almost wishes he was considered sick enough for inpatient. He may have been skinny enough for his wedding, but he was still able to eat like there was no tomorrow and climb up the Parthenon– ignoring the fact he did almost pass out. It’s not like Ryan wants to lose his independence again, but… the thought of  being fattened up again with good ol’ American calories sends a shiver down his spine.

“As long as I’m able to attend Gabe and Pete’s wedding in a few months.” Ryan glances out the window again. “I can’t be stuck at home while everyone else parties in the Pacific.”

“I hope so.” Jon sighs. “If there’s even a wedding at all. I've heard the two have been… distant lately.”

“It must just be cold feet,” Ryan says quickly. “They’re Gabe and Pete, after all. They’ll get over it.”

“Right, right. They will. You think that too, right?”

Ryan pushes his beets around the plate, remembering when Pete had closed his eyes and leaned in, on the morning of Ryan’s fucking wedding day. How could he not doubt the strength of Pete’s relationship if he had already gone that far?

Pete repeatedly tosses the set of keys in his hands, the jingling echoing through the shell of a house. He and Gabe stand in the middle of the empty living room, absorbing the walls that they can now call home. They should be celebrating– after all, buying a house together is a milestone not every couple accomplishes. However, they stand quiet, avoiding each other’s eyes. The happiness that should be bubbling up is blocked by the thick tension that has followed them all week like a raincloud waiting to burst.

“Do you hear the sink dripping?” Gabe asks. “I think I hear the sink dripping.”

Pete finally meets his eyes. “That’s the first thing you’ve said since we got in here.”

“You haven’t said much either.”

“What do you want me to say? You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder the whole week. I want to celebrate this as much as you do.”

“I’m going to check if the sink is dripping–”

Pete steps in front of him. “Look, I’ve been thinking–”

“You’ve been thinking for once?” Gabe crosses his arms. “Oh, this should be good.”

Pete’s eyes glare daggers, but he inhales sharply and exhales. “I’m going to ignore that comment,” he says tersely. “What I want to say is… if you lay off on Patrick coming to the wedding, I will forget everything that happened at Ryan and Jon’s wedding. We can start fresh and pretend it never happened. Even the kiss with William. I just want you back, Gabe. I will forgive anything you ask me to.”

Gabe’s emotionless mask falls at the admission, jaw dropping. “Wow. Um…” He stands there for a few moments, pondering the offer.

It sounds almost too good to be true. Pete will take back everything he has ever said, will control-alt-delete all his memories prior, and all Gabe needs to do is let Patrick come to the wedding. All he needs to do is try not to look at the deeply unpleasant face in the crowd while standing underneath the flower-laden canopy, on the most important day of his life. Truly, it isn’t a bad deal. But could you really do it?

“Look, Pete. I…” Gabe turns toward the glass doors that overlook the empty swimming pool. He blinks a few times. Even the winter sun hurts his eyes, still raw from trying and failing to choke down a sob that morning. “I will accept that. But when you say you’ll forget everything, I want that to include what I said about losing weight. You will not treat me like I’m in the middle of a relapse. As if you would even notice it.” Gabe chuckles a little, thinking this is lighthearted. “So it shouldn’t be much of a change. Okay?”

He turns back to Pete, but Gabe’s optimism is misplaced. Instead, Pete’s expression drops, wounded by his words. “You think I haven’t noticed? I have. I have agonized over you, I have lost sleep because of you. I’ve thought a thousand times to bring it up, and never have, because you would never even listen to what I have to say when you’re so hung up over Patrick. God forbid I even suggest I think speaking to William so much is triggering you!”

“You said you would forgive anything!”

“I can’t forgive the fact you’re hurting yourself!”

“Really? Well, look in the fucking mirror! Because your complete disregard for the fact I feel like Patrick violated us–no, just me, apparently–only makes it worse! Seeing him reminds me that he saw me . He saw you shoving your penis into my flabby buttcheeks, he saw the swinging fat on my thighs and my stomach jiggling back and forth like jello, he saw EVERYTHING!”

Gabe takes a gulp of air and reaches for his forehead– the sudden escalation only gives him a headache. He looks up. Pete stands frozen, eyes focused on something behind Gabe. Wondering what could possibly be more important than revealing his disgustingly-disordered inner monologue, Gabe turns.

Standing behind the glass doors in the yard are Patrick, Joe, and Andy holding Taco Bell bags, equally as paralyzed and shocked.

“How the hell did you all get past the security system?” Gabe demands.

“It’s not on yet,” Pete murmurs.

Patrick sits cross-legged alone by the empty pool, nibbling his soggy cheesy gordita and watching the wispy white clouds float by. He wonders if he regrets what he did. Gabe painted quite the vivid picture– if Patrick closes his eyes, he can smell beer stains and sex, hear Pete’s strained noises, see his fingers skimming bare ribs and hipbones.

Taking a bite of gordita, Patrick wonders if that’s the issue– Gabe must be so self-conscious of his body, it’s unfathomable another human being possibly saw it. That must certainly be it. At this point, Patrick doesn’t care to think about it any more than that. He just knows that in some hypothetical situation if Gabe watched him having sex instead, Patrick wouldn’t give a shit– although then again, Patrick doesn’t really have sex anymore, so he can’t claim to know how he’d react. A healthy libido requires calories. A valorous sacrifice. Sex is out, while ruminating over Brendon’s fatspo is in.

The glass door slides open, and someone’s sneakers pad on the stone path. Gabe sits next to Patrick without making eye contact, staring forward at the pool and swinging his legs over the edge.

“What are you doing out here?” Patrick grumbles, rubbing his greasy fingers against a paper napkin. “I thought you couldn’t bear my sheer presence.”

Gabe’s tone is stoney and straightforward. “Pete and I talked. You can come to the wedding, but only if you can afford the flight to New Caledonia with your own money.”

“What? I don’t exactly have the money to fly across the Pacific on my own, Gabe.”

“With the upcoming FOB album, you should be just fine. You’re still invited to the wedding; don’t be surprised you’re going to be treated like every other guest.”

“Fine.”

“And if your behavior is even slightly subpar, you’re kicked out. Got it? I’m not taking anymore fucking chances on you. That includes disordered bullshit, by the way. Don’t you dare faint at my fucking wedding.”

Wind rustles through the ripe orange trees dotted around the yard. Patrick crumples the rest of his gordita in its wrapper. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dickhead.”

“You don’t even deserve one, you ass.” Gabe gets to his feet. “If Pete asks, we had a perfectly polite conversation.”

“Sure.” Patrick stands and offers his hand to shake. Gabe shrinks back.

“I don’t wanna touch your disgusting Taco Bell hands.”

“Don’t pretend the oil on my hands is any worse than your fucking vomit.”

Gabe grabs Patrick’s hand and squeezes it tight, shaking roughly and quickly letting go. “Whatever. Fucking deal.” He wipes a dab of sour cream off on Patrick’s shirt sleeve. “Just stop being Pete’s clingy parasite, or you’ll regret it.”

“No, I won’t. You’re shit at doing anything about it.”

Gabe doesn’t say a word and turns around. On his way to the door, he picks up a green fallen orange the size of a golf ball and pelts it at Patrick, who steps aside. It misses and lands in the empty pool. Dissatisfied, Gabe storms inside, and Patrick grins.

Chapter Text

Two hands reach for the same purple box of laxatives. William’s head turns and sees Patrick’s arm shrinking back.

“What are you doing here?” William asks. “You don’t live around here.”

“You don’t live around here either,” says Patrick, looking around. During the midst of the Chicago winter, the two have found themselves at the Wicker Park CVS, located inside of a 1920s-era bank building with dramatic high ceilings and low-relief sculpture.

“I walked here. The aesthetic is my post-workout treat.” William grabs a box of laxatives and throws it into his basket, then another, then another. “Plus, I need to stock up before the wedding. Who knows if they have laxatives in New Caledonia?”

“I’m pretty sure they have laxatives in New Caledonia,” Patrick replies, tossing a box into his basket. “I was in the neighborhood for a colonic.”

“Oh, I know exactly where you went. They won’t even let me near that place anymore– some liability issues with my weight so low, I guess. Turns out too many colonics will give you heart problems– but that was inevitable anyway, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Patrick says slowly, looking William up and down. Since Ryan and Jon’s wedding, his figure has further diminished into jagged shapes and baggy clothes. His jaw has become angular and his face is strange– is it just rosiness from the cold, or has he begun to develop the distinctive nose of a severe anorexic? Patrick’s stomach drops. Even he never reached such a point, for his face to blatantly give away his eating disorder.

“It’s really their loss,” William seamlessly continues, taking another box. “Laxatives are far cheaper than a colonic. Congrats on the shiny clean anus, though. It’s great to feel that empty, isn’t it?”

“Bill, you’re disgusting. I don’t want to talk about my colon any more.”

“Oh, please. If we were still doing that Decaydance Weightloss Competition crap, we’d be talking about colonics all day. Wanna grab lunch together? HA!” William weakly jabs Patrick’s arm. “That was a joke, man, lighten up. You looked terrified!”

“I’d say we could have a coffee, but… well, I’ve already been pretty cleaned out.”

“So we’ll grab tea on the walk back,” William says. “You should know this won’t change much, though. I’ll always be on Gabe’s side. Sorry. And you did kinda make me relapse.”

Patrick stares up at the vaulted ceiling and wishes desperately to disappear into it. “Then why are you talking to me?”

“Well, we reached for the same laxative box. It’s a sign from the universe, dude. You don’t ignore that shit.”

“Someone’s feeling social for once.”

William grins and says proudly, “I had a protein bar this morning.”

After paying, they walk a few blocks through frigid weather and icy sidewalks to the nearest coffee shop. Warmly embraced by the aroma of coffee beans and fresh pastries, Patrick groans. Why the fuck do I have to get hungry right after my colonic? I only did that holistic bullshit to get rid of the water weight!

“Do you want to split a cheese danish?” William asks Patrick, who cannot control his eager nodding. “Great. I walked six miles today and I’m starved.”

“You really fucking are, jackass,” Patrick mutters enviously. William beams with pride.

William orders the cheese danish and an Americano. Patrick gets an orange mandarin herbal tea, hoping the touch of citrus will help invigorate him in preparation for sultry summer on the other hemisphere. They sit down at a table and sip the steaming hot drinks, savoring the burnt tongues that follow.

“I bet you’re excited to get out of this weather,” Patrick says, looking out of the window at the sludgy salt-crusted city.

“At what cost?” William raises. He cups his warm coffee with frosty fingers. “Gabe better be glad that I love him, because this trip is bleeding me dry. My last single didn’t make half as much as it costs to fly across the world for a full week.”

“Then how can you even afford it?”

“I happened to make a few lucky investments after the recession,” William says. “Not that it’s much, but I suppose I’m comfortable for the next few years until I can come up with a better record deal and another hit. If not, then guess I’ll die.” An abrupt chuckle. “How about you? Gabe mentioned Pete’s making you pay for it on your own.”

“We’ve got the new album coming up, so while my wallet hurts, I guess I’ll be okay. Pete bought me a new Fender.”

“No shit. What is it?”

“Half-apology, half-compensation. One-hundred-percent bribe to make me be normal at the wedding.”

“Oh. I meant what type of Fender.”

“I don’t fucking know anymore. It’s a Telecaster. Blue. Costs money. Same as every other fucking guitar he’s bought me, I guess.”

“I wish I got a Fender for going to someone’s wedding,” William bemoans. He pulls the cheese danish plate closer and rips it in half, then slides its remains across to Patrick. “Don’t take this personally– I know I’m a little gossipy…”

“More like a catty bitch.”

“As some would say.” William glares pointedly, and continues. “But I don’t even think I’d even be able to have the heart to tell Gabe his fiance is buying… you… brand new guitars all the time.”

“Not like he needs to know. It’s barely a drop in the bucket considering Pete’s finances. Hell, the guitar probably costs as much as their fancy-ass espresso machine.”

William takes a bite of cheese danish and moans. “Wow, this is creamy. I haven’t had a single good pastry since Ryan and Jon’s wedding. So, are you gonna actually do it?”

“Of course I’m going to eat the cheese danish.”

“No, I mean be normal.”

“I’ll try. It’s not like Pete can take the guitar back now. Or forcibly deport me from a French territory. He’s rich, but not bribe-the-French-government rich.”

“So you’re really not planning on it, then.” William takes another bite and grabs a napkin, spitting into it. “Sorry, it’s just that this is a little hard on my stomach, and I’ve still gotta walk back home.”

“I get it,” Patrick says, despite his immediate irritated sigh. “But no, I’m really going to try.”

William balls up the wet napkin. “You’re not convincing anyone.”

“You already clarified that you’re on Gabe’s side. You’re biased.” Patrick picks up his half of the remaining cheese danish, nibbling on the pale filling. “Mmph. Shit, that is good.”

“Look, Patrick, buddy, I love you. I’ll always love you. But you did fuck Gabe up pretty bad, you gotta admit.”

“We all fucked each other up. So what? Gabe was the one who triggered me into fasting in the UK and fainting backstage, but hey, I’ve forgiven him. I’m not still crying over it.”

William is very still, his sunken eyes piercing through Patrick’s soul. “You know it’s not the same thing.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, I was drunk! Just tell Gabe to go back to therapy or something, I dunno.”

“Why do you insist on going to the wedding so much?” William leans forward. “Gabe gave you an ultimatum, didn’t he? Admit your big fat crush on poor Pete, or leave him the fuck alone. When will you follow through? Why do you want to cause yourself so much pain by attending the wedding of the man you’re so desperately in love with?”

Gripping the cheese danish in hand, crumbs fall to the table. Patrick’s face curls into a sneer. “You don’t have any right to talk about this to me.”

“Gabe was right. You’re pathetic.” William stands and chucks his wet lumpy napkin at Patrick’s chest, spilling chewed-up danish across his shirt. “Bye.”

As William marches out with his Americano, Patrick shoots up from his chair and chases after. “No, wait! I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to be such an idiot! And I don’t know if you should walk home alone!”

The bell above the door rings as William swings it open. Outside in the blustery air, he finally stops and spins on his heel. “Don’t play dumb with me. Be honest, you just want one last shot at stealing Pete away. You’re gonna pull a Brendon at the wedding.”

“I… what? No! I would never!” Patrick hisses underneath his breath. “You seriously don’t think I would stoop so low?”

“Gabe would think so.”

“Why is it always about what he thinks?”

“Because it’s his fucking wedding, idiot.” William turns, but Patrick grabs him by the shoulder.

“At least let’s talk this out. I’ll walk you home–”

“Screw off. I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own.”

“You can’t even eat half a fucking cheese danish.”

William brushes Patrick’s hand away. “Yeah? I hope you pass out on the toilet tonight after taking all those laxatives, fuckhead. Don’t mess up Gabe’s wedding or you’ll regret it.”

“Says the guy who kissed him. Oh, but you were drunk— not that it seems to excuse anything.”

William ignores the remark, marching away with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

The apartment is dark when he gets back, the couch a shadow. Rather than bother with the closed curtains, William drops the plastic CVS bag and collapses on the couch for breath, his knees and ribs aching, lungs burning. Only his comeback from earlier had driven him all this way— man, it feels good to have told Patrick to literally shit himself to unconsciousness. Although now thinking on it, it’s pretty fucked. “...but that’s what he gets,” William murmurs to himself, pushing a lump of dirty clothes away from his head and onto the floor so he can lay comfortably. He takes his phone from his pocket, cringing at the bright light, and instinctively goes to text Z.

18:43 Z something CRAZY just happened. Call?

18:44 We can text if you want instead too. Texting is also cool.

18:47 I walked 12 miles today so i’m a little out of breath so hey if you wanna text, i don’t mind! Hahaha.

19:03 Whenever you want! I’m not doing anything tonight.

In the meantime, William waits, staring at his screen for twenty minutes and trying not to think about his pathetic series of texts. He checks the weather and it’s cold as always. He continues the Words with Friends game he has going with Ryan and almost drags over the ‘S’ to make the word ‘slim,’ but thinks twice and instead makes ‘blimp.’ A beautiful fifteen points until Ryan makes the word ‘whale’ and William starts searching the board for a perfect weight-related insult to fire back, knowing it’s not personal but wanting an excuse to get upset, binge, purge, and go through the seven stages of grief while huddled on a toilet in the throes of laxative hell.

Finally Z’s call pops up on his screen. William scrambles to answer. “Hey! You’re finally not busy?

“Bill, can you stop texting me all this anorexic stuff? I get the need to brag, but twelve miles… you’re fucked.”

“I have to stretch my legs before Gabe’s wedding. New Caledonia, baby! We’re gonna be hiking and swimming all over the place. There’s still time if you want to be my plus one…”

“Are you sure you should even be going?”

“What do you mean? It’s Gabe and Pete’s wedding, of course I gotta. You really should come– it’s going to be the gay celebrity wedding of the year. They have three photographers, a wedding painter, and an exclusive in Vogue!”

“What I mean is that… from everything you’ve told me, I don’t know if you’re exactly fit enough to fly across the globe. I saw that drunk picture you sent me last week. You are a skeleton.”

William beams with pride. Aha, so she did see it! “Thanks, that’s the point.”

“No, not in a good way. I mean it in a very scary, alarming way. What even is your BMI now? 14? 13? You should be in a fucking hospital.”

“Z, I have never felt better. If I can walk twelve miles, I think that attests to my physical strength.”

“Do you know how worried I am about you? When was the last time you saw your therapist?”

“Oh, she quit the clinic I was going to. They haven’t assigned me a new one since then. I’ve been doing perfectly fine, though, so I don’t see any reason to bother them about it.”

“Well, bother them about it!”

“Maybe after I get back. Look, you really should come, I’ll buy your plane ticket–”

“I’m dating someone,” Z interrupts. “So I shouldn’t.”

William’s mouth drops. “Ah.”

“You obviously don’t want to talk about getting help, so fine. I’ve got to go–”

“I haven’t even told you the crazy thing that happened today!”

“I’m not your therapist, get a new one.”

“But it’s not bad this time–”

Beeeeep. The dial tone of her hanging up silences him. William sighs, and immediately dials another number. “Could I get a medium pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni?”

Chapter Text

“Do you want one?” Pete asks as he looks through an airport store’s selection, a blue I <3 LAX neck pillow snug around his neck. “I think you should get one. Long flight ahead of us. Even first class is going to make your giraffe neck cramp up after fifteen hours.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Pretty please? It’ll be my wedding gift to you!” Pete plucks a plain black neck pillow off the wall and hands it to Gabe. “This one is perfect for you. Black is boring and minimalistic.”

With a slight smile, Gabe gives in. “Alright, alright. I’ll get one.” After all, with the anticipation building up to the big day, their relationship has finally begun to improve– why chance Pete’s rare good mood on a silly disagreement? A neck pillow is no big deal.

They grab a few overpriced snacks and water bottles for the plane and head to the check-out. As the cashier emotionlessly scans their items, a magazine rack catches Gabe’s attention. He picks up a copy and, despite Pete’s groan, slams it on the counter.

“I really wish you’d stop buying those,” Pete says as they walk out.

“It’s just a little light reading for the plane. I need to know what’s being said.”

“You don’t have to– our PR teams handle all that.”

Still, Gabe pours through its pages in the long Starbucks line. “Look at this awful headline,” he whispers to Pete. ‘Gaunt Gabe Drops Even More Weight for Fairytale Wedding– fiance Pete Wentz terrified?? I have been building muscle! And this photo is from last year, because I threw out that shirt. What a bunch of fucking idiots.”

“Stop looking at that here,” Pete hisses. “Someone will recognize you from the cover–”

“Okay, okay.” Gabe rolls up the magazine and stuffs it into his carry-on. “On the bright side, there haven’t been any more band rumors. You’re welcome for the distraction.”

“Honestly, I’d rather there be band rumors.”

“Any press is good press.”

“I’ve always felt that saying was kinda bullshit. I don’t want people to look at me and think, ‘oh, that’s the guy who’s a fucking enabler.’ Like, people don’t know us personally. They don’t know that you’ve been getting help.”

“Uh-huh.” If by ‘help,’ Pete means not blinking at Gabe’s new fitness trainer and a restrictive cutting diet to focus on muscle gain–not that Gabe is even eating half the protein required since protein shakes terrify him–then sure. Although it probably doesn’t help that Gabe lies straight to Pete’s face about therapy. He quit a while ago, but still marks the calendar on the fridge for appointments and instead drives to the Santa Monica pier to walk to Venice and back. He usually stops to stare at the ocean for a minute, contemplate his guilt, and continues on his way when he remembers Pete doesn’t deserve that much of his trust.

“Next!” the Starbucks barista calls out. Gabe and Pete move up in line. 

Pete goes first. “Can I get a grande strawberry frap and a lemon loaf?” 

Gabe stares up at the menu until Pete nudges him. “Oh. Um, I’ll just have an earl gray tea. Grande.”

“No food?” Pete asks. Gabe nods. Pete frowns and takes out his credit card. “You’re eating whatever they give us on the plane.”

“I’m cutting–”

“Like shit you are.”

“Oh my god,” William groans upon boarding his connecting flight from Vancouver to Sydney and seeing that his seat is right next to Patrick, sitting in the aisle seat. William throws his backpack into the overhead and squeezes past Patrick’s knees, dropping into his seat. “I hate the universe. Did someone ask you to book the same fucking flight as me?”

“Flying out of Vancouver was the best deal…”

“I can take care of myself, you know.” William wrestles with the seatbelt, struggling to fully tighten it to his tiny waist. “Who put you up to this? Pete? Z?”

“Nobody told me, per say, but Pete did say he’d pay whatever it cost to switch my flight this late…”

“Why? What are you gonna do, spoon-feed me reheated soggy airplane chicken? Make sure I don’t watch a movie with skinny people in it?”

“No…”

“Don’t talk to me unless it’s to wake me up for the beverage cart or the plane starts falling out of the sky. Actually, don’t wake me up if the plane starts falling out of the sky.” William picks up his headphones. “Understood?”

“What about meals?”

William chuckles. “Oh, you’re funny.” He slides his headphones over his ears and presses the volume up button on his phone numerous times, until Patrick can hear “99 Pounds” by the Monkees leaking from the speakers. He’s somewhat shocked that William falls asleep during the takeoff without even needing to recline his seat.

Despite the turbulence over the Pacific, William doesn’t wake from his deep sleep until eleven hours into the flight. He stirs while Patrick is halfway through some cheesy romcom he doesn’t know the name of and eating a packet of potato chips.

William groans and pushes his headphones off his ears, and taps on the screen in front of him to check the flight map. He looks at Patrick, who takes out an earbud. “What?”

“You didn’t wake me for the beverage cart, dick.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m sure it’ll be back around again before we land.”

William stretches his legs and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Get up. I need the bathroom.”

Patrick begrudgingly puts up his tray table and gets up. He munches on his potato chips in envy as William drags his feet down the aisle, baggy sweatpants sagging around his hips. It takes about twenty minutes until William returns. Yet again Patrick does the awkward shuffle into the aisle for William to collapse in his seat, pale-faced. Patrick opens his mouth to ask if he’s alright, but William has the foresight to first say, “Don’t ask.”

The rest of the flight is uneventful aside for William accepting a breakfast box and gnawing at only half of a tiny honey muffin. Several hours later they land in Sydney and trudge across the airport, stopping only for coffee. Despite his excess of sleep, William squints in the airport’s blinding sunlight and hands off his untouched cold brew to Patrick when they finally reach their gate. “Wake me up before we board,” he says, and lies down on the floor with his bunched-up sweatshirt as a pillow.

Patrick sighs and sits down in the seat beside him. While sipping his own macchiato, he looks up and nearly chokes on his coffee when he spots Mikey Way in the seat across from him, staring at the man on the floor. “Is that…”

Patrick swallows back the coffee and coughs. He grimaces and nods. “Long time no see, Mikey.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Mikey’s eyes keep flickering back to the skeletal shape in a pile of clothing. “Great to see you again too.”

“I had no idea you were invited.”

“I don’t know why I was invited either. I think Pete just handed off an address book from 2005 to an assistant and said to invite everyone in it.”

Patrick snorts. “But you’re still here?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Pete insisted. He even offered to buy my flight.”

That ancient flame of jealousy flares up from within Patrick’s chest. “Did he?”

Taken back by the abrasiveness of Patrick’s inquiry, Mikey’s brows raise. “Huh? Uh, I told him he didn’t have to bother. Then I got the reservation email two hours later. Really generous, but I’m not sure how he got my passport info…”

“He offered to buy my flight for me, you know,” Patrick mentions. “He bought William’s flight too. Don’t feel special or anything.”

“Um… okay.”

Patrick crosses his legs and sips his macchiato. “So, how many guitars has he given you?”

“Guitars? Oh, wow, er… I’m not sure, but I’ve still got some picks from Warped.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. He’s given me four guitars. Did you know he gave Ryan a Stratocaster for his birthday?”

Mikey sighs. “Look, Patrick, there’s no need to be insecure. We’re both flying to Pete’s wedding. The animosity is pointless. We’ve all been Pete’s flings at one point. I get the emotions, but how long has it been since your turn with Pete again?” Patrick pauses, silent. Mikey nods. “Yeah, thought so. Never even happened in the first place.”

“Well, if you’re not going to try to fuck him, why are you even here?”

“Because I’m genuinely here to celebrate his marriage and happiness. What about you?”

“Happiness?” Patrick snorts. “I’m here for Pete. And I will be when he gets divorced in a year.”

“Fucking harsh,” William mumbles from the floor, sitting up. “I can’t sleep with you two bickering like this. Give me my cold brew. Oh, and hi Mikey.”

Mikey half-waves. Patrick hands off the drink and asks, “What, you don’t seriously think they’re going to last?”

“I think it’s going to take much longer than a year for either to be convinced they’re not still soulmates.” William’s spindly fingers wrap around the disposable plastic. He lifts it to his dull blue-tinted lips to sip. “I hope I won’t be around to see it.”

It’s a gorgeous day to land in New Caledonia. The skies are clear and the ocean as crystal blue as a tourism commercial. After passing numerous tiny islands clustered in the water, lush green and uneven land stretches to the horizon, rising to mountaintops far beyond the coastline. Patrick’s eyes are glued to the window, snapping pictures on his phone. He can begin to understand why Pete and Gabe chose such a distant location for the wedding– a week in ineffable paradise may be worth the long hours spent traveling after all. Even William, still lethargic, says, “Woah.”

After a smooth landing, a flight attendant announces from the overhead speakers, “Bienvenue a Nouvelle-Calédonie.” Then, in a thick Australian accent, “Welcome to New Caledonia.”

La Tontouta International Airport is relatively small but recently renovated, filled with light. Customs is a short walk, and Patrick gets through the passport inspection with relative ease. However, the border agent is hesitant to let William through, glancing between him and his passport photo with unease. “Do you have any symptoms of illness?” he asks with a French accent.

“Like what kind of symptoms?” William asks. “I’m not sick.”

“Like coughing, headaches, fever, being tired, chest pain, losing hunger…”

William shakes his head. “No. I’ve felt absolutely fine.”

“You haven’t been diagnosed with a contagious illness?” he asks doubtfully.

“Nothing of the sort.”

“You do not have anything like… tuberculosis?”

“No, I’m pretty sure I don’t have tuberculosis.”

The border agent sighs, tapping the passport with his gloved hand. “You know, if you lie, you can be put on a list.”

“Excuse me?” William’s jaw drops. “The No Fly list?”

“No, no, it is different. It would only be until the illness is gone. It is very dangerous to be travelling with tuberculosis–”

William exchanges a panicked glance with Patrick, who’s waiting past the checkpoint.

“Look, sir–” William says, leaning toward the glass partition. The border agent shrinks back. “Apologies. Look, I don’t have TB. It’s… just, well…” William’s voice drops to a whisper. “I’m anorexic.”

“Speak up, I could not hear you.”

William’s cheeks fluster bright red. “I’m anorexic.”

The border agent looks him up and down, then at the passport, and mutters to himself, “Certes l'américain est anorexique…”

“Huh?”

He stamps the passport and hands it back. “You may go.”

William releases a breath of relief and grabs his passport, racing toward Patrick. “Do I seriously look that bad?”

“Don’t take it too seriously. You just flew internationally. Everyone looks ragged.”

“He thought I had tuberculosis, Patrick! That’s not just ragged. Tell me the truth.” William stops in front of Patrick and leans down so he can get a good look at his face. “Is this something that can be fixed with a good night’s sleep and an expensive under-eye cream?”

“Um…”

“Nevermind, I don’t need your opinion. I can tell you’re jealous, sick fuck.”

Although that infuriates Patrick, he can’t say anything because he knows William is absolutely right. Although Patrick has lost an appropriate amount of weight for a beach vacation, he looks nowhere as good as William does– or dreadful, depending on one’s perception. Patrick would kill to start a little wedding drama by being detained to take a TB test. Pete wouldn’t be able to focus on anything but him…

“Hey, do you guys want to share a ride to the hotel?” Mikey asks, passing by. “We don’t have to talk… I just think we’d all love to split the cost three ways.”

“Fine,” says Patrick, banishing the dream from mind, and storms forward. “Let’s hurry up. I think I have to declare the alcohol in my suitcase before I start drinking it.”

William wonders if he’s begun to hallucinate when they arrive at the hotel and he spots two familiar figures. Mike Carden and Adam T. Siska, wearing tropical print shirts and staring at their phones, sit in the lobby. William lifts his sunglasses and hisses to Patrick, “Did you know about this?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think it’s surprising that they’re on the guest list…”

“Carden makes sense. Him and Gabe are still close, after all. But I don’t think Sisky would fly across the Pacific for this without an ulterior motive.”

“It’s more of a vacation than a wedding,” Patrick says. “Like a family reunion, except it’s all on Pete’s tab.”

“Whelp, I’m gonna go check in,” Mikey says. “Have fun with your in-drama. See ‘ya around.”

As Mikey speed-walks to the front desk to avoid further association with the two’s antics, Carden’s gaze drifts up at the movement. Looking around, his eyes land at the front doors, spotting William and Patrick. He nudges Sisky. “Bill! Hey!”

William hurriedly slides his sunglasses back on and forces a grin as he approaches his former bandmates. “Hey!” He briefly bro-hugs Carden, then Sisky. “Great to see you guys… I didn’t realize you were both invited.”

Carden and Sisky’s smiles are strained as they take in the shape of William’s body. “Well, I can’t miss out on Gabe’s wedding.”

“I decided to come a little last minute,” Sisky says. “I was going to play a television appearance with Carly Rae Jepson that would have interfered, but it got postponed– studio had an electrical fire or something. So suddenly I have the whole week off and Carden says there’s an extra bed in his room, so why the hell not?”

“Huh,” says William. “I thought we were far past the RSVP deadline though.”

“Well, you know Pete.”

“Oh yes, I know Pete. Pete, who paid for Patrick to change his flight to sit right next to me.” William leans on the extended handle of his suitcase. “So did he ask you guys to be here?”

“Um… well, I didn’t realize he was serious about it,” Sisky says.

“So you’re here to babysit me?”

“He invited the whole band,” Carden adds. “It’s not like he specifically asked us to babysit you. It’s more like… so you have some company. I can see why it looks the way it does with just the two of us, but Butcher had some family stuff going on. And even though Australia’s not that far, I assume Chizzy, with that church he’s working for now, didn’t think it would be a good look for him to be attending a prominent gay Jewish wedding. My words, not his, but I think he at least bought an espresso machine off the wedding registry.”

“Oh, great. I’m sure they needed an espresso machine for their five million dollar house. Anyway, if you’re not here to watch me, why did none of you mention to me you were coming?”

Sisky holds up his hands. “It was very last-minute for me, man.”

“And I was going to come either way,” Carden says. “Plus, you… aren’t exactly the master of communication right now. I did tell you, but it takes you two weeks to reply to my texts. You probably missed it.”

“I probably did do that, yeah.” William groans, rubbing at his eyes under his sunglasses. “Ugh, that cold brew wasn’t enough. Jet-lag is gonna start to kill me soon. I should check in and get some rest in before everyone else starts arriving…”

“Oh, we already checked in.” Carden digs in his pocket and hands a room key to William. “You’re sharing a room with us.”

“Oh, of course I fucking am. I don’t need to ask, do I? After all, it’s Pete’s master plan to infantilize me as much as possible so I stay away from Gabe.” William drags his feet toward the elevators. “Let’s go up.”

Sisky and Carden follow close behind. “That’s not the reason why we’re here. I think Pete just wants someone to be here for you–”

“I swear, don’t stage any interventions for me.” William stops in front of the elevator and jabs the up button. “It never fucking worked. At least lay off until after the wedding, okay?”

“That was never the plan,” Carden says. “We’re not going to upstage the wedding– if anything, maybe we should just have a private conversation at some point, but that’s all.”

“I’m in therapy,” William lies. The elevator doors slide open and they step in. “What floor?”

“We know that’s not true–”

“What floor are we on?”

“Five. Look, Bill, no offense, but if you were seeing a therapist, the alarm bells would have been ringing a long time ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We don’t expect anything until we’re back in the States, of course, but maybe we can try to discuss what would be the most helpful way for us to support you. A lot of people are worried about you–”

“Great, so Z’s been talking to you.”

“Yes, but she is one of many people who have expressed their concern–”

“We’re not talking about this in an elevator, okay?” William states. “And we’re not talking about this at Gabe’s wedding. I know, everyone’s worried, everyone thinks I’m too skinny, big whoop-dee-doo. But I’m not going to try to kill myself on the most extravagant vacation any of us will ever take in our lives, okay? I’m going to eat, I’m going to socialize, I’m not going to flaunt my decomposing body, no problems there. So if you let me pass out in the room as soon as we get there, we can have this conversation in Chicago. Cool?”

“How about, you just hear us out and you can have the rest of the week to think about it?” says Sisky. “Is that cool? We talk about it once, and it’s off the table for the rest of the week.”

William pauses. The elevator doors slide open. “Fine.”

However, as soon as they get into the room, William barely spares a moment to gaze in awe at the tropical-themed room decorated with local wood and fibers. Instead he marches to the floor-to-ceiling window of the blue ocean, shuts the curtains, and lies down on the nearest bed. “We’ll talk when I’m conscious. You never said it had to be right now.”

“How much sleep did you even get flying here?” Sisky asks.

“Too much,” William mumbles, already drifting off.

Gabe and Pete arrive at the hotel later that night– their flight to Australia had been delayed a few hours, and by the time they landed in Sydney, they had missed their flight to New Caledonia with no more going out until the next day. Rather than stay in a hotel the night, both impatient and exhausted, they instead decided to charter a private flight to New Caledonia and landed past midnight.

“Do you think it was worth it?” Gabe asks, tapping their room key to unlock the suite. The door beeps and clicks. Gabe pushes it open, revealing a king-size bed with silk sheets and a coastline view.

“Well, it was a bit of a splurge,” Pete admits, dragging his bulky suitcase and carry-on inside. “But it’s not like it’s an everyday thing. Why not arrive to our wedding in style? At least we won’t have to miss snorkeling tomorrow.”

“Maybe we should have chartered one big private flight for everyone.” Gabe throws his suitcase onto the bed and unzips. “It might have been more economical to split the cost rather than just letting everyone fly commercially."

“I’m not even sure if it’d be possible to charter a jet that huge. How many people did we invite again?”

“Too many,” Gabe sighs, taking out a pair of pajama pants. “You better be right that the new Fall Out Boy album will be a hit.”

“It will, it totally will,” Pete promises, wrapping his arms around Gabe’s waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “As soon as we start teasing FOB’s reunion, that plus the featured artists, plus the promo from the wedding? Our first single is going to be a fucking hit!”

“I’m sure– just don’t work yourself too hard this week, baby.”

“Don’t you dare, either. I know how tempted you will be to talk business with all the Cobras coming.”

“I told you, I’m probably retiring anyway.” A knock at the door interrupts them. Gabe gently pushes Pete’s hands away. “Who the hell is trying to talk to us at two in the morning?” he bemoans, heading to the door. He leans down to peer through the peephole, and sees Carden. Immediately, he opens the door. “Hey, Carden! Great to see you, what’s up?”

“Hey.” Carden smiles weakly. “I couldn’t sleep. I was getting some ice when I saw you guys arriving. If you’re not too tired, there’s… uh, something serious I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure, come in.”

Carden enters the room, marveling at the luxury. “Damn, this is nice.”

“Isn’t it? Most expensive room in the hotel.” Gabe glances around and leads Carden to a sofa by the windows, overlooking the long coast and the lights of the city. “Is it alright if Pete’s here?”

“Yeah.” Carden’s tone is grim. “Not like there’s any way to hide it from him.”

Pete turns from his own suitcase. “Shit, is it bad?”

Carden nods. “So, Bill got here today…”

“I’m going to take a bath,” Pete interrupts, and abruptly takes off for the bathroom.

“Oh… okay.”

“Don’t mind him,” Gabe says. “He’s touchy on the subject.”

“After what you’ve told me, that’s not exactly a shock.” Carden yawns, groggily rubbing his eyes. “So, on the topic of Bill. I think now that I’m not in the same room as him, the anxiety is finally wearing off and I’m going to fall asleep on this comfy fucking couch if I stay here too long. He’s in much worse shape than we thought.”

“He’s looked like that for a while now–”

“No, no, Gabe, you don’t understand.” Carden shakes his head. “You need to see him in person to really get it. I’m not even sure if he should be here right now.”

“It’s that bad?”

“When was the last time you saw him? Like, not on Instagram, but really saw him. In person.”

“Ryan’s wedding. That was quite a few months ago.”

“Okay, so, imagine worse than that. His hair is so thin you can see patches of his scalp, his veins are so easy to see– there’s just such a lack of fat on his arms that you could close your eyes and trace the ridges. He’s got that thick hair all over his arms and legs, bruises everywhere, sunken cheeks… he’s skinnier than a coke addict, Gabe. He’s the kind of emaciated you only see in Holocaust documentaries. I can’t sleep in the same room as him without looking over and wondering if I’ll wake up with a corpse.”

Mulling over the vivid description, Gabe through the window and gulps. “God.”

“I can’t blame you for inviting him– nobody knew, after all. But he just shouldn’t be here. There’s no way we can get him help here. He needs to go back to the U.S. and get real help– but he’s way too in denial to agree to leave early. Sisky and I are going to talk to him, though. Maybe we can convince him…” Carden’s eyes water up. “I don’t want you to be worrying about this the week of your wedding, but if there’s any way you could talk to him too, it could really help.”

“Of course.” Gabe places a hand on Carden’s shoulders. “His life is so much more important to me than my wedding. I’m going to try my best to look after him too.”

Carden nods, choking back tears. “Thanks, man. Just… expect the worst when you first see him, alright? He looks awful. Nothing like himself.”

“Okay.” A pit of guilt settles in Gabe’s stomach. He should have tried harder in the past to help, he really should have… maybe it would have never been so bad if he hadn’t let himself join the Decaydance Weightloss Competition in the first place. “If it comes down to it, it’s him over the wedding. Trust me, man. It’s him over the wedding. Just don’t repeat that to Pete.”

“Great.” Carden sniffles, smiling. Gabe reaches for a tissue to hand him, and Carden blows his nose. “Thanks. I really don’t want this to be happening during your wedding, and I doubt Bill would if he realized just how bad he is, but… well, now we just have to help him. There’s no other option.”

“Of course.”

“I’m gonna try to sleep again.” Carden stands. “Thanks, Gabe.”

Gabe says goodbye to Carden before he leaves the room. Gabe closes the curtains and changes into a pair of pajama pants in the quiet silence of the room. He can already see it in his mind: a William that looks nothing like he’s ever seen before. How is it even possible to get that bad?

Pete finally finishes his bath and comes out of the bathroom in a fluffy robe bearing the hotel’s logo. “What was that about?” he asks, grabbing a blowdryer out of his carry-on.

“Bill’s not doing so hot. Even skinnier than he was at Ryan and Jon’s wedding.”

“Oh.” Pete sighs. “That’s too bad.”

“Carden isn’t even sure if he should be here.”

Pete runs a brush through his long, soaked hair. “Then tell him to leave.”

“It’s not going to be that easy.”

“It is that easy.”

“He’s in denial.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, babe. Just don’t let it distract you. We’ve got a lot going on this week already.”

Gabe bites down on his tongue to keep himself from snapping at his fiance. He’s dying and you only care about the wedding? “I’m not sure what you expect.”

“You’re the one that wanted him here.” Pete carries the blow dryer and brush into the bathroom and calls out, “I’m not sure what you expected.”

Blood burning, Gabe turns off the lights and drops into bed with remarkable restraint, hoping he falls asleep before he has to feel Pete get in beside him. Luckily, the jet-lag wins over.

Chapter Text

A couple of months ago, Gabe thought snorkeling the morning after landing would be a fine idea. However, having had only four hours of sleep, sitting on a wet dock in the bright sun wearing only swim shorts and a snorkeling mask isn’t quite as exciting as he thought. The coral reefs and bright fish are gorgeous underneath the crystal blue water, but every second spent submerged is occupied by thoughts of William and the temptation to return to his phone.

Vicky swims up to the dock and pushes her snorkeling mask up. “They’re taking pictures. You sure you don’t wanna get back in?”

“I was already in a few. I’m just too jetlagged. ” Gabe looks down at his smartphone, then back at the water at the distant figures bobbing below and above the water, adorned with bright yellow and pink snorkeling masks. Only ten of the twenty-six who made snorkeling reservations showed up, the rest either too tired or still traveling. “I don’t know how Pete has that much energy.”

Vicky turns and spots Pete splashing water at Ryland, who throws up his mask to cough and scream, “You got water in my tube, idiot!”

Pete takes off his mask, laughs, and taunts, “Oh, I got your hole wet?” This earns him a splash from Ryland.

“They’re being so immature,” Gabe groans. “In ten seconds Pete’s going to shove someone into the coral reef and single handedly destroy the ecosystem.”

“Not out of the realm of possibility,” Vicky agrees. “I’ll stay here for a few minutes so I can’t be held liable.” She puts her elbows on the deck and hoists herself up to sit next to Gabe. “So, what’s so important you’re on your phone the whole time? Don’t tell me you’re working.”

“I’m answering a few emails.”

“So you are working.”

“A little. It’s a good distraction.”

“Gabe, we are in paradise.” Vicky leans back and turns her head up to the sun, eyes closed as she soaks in the warmth. “You’re getting married in a few days. Learn to relax a little.”

“I’m trying.”

Vicky’s eyes snap open. “What’s up?”

“I… I think the jetlag is just stressing me out. I’ll have to take a nap once we get back to the hotel.”

Vicky shakes her head and pushes a wet chunk of hair from her eyes. “No, that’s not it.”

“It’s Bill. He’s sick.” Gabe kicks his legs, sending a ripple through the water. “Carden came to our room in the middle of the night and said he’s not doing so hot. He’s worse than ever, apparently. And it’s my fault he’s here, in a foreign country, instead of getting help.”

“That’s hardly your fault. He’s a recluse these days. Nobody knows anything about what’s going on with him.”

“Yeah. I still can’t help feeling guilty over it, though. Why am I here snorkeling without a care in the world instead of checking on him?”

“It’s your wedding, Gabe–”

“And I should be enjoying it, I know, I know.”

“--no, I mean, you’re the one who gets to decide what you want to do. If it’s causing you that much anxiety, leave early and check on him. You might as well while there’s time. You’re going to get busy really quickly.”

“Yeah,” Gabe murmurs under his breath, and then says louder, “Yeah. I’m going to go check on him. It’s not like I can snorkel with this on my mind anyway.”

Vicky slides back into the water. “I’ll let Pete know.”

William wakes to Carden shaking his shoulder, phone in hand. “Gabe wants to know what you want to eat. He’s picking up something since you missed the hotel breakfast.”

William groans and stretches under the sheets. “What time is it?”

“Twelve. You slept late, man.”

“I woke up at four A.M. and went on a leisurely stroll. I’m shocked I didn’t wake any of you.” William sits up, scratching his greasy hair. He looks at Carden’s phone. “You texting or calling him?”

“Yeah, he’s calling–”

William takes the phone from Carden. “Morning, Gabey. I want lobster. Can you get me a lobster?”

“I… um… you want a lobster? It’s barely afternoon.”

“Fine, another time. You know, just get me whatever is nearby. Something healthy. Do they have salads here?”

“Um… probably? I’ll try to find something.”

“Fabulous. Love you, I really appreciate it! I’ll pay you back. Mwahmwahmwah.”

Gabe giggles. “Okay… mwah. See you soon.”

Approximately forty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door while William lounges in bed watching an Australian TV channel with wet hair. Carden puts down his music magazine and goes to open the door. “Hey, Gabe, come on in.”

“Alright, William, you’re lucky I know salad in eight languages.” Gabe walks in with a takeout container and a coffee. “I found a cafe by the beach–”

He stops in his tracks, taken aback by William sitting in the bed. His bathrobe, although tied tightly, reveals much. Deep collarbones, knobby knees, the sternum-shaped indents poking through William’s chest. His skin is washed out by the sunlight, legs splotched with blue bruises, arms covered with thick lanugo.

Gabe wishes he could hide his shock, but instead he stands there, stunned into silence. “God, Bill.”

William averts his eyes and holds out his hand. Gabe passes over the coffee. “Thanks. Um, what kind of salad did you get?”

“Well, I didn’t look up what the words on the menu meant until I ordered it, but it turns out gésiers de canard means duck gizzards?”

“Oh.” William raises a brow as he opens up the box. “Well… I’ve certainly never tried that before.”

“I’ll go get something else if you don’t want to eat that–”

“No, no, I’ll try it.” William rips open the plastic wrap and uses the plastic fork to pierce the small, circular piece of meat. He nibbles on it. “Oh. Interesting. Crunchy.”

“You think your stomach can handle it?” Carden asks.

“I’m not going to waste perfectly good duck gizzard.” William shrugs and nibbles a little more of the piece. “So, you wanna talk? I know you want to talk. Let’s talk.”

“Maybe let’s talk until after you eat–”

Gabe is interrupted by William. “I solemnly swear to continue eating duck gizzards while you tell me I should be hospitalized. Which I’m not doing, by the way.”

“So we’re just getting right to it, then.” Gabe rubs his hands together and clears his throat. “Look, Bill, you saw how I reacted when I walked in.”

William poses, head tilted and pouting his lips. “Oh, so I’m not hot and sexy in this little robe?”

“No, of course you’re hot and sexy–”

“Do not say he is sexy,” says Carden. “He is not hot and sexy.”

“Um, correction: you are not hot and sexy, according to Mike Carden.”

William takes a bite of his salad and points his plastic fork at Gabe. “I gotta say, you really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“This is a fucking disaster of an intervention,” Carden groans, grabbing his magazine and flip-flops. “I’m going to join Sisky at the beach and listen to him wax poetic about how superior the Virgin Islands are while sipping a cocktail in the middle of the afternoon. Good luck, Gabe.”

“You didn’t tell me this was supposed to be an intervention!” Gabe says. “I would have prepared a monologue.”

“Well, no, I mean… I don’t know, just work your Gabe magic. Throw in some anorexia horror stories.”

“But I already know all of his anorexia horror stories!” William protests.

Carden shrugs, holding open the door. “I don’t know, man. Oh, and if anything happens, Bill did get travel insurance. I’ll return in an hour– bye!”

William rolls his eyes as Carden leaves and shuts the door behind him. “By the way, I am fine,” he tells Gabe. “Really. Fine as in, I’m going to last the week.”

“I know you might feel fine now,” Gabe says. “But you are at an extremely low weight. There is a lot of risk.”

“Look, Gabe, I’m not going to be a dick and have a medical emergency at your wedding if that’s what you’re worried about. I already got my laxative abuse out of the way before coming– I’m not going to purge, I’m not going to fast, I’m not going to excessively restrict myself or exercise or anything crazy. For once, I’m going to achieve some kind of weird stasis for you. Crazy, I know.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’m not worried about you trying to do anything on purpose. I’m worried about you because I don’t want anything horrible to happen to you, whether it’s by accident or not. There are a lot of things that could go wrong, man. I don’t have to tell you that.”

William nods slowly, dragging his fork through the salad. “I’m not going to be hospitalized in a foreign country, Gabe. I just won’t. Everyone speaks French here and I don’t think my travel insurance covers an entire inpatient stay. Hell, I don’t know how long I can stay without a visa. I’m thousands of miles from my friends and family. Unless there is an actual emergency, I’m not going to the hospital here. It’s just not practical.”

“If I had to, I would cancel my honeymoon for you, Bill.”

William smiles bitterly and shakes his head. “No, Pete would never let you.”

“I would,” Gabe says. “I would.”

Patrick lingers near the bar by the outdoor pool, overlooking the beach and vast ocean. To order an alcoholic drink or not to order an alcoholic drink, that is the question. The bartender has already shot him a few weird looks, so Patrick may as well stop being a weirdo pacing around and go order something, right?

One drink, just one drink, says the voice in his head. Nobody’s going to notice.

However, as Patrick steps forward, he spots Pete walking up to the bar beside Mikey Way. Retreat, retreat! Patrick steps back and hides behind a leafy potted plant before he can be seen. He goes unnoticed by Pete and Mikey, but the bartender does roll his eyes before putting on a smile for his two customers.

Crouched behind the plant, Patrick catches snippets of conversation. “...no, no, I’ll pay for that, don’t worry,” Pete insists to Mikey. “So, how’ve you been? What are you up to lately?”

“Oh, I’m starting this music project with this guy, David Debiak? We’re calling it Electric Century… I’ll pull up a demo on my phone for you…”

“...wow, Mikey, that is amazing, I love it…”

“...so, how has Gabe been?”

“Oh, you know, he’s Gabe.” The two chuckle. “Being completely honest, I’m so excited for the wedding, but it’s been a little rough the past couple months… sure hope I don’t become one of those guys that refers to his spouse as ‘the ol’ ball and chain,’ but well…”

“...yeah…yeah, I hear you…”

“...of course, I have no regrets, but hard not to think about… back when…”

“...me too, me too… sometimes, I think about it too… but, you know…”

The conversation goes on for an hour until Mikey finally departs, and Pete’s paying the tab when Patrick finally stands, knees aching. The bartender shoots a silent look of disbelief toward his way as he swipes Pete’s credit card.

“Pete! Fancy seeing you here!” Patrick greets, hoping the exaggerated cheer on his face doesn’t betray the fact he was kneeling behind a bush for an hour. “Enjoying a drink?”

“Hey! Yeah, just finished.” Pete smiles. “We missed you at snorkeling this morning, dude.”

“Well, the choice was between getting up early and sleeping in. I chose the latter.” Actually, Patrick chose to order room service and purge his bacon and eggs, but don’t tell Pete that.

“Oh, I was really tempted too. How was the flight? I hope William wasn’t too much of a pain.”

“He slept most of the time.”

“Figures,” Pete mumbles. “He never said anything about Gabe?”

“Nope.”

Pete sighs. “Oh well.”

“But you know who I did see on our flight here?” Patrick remarks. “It was one Mikey Way. And it seems he’s on the guest list. I didn’t peg you for the type to invite an old flame to your wedding.”

Pete smiles in a Oh, shit kind of way. “Patrick, you know just as well as I do that was nearly ten years ago. I’ve invited a lot of people…”

“Does Gabe know you invited Mikey?”

“Hey, Patrick, I saw you circling the bar like a bird of prey. Do you need to talk?”

Patrick’s jaw falls open. “Oh– don’t make this about me! I was only thinking about buying a soda.”

“Look Patrick, you have your weakness, I have my weakness. Let’s leave it at that. Want a soda?”

Patrick doesn’t speak a word– instead, he turns and walks away, straight into the hotel and past the indoor pool. After turning to make sure Pete’s not following–good, he’s alone–Patrick stops near the men’s changing room and takes out his phone to dial Gabe’s number. Barely a second passes before he picks up and hisses, “What?”

“You’ll never guess who Pete invited to the wedding.”

“I know full well you’re here. Thanks for reminding me, asshole. Some of us are actually busy, so–”

“Mikey Way is here.”

A moment of silence elapses. “Mikey… Way… is here?” Gabe repeats slowly.

Patrick can’t hide his shit-eating grin– thank fuck this is over the phone. “Ask Pete yourself. I just saw them at the pool bar together. When I asked him about it, Pete seemed a little… on edge.”

“Uh-huh,” Gabe says through gritted teeth.

“I just want you to know I want to earn back your trust–”

“If you’re lying, you’re dead, shit-eater. But thanks.”

Gabe immediately hangs up. Patrick sighs slightly, but his gleeful smile is stuck like glue– after all, that went better than he initially thought.

“Hey Dad, how was the flight?” Gabe asks, hugging his father, Diego.

“Too long, mijo,” says Diego, patting his son’s back. “Why didn’t you decide to get married anywhere else? Hay muchos islandes que decir español–”

“Hey, Mr. Saporta!” Pete greets, shaking his hand. “Long time no see.”

“Oh, hello Pete. How long has it been again?”

“Um… oh, that was a while ago… when was the last time again? Definitely a few years…”

“When Gabe was in the hospital,” Diego states, gripping Pete’s hand a few moments longer than necessary before releasing his hold. “I haven’t seen you since.”

“We’ve been really busy,” Gabe says. “You know, he’s got his clothing line, he’s running Decaydance…”

“Right, right. He’s the one signing your checks, after all.”

“Well, actually we’re just an imprint of Fuelled by Ramen,” Pete says. “I’m not really Gabe’s boss, we’re like really chill–”

“But you did sign Gabe’s band, didn’t you?”

“No– I mean, I did, uh…”

“Hey, Ricardo!” Gabe interrupts, spotting his brother Ricky arriving from another taxi, along with their step-mom. “Great to see you bro. You’ve met Pete before.”

“Hey!” The brothers hug briefly before Ricky shakes Pete’s hand. “Yeah, the last time I saw you was like… gosh, ten or something years ago?”

“I said hi to you at a Cobra show two years ago, didn’t I?”

“I don’t really recall…”

After Pete greets Gabe’s step-mother, they head into the restaurant, La Saumure Marine, one of the few upscale places in the area with decent vegetarian options. After telling the waiter, “Reservation for Saporta,” they’re seated at a table in the back of the dimly-lit restaurant, affording relative quiet and privacy, and given menus in English. Gabe’s Jewish family, although not strict on kosher laws, still would never dare touch shrimp or crab, so most of the table goes with saumon à l'unilatéral, pavé de saumon mariné , or burger veggie . While everyone gives their orders, Gabe stares at his beer and contemplates what to order. Roasted yams with balsamic and goat cheese do sound delicious, but who knows how many calories? A salad will only make Pete unhappy, which is the last thing I need in front of the family… but I’m getting married in a few days! You can’t let yourself go, Gabe, you don’t want to be bloated on your wedding day… the menu doesn’t even have that many vegetarian options! Who can blame you for ordering a salad?

“And you, sir?” asks the waiter, looking at Gabe.

Gabe’s head snaps up. “Oh, uh…” He glances down at the menu. “Salade… de figues.”

The waiter nods and takes the menus. “I’ll have that out for you soon.”

“Was that a salad?” Pete asks.

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “Did you know I can say salad in eight languages? Salad, ensalada, salat–”

“We get it, Gabe,” Ricky teases, “you’re so multicultural from touring the world a few times.”

“Well, can you say salad in eight languages?”

“So, Pete, I haven’t had an opportunity to ask this yet,” Diego begins, leaning over the table as Pete sips his beer. “How many kids do you want?”

Pete chokes on his beer and spits it out, spraying it across the table. “Sorry,” he croaks out, reaching for the napkin in his lap to soak up the alcohol. “Um… well, that’s quite a question to start out with. Wow, kids. As many as Gabe wants, I guess?”

“We’ve discussed this, Pete,” Gabe reminds him, putting on a smile. “Three, right? We’ve been talking about surrogates–”

“We have?” Pete asks. “Oh, yeah, we have! I must look like a shitty boyfriend right now. It’s just the jet lag, haha.”

Gabe’s stepmother sips her margarita and looks away. Ricky coughs. Diego takes a swallow of his beer and taps the glass bottle. “You’ll raise them Jewish,” he says, more of a statement rather than a question.

“Por supuesto,” Gabe answers, but Diego shoots him a silencing look that means he’s looking for an answer from Pete.

“Uh, yeah. Totally,” Pete says. “Gabe’s going to be the one looking after them all the time, after all. I mean, of course I’m going to be an active parent, but I’ve got a label to run.”

“I’ve been thinking of breaking up Cobra anyway,” Gabe says. “It’s about time.”

“But you are going to do something after Cobra, right?” Ricky asks.

Gabe shrugs. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been talking with Carden about starting a talent management agency, but it’s still early. I might put that on pause for having children.”

Diego tilts the neck of his beer bottle, pointing at Pete. “Do you know what it means to raise your children as Jews?”

“Well, I know Gabe wants them to go to Jewish day school and have bar mitzvahs.”

“Did you ever try to tell him anything?” Diego asks Gabe.

“It doesn’t come up that much,” Gabe answers.

Diego sighs. “ Gabriel, if you’re marrying a gentile, the least you could do is educate him. There’s more to raising Jewish children than day school and summer camp and becoming a bar mitzvah.”

“There is?” Pete asks. “Oh, I mean, of course there is.”

“Do you know the reason we came to Uruguay?” Diego asks. Pete slowly shakes his head. “My parents, may their memory be a blessing, were Holocaust survivors. They narrowly escaped to one of the few countries that would take them. The rest who didn’t get out in time were put into ghettos and concentration camps, and you can guess what happens next. But Uruguay wasn’t that much different from Europe– not everyone liked us being there. I was very young when Eichmann was captured in Argentina, but not too young to remember my parents keeping us inside, afraid a pissed-off Neo-Nazi would get his dirty hands on one of us.

“There were other reasons we immigrated to the States–mostly, the healthcare system was a joke–but there were many other Jews leaving Uruguay too, for a better country to raise their children. For the most part, the U.S. is a better place, except for the fact that it’s too easy to assimilate and forget all about what their ancestors sacrificed. As soon as your children disappear and forget where they came from, you know who wins? Hitler.”

Silence falls over the table. Pete is frozen stiff in his seat, eyes wide. 

Gabe breaks the silence. “That’s a bit of a strong statement…”

“Most parents wouldn’t dare allow their children marry someone who isn’t Jewish,” Diego points out. “I’m already being very lenient with you, mijo.”

“I’m thirty-four, so it’s not like it’d be up to you anyway.”

Diego ignores Gabe’s snide remark and looks straight at Pete. “Are you going to raise your children Jewish, or are you going to raise them as Jews?”

“There’s a difference?” Pete asks.

“Those are the same thing,” Gabe insists.

“Don’t worry,” Ricky adds, “he said this cryptic stuff to my girlfriend too.”

“Okay, okay, let me simplify this since you’re all apparently so jet-lagged: are you going to just do the bare minimum of paying day school tuition and for an expensive themed bat mitzvah party?”

“No,” Pete immediately answers. “I made latkes once–”

“Everyone’s making latkes these days,” Diego flippantly waves off. “I want to know if you will remember your child’s Hebrew name, and if you’ll have Shabbat dinner when you’re home on Friday nights, and if you’ll be prepared when your children inevitably experience antisemitism. I don’t expect you to convert, but I expect you to listen to every word Gabe says.”

“Oh, of course. I listen to Gabe all the time.”

Gabe’s blood boils because, God he does not, and takes a sip of his beer.

Pete turns to Gabe. “But I mean, you don’t expect too much, right? Like, you’ve seen the videos of guys blowtorching their kitchen for Passover. And building the huts in their backyard. You’re not gonna go crazy like that, right?”

“Those are two different holidays,” Gabe answers, smile strained. “The hut is a sukkah for Sukkot, not Passover.”

“Okay, but you’re not gonna build a whole hut in our backyard every year, right?”

“What if I do, Pete?” Gabe asks, looking straight at him. “Because I plan on it.”

“You’ve never done that before.”

“Well, I’ve always gone to New Jersey for the holidays. But if I didn’t, I would put a sukkah up. And if I want to blowtorch something in the kitchen for Passover, so what? We can certainly afford it..”

“Oh.”

Diego clears his throat and says, “I see there’s a lot you haven’t discussed yet.”

The waiter arrives with a tray of food, and once they’re served, an awkward silence falls over the table until Ricky starts talking about how salty his veggie burger is. They fall into clipped, terse conversation, no better than the quiet that previously permeated.

“I can’t believe you made me look like that in front of your dad,” Pete grumbles as soon as they’re in the taxi.

Gabe leans forward and tells the driver, “Hotel Albatros, please. Merci.” He turns back to Pete. “Are you kidding? You’re the one who totally looked like you didn’t care. You’ve never asked me once about how religious I want to raise our kids, just if.”

“Well, you never exactly told me! You only said they have to go to Jewish school.”

“You’re lucky my stepmom even invited you to spend Passover with us this year. Maybe now you’ll actually come for once.”

“I’ve just always had business stuff–”

“How would you feel if I didn’t go to Chicago for Christmas with your family?”

Pete crosses his arms and leans back, head hitting the headrest. “Well, if it’s that important, you could have just told me that.”

Gabe glares, exhaling a rough breath. “Oh, if you want to get on that, mind explaining why you didn’t tell me your former hook-up was invited to our wedding?”

Pete pales. “Uh… which one?”

“There’s multiple?”

“No, I mean… you know what Decaydance used to be like! It’d be easier to count the people here that I didn’t have sex with.”

Gabe sighs. “I meant Mikey!”

“Oh.” Pete blinks. “I thought you knew. I ran the guest list by you.”

“We invited over three hundred people to our wedding, Pete. I couldn’t have comprehended every single name on that list– we already had so much planning going on.”

“Look, Mikey and I are just friends these days. We’ve only spoken like, a handful of times over the last few years. We were literally just catching up this afternoon about music and stuff.”

“You should have at least asked me! Out of everyone at this wedding, Mikey is the one who’s most associated with your… previous antics.”

“But I thought you were cool with Mikey! You guys were friends too.”

“I am cool with Mikey. It’s just… I… I didn’t expect him to go through the effort of flying here, that’s all.”

Pete chooses not to divulge that he financed Mikey’s flight– that certainly wouldn’t help the situation. Instead he fires back, “You don’t have any problem with Ryan being here.”

“He’s married to Jon now! You know better than that.”

Pete looks out the window at the dark ocean to mask his discomfort, the humiliation that rises up from recalling the failed kiss. “If you have a problem with me talking to Mikey, imagine how I feel when you’re worrying about William all the time. It’s ‘Bill this, Bill that, Bill’s dying, Bill’s so skinny;’ it’s like, do you even hear yourself?”

“He is sick! You haven’t even seen him yet, and if you did– no, even if you didn’t, if you had even a shred of empathy, you’d understand exactly how I feel!” As soon as the taxi pulls to a stop in front of the hotel, Gabe’s hand flies to unbuckle his seatbelt. “You know what? I don’t have to take this shit right now.” Gabe throws open the cab door. “How about you go stay in Mikey’s bed tonight since you’re so cozy?”

“Babe, the room key is in my pocket–” Before he can finish, Gabe slams the door and storms into the hotel without him. Pete huffs and digs out his wallet, throwing a crumpled bill of 5000 Pacific francs to the driver. “Sorry about that. Bonjour– I mean, uh… bonne nuit?”

There’s an instant pang of regret as soon as Ryan walks into the hotel gym early in the morning and has to hold back a sputter of laughter at the ironic image– frail, weak William sitting on a bench, lifting a tiny five pound weight with his twig-thin veiny arm. Beads of sweat dot his washed-out white forehead.

At first Ryan tip-toes behind William before realizing, well, fuck it, and strides over to the treadmill at the in front of the weights, facing a large window with a view of the rolling ocean and islands beyond. “Mind if I join you?”

William’s arm sags, and he drops the weight by his feet with a light thunk! “Sure.” He grips his shirt collar and pats his sweaty forehead with it, soaking up the sweat. “I could use a break anyway.”

Ryan sets down his water bottle on the treadmill and attaches the safety clip to his shorts. “Have you just been doing weights this whole time?”

“No, this is the end of my workout. Usually my gym routine is a quick stretch, then the elliptical while listening to a podcast. If I’m not on the verge of passing out, I’ll add in a high-incline run for ten minutes. I’m feeling particularly good today– I think it was the salad with duck gizzards.”

“No wonder.” Ryan steps on the treadmill. “That was probably more protein than you eat in a week. You’ll have muscles in no time.”

“Hell yeah. I’d kill to have bigorexia.”

The treadmill hums on. “What’s that?”

“Body dysmorphia, except your muscles are never big enough.” William holds up his arm and makes a muscle, a quite sad attempt considering he’s shaped like a string bean. “You think that would save my life?”

Ryan cranes his head to look at him. “I can’t imagine you with muscles. Do you even have any muscles left?”

“Totally.” William points to his arm. “Just feel. Hard as a rock.”

“It’s all bone,” Ryan says without needing to glance. “I’ve never seen a more perfectly rectangle-shaped arm in my life. You could win a world record or something.”

William laughs, letting his arm drop and reaching for his water bottle. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me so far on this trip. Well, apart from Gabe calling me sexy, but that word’s just part of his vocabulary.”

While William chugs a few gulps of water, Ryan ups the speed on the treadmill to a moderate jog. “So, I’ve started brainstorming a new concept album. Wanna hear about it?”

William caps his water bottle. “Oh… is it anything like the recent record?”

“Somewhat. I can tell Jon’s a little hesitant, but I think I’m going to need more feedback before I give it up– after all, with the last album, everyone but Pete was telling me, ‘Ryan, this is fucking crazy’ and ‘we don’t need a fifteen minute orchestral introduction,’ but you know, we got a minor hit with ‘Postmodernist Pale’ and Suarez called me to say that shit’s on repeat in New York’s hipster coffeehouses, so it’s clear I’m onto something. All those critics don’t understand– there’s totally a thirst for intellectual thought-provoking music, and we can totally corner that.”

William just stares. “Ryan, what?”

“Next album, it’s all going to be elaborately thought-out. Forget feelings, forget emotions– the motto is gonna be like, give me intellectualism, give me surrealism and dadaism and existentialist dread– Europe in all its former glory, tainted by the shadow of the first world war. It’s going to start with a reading of The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot–”

“Not the entire thing though, right?”

“Oh no, we’re doing the whole thing. It’s going to be extremely low quality audio too, think your MP3 player from 2005 after dropping it in the toilet.” Ryan turns up the treadmill speed, speech quickening with his pace. “Then there’s going to be a transition that’ll go into the rest of the album, probably gun and bomb noises– each song is set in a different European country, the lyrics inspired by an author who wrote something set in that country, and the slowly-building tension eventually escalates into the war. Do you think I could get the band Franz Ferdinand to feature on the last song? It would be very funny as a song title, you know, ‘song featuring Franz Ferdinand,’ and it’s just the band.”

“That is… quite the concept. It’s extremely imaginative.”

Ryan huffs. “Okay, so you hate it.”

“No, no! I think in general it is a great idea. But… don’t take this the wrong way, but are you like, doing okay?”

“Dude, I should be asking you that.”

“Everyone’s been asking me that all week. Has anyone really asked you, though? You’re also working out instead of sleeping another hour like everyone else.”

Ryan stops the treadmill, breathing hard. “Ugh, not really. It doesn’t have anything to do with the album, though. I’m trying not to write any secretly anorexic songs this time.”

“So you’re trying to bottle it up?”

“Sort of? I don’t know. There’s not much of a point to dwelling on it anymore. It’s not as fun anymore. It’s like, I’m trying to just be a fucking adult, but then I can’t fit into my wedding suit. Do you feel that too?”

“A little,” William admits. “I mean, I did fuck up Z, so maybe I should feel bad. The entire Decaydance Weightloss Competition fucked us up, actually. But I don’t feel bad. It’s just not as fun as it used to be. There’s no thrill because nobody’s watching me anymore. Gabe still has Cobra and the tabloids and Pete, and you have your devoted fans and Jon, and what do I have? I don’t have a band, I don’t have a career or a girlfriend. Nobody knows my name anymore. You know, I don’t even get recognized at record stores anymore. I have to walk into a Hot Topic to feel something, and even then, there’s a ten percent chance someone will recognize the guy staring forlornly at a t-shirt display that’s all new bands like Sleeping with Sirens, and the only band left from the old days is Paramore and whatever Brendon’s new Panic music is… Anyways, it was all so much more fun when it was all a risk and we were still practically teenagers, seeing if we could starve ourselves to stardom. And now? I don’t know. I’m a sad skinny adult past his peak, but at least I’m skinny, but why isn’t that enough for me?”

“Dude, you need therapy.”

“Maybe– sorry I went on a tangent there, I’m trying to ask you to spill your guts and instead I’m throwing up all over you.”

“I mean, I get it, I miss the past too.” Ryan steps off the treadmill. “I think I feel like there’s so much to lose now though, at least for me, because I mean, we’re at the make-or-break point of having an eating disorder. We’re not young anymore. This is the age where it really starts killing anyone who goes too deep.”

“Unfortunate,” William passively remarks.

“Sorry if that’s a little–”

“Don’t worry, no avoiding it. Ana is a cruel mistress and all that. Keep going.”

“Well anyway, Europe was really nice and all. I really loved it there, getting a chance to soak in the culture rather than rushing from city to city for shows. But no matter how much I ate, I lost weight, and Jon saw I was clearly trying to eat more like I promised, but God, it just all fell off. It must have been the walking, because I hit ten thousand steps most days. But Jon was just so worried the whole time, because I felt awful and just kept insisting we keep going. I almost passed out at the top of the fucking Parthenon, and I couldn’t even enjoy the British Museum because I had the attention span of a goldfish. I mean, there were also nice moments, but I would lie down at night and I was so exhausted and my knees ached and– it wasn’t even a proper honeymoon, because we only had sex like, three times I think. So anyway, in my brainfog after reading too many novels on all the planes everywhere, I start conceptualizing this crazy ambitious album because how else am I gonna top the last one? And there’s the added bonus of Jon worrying about how crazy my music is getting instead of my mental health.”

“Have you been listening to Pet Sounds?”

“I– The Beach Boys has nothing to do with this. Anyway, where am I going with all this? Yeah, anyway, after the honeymoon, Jon starts saying all these crazy words like ‘outpatient’ and ‘retreat’ and I’m like, no, babe, can you let me read this six-hundred page book about Austro-Hungary in peace? And then apparently I’m avoiding the problem and refusing to confront reality.”

William raises a brow. “You read a six-hundred page book about Austro-Hungary?”

“No– well, technically I haven’t finished it yet, but yes. I know this sounds bad but it’s for research purposes! I have a list of thirty books I have to read before I can even start writing anything.”

“Ryan, buddy, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might be spiraling just a bit.”

“Oh, I’m sure I am.” Ryan sighs, sitting down on the floor. He pinches the bridge of his nose.  “I’d rather spiral than deal with this shit. Jon’s being way too nice about it. He’s pretending it’s totally normal that I bring up chemical warfare and trench foot every five seconds. No sane person should be supportive of their husband developing an obsession with War World One, but look, if I can think about someone suffering more than me, it makes me feel better about skipping breakfast.”

“Ryan,” William says, “you cannot become a war history buff. You’re already insufferable enough.”

“I know, right? But I can’t help it. And the added bonus is that it takes away my appetite.”

“Ay, there’s the rub.”

“Look, there’s an age limit to looking at pictures of emaciated women before people start to think you’re a creep. Disgusting war photos are a little more socially acceptable.”

“I still have the thinspo folder,” William admits. “Old pictures from when I was with Z, too.”

Ryan narrows his eyes. “Bill, she’d hate to know you still have those.”

“Oh well.” William shrugs, absentmindedly twisting the cap of his water bottle. “Sometimes I just feel like a sad old man, dude. I’m frail and falling apart, thinking on the past, looking at pictures I shouldn’t. I eat tiny little meals and lose my hair in the shower and my bones hurt. You should stop while you’re ahead. You don’t want to end up like me. The only reason anyone can stand to be around me is out of pity– at some point, when you’re at the third or fourth relapse, people just give up on you. They look at you and say, ‘ Poor Yorick,’ and then move on because you’re practically dead already.”

Ryan leans back against the treadmill and sighs. “So many Shakespeare references, Bill.”

“I’ve got memento mori on my mind, dude. Just listen to me,” William snaps, standing to his feet. “You still have a life! You have an adoring husband and a successful music career and you have never, ever been anywhere close to fat no matter what you think. Do you know how much it hurts me to see you going down the same path as me? I’ve wished a thousand times I could go back in time and tell you to get help instead of forcing you into our sick and twisted anorexia competition. It’s me who nearly took your goddamn life, not just Brendon, because I got you here. You don’t want to be me, Ryan. I fucked everyone up and I’m paying the price, so you don’t have to!”

Ryan stares up at him, mouth hanging open. “Uh…”

“I know it’s not easy to tell someone to just recover– but you don’t wanna suffer like me! You don’t, okay?” William lowers himself back down to the bench. “Sorry. I don’t want to freak you out or anything. No, I do want to freak you out, just… sorry I have to do that to get the point across.”

Ryan remains silent for a few moments, processing William’s outburst. “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not going to end up like–”

“I didn’t think I would end up like this, either. I’m almost thirty and still anorexic. How fucking sad is that.”

“You don’t have anything to feel guilty for, Bill. It’s my own fault I tried to take my life, nobody else’s. It’s me who made the decision to join the Decaydance Weightloss Competition.”

“You were a kid–”

“So were you. None of us really knew what we were doing. Don’t feel like you owe me anything. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I can’t take care of myself.”

Ryan stands and steps back onto the treadmill. “Bill, can I start my workout?”

“You really don’t need a workout. Isn’t everyone going hiking later?”

Ryan shrugs and pins the safety clip back to his shorts. “I know. And you know.”

William huffs and stands, grabbing his water bottle. “Okay. Guess you’re not ready to hear any of it. See you around.”

“Bye.” Ryan plugs his earbuds in and turns a history podcast up loud.

Chapter Text

Pete bangs on the bathroom door and yells over the shower, “Babe, I’m sorry about last night!”

“What was that?” Gabe calls out. Rushing water pounds against his chest– the water pressure is incredible, and the fact Pete would interrupt such a spiritual experience is mildly annoying. “You have to use the bathroom?”

“No, I said I’m sorry!”

“You left your socks in here?”

Pete opens the door with a sigh and marches in, pulling away the curtain. “I said I’m sorry about last night!”

Gabe gives him an exhausted look. “You couldn’t have waited until I got out of the shower? I haven’t even had my coffee.”

“What? You’re not gonna say thank you?”

“Well, what are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry that dinner with your family last night was such a horrendous mess, and it shouldn’t have happened– I’m such a shitty fiance for never visiting your family with you in the first place. I shouldn’t have listened when you said we didn’t need an engagement party.”

“No, really, we didn’t need to have one…”

“Gabe, let me apologize to you, please.”

“Pete, you really don’t have to worry. You’ve always been busy, everyone knows that. My dad’s a tough guy to please. Like Ricky said, he’s like this with everyone. And I really shouldn’t have gotten so pissed that you invited Mikey– it’s such a huge guest list, it’s really about the same as inviting Ryan. I just wasn’t in such a great mood after dinner.”

“No, babe, I said, let me apologize,” Pete says, taking his boxers off and stepping into the shower.

Gabe groans. “Pete, no. I haven’t had my coffee, and we’re leaving for the hike at nine…”

“No, no, this is time-saving. Showering together is totally economical and environmental. We’re saving the coral reefs, baby.”

“I’m not really in the mood to fuck, babe.”

“Too late, I’m already wet. Ha-ha, accidental euphemism. But I mean, we don’t have to go to plow-town or anything this early in the morning.” Pete places his hands on Gabe’s hips, cradling the dips. “A handjob or two wouldn’t take that long. You’re going to say you’re too tired after the hike and you know it.”

“Pete, I don’t want to touch your dick right now.”

“You don’t have to, I’ll jerk myself off. I’m the one apologizing here, I just want to get you off.”

“Oh my god, fine, you can get me off. But you have to wash my hair first.”

“Sure.”

Gabe hands him the travel-size shampoo bottle and turns around, back to him. “And you need to stop weaponizing Bill against me, please.”

Pete squirts a dollop of shampoo in his hands and rubs them together, nodding. “Just let me make you feel good right now, okay? We’ll talk when you’re caffeinated.”

“Okay, but you will, right?”

“Mhm, of course.”

Pete runs his hands through Gabe’s wet hair, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. The tension falls off Gabe’s shoulders. Leaning into the touch, he lets out a contented hum. “That feels good.”

“It’s the deft Fall Out Boy bassist fingers that’ll be wrapped around your dick in a few–”

“Pete, just let me enjoy this,” Gabe mumbles, eyes closed.

Nothing can describe the inexplicable delight when Gabe finally sits down at the hotel coffee bar and receives a little white cup of steaming black coffee on a little white plate. He takes a sip– bitter and black, burning down his throat.

“Happy you got your coffee?” Pete asks, picking up his mocha.

“Feeling better already.”

“Great, so let’s, like, have a conversation.”

Gabe is gazing toward the windows, watching the gentle ocean as he lifts his coffee cup to his lips. “Have at it.”

“You’re not supposed to say something like ‘have at it,’ you’ve gotta be an active participant in this.”

“Fine, fine.” Gabe sips his coffee and the cup clatters to the plate. “I’m an active participant.”

“Well, I guess that’s good enough.” Pete reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of complimentary hotel stationary. “I made a list while you were brushing your teeth of things we should talk about. Because, you know, we never get around to it.”

Gabe groans. “We don’t need a list. That’s depressing, Pete.”

“You said we didn’t need an engagement party and look where we are.” Pete flattens out the list on the bar and points to the first item. “So, first of all– I totally need to make up with your dad before the wedding. I was thinking maybe I could send a fruit basket to his room. Do you think he’d like a fruit basket?”

“I think it’s going to take more than a fruit basket. I think you need to start with… like, reading a Judaism 101 book or something.”

“Got it.” Pete takes a pen out of his pocket and scrawls down, read Jewish book.

“And no backing out of my family’s holiday invitations either. I don’t care how busy you are– you’ve really got to make time to get to know them.”

“Totally. How many holidays are we talking?”

“Well, let’s see… the next kinda big one is Purim, but we can skip out on that. Passover, definitely gotta do. Shavuot might be nice, but you don’t have to do that one either. Then, there’s Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Simchat Torah–”

Pete stops writing. “You want me to do all of those? I thought you were only going to say, like, Hanukkah.”

“We could fly out to New Jersey for Hanukkah, but that’s not the most important one, babe.”

“Well, I guess the others are only five days out of the year…”

“Oh no, in total it is much more than five days.”

“Oh… okay, let’s return to that later. Can I just start out with the fruit basket and see how that goes over?”

“I think he’d also appreciate a real conversation–” Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Gabe turns. “Oh, morning, Ryan. What’s up?”

“Hey. Sorry to interrupt, guys.” Ryan smiles apologetically. “Can I talk to you for a sec, Gabe?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” Gabe asks. Pete puts away the list with a little sigh.

Ryan takes the empty seat beside Gabe. “This morning, I ran into William after he was working out in the gym, and I just… I think he’s planning on going on the hike in a bit, and I’m not sure if that’s a great idea? I know it’s a relatively easy trail, but I’m just not sure he should be out there in the beating sun walking that long.”

“How bad did he look?” Gabe asks. “I mean, he’s an adult. I can’t stop him from coming.”

Pete chimes in, “Yeah, I think you should mind your own business–”

“You don’t get a say in this, Pete,” Gabe snaps.

Pete rolls his eyes and turns away, sipping his mocha.

“I just think maybe you should go find Bill and see how he’s doing,” Ryan says. “I mean, don’t make him feel forced, but we can’t just let him walk over five miles in this kind of weather. I’m sure he’s capable of it with how much he brags about his insanely-long walks, but it’s only a matter of time until he has some kind of medical emergency. We can’t let him push himself too hard.”

“Your omelette, sir,” says the bartender, placing a plate in front of Gabe.

“Oh, thanks.” Gabe quickly turns back to Ryan. “I’ll go check on him and see if he’s still considering the hike.”

“But your omelette just arrived,” Pete protests.

“Oh, right.” Gabe stands up. “Ryan, you can have my omelette.”

“Um… thanks.”

“You’re not going to eat before the hike?” Pete demands.

“I’ll have one of the protein bars I brought. Don’t worry, we’ll get lunch when we get back or something.”

“Can’t you just tell Sisky to check on him?” Pete asks. “We said we’d talk, and we’re barely past the first part of the list– do I send a fruit basket to your dad or not?”

“I just want to talk to him myself, it’ll barely be a minute. Let’s go over the list at lunch.”

“But the fruit basket…” Pete barely has a chance to respond before Gabe is hurrying away from the coffee bar. He sighs and turns to Ryan, who’s already moved into Gabe’s seat and chowing down on the omelette. “Ryan, are you seriously eating that?”

Ryan pauses mid-bite, puts his fork down, and spits into a napkin. “Not anymore, I guess.”

Pete holds up his hands, panicked. “No, man, I didn’t mean it like that. I was going to ask for a takeout box, but I’ll order another–”

“You can be so dense sometimes, you know?” Ryan shoves the plate toward Pete. “Also, this is just me taking a guess, but I don’t think Gabe wants you to buy his dad a fruit basket. Get him a nice expensive grill. Maybe in the range of a thousand dollars. Dads love that shit. Anyways, I should find Jon. See you on the hike.”

Pete sighs, burying his head in his hands. “Thanks for the tip.”

Pete is waiting impatiently in the hotel lobby, gripping an ice-cold water bottle in one hand and his phone in the other, eyes darting up from it periodically to check the lobby for any sign of Gabe. The bus he hired to take them to the hiking trail has already arrived at the front, and the last thing he wants is to be charged overtime– after all, now apparently he has to buy a thousand dollar grill for Gabe’s dad.

The elevator dings. Pete’s head snaps up, but he frowns when the doors open and Sisky and Carden walk out, wearing baseball caps and a thick, pasty layer of sunscreen on their faces. They come over to Pete. “Hey, man. So, Gabe wanted us to tell you that he’s staying back with William.”

“Oh?” Pete’s grip tightens on the water bottle. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“Yeah, we offered to stay back, but Gabe insisted we go out and enjoy ourselves,” Carden says. “Bill’s tired, as he always is, and Gabe doesn’t want him to feel lonely staying back here by himself.”

“You want any sunscreen?” Sisky asks, holding out the bottle. “If the sun here is anything like the Virgin Islands, you’ll need it.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already got some.” Pete waves his hand away. “I guess it’s Gabe’s choice, but it’s our week to enjoy ourselves–”

“Look, you may have paid for our flights, but we didn’t come all the way here to not have some fun. If Gabe wants to stay behind, let him.”

“Why do you think I invited you in the first place?” Pete demands. Realizing the rashness of his statement, Pete sighs and turns away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that–”

“We’re not here because you asked us to coddle Bill,” Carden fires back. “We’re here because we care about him, and also because we care about Gabe. We’re the ones trying to keep Bill alive, while you haven’t even spoken a word to him. You should know how fucking stressful it is to watch someone you love fall apart right in front of you, but I guess you’ve forgotten. We need a break too; at least Gabe can recognize that. Get over yourself.”

“Yeah!” Sisky agrees. He shoves the sunscreen bottle at Pete. “Actually, you can have this for that sick BURN! Ooh!”

“Sisky!” Carden hisses.

“What? If he’s being immature, I can too.”

Pete hands the sunscreen bottle back to Sisky. “Okay, I’m sorry. Obviously it’s hard to take care of people, you deserve a break. Let’s get on the bus and go.”

With an air of exasperation, Carden huffs, “Sure. Just don’t give us shit, please. And don’t give Gabe shit either. You should be glad to be marrying such an empathetic person– he’s too good for you.”

Too good for me? A couple of years ago, he’d agree, but now? “I know,” he lies.

The drive to the Deux Tétons trail is only an hour, yet filled with enough views to last for a lifetime. They pass fields and forests, always surrounded by lush mountains and bright blue sky. The mood of the bus is jovial, but every once in a while it’ll fall quiet when someone points out a stupendous view, all eyes suddenly glued to the window. Their breath is stolen a number of times, and they haven’t even gotten off the bus yet.

Although the temperature has climbed with the sun’s height since morning, the weather forecast still bodes well before cell reception is lost. A warm, sunny day with low-to-zero chance of rain and decent humidity. A slight breeze brings the cool air of the ocean with it. Not in much of a hurry, the group meanders down the rust-colored dirt path, admiring the views as they head further uphill.

Naturally, Patrick begins the hike next to Pete and bemoans a few minutes in, “God, it’s hotter than I thought it’d be,” wiping a bead of sweat from his eyebrow. “How much water did you bring?”

“Like, two bottles.” Pete shrugs. “The temperature isn’t really so bad. You just might be a little out of shape.”

“No, I’ve been going to a trainer recently.” Patrick sighs. “I’m just fat.”

“You’re not–”

“My body fat percentage is thirty percent, so scientifically, I’m fat.”

“Thirty percent fat isn’t bad. You get to be seventy percent not fat.”

“That’s not how it works at all–”

“Dude, I’m kidding,” Pete assures with a grin. “I have abs, I know how body fat percentages work.”

Patrick decides to move on, although not before mentally noting that Pete called him ‘out of shape’ for later– that will be particularly useful to remember during dinner. “So, I don’t wanna talk business right now, but since we’re going to start shooting right after your honeymoon anyway… I did tell Brendon he could have his music video body-switching arc.

“You what?” Pete hisses under his breath. “Patrick, I wasn’t being serious about it! Why would you do that? I don’t want to switch bodies with Brendon!”

“He can switch bodies with Joe!”

“Who am I switching bodies with?” Joe pipes up from behind them.

Although Pete plays it off like this is totally fine, shortly afterward he gravitates away from Patrick and toward Mikey, using the convenient excuse that he sees a bug on Mikey’s neck and has the irrepressible urge to swat it. Although Patrick does not see a bug, he holds back from voicing this.

Tuning out Joe’s babbling about the impracticalities of switching bodies with Brendon, Patrick watches Pete and Mikey closely from behind, observing their behavior. Pete helps Mikey cross a river, gripping his hand as he crosses from one wobbly rock to another. A few minutes later, Mikey helps Pete up a steep ledge. Patrick just gets to huff and puff while Joe struggles to boost him by the foot, probably secretly thinking what a fucking fatass pig.

When they finally reach the top of the mountain, everyone else takes out their cameras, marvelling at the sprawling view. Jon does a sassy pose for Ryan’s phone, hands on his hips. Sisky screams far too energetically, “WHOO!”and picks up Carden, spinning him around. Andy slides off his sunglasses, squints, and says, “Wow. Nature’s crazy, dude.”

Meanwhile, Patrick collapses in a sweaty heap to the ground and groans, knees aching, wondering if he’ll vomit. Joe throws a plastic water bottle at his lap and asks, “You okay, dude? Sure you’re not gonna get heatstroke?”

“Did you bring any snacks?” Patrick asks, unscrewing the water bottle. “I should have brought something. Sweet Jesus.”

Joe reaches into the pocket of his khaki shorts and throws a protein bar to him. “Here, have it. You think that’ll be enough? If you ask Andy really nicely, he might give you some trail mix.”

“No, this is good for now. Thanks.” Patrick takes a gulp of water and rips open the protein bar. “I can’t believe we have to go back down. I feel like shit.”

“On the brightside, downhill is always easier.”

“Oh, going downhill is too easy.”

“Very cryptic, Patrick,” Joe monotones. “Well, if you need a few extra minutes, I’ll wait here with you. My knees could use it. I think I hear them creaking– man, I hate getting old. Patrick? Patrick? Earth to Patrick, what are you staring at?” Joe turns around and sees Pete standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Mikey, taking in the view. “Ah.”

“I’m not the only one who’s weirded out by it, right?”

Joe sits down. “Not really. Maybe he’s just reminiscing on his bachelor days. I think they’re both very aware of their individual commitments.”

Patrick side-eyes Joe and whispers, “Dude, I was doing some googling yesterday, and Mikey’s getting divorced. He’s a total cheater. He could swoop in at any time.”

“Well, give Pete more credit than that, dude.”

But there’s the secret hope deep stirring inside Patrick that refuses to entertain the idea that Pete should be lovingly committed– the heart wants what it wants, after all. Patrick takes out his phone and zooms in, taking a picture of the two.

Loaded with sarcasm, Joe comments, “Nice view, huh?”

“Totally,” says Patrick.

Gabe and William are laying back in chaises on the beach, the sun warming their sunscreen-slicked arms as they sip pineapple smoothies with tiny umbrellas–the height of luxury–when Gabe’s phone buzzes. Instinctively, he puts down his book and reaches for his pocket.

William eyes the phone. “You should turn that thing off. It’s our beach reading time, Gabey.”

“Because The Bell Jar is such great beach reading.”

“Oh, please,” William sighs, playfully bopping his head with his copy . “Don’t act so high and mighty, you’re reading Kafka again.”

“Mrmph.”

“What, no comeback?” William slides up his sunglasses, watching Gabe stare down at his IPhone. “Is something up?”

“Nothing, it’s… it’s just Patrick sent a picture of the hike.” Gabe hands his phone to William. “Don’t they look close? I’m not overreacting, am I?”

William studies the picture of Pete and Mikey standing closely together, staring out into the landscape. Patrick has captioned it, At least someone’s having fun…

He hands the phone back. “Don’t worry about it. You know how Patrick is, he’s just trying to get a rise out of you. Pete may not be acting… amazing this week, but he knows better than to ruin everything he has with you for a side hoe. He loves you.”

“I don’t know,” Gabe says, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s close to being damning evidence.”

“Remember, Patrick has his own reasons to want to ruin your life. Don’t take his word as gospel or anything.” William takes the phone back for another look. “Like, I can see how it can be read in a certain way, but Patrick’s just trying to get on your nerves. Don’t let him.”

“I know logically I shouldn’t.” Gabe picks up his smoothie and takes a long, distressed sip. “But what if it means what Patrick wants it to mean? After all, it’s him who’s on that hike. Not me.”

“If there was something going on, Pete would stay away from Mikey in public settings as much as possible.”

“I wouldn’t say he has that much social acuity.” Gabe takes another long sip. His phone buzzes in William’s hand. “What’s that?”

William lifts the phone for a closer look. “Oh, well…”

Gabe steals the phone back. “Oh, great, even more from Patrick. Does he seriously think I don’t know Mikey’s divorced? Actually, I didn’t know that, but I didn’t have to know.”

“Like I said, turn that phone off and stop paying attention to him.”

Gabe sighs and clicks off his phone. “Okay, okay. Back to Kafka.”

William picks up his own book again and leans back in the chaise, back stiff. The hard bone of his spine presses into the thin cushion of the chaise, and he adjusts his posture a few times, sitting up, slumping, trying to find that somewhat comfy spot again. Finally he drops his book onto his boney knees and says, “You know, Gabe, I’m genuinely sorry for the person I was in the past. This is all my fault.”

“It is not, don’t say that.”

“But it’s really just all a butterfly effect. If I hadn’t encouraged everyone’s eating disorders… well, maybe Patrick wouldn’t be so fucking brain-damaged. Maybe we’d all be fucking normal people.”

“Bill, we all are responsible for our own decisions. It’s Patrick’s own fault that he’s being deranged, not yours.”

“Sort of, yes, but I don’t just mean that.” William sighs. “If I hadn’t kissed you and made you spend so much time around me, you and Pete would be doing better than now.”

“No, Bill, we were having plenty of problems before that. Most of them being Patrick’s fault, not yours.”

“I kissed you.”

“While drunk! And I’m pretty sure I was very enthusiastic about it.”

“You were too drunk to remember–”

“No, I was looking at the pictures last night and I could tell by my body language that–”

William’s jaw drops. “You still have those?” He picks up his book and smacks Gabe in the arm. Thwack! “You’re getting married this week, Gabe, and you still have the pictures of us kissing?” Thwack! “Why haven’t you deleted them?”

“I will if you want me to!”

“I don’t, but you should!”

Gabe takes out his phone and slams it on the table between them. “Then you do it. My phone passcode is 1-5-2-5. You can do whatever you want with it, go ahead. Delete the pictures. Send them to Pete. Post them on Instagram for everyone to see.”

“I’m not doing that–”

“I just told you the password to my phone.” Gabe shoves it into his lap. “You can do whatever you want with it. So do whatever you want.”

William tentatively picks up the phone, but a moment later places it into Gabe’s lap. “No, Gabe, it needs to be your choice. You can delete them. You can show them to Pete. You can even post them.”

Gabe hesitates. “But what should I do?”

“It should be what you would do for Pete.” 

“No, I’m asking what do you want me to do?”

William curls his knees close to his chest and tucks his chin on his boney knees, staring out at the sapphire blue ocean. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. We shouldn’t even be entertaining this.”

“No, but we are, and I’m asking you.”

“Let’s just stop talking about this.”

“Bill,” says Gabe quietly, leaning forward to meet his eyes. “Tell me.”

William’s eyes dart to his. In a whisper: “What do you think?”

Breathless, Gabe’s mouth grows dry. “Oh.”

Chapter Text

Gabe’s head is reeling for the remainder of the afternoon, barely able to concentrate on a word of Kafka before having to start the entire paragraph all over again, and repeat. When William drifts asleep in the sun, Gabe gives up on reading and fetches an umbrella so he won’t burn. He sits back in the shade and watches William’s boney chest rise with each breath. It’s hard to imagine that pale skin once covered with the hickies and scratches left by Gabe’s teeth and nails, perfectly marred. Now, the body that houses his favorite soul is a shriveled husk .

He leans in close to William’s pasty, cracked lips, but shrinks back. His breath reeks. William’s guts are cannibalizing themselves for any spare speck of calories. Gabe lays back on his chaise and turns on his side, watching William slumber. He reaches for his hand and strokes the tendon.

Was it even worth it, to admit my love to him? Gabe wonders. He’s going to die. No matter what you do, it’s too late.

Yes, it was worth it, says the other part of his brain. Every single word. It has to be meant to be, or all of this was for nothing.

But does this mean I’ve officially given up on Pete? He doesn’t think two soulmates so diametrically opposed can coexist in his heart. But even looking around is a reminder of how far his relationship with Pete has gone– he’s on a beach on a Pacific island, about to have a lavish wedding. Is it worth both the financial and emotional cost to give up now and swap his partner for a severe anorexic who might not even make it to the altar? Even if the waters are rough now, Pete is the safe choice. Pete is healthy, and successful, and out of all the celebrities in the world, Gabe should at least pride himself that he bagged Pete Wentz.

One more chance, and if Gabe can’t find the hidden essence of the man he originally fell in love with, then he’ll ring the death knells of their relationship for good and give it all up for a skeleton.

When the bus gets back a few minutes after 3 P.M, Ryan breathes a sigh of relief and instructs Jon, “As soon as I get into bed, I’m not moving for the rest of night. Let’s get room service.”

“Agreed.”

However, once they get inside the hotel, Gabe, who’s been pacing the lobby, spots them and rushes over, grabbing Ryan by the wrist. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, hi? Okay.” Ryan allows himself to be dragged away. “Can Jon come?”

Gabe stops and motions for a confused Jon to follow. Gabe leads them down the hallway and into a hidden corridor full of vending machines.

“What’s going on?” Ryan asks. “Did something happen to–”

“No, it’s not that, Bill’s fine and in his room,” Gabe whispers. “I just gotta ask… this is so stupid, I know, but what sort of vibes were you getting on the hike? I heard that Pete and Mikey were together for a lot of it. So I just want to know what their dynamic was. Like, just talking business? Being really comfortable with each other? Any weird innuendos or longing looks?”

“I wasn’t really paying much attention,” Jon admits. Ryan also nods.

“Yeah, I think they were pretty… normal?” Ryan agrees, leaning back against the vending machine. “Why? Have they been spending a lot of time together?”

“I don’t know. I just… I can’t help but wonder, what if this is how Pete’s trying to get back at me?” Gabe crosses his arms, looking down at the floor. “He thinks I spend too much time with William, so of course he’d try to spend a lot of time with his own ex-affair and try to make me jealous… are you sure you didn’t see anything? Like, think hard on it. I need to know.”

“Gabe, look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure this is entirely healthy,” Ryan says. “I think your concerns are valid– I just mean that the lack of trust and feeling like Pete’s pitting Mikey against you, that’s not healthy.”

Gabe pauses for a moment and sighs. “No, it’s definitely not. “

“Dude, you’re getting married this week–”

“Don’t remind me. I just…” Gabe takes a deep breath and collects himself. “Okay, I am uncomfortable with it, that’s all. I really want to give Pete one more chance, but with Mikey around, I’m just afraid that chance isn’t going to come. And of course I’ve been hanging out with William a lot too– but he’s dying, what the hell else am I supposed to do? I just think this entire thing would be a lot easier if Mikey wasn’t around to distract Pete and make him think of people other than me, you know? Like, Mikey’s divorced, right? He’s ready to fuck around, and Pete would be his first target, and what the fuck do I do if Mikey tries to get Pete? He loves me, I know, but he couldn’t resist that! I need to do something.”

Jon raises a brow. “Something, as in, something to get Pete’s attention just long enough to have an honest talk and repair your relationship? Right? Because I don’t know how else you can fix this.”

“Yes, basically that,” Gabe says. “One night, with Mikey or any other distractions completely removed from the equation. After our interview with the Vogue journalist this evening, there’s dinner and the rest of the night, and maybe with the chaos of the schedule we can finally have some time to ourselves. I just need him out of our hair long enough to have a conversation with Pete. That’s it. We can both own up and get married, totally okay with each other. That makes sense, right?”

“Yeah…” Ryan and Jon say in unison, despite the skeptical looks they shoot at each other. Ryan goes on to suggest, “If it’s what you really think you need, we can try to steer Mikey away from wherever you guys are.”

“Oh my gosh, would you?” Gabe asks. “That would be incredible.”

“Of course,” Ryan says. “We’ll wine and dine him. Pretend we need advice on making a concept album or something, which is technically true. Nothing crazy. I’ve always wanted to be friends with a member of My Chem anyway– what teenager didn’t? It’ll be way too easy to shower him in praise.”

“Yeah, if we ended up friends with him at the end of this, it wouldn’t be too bad for us either,” Jon agrees. “It’s a win-win situation, really.”

“Thank you! Like, really, thank you. ” Gabe digs in his pocket for his wallet and hands Ryan his credit card. “Order whatever you want, maybe a couple more drinks than he needs– it wouldn’t hurt if he had a killer hangover in the morning and was up late. It’s on me. Just give the card back tomorrow.”

“Well, I sure don’t mind the free dinner,” Ryan says, tucking the card into his pocket. “We’ll do our best. You don’t have anything to worry about, alright? Just focus on getting things right with Pete.”

“What about Patrick?” Jon asks. “We can divide and conquer, if that’s necessary.”

“No, just focus all your energy on Mikey. Whatever it takes. Like, Patrick’s a problem, but not as much of an immediate danger. Anything to keep Mikey from fucking Pete– do you any of you have antidepressants? Maybe you could slip him one or two, that might lower his libido.”

“I really hope you’re joking, because we’re not drugging him,” Ryan says. “Plain alcohol is the furthest we’ll go.”

“Of course, I wasn’t being serious or anything… I’m just saying I support and love you two, no matter what methods you choose, and I’m deeply grateful.”

“Thanks?” Jon says.

“Yeah, um, sure. Anyways, we’ll text you later about how it goes.” Ryan groans, stretching his arms over his head. “Good luck with that Vogue interview. Jon, you find Mikey. I’ll start looking up restaurants.”

“So, you’re both a long way from home,” says the Vogue journalist, a notepad balanced on her knee. She’s dressed in a tasteful white blouse and black suit pants, hair tied up in a sleek ponytail. A recording device has been set up on the coffee table between them, golden evening sun streaming into the hotel room. “How did you fall in love with this little island that not many Americans have even heard of? Hawaii just legalized gay marriage in 2013– so why not there?”

“Well, we just thought Hawaii was so overdone,” Gabe answers. “Like, who isn’t having a wedding in Hawaii these days? We wanted more of a unique experience, for us and our guests.”

“Plus gay marriage wasn’t yet legal when we started planning our wedding last year, so it’s really recent,” Pete adds. “Also we’re planning on a lengthy honeymoon through Asia after the wedding, so the location makes sense. New Caledonia is, like, paradise, and only a couple hours flight from Sydney too. Of course we know having a wedding across the Pacific isn’t financially feasible for everyone; I mean, I come from a middle-class background, Gabe’s family are immigrants–”

“My dad went to medical school a second time in the States,” Gabe cuts in. “He worked hard to get where he is.”

Pete smiles politely. “Right, that’s what I meant. Realistically we know, not everyone has bucket loads of money, so we paid for a lot of flights. We wanted all our family here without breaking the bank.”

“Oh, you paid for so many flights,” Gabe remarks. “Even for people you haven’t seen in years. Pete is so generous.”

“It sounds like a lot of planning went into your big day– could you give an idea of the scope of a destination wedding?”

“Well, Gabe’s the one who’s been coordinating most of it with the wedding planner. Babe?” Pete gently nudges him. Gabe’s head snaps up from his phone.

“Oh, sorry. Just a second.” Gabe finishes a text and then pockets his phone. “So, wedding planning. Uh, it’s been stressful for sure. Especially when you’re trying to convert currencies all the time and trying to figure out how much catering is gonna cost. Catering was a huge hassle, there’s some members of my extended family who keep kosher so we’ve had to import a lot of food from Australia and put up the catering team in the hotel. We have to fly out the rabbi for the wedding ceremony, too. Our flowers are getting imported Singapore… and I’m not sure how much our tuxedos cost, maybe like ten grand each? Pete, you got anything to add?”

Pete shakes his head, teeth gritted. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“If you’re comfortable giving maybe a ballpark estimate, how much does this all cost?”

“I’m not sure exactly…” Gabe starts.

“A little over one million dollars,” Pete says. Gabe glares. As the journalist scrawls down the number, Pete leans over to whisper to Gabe, “At least the outrage over our expensive fucking wedding will be publicity for the album.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Gabe hisses back. “There’s going to be so many photographers, I can’t just lie! We didn’t talk about this before.”

“We would have if you went on the hike earlier.”

Gabe leans back in his seat, smiling lightly and pretending that the venom in Pete’s voice didn’t cut straight through his heart.

“So, you’re only a couple days from the big wedding,” the journalist says. “How are you feeling, leading up to the big day?”

“A little anxious,” Gabe says, “but mostly excited.”

“So excited.” Pete looks over to Gabe, letting his eyes linger to fake a sense of longing. “I don’t think there’s much to worry about at this point, with everything set in stone. I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life with anyone else.”

“I feel the exact same way,” Gabe says. “I’d never be able to give Pete up. He’s basically mine now.”

“And I’d say the same. He’s going to be keeping me on a very tight leash.”

The journalist takes a little too long finishing up her notes on that answer. Gabe hopes she hasn’t noticed that not once during the interview did Pete’s hand touch his, not once did Pete lay a hand on his back or sling an arm around his lover’s shoulder. There were a few inches between their spots on the couch, but an immeasurable distance between their hearts.

“So nice for them to pay for our dinner,” Pete remarks. “It’s really the cherry on top of the ten grand each designer tuxedos.”

“They really did cost ten grand,” Gabe states, sitting down. “You said you wanted designer, so I got designer. All the extravagances were vetted by you.”

“I wonder if they tapped this place,” Pete says aloud, peeking under the table. “There’s no way they’d pay for our dinner without an ulterior motive. They know we’d be rich enough to afford it.”

“It’s Vogue, Pete, they’re not exactly known for investigative journalism. It’s all expensive high heels and lemon juice cleanses. Wiretapping is below them.”

“After that disaster of an interview? Anything’s on the table.” Pete leans over a potted plant by his chair and inspects the rim of the pot. “Do you even know what a wiretap looks like?”

“Do you?”

Pete shrinks back and picks up the menu. “I feel like I’d recognize a wiretap.”

“Oh my god, it’s Vogue, Pete. Not the fucking Kremlin.” Gabe flips open the menu and pretends to look, although he’s already decided on a meager salad and a copious amount of alcohol. He taps the table a few times before sighing and looking up. “Look, I’m sorry the interview didn’t go the way either of us wanted it to. We should have gone over it beforehand.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too.” Pete’s menu falls away from his face, revealing his exhausted disposition. “The hike tired me out. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I think we were a little overzealous with planning activities.”

“At least tomorrow morning we can sleep in,” Gabe says. “Nothing going on until the bachelor party. That’ll be nice. And that gives us, um, plenty of time to talk. Because I know this morning we didn’t really get to finish our conversation and we should do that.” Before I go making any incredibly stupid decisions.

“That’d be great.” Pete forces an uncomfortable smile, and reaches in his pocket. “I still have that list–”

Gabe groans. “Oh, no.”

“We’ve gotta finish the list, babe.”

“Can’t we talk it all out without a damn list? It’s all so cut and dry otherwise. Too businesslike. Let’s talk straight from the heart or something.”

“I don’t think we should talk straight from the heart right now.”

Gabe’s voice croaks. “I don’t know what the hell you mean by that.”

“Shit– no, I don’t mean it like that, don’t cry!” Pete folds up the list and shoves it into his pocket. “Okay, okay, see? I’m putting it away. Let’s just talk about normal things. We’ll get to the serious stuff later.”

Gabe nods, dabbing at his eyes with the cloth napkin on his lap. “Okay. Um, how was the hike this morning?”

“Oh, it was gorgeous, but so long. I took a ton of pictures, I’ll show you when I get the camera later. For some reason Patrick thought it would be a great opportunity to tell me that he promised Brendon a role in our music video, so that is going to be hell to get out of.”

“Nooo, he seriously told Brendon he could be in a video? Are you kidding?”

The conversation glides naturally until the waiter takes their orders and pours them each a glass of wine. As Gabe takes his first sip, Pete continues to describe the hike. “So at some point I ended up walking next to Mikey, and I was telling him about Patrick’s awful idea, and he suggested we should just stick Brendon in a costume the whole time so nobody knows it’s him–”

That’s when Gabe’s stomach starts to curdle. His wine sips turn into gulps, and now his glass is half-empty, half-full. “You and Mikey have been talking a lot, haven’t you?”

“Eh, not much.” Pete shrugs. “Here and there, mostly catching up on the past couple years.”

“Did you hear he’s divorced?” Gabe asks. “You should be careful.”

“Gabe, he’s divorced, not the town whore with a scarlet letter on his chest.” Pete chuckles and takes a sip of his wine. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t tried to beguile me. Are you jealous?”

“So you can’t trust me with Bill,” Gabe says quietly, “but I’m supposed to trust you with Mikey?”

“Unlike you, I haven’t kissed Mikey in years.”

“You haven’t kissed anyone?”

“Of course not!” Pete quickly grabs the bottle of wine and takes Gabe’s almost-empty glass. “Uh, here, have some more wine. It’s good, right? I can almost taste the hints of cherry wood.”

“You’re full of it. You never can taste the wine notes.”

“I totally can,” Pete says defensively, corking the bottle. He pushes Gabe’s glass roughly, wrinkling the tablecloth. A drop of wine splashes over the side. “Oh. Sorry.”

Gabe takes the glass with seething silence, and refuses to say a word more until their appetizer arrives: black pudding samosas with apples. He remains tight-lipped while Pete thanks the waiter and uses a fork to pick up a samosa, gingerly taking a bite. Gabe’s utensils remain untouched, and he only moves to take a sip of wine.

“Aren’t you going to try one?” Pete asks. Gabe shakes his head. Pete huffs and stabs a samosa with his fork, dropping it on Gabe’s plate. “Eat it.”

Gabe scrutinizes the fried dough. Droplets of oil still glisten on its surface, but his fork remains metaphysically out of reach. You’re getting too fat for him, says that voice, like an old, warm friend. Mikey’s still so skinny. Why would he love you now?

“Oh my God, are you ignoring me?” Pete demands. “What did I even say? Like, Jesus, Gabe. At least eat if you’re not going to talk. How much did you even have today? Because if you were spending the entire day around William, I assume it’s not much.”

Gabe glares at him and gingerly picks up the samosa, placing it back on its original plate. Pete grits his teeth, jaw tight.

“You didn’t say anything,” Gabe says simply. “I’m not hungry.”

Pete leans back in his seat, staring at him in exhaustion. “Seriously? This shit? You can’t just threaten to relapse because you’re not happy with me.”

“I don’t know where the hell you’ve been for the past couple of months. If you’d paid attention, you’d know I’m not going to therapy anymore. I drive to the Santa Monica pier and walk to Venice and back.”

“You do?” Pete’s jaw drops. “God. Well, excuse me for the fact that I can’t read your fucking mind. Whenever I ask you how therapy was, you just say, ‘oh, fine.’ How was I supposed to know you’re not going?”

“Well, I feel like when I told you I lost five pounds in a month, that should have been some sort of sign.”

“You never want to talk about it! How the hell am I supposed to approach it?”

“I don’t think conveniently forgetting is the best way to go about it.”

“You’re thirty-four!” Pete hisses, picking up a samosa and shoving it in Gabe’s face. “Do you want me to remind you to eat all the time? Do you want me to throw you in a hospital again? I’m not a fucking mind-reader!”

“Oh God, Pete, fine, I’ll eat the fucking samosa!” Gabe wrenches it from his hand and takes a bite. The dough is flaky but the thick filling is too bitter– Gabe grabs the napkin from his lap and spits in it. “It’s not worth the calories.”

“It tastes fine. And seriously, you’re spitting in a cloth napkin? Someone’s going to have to clean that, you know.”

Gabe balls up the napkin and places it on the table. “Maybe we should just go–”

“No, because if I do, you’re not going to eat for the rest of the night and you know it.”

Gabe unsatisfactorily grunts and grabs the wine bottle, once again filling his glass to the brim. “Fine. I can play this game.”

“This isn’t a game,” Pete mumbles. He downs the rest of his wine, then takes the bottle to fill his own glass as well. “Okay, whatever we do, we just need to discuss anything other than controversial topics. And get drunk.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll work.”

“Just play along, for fuck’s sake. We’re getting married in two days and the last thing we need is to be excessively miserable.” Pete takes a swig of wine and digs in his pocket for his phone. “I’ll google some conversation starters…”

“Are you kidding?”

Pete ignores that remark. “Okay, so how about this one: if there was an extra hour every day, what would you do with it?”

“Walk to Playa del Rey.”

“What is one smartphone app you can’t live without?”

“MyFitnessPal.”

Pete clicks off his phone. “Fine, I guess you can’t even handle conversation starters like a mature person.”

“We’re getting married, it’s pathetic that you think we need conversation starters.”

“What’s pathetic is that you’re causing problems on purpose, asshole.” Pete raises his hand to signal the waiter. “Let’s just go back to the hotel.”

Gabe feels a rush of relief– mainly because he doesn’t have to eat dinner.

The taxi back to the hotel is long and quiet, and their distance is equally palpable in the late-night stillness of the hotel lobby. Pete carries two takeout boxes– he’d asked for their main courses to go, citing that he didn’t want Gabe complaining he was starving in the middle of the night. Gabe is pretty sure that is never an occurrence– he rolls over a lot and clutches his stomach when extreme hunger strikes, but at least he has a shred of decency not to say shit.

Pete jabs the ‘up’ button for the elevator, watching the number as it descends floor to floor. “Gabe?”

Gabe’s arms are crossed. “Hm?”

“I know you don’t really feel like talking right now, but… I just want to say I do care about the fact you lose weight. I know I say that all the time, but no matter how much we argue, it still stands. Of course I care. I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me.”

“Okay.” Gabe nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks.”

They watch the elevator momentarily stop at the 4th floor before continuing its descent.

“I’m sorry I thought the list was stupid,” Gabe admits. “It wasn’t stupid. Maybe it’s an idea worth trying.”

“Thanks. If you’re up to it, tomorrow morning–”

Ding. The elevator doors slide open, and sandwiched between Ryan and Jon’s intimate embrace is… Mikey Way. Although still fully-clothed, hands wander as if otherwise. Ryan’s lips are on Mikey’s, Jon’s on the crook of his neck. Their heads snap toward the open elevator doors, eyes widening at the sight of Pete and Gabe.

The takeout boxes crash to the floor. Pete’s jaw hangs open. “Uhhh…”

Mikey waves. “Hi.”

“Shit, sorry!” Ryan springs toward the elevator button. “That wasn’t supposed to— uh, we didn’t realize the elevator was going down!” After jabbing the button furiously a few times, the doors slide shut.

As the elevator chugs up, Pete and Gabe stand frozen, eyebrows high. Gabe reaches for his phone to look at the last text Ryan had sent twenty minutes ago: mission successful. Gabe now realizes he and Ryan have two different definitions of that word, but how was he supposed to know Ryan and Jon wanted to have a fucking threesome with Mikey?

After a minute passes, Pete says quietly, “I think it’s safe to go up now,” and presses the up button. The elevator ride is just as hushed, and there’s a weird energy left by that certain sight that makes Gabe shiver, because how the hell did we get here?

When they’re back in their room and Pete shuts the door behind them, he turns to Gabe, who’s still pale and holding his breath. “That was insane,” Pete says.

“Seriously.” Gabe carries the takeout boxes to the mini-fridge and kneels down, shoving them in. “I did not expect that.”

Pete wanders aimlessly around the room, arms crossed. “But… really gets the blood flowing though.”

Gabe shuts the mini-fridge and stands, looking over. “What do you mean– oh. It… does?”

“Look, I’m not usually so into the idea of threesomes. I like having one person all to myself. But…”

“Mikey and Ryan kissing makes you wanna get it on,” Gabe finishes, slightly disgruntled.

“Are you mad?” Pete asks. “I mean, I’m not saying I want to join them or anything. I’d only ever have sex with you, of course. I just can’t help that it was a total turn-on.”

Gabe pinches the bridge of his nose. Does Pete expect him to believe he doesn’t want a taste of the forbidden fruit? “I know, you can’t help that kind of thing.”

“I mean, you can’t say it didn’t intrigue you, right?”

Gabe looks straight at him and says, “No, it really didn’t. All it did was confuse me. How are you not freaking out about this? Is this, like, a normal occurrence?”

“Well, when three men love each other very much…”

“That’s not funny right now.”

Pete nods slowly and drops onto the bed, hands crossed in his lap. “What if… can I just make it up to you? Everything? Please? Whatever you want me to do? Like, you’d rather I’d be thinking about you than the elephant in the room… or elevator… right?”

Gabe pauses. “I don’t know. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go make it a foursome?”

“No!” Pete exclaims defensively. “Never! At least, not these days.”

“These days? What?”

“Gabe, believe me when I say that there is only one person I want to fuck right now.”

Gabe exhales through his nose. “Fine, we can have sex.”

“Are you sure? That didn’t sound very enthusiastic.”

Gabe begins unbuttoning his shirt. “I said ‘yes,’ Pete, what other answer do you want?”

“You didn’t say ‘yes,’ you said ‘fine.’”

“Okay. Yes, let’s have sex.” Gabe shrugs off his shirt and glances down at himself. At least he didn’t eat a bite of dinner; his stomach is nice and flat, skin stretched taut over his hip bones.

Pete rises up from the bed and steps toward Gabe, eyes fluttering shut as his hand lands on Gabe’s waist. The kiss is so deafeningly silent that the sound of a zipper going down startles Gabe. Pete’s breath is hot on his neck as he tugs him toward the bed.

Pete’s mostly the vocal one, his loud gasps drowning out Gabe’s habitual moans. Gabe’s eyes are either closed or focusing on the ceiling, because he doesn’t want to know if Pete’s eyes are closed too, imagining a thinner face and a thinner body and a thinner voice.

Chapter Text

When he’s awoken by Pete’s phone alarm going off, the first sensation rising to Gabe’s consciousness is the ache of mediocre sex. “Turn that thing off,” he grunts, tugging at the blanket. “I wanna sleep in.”

“Sorry, I wanna catch breakfast this morning.” Pete rolls over and reaches over Gabe to grab his phone, turning off the alarm. He sits up and stretches his arms over his head, then presses a kiss to Gabe’s head. “Last night was amazing, baby.”

“Hm,” Gabe groans, burying his head into the pillow.

Pete leans toward his ear to whisper, “You should have breakfast–”

“Ew!” Gabe sits up, pushing him away. “You spat in my ear, Pete. Ugh.”

“Sorry. But goal accomplished, right? You’re awake, so let’s get breakfast. I am starving.”

Gabe sighs and unplugs his phone from the charger. “Fine.” He scrolls through his notifications, immediately noticing two missed calls from last night– one from Ryan, one from William. While Ryan tried to call him around midnight, William’s is from the odd time of 4 A.M.. Thoughts racing, Gabe immediately taps to call back, phone flying up to his ear.

Ring, ring, ring. Gabe releases the breath from his lungs when William picks up and exhaustedly drones, “Oh, hey. What’s up? It’s so early.”

“You tried to call me at four in the morning, are you okay?”

Overhearing this, Pete looks over curiously from the kitchenette where he’s putting a filter into the coffee machine. Gabe holds up a finger and glares to tell him, Don’t fucking say anything until I’ve hung up, or you’ll regret it.

William yawns. “Oh, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. It’s just last night I wasn’t feeling too great, and I didn’t wanna wake up Sisky or Carden since they were so tired from the hike, so I figured since you didn’t go that I should call you. But then you didn’t answer and then my vomiting woke up Sisky anyway.”

“Bill, are you okay?”

“Fine now.”

“But what the hell was going on?”

“Okay.” William pauses for a moment, trying to gather a sentence from the jumble of tired thoughts. “So last night I was ravenous and tried eating more than I could handle– I don’t even think it was that much, it was just chicken in some kind of cream sauce with a side of grilled veggies. But I think that made my body freak out and I accidentally gave myself refeeding syndrome or something.”

“Bill!” Gabe hisses. “Are you sure you’re okay? You should really be seen by a doctor or something. Please tell me you went to a hospital.”

“I didn’t, but I’m fine now. Trust me, the guys really wanted to take me to one, so I was going to be okay either way. The symptoms weren’t really that bad, honestly. I just vomited, and I was shivering a little bit, and I had a hard time falling asleep because my heart was a little weird but that already happens to me so much anyway–”

“What do you mean by your heart being weird? Heart palpitations aren’t fucking normal, dude.”

“I don’t know. They felt like normal heart palpitations to me.”

“Again, that. is not. Normal.”

“Maybe, I guess.” William yawns. “But I feel fine now, except for not getting that much sleep. I’ve been rehydrating, and if I wasn’t able to keep down a little water, Sisky and Carden would’ve dragged my ass out of this hotel and to a hospital. If it happens again this week I promise I’ll get checked out, okay?”

“I still don’t feel good after hearing all that, Bill.”

“It’s okay. I’m doing okay, really. You can trust me. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

Gabe bites the inside of his cheek. Although he feels unnerved, he nods. “Okay. But please tell me if it gets worse. Even if you don’t feel worse but want to go to a doctor anyway, I’d go with you. I love you, man.”

“Thanks. I love you too.”

Gabe waits for him to say “dude” or “man,” to assert that this should really stay strictly platonic without room for reinterpretation, but it doesn’t come– instead, there’s several seconds of loaded silence that makes Gabe’s heart swell and his blood hot. Finally, he breaks it by saying, “I’ll see you later. And really, I mean it, tell me if you need anything.”

“I will, I will. Thanks.” William pauses. “Is he in the room?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s too bad. See you later… babe.”

William immediately hangs up, leaving Gabe’s stomach flooded by butterflies, his cheeks burning. What the hell is he thinking? The coffee machine is humming in pleased agreement. Pete looks up and asks too casually, “So, what was up?”

“Bill threw up last night.”

“Doesn’t he always do that?”

“Involuntarily.” Gabe adds, pushing away the bed sheets. He slides out of bed, rushing to his suitcase. “I think I’m going to get dressed and check on him.”

“You don’t really need to,” Pete states authoritatively. “I understand why you’re worried, but he has Carden and Sisky with him. You really need to eat breakfast before you go and do anything.”

Gabe frowns as the butterflies dissipate, confronted by the repellant of reality. “It wouldn’t take that long.”

“You didn’t eat dinner yesterday. You really should eat something this morning.”

Figuring it wouldn’t be smart to start yet another fight before he’s properly caffeinated, Gabe intones, “Fine,” and starts going though his suitcase for fresh clothes.

When the hum of the coffee machine switches off, Pete starts pouring coffee into a styrofoam cup. “Can I ask you something?”

Gabe is in the bathroom, dressed in a robe and reaching to turn the shower on. “What?”

“If you see Ryan, ask him what last night was all about. It was so weird, right? I mean, we gotta know what was going on. Like, wow.”

Gabe is glad to be in the bathroom, where Pete can’t see him roll his eyes. Of course there’s enough time to ask Ryan why he and Jon had a threesome with Mikey Way, but not to quickly check on deathly-anorexic William– it never was about breakfast, of course it wasn’t. Gabe could already tell, but at least Pete could have the decency to try being a little less obvious and a little more tactful. “Okay,” Gabe calls out, then switches on the water so the shower’s gurgles will cover anything else Pete has to say– it’s a favor the man doesn’t deserve, really.

Gabe makes it to the coffee bar before Pete; Gabe didn’t acquiesce to his fiance’s wishes to save water this morning, so Pete’s still in the shower. Ryan is already hunched over a cup of coffee, rubbing his eyes.

“Dude!” Gabe hisses, sitting down beside him.

“A ‘good morning’ would be nice,” Ryan replies.

“We need to talk about last night. What the hell happened?” Gabe demands. Then he turns to the barista attending the coffee bar. “Can I have a latte please? Thanks.”

While the barista busies himself with the espresso machine, Ryan takes a long sip of his coffee. Then he reaches into his pocket. “Okay, first of all, you’re welcome.” He slides out Gabe’s credit card and hands it back. “Second, Jon and I didn’t really expect it to go that way, but look, you said you love us, and I quote, ‘no matter what methods you choose.’”

Gabe shoves his credit card into his pocket and leans toward Ryan to whisper, “Look, I do appreciate you, of course, but I wasn’t telling you to have a threesome! I was not implying that– oh my gosh, did you think I was implying that?”

“No, no, of course not,” Ryan says, rather unconvincingly in Gabe’s opinion. “Let me explain: we took Mikey out and wined and dined him, exactly like we said we would. After a couple of drinks, nobody is sober, our judgment is impaired, y’know. Mikey’s being a little too nice, saying me and Jon are such a cute couple and a dynamic duo and what have you, and then he starts leaning into the flirting. Stuff like, saying ‘you’re the sexiest celebrity couple out there,’ and ‘monogamy is a societal construct, dude.’ Me and Jon are trying to pretend not to notice, and then Mikey’s getting a little close and we can smell the alcohol on his breath and suddenly his hand is on my knee and he’s saying that he wants us to rail him. So me and Jon step aside to talk, and we both decide it’s for the greater good, plus our younger selves would kill us for not having sex with Mikey Way. So we go back to the hotel, I think we’re making good time and text you that the coast is clear and we take a little longer in the elevator than necessary, because you said you probably wouldn’t be back for another hour. And then that whole elevator incident happened.”

Gabe blinks. “Okay, so you and Jon just casually discussed having a threesome with Mikey Way? And you both agreed to it?”

“Well, we have healthy communication skills. No offense. Also, we were all drunk.”

“What the hell?” Gabe mutters under his breath. “But you didn’t actually have a threesome, right? Like, I’m sure when the elevator doors and Pete and I saw you guys kissing, that totally killed the mood– right?”

“Will it make you feel better if I say no?”

“Oh my God,” Gabe says, and then repeats louder, “Oh my God.”

“I doubt you want the details, but he did come back to our room, and Mikey did get what he originally asked for. And Jon and I enjoyed it, no regrets.”

Gabe stares at him. “You railed Mikey Way?”

Ryan shakes his head. “Jon did, but let’s not get bogged down in the details. Enough about that. How’s things with you and Pete?”

Gabe’s stare remains fixed and silent. His expression wrenches up. Then, he bursts into tears. “I don’t know!”

“Holy shit, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t think–”

Gabe sniffles and sucks in a breath, trying to steel himself. “It’s not your fault.” He takes Ryan’s napkin and blows his nose. “It’s Pete’s own fucking fault for getting turned on by it. I…” Trailing off, he leans closer to whisper, “I don’t think I want to marry him. This entire trip has been the worst ever start to a marriage. When I told him I wanted to check on Bill this morning, because last night he fucking threw up after eating too much, Pete told me I should just go talk to you instead and ask about the threesome! Who the hell does that? And I think I’m falling in love with William again too– we’re both emotionally cheating on each other. All Pete and I do is fight and accuse each other of being unfaithful. I can’t live the rest of my life like this.”

Ryan nods sympathetically and places a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Look at me, dude. You don’t have to marry him.”

Gabe’s bottom lips trembles. “But it’s not as simple as that. We’ve spent nearly a million dollars on the wedding. We bought a house together. We’ve been together for years and we’re looking at surrogates and… it’s been so long, I can’t imagine life without him. He used to be an incredible partner, and that’s what I’m hanging onto.”

“But is it all worth it if you’re going to be miserable for the rest of your life?” Ryan asks. “Sure, a million dollar wedding isn’t exactly a drop in the hat for you, but imagine push comes to shove and you get divorced. Then what? It’ll be much more paperwork and money and frustration than if you called it off in the first place.”

“You’re right about that, but…” Gabe trails off. “It’s hard.”

“Divorce would be a lot harder. I don’t want to force you to make such a big decision, but… with everything you’ve told me, I think you already know the answer.”

Gabe nods. He knows very well that Ryan is absolutely right, but is it worth putting his relationship with Pete on the line? What if they went to couple’s therapy, and it all worked out, even if the roots of their problems stretched deeper than the surface? Maybe once they return home, it’ll be okay– but Patrick would still be around to get on Gabe’s nerves and attempt to drive them apart. Could Gabe even trust Pete on tour, surrounded by adoring fans and confined in a bus for months with the man deliberately trying to sabotage them?

The latte is placed in front of him, and he quietly thanks the barista before taking a sip. The hot, sugary concoction burns his tongue and slides down his throat. He should have ordered a black coffee, because he feels fat already. Fat and bloated by tears.

“I should check on Bill,” Gabe mutters, and pushes his latte toward Ryan. “Want this?”

Ryan glances behind Gabe. “Well, he’s here, so that’s not necessary.” He waves. “Morning, Bill.”

“Morning.” William shuffles forward in a gray sweatshirt several sizes too large, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He collapses into the seat beside Gabe. “Have you guys ordered food yet?”

“Not yet,” Gabe says. “Are you doing okay? Are you sure you can keep down something?”

William bobs his heavy head up and down. “Yeah. I didn’t force myself out of bed to drink black coffee and be a judgy bitch this morning.” He yawns and grabs a menu. “Maybe I’ll have some eggs. I think I could handle eggs. Scrambled eggs sound good right now.”

Keeping his eyes forward, Gabe croaks out, “Scrambled eggs do sound good.”

William looks up. “You okay?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Well, you know the answer. What’s wrong?”

Gabe opens his mouth, but shakes his head when he sees Pete in the corner of his eye. He turns back to his latte for a long sip of caffeinated courage before he feels arms wrapping around his shoulders and a kiss on his head.

“Good morning sunshine.”

“Hi,” says Gabe softly.

Pete lingers for another unpleasant second before withdrawing. “Wanna grab a table instead? Then Sisky and Carden can have a seat with Bill.”

“But I’m already sitting here,” Gabe mumbles at the counter, unwilling to turn around and face his fiance with his swollen face.

“Come on,” Pete says, lightly tugging at Gabe’s shoulder. “Oh, hey, Ryan! I didn’t notice you there, you’re so quiet.”

Ryan smiles, lifting up his coffee. “Good morning.”

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Pete begins very disingenuously. “I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

“Oh no, not at all. I was the one who drank too much.”

“So since when did you–”

“Let’s get a table,” Gabe interrupts, standing with his latte in hand.

“Oh, okay.” Pete follows Gabe, a little disappointed he didn’t get to finish his question.

William has been chewing his first bite of scrambled eggs for approximately two minutes when Patrick sits in the free seat beside him. “Morning.” A menu is placed in front of Patrick. He picks it up and looks again at William, doing a double take. “Sheesh. Get any sleep? Or did you bring those laxatives too?”

William swallows the eggs to say, “Go get fucked.”

“I knew you’d say that.” Patrick rolls his eyes.

“He’s right,” pipes up Sisky from beside William. “You need to get fucked.” Carden nods wisely in agreement. Ryan completely ignores Patrick’s presence and sips his second coffee.

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to do,” Patrick says, pointing his menu behind him to the table across the room, where Gabe and Pete sit. “You can’t even feel sorry about it anymore. Everyone knows they’re a walking disaster. It was only a matter of time.”

“It’s disgusting how open you are about being a shitty person,” William comments, mashing the scrambled eggs on his plate with his fork. He coated them in excessive sprinklings of salt and pepper, desperate for the indulgence of flavor.

“I’ve already been testing the waters by drinking the alcohol in my suitcase, and nobody’s seemed to notice my vodka breath. As you can plainly see, nobody cares.”

“Ew, you’ve been drunk this whole time?” Sisky asks. “No wonder. Let me smell.” 

Patrick leans in front of William and exhales for Sisky. William shrinks back, disgusted. Sisky sniffs and says, “Oh yeah, that does not pass the Adam T. Siska breathalyzer test. He’s drunk. Nobody pay attention to him.”

“Also to be clear, I haven’t been drunk this entire time,” Patrick says. “I’m just getting ready for the bachelor party tonight. I need all the help I can get.”

Ryan finally snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“What, you think I haven’t heard about the threesome?”

Ryan pales. “How the hell did you hear about it already? Did Pete tell you?”

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Patrick says. “Vicky told me in the elevator.”

“Who the hell told Vicky?”

“I dunno. But with the way you’re looking, I guess it’s trueee,” Patrick sing-songs. He looks over at the barista and calls out, “Yo! Do you guys serve alcohol this early?”

“We have mimosas, monsieur,” says the barista.

Patrick slams down his menu and says, “Count me in!”

“Don’t serve him alcohol,” Ryan says.

“No, he’s joking,” Patrick says, forcing a desperate chuckle. “He’s joking. Really.”

“I’ll give you…” Ryan takes out his wallet and counts the bills. “...five thousand francs if you refuse to serve him alcohol. Trust me, this guy won’t tip you shit.”

“Ryan, don’t be a dick, seriously–” But the barista is already taking the francs from Ryan and tucking them into his pocket. Now Patrick’s morning mimosa is nothing but a dream. “You know you can’t stop me from drinking all day.”

“No, but it’s fun to watch you squirm like that.”

Patrick growls. “Whatever. If you think you’re delaying me drinking, you’re not. There’s a bottle of chartreuse in my room with my name on it.”

“That poor bottle,” mutters William. Sisky snorts.

“Fine, don’t take me seriously.” Patrick picks up his menu again, stewing as he studies all the options– maybe he’ll throw up the strawberry crepes this fine morning. He glances over in envy at William’s plate of aggressively salted and peppered eggs, barely picked at. Patrick shakes his head. No, tonight is the night you finally confess your love to Pete, while everyone is drunk and gay and horny, and the last thing you need tonight is to burst a blood vessel in your eye. He’ll even do one better than William and order scrambled egg whites. Beat that. Although he still plans on drinking a bucketload of alcohol through the course of the day, which will certainly add up, it’s rarely added to his daily calorie count. He has to keep his sanity intact after some of the things Brendon said to him, after all. How else do you deal with the fact Brendon Urie called your body “gelatinous?” What does that even fucking mean?

But at least the harsh criticism helped Patrick shed a few pounds– his confidence went up by just one notch after initially plummeting to the very bottom. This is going to finally be his comeback, and nobody will be able to blame him once he swindles a kiss or two out of Pete. His and Gabe’s engagement is on its knees. Ryan and Jon’s threesome with Mikey couldn’t have come at a better time– Pete won’t only be jealous, but desperate to savor the freedom of being an unchained bachelor. And that’s when Patrick will swoop in. The wedding was doomed to fail anyway.

“So?” Pete asks Gabe. “What did he say?”

Gabe feigns innocence. “Who?”

“Ryan.” Realizing his impatience is showing, Pete straightens his posture and digs his fork into eggs en cocette sprinkled with goat cheese, fresh out of the oven in a small cast iron skillet. “I mean, I’m just curious. That’s all.” He quickly shovels a bite of hot egg in his mouth and does a poor job of pretending it’s not burning his tongue. “Mm. Delish. Yum.”

“Why do you want to know so badly?” Gabe asks. “He didn’t tell me that much.”

Pete takes a gulp of water. “Well, did it happen?”

Gabe pokes at his uneaten beignet and wipes his sugar-dusted finger on his napkin. “Did what happen?”

“Babe.”

“I don’t think we should really be talking about this.”

“We could talk about the fact you’re not eating breakfast instead.”

“Fucking hell, Pete, that’s not a threat.” Gabe huffs. “Anyways, it did happen. If you want to know more, how about you go ask Ryan if you can watch next time.”

“He didn’t really say that, right?”

Gabe gives him an exasperated look. “Oh my God, Pete, what do you think? Of course not.”

“I’m joking.” Pete’s fork stabs into the eggs. “Take a chill pill.”

Just as Gabe lifts a hand to reach for his beignet yet again, his head snaps up hearing Sisky’s whistle echo through the room. Mikey Way is standing in the doorway, utterly confused as nearly everyone belonging to their wedding party bursts into claps and wolf whistles. Other tourists look on in confusion. Ryan and Jon, blushing red, mouth the word Sorry to Mikey. However, taking it like a pro, Mikey shrugs and walks across the room to the coffee bar without an ounce of shame. He even waves at Ryan and Jon, completely straight-faced.

“Did you notice the limp?” Pete whispers, enraptured.

Gabe’s finger impales the beignet. Jam spurts onto the plate. “You’re seeing things.”

Saltwater is the worst place to sulk. The sun beats down on Gabe’s greasy sunscreen-coated skin, the breeze ruffles his dry hair, and his friends are throwing around a half-deflated beach ball they found washed up on the shore. It would cheer Gabe up if he didn’t know any better, but his stubborn stomach is somehow hungry and nauseous at the same time remembering the uneaten, bleeding beignet he’d left behind.

The plastic beach ball smacks Gabe in the chest. “Gabe, throw it over here!” Ryland calls over. It’s clearly an attempt at trying to get him to join the fun and games, but instead, Gabe’s arms stay locked at his side while he watches the flimsy ball float with the tide past him.

Vicky sighs and paddles over to fetch the ball. “What are you so upset about? The fact that Ryan and Jon got some action? Look, we’re all jealous, but you’re the one who’s getting married and it’s a little weird…”

“I’m not jealous,” Gabe states. “I’m thinking. Also, how are you all acting so normal about this?”

“There’s nothing wrong with three consenting adults,” Nate cuts in. “Or four. Or five.”

“They were all drunk.”

“Oh, weren’t we all?”

Gabe looks at Ryland in disbelief. “Are you telling me you’ve had a threesome before?”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t pay enough attention on Warped, man. Nobody propositioned you because you’re too tall to logistically fit in a tiny bunk with several other people.”

“You’re as tall as me.”

“Dude, I’m pulling your leg. Mostly.”

“So… everyone was just– I…” Gabe shakes his head. “I’m pretending I never heard this. The sun’s too bright, I’m gonna go sit in the shade with Bill.”

“Do whatever you need to do. Is it really that much of a bombshell?”

“It would be if my life wasn’t falling to pieces right now.” Gabe starts to wade toward the sand and waves to William, who lounges in the shade on a beach towel spread across a rocky ledge. He had originally dragged himself out with everyone else to swim, but soon decided he’d rather read and stole Gabe’s collection of Kafka stories.

“Hey!” he hears Pete call out. Gabe turns to see him, splashing through the water away from where he’d been gravitating toward Mikey, working up the courage to ask the man relaxing in the tube float a few personal questions. Despite being so bold to let his intentions so blatantly show, his tone is laced with easily-triggered insecurity. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to sit with Bill for a little bit. The sun’s hurting my eyes, and he looks lonely.”

Although Pete bristles and glares up at the ledge where William sits, he holds back from a public outburst and instead stiffens coldly. “Whatever. You might as well marry him at this point.”

Maybe I should, Gabe wants to snap. Instead, he keeps his mouth clamped shut and turns around, stomping through the sand and up the slight incline of the ledge.

William looks up. “I do appreciate your company, but you don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t think I can deal with anyone right now.” Gabe sighs and lowers himself to the beach towel. “Every single thing reminds me why this was such an awful idea in the first place.”

“Then what are you still doing here?”

Gabe tucks his knees against his chest. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

The waves roar against the shore, wind rustles through the tree’s hanging boughs. But they pause for just one moment, for William to ask, “Do you regret it?”

Silence, for a beat. Gabe turns toward him and admits, “Yes.”

The tide slams the shore again, spraying cool mist across their faces. An unseen moon’s gravity tugs at Gabe’s guts, telling him to lean in, but he digs his nails into his knees and looks back over the crowd in the water. A sophisticated Vogue exclusive would transform into a tabloid frenzy within mere hours.

“Do you ever regret it?” Gabe turns back to William, blinking dew off his long eyelashes. “Letting Pete make his move before you ever could?”

“I regret a lot of things.” William puts down the book. “So the simple answer is yes. But the not-so-simple answer is that I’m not sure I would have been any better. Even the two of us having casual sex was a disaster. You saw how horrible Z and I were. When we mixed, the reaction was combustion. I’ve had too much time to think about everything the last few days… you always deserved far better than me, and I thought Pete was better. Dating someone else with an eating disorder would never be healthy.” He drums his fingers against the rock. “But I don’t suppose it matters anymore. Pete’s never understood the way we do. I’m the villain now. He’s never really known how your brain works, but he knows I do, and he’s afraid of it.”

Gabe tilts his head back in thought. “Well, there’s a lot to it, but I can see what you mean.”

“You can’t marry him,” William croaks, eyes filling with tears. “Don’t. I know I’m horrible too, but… I would try. He doesn’t try, he never tries.” He grasps Gabe’s hand and presses it to his boney chest. “I would do anything to make you run away with me, Gabey. I love you.”

Seeing the desperation in his eyes, Gabe asks, “Anything?”

Biting his bottom lip, William bobs his head up and down. His shuddering heart thrums against Gabe’s hand. “Anything you want. I’ll do anything. I can’t let you marry him.”

“Okay.” Gabe inhales a sharp breath. Is it really going to be this easy, to leave it all behind? “You come back to the U.S. with me, and the moment we get there, you check yourself into the first inpatient program that will take you. No excuses. You’re going to recover and I’ll do anything that you ask. If you want me to go to therapy, I’ll do it. If you want a kiss, I’ll give you a thousand. And if you want to get married, we won’t throw away a bunch of money flying across the Pacific to do it. You have to swear to me you’ll go inpatient, okay?”

“Alright.” William’s grip tightens around Gabe’s fingers. It is that easy. “I’ll go inpatient. God, I’ll even let them insert a feeding tube if it means you’d kiss me again. Whatever you want. Whatever gives us a future together.”

Gabe beams, choking back a cathartic sob. A giggles rises out of his throat instead. “Okay. Okay. I’m gonna find my phone and get us a cab back to the hotel. I think my shoulders are getting sunburnt, and you’re not feeling so well.”

William glances at his reddened shoulders and chuckles. “Maybe that’s a little too believable.”

“Oh, please.” Still grinning ear-to-ear, Gabe reluctantly pulls his hand away from William’s chest and takes a breath in an attempt to shadow his giddiness. “Hang tight. I can’t believe we’re doing this, holy shit.”

This is it. This is it. It’s happening, and Gabe can hardly believe it.

Gabe walks down the rock and toward where the beach towels are spread, digging in a tote bag for his phone. The beating sun is too bright to really see the screen, but after some squinting he sees the cell reception is nearly nonexistent at this spot, despite not being far from Noumea. Fortunately, there’s a cafe across the road, and Gabe supposes he could ask to use their phone. 

While kneeling in the sand and rolling up his beach towel, the water carries soundwaves to shore. “...you are such a total dick, and I’m being serious, knock it off!”

Gabe glances up to see Ryan, marching through knee-level water to scold Pete, who backs away from Mikey. He’s now standing, holding the inflatable tube under his arm and glaring at Pete.

“What, are you jealous?” Pete asks, somewhat irritated.

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me. You told Mikey you want to smack his ass, while you’re at the beach with your fiance?”

“Oh my gosh, it’s a joke. Mikey, you know it was a joke.”

Mikey mutters something doubtful. Gabe drops the beach towel and marches into the water, feet splashing through. “What the fuck is going on?”

Pete shoots a rueful look at Ryan, as his very words summoned Gabe out of thin air. “It’s really not how it sounds…”

“I think it’s exactly how it sounds,” Gabe states, blood boiling. “You’ve been bringing Mikey up every fucking second. How do you think that makes me feel, huh? Do you know how humiliating that is for me, and probably for him too?”

“It’s really weird,” Mikey agrees. “Can everyone just stop talking about the fucking threesome?”

“You know what’s humiliating for me?” Pete demands. “The fact you kissed Bill while drunk like a total slut! If you can’t be expected to control yourself, I don’t have to either!”

A few feet away, Patrick’s head emerges from the water. “He’s got a point.”

“This isn’t your business,” Ryan snaps at him. “And get out of the fucking water! You’re drunk!”

“I–”

Mikey points at Patrick. “At the airport, this shithead was betting on how long the marriage would last. He gave it less than a year.”

“Dickhead.”

“Well, he’s right,” Pete says.

Gabe’s jaw drops. He stares at Pete with incredulity. “There’s no way you just said that.”

Immediately, regret washes over Pete’s face. “I didn’t– I didn’t think before I spoke. I meant…”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Gabe says quietly. “I’m calling a cab. I can’t be here any longer.”

“I’m coming with,” Ryan says. He turns and calls into the water, “Jon, we’re going back to the hotel.”

“Might as well go too,” Mikey says. He throws his tube at Pete, the inflatable ricocheting off his stomach and smacking the surface of the water.

“Fine.” Pete crosses his arms, casting a wounded look out to the ocean. He doesn’t watch as Gabe and Ryan wade to shore. He keeps his chin up, undeterred. But as soon as he senses the distance, his heart turns leaden and sinks to his stomach. His gut tells him: you are the one who fucked up.

Patrick stands, water dripping off his hair. “Hey man, you okay?"

Pete opens his mouth, ready to shake his head and say, NO. NO. NO. Instead, he spits, “I’ll apologize before the bachelor party.”

Chapter Text

As soon as the taxi door slams shut, Gabe and William look at each other and burst into a fit of giggles. Ryan cranes his neck from the passenger seat, confused. “Why are you guys laughing? Are you having a psychotic break?”

“I would too if I was engaged to Pete,” Jon remarks from the backseat. Although there’s three of them back there, William’s lack of hips provides a surprising amount of room.

“No, no,” Gabe says, coming down from the giggles. “Fuck Pete. He’s not my problem anymore.”

The taxi driver starts the car and adjusts the taximeter. “To where?”

“Anywhere!” William exclaims with glee. “Gabe, where are we going? L.A. or Chicago?”

“Huh?”

“Just the Hotel Albatros,” Ryan quickly amends. “Bill, what the hell are you talking about?”

With a gleam in his eye, William leans forward and whispers loudly, “We’re running away.”

Both Ryan and Jon stare at them for a moment, before Ryan sighs. “You know, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Running away like, together together?” Jon asks.

“Oh yeah,” Gabe says. “I know what you’re both thinking: ‘but Gabe, it’s not healthy for you two to date each other!’ And to that I say, anything is better than Pete. Also, Bill has to get help, and I’ll start therapy again if he wants me to too.”

“Well, shit.” Ryan turns back toward the dashboard and sinks into the seat. “I’d ask if you two are serious, but that would be a cruel joke.”

“I’m going to change our flight as soon as we get back to the hotel,” Gabe continues. “By the time the bachelor party starts, we’ll probably be far, far away. How long do you think it’ll take Pete to notice?”

“He will when everyone else starts asking him questions.” 

“Shit.” Gabe mutters. “Can you guys promise not to tell anyone that you know about this? If Pete asks you anything, just straight-up lie.”

“The last time you told us to lie to someone, we had a threeway,” Jon points out.

“Well, there’s no way you want to have a threeway with Pete now, so I think you’ll be fine.”

Ryan nods slowly. “I definitely don’t. But I have a sneaking suspicion that Pete would try.”

Sensing the change in tone in Ryan’s voice, Jon asks, “Wait, did he say something to you?”

Ryan pauses, then shakes his head. Now’s not exactly the time to confide that Pete tried to kiss him before the wedding. “I’ve just got a feeling from the way he’s been acting, that’s all.”

For tact, Gabe waits precisely one second before asking, “So do you think you can lie without having an accidental threesome again?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I think I can do that. Jon, you in?”

“Of course. Lying without the laying with other men, got it. Is that all or is there anything else we can do for you?”

Gabe looks at William, who thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I can’t think of anything. Thank you guys, really.”

“Is this a forever secret,” Ryan asks, “or just until the cat’s out of the bag?"

Gabe looks toward the window, blue ocean stretching past the road to the horizon. Soon, this entire week will only be an odd, emotionally-cathartic memory. By the time the sun sets, they’ll already be gone, watching the sky turn pink from an airplane window. “He’s going to have to find out eventually. Depends how much you want to piss off Pete– but he’d forgive you.”

“He wouldn’t forgive us,” William says.

“No, but it doesn’t matter.” Gabe turns away from the window. “He did this to himself. He expects us to go running back to him and I won’t. Not this time.”

Ryan sinks onto their freshly-made bed, kicking off his sandals. Sand scatters over the floor. “I can’t believe they’re really doing it.”

Jon shrugs. “It was sort of inevitable.”

“Do you feel guilty too?”

“Not really.” Jon yanks off his wet t-shirt and catches a glimpse of Ryan’s face. “Shit, are you okay?”

Ryan tries to nod, but a tear falls from his eye. “I think it’s my fault.”

“What?” Jon rushes over, sitting beside him and rubbing Ryan’s shoulder. “There’s no way it’s your fault. What we did with Mikey had good intentions even if–”

“It started even before that.” Ryan gulps back a sob. “At our wedding, Pete tried to kiss me.”

Jon pales. “He what?”

“He apologized when I backed away, but…” Ryan chokes on a sob. “I must have done something. I must have said something to lead him on, but I’d never want to do that to you– I’m sorry, Jon, I… I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry.”

“Babe, if you didn’t kiss him back, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t, but–”

“Then you didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t fucking believe the nerve he has, trying to kiss you on our wedding day. Babe, I would have kicked him out.”

Ryan shakes his head. “No, he’s Pete. He always gets what he wants. Neither of us would ever be able to do it. Plus, he did help us out with the Brendon fiasco.”

“That doesn’t make up for it at all.” Jon’s fists tighten, knuckles turning white. He takes Ryan’s hand. “Sweetheart, don’t feel guilty at all that we’re hiding this from him. He deserves everything he has coming to him. You could even tell Gabe, if you feel comfortable with that– Pete cheated on him.”

“Not right now. I’m not sure it’s what he needs to hear.”

“Pete’s getting everything he deserves,” Jon reassures Ryan. “What a fucking homewrecker. I bet he wouldn’t have even tried to help with paparazzo or Brendon if it wasn’t for the guilt eating away at him, and he still hasn’t learned. Like shit, who the hell does that at a wedding, kissing the groom?”

“Only my husband,” Ryan lightly jokes. Jon smiles a little, his tense shoulders falling a little. He squeezes Ryan’s hand.

“Absolutely,” Jon says, tilting his head toward Ryan, their lips inches away. “Only me.”

Kissing Jon is purification; the tears on Ryan’s cheeks are baptismal. The burden on Ryan’s heart slowly lightens. He does deserve it, Ryan thinks to himself, as Jon’s hand snakes up his shirt and he asks, “That okay?” and Ryan murmurs, “Yeah, please.” I don’t owe him anything anymore. The past is the past. I always was meant for Jon, nobody else.

As Ryan tips over onto his back and Jon begins pressing kisses down his neck, he hears familiar muffled voices in the hallway. They freeze. Ryan pushes Jon away and sits up. “Shit, Pete’s back early.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “You think Gabe is still packing?”

Ryan grabs his shirt and yanks it back on before rushing to the door. “Quick, pretend you don’t hate him!”

He throws open the door as Pete is saying, “Patrick, we’ll talk after I check on him– oh, hey Ryan! Sorry about earlier.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it!” Ryan leans against the doorframe. “Water under the bridge. Why are you back? It’s pretty early.”

“Beach was nice and all, but I figured I should try to sort things out with Gabe. He seemed pretty pissed.”

“Really? That’s great,” Ryan says. “He’s not in his room, though. He said something about wanting to get some ice cream.”

Pete frowns. “Well, at least he’s eating something. I guess I’ll have to wait for him. Hey, what are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” Jon calls out, after finally finding his shirt on the floor and pulling it over his head.

Patrick raises a brow. “Pete, they seem busy.”

“We’re not,” Ryan blurts out. “We were just thinking of having a drink, actually. A little bit of pregaming for the bachelor party. Do you want to join us, Pete?”

“Oh, hell yeah! Only one, though, just until Gabe gets back.”

“Can I–”

“Patrick,” Pete interrupts, “didn’t you mention you wanted to check out that gift shop down the street?”

Patrick’s shoulders sink in defeat. “Well, I guess,” he mutters. “Have fun. I might as well stop at the liquor store while I’m out– do you guys want anything?”

“I think we’re good,” Ryan says.

Patrick waits one more moment for a reaction, gritting his teeth. “Okay. Well, see you guys later. I’m so excited for the open bar. Maybe I’ll even take an extra dose of my unprescribed depression medication.”

“Patrick,” Pete says slowly, “don’t be so fucking dramatic. We’ll still talk later.”

“Fine.” Patrick turns around and storms to the elevator.

“You sure he’s not going to kill himself?” Jon asks.

“Do you guys care?” Pete asks.

“Well–”

“Exactly.” He walks past Ryan into the room. “So, what do you guys got?”

“That was close.” William breathes a sigh of relief, turning away from the door peephole. “You almost done packing?”

“Thank fuck.” Gabe finishes scrawling on the hotel-branded notepad and rips off the note, placing it on the nightstand. “I think I’ve got all the important stuff. If I leave behind a few clothes, whatever, it’s all replaceable.” He lifts his suitcase off the bed. “Let’s go in a minute. We can’t take another risk like that. The taxi should be here in a few minutes.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” William asks. “I’m sure, but are you?”

“Oh my gosh, yes.” Gabe walks across the room to take William’s hand and kiss it. “You’re worth everything. Fuck this wedding. Fuck Pete. Okay? Do I have to repeat it a thousand more times? Because I will. This is the start of our life.”

William grins, looking into his eyes. “It almost sounds too good to be true. Like, pinch me. I’m dreaming.”

Gabe pinches his cheek. “Do you believe now?”

“I think I’m gonna need more evidence.”

“How about this?” Gabe leans in and briefly presses his lips to William’s. “Real yet?”

“One more,” William says. Gabe kisses him again for a few moments longer, breath hot on his lips. “Just one more…”

“Last one, and then we have to go.” Gabe wraps his arms around William’s torso and tips him forward, savoring the embrace as their lips connect once more. After, he reaches up and uses his thumb to wipe the spit off the corner of William’s lip. His breath smells like decaying flesh, but Gabe’s too happy to care. He’s still replaying it in his head when they get into the taxi, and from the way William looks at him, he wishes they had the time for a more thorough reintroduction to each other’s bodies– not much considering William’s fragile state, but the memories of the past rekindle the burning in the pit of Gabe’s stomach, something he hasn’t felt for so long it’s almost nostalgic.

It doesn’t take much convincing for Pete to swallow back one shot of vodka. Ryan and Jon also stick with one and one only, telepathically deciding between the two of them to keep their best judgment intact. They wouldn’t have to trap Pete in their room– they’d only keep him until Gabe and William were long gone. Thirty minutes would be the bare minimum, an hour ideal unless Gabe texted before then.

Ryan figures the easiest way of achieving this is to pull out his laptop. “Pete, while you’re here, I’ve got a couple of demos I’ve been meaning to show you.”

Pete, standing by the kitchenette counter, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Oh, hell yeah! Lay it on me.”

“It’s good stuff,” Jon says, pretending to be somewhat supportive for the greater good. “Ryan is examining the political atmosphere of early twentieth-century Europe through the lens of famous literary works. It’s really experimental. You’ll love what he says about Hemingway.”

“Everything is in a really rough stage right now,” Ryan says, “you’re just going to have to use your imagination.”

“Hemingway! I love it already.” Pete reaches for the bottle of vodka and pours himself a glass. “One more shot to make sure my imagination is all fired up.”

Ryan opens his mouth. “Are you sure–”

“It’s his bachelor party tonight,” Jon kindly reminds Ryan with a smile. “Let him drink as much as he needs.”

“Gonna be one hell of a bachelor party,” Ryan mutters back. Jon elbows him.

Fortunately, Pete doesn’t register the implication, recoiling at the strength of the vodka. He slams the bottle down on the counter. “I am so ready. Show me the song! Show me!”

Ryan proceeds to play the first song. The melody certainly needs some work, but Pete is nodding, entranced. “God, man. You totally get it. You totally know, like, the complexities of performative masculinity and war and death. Whatever it is you’re trying to say, it’s beautiful. Can I recommend you a few Hemingway short stories? There’s this one, ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro,’ where this guy is stuck on a mountain dying and he’s just complaining about it, it’s really deep actually–”

“Oh? tell me about it,” Ryan implores.

Pete goes on drunkenly babbling. “Well, this guy, he’s dying on in the middle of the African wilderness with his wife, but he’s not her first husband–she married for money, duh–and he’s just going on about his memories and thoughts and it kinda bothers his wife, because she doesn’t like that he’s gonna die, but I don’t think he really loves her. But he realizes how good she is to him. And then… man, that’s just me and Gabe, isn’t it?”

Ryan blinks, taken aback. “Huh?”

“It is, isn’t it? You can tell me. God, Hemingway would either love us or hate us. I don’t think I should be happy about that.”

“I don’t know necessarily…” Jon trails off.

Pete sniffles. “You know, I do really love Gabe. I’ve been a total dick this week but I don’t mean it. I thought if I flirted with you and Mikey, he’d know how I feel and finally stop flirting with Bill.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with–”

“Gabe’s the only one who can acknowledge Bill’s dying,” Pete wipes a tear off his cheek. “Like, of course he likes him, he feels bad he’s dying. It’s not real, like we are. I should be looking at the long-term. He’s going to die and we’re really going to be fine.”

Ryan grimaces. “You don’t want him to die though, right?”

“Of course not! But you’ve seen him. I’d be surprised if he lasted the year. It’s kind of inevitable. I don’t think it’s my fault if I just let it happen. I think he wants to die anyway. I’m so tired of all this anorexic shit, honestly. Like, of course I care, but we’re all in our ‘30s now. I wanna do normal stuff like drink beer and… I don’t know, what do thirty year-olds do? Oh, I guess I wanna have kids too. At least if I have a daughter, I have about fifteen years to get a break before I have to deal with another anorexic.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“I totally mean it. I’m tired, man.”

Ryan crosses his arms, clearly agitated but biting back his tongue. Jon is able to at least sound polite. “I think we’re all tired. But that doesn’t mean you don’t care about Bill.”

“He’s not Bill anymore. I mean, I think I’d be sad, like duh. But I can’t do anything to stop it. Maybe I should give Gabe a little leeway, I don’t know, but they’ve kissed.”

“Don’t act innocent,” Ryan finally snaps. “You tried to kiss me on my wedding day.”

Pete stiffens and laughs uncomfortably. “Um, what?”

“There’s nothing to hide,” Jon says. “He already told me.”

“Okay, but Ryan, we talked it out. Compared to what Gabe did to me–”

“You don’t have shit to hold over Gabe, that’s all I’m saying.”

“But it’s really not that big of a deal now– you guys have an open relationship now, right?”

Ryan inhales and reminds himself that Pete has had two shots of vodka. “That was a one-time thing, Pete. We’re not having sex with Mikey Way again.”

“We’re not?” Jon asks. “Oh, no, we’re not. Definitely not.”

Pete leans forward, intrigued. “You’re sure?”

Ryan’s phone buzzes. He takes it out of his pocket and quickly glances at the screen. Gabe has texted, On our way to the airport. Coast is clear but don’t tell him ofc. Thanks again dude! I OWE YOU

“Carden just texted me,” Ryan lies. “I think they’re looking for us downstairs. It’s nearly five, the party’s gonna start soon.”

“Damn.” Pete sighs. “Okay, let’s just forget about all of this– except the part about Hemingway, don’t forget that. Party time!”

“I can’t believe we made the flight,” Gabe says, collapsing in his seat beside William after shoving their carry-ons onto the overhead. He shoves an overpriced water bottle they’d bought in the airport at him. “You look parched. Drink.”

William pushes up the window cover, squinting out at the runway. The sun is still bright, but beginning its descent. “It’s not a huge airport, of course we did.” He takes the water and uncaps it, taking a swig. “I think I just didn’t get much sleep. But I’ll be getting plenty on the flight to L.A.” He caps the bottle and hands it back, then stretches in the cramped space with a groan. “Ugh, everything hurts. My heart’s pounding.”

“How much have you eaten today?” Gabe asks. “Shit, I should have brought snacks. Do you think they’ll hand out complimentary snacks?” He takes a brochure out of the seat back pocket. “Actually, fuck it, I’ll buy something when we’re in the air. What do you want? They have sandwiches.”

“That’s fine.” William rests his head on Gabe’s shoulder. “I won’t eat much, though. I’m not very hungry.”

“Just try to eat as much as you can.” Gabe puts down the brochure and runs his hands through William’s thin hair. “We can buy more food at the Sydney airport, it’s no problem.”

They sit like that for a while until the plane taxis to the runway. Before they take off, Gabe quickly copies, pastes, and sends off the text message he’d written in the notes app during the cab ride to the airport, informing his father and Ricky what’s going on so they won’t be worried. Then he turns his phone off. He knows very well they’d be supportive, but right now, Gabe needs the moment of clarity as the plane speeds down the runway and glides into the air. Three hours in the peaceful skies to bask in William’s presence, before he once again lands in the chaotic world below and is caught up once again.

“Let’s pretend,” Gabe whispers to William. “Let’s pretend we’re going on our honeymoon, flying wherever we want, just the two of us.”

“Why do we have to pretend?” Bill mumbles, already drifting asleep. “You’re a runaway bride. I stole you away. That’s so romantic already.”

Chapter Text

Pete sits at the bar and sips the last dregs of his chocolate martini, watching the ice melt in the other drink he had thoughtfully ordered for Gabe. He lifts his phone and checks the time.

7 o’clock.

Gabe is two hours late, and has not replied to even one text. Although everyone is already inebriated and the atmosphere is relaxed, Pete’s loneliness is notable; as time goes on, the conversations become more hushed–as hushed as drunk people can be, of course–and more pitiful looks are cast his way.

I should just go up to the room and check on him, Pete thinks to himself. Maybe he’s waiting for you to apologize. Maybe he took a walk and lost track of time and his phone ran out of battery.

Two hours, however, is far too long. He even had to ask the strippers to wait, and Pete usually would never tell a stripper to wait.

“May I take this?” the bartender asks, pointing to Pete’s empty glass and the untouched chocolate martini. Pete nods, and the chocolate martini is whisked away and poured into the sink. Milky brown seeps down through the drain. He checks his phone again. Still, nothing.

Patrick bends over the bar and drops into the empty seat beside Pete. “Heeey, dude! Where’s that pretty smile? You’re, like, the life of the party and instead you’re sitting here giving off the same energy as a rotting pile of flesh. Get up! Let’s dance or something. I’ll tell the DJ to put on your favorite song.”

However, Pete responds limply to Patrick tugging at his arm and sighs longingly. “No, I really think I should go see if Gabe is okay. I might have really fucked up.”

“Oh, Pete.” Patrick’s lower lip curls downward with pity. “You know he doesn’t need you.”

“But I need him.”

“Don’t think like that.” Patrick pats his shoulder.

“It’s literally our bachelor party,” Pete says. “What’s wrong with thinking like that?”

“Um, everything. When are you going to open your eyes, Pete? When are you going to finally notice what’s right in front of you?”

“I think I’m perceiving the bar in front of me…”

“No, Pete, I’m talking about me. Yo, bartender, can we have two shots of vodka?” Patrick giggles. “Another shot should open your third eye or something.”

“No, you’re an alcoholic and I’m not doing a shot with your sorry ass. I know you want to be noticed, message heard loud and clear.”

“Not in a pathetic alcoholic loser way though, gosh.”

“Then pull yourself together.”

Patrick chuckles and slowly slides his palm across the bar, nearing Pete’s hand. “Nooo, I’m trying to say–”

Carden shoves his head between them. “Where the hell is Bill?” Startled, Patrick shrieks and falls off the stool. “Do either of you know where the fuck he is?”

Patrick groans, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m too fat to deal with this.”

“I’m serious!” Carden snaps, and by the sharp fear in his ears, they realize he’s completely sober. “We can’t find Bill! He’s not in his room! He won’t text, he won’t call– it’s a fucking emergency! Can the two of you pull together your last brain cells and care for once?”

Pete shrugs sadly. “Look, Gabe’s gone and not replying to my texts too. If it makes you feel better, just imagine that they’re cheating on me in a dark alleyway.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Actually, Carden, you’re right.” Patrick struggles to his feet. “Let’s not give them that much credit. William probably needs a horse-sized dose of Viagra to get it up.”

“One more comment and I’m going to slap someone! Have any of you seen Bill or not?”

“Like I said, he’s cheating on me,” Pete says casually. “They’ll be back soon to announce it.”

“This isn’t about you!”

“But where else would he be if Gabe’s also gone?” Pete pats the empty seat. “Come on, relax and have a drink.”

“Dear God, I’m gonna get Sisky over here and–”

“PETE WENTZ!” Ricky Saporta storms through the crowd. Just as Pete turns his head, he’s yanked by the collar of his shirt from his seat. “Why is Gabe leaving the country? What did you fucking do to my brother?”

“Oh,” Pete pales. “He’s what?”

“Um, yeah!” Ricky shoves him against the bar. “Don’t tell me you’re a gay wife beater or something!”

Patrick blinks dazedly. “Is that a thing? I can’t believe domestic abuse has overcome gender roles. God bless America.”

“We’re not even in America,” Carden mutters.

“Well… God bless... fuck, where even are we again?”

“I am not a fucking wifebeater, Ricky, the hell?” Pete pushes him away. “What do you mean Gabe is leaving? This is news to me!”

“He sent us all a text. You didn’t get one?”

Pete shakes his head. Ricky pulls out his phone for him to see.

A Papí y Ricky,

I know this is unexpected and last minute but I can’t go through with the wedding. I’m sitting on a flight to leave New Caledonia and go back to the States, so forgive me if it takes a few hours to reply to whatever you say. I apologize for never listening to you guys and for dragging the family all the way out here for a wedding doomed to fail, but I’m finally listening now. I’ll tell you more when I have a chance. No se preocupen por mí.

Hasta luego

Gabe

Pete staggers a step back after reading it all. “Fuck. I… shit, there’s no way… I'm going up to the room.”

In a blur, he pushes through the crowd. Suddenly his hands are on the cold door handle, the lock beeping green. Pete stumbles in. Unpacked clothes are strewn across the ground. Gabe’s phone charger is missing from the nightstand, and his suitcase is absent from the top of the dresser, and his favorite lotion no longer adorns the bathroom counter. Instead, Pete’s hands land on a folded note on the desk, written on hotel stationary. He fumbles unfolding it, hands shaking. As soon as his eyes land on the first words, a tear soaks the corner of the sheet.

I’m running away with Bill.

Gabe.

The vagueness is easy for Pete’s alcohol-addled brain to read, but all the more damning. Family got five times more than the fiance.

He crumples the note in his hand, throws it at the wall, and lets out a primal scream. Pete had been right this entire time; right under his nose, they were having an affair.

William yawns as they walk off the plane and into the airport. “One more flight?”

“Just one more, and you can sleep through the whole thing if you so choose.” Stopping at the gate, Gabe rustles in his pocket for their tickets. “Uhh…. I think we’re in the same terminal. That would make sense, right? It’s an international flight.”

“Let’s just do passport control first,” William says, leaning against the cool windows. The deep purple night is lit by red runway lights and distant control towers. “I need to sit down. I don’t know how sitting for a few hours made my back worse.”

“I can buy you a neck pillow,” Gabe offers, wrapping his arm around William and pulling him close. 

William stumbles into him and groggily shakes his head. “I don’t know, maybe. Let’s just go do passports.”

“Got it. We’ll find you something to eat too.”

They walk forward to international arrivals, William’s head tucked into Gabe’s shoulder. As they approach the line, William’s footsteps slow, and he slumps into Gabe’s arms.

“Bill?” Gabe asks, looking over. “Do you need to sit down?”

In response, William collapses forward and hits the floor, jaw bouncing off the tile. Gabe drops his carry-on and scrambles to the ground, grabbing William’s wrist and fumbling for a pulse. “Bill! Bill! Answer me!”

While everyone in line watches, an off-duty pilot drops his own bag and rushes forward, kneeling down. “He’s not breathing!”

“I can’t find a pulse,” Gabe cries, pressing his thumb uselessly against William’s rail-thin wrist in desperation. “William!”

The pilot pushes William onto his back, rips his shirt, and begins chest compressions. His hands drive into William’s chest with a sharp CRACK! Over and over, he heaves into William’s chest, pausing to breathe into his mouth. An airport officer runs over with an AED and sticks the strips to William’s chest. “Stand back!”

“Applying the first shock,” says the AED’s monotone pre-recorded voice. Brrrzzzzt! “Start chest compressions. No heartbeat detected. Applying the second shock.”

Gabe sits a few feet away, wailing loudly over the AED and pulling at his own hair. His scalp is about as red as his eyes. Snot drips onto his upper lip. An older woman in a sari kneels beside him, hands him a tissue, and whispers soothingly in accented English.

Finally, there’s a sharp intake of breath. Gabe looks up and sees that pale, still William has begun breathing again. Paramedics lift William into a stretcher, and after Gabe’s passport is looked over briefly, he’s escorted into the ambulance, hands still shaking.

“Why isn’t he picking up?” Pete bemoans, pacing while Patrick sits on a stool and stares at a bottle of Fireball behind the bar. The gossip has already begun to spread– Gabe’s family has gone out for fresh air, and the rest of the party has started to clear out aside from those wanting to take full advantage of the open bar and/or watch the trainwreck unfold. Pete doesn’t really seem to realize this yet, because he also is in desperate need of the open bar while calling Gabe’s number over and over again.

“He’s probably still flying,” Patrick says. “Did you guys get a SIM card? I got a SIM card. Maybe he already switched it out. Do you want another drink, Pete? I think you need another one.”

“Not right now,” Pete hisses, eyes glued to his phone. “Can someone find the Vogue journalist and find out what we have to pay them to not publish anything?”

Nobody answers, so Pete shakes his head and keeps pacing with his phone. Yet again, it goes to voicemail. “Hey, Gabe, Gabey baby, you’re scaring me. Call me back, please. We have to talk about this. I promise I still love you and I wanna make this work, okay? Love you.”

“That’s the fifth one you’ve left,” Ryan says, sliding a shot toward him. “I don’t think he’s going to pick up anytime soon.”

Pete pushes away the shot. “I shouldn’t drink anymore.”

“Can I have that?” Patrick asks.

“How much have you already had?”

Rather than answer, Patrick steals the shot and downs it. The warmth only lasts for a second before that oozing dread replaces it once again. He slams the shot glass on the bar and stumbles back, head swimming.

“Uh… you okay, dude?” Pete asks.

“I’m a piece of shit,” Patrick croaks out. “I am a huge, nasty piece of shit.”

“We know,” says Jon.

Joe comes over and places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Patrick, how about we take a seat?”

“I’m shit!” Patrick wails.

“Yeah, Patrick, let’s just go sit down.”

Snivelling, Patrick dazedly follows Joe to a table a few feet away and sinks into a chair. “Joe, do you think it’s my fault?”

Joe hands him his glass. “Have some water. You gotta rehydrate.”

“I am not that drunk,” Patrick protests, but he takes the glass and gulps down the water. “I… Joe, you know how I’ve been a total idiot lately. I’ve been a fucking clown. I don’t know what’s wrong with me– like, I’m the one who drove a wedge between them! This is all my fault!”

“It’s not completely your fault,” Joe says. “Only eighty percent your fault.”

“You’re not even trying.”

“Patrick, I love you, but you kinda dug yourself into this hole.”

“Right,” Patrick mutters. He sniffles. “This entire thing could have been avoided if I’d just told Pete I like him in 2004. But no, I had to keep it bottled up for a whole decade and never move on.”

“Well, you were also busy with the throwing up. That tends to stunt emotional maturity.”

Patrick’s fist weakly bangs against the table. “I am a big, stupid jerkface.”

“You are a normal-sized, dense jerkface,” Joe amends.

“Sure, that’s much better.”

“Look,” Joe says, “I think with some very intense therapy, you’ll be back to the old Patrick. You’re capable of change, you’ve just never wanted it.”

“No, no, Joe, look,” Patrick says, leaning forward. His elbow bumps against the water glass, and he jumps back. “It’s like this: I want to want to change.”

Joe scrutinizes him. “Dude, that’s bullshit.”

“Eat my ass, Joe.”

“Sorry, what did you say? I don’t listen to alcoholics.”

“And we’re on the seventh voicemail!” Pete exclaims, slamming his phone down on the bar. “Give me another shot of–”

“Pete,” Jon interrupts, “vodka is not going to help.”

“No, no, it will! One more!”

Ryan, exhausted, digs out his phone. “Okay, Pete, if you stop drinking and leaving drunk voicemails, I’ll call Z and ask her to call William. Bill will definitely overshare with her. Okay?”

“I’ll stop leaving voicemails, but I need one more–”

“No, if I call Z, no more shots until we know what’s going on. Alright?”

“ Fine,” says Pete with an exasperated sigh. “Call her.”

Ryan taps Z’s contact on his phone. The music has been turned down low after Pete complained the electronica was giving him a migraine, so besides for Pete’s pitiful groaning, it’s quiet enough to hear Z pick up. “Ryan, what the fuck? It’s 4 A.M. I’m going to kill you if this isn’t important.”

“Hi. You need to call Bill.”

“I’m not calling my ex at 4 A.M, Ryan. Good night.”

“No, Z, this is important. Gabe and William have disappeared.”

Her bedsheets rustle through the phone. “What? What do you mean they’ve disappeared?”

“Like, it’s a runaway bride situation. Gabe left a note. He’s not picking up any of Pete’s calls.”

Pete presses his face into the bar and sobs.

“Anyways, call William and ask what’s going on. He’ll definitely talk to you. And then call us back.”

“Ugh. Okay, but you owe me a coffee. Multiple coffees, actually.”

“Done.”

“Everything I hear about this wedding is just crazier and crazier. By the way, I heard about your threeway with Mikey Way. You should have told me you and Jon were keeping it open.”

“Who told you that?”

“A trusted source. Is it true?”

“We’re not talking about this right now, just call William. I don’t think Pete’s doing too well.”

“So it’s true?”

“I’m hanging up now. Call Bill. Bye.”

As soon as Ryan puts his phone down, Pete grabs his arm. “So she’s calling him?”

Ryan carefully removes Pete’s fingers. “Yes, she is.”

“You’re amazing. I love you, Ryan.”

“Um… glad to help.”

A hand slams onto the bar between them. Patrick has stumbled over, breath reeking of alcohol. “Pete, I have to tell you something. I’m a horrible person. I’m so sorry and I want to change.”

“Patrick,” Pete mutters, patting his shoulder. “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. You’re not a horrible person. You’re just… you.”

“No, Pete, let me take responsibility. I want to change. I ruined your wedding, dude.”

“No, I ruined my wedding. I was a piece of shit to Gabe.”

“No, I’m the one who’s been so miserable and disgusting and–”

“This is a mess,” Jon whispers to Ryan. “No more Pete Wentz weddings ever. Please.”

“Not as long as he’s bankrolling us,” Ryan says. “But we’ll bring popcorn next time.”

“No, Pete, look, I really need you to let me express my true feelings so we can enter, like, a season of healing–”

Brrr. Brrr. Brrr. Pete’s phone is vibrating, sliding across the bar. He snatches it up. “Hello?”

Patrick stumbles back, disconcerted.

“Pete,” Gabe says.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I’m really sorry–”

A sob interrupts him. “Pete, we’re in Australia. Bill… Bill just went into cardiac arrest.”

Chapter Text

Clutching a glass of icy cold water, Patrick stares out the window at the brightly-lit coastline and the dark waters beyond. Andy sits cross-legged on the hotel bed with a bottle of kombucha, and Joe paces the length of the room with an empty beer can.