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William reaches to grab a flute of champagne from the tray carried on the outstretched arm of the waitress, a petite girl with a short blonde bob tucked behind her ears, round doe eyes rimmed in black eyeliner and mascara so thick you can hardly see her. She smirks at him, either in recognition or in jest (this is his third glass), not that he cares either way. He smiles back, winking without necessarily meaning to, and she blushes as she turns away, tray still held high near her shoulder.
He tips the glass back, draining half of the liquid out in one gulp, even though etiquette says you’re supposed to nurse these things until they turn warm and stale. It burns as it goes down, a cold and bitter taste lingering in the back of his throat that makes his eyes water, and he wonders who chooses to drink this shit for fun. What a way to say congratulations.
He hates these things. Fucking hates them. Hates that he has to attend, hates rubbing shoulders with label executives, hates plastering on the largest fake smile he can, all the while pressed into a stuffy suit. They play rock music, for Christ’s sake! Let a man wear a pair of jeans.
He sighs loudly enough to accidentally catch the attention of those around him, a few people casting concerned glances over their shoulders before returning to their conversation just as quickly. Yeah, really worried about me, aren’t you?
The high cathedral ceilings are covered in a variety of delicate, hand-painted angels with their trumpets, puffy white clouds against a blue background. An absolutely ginormous chandelier hangs in the center of the room, spreading twinkling flares of light across the room as the late evening sun shines through the windows. He wonders what the angels would think if they heard the lyrics to this album, about all the sex and drugs. Whether they would still be blowing those damned trumpets in celebration.
But maybe he’s just jealous. This is way more formal of an event than The Academy ever had for a release party. The staff members are all in full suits and cocktail dresses, handing out the good stuff on trays, and everyone was told to dress black tie, whatever that meant. William just waited to see what his manager left hanging in the closet of his hotel room.
The real party is coming soon, all of the booze and drugs and fun one could want inside a gritty private bar once the attendees have stripped off their formalwear. An after-hours affair that is invite-only. William’s must have gotten lost in the mail. Or perhaps he’s too prone to bitching and whining for anyone to want him around anymore.
He looks around the room, the light reflecting off the angular peak of his cheekbones and the dimple of his chin. Just out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he may have seen something (or, rather, someone) familiar. And inside his head, a tiny voice says it can’t be. But of course it can. Of course it is.
All 6’4” of tanned skin are standing there, glints of green and pink from the chandelier sparkling across his pressed black suit, flashing a bright white smile to whoever he is listening to. None other than Gabriel Saporta.
Sure, the rest of the world knows his as Gabe, but to William, he is Gabriel. He has to be. Not Gabe, nor Gabey, or even the well-loved Gabey-Baby. Because William moaned out the name Gabe one too many times, wrists pressed against the bed, and he can’t say it without it stinging. So, Gabriel it is.
William can feel the way his face steels in response, twisting up tight like he ate a lemon, eyes narrowed and mouth puckered. It makes a whole lot of sense now why William didn’t get an afterparty invite – Gabriel must have.
He looks the same, which pisses William off something fierce. The smile lines may be a little deeper, the dark circles under his eyes perhaps a bit darker, but he’s the same charming, electric spirit that draws everyone to him. He could charm the pants off of a nun if he gave it even half of his effort. And William hated him for it.
It’s not that he wants to stare, but he almost can’t help it. It’s the champagne, has to be, or maybe the two shots he took in the back of the blacked-out Escalade on the way here. His look lingers a moment too long, long enough for Gabriel to turn his head slightly, just enough so he catches William in the corner of his eye. He turns fully, pinning him there, and William naturally whips his head away, trying to ignore the way his entire face heats up. How fucking embarrassing.
And y’know what, screw it. It feels like a great time to leave. His manager will be pissed, William certainly not having rubbed enough shoulders to get anything of value out of this appearance, but he doesn’t have it in him to care at this moment. He can deal with the bitching in the morning. For now, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, pressing the number for the hired driver of the evening as he walks through the lobby of the venue into the outside valet pickup area.
It’s brisk out here, winter wind blowing his hair around. He misses when it was long, sometimes, but he knows that was exactly how Gabriel liked it, falling in loose curls against his shoulders. So he keeps it short now, the first sight of grey beginning to peek through at his temples.
As much as he misses his long hair, he might miss smoking more. It’s a dirty habit, he’s well-aware, but this is the most stressed he has felt in a while. Every time he hears the glass doors open behind him, he jumps, whipping his head around to make sure it is not the face he is hoping to avoid.
It feels like ages when the driver finally pulls up, an older man tucked sleepily behind the wheel. Shit, William thinks, where does one have to go wrong in life to be employed as a personal chauffeur for a washed-up rockstar such as myself?
William doesn’t speak a word, just sliding into the backseat and distracting himself with his phone. There’s not much to do on this thing, having promised himself to avoid all social media apps, and his head is buzzing too hard to play one of the puzzle games he has downloaded. He settles for swiping through the photos saved in his camera roll until he feels a bit woozy and turns it off to stare out the window.
The hotel appears in his line of sight, all of its glittering glory, and he wonders which of the rooms is his from the outside. William has the door of the car popped open before the driver has even put it in park, giving a quick two-finger wave goodbye and heading straight through the entrance.
After a drunken nod to the bellboy and front desk staff, Will wrestles with his wallet to pull out his keycard, holding it to the sensor and pressing for floor 23. The top button makes him chuckle – Penthouse Suite. He wonders who has the distinct pleasure of wasting their money on that tonight, the glittering expanses of polished floors and twinkling lights. Again, maybe he’s just jealous. He’s in a regular room, flanked by families with little girls participating in some cheer competition – he watched as they all crowded in their uniforms for group photos in the lobby on his way to the event.
Thankfully, even after all of the drinks, he’s still able to navigate down the twisting hallways to his room – 2315 – holding his keycard up to the door until the light flashes green and it unlocks. The air conditioning feels heavenly, and he shrugs off his suitcoat before the door even shuts behind him.
His plans for tonight include getting out of this suit, peeling the contacts out of his eyes, and chugging a bottle of water before crawling into the cool sheets and passing out.
He begins by untying the tie, a dark green color that complements him, unbuttoning the white dress shirt until his abdomen is exposed. Pausing to look at himself in the mirror, he takes note of the way that age has begun to change him, the effect gravity has on us all. Where did the time go?
He sits down in the wobbly office chair, pulling his wallet and phone out of his pocket to rest on the desk in front of him before pulling his knee up, moving to untie his dress shoes.
His phone lights up, screen flashing a clear warning – the contact name loaded as DO NOT ANSWER. Unfortunately, only one person is fortunate enough to have that as their contact name, and William has already seen too much of him this fine evening. Still, he feels his hand twitch, the desire to reach forward to press his finger to the green accept button, just to see what he has to say. He bites the inside of his bottom lip until the screen goes dark, the call eventually sending Gabe – Gabriel – to voicemail.
William can imagine what Gabriel is hearing on the other end of the phone, a cheery William from several years ago encouraging the caller to leave a voicemail, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! He hopes, no, prays, that Gabriel does not follow these instructions, taking the non-answer as a sign that William has no desire to talk. (But is that even the truth?)
He sighs, pressing his elbows into the desk as he supports his head, which feels heavy as it swims with the bubbly champagne. God, why did he have to have so many glasses?
The screen lights up again, a notification that a voicemail was left by none other than DO NOT ANSWER.
And, God, William, do yourself a favor and do not listen to that. He presses his open palms hard against his eyes until he begins to see stars, pushes a big heaving breath out of his lungs. He swears quietly to himself.
When he pulls away, the notification is still there (of course it is, dumbass) and he wishes Sisky was here to tell him not to touch that phone. If he were here, he’d slap William right across the face for even considering it.
But he isn’t here. He’s off enjoying his honeymoon, not expected to wear his Sunday best to rub elbows with people who genuinely think the band name is The Academy Was. And maybe it’s that, the fact that Sisky is out enjoying Italy with a woman who loves him endlessly, that is making all of this hurt worse.
He gets up with a start, wheeled hotel office chair rolling backward across the room, to get a drink out of the minibar. Fuck it, he thinks, I can afford an overpriced shooter of vodka. Add it to my bill, housekeeper!
As he swings the glass door open to the minifridge, the interior light casts a glow over everything, and the sight of the blue and silver can of Redbull makes his breath hitch.
It’s like he can’t get away from the memories, the many nights out watching as the bartender made two drinks, a vodka cranberry for Bill and a vodka Redbull for Gabe. Gabriel. Now William always has to say just one please, opting for vodka straight.
He can’t help but laugh at himself, tears in his eyes, at the way he is still torn up over this all of these years later. He hears the crack as he breaks the seal on the shooter, holding it between his lips and tipping it back, the burn all too familiar. Too comforting.
His hands are shaking as he lowers himself on the couch in the room, pushing his hair back from his damp forehead. It suddenly feels warm in here, and he eyes the thermostat to make sure it hasn’t magically increased the temperature in the past few minutes. He knows it must just be the booze, the way his heart is racing, his stomach bunching in knots. What could Gabe – Gabriel – have said on that voicemail?
Maybe he could call Chislett, help burn up some of the time until his desire to call back goes away, but it’s so late. And Chislett doesn’t get it like Sisky does, wasn’t there to watch it all go down, rub circles against William’s back as he shook with sobs. Only Sisky was.
His phone starts vibrating on the desk again, just out of reach, but he already knows who it is. The Gabe – Gabriel – he knew was never one to give up easily.
And fuck it, who gives a shit? His life is already a hot mess. Why not answer the phone call from the only man whom he has ever loved, the man who fucked him over more than anyone else?
When he finally gets to the phone, clicking accept and pressing the phone to his ear, he hears nothing on the other end. Just silence. Maybe someone breathing, but that could be his imagination. Perhaps this was all some horrid prank after all, just Gabriel gaining sick pleasure out of knowing that if he wanted to get William to pick up the phone, he could.
“Bilvy?”
He feels his heart sink to his stomach, the way Gabriel’s voice sounded so quiet, so wounded on the other end of the line.
William clears his throat, pausing long enough to make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. “Gabriel?”
He can picture it now – the way Gabriel’s brows must have furrowed at that. No one ever, ever, calls him that, only his grandmother, a woman who has been dead for two decades now. Will pinches his thigh for knowing that, for remembering that. He’d pay good money to get his brain wiped of every single memory, a little Eternal Sunshine moment.
“Uh, I saw you earlier. At the… y’know, the release party.”
William takes a moment to be surprised that Gabriel at least sounds like he’s alone, no breaking glass or thumping bass behind him. It sounds like he is in a place just like William is, holed up in a hotel room – or, more likely in his case, some suite in a snazzy hotel downtown.
“Yeah,” William says, because there’s nothing else to say.
Gabriel lets the moment linger, lets them sit in the silence of their own making. “Listen, I wanted to call because… I just – I cannot tell you enough how sorry I am about everything that happened.”
He forces the images to flash through his mind, the three full years they spent together, curled up in tour bus bunks, in studio apartments, wrapped around each other. The way Gabe – Gabriel – used to whisper into the soft brown curls, pet names and dirty talk and everything in-between. All the hand jobs and blowjobs and the toe-curling sex. When Gabriel said I love you as they watched the fireworks at a rented lake house.
And, of course, after it happened, William finding himself in such a deep depression that he couldn’t stand to shower, not to mention sing into a microphone, essentially ruining his career and the career of the rest of his bandmates. And now, all these years later, still trying to rebuild the career that Gabriel ruined the second he stuck his dick in a girl who just wanted a moment of attention. Everything that happened.
“You mean when we were dating each other, exclusively, according to me, and you decided to fuck that model and post photos of the two of you half-naked on Instagram? Photos that I saw when I opened my phone up the next morning, thinking you were just enjoying a night out with the boys. You mean that?” He can’t help the way the words sound, clearly so full of anger and venom that he’s almost spitting them through the phone.
He can almost hear the fight they had all those years ago, Gabriel standing in William’s kitchen, arms spread wide. I didn’t know we were exclusive, he had said. William let the tears roll down his cheeks. He wasn’t sure when they had said they weren’t.
It’s quiet for a long time after that, each of them breathing heavily into the phone. “Bilvy, please,” he nearly cries, and William despises how much that pet name affects him, how much it sounds (sounded) like he was being called baby. “I can’t – I can’t find a different way to say I’m sorry. Please. Please come talk to me.”
William stills at that, trying to keep his temper from flaring through the phone, keep himself from shouting so loudly that the families in the adjoining rooms don’t call the front desk to report a madman. “Are you insane? You want me to come talk to you? After all the shit you did?!”
Gabriel somehow remains calm, voice steady as he talks. “I just – I want you to see me. See that I’ve changed. I swear, if you just sat across from me, you’d realize that I’m not that same kid.” He takes a deep breath, audible through the phone, “It’s been nearly ten years, William, and I can’t find a single soul that compares to you. I can’t think straight. I see you every time I close my eyes.”
William can feel a lump growing in his throat, and he presses his eyes closed as if that will make Gabriel stop talking. It doesn’t work; his words continue to cut through like a knife. “I promise I can treat you better this time. I won’t make the same mistake ever again. Please, Bilvy, I’m dying not to hurt you.”
It feels like the cord between them has been cut, all of the history, the tension, and they are back where they started all those years ago – two young men with no idea what would come next.
“If you can’t, I understand,” Gabriel says, voice quiet and unsteady. It’s got the slightest waver to it, like he might be fighting off tears.
William bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, squeezing his eyes shut so hard that he can feel the thick thump of his heartbeat pumping behind them. His chest genuinely aches, and he’s not sure if that is his body’s way of telling him to run or stay. Sometimes, life feels as though someone has his voodoo doll in the other room, pressing pins into his heart repeatedly.
“Just to talk. Nothing more. And I’m leaving whenever I want to.”
William can hear the way Gabe – Gabriel – is trying to conceal his excitement, muscles pulling up the corners of his mouth, audible even through the phone. “I’m in the penthouse suite, same hotel as you.”
“How do you know what hotel I’m in?” William asks, voice high in surprise.
Gabriel chuckles darkly through the phone. “I called in a favor. Don’t ask. I wanted to see you.”
And while he could sit here and try to determine exactly who in his life ratted him out to a desperate Gabriel Saporta, he’s too mixed up inside to care tonight. Maybe he will tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he wakes up with a horrible hangover, he will have plenty of time to determine who was his Judas.
“I can meet you outside your room if that would be better.” Gabriel offers.
William cuts him off with a sharp “No,” wanting the ability to control this situation, control when he arrives and departs, control if he goes at all. “I’ll meet you up there.”
Gabriel starts to respond when William pulls the phone from his ear, pressing a shaking finger to the red end call button. He threads his fingers through his hair, pulling on it just a little, until it stings. If this is a dream, this right here is the point where he’d like to wake up.
The room feels extra quiet now that the phone call has ended, just the sound of the air conditioner rumbling against the wall. A quick glance at his phone shows him that it is later than he realized – after 11:00. He remembers back in the day, this would be when the night was just starting, but this may be the latest he has seen in years.
What is he doing? Did he seriously just agree to go see Gabe – Gabriel, fuck – in his hotel room? He sits, holding his head in his hands and trying to regulate his breathing. It’s like the moment when you jump off the Golden Gate Bridge and realize – oh great, this is happening now.
He looks at himself in the mirror, the same way he did back when he was young and desperate for Gabriel to want him most, want him more than the dozens of groupies throwing themselves at him every night. He doesn’t have the hair to tuck behind one ear anymore, feeling like the past ten years have worn on his face more than he wants to admit.
Rubbing his hands over his face, he shucks off his dress shirt, making quick movements to untie his dress shoes and unbutton the suit pants. He leaves them a crumpled mess on the floor, something his manager will certainly bitch about tomorrow (this is a rental, William!).
Rooting through the small duffel bag he brought, he produces a pair of khaki-colored pants and a t-shirt, well-worn and loose around the neck. His outfit for tomorrow making an early appearance. He eyes his toothbrush, considering a quick freshening up, but no, there is nothing happening tonight, no need to freshen anything up.
He shoves his hotel keycard loosely in his pocket, pulling the heavy door open with a sigh. Each step on the way to the elevator, he considers turning around. He could go back to bed, get that bottle of water he wants (needs) so badly, pretend none of this ever happened. Hell, maybe he can finally do what he should have done years ago and block Gabriel’s phone number.
But no, instead he clambers into the elevator, extended finger pressing the button for the penthouse suite. It doesn’t even feel like he should be able to.
The elevator sits, unmoving, for a moment. He considers that this might be a sign from the universe to get out while he can, but just as he reaches for the open door button, the elevator shifts, moving up and up until it comes to a stop. The doors open to a private hallway, a long wall of white interrupted by a single navy-blue door.
William positions himself in front of it, just reading the gold numbers over and over again. 3406. 3406. Deep breath in and out.
He lifts his hand, knocking on the door quietly. So quiet, he wants to give Gabriel a chance not to hear it, a chance to return to his room unscathed, tell himself I tried.
When the door pulls open, he’s there, just as he has been all these years. He looks more pallid than Will remembers, skin ashen and eyes darker. There’s just a hint of stubble growing along his jawline, already threatening to poke through despite the fact that he would have shaved right before the party started.
He’s dressed casually, a loose-fitting t-shirt pulled over his chest, somehow still lanky with age, black sweatpants running down his long legs until they hit his bare feet.
“Bilvy,” he says softly, eyes scanning over him.
He can’t help himself, the way it just slips out, “Gabe.”
And because what the fuck else can he do tonight, William steps over the threshold of the door, cradling Gabe’s face in his hands and kissing him, insistent.