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The story as they tell it is true; the first time they met, they hated each other. It was later that Pete saw Gabe on a club floor and decided they should be friends, later than that that it actually happened. They streamline the story for easier telling; they blur some steps.
One step they leave out altogether: that the beginning, when they hated each other, happened to be the first time they fucked.
**
Pete would not be the one to tell the story even if either of them was inclined to let it out; his memory of the night is fractured and uncertain, viewed through broken safety glass. He can't cut himself on it, but he can't see, either. Diamond-shaped glass pebbles rolling around his mind.
Gabe remembers, but he promised to never tell the story and he's a guy who keeps his word. Even when Pete has begged and nagged, when he's demanded to know, wanting to backtrack through the rubble to a window, Gabe won't tell him shit. He bullshits bits and pieces, hints that are just enough for Pete to brood over and imagine by, to tell himself a story when he's kicking himself for blowing the only chance he'll ever have at this.
**
The part he remembers: there was a club. New York, dark, cold inside to compensate for swampy summer heat outside. He was breaking edge in a defiant celebration, or celebratory defiance, something. He can't remember what, now, but something had happened that day, something that hurt and lit a gas fire in his head and the only way to put it out was to smother it with chemicals.
He really can't remember what it was that hurt so much. It's probably the least important part of the whole story, but he worries over it, rolls the question between his fingers like a lucky rock or a broken pen. Probably it was something about a girl? But maybe not. It could have been a lot of things. He's never pretended to know the recesses of his mind.
But: a club. New York. His blood swimming with pills and powders. His edges blurred. The gas fire, if not put out, contained, and burning in lovely colors. Gabe Saporta brushing past him, laughing.
Midtown Gabe Saporta, tall and flawless like a gift from God sauntering across that floor, laughing, bright like the flames in Pete's head had jumped across and started burning up and down his body. In the version Pete imagines, he walks over to Gabe and grabs his hand, tells him that this is it, this is the moment the whole world pivots on, that from here forward they are tied together and that's just all there is to it. Like a hook into an eye.
Probably what he really did was spill a drink on Gabe's shoes. Or start gushing over Midtown's albums and only turn nasty when Gabe laughed him off. Or maybe he didn't do anything--maybe he just watched and seethed and hated Gabe for not noticing him back. Not seeing him. Just walking and dancing and being on fire and golden.
He drank more, he took more of whatever he was taking. He knows he did those things; those are the things he would do. They make sense. They wrapped his edges up in tissue and made him safe.
Gabe won't tell him how they went from ignoring each other across the club to Gabe fucking him in the bathroom. Pete knows it happened, knows he was on his hands and knees on the floor. He can piece that together from evidence: the pain in his ass the next day, the stains on the knees of his jeans that match the black smears on the palms of his hands and take forever to wash clean, the broken fingernails raw and bloody from scrabbling at the tile. He thinks maybe he remembers the heat of Gabe's palm on his back, wide and broad, holding him still. Maybe. Maybe he's imagining that.
No idea how they got there, though. That's all shattered and Gabe won't say. Pete can imagine lots of different ways--him being rude, being funny, being flirty, maybe just following Gabe in and pushing him up against the wall, putting his mouth to Gabe's and saying now, yes, please please please.
Probably he was an asshole, though. The odds seem good.
One thing Gabe has told him is that he, Pete, was too fucked up to get hard, that he moaned and carried on while Gabe was fucking him but his cock stayed soft between his thighs, and that he pushed Gabe's hand away when Gabe went to touch him. That sounds right, too. Like the kind of thing Pete would do.
Pete knows the broken glass in his head is for his own good, that it's his brain's way of trying to protect itself. If only the embarrassment had broken up, too, and all the goddamn questions.
**
The worst part now, years and years down the line and water under the bridge and best friends and late-night confessions and saving each other's souls, or at least the parts of them not burned up for retirement funds and shiny white caps on their teeth--the worst part is the missed opportunity.
You only have one shot at things. Pete knows this. One shot to catch lightning in a bottle. One success story. One first kiss, first fuck, chance to say I love you, chance to take a chance, see if it could be something bigger.
He lost his chance at this to safety glass and pills and a bathroom floor. He lost it in however many steps it took him to leave that club that night.
Gabe loves him and has his back no matter what. They're friends--good friends, the kind who have seen each other's ugly sides. But they missed their chance, and nobody gets takebacks.
Not anybody Pete knows, anyway.
**
Friendship is important, and God knows Pete wouldn't have made it through the last couple of years without Gabe. He's happy with what he's got. He's not going to go opening up old wounds. Or old Pandora's boxes.
He's probably stretched that metaphor farther than it should.
Picking at scabs is definitely okay, though, and so he throws up a call for Q&A on Twitter and lets the kids scratch him open. He skims down the replies fast, letting the cruel ones glance off him like half-pulled punches. There are a few that are sweet and a lot that are boring. He picks a few to answer and then stops, blinking, as the list refreshes and a new one comes in at the top.
Do you believe in second chances?
He bites at his lower lip and clicks that into its own tab so he can stare at it better. It's not like he hasn't been asked that question before. It's not like it's not something he thinks about all the fucking time. And it's not like the kid isn't almost definitely referring to Fall Out Boy instead of anything else. But still. For some reason, it really reaches down into his guts and twists tonight.
He puts fingers to keyboard and answers from the hip. Fuck it. He said no more honesty, but that was a lie, too.
i tell bx we all get 100 chances but thats for other ppl not me
**
He's still thinking about it later that night, after what's technically his bedtime. He's pacing his room thinking about it instead of even trying to get into bed. Usually that means he needs somebody to talk him down, so he grabs his phone and calls Gabe.
"It's really, really fucking late here, Pedrito," Gabe mumbles into the phone. Pete closes his eyes and pictures him, long limbs against dark sheets. Gabe sleeps in his boxers so he can luxuriate in his preferred threadcount. What the fuck is his life that he knows that but doesn't know what he said or how he felt the first time Gabe fucked him?
He knows what Gabe's eyes look like when he's tired and when he's sad and when he's joyful and when he just came. He knows how Gabe's skin tastes and that if you grab him to make him not do something dumb, it needs to be by the wrist, not the shoulder. He knows how Gabe's hands feel when he's holding Pete together through the disaster of the week. He knows the three topics that can make Gabe cry for real, those gasping broken-heart sobs that barely fight their way out of the chest. He knows that stuff.
Most people would say that that stuff counts more. He just can't get over what's missing.
"Pete?" Gabe's voice is clearer, now; Pete can picture him sitting up, rubbing his eyes. "You can't pocket-dial a fucking iPhone, so what the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing. Nothing." Pete sits down on the floor, leaning back against the bedpost. "Sorry. I just can't sleep."
Gabe's quiet for a minute, and Pete braces himself for a snarl of annoyance and the click of a hang-up.
"Well, I'm up now," Gabe says instead. "Can I make some tea and call you back in, like, five?"
"I'll listen to you make tea."
"Suit yourself."
Pete closes his eyes and listens to Gabe's breathing as he moves through the kitchen, and then the soft thump of the phone settling on the countertop. He can hear the water running and the kettle meeting the burner distantly, then the click of cabinets opening and closing. He can picture every move, as far away as Gabe is. It's comforting. His life doesn't make any sense.
"Kay. Water's heating up." Gabe yawns into the phone and Pete opens and closes his mouth in silent imitation. "What's up?"
"Do you believe in second chances?"
Gabe's silent for long enough that Pete falls over and lies on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling until Gabe clears his throat and answers. "Dude, my answer to that question depends entirely on which of your exes you're thinking of going back to."
"It's not like that."
"Because, like, I respect your right to do whatever, but I actually can't think of any of your exes that you should take back. Those bridges need to stay burned."
"Gabe, it's really not like that." Pete throws his arm over his eyes, hiding from the phone. "I swear. I'm not...no. Not doing that."
"Okay. Good. In that case, I believe in second chances."
"Conditional second chances."
"Basically." The sound of water pouring and the kettle clinking back on the stove comes over the phone. "What brought this on, anyway?"
"Twitter." Pete rolls over onto his stomach, arm still blocking his eyes.
"Dude."
"No, someone straight-up asked me what I thought about second chances."
"They were fishing for band stuff. Do not encourage them."
"I just gave a generic answer. But it got me thinking."
Gabe sips and swallows. "About what?"
"That thing with you and me."
There's another long silence. Pete presses his arm tighter to his eyes and rubs his chin against the carpeting.
"You really need to stop bringing that up," Gabe says finally.
"You don't even know which thing I mean."
"Yes, I do."
"We have a lot of things."
"There's only one of them that you bring up when you're feeling all fucking mopey and I'm not gonna do it." Gabe's voice is sharp and if Pete wasn't already hiding his face in the floor, he probably would be now. "I've told you like a hundred times that I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"Fine." Pete opens his eyes and blinks against the skin of his arm. "Sorry."
"You should try to get some sleep."
"Yeah. You too. It's late there."
"I'm gonna finish my tea and go for a run."
Pete moves his arm and blinks at the phone. "Since when do you run?"
"Since...it's a thing. I don't know."
"You have bad ankles. You shouldn't run."
"It's on the treadmill at the fucking gym."
"Still, it's high-impact, that isn't--"
"Pete." That was an actual shout. "I do not want you to fucking mommy me right now."
Pete's stomach twists and clenches and great, now he's going to need tea, too, if he's ever getting to sleep tonight. "Sorry. Have fun fucking up your legs, then."
He hangs up fast and kicks the phone over to silent, shoving it under the bed for good measure. Fuck. That wasn't what he was hoping for at all.
**
They go a whole week without talking, which is about Pete's limit with the circle of people he really needs. He's clingy and awful and eventually everyone in that circle makes a break for it and tries to get as far away from him as they can, but while he has them, he...well. He needs them.
When he can't take it anymore, he Tweets from the Starbucks drive-through listening to midtown and wishing i could go back in time. He buys his coffee, goes home, and waits, staring at the phone.
Midtown references are his Batsignal when it comes to Gabe. They've never failed yet. Well. Once. But Gabe was hiding in the jungle with his shaman, or whatever, at the time, so Pete's pretty sure that doesn't count.
His phone rings just as he finishes the coffee, leaving him choking on the dregs as he stabs at the buttons. "Hello?"
"Going back in time wouldn't change anything. We are who we are."
Pete slumps back against the couch, his shoulders sagging with relief. "Dude, I didn't realize how much I missed your philosophy bullshit until right this very minute."
"Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel good about himself." Gabe sighs softly. Pete can picture him rubbing his neck.
"How are you?"
"Tired. Icing my ankles." He pauses for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Pete to open his mouth. "Don't say anything or I'll kick your ass."
"Okay. Okay." Pete closes his eyes and leans into the phone. "Hey, look. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"Seriously, I was so bad at sex it echoes through, like, ten years. I'm really sorry." There's another one of those long silences, the kind that means Pete has said the exact wrong thing. "Gabe? You still there?"
"Pete..." Now Gabe just sounds exhausted. Definitely the exact wrong thing. "Maybe we should talk about this in person."
It's a little victory that Gabe wants to talk about it at all. "Yeah. Definitely. When can you come out here?"
"Not for a while. I've got stuff."
Accusing him of lying and evading won't accomplish anything. Even though he totally is. "Okay, I'll come to New York."
"You don't have to--"
"I have one million frequent flier miles. And I need to refresh my collection of tiny liquor bottles. I'll be there on Friday."
Gabe's quiet for a minute, then says, "Yeah. Okay. Friday. We'll talk then."
It sounds like he's pronouncing a sentence instead of arranging to hang out with a friend. Pete has a bad fucking feeling about this, but what else can he do? He'll make Gabe tell him what's wrong face to face. The best and the worst endings happen that way.
**
Pete has a set of keys to get into Gabe's apartment. He usually rushes through the lobby and down the hall from the elevator like he's in a spy movie, but this time he holds himself back. This is a visit for being mature and adult and all that. Talking out whatever's bothering Gabe so much.
It's fairly obvious; something awful and humiliating happened that night, and Gabe doesn't want to rub that in his face. Pete's spent ten years spinning different versions of what could possibly be more awful and humiliating than things he does remember, that Gabe also saw him do and never denies. The reality almost can't be worse, though he probably just jinxed himself by thinking that.
He lets himself into the apartment and looks around, making sure everything's the same as the last time he was here. If Gabe's gone on a decorating spree that probably means something, something he's going to have to parse out, and it will almost certainly be just as confusing as his ongoing question about why the fuck Gabe owns a white couch.
Everything's the same, though. Including the couch. He stares at it, searching for the food stains that must be there because it is a fucking white couch, come on, who even--
Gabe comes out of the bathroom, pushing wet hair back off his forehead with both hands. He jumps when he sees Pete, eyes going wide. "Fuck, Wentz, call first."
"I told you I'd be here today. And you gave me keys."
"Yeah, well, I might take them back."
Pete frowns at him and sits down gingerly on the couch. He wants to put his feet up on the coffee table just to make a point about Gabe's housekeeping being ridiculous, but Gabe doesn't exactly look thrilled that he's here as it is. Awesome. Whatever they're going to talk about, it's horrible enough that Gabe won't want him around anymore once it's out in the open. That's just what he wanted from his weekend. It's what he expected, but he keeps having this delusion that every once in a while life will decline to kick him in the balls.
"I have cookies."
Pete blinks, startled out of his thought spiral down into doom. "What?"
"Cookies. I have them. Do you want?"
"I thought you were on a diet."
"They're vegan."
"Oh." Pete nods and watches Gabe shuffle to the kitchen and return with a Tupperware container decorated with hand-drawn flowers and smiley faces. "You bought cookies from hippies?"
"Alex's girlfriend made them."
"So Alex is dating a hippie. That's terrible."
"She's okay."
Pete takes a cookie, and then a careful bite. "This tastes like cardboard."
"She's okay at, like, being a person, not at baking." Gabe sighs and sets the container aside. "So. You want to jump right into this or can I go pick up my dry-cleaning first?"
Pete can feel his shoulders drawing up and together. He's going to end up huddled in a ball on the couch like Bronx when he's sulking. "You can do whatever you want. Jesus. I'm sorry to inconvenience you."
"Don't do that."
"Don't do what? You're being an asshole, I can't be one back?"
Gabe stares at him for a minute, then kicks the coffee table. "Okay, yeah. Fine. I'm being an asshole."
"You really are."
"But you're making me talk about something I've been telling you for fucking years that I don't want to talk about, so I think being an asshole is understandable, okay?"
"Did I kill somebody or something?"
Gabe opens and closes his mouth. "What?"
"I can't figure out what the hell I did that night that was so terrible you don't want to talk about it this much. Did I kill somebody? Or, like...suggest bestiality, I don't know, what did I do? I know I was fucked up, but how bad was it?"
"Okay." Gabe presses his hands over his eyes. "Okay, if you had suggested bestiality, I would not be friends with you now."
"And if I killed somebody?"
"You would be in jail. Come on, Pete. Don't be an idiot."
"Then you're going to have to help me out, here, and tell me what I did. Because I don't remember."
Gabe still has his hands over his eyes, like he can only keep talking if he doesn't look at Pete. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe that is the problem?"
"That I don't remember?"
"Ding ding ding."
"Why would that be a problem for you?"
"Are you serious?" Gabe drops his hands and stares at Pete.
"Well, you're Gabe Saporta, you know, it's not like you've never gotten really fucked up and done stupid shit."
Gabe shakes his head and takes a step back. "Wow. Okay. I didn't think I had to say this, but okay. I'm not super-into having sex with people who don't know what's going on, Pete. I know a lot of people buy my stupid fucking rep, but I thought you knew me better."
Pete's stomach sinks and twists. "Wait."
"I didn't even realize you were that fucked up at the time. You were really into it. You kept swearing at me and telling me to do it harder. You were...really fucking bossy." Gabe drags his hands through his hair again; it's drying all weird, in clumps where his fingers have clenched. "So I figured it was fine. No big deal. It didn't bother me then. Not until we got to be friends and you told me you didn't remember a damn thing."
"It was a long time ago. It's got nothing to do with us being friends now. It's a whole different planet, Gabe."
"Except it's not." Gabe shakes his head. "The more I got to know you, the more I felt like shit for not, like, realizing you were that fucked up. Not helping you out or...protecting you, or something."
"Protecting me?" Pete's the one who takes a step back now, and feels his face flush hot. "Fuck you, man. I was a fucking grown-up. I took care of myself and made my choices and I don't--I didn't need any protection from you."
"You needed protection from yourself," Gabe shoots back. "And I feel like I should've known that. I want to punch myself in the face for not watching out for you."
Pete shakes his head, hands curling at his sides, feeling flushed and uncomfortable all over now. This isn't how this was supposed to go. "I would've flipped out at you if you tried. You know that. I would've bit you, or punched you or...We weren't friends. I didn't want you to protect me, I didn't want anyone to protect me. I still don't want you to protect me, from myself or from anything else."
"What do you want me to do?" Gabe asks. His voice is sharp and the question is dangerous and Pete's stomach is a knot of heat and confusion.
"I want you," he says stupidly, and his stomach twists harder, so bad it hurts. "I want you to...want me. Try again. Be together. I want...fuck, Gabe, we're there for each other. We're part of each other. Is it so hard to think maybe we could be more? The rest of it?"
Gabe rakes his fingers back through his hair. "Half of that wasn't even in complete sentences, Wentz."
"Fuck you. That's all you can say to me? I open up my fucking--"
"I opened up my fucking heart, Pete." Gabe shakes his head. "I told you the truth, cause you wouldn't fucking let it go after ten fucking years. What happened that night, I'm pretty sure it's the worst thing I ever did. And I told you, because you wanted to know. And you just want me to forget it and jump in like we've got a clean slate?"
"It wasn't your fault."
"Don't you dare take this all on you."
"It is all on me. I was stupid and--"
"Stop." Gabe puts his hand up and Pete falls silent. He kicks out at the coffee table in frustration, grounding himself in the vibration that climbs back up his leg.
"I need to go for a walk," Gabe says. "I need a break."
"Fine." Pete's mouth tastes like sweat and ashes. "That's fine."
"Will you be here when I come back?"
"Where the fuck else am I going to go?"
"There's a whole city out there."
Pete turns away and stalks over to the window. "I guess you'll just have to find out when you come back."
"I can't ask for a second chance at this conversation?"
"Fuck you," Pete says again, staring out at the street. He doesn't turn again until he hears the door slam closed.
**
He doesn't leave, even though he's screaming at himself inside to just do it. Just go. Gabe doesn't want him. He fucked up their one chance just as bad as he thought. Game over.
But he doesn't leave. He sits on Gabe's stupid white couch and he stares down at the carpet between his shoes and he keeps thinking, over and over, that when Gabe comes back he'll just say to forget it, forget all of it, and they'll go back to being friends. Brothers. Everything they already know how to be to each other, and they'll leave the blurry spaces outside alone.
He doesn't want Gabe to feel guilty. There's nothing to feel guilty about, as far as he's concerned; he's never felt violated or hurt by Gabe. Just annoyed by the blank spot in his memory, and confused, because he was sure he did something horribly wrong. If that isn't what happened, well...
Then he really isn't entirely sure what they've been dancing around for ten years. Missing words instead of missing time. They've been circling their own silence.
He sits there on the couch and waits for Gabe to come back, waits for Gabe to call, waits for something to happen, but all that does is that the light changes outside and rain starts to fall. It streaks and blurs the windows, casts shadows across the couch and the floor. Pete turns his head and watches, losing track of time in the rainfall and the bursts of wind. It empties out his head a little bit, and he's grateful.
He's shaken back into himself by his phone buzzing in his pocket, alive with a text from Gabe. come upstairs
i thought you were coming back
im on the roof. come up
Pete stares at his phone for a long moment, then puts it back in his pocket and goes to the door. He hesitates with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at the window and the rain again. Going out into that is going to suck, and he can't imagine why Gabe would want him to. Gabe doesn't like getting his clothes wet.
But Pete can't turn down a dare, and he definitely can't turn down a dare from Gabe. He finds the stairwell and takes it up to the roof, pausing at every floor to remind himself to take deep breaths and just focus on telling Gabe to forget everything he said and go back to the way it was. The way where Pete didn't know about this big uncomfortable thing between them and didn't have to feel it pressing on his chest with every heartbeat.
He gets to the roof and ducks his head against the rain, looking around. "Gabe?"
"Over here." He follows the voice and finds Gabe with an umbrella in his hand, leaning back against the wall of the elevator shaft.
"The elevator comes up here?" Pete asks, frowning. "I just climbed eight fucking flights of stairs."
"It's the service elevator. You would've had to climb the stairs anyway." Gabe angles the umbrella and looks at him, eyes dark and unreadable. "Come here and get out of the rain."
Pete does, but because he wants to, not because Gabe told him to. "What are you doing up here?"
"I've watched a lot of movies."
Pete blinks. "What?"
Gabe sighs and tilts the umbrella so it will more or less cover both of their heads. Water streams down it in a steady fall that just barely misses Pete's shoulder. "I walked around and I kept thinking about what I said right before I left."
"Which part?"
"The last thing. About if I could get a second chance at this conversation."
"I told you to fuck off." Pete hunches his shoulders and looks up at the umbrella.
"Any chance of you revising that and letting me start this over?"
Pete glances at him, then drops his gaze to his shoes. "Depends on what you're going to say."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have anything to be sorry--"
"Pete." Gabe's voice is firm, and sad, firmly sad, and it's weird enough that Pete finally looks right at him again. "I'm sorry anyway."
"Oh." Pete swallows and rocks back on his heels, then jerks forward again as cold water hits his shoulder and cuts through his t-shirt. Apologies. He's talked to Bronx about what to do with for-real apologies from people. "I accept your apology. Thank you. Let's hug and share something." Gabe shoots him a startled look and Pete shrugs. "Pre-school."
"Right." Gabe looks out at the rain and sighs. "Pete..."
"Seriously, what does the roof have to do with movies?"
"In the movies, the big dramatic climax is always on the roof. It's important."
This isn't what Pete wants to hear. He can feel it crawling around in his guts, twisting up like wires. "What kind of big dramatic climax are we going to have? Actually, don't tell me. Let's just...not. Okay? Let's not do that."
"Let me talk."
"I don't think I want to hear this."
"For fuck's sake, will you just..." Gabe exhales sharply and takes a step toward him. "I wish it hadn't happened. Not like that."
"You wish you hadn't slept with me. I got that. Loud and clear."
"It wasn't sleeping with you. It wasn't even having sex. It was just, like...fucked-up, messy...coitus."
Pete has to laugh at that. It comes out raw and achy, but it is a laugh. "Going for the five-dollar words."
"I wish I hadn't hurt you. I wish I hadn't helped you hurt yourself. I wish..." Gabe shrugs, wrapping his free arm around himself. "I wish we hadn't wasted time hating each other before we became friends. I wish we could've started out better. I wish we didn't have to have this shadow over us, forever."
Pete stares at him, the way his edges blur against the rain. "You're the one who's always telling me about how we can reinvent ourselves, how we can rewrite our own stories."
"For them. For the world." Gabe waves his hand at the edge of the roof, the rain, the city below. "In your heart you've always gotta know the truth of who you are and how the story went."
"Sometimes I really wish you weren't so full of shit."
"Sometimes I really wish you actually listened when I talked."
Pete throws his hands in the air and turns away. There's nowhere to go except out into the rain, so he goes, bolting across the roof to the edge where he can look down at the headlights moving along the Manhattan streets and it's meaningless, it's nothing he has to process, he can just let the inside of his head howl and hurt and he doesn't have to think for just one fucking--
Something grabs his shoulders and yanks back, hard, dropping him to his ass on the wet concrete.
"Fuck!" He rolls over onto his side, gasping as the pain shoots up his spine and down his legs, radiating through his body. "What the fuck?"
"You asshole, don't you fucking jump on me."
"I wasn't going to!" Pete flops onto his back again, the water soaking through his shirt and straight through his hair to his scalp and through his jeans and underwear and every inch of him is wet. Wet and freezing. Fuck. "I wasn't fucking going to jump, you idiot, I wanted some space!"
"Oh." Gabe's voice is small, raw, and Pete looks up at him, blinking through the water.
"I love you, dummy," Pete says, and he almost drowns saying it, but it's worth it. "I love you. I'm not going to fucking jump in front of you."
"And you have a kid." Gabe's voice is a little stronger, but still shaky. "You can't jump anyway."
"Nope." Pete reaches up. "I promised my therapist. And my dad. And Ashlee. And Travie. And you."
Gabe takes his hand, long warm fingers wrapping around Pete's palm and pulling him up, off the pavement and to his feet and then past that, off his feet, crushed against Gabe's chest.
"What am I even going to do with you?" Gabe asks, holding him so tight it almost hurts. Pete's heart is beating fast enough that it doesn't.
"Rewrite the fucking story," Pete tells him. Gabe's arms loosen for a minute, then tighten again, and a minute later they both start to laugh.
**
The movies also require a kiss in the rain. They don't quite manage that. The kiss comes after they spill two mugs of hot chocolate all over Gabe's couch.
It's better if it isn't perfect, is Pete's opinion.
Gabe buys slipcovers, because it's okay if the real story is something only a few people know.