zeegoeshere

L.E.S. Artistes
By Zee

Summary: Pete/Travis coda-type-thing, starting after this unfortunate incident, and also referencing Pete's blog post today. 1,667 words, PG-13.

For miss_saigon, just because. ♥



Pete calls minutes after Matt’s posted the bail, when they’re on the way back to the buses. Travis answers “Hey” and Pete says “Fuck, I heard—“ and goes into a string of expletives directed at the asshole Travis got arrested for. Travis holds his phone away from his ear theatrically, pulling a face at Matt, who gives him a thin smile back.

“—fucking insane, jesus, Trav,” Pete finishes. “Are you okay? Shit, I’m sorry, stupid question, of course you’re not.”

Travis can hear it when Pete takes a deep breath in, and he slouches down in his seat and turns to face out the car window. “No, man, whatever. ‘m all right.” Which is mostly true; he can still feel the echoes of adrenaline, and there’s that rattled feeling that comes after any fight. (And shit—this is the first fight he’s been in in years, and maybe the first fight he’s ever gotten into sober.) But the initial rage and shock have faded, and the desperate energy that got him through the rest of the show is gone, too. Now Travis mostly just wants to pass the fuck out.

“You’re being taken care of, right? Like, do you need anything, is there anything I can…?” Pete trails off and Travis doesn’t answer, both of them quiet on the phone line. It reminds Travis of those weird 3am conversations they used to have, both of them staying quiet for minutes at a time, when they didn’t need or want to talk about how fucked up they both felt.

Travis feels an echo of that now. Not the depression shit, no, because this isn’t shit inside his own head, but there’s a similar sort of scraped feeling in his chest. Like barbed wire got into his lungs, maybe. He presses his lips together and remembers the look on that guy’s face, right before Travis grabbed him.

“No, it’s cool,” Travis says eventually. “Thanks, though.”

“I’m coming out there,” Pete says, fierceness back in his voice. “I’ll catch the next flight, okay?”

Travis laughs, and this is good, talking to Pete makes him feel good, makes some of that rattled feeling go away. “No dude, really. You don’t have to, I don’t need a baby-sitter.”

“No, I know, that wasn’t—“

“Right, no, I know. But I don’t need—it’s cool, Pete, you don’t have to.”

Silence for another moment, and Pete says, “Hey. I’ve got your back, you know. We all do.”

Travis grins. “Yeah? You’d fuckin’ better, ‘cause I got yours.” He shifts, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Hey, man, let’s talk later, okay? I need to get some shut-eye.”

“Yeah dude, sleep it off. Don’t worry about anything, okay? This will all totally blow over.” Travis can hear rustling on the other end, Pete doing something or other.

“Love you,” Travis says, and Pete says it back before they hang up. Pete’s one of the only guys Travis knows that tells people he loves them as often and as easily as Travis does—it’s one of the reasons they became friends in the first place.

He feels Matt’s hand on his shoulder, warm and solid and only just a little questioning. Travis sits back up and leans to rest his head on Matt’s shoulder. Matt snorts and lets his arm fall comfortably around Travis’s back, and Travis dozes until they get back to the tour bus.

***

Most people walk on egg shells around him for a few days after, which frustrates Travis and makes him crabby, which makes people even more wary and careful. He doesn’t want special treatment; it happened, he reacted badly, he might get sued or he might not, but fucking whatever, he wants people to stop being so fake-nice.

“And I want someone to call me on it,” Travis bitches to Matt. “Like, so far the only people who’ve pointed out that I shouldn’t have hit him are my lawyers.”

“Well,” Matt says, eyeing Travis and rubbing his beard stubble. “I think your friends just want to support you right now, not criticize.”

“Shit, it’s not criticizing,” Travis snaps. “It’s a statement of fact that I shouldn’t have fuckin’—like, *I* know that, other people know that, but everyone acts like I didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”

“God, fine,” Matt says, rolling his eyes and shoving Travis’s shoulder. “You’re a dumbass for breaking your microphone and getting yourself hit with assault charges. Happy now?”

“No, man, say it like you mean it,” Travis says, but Matt just shoves him again.

Pete outright refuses to admit that Travis didn’t handle it well. “The motherfucker deserved it,” he says heatedly, and Travis thunks the back of his head against the wall of the bus.

“Of course he deserved it, man, that’s not the point. I’m just saying, I shouldn’t have resorted to violence, you know? Like, it wasn’t worth it.”

“You said at the time, when someone says something that offensive, it’s necessary,” Pete insists. “I agree with that, dude. Like, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“But that doesn’t make it right,” Travis says, and he doesn’t know why this is so important to him, why he’s so frustrated he could scream. “Seriously, Pete, I appreciate the loyalty, but—“

“I’m not just being loyal! I support punching racist assholes in their fucking faces, man, I am 100% behind that, you’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

Travis squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “But thanks.”

“I would’ve done the same thing,” Pete repeats, and Travis doesn’t say that there’s no way for Pete to know whether or not he actually would, because no one would ever call Pete that. He says thanks again, and they stay on the line without saying anything else to each other; Travis listens to Pete’s breaths and stares at the inside of his eyelids.

***

don’t go. stay here forever.

Travis calls Pete in the morning. “I changed my mind. Come hang out.” He doesn’t say why, doesn’t say that he’s been better, doesn’t mention how badly he wants to be high right now. Pete’s a smart boy, he’ll figure it out.

“Sure,” Pete says immediately. “I’ll be there in a few hours. Orlando, right?”

Travis nods, then says “Yep.” He can hear how scratched his voice sounds, like that barbed wire wormed its way from his lungs to his vocal chords.

“I’ll be there soon, then. Hey—love ya, dude.”

“And I love yo-ou,” Travis croons, and they laugh and hang up. Travis squints out the bus window, out at the Florida sun and all that fucking humidity. He wants today to be over. He doesn’t want to perform, doesn’t want to take that first step on stage and feel apprehensive instead of just plain eager. Each time now, he wonders if someone’s going to yell slurs at him tonight, and he hates that. He fucking hates that more than anything, that that dickhead made him feel paranoid and cautious and unwelcome when Travis should be--*has* been—in his fucking element. That piece of slime got to him, Travis let him get to him, and he hasn't figured out yet how to brush it off.

They put on a good show that night, a great show, and the suspicion and dread disappear just a few words into their first song. That's the case every time, because rapping has always made Travis feel better, no matter what. And his band makes him feel better, and the audience makes him feel better--his people, his words, his space. Some part of him is still tense, but he still throws himself into it.

Pete shows up sidestage when the set’s almost over, and when the last song is done Travis walks off stage and straight into Pete’s arms, wrapping him in a bear hug and lifting him off his feet as Pete laughs.

“Good to see you, man,” Travis mumbles into Pete’s hair, and Pete says “Dude, put me down,” and Travis feels lighter than he has in weeks.

There’s no question of where Pete’s going to stay. “I feel like I’m hogging you,” Travis jokes as he and Pete head back to Travis and Matt’s bus. He slings an arm around Pete’s shoulders, pulling him in against his side. “Like, maybe I’m hurting Gabe’s feelings.”

“Psh. Everyone already knew I loved you best,” Pete says, wrapping his arm just as tight around Travis’s waist.

They stay up late talking and not-talking, and Travis wishes they had some paint and paper. He misses fingerpainting.

“So let’s get some watercolors in the next city,” Pete says when Travis mentions it. “Cheap paint, paper, our hands. That’s all we need.” Their hands are clasped together, and Pete kisses the tip of Travis’s index finger for emphasis.

At some point they moved from the bus lounge to Travis’s bunk, lying on their sides, facing each other. Travis has missed him. He misses everyone, every time he goes away, but—but it feels like a big deal, him missing Pete this time, feels like something. Something that could happen.

“This feels like it could be a thing,” Travis says out loud, because this is Pete, and he can say just about anything to Pete.

Pete flashes a smile at him, white teeth and wide mouth, and scoots closer. “It does,” he says. “I was hoping you’d clue in to that.”

Travis lifts their clasped hands, then lets them drop back down onto the mattress. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks for coming to visit.”

“Anytime,” Pete says, a softness in his voice. Travis kisses Pete’s fingers, and then Pete pulls their hands toward him and kisses Travis’s, and they go back and forth like that until they’re both giggling.

“Hey,” Pete says. “We’re both gonna be fine. You know that, right?”

Travis uses his free hand to touch Pete’s hair, to cup the back of his head so that Travis can kiss his lips. “Yeah, I know.”