Work Text:
He’s at the bar, thinking about the impending show and swallowing down his mix of apprehension and excitement with a hefty dose of gin when Mr. Whittman shows up, seemingly from nowhere, with a face like brewing storm clouds, brow dark and furrowed. Mr. Whittman’s been looking like that an awful lot lately. He’s not sure why. He has the best ideas and everyone loves him! Mr. Whittman does great work behind the scenes and everyone at the studio will profit from it. Gabriel hopes they compensate him fairly. It would be real unfortunate to come up with an idea that went into production and have nobody recognize your work on it.
Gabriel’s already a little tipsy, but he can’t help but notice how Mr. Whittman—Vincent, he can be Vincent now, right? Or Vince, perhaps? Vinny?—is still standing near the doorway, cigarette clenched between his teeth. It looks painful. Gabriel finishes his gin and tonic. Vincent looks around the bar, seemingly searching for someone. Gabriel knows he’s looking for Mr. Dupré, but he’s not here tonight and they didn’t arrive together like they sometimes do. Maybe he’s busy, and Vincent is looking for some other company. Maybe they’ve been fighting? Gabriel isn’t entirely sure what the entire nature of their…relationship is, but Mr. Dupré kind of terrifies him, honestly. He has a smile that’s all pearly white teeth and reminds Gabriel sometimes of the way the gators look when they’re resting just beneath the surface of the water, eyes barely breaking the surface. Waiting to drag unsuspecting prey down to the depths.
So, no. Gabriel’s not that sad that Mr. Dupré isn’t there. In fact, this is perfect.
Vincent sits down at his usual spot on the couch in the corner, crossing his legs.
Now’s his chance. Gabriel jogs up to Vinny—no, it really has to be Vincent doesn’t it—and tries not to look too eager. Although Vincent’s definitely one of them, he always seems to be not quite comfortable whenever he’s in the bar, when Mr. Dupré and he are doing whatever it is they do which kind of looks like they don’t like each other but can’t get enough of each other at the same time. Vincent looks slightly nauseous, hands clenched into fists against his side and spine stiff. Gabriel hopes he isn’t unwell. If he’s unwell maybe he should go home? Ah well, Vincent is older than him and he’s also a grown man. He can make his own decisions! And besides, Gabriel is really happy to see him tonight. They’ve been growing so close recently, closer than Gabriel could ever have dreamed of. He won’t waste any opportunity to spend some time with him, hopefully find out more about him. Vincent can be so silent sometimes, about his life outside of work. It’s kind of odd. Sometimes he’s so giddy and frantic, other times he just seems… kind of dead.
“Hi, Mr. Whittman!” Gabriel exclaims. Vincent smiles. Pats the space next to him, and Gabriel tries to ignore the thump thump thump of his heart. His palms feel slightly sweaty. He wants to get another drink to occupy his hands. He perches himself on the couch instead, gazing up at Vincent, who still kind of looks vaguely nauseous for some reason, smile thin. Gabriel waits patiently. It took him a long time to understand and accept himself as well. Vincent seems to still have trouble with it. Is he religious? Gabriel has never seen Vincent at mass. Maybe he isn’t even Catholic; he could be one of those protestants who are even more rigid and upright about things like this. Like being a fairy.
Gabriel had had trouble with it at first, too. When he’d first seen boys at his school strip down to change for their sports classes and he’d noticed the lines of their pectorals, the width of their arms. He’d tried to ignore it at first, the mantra of wrong wrong wrong and what would dad say what would dad think what would dad do cycling endlessly in his head, over and over. He’d sat in mass; he’d prayed silently about it. He’d been far too scared to confess it. Thought if he just ignored it hard enough, it would go away. When he’d started growing the tiniest amount of fine scruff on his cheeks his dad had laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder and told him that it wouldn’t be long before a whole line of girls were queued up down the block, waiting to see him. Gabriel could only reply, of course, dad! Smiled his big, gap toothed smile, the one that makes him feel self-conscious and sad and happy all at once. His dad’s smile. Everytime he looks in the mirror he can see his dad’s face, growing more and more uncannily similar with each passing year.
Good, Gabriel thinks. I’ll wear this face proudly. You have a fairy for a son and I’m proud of it.
He’s not ashamed of being who he is.
And then his dad died. In the studio too, with a suicide note that the police hadn’t even wanted to share with him and momma at first. Gabriel hadn’t understood it, still didn’t, but he resolved then and there that he wouldn’t waste such a marvellous opportunity, now that the old man was gone. So he’d expressed his wish to Robert and it had been remarkably easy, actually, to open a few doors. Everyone wanted Michael Anderson’s son in the studio, to continue his legacy.
And then he met Vincent. That had been the real driving goal, Gabriel could admit to himself. Oh, he’d seen Vincent before, of course. It was impossible not to, the way he shone on the television screen and smiled that smile and spoke so rapid fire in his quick, Northern accent that sometimes your ears couldn’t quite process all the words, so different from the rest of the folks down South. Like he always had so much to say and not enough time to say it all.
Gabriel had loved him from the beginning. Well. Maybe love was too strong a word. He’d barely scratched the surface of living and hopefully he’d have many more years to find a handsome, slightly roguish gentleman to take him out to bars and whisper in his ear and run his hands through Gabriel's Titian coloured hair. But he was definitely… infatuated with Vincent, and it had taken all of his strength not to trip over his own feet when he’d introduced himself, brought him that coffee and blurted out how much of an inspiration Vincent was.
So here they are. Together. In the bar. And this is good. Vincent may be a few years his senior in both age and work experience, but in this, maybe Gabriel could help him. Talking always helped Gabriel when his brain was moving a little too fast and the big ugly feeling of guilt was peering over the horizon. So he begins talking, about anything and everything, and Vincent is starting to look a little dreamy, as if he isn’t quite there. As if he’s being entranced just by the sound of Gabriel’s voice. Gabriel can feel himself get quite hot at the thought; he’s been practising his vocal delivery for ages, and the fact Mr. Whittman could listen to him speak and relax at the sound of his voice is making him feel some kind of way. He gets up to get another drink to cool himself down, keeps on drinking. Makes sure to mention to Vincent that it’s his birthday soon, just so Vincent knows how old he is turning. He won’t be too young, he’s perfectly old enough.
Then the drink starts to really hit, and Gabriel starts thinking about his dad again, and can’t help the bitterness entering his voice. Momma had said she’d throw him a party this year, hadn’t she? But it’s going to be about dad again, Gabriel knows it, and–
Vincent surprises him then, asking if he misses his dad. Gabriel replies honestly. No. No he doesn’t.
Vincent blows cigarette smoke into his face. Gabriel squints his eyes shut and tries not to breathe it all in. He doesn’t really like it, but it’s Vincent. He can put up with it for him. Vincent clearly likes smoking, him and Mr. Dupré smoke like chimneys all the time at work.
“Going anywhere after this?” Vincent suddenly asks, and Gabriel feels the entire bottom of his stomach dropping out. Is he drunk? Drunk and imagining things? Had Vincent just asked him that?
Vincent is smiling, a lazy, really sexy kind of smile that’s making Gabriel’s brain liquefy into mush. God, he hopes he doesn’t look as dopey as he feels. Vincent’s teeth are imperfect. My teeth are imperfect too, Gabriel thinks. We can be imperfect together.
“N-no. Nowhere!” he replies, trying to keep his voice steady. He grabs a handful of his trouser leg in his clenched fist and digs his short, clipped nails into his thigh. Act calm. Act calm. Maybe he’s just being friendly.
“You know, we’ve been spending a lot of time together recently, Gabriel. And now you’re the brightest, hottest thing this side of New Orleans,” oh god Vincent called him hot that was what he meant, right? “Makes me think that… maybe we could get to know each other even better. What do you think, Gabriel? Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”
Is this real? Gabriel thinks. He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out for a few agonising seconds. Then he manages to blurt out, “what about Mr. Dupré?” He mentally slaps himself in the face. Idiot! Why bring him up?
Vincent seems to stop for a good long while, as if trapped in heavy molasses, and Gabriel wonders for a horrible moment if maybe Vincent is trying to cheat on his beau with him. Would he be okay with that? Was he that kind of man?
Then Vincent blinks, and the easy grin is back. “You don’t have to worry about him.”
I’m the rebound then, Gabriel realizes.
Was he okay with that?
He looks down at his lap for a moment, then looks back up at Vincent, who is now leaning casually back against the couch, one leg crossed over his knee, blowing out more cigarette smoke. He looks like everything Gabriel had ever dreamt about. His mismatched eyes bore into Gabriel. It was far, far better than the television screen could capture. Gabriel had studied those eyes so intently, watched in rapture, thought about them when he gave in to the temptation and touched himself late at night.
“Okay,” Gabriel says. Vincent closes his eyes, exhales heavily. Then he stubs out the butt of his cigarette and rises to his feet. Stands there for a while, as if debating something. Then begins ambling over to the door to the bathroom. Turns to look back when he sees that Gabriel isn’t following.
“Are you coming?” he asks. Gabriel frowns. He had thought they were leaving. Going to go somewhere.
“I thought you were going to–oh. O-okay then.”
Gabriel pushes down the sudden rush of disappointment. He was such an idiot. What did he expect? Vincent would put him in the passenger seat of his car, drive him to his house, carry him over the threshold? Lay him down on a four poster bed covered in rose petals? Make love to him there?
He picks his way over to the bathroom door, which Vincent is now holding open for him, and slinks inside, feeling a bit dirty. He tries to ignore it. So it isn’t going to be perfect. He can deal with it. This is Vincent Whittman.
Vincent makes his way over to one of the stalls, pushes it open. Turns to face Gabriel, who realizes he’s holding his hands up in front of him like a choir boy at mass. Drops them down to his sides. Vincent begins pulling at his shirt. Gabriel moves to stop him.
“I–I can do that, Vincent,” he says softly. Vincent pulls a strange face then, at the sound of his name. Okay. Maybe he doesn’t like that? Gabriel tries again. “Uh, d-do you not like me using your name? Would you prefer Mr. Whittman?”
“I’d prefer it if you stopped talking,” Vincent replies, and Gabriel shuts his mouth. Definitely Repressed. Well, Gabriel can work with that. Next time perhaps he’d come out of his shell more.
Slowly, he slides to his knees, wincing a little at the feeling of the cold tile seeping in through his pant leg. Moves his hands to Vincent’s belt buckle, and begins working the leather. He hazards a glance upwards as he works. Vincent’s face looks very uncomfortable. It kind of looks like he’s trying to pass a kidney stone. Is he that hard already? Is it painful? Somehow, Gabriel isn’t sure. Vincent doesn’t look hard, but maybe he’s small? Is he going to be underwhelming? Gabriel was starting to feel the regret seeping into the back of his mind.
Never leave a job half completed, baby, he hears in his momma’s voice, and finishes working Vincent’s belt out from the loops. He reaches up towards the buttons on his slacks, but Vincent’s warm hands instantly grab his and moves them back.
“It’s…it’s fine. Let me do that.”
Gabriel’s about to lean back on his haunches and tell Vincent that it’s okay, really, if Vincent isn’t having a good day and can’t perform, if he’s sick he can just go home, Gabriel can help him and they can try this another time, when the door to the men’s bathroom opens.
Both of them freeze. From behind his head, Gabriel hears a soft chuckle.
“So. This is where you’ve gotten to, hmm?” comes the unmistakably smug voice of Alastor Dupré. Gabriel looks up in horror at Vincent, who isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at where Mr. Dupré must be standing in the doorway. Gabriel tries to look too, but Vincent’s sudden fist in his hair, tight enough to hurt, keeps him from turning his head. He pushes Gabriel’s face into his crotch, and…oh. Okay. Now Vincent is getting hard underneath his boxers, Gabriel can see.
With his face pressed into a rapidly hardening dick, there’s not much Gabriel can do except mouths at Vincent’s erection through the thin fabric. Vincent exhales shakily, free hand moving to grab onto the top of the stall door. Gabriel hears Mr. Dupré shut the bathroom door, crossing over the tile to stand…somewhere. Gabriel isn’t sure exactly where he is. He doesn’t really like that. He’d had… encounters before, with more than one other person, but everyone involved had been on board with it all. This is… not that, really.
“Don’t mind me,” the silken voice carries over the air, articulation clipped and perfect. “This is all so very…fascinating. Carry on.”
You don’t deserve him, Gabriel thinks, a hot, sudden rush of possessive want burning through him. I don’t want you here. I heard you pushed him down the stairs and you treat him awfully at the bar sometimes and there’s something not quite right about you, I don’t know what Vincent sees in you–
Vincent’s hand moves from the back of Gabriel’s head to push down his boxers with his free hand, exposing himself to the cold air. He’s still only half hard, but it won’t take him long and Gabriel’s no amateur. He relaxes as best he can, manoeuvres his head so that Vincent’s length can slide easier down his throat, hollows his cheeks and begins to suck. Idly, he wonders what on earth he’s doing. Dupré is right there.
So is Vincent, his brain chimes in. Focus on him. Show him how good you can be.
It’s not long before Vincent is panting steadily, fully erect, bent over slightly from the intensity, thighs shaking. Gabriel lets his eyes flick up to look at Vincent, who has screwed his eyes shut. Presumably Mr. Dupré is still standing in the corner somewhere, watching them. Gabriel begins sucking harder, feeling a little vicious about it, and finally, finally, Vincent groans, overly loud in the silence.
“Good, is he?” Dupré calls. Gabriel hears the schnick of a lighter sparking, smells the aroma of smoke filling the air. He lifts his hands and grabs two handfuls of Vincent’s firm, strong thighs. Bobs his head back and forth performatively. He can forget Dupré was here. Maybe Vincent can too. He can tune him out. It’s just him and Vincent, alone in this bathroom. Vincent wants him, and only him, and Gabriel would get down on his knees every night, if Vincent wanted him to, and swallow him down whole, and once he was done Vincent would pull him up to eye level, and maybe he’d even kiss him, and then he’d shove Gabriel back down to the floor and push his feet up past his ankles and he’d finally give Gabriel what Gabriel had been dreaming about for years.
Gabriel hears the steady tap tap tap of shoes against the tile as Dupré moves closer. He shifts his body slightly, trying to block Vincent from view in the stall. You don’t get to look at him. You don’t treat him right.
Dupré’s voice, from right above him. “Hm. Not very imaginative, pup. Really, we can do better than that.”
Pup?
Vincent draws in a ragged breath. Finally speaks. “Wh…what do you want me to do? Tell me what to do.”
Gabriel slowly begins to pull himself off Vincent’s cock. Vincent tries to push him back in again, but Gabriel feels another hand, Dupré’s hand, easing Vincent’s fingers off his tangled hair. God, his coif must be ruined.
“Always so overeager and sloppy,” Dupré is tutting softly. “Always taking exactly what you want with no refinement. No finesse.” He’s pulling at Gabriel’s shoulders now, lifting him to his feet with just the tips of his fingers. Gabriel can feel the warmth of Dupré’s body radiating against his back, close but not quite touching him. He can smell the smoke on his breath from over his shoulder.
Vincent is staring past Gabriel at Dupré, as if he is having a moment. It’s a curious expression, a mix of longing and almost loathing at the same time. Dupré laughs. His voice is warm and rich and unwelcome.
“Why don’t you put that silly little mouth of yours to better use somewhere else, my dear? After all, you’ve grown so good at it. You should show Gabriel what you have to offer. Don’t be cruel.”
“Alastor,” Vincent breathes, so softly Gabriel can barely hear him. “I…”
“Down you go, pup,” Dupré says cheerfully. He grabs Gabriel’s outer elbow with the pads of his fingers and directs his arm like a marionette, lifting Gabriel’s arm delicately so that he is resting his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. Then he begins using the weight of Gabriel’s arm to push Vincent down on his knees. “I much prefer this configuration.”
A cloud of smoke wafts in around them from Dupré’s exhale as Vincent shuffles on the floor, no protest in his mouth. He reaches up slowly to fiddle with the buttons on Gabriel’s trousers. Gabriel lets him. He doesn’t really know how to feel or what is happening, but he realizes with a start that he’s completely boxed in: Alastor Dupré at his back, Vincent Whittman at his front.
Vincent pulls down Gabriel’s briefs in one smooth motion, fingernails scraping against Gabriel’s thigh, and sets to work. He’s good. He’s really good, actually, Gabriel realizes, with a sickening jolt. He’s good because this is what he does with him.
He swallows down the faint nausea stirring low in his belly. It’s becoming almost impossible to ignore Dupré’s presence, right behind him, where Gabriel can’t see him at all. And then, right in his ear:
“He took a lot of training to get right, you know. Oh, at first he was fairly useless! Quite depraved. But now look at him. Thing of your dreams, isn’t he?”
Gabriel shudders as Vincent licks up a long stripe on the underside of his cock. “H-he… Vincent–”
“Focus on him, my dear Mr. Anderson. Or can I call you Gabriel? We’re getting to know each other so intimately, after all.”
Vincent is really sucking now, mouth wet and hot, drooling ever so slightly. God, how Gabriel had dreamt of this before, Vincent Whittman so open and ready for him. He just wishes they didn’t have an audience.
“Show our friend here that little trick you do with your tongue,” Alastor breathes, and Gabriel flinches as Vincent starts moving the tip of his tongue back and forth right on the slit. The sudden feeling is so intense Gabriel nearly falls backwards,, but Dupré’s strong arms are bracketing the door of the stall and he just falls back onto them instead. Dupré makes no move to catch him. Vincent hooks his elbows around the back of Gabriel’s knees, keeping him propped up as he continues the relentless assault. It’s too much, too fast, it’s starting to hurt from the intensity and Gabriel can feel his entire body shaking uncontrollably, Dupré’s laughter right in his ear, Gabriel wants him so badly to just shut up–
He comes abruptly, gasping out Vincent’s name. Almost immediately, Vincent is tucking him back into his pants efficiently, almost roughly, as if they’ve been caught and need to leave right away. Vincent’s much stronger body pushes him into the side of the bathroom stall as he gets up to his feet quickly. Gabriel’s elbow bangs against the brick wall. He feels as though he’s diseased somehow. Gabriel closes his eyes. Breathes out once. Twice. Three times. He hears their feet moving rapidly, taking them off somewhere unknown, and Vincent is saying things to Dupré, whispering things under his breath that Gabriel refuses to hear. Dupré is saying nothing.
Then, they’re gone, and Gabriel is alone. Damp and sticky and alone. He feels numb. It wasn't supposed to have been like this, everything feels weird and wrong and bad and Vincent was… well. He wasn’t anything like Gabriel had dreamed of. He’s been warped somehow, Gabriel knows it. Warped by Alastor Dupré. There’s something truly wrong about that man, the way he seems to have Vincent under his thumb, the way he saunters into places that don’t include him, takes over and plays with people for his amusement.
He can fix this. After the birthday. Oh God, he’d invited Vincent to come hadn’t he, that was going to be so awkward. Ugh. Breathe, Gabriel, he thinks. He’d get through it, and then he’d begin his plan to split them apart. It will be fine. It would all be fine.