gala_apples (gala_apples) wrote,
gala_apples
gala_apples

Title: One Day Ghosts Will Perv
Fandoms: Bandom/American Horror Story
Pairing: Alex and Pete mutual masturbation
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3220
Summary: Cobra's second CD was conceived mostly on their tour bus, the third made in a cabin in Pennsylvania, their fourth in a shitty basement, and now their fifth will be in a supposedly haunted house in LA.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.


They all arrive at approximately the same time, parking in file on the massive driveway. It’s LA, nobody carpools in LA. Getting his suitcase out of his trunk puts Alex beside Nate, who has all his stuff balanced precariously on the passenger seat. Alex could help him carry his stuff to the front door, but he won’t. It’s more fun to watch him suffer.

Victoria is last to the cluster under the grand awning. Gizmo is just not interested in getting out of the car, and Victoria's coaxing devolves into picking him up and carrying him. Alex can’t blame Gizmo. For all that the house is beautiful, a masterpiece of architecture -it has a turret, for fucksakes- Alex doesn’t want to go inside. He’s done his research. No sane person would want to go inside. Hell, even the tour groups only coast on by on the street.

“I’d like to officially register that I have a bad feeling about this.”

Ryland smirks. “Would you like that transcribed and initialled by a court typist too?”

Alex flips him off. It’s fine for Ryland to be snarky, he doesn’t believe in ghosts. Alex, on the other hand, does believe. It would be silly not to, in his opinion. A lot of people are miserable in life. Dying isn’t going to suddenly cheer them up. A miserable person is a lingering person.

“I actually agree with Alex. I mean look at what happened to Mikeyway.”

Nate rolls his eyes. “Your ex boyfriend-”

“We were never officially dating,” Gabe interrupts.

Alex has heard Gabe say that a hundred times. The quality and quantity of intoxicants change the details of who didn’t want to come out and who broke it off, but the phrase never officially dating always comes in somewhere. Alex would feel bad for him, except if Gabe was still with Mikey he wouldn’t be with Erin, and they all love Erin. Erin’s good for him. Granted, Alex wasn’t really around to see Gabe and Mikey not-dating to see Gabe’s behaviour, for fair judgement. But it's fact that Erin has calmed him in the important ways without stifling him.

“Fine. Mikey your not boyfriend was not driven mad by poltergeists. He’s bipolar. As crazy as Pete, and before you interrupt me again, I mean that in a good way.” Nate rushes the end of his sentence so Gabe doesn’t break in. “But crazy. It wasn’t-”

“The whole band saw shit, Nate. Fuckin’ Bob’s bathtub kept filling. Does Bob Bryar seem like the kind of guy that would bullshit?”

“Whether this place is haunted or not, we’re writing a cd here. It has to be better than the dank hole we did the last one in. Who wants to ceremoniously open the door?” Ryland brandishes his key and when no one else takes out theirs and shoves him away, he unlocks it.

“We’re not actually getting straight to work, are we? Because that would be lame.”

“There’s a bottle of Jack in my trunk. Lemme go get it, you guys find the living room or kitchen or whereever we’ll be hanging out.” There’s no question that kitchens are important to Alex’s way of life, but not everyone wants to drink against white subway tile.

*

Alex locks his door before he goes to sleep. The last thing he needs is a prank, but it’s probably the first thing he should expect. The Cobra Cam cabin got sort of insane. Alex doesn’t want to say he’s too old for this shit, but he’s kind of nearing too old for this shit. At least this week. By next week, when they’re in the middle of a song, he’ll probably welcome a chance to fuck around.

He’s pleased to open his eyes in the morning to no shaving cream, no paint, and no reprogrammed alarm clock functions. He has to piss like a horse, but that’s going to have to wait a minute. Alex’s daily regime since puberty has been orgasm last thing at night and orgasm first thing in the morning. If men weren’t meant to enjoy morning wood they wouldn’t get it. He sticks his hand down his boxers and goes to business, eyes closing and mouth opening as he gets into it. It’s probably a stupid orgasm face, but since he and Nate are the only ones in the poll that wouldn’t fuck their clones, he never has to worry about seeing it.

Alex is wiping his sticky hand against the inside hem of his boxers when he hears applause. It doesn’t surprise him much to think that one of his friends has broken into his room to mock him jerking off. You can only ride on a bus so long before all habits become subject for inside jokes, even the stuff that would normally be private. He opens his eyes only when he’s got a good retort, which dies immediately on his tongue. It’s not Gabe or Nate or Ryland or Victoria. The claps belong to a blond man, a man Alex has never seen before.

“Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck out!”

The blond shrugs. “Caught the whole show anyway.” And then he walks through the doorway. Without opening the door.

Alex rushes over to the door and pokes it. It’s still solid wood.

“This house is haunted by a perv ghost.” That’s just fucking great.

*

“The fuck was that?”

Alex uses his finger as a temporary bookmark and looks up. Gabe has moved from his coveted arm chair seat and is staring out the window. “What, did you hear the ice cream truck?”

“It’s like ten o clock, there’s no way there’d be an ice cream truck.”

“I didn’t hear anything. I thought I saw someone on the lawn.”

It’s not much later when Alex goes to bed. Playing new songs to an audience is always a rejuvenation for him. When he’s on stage Alex knows he’s going to be playing music until the day he dies. Maybe not electro-pop. In his old age he might turn to blues, the kind of stuff that’s supposed to be played on a rocking chair with eyes squinted against the sunset and a beard long enough to reach the frets. But something. He knows he’ll be playing something. However, to get to the point of performance and appreciation requires creating. Creating is completely exhausting, and enough to get him in bed before midnight.

Alex only has his hand down his boxers for a second when the blond shows up. Alex looks at him with a narrowed gaze. Some rock salt and a gun would be great. He crosses his arms firmly over his bare chest. “Go. Away.”

The blond hisses “I’ve had it up to here with cowardly lovers.”

With that, he disappears. In case he’s only half dissipated and can actually still hear what’s going on, Alex replies “I’m not your lover.”

He tries to close his eyes and go to sleep, but he can’t. His encounter has left him wide awake. In any other situation, Alex would probably be freaked out. Getting cockblocked by a ghost isn’t terrifying, it’s annoying. Luckily Ryland reacts to creating music in pretty much the opposite way that Alex does. It helped, when they were still rocking in Ivy League. He wanders down the hall, sure Ryland is still awake. Ryland answers the knock, and lets him in without explanation. Which is nice. Alex has really no interest whatsoever in explaining out of all the families and individuals that were murdered in this mansion, the one that’s made contact with him is a man that likes watching other men get off.

They spend the next few hours watching 90’s cartoons on Youtube. They’re shitty quality uploads but that always makes Darkwing Duck and Rocko’s Modern Life better. Heffer is not meant to be watched in HD. They don’t even have to go down to the kitchen, Ryland has a half a two liter of cream soda beside his bed, and a bag of dill pickle chips.

Alex’s mellow mood lasts until the moment he leaves Ryland’s room. There’s a stranger leaving the room Gabe called earlier in the week, another man. Alex thinks for a second he’s another ghost, like maybe at some point this place was for a rehab for peeping toms until an orderly gunned everyone down. So much other weird semi-medical shit has happened here that Alex wouldn’t be surprised. Then the brunet shoves past him, so hard Alex staggers a step. Even toddlers know ghosts are often transparent, but never solid. Unfortunately, the idea of a random sexy man leaving Gabe’s bedroom late at night isn’t much better than a plague of ghosts. There’s just as much potential for things to get fucked up.

*

“Which one of you assholes was listening to experimental music in the middle of the night?”

“Uh, that’s your job, Ry. You get the indie cred we never could.”

Ryland shakes his head. “It wasn’t me, it was one of you. Victoria, were you listening to metal? Like Manson’s Holywood style, with babies crying? I definitely heard oddly rhythmic baby crying.”

“No? I mean, not that I know of? But I probably left Pandora on, and anything can come up on that.”

*

Gabe storms into the kitchen while the rest of them are still eating. It’s a rare thing, seeing him want breakfast. No one even bothered to wash the frying pan after it was done being used for a heap of scrambled eggs.

“Morn-”

Gabe cuts Victoria off. “I am about three seconds away from tweeting ‘cold come is disgusting’!”

Alex’s not stupid, he knows that would be bad. He still viciously enjoys the wide eyes and flared nostrils look Nate is sporting, and keeps quiet when he stammers out, “don’t do that. Why would you do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because someone is jerking off on me while I’m sleeping?”

Ryland starts coughing, the orange juice pulp going the wrong way down his throat. Alex can only pray he’ll stop soon. If he coughs long enough that he gets a sore throat he’s going to blame the pulpy juice for being a choking hazard, and Alex will have to defend his choice to the death yet again. Fuck strained juice.

“Excuse me?”

“Someone better fess up, or I’m tweeting it, and then it’s group sex rumours all over again.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “Nice bluff.”

“Oh, you think I wouldn’t?” Gabe holds up his phone with a sort of angry triumph. “Only one finger needs to hit tweet and there’s porn fic by midnight.”

Maybe Alex’s blood sugar is low, or maybe he just isn’t in the mood for shouting. Whatever the reason, he finds himself saying “it was your boyfriend, dumbass!”

“Boyfriend?”

“Dude-mistress. Whatever you call it. I’ve seen him leave. Did you ask him where he left his come before you blame us?” Alex was going to keep his secret, but being blamed for it is total bullshit.

“Cheating’s not cool Gabe.”

“I didn’t cheat.”

“I hope Erin kicks your ass. Kristin would totally kick my ass,” Ryland says. The words sound hoarse from the minute of coughing.

“I didn’t cheat!”

“Unless you have some sort of same sex isn’t cheating clause?”

“That is cheating, and I didn’t cheat.”

“So he was what? Helping you with your taxes?”

In the end Gabe does what he always does when he’s having a problem. He gets messed up, then calls Pete. Alex doesn’t stick around for it. As soon as he sees Gabe pull a bottle from the wine rack he leaves the kitchen. They’re obviously not going to get anything done today.

It’s only just barely a surprise when someone knocks on the front door a few hours later. Alex knows before Nate gets up to answer it that it’ll be Pete. The next door neighbour’s house is empty, and the rest of the street ignores them like they’re not there. It’s probably a survival mechanism. Pete’s the only person that would come visit.

They congregate in the living room, Pete claiming the armchair of honour. Gabe sits at his feet, long legs stretched out on the dark wood, head tilted back to rest on Pete’s knee. It can’t be comfortable for him, but it’s the way Pete and Gabe work.

“I’m not Dan Aykroyd or Bill Murray, but from what Gabe’s told me, I bet you wish I was.”

Alex sighs. “Look, I’m not saying there aren’t ghosts here. Me and Ryland have both seen shit, and I’m pretty sure Gabe keeps seeing a murder timeloop in the front yard. I’m definitely not saying I want to stay here, because I don’t. But you came because Gabe told you a ghost molested him, and that’s bullshit.”

Pete pulls a folded paper from his pocket. He passes it to Alex, saying “I think this might have something to do with it?”

The paper is a news article printed out on dingy yellowed printer paper. The picture right of centre is his bedroom ghost and Gabe’s late night visitor standing side by side like best friends. Alex can’t help but be grossed out by the details of the report. Murder-suicide is bad, but it's almost on the normal end of psychotic break ups, and according to the quoted friend they were having issues. The object insertion is what seems like it’s crossing the line. “That guy bumped into me on his way out of Gabe’s room. What the fuck? Ghosts don’t have bodies!”

“You bumped into him and you didn’t tell me?”

Oh no. This is not Alex’s fault. “I thought he was a downlow hook up! You know, like you and Travis have!”

“Me and Travis don’t have anything. There’s nothing to talk about for me and Travis.” Alex doesn’t reply. Gabe’s pretty much made his silent hookup case for him.

“Okay, ignoring whether or not a ghost has come or just smeared ectoplasm all over Gabe for a minute, this happen to anyone else? How many of you have seen something fucked up?”

All of them apart from Nate raise their hands. Alex is surprised to see Victoria’s hand up. She’s always said she doesn’t believe or disbelieve, only needs proof one way or the other. If she’s seen something, why hasn’t she talked about it?

Victoria obviously catches his look. She explains “it was a little baby goth. She was nice, we talked about The Cure. Apparently her body’s still in the basement. Her whole family died here, apparently it was this whole thing. She seemed really lonely, no one’s her age. I figured it couldn’t hurt to hang out a bit.”

“Okay. Wow. Damn. Anyone else want to share details? Anyone done anything to call them out?”

Ryland snorts. “Why would we try and bait ghosts?”

“Because they’re interesting? Because Victoria talked to hers and they became friends, and Gabe hasn’t talked to his, and his is being a giant creeper?”

“Well. It’s not baiting, I’ve just noticed every time I try to jerk off the blond man from that article is watching.”

“Unless we wanna have a circle jerk I-”

Ryland snorts even more emphatically. “I am not calling a ghost.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that’s why you declined.”

“Plan circle jerks later, Saporta. For now at least one of us needs to go call a ghost and see what it wants, if we can help it.”

It sounds remotely plausible to Alex. Following the basic miserable alive people make miserable dead people stance, it makes sense that causing the miserable dead person to chill out might make them fuck off. Ascend to heaven, or whatever. And since the blond guy -Patrick, the article said- only tried to watch him, maybe he’s got a bassist fetish or something. He stands to go upstairs and nearly bursts into laughter at his previous thought when Pete follows him.

It’s hardly the first time Alex has jerked off in the presence of another guy. He lives in a bus for weeks at a time, and before that he had a college roommate. It is quite likely it’s the first time the other guy has been so focused on him doing it. In the past he’s either been completely ignored, or mocked for the routine of his need. Pete’s doing neither. Pete’s standing a bit closer than he needs to as he’s touching himself, and he’s also staring. It pretty much tilts the scale from mutual masturbation to actual sex. Alex isn’t overly upset about it, even if he isn’t into it. Pete’s just Pete.

“A show? For me? You shouldn’t have!”

“Holy crap!” For all that Pete talked a big game, the shocked look makes Alex think a lot of that was to support Gabe, and not because he actually believed. He obviously believes now, with the blond in front of him. “Can I ask you why you’re haunting?”

“You specifically? Because I’m stuck here until the end of time with my ex. This is variety. Here in general? This house is evil and everyone that stays here dies. There are about twenty total, I’m surprised I’m the only one hitting you up. Hayden is a crazy bitch, she’d ride you and slit your throat as she did it.”

Alex is really glad all of a sudden it’s Patrick trying to watch him each night, not Hayden, whoever she is. Alex likes his blood inside his body, thanks.

“Well come on now. You started, might as well finish.”

Alex isn’t sure how he feels about that. He’s been stopping each night and morning as soon as the blond showed up. He’s got an insane set of blue balls, and he feels bad for a guy that has be forever celibate because he died with his ex.

Pete’s not nearly as conflicted as Alex is. His hand moves back to his cock, and angles so the ghost can get a better sight line. Pete gets in two strokes before the door crashes open. Nate and Victoria come pouring in, and Alex pulls his jeans back up. Just because they’ve seen it all before doesn’t mean he’s a nudist.

“I’m not staying here another night! Fuck that.” Nate is wild eyed, body flushed. Apparently when skeptics turn, they turn hard.

“What happened?”

“Me and Vic went downstairs to see if we could find her girl’s body. There was this family, a mom and two little girls. On fire. Like, actively.”

“Fuck. Pete, wrap it up or tuck it in, we need to talk downstairs.” If even Nate’s ready to go, it shouldn’t be that hard to convince Ryland and Gabe.

“Yeah, not really. You’re right. Fuck this. My favourite band is not staying in a place where ‘everyone dies’ and there are people constantly on fire.”

As Alex races around his room cramming everything he cares about in his suitcase, and Nate and Victoria go to do the same in their own rooms, he can’t help but appreciate Pete. Not all managers would be willing to lose a rental deposit that big. From what he’s heard, everyone but Mikey finished Black Parade at the Paramour. Pete is a good man, and if there’s something a little ironic in the fact that he’s relearned this lesson from a man named Patrick, well, Alex’ll never say that out loud.



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