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Victoria has always been more sophisticated than this industry, has always understood that class can't be bought and that there is no glamour in the extravagance of open bars and ice sculptures. Still, she's a miracle of a host, managing raging parties full of barely adults and people who can't act their age while maintaining impeccable security.
But no security in the world can keep vultures out of an album release party. He approaches Peter Hale slowly as to not make him aware of his presence until he comes up beside him.
"Crashing parties you weren't invited to, Hale? Aren't you a little above that now?"
Peter doesn’t even look at him, keeps his eyes out on the dance floor, brings his drink to his mouth and takes a slow sip. “I’ll have you know that I was invited, Christopher. Our lovely guest of honor”—a girl with the most stunning vocal range and song-writing abilities to boot, whose album is the one they’re celebrating—“has had the pleasure of working with one of Depencia’s writers. He was invited, and he invited me.” Now he does look to Chris, one eyebrow perfectly arched. “As his date.”
Chris snorts. “How does a Depencia writer even know you exist, given that you’re sitting in a basement office, surrounded by files and legal textbooks?”
“I have an office on the 32nd floor, I’ll have you know, Christopher. And, really, you shouldn’t resort to such cheap tactics just to find out who I’m screwing.” He points, over to a tall, Middle-Eastern-looking man with black hair and bright eyes. He’s well-built, obviously handsome, and young.
“That boy can’t be more than twenty-three.”
Peter hums. “Twenty-two.”
“Honestly, Hale. He’s ten years younger than you—”
“Fourteen years actually,” Peter says proudly. “Fun, right? I thought it was a little strange at first, but he was insistent. I guess I’m aging like a fine wine. Wouldn’t you say so, Christopher?”
"He's a child," Chris insists, "but that isn't any of my business."
Peter smiles as he takes another sip of his drink. "You're right. It isn't."
Chris has other things to do, actual guests to mingle with, people that need to be talked up to this girl before she's written off as a one-hit wonder. Still.
"Your nephew's age, isn't he?"
Peter actually laughs at that. "Four years older than my daughter."
Chris raises an eyebrow. He has known Peter for entirely too long and yet he had never know about that particular fact. Peter gives a one sided shrug and takes a deeper swig of his drink.
"It's a new development."
“How new can it be if she’s eighteen?” Chris asks.
“A couple of months,” he says gruffly, “given that I had no idea she existed until she showed up on my doorstep. Speaking of daughters, where is lovely Allison?”
“Studying. She’s taking sound engineering classes at Citrus.”
“Amazing,” Peter says, and he doesn’t even sound sarcastic. “The girl is all of seventeen. You must be proud.”
“She’s very passionate about becoming a producer.”
“And you’ll offer her the job when she’s through, I assume.”
Chris clenches his jaw. “What’s the point of owning a record label if you don’t hand out favors?”
“My question exactly.” Peter turns to him then, his whole body. It’s abrasive, the sudden movement, and it shouldn’t be a thing, but there has always been something about Peter that makes Chris wary. “Where is that lovely wife of yours, Christopher? I do believe I owe her a hello for the lovely party she’s put together.”
"Actively avoiding you, I'm sure," Chris says. “She tries to keep away from the lower elements in this kind of gathering."
That only makes Peter smile like he's heard exactly what he wants. "And you don't have half her sense, Christopher. What a shame."
Chris scowls. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Me neither. I guess, deep down, you must like me.” Peter shrugs, still grinning. “Don’t worry, Christopher. It happens to the best of them. You and my date can talk all about it, if you’d like.” He finishes off his drink, shoves the glass into Chris’ hand. “I’m gonna go join him. I’m sure you’ll know where to find me for the rest of the night if you should need the charm of my company again.”
He winks before he turns and heads towards his date, and Chris is so angry he could throw something. Instead, he makes off to find his wife and find solace in her company. At least when she’s around, he doesn’t have to deal with Peter Hale.
The next time Peter runs into Christopher Argent, they’re in a meeting. It’s very formal, Finstock and Argent at either side of the long table, their own people surrounding them. Peter, as one of Depencia’s lawyers, sits close to Finstock and far from Chris, only meeting his eyes once to throw him a wink.
Winking at the Christopher Argent is the only way Peter has found to make the man’s face turn red, most of which is embarrassment over anger, Peter knows.
Argent is very efficient, he always has been. He is impervious to provocation even when Peter tries his hardest. He negotiates like he could solve international dilemmas and he always—the bastard—ends up getting what he wants. It's extremely sexy.
He manages to corner Christopher after the meeting. It makes the man look so annoyed that Peter's entire day is made.
"That was a very well-struck deal," Peter says quietly. “Very effective."
"Well I am extremely good at my job, Hale," Argent says, trying to go for annoyance when mostly he sounds pleased.
"I know," Peter whispers. “Honestly, it makes me think of what else you'd be extremely good at. It's such a waste to this industry's cumulative sex life that you're so very devoted to your wife."
He expects Argent’s mouth to fall open, for him to look flustered, maybe even upset. Instead, the man just smirks. “It’s not a problem, Hale,” he says eventually. “You’re around with a new date every night. I’d say you more than make up for my absence.”
Peter feels his entire body flush hot, stomach twisting excitedly. Christopher Argent is flirting with him. Angry flirting, sure, but it’s flirting all the same, and Peter grins. “If you weren’t married, we could put our skills together. It might be the greatest thing the music industry ever produced.”
“Darn,” Christopher says, eyebrows high. “What a shame for you. I’ll be sure to light a candle in your honor before I make love to my beautiful wife tonight.” He shoves bodily past Peter then, leaving him in the empty conference room with a half-hard dick and a pounding heart.
It’s no secret in the industry that Christopher Argent loves his wife. They’ve been married for almost twenty years. Their chemistry is palpable when they’re together. Peter has no doubt in his mind that when Chris gets her into bed, it’s fucking magical. For one long moment, Peter wishes he had her life.
Victoria Argent dies on a rainy Sunday. A truck slams into her car, skidding across the wet road, and kills her on impact. And Peter doesn’t go into work on Monday.
"I sent flowers to Allison Argent today," Derek says over his cup of coffee. “That was your job."
"You're a big boy," Peter says, avoiding his eyes and keeping his own gaze on the newspaper. He still likes the habit of solid paper in his hands.
"He's your friend and his wife is dead."
"Christopher Argent is not my friend," Peter snaps, "and what happened to Victoria is horrible. She was an exemplary woman, but I have no business giving my sympathies to someone I barely tolerate. That's hypocrisy, Derek."
"Chris had the good grace to show us hypocrisy after the fire," Derek reminds him, "even though I put his sister in jail."
“That wasn’t for me,” Peter grumbles. “It was for you, and you know it. For you and Laura.”
Derek is quiet. He always is when Peter mentions her. She’s been gone less than a year, and Derek is still sensitive to it, like a sunburn that hasn’t quite starting peeling.
“Still,” Derek says. “You need to do something. Even if you aren’t friends, showing that you care the slightest bit would make some kind of difference. We’re going to the memorial on Wednesday.”
“Fuck off, we are not.”
“We are,” Derek insists, “because she was Allison’s mother, and even you aren’t heartless enough to feel nothing when a seventeen-year-old girl loses her mom.”
Peter does not want to be at this memorial. He especially doesn't want to be here with his troupe of misfits, conspicuous and large. They're all in proper mourning clothes and even Malia—harsh and with a lack of grace and subtlety Peter is sure she's inherited from whomever her mother is—even she seems subdued and sad for a person she didn't know. But Peter did know her. Peter knew Victoria's sharp gaze, her brilliant strategic mind that practically ran the Argent empire, and he knew that she knew how much he had lusted after her husband. Victoria was the kind of woman by whom nothing got past, she knew everyone's darkest thoughts and held them with grace. And now she’s dead.
He’s quiet throughout all of it. He’s quiet, patient, and when it’s over, he stands to leave.
“No,” Derek says, grabbing his elbow. “We have to say hello. You have to shake his hand. You have to express your sympathies to his daughter. It’s what you do.”
Peter loosens his tie, feeling his throat closing up. “You go right ahead.”
“Peter—”
Peter rolls his shoulders, looks towards where people are lining up to speak to Christopher and Allison. It’s the first time he’s seen Chris since the conference room. He looks like he hasn’t slept. He looks distraught, absolutely ruined. And Peter aches in a way he hasn’t since his sister died.
He knows he should. He knows he should let Chris know he’s there, but—
Chris looks at him, eyes scanning the crowd. Their eyes meet, Chris’ mouth falls open, and Peter runs.
For months, Peter delegates anything involving Argent Studios to someone else. He’s been promoted anyway, made the head of the team, and so it’s expected for him to hand things over. Victoria died in October, and it’s February before Peter even sees Chris, let alone speaks to him.
He spies him across a restaurant, grabs his date and gets the hell out. In March, Finstock asks him personally to accompany him to a meeting with Argent and a couple of other record labels. He can’t say no. So they sit at the same table. Peter doesn’t look at him. They don’t speak.
April brings Allison dating some boy who goes to UCLA. Peter sees them by accident, in the parking lot of the Einstein’s he gets his morning bagel from. They’re making out in the front seat of her car, the boy with black, shaggy hair and a big smile. Peter wants to scold them, a fatherly instinct he’s never quite possessed, swelling inside of him like a wave. He runs again.
Nothing happens in May. It’s a nice change.
In June, Derek picks up one of his many guitars.
With July comes an album party, one that Peter gets three different invitations two. The first is because the album is being launched through Depencia and he helped with the copywriting. The last two are from people wishing to be his date, both of whom are new hires in the engineering department. They’re both young and pretty and Peter has flirted with both of them on more than one occasion.
He brings Derek, spends the whole night dreading whether or not Chris is going to be there. Derek comes back to their sad, empty table with drinks, swallows half of his before he says, “Argent is by the bar. He wanted to know if you were here.”
Peter exhales. “Okay.”
“I told him you were otherwise occupied.”
"Good," Peter nods.
"He didn't seem to care though, he's coming this way," Derek says in a rush, slipping away and walking over to chat up a girl with a neck tattoo.
Peter gulps down some of his drink so by the time Christopher takes a seat beside him at Derek's abandoned place his head is swimming. He doesn't speak for a long moment, but when the silence breaks Peter wants to do nothing more than run away again.
"I really haven't figured out how you have taken my family's tragedy as some kind of personal offence," Argent says, "but it's been a good distraction for the past few months. Trying to figure it out."
“Christopher—”
“I know we’re not friends, Hale. But I didn’t think you would actually run away when things got hard.” He knocks on the table, sets down his drink. “Take care of yourself,” he says, and he’s gone before Peter can say anything at all.
It’s not unusual, running into each other. They see each other practically once a week in August, during some fuckup of contracts. In September, Peter is working nonstop, barely leaves the office. Then October rolls around and he’s struck with a heavy, aching guilt that he drowns in alcohol for a solid thirty days.
He hasn’t had a date in months, hasn’t hooked up with anyone. He’s been lonely, on purpose. He’s been lonely because he’s punishing himself.
On Christmas Eve, Chris walks into his annual holiday party and does three quick shots of Absolut. The girl next to him at the bar—early 30s, hair so curly it looks like a pillow, lips accentuated with a dark lipstick—puts her hand on his arm and leans in close.
Chris leaves the room. He barely knows all of the people that are there. Allison, of course, is by the fireplace with her boyfriend. (Chris doesn’t have a lot against the boy in theory, but he cringes every time he thinks about the condoms in Allison’s bathroom.) There are musicians, actors, industry people—it’s one big shindig for the holiday season, and Chris feels in over his head without Victoria there to help him.
Allison appears by his arm, handing him a drink. She straightens his tie, smoothes down his collar. “What happened to your date?”
“Allison—”
“You said you were going to ask the girl from HR.”
“I changed my mind,” Chris says bitterly, gulping down the drink in his hand.
“You deserve a date, Dad,” Allison says, more than a little sadly. “She would have wanted you to be happy.”
Chris grunts. “I’m fine,” he says. “Go tell Scott to keep his hands to himself.”
“Uh huh. That sounds like a message I’m sure to pass on.” She nods over his shoulder. “Look who showed up.”
"You invited him?"
"Of course I invited him. He’s on The List."
Chris smiles. The List was Victoria's composition of people who have to find themselves at certain events whether directly invited or not.
"I thought I'd skip the complications this time and just outright tell him to come," Allison says. “You should go say hi."
Chris takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "I have nothing to say to him."
“I don’t think that’s true. I think you have lots and lots of thing to say to him and are afraid of what might come out.”
“Allison.”
“You’re allowed to go after what you want, Dad,” she reminds him, poking him in the chest. “You don’t have to lie to me just because you think I might not approve.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Chris huffs. “I have nothing but contempt for the man.”
Allison rolls her eyes. “Fine. You should still say hello. It’s good manners.”
Still the party goes on around him and he doesn't move. Every so often he eyes Allison and Scott, the boy looking shy and sometimes uncomfortable in the atmosphere though for the most part he tends to smile. Occasionally he spots Peter, always in the periphery, always in corners and slipping behind laughing groups. He is alone tonight, which is strange. Peter always manages to wrangle one of his kids to come along if he isn't with a date. Maybe Chris has been watching him more intently than he'd like to admit because he know for a fact that Peter has come completely alone tonight.
He finds him late in the evening, on the back porch, drinking a beer. Chris closes the door, steps out by his side.
“I didn’t think I would see you here,” Chris says.
“You know me. I never want to miss a good party.”
Chris sucks in a breath. “Look, I won’t apologize for what I said. You need to tell me why you haven’t—you need to talk about why you’re avoiding me.”
“I don’t need to do anything.”
“You owe me that much, Peter,” Chris hisses, feeling anger swell in him with each passing second.
Peter looks at him then, eyes amused and mouth twisted into a smirk. “I’m going,” he says, and he pushes back through the house and towards the front door. Chris follows him without hesitation, only barely avoiding shouting at him through the crowd. He follows Peter out past the lawn, out to where his car is parked on the street, dimly lit by a flickering street lamp.
“We need to talk about this!” Chris demands.
“Why?” Peter asks calmly, digging into his jacket pocket for his car keys.
“Because we’re—because you’re—”
“Get in,” Peter says, unlocking his car door.
“No!” Chris spits. “Why would I—we’re fighting!”
“We’re not fighting,” Peter tells him, slipping into the driver’s seat, and Chris has to follow just so that he can continue arguing.
“Yes, we are.”
“We’re not fighting,” Peter says, pulling into the street before Chris has his seatbelt on, “because you already know me. You know that I’m an asshole. You know the way I felt when your wife died. You know everything, and the only reason you’re trying to pretend you don’t is so that I’ll be honest with you, share my feelings.” He scoffs. “Well.” He accelerates up the hill, winding around. There’s an entrance to a hiking trail a little ways ahead and Chris knows that if he follows the street around the corner and turns onto the emergency trail, it will lead them up onto a flat where they’ll be able to see downtown.
“What’s so wrong with that?” Chris wants to know.
“Feelings make little logical sense,” Peter grumbles, putting the car in park. They’re shrouded in darkness, between trees and the sight of the city. “Feelings have nothing to do with us, Christopher, and you know it.
Chris leans over closer to Peter. "So what is it between us then?"
Peter shakes his head. "Tension."
"Why are you running away from me?" he asks, not moving away.
"How do you think it felt," Peter grinds out, "telling you outright I wanted you and then—”
Argent sits back, scoffing in disbelief. "You're going to talk to me about how it feels?"
"No. God." Peter lets out a harsh breath and leans his head against the steering wheel, "Christopher—get out of my car."
"You drove us here."
"I just wanted to get away," Peter says, still pressing his face against the leather.
"Didn't have to tell me to get in.”
"Damn it, Christopher, what do you want me to say?"
"It doesn't really matter what you say, it isn't going to make things better.”
"So just cross me off your list," Peter snaps.
"You think I wouldn't if I could?"
Peter finally turns to look at him, hands still on the wheel, mouth set in a deep frown. “We’re not friends,” he says bitterly. “Nothing I say is going to change anything. This is all true—and you’re still sitting here, trying to save my soul. You’re still sitting here, because you’re attached to the bitter alcoholic with depressive tendencies and a competitive streak.”
Chris wants to pull his own hair out. He bites his tongue.
“You can’t let go,” Peter accuses, shoving his shoulder. “Can you? Even after everything I said, everything I did. You still—” He gets this look on this face then, like a light bulb has turned on over his head. He looks—triumphant. Cocky. Back to his old self. “You want me,” he says, and it’s not an accusation or a question. It’s not anything except some kind of realization. “You actually—you’re even more fucked up than I am, Christopher. Holy shit, you actually want me. That’s really messed up.”
“You’re guessing,” Chris spits. “You have no idea how I feel.”
“Oh ho ho,” Peter laughs, waving his pointer finger in Chris’ face. “I know lust. I know desire. I know attraction. And it’s easily mistaken for contempt or competition, which is what it’s always been between us, but there’s a difference now. There’s a difference now because you’re hurting, and you think fucking me will change something—anything—so that you don’t have to feel so fucking hurt all the time. Well guess what, Argent, that is not my game. I don’t fuck anything that looks at me twice just because of a pretty face.”
Chris wants to argue, wants to scream and punch him in the face, wants to walk back to his house and climb into the bed he shared with his wife and just cry. He wants Victoria back. And he also wants Peter to shut the fuck up.
Peter has already launched into another speech when Chris decides what to do. Peter’s right. Chris knows it. Peter is always right about everything, and it’s with bitter anger and contempt that Chris lunges forward, hand on the back of Peter’s neck, and kisses him, fierce and aggressive.
Peter only seems to hesitate for a fraction of a second before he kisses back, more teeth than tongue and his nails digging into Christopher's skin.
He pulls away just as violently, his breathing hard and his eyes a bit more crazed than usual. "Told you I'm not interested in being your healing stone."
"I don't need healing," Argent says, his voice rough and quiet. "I need you to shut the fuck up, Peter."
He kisses Peter again, biting into his bottom lip harshly, savoring the taste of blood on his tongue. He kisses Peter—and Peter kisses him back—until he can’t breathe, and then he pulls away to suck a mark onto the other man’s jaw, hands scrambling to unbutton Peter’s shirt.
“No,” Peter says fiercely, and Chris doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to have to pull away and be ashamed. He just wants this. So he’s embarrassed when he has to pull back—except Peter doesn’t let him go far.
He climbs over the console and ends up in Chris’ lap, shoving the chair down so it’s all the way reclined.
“Are you hard for me, Christopher?” Peter spits, biting Chris’ mouth open to kiss violently. “Do you want to fuck me? Suck me? Have you ever even touched a cock that wasn’t your own?”
“Peter—”
“Shut up.” He tugs on Chris’ hair, forcing his head back and Chris lets out a moan, arching his hips. “You are. You’re hard for me. Fucking pathetic.”
"Didn't think humiliation was your style," Chris manages to say between each press of Peter's lips against his throat.
"Maybe it is," Peter growls out. “Maybe just this. Maybe just for you."
Chris finds it hard to breathe. Peter is large solid weight on his chest that he's completely unused to, his hands steady and insistent. Chris remembers desperate groping in his car when he was a teenager. It's been a very long time but it still makes his heart pound viciously in his chest.
Chris’ shirt is open in an instant, Peter dragging his hands down his chest, his stomach. He rests his hand on Chris’ crotch, squeezes the hard line of his cock.
“Peter,” he says around a groan, arching again.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Peter asks, undoing Chris’ belt, his trousers. He has Chris’ cock is hand, underwear tucked under his balls, in a matter of seconds, and licks his hand before he starts to jerk him off. “Wanted me to get your rocks off, wanted to give yourself something to do so you didn’t have to think about being in pain.”
“Peter—”
“Shut up,” he says again, finally leaning over to kiss him. It’s slower this time, though, less teeth. It’s still aggressive, heated, but Peter doesn’t stop to continue his ramblings, doesn’t shove and pull and do anything else to Chris, just sits on top of him, stroking him and kissing him.
The worst part is it does just what Peter predicted, he feels better. He feels comfort and relief and it's sick and wrong to get it from this man, to get it at all. He should be grieving and instead he's a twist of the hand away from getting off.
He has half a mind to push Peter away once and for all, but when he gets his hands on Peter his instinct is to pull him closer.
Peter reacts, grinding slowly against his leg and dipping his tongue into his mouth, trying to get closer than the limited space allows.
“Open the—” Chris’ mouth is stopped by Peter’s, his brain fizzling into nothing but pleasure. He has to focus, has to—“Open the door,” he says.
When Peter does, he can stick his knee in the doorway, give himself more room to move, and then he’s grinding right into Chris’ leg with full range of motion.
“Fuck,” Peter says decidedly. “I’m gonna make you come so fucking hard, you asshole.”
Chris can’t stop touching him, kissing him. Soon there’s no space between them at all, wrapped around each other, both of their hands on each other’s cocks, panting into each other’s mouths. They can’t talk, can barely breathe. The only thing that matters is getting off, and Chris wants to watch Peter’s face twist with pleasure, hear the way his breath changes when his orgasm hits him.
He almost misses it because his eyes roll up when he comes, sudden and violent and Peter doesn't stop, no matter how much he mewls in the pain of being too sensitive—he doesn't relent until he's coming in Chris's hand, his body curling around him in a mindless search for comfort.
They sit there, leaning into one another, for long moments. It isn’t until Chris catches his breath and lifts his head that he notices the cold air seeping into the car from the half-open door. He looks up at Peter, meeting his half-lidded gaze.
“Don’t,” Peter says, twisting to get into the glove compartment. He produces a handful of napkins, all from different fast food restaurants. He also grabs the half-empty water bottle from the middle console, wetting the napkins and wiping down Chris’ chest.
“Don’t what?” Chris asks.
“Don’t get emotional. I told you I wasn’t interested in carrying your emotional baggage.”
"I wasn't going to start crying on your shoulder, Hale."
"Good," Peter snaps. "I have enough shit on my own."
"Trust me, the entire world knows," Chris says, but there isn't enough edge to it. It's dulled because he's hypnotized by watching Peter clean him up more gently than his words would suggest.
"Good," Peter says again, refusing to look up. “As long as we're clear."
The next time Peter sees him, they’re at Starbucks. Derek, who’s in line next to him, elbows him sharply. “Chris Argent just walked in,” he says, looking the slightest bit concerned. “Allison said you two had words at the Christmas party.”
“We fought,” Peter says dismissively.
“And?”
“And that’s it.”
Most people don't notice. The fact is that Peter Hale and Chris Argent are back on speaking term, but only just. They nod at each other and Peter no longer books it out of any room the other man is in, but they're no friendlier now than they were a year ago. At least not as far as anyone can see.
“Want a drink?” Chris asks, heading out of a conference room at Depencia. Peter pretends to check his watch, pretends to have to consider what he’s going to say.
“Sure,” he says eventually, and he follows Chris’ car with his own. The bar they stop at is a little hole in the wall, full of big guys playing pool and girls with fake IDs. They sit at the bar, drink with minimal conversation, and about halfway through the game that’s playing on the TV in the corner of the room, Peter feels Chris’ hand slip up his thigh.
He sticks in his tongue against his cheek, drains the rest of his beer.
“What are we doing?” he asks.
“Does it matter?”
Peter decidedly does not sigh. “Fair enough,” he says. “Follow me to mine.”
The house is blessedly empty, but Peter knew it would be. Derek is in New York and took most of the pack of animals that lives in his house with him except Malia, but she has floundered south to check if her mother is still breathing in some den of despair.
Having the place to himself has been lonely and he's content in telling himself that this is a mutually beneficial service, that Christopher gets to take his mind off the emptiness in his house by filling Peter's.
“You get a freebie,” Peter tells him, kissing down his throat as Chris struggles out of his shirt. “You’ve never been fucked so it’s not fair to spring it on you—but this is your only pass.”
“How very generous,” Chris drawls, yanking on Peter’s hair so he can pull him up to kiss. “Take off your pants.”
It goes on like that for months. Banter. Sex. Banter. Sex. They have to book hotel rooms and fool around in the backseat of Peter’s car when they can’t get into Peter’s house unseen. Peter won’t go to Chris’ house. And Chris doesn’t ask him to.
One evening, the lot of Peter’s roommates are out for the foreseeable future—Derek had said something about an open mic night at some club—and he smuggles Christopher up into his bedroom, blows him for a luxurious twenty minutes and fucks him against the wall, reveling in every single one of the noises he makes.
What he isn’t expecting is for Derek to come crashing into his room in the morning, blabbering excitedly about an idea he’s had, only to find Chris Argent lying in bed with him, face tucked into Peter’s neck.
Christopher can—Peter has found—sleep through anything, but not through Peter bolting up in bed and dislodging him. Still Peter hushes him and tells him to stay in bed as he grabs his boxers on the way out the door and follows Derek. Derek is standing just outside the door with his hands in his back pockets and both eyebrows raised. He slips his hands out from the pockets and throws them out to his sides.
"What the actual fuck, Peter?"
“How about learning to knock before you start passing judgment, huh?”
Derek points towards the door. “You can’t possibly think that’s a good idea. You honestly—you are so much smarter than this. You know better.”
“Don’t be so fucking dramatic, Derek. It’s just a fling.”
“How long has this been going on?” Derek demands. “This obviously isn’t the first time.”
“That’s none of your business.”
"How long, Peter?"
Peter leans against the wall and glares. "Couple weeks."
Derek raises one eyebrow higher and Peter sighs, long and dramatic.
"Couple months."
"Jesus Christ, Peter, what the fuck is wrong with you? Do you really think there's time for this right now?"
"Hey, look, regardless of the shit we've been through, my life doesn't actually revolve around yours, Derek."
"Oh and you've been a real cornerstone, Peter, we'd all be lost without you."
"Well what the hell is your problem then?"
"You just stopped drinking. You think this is going to help?"
Peter is quiet for a moment before he sighs again. "It started before I stopped. So obviously it hasn't caused that much harm."
“Fucking hell.” Derek pulls his hands through his hair. “You can’t bring him here. You’ve never brought hookups home before and you can’t start now.”
“You don’t own this house, Derek,” Peter says harshly. “This is still my home.”
“And we’re still your family,” Derek counters. “Me and Malia—and we should be able to feel comfortable in our own house. Don’t bring him here, not if he doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’d let him be here if he did?”
Derek shrugs. “If you were capable of expressing real emotion? If you wanted a real relationship with a real human being? Sure. He could stay. And I’d win a fucking Grammy.” He points to the door again. “Get him out of here. We have stuff to talk about.”
The thing Derek wants to talk about apparently has to do with Boyd holding a bass, Isaac and Malia draping guitars over themselves, and Erica standing at a keyboard. Derek sits down at the drumset in the back of the room and Peter seats himself on the couch as requested.
He doesn’t believe it at first, that the five of them are going to sound like anything special. He assumes it’s another whim of his nephew’s, something to keep the kids busy since none of them feel the need to apply for colleges. But they start playing, and it’s something Peter’s never heard before. It’s not a cheesy cover meant for YouTube. It’s not a ridiculous attempt at songwriting that ends up being meaningless. It’s real, original music, and Peter is left sitting there with wonder in his eyes.
“How many more can you write?” he asks Derek when it’s over, standing with his phone already in-hand.
“We have a half dozen,” Derek says proudly. “We’ve been screwing around with it for a month.”
“Perfect. You have them on a flash drive?”
“We haven’t recorded anything—”
Peter holds up a hand to stop Derek from talking, waiting for the ringing to stop on his phone. “Danny! Hey, do you have any open slots today, say for about two hours?”
Danny Mahealani, one of the sound engineers at Depencia, is easily the smartest guy in the building—except for Peter, of course. He also brings bagels around a lot, so he and Peter are on friendly terms.
“Is this gonna be a pro-bono type thing, Peter?” Danny sighs. “I have student loans, man.”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks and free coffee for a year.”
“Deal. I’ll be in Studio A in an hour.”
He hangs up the phone, sticks it back in his pocket. “Grab your shit,” he says, “and load up the cars. We’re gonna go make an EP."
Argent takes no time at all in swooping in once the EP starts circulating.
"You know this is a good opportunity," he says as soon as he can corner Peter. The closeness is familiar in all the wrong ways.
"It's fucking gold," Peter answers, "so back the hell away from them."
"I can't snatch them up like I could anyone else," Chris says as he steps back, "unless it was with your help."
Peter arches an eyebrow. They’re in the Argent Studios building, having just left a meeting, and there are still a dozen people lingering. “You think I’m going to help you?”
“You’re their manager. They’ll do what you say—they’ll sign where you tell them to sign. Peter—Peter, you’re not in this industry, not the way I am. They’re incredibly impressive, we both know it. They could be huge, as long as you make the right moves.”
“There are plenty of other labels, Christopher,” Peter says haughtily. “You can make your bid like everyone else. It wouldn’t really be fair to give you special treatment, would it?”
“Peter.”
Peter grabs his arms, tugs him out to the elevator and presses the down button. “Just because we’re screwing doesn’t mean you get to jump on my career opportunity of a lifetime, Christopher. You get no extras, no secrets, no nothing. You’re right about them—they’re going to be huge. And they’re gonna do it with me keeping them away from scam artists like you.”
“That’s not fair and you know it.”
“Make your bid, Argent. Play the game like everyone else. We’ll talk when you give me a better number than anyone else.”
The doors open and Peter steps out. Unsurprisingly, Chris follows him, all the way out of the building and to his car, not saying a word the whole time. When Peter sticks his briefcase in the backseat, Chris gets up in his face, less intimidating than he probably thinks he’s being.
“Dinner tonight?” he asks, glancing at Peter’s mouth.
“Text me the room number.”
Derek is frowning when Peter walks downstairs the next morning.
“Dear nephew,” Peter sighs, heading straight for the coffee machine, “I have no possible idea why you’re so upset. We’re going to be millionaires.”
“We already are millionaires.”
Peter nods. “Okay, true. If we lost everything tomorrow, we’d become millionaires by the end of the year. Now isn’t that an uplifting thought?”
“Why didn’t you tell Argent we’d sign with him?”
“Did you want me to?” Peter laughs, stirring sugar into his mug.
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You just—you—you like him. I mean as more than this enemies-with-benefits thing you’re doing. You have genuine feelings for the guy, and it just seems like…a move you would have pulled.”
“Well, Derek, believe it or not I actually want to get the best deal possible for this band. I’m not mouthing at the bit to use it as lube for my…thing with Argent."
"That's not what I'm assuming," Derek says.
"Well that's what he assumed, so I guess I wouldn't blame you too much." He leans against the counter, eyeing his nephew warily. “You think I’m emotionally compromised.”
“Well you are.”
“I promise you, Derek, there is no one more invested in the idea of this band taking off. I’m not particularly crazy about the name, but since you guys like it.” He shrugs, takes a long sip of his coffee. He likes the way Derek’s frown deepens. It makes his eyebrows push together, his shoulders hunch. He’s easily manipulated. “I like this idea. I really, really like this. Is there some way you all are leaning?”
“We like Depencia. They’re stable. Reasonable. Malia thinks we should take a second look at Argent, though.”
“Any particular reason?”
Derek shrugs. “She thinks they’re going to change their bid if we make it seem like we’ve already decided on Depencia.”
“Depencia already offered fifteen percent, Derek,” Peter scoffs. “That’s literally the best deal any artist can hope for. Thankfully there’s no songwriters to pay, but whichever producer we like in the building has to be paid upfront for their time and promised at least three percent in royalties; any label will take eighteen percent of record and iTunes sales, Derek. That’s what everyone else offered. Depencia sees your worth—Depencia is a good company.”
“You’re only saying that because you work for them.”
“Sure, I’m loyal. I’ve been there since I got out of law school. But I’m also just giving you numbers. Fifteen percent, Derek. Unless Argent offers you twelve, there’s nowhere else to go.”
“And what if he does offer twelve?” Derek asks. “What if he gives us an identical contract, but for twelve percent instead of fifteen? Will you let us sign with him or will you decide that you can’t shit where you eat and demand we sign with Depencia?” His eyes are angry, mouth firm, and Peter almost wants to laugh. He’s being so grown up, the little boy who used to cling to Peter’s leg when he was told he had to go to bed. The little kid who cried when Bambi’s mom died is now standing, inches from Peter, with his arms tight and his face drawn in a scowl, demanding to know where he stands. And Peter wants to laugh.
He takes a sip of his coffee. “You’re going to sign whichever deal is best, Derek,” Peter says calmly. “But I’m telling you, Argent knows what you’re worth. He’s a greedy bastard just like everyone else. He won’t offer you less than fifteen.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Derek says, “since we’re going in to see him today.” He glances at the clock on the oven. “We need to get going in an hour. Better wash up.”
Peter snorts. "You sure you want me there?"
"Shut up, Peter."
"I'm serious. If you're so sure you know what you're talking about—”
"Get ready to go." Derek says slowly with a thin edge of threat. "You're the one that's supposed to be wrangling us to get places and do shit, you know? Not the other way around." He storms out of the kitchen, heading upstairs, and Peter smiles to himself.
He doubts he’ll live to see the day that Derek doesn’t take charge of his band of misfits.
Chris is already pacing when his assistant—a new kid, although that’s not saying much since he’s had eight different assistants in as many months—buzzes him on the intercom to inform him that Peter Hale and the members of Side A/Side B have arrived.
He buzzes back. “Send them in.”
Chris isn't sure why but he expected a representative sample of the band. Probably Peter and Derek, maybe Malia as the man tries to form some kind of bond with his actual daughter. But no, it was a stupid thing to expect. He realizes this as the entire lot of them take seats in awkward places around his office. Isaac, it appears, is sitting on his flower pot.
“Thank you all for making the trip down,” Chris says, straightening his tie. “Now, as you all know, I’ve heard the EP, shared it with several of my producers, and we have a very large interest in signing you as a group. Your songwriting skills alone are incredibly impressive and if you’re ever looking to make more money, selling your songs—”
“We’re not thinking about that yet,” Peter interrupts. “Let’s cut to the chase.”
Chris arches an eyebrow, nodding. “Alright. We’re prepared to take fifteen percent in exchange for the contract. We’d start with a one-album deal and see how that plays out. We can renegotiate after the fiscal year if sales are good and you all feel like going about a second album.”
Chris has little doubt in his mind that Depencia Records offered them exactly the same deal. It’s standard, taking it an album at a time, and even though Peter works for Depencia, they wouldn’t feel comfortable with more than that.
“That’s what Depencia offered,” Derek Hale says calmly, sitting back in his chair.
Chris spreads his hands. “It’s the best deal you’re going to find unless you self-produce, self-publish. If you put your EP on iTunes right now, it would sell. But I think you know that a label is going to do more for you.”
Derek looks skeptical. “You’re not prepared to negotiate a lower percentage?”
Chris has given this a lot of thought. Some labels will go lower—if they know that the act is a slam dunk, if they already have radio presence and YouTube views. But Side A/Side B is literally unknown except for two or three random open mics they’ve played at. They gave their songs to record companies to look at before distributing to the population. They want a label, but Chris knows he can’t afford to go lower.
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. This is a huge gift, considering you’re all beginners. You have no Internet presence. I would barely offer this deal to Kelly Clarkson, let alone a group no one’s ever heard of.”
Peter doesn’t look the least bit surprised. Derek, on the other hand, looks torn.
“We appreciate your time,” Peter says, standing, “but we’ve already made a decision. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around, Christopher. C’mon, all. Let’s get going.”
Silently, they all stand and exit, looking at each other strangely. Chris, now standing behind his desk, glares at Peter, who closes the door on them all when they’re gone.
“We made the exact same offer,” Chris says. “What the hell is so different—”
“I’ve seen your company do business for the last decade,” Peter interrupts. “I’ve watched you manipulate the media, lie to your associates, and undercut good, decent artists.”
“And Depencia’s never been guilty of anything like that.”
“Sure they have,” Peter says, “but at least I have a foot in the door there. At least I have a way of knowing what’s really going on, rather than having to trust that the guy I’m fucking isn’t secretly screwing me over when I’m turned the other way.”
“So this is because of our relationship?”
“This is because I don’t trust you, Christopher. This is because I can’t trust you. And,” he says haughtily, “we wouldn’t have signed with you for more than twelve percent. Derek already agreed before we left the house. Our professional relationship stays where it is, Argent. Enjoy the boundaries you’ve gotten to know so well.” He waves on his way out the door.
Chris holds on to Victoria's memory more than he lets on. It often feels like he needs her for everything, like he can't go through his day without referring to the memory of her hand on his shoulder or her eloquent eyes across the dinner table. Lately, he remembers her chin held high at her mother's funeral, at his sister's trial, in every difficult moment. He remembers it to get through the day without falling to pieces or taking to drinking. He especially remembers it when Peter Hale is in the room, walking like there is a glass case around him making him untouchable, and something inside Chris just crumbles every time. It is harder to hold his chin up after every cold encounter.
Usually, after he leaves a night with Peter, he feels a little better for a while, like a hit of morphine after a broken rib. But it wears off, and he’s right back in Peter’s arms, trying to get that numbness, trying to get some relief. When he sees him the next time, however, meeting in a hotel room, Peter already lying naked in bed, it doesn’t feel like morphine. It feels like someone stomped on his broken rib and punctured his lung.
He goes through with it anyway, because the sex is good and he hopes, maybe, at the end, something will feel better. He doesn’t feel numb, though. He feels sad. He feels terrible, because the second it’s over, Peter is gone. He doesn’t even bother to shower in the same room anymore, just takes off. And Chris is left feeling empty and hurt.
He starts to avoid Peter. He pushes off their meet-ups with claims of work, makes up things that Allison needs him for, creates fictional people he has to sit down with. Peter doesn’t whine or complain or say that he needs to put off work for him. Instead, he lets it go without question, but is right back to texting in twenty-four hours.
It’s been a month of nothing when Chris re-evaluates where he stands. Sitting on his bed, pondering the differences between their relationship pre-sex and their relationship now, Chris feels lost. He feels buried in expectations and promises—he misses Victoria with a sting that he knows will never go away. And right now he also misses Peter with a dull ache in his chest that he’s all too familiar with.
There’s a party. Chris has no reason to expect Peter to show—they’re celebrating some kind of deal, Argent Studios, but even Chris doesn’t really know what the party’s about—and so he doesn’t. He goes about his mingling casually and doesn’t feel nervous at all that he’s gonna turn around and Peter’s gonna be there, waiting in the wings.
Peter doesn’t wait in the wings. He does, however, wait by Chris’ car. When he leaves the party, Peter is leaning against the driver’s side door, hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” Chris says, swinging his keys around his fingers. “What are you doing here?”
“We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’re not busy now.”
“Peter, it’s late—”
Peter scoffs. “I knew it, you’ve been avoiding me. I knew it. Fucking hell, Christopher, you couldn’t just say you wanted to stop? Like an adult? You had to resort to avoiding me and lying to me—”
“I don’t know if I want to stop,” Chris hisses, glancing over his shoulder to check for anyone else heading towards their cars. “Look, just—follow me home. We can talk about it there.”
“We can talk about it here,” Peter says, grabbing firm hold of Chris’ elbow. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
Chris swallows tightly, looking down at his shoes for a moment. “It used to help,” he says quietly. “Being with you used to help her death not hurt as badly. And now it hurts worse. All the time.”
Peter lets go of him and his jaw clenches. Chris tries to look him in the eye but Peter's gaze is turned away and determined. "Well, when the meds stop working, it's time for a new prescription," he finally says.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means go find someone else to fuck your tears out on," Peter bites out. "I'm not here for emotional masochism."
Chris’ chest aches, heart swelling into his throat. “I don’t want anyone else,” he says bitterly. “I want you. I want you to stop being so fucking distant. I want you to stop avoiding the subject of Victoria. I want you to want me, Peter, to really want to be with me. But, you know what.” He sniffs before he can help it, welling up even though he tries to fight it. “You can’t. All you know how to do is fuck around.”
"Christopher, don't be pathetic—”
"I'll be as pathetic as I goddamn want. You know.” He steps back, shaking his head. "I walk around all day trying to keep that fucking monster of a company working, trying to keep a strong face for my daughter, and I'm sick of having to try around you too."
"Yeah, well I'm sick of you assuming that you know anything about how I feel," Peter nearly shouts.
"Am I wrong then?"
"Yes. Yes you are but I don't care what you think. I don't care that you think you’re a better father or that all of your shit is together, I don't. And if you want to think it's all mindless fucking to me then knock yourself out, I've never needed anyone to think otherwise."
Chris steps closer again, lowering his voice. "What is it then, if it's not fucking?"
Peter is angry, Chris knows. He’s angry and so he’s likely to say a whole bunch of things he doesn’t mean. He grabs Chris’ belt too quickly for Chris to even notice that he’s being pulled in and kissed, deep and sensual, a kiss meant for fucking. A kiss meant for wooing.
“No,” Chris says, shoving back even though his heart is beating in his ears. “Tell me. Tell me one thing you fucking care about, Peter. Prove me wrong.”
“Fine,” Peter spits. “I don’t care what you think, I care how you feel. About me. It’s not a fucking picnic, Christopher, with your dead wife and my dead everyone. It’s not something I'm chomping at the bit to sign up for.”
“So that's it?” Chris asks quietly. “Not willing to play at risk and reward?”
Peter’s jaw clenches. “I'll play,” he says stiffly. “I’ll try. Because even though the risk is preposterous the reward is…”
Chris’ mouth feels dry. “Peter.”
“Don’t. I said I’ll try. I don’t need to say anything else.”
Chris steps forward, fingers through Peter’s belt loops. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “So prove it. Come home with me.”
“That’s not fair and you know it.”
“I bought a new bed,” Chris says, hovering his mouth over Peter’s. “It’s not her bed anymore, Peter. It can be ours.”
“I can’t—not in that house, Christopher. I can’t.”
Chris sighs. “We’ll work up to it.”
"Come back with me," Peter says quickly. “Stay for breakfast. Put up with Derek's glaring in the morning."
"Your nephew has strong opinions?"
"Opinions about you," Peter says with a small smirk. “He thinks I should stop bringing people home if I don't intend to keep them there. So come home with me, Christopher."
Chris nods without even thinking about it. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
When Derek comes down for coffee in the morning, he stops in the doorway of the kitchen, Peter looking at him with a smirk.
“Hey,” Peter says. “Coffee’s in the pot.”
Chris, who’s sitting at the counter in borrowed pajama pants and nothing else, rolls his eyes at Peter’s obvious delight.
“Holy shit,” Derek says. “You actually did it.”
“I have a boyfriend, Derek,” Peter says dryly. “I didn’t land on the moon.”
“For him,” Chris mutters, “monogamy is practically the same thing.”