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The glare of the promotional poster behind William Beckett’s head is aggressive, all sharp geometric lines and neon hues that clash violently with the muted, industrial vibe of the venue's backstage press room. Denver's altitude is doing no favors to William’s skin, which feels tight and dry under the harsh fluorescent lights. He shifts in his metal folding chair, crossing one long, denim-clad leg over the other, trying to channel the effortless composure expected of a frontman whose sophomore album is about to drop.
Across the small laminate table sits the interviewer from *Punktastic Magazine*, a guy with a crumpled notepad, a digital voice recorder blinking a steady, invasive red, and an eagerness that feels less like journalistic curiosity and more like a hunt for clickbait.
"So, the new record, *Santi*," the interviewer starts, leaning forward, his thumb hovering over his pen. "It’s a massive sonic departure from *Almost Here*. There’s a lot more groove, a lot more experimentation. How are the fans on this co-headlining run with Cobra Starship reacting to the new material live?"
William smiles, a practiced, gentle curving of his lips that tilts his signature bangs slightly to the side. "It’s been incredible, honestly. There’s always that initial anxiety when you drop something that pushes past the boundaries of what people expect from you. But the energy in the room every night has been so validating. Having Cobra out here with us just amplifies that. The crowds are just... they're ready to dance, y'know? It’s a completely different kind of community we’re building on this tour."
The interviewer nods, scribbling down a few fragmented words, but his eyes are already darting toward the door. He doesn't ask about the tracklist. He doesn't ask about the production value or the lyrical themes William poured his soul into over the last year. Instead, he clicks his pen twice, a sharp, irritating sound in the cramped room.
"Speaking of Cobra Starship," the interviewer pivots, his tone shifting into something distinctly sharper, more calculated. "We couldn’t help but notice the backstage dynamic feels a little fractured today. Usually, you and Gabe Saporta are practically joined at the hip during these press junkets. But he’s completely MIA today. There’s already some chatter online. Have you guys had some kind of falling out?"
William blinks, a genuine flash of confusion breaking through his media-trained facade. The idea of a "falling out" with Gabe is so fundamentally absurd that it takes him a second to process the question. They have been together for three years now—three years of stolen moments in crowded green rooms, shared bunks on bumpy highways, and a quiet, fierce devotion that exists entirely outside the public eye.
"Of course not," William says, his voice dropping into a softer, defensive register. He shakes his head, a stray lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. "He’s sick right now. Y'know, I'm trying to help him pull through."
The interviewer’s eyebrows shoot up, an unpleasant, knowing smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He leans in closer to the microphone, sensing a different kind of story altogether—the kind that moves units in the gossip circuit.
"Playing nursemaid, are we?" he asks, his voice dripping with crude, heavy-handed implication.
William, entirely consumed by his genuine worry for Gabe’s physical state, completely misses the subtle hostility and the bait hidden within the question. He doesn't see the trap. He just sees an opportunity to explain why his boyfriend is currently miserable in a dark room. "Well, he’s really a jumble of nerves and clumsiness, uncomfortable silences, and awkward movements," William replies softly, his gaze drifting to the floor as he visualizes Gabe’s current state. "So, I’ve been bringing him soup and taking care of him. His fever was too high for him to come out with us tonight."
The interviewer’s eyes light up. The phrasing is too intimate, too domestic for two straight frontmen in the emo-pop scene, and he smells blood in the water. He wants the confirmation. He wants the public outing that would blow up the message boards by tomorrow morning.
"Yeah?" the interviewer presses, his voice dropping an octave, leaning over the table with an invasive intensity. "What's he gotta come out from?"
Clueless to the subtext, completely exhausted by the grueling tour schedule, and deeply protective of his partner's health, William just stares at him. His expression hardens into a perfect, glassy deadpan. "The bed, were you not listening?"
An uncomfortable silence drops over the room, thick and heavy. The interviewer opens his mouth to salvage the angle, but before he can utter another syllable, the heavy door to the press room swings open with a loud creak. Michael Guy Chislett steps into the room, his guitar-tech lanyard swinging against his chest. He takes in the tense atmosphere at a glance, his sharp eyes darting between William’s defensive posture and the interviewer’s predatory lean.
"Hey, Bill," Chislett says, his voice casual but carrying an underlying authority that brooks no argument. "Sorry to interrupt, mate, but Gabe just called the production office. He needs you back at the hotel right away." He turns a brilliant, completely fake smile onto the interviewer. "I'll take over the rest of the album questions. Let’s talk about the guitar tones on 'Neighbors', yeah?"
William doesn't need to be told twice. He is out of his chair before Chislett even finishes his sentence, offering a brief, tight nod to the journalist before slipping out into the chilly Denver air. The transition from the chaotic, bass-thumping energy of the venue to the sterile, carpeted hallways of the hotel happens in a flash. William practically sprints the three blocks, his keycard trembling slightly in his fingers as he slides it into the lock of Room 412. The red light turns green with a soft click, and he pushes the door open.
The room is pitch black, save for a single sliver of city light cutting through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains.
"Gabe?" William whispers, closing the door quietly behind him.
A pathetic, muffled groan rises from the depths of the king-sized bed. As William’s eyes adjust to the gloom, the scene unfolds in all its ridiculous, heartbreaking glory. Gabe is mostly undressed, stripped down to just a pair of gray boxer briefs. He hasn't just slept in the sheets; he has waged a war against them and lost. His long torso is twisted, one leg hopelessly tangled in the heavy duvet, while his upper body is literally dangling off the edge of the mattress, his dark hair brushing the carpet.
"Will..." Gabe whines, a raspy, friction-burnt sound that cuts straight through William’s chest. "Willie, I gotta piss. I'm stuck. My legs don't work. Everything is spinning."
A soft, irrepressible giggle escapes William’s throat. It is a sound born of sheer relief that Gabe is coherent, mixed with the absolute absurdity of seeing the usually suave, energetic frontman of Cobra Starship reduced to a human pretzel.
"Hold on, hold on," William says gently, dropping his jacket onto a nearby chair. He steps across the room, his boots silent on the carpet, and kneels beside the bed. "Let me help you, you big idiot."
He carefully works his hands into the knot of blankets, untangling Gabe’s sweaty ankles from the sheets. Gabe lets out a dramatic sigh of relief, flopping back onto the mattress for a brief second like a landed fish before twisting his face into a deep, miserable scowl.
"Too bright," Gabe complains, shielding his eyes with a trembling back of his hand, pointing blindly toward the window. "The sun is killing my eyes, Will. Turn it off."
"Gabe, it’s nine o'clock at night," William points out with a soft, affectionate tug on Gabe's wrist. "The sun went down hours ago. That’s just the neon sign from the diner across the street."
Despite the gentle correction, William reaches over and adjusts the curtains, sealing out the last drop of Denver street illumination, leaving only the dim, amber glow of the hallway light leaking under the bathroom door. He slides an arm under Gabe’s sticky, fever-warm armpit, bracing his own slender frame against the older man's weight.
"Come on. Up we go," William murmurs.
Gabe is completely unsteady on his feet, his knees buckling slightly as William hauls him upright. He leans heavily into William’s side, his breath hot against William's neck, smelling faintly of cherry cough syrup and sweat. They shuffle toward the bathroom, a slow, clumsy waltz of two people who know each other's centers of gravity perfectly. When they reach the threshold of the bathroom, Gabe stops dead in his tracks, staring down at the porcelain commode with a look of profound, drug-induced horror.
"I'm not sitting on that," Gabe mutters, his voice thick and stubborn. "Hotel toilets have... they have ghosts. And germs. Bad vibes, Willie. I'll fall in. I'm not sitting."
William sighs, a sound that is entirely fond. "Okay. You don't have to sit. Just stay upright for me."
But Gabe's balance is shot, his equilibrium entirely wrecked by the heavy dose of fever reducers and the medication he's taking to manage his vocal cysts. He sways dangerously to the left. Realizing there is no way Gabe can manage this independently without ending up on the bathroom floor, William steps in close, anchoring Gabe against his hip. He reaches out, his pale fingers working with practiced, unbothered familiarity to guide his boyfriend, holding him steady and aiming to help him pee.
The bathroom is silent save for the steady sound of relief. Gabe lets his forehead drop against William’s shoulder, his entire body going slack as the tension leaves his frame. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his voice cracking as he speaks into the fabric of William’s shirt.
"That's my Willie-Bear," Gabe hoarsely says, the gratitude thick in his throat. "With his pale, perfectly hairless skin... his luscious, shiny hair..." He trails off for a second, his nose burying deep into the dark strands at William's temple, nuzzling them with a lazy, content sigh. "... helping me take a piss. Such a good boyfriend. The best."
William laughs, a clear, ringing sound that echoes off the bathroom tiles. "Yeah, yeah. Keep your flattery until you're fully functional, Saporta."
Once the flow finally tapers off, William expertly shakes him off, tucks him back inside his boxers with a gentle pat, and steps back. He reaches over to flush the toilet, the loud roar of the water filling the small room. Turning to the sink, William grabs Gabe by the elbows, guiding his limp hands under the stream of warm water, pumping a dollop of cheap hotel soap into his palms. Gabe stands there, staring blankly at the bubbles forming between his fingers, his eyes glassy and heavy-lidded.
He is certainly drunk and high off the cocktail of heavy-duty medications prescribed to keep his throat from closing up on tour. Watching him fumble with the towel, William feels a deep ache of pity in his chest. Gabe hates being vulnerable. He hates needing help. He is the guy who is supposed to have all the energy, the one who carries the party on his back, and seeing him brought down by a fever and vocal cysts is always a harsh reminder of how fragile they both really are out here on the road. William takes the towel, gently drying Gabe's hands for him, feeling a quiet, fierce wave of gratitude that he is the one who gets to be here for this. He doesn't care about the missed interview or the gossip columns. He cares about the man leaning against the sink.
"Better?" William asks, brushing a damp curl of hair away from Gabe's sticky forehead.
"Bladder isn't attacking me anymore," Gabe sleepily mumbles, his eyes already half-closed as he allows William to guide him back into the dark bedroom.
The mattress dips under their combined weight as William helps Gabe slide back under the covers. Before William can even think about pulling away to change into his own sleepwear, Gabe reaches out, his long arms wrapping around William's waist with a surprising, desperate strength, pulling him down against the mattress.
"Spoon me," Gabe requests, his voice barely a whisper now, the medication dragging him back under the surface of sleep. "Willie. Please. Cold."
William looks down at him in the dim amber light. How could he say no? Why would he ever want to? He kicks off his boots, leaving his jeans on for now, and slides under the heavy duvet, curling his body tightly against Gabe’s back. He drapes one long arm over Gabe's ribs, pulling him close until there is no space left between them, letting his breathing sync with the steady, rising rhythm of Gabe's chest.