The Debt of Guilt [BxB]

11: after

May
1995

Peter was so many miles away from his old prison cell, and now he was here, in Danny's Beverley Hills mansion, surrounded by so much glamour and decadence and success, he almost missed it.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he simply did not belong here. He was at a cocktail party, wearing a suit he was helplessly uncomfortable in, sipping on water because he didn't quite trust himself around alcohol right now, drowning in a sea of famous faces. There was the latest Bond villain, a talk show host, and a Vogue model, all trying to introduce themselves to him, though, he suspected, they were just trying to figure out who he was (and what the fuck he was doing at Daniel Fox's cocktail party). He dodged every single one them, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, and trying to count his breaths to calm himself down.

The house was transformed; strings of white fairy lights draped thoughtfully across the walls, and circling the pool which glowed blue in the moonlight, while a group of smartly dressed men fiddled around with harps and violins until beautiful sounds came out. The music didn't quite drown out the murmur of tailored Hollywood laughter, and polite small talk between movie producers. But Peter tried to listen to every pluck of every string, forcing himself to concentrate on something so he didn't have to concentrate on everything.

He had tried on one of Danny's suits just hours before. And while he had attempted not to have a panic attack, gawking at the sheer size of Danny's closet, a polite old man took his measurements, pinning back the baggy fabric to meet his scrawny frame. Then, the suit was whisked off to be tailored, and Peter spent half the afternoon sitting by the pool, reading and rereading the contract Danny had given him.

It was hard to focus as the house started filling up with caterers, event planners, and waiters. The decorations were constructed in a storm around him as smartly dressed people frowned at clipboards and rushed around in a tornado of organised chaos. Danny was at the centre of it all, talking quickly to his agent, running his fingers through his messy hair, and sparing Peter sympathetic smiles from across the pool.

Of course, Peter had considered just going back to his motel room and tearing up the contract. After he almost choked Danny to death this afternoon, you would think that the last thing either of them would want to do is spend the night being civil to each other, in front of so many people who desperately mattered.

But all these years later, Danny and Peter were as mutually destructive as they had ever been. Like a couple of stubborn children, with fire in their eyes, and reckless determination running through their veins. Neither of them were about to back down from a challenge; the challenge being, of course, to save face.

Besides, Peter almost liked the idea of keeping Danny on edge all night. So long as the NDA went unsigned, he was free to say and do whatever he pleased.

Of course, he wasn't exactly itching to tell everyone about the horrors of their past, any more than Danny was.

But Danny didn't know that. Let him suffer, Peter thought.

The suit was returned to him in the early evening, now adjusted perfectly to his measurements. Everything after that seemed to be a blur. Maseratis and Mercedes arriving outside, spilling out groups of perfectly groomed gods and goddesses, in sleek black dresses, expensive perfume, sparkling diamonds, and shiny jewellery. The music, the flutes of champagne, the silent waiters (no doubt forced to sign NDAs too); it was all gloriously calculated and, Peter realised, Danny's only contribution to this party had been paying for it. The event planners, the caterers, and probably his agent too, had done the rest.

Peter clutched his glass of water, staring out at the pool. He was utterly enchanted by it; something so wonderful, and so fucking unnecessary. A stupid body of water to float around in, because that's what people without responsibilities could do with their time. He hated rich people so deeply that everyone at this party made his blood boil.