The Debt of Guilt [BxB]

13: after

May
1995

The party was still spinning around Peter, like a tornado of hors d'oeuvres, martinis, and cigars. He was considerably drunk now, after downing as much champagne as he could get his hands on, swaying between the crowds of tuxes and cocktail dresses, trying to avoid Danny ruining his fun.

"Ay, it's Olson!" He stumbled towards Neve, who was sat on a sun lounger on her own, kicking off her heels.

She looked up at him, laughing under her breath, "I was wondering when I'd get the chance to speak to you again." She shifted so that there was room for him to slide in beside her.

He collapsed onto the sun lounger, spilling a bit of champagne on Danny's suit, "Ah, shit." He murmured, trying to wipe it off.

Neve watched him in amusement, "What are you wearing anyway? Louis Vuitton?"

"Who's that?" He frowned, "Another celebrity guy?" He was slurring his words now, "Truth is, Olson, I don't know who anyone here is."

She giggled, "No, your suit." She told him, "I was talking about the designer...never mind. You really don't know anyone here?"

Peter shook his head, "Nope."

"Not even...?" She scanned the patio, searching different faces, "What about him?" She pointed to a nondescript man having an animated conversation with another nondescript man, both sipping whiskey.

Peter shrugged helplessly, "Not a clue."

"That's fucking Jack Nicholson!" She exclaimed in exasperation, "'The Shining'? Fucking 'Batman'? Really?"

He and Scott had snuck into the cinema to watch 'Batman' in the summer of 1989. It took some convincing, but once Scott unleashed his rebellious side, it was a lot of fun. If only Scott could see him now. "I don't know." Peter squinted to try and get a closer look at the actor, but he still didn't recognise him.

"You're at a party full of A list celebrities and you just...you really don't give a shit, do you?" A smile was tugging at the corners of Neve's lips. He could it in her eyes - she was utterly fascinated by him.

"I'm not...this isn't my world." He downed the rest of his drink, and with a flash of recklessness, tossed the glass into the pool. It made a splash, then sunk to the bottom.

"You and Daniel are so different."

"Not really." He scoffed.

She rose her eyebrows, clearly intrigued, "No?"

He dragged his honey eyes up to meet her deep brown ones, "If fifteen year old Danny could see himself now, he'd..." He hesitated, "He'd hate himself."

"Why's that?" She kept him rooted to the spot with her firm gaze. "He's successful. Rich and famous, and beautiful." She shrugged, "I don't think he's done too bad for himself."

Peter finally ripped his gaze away, focussing on Danny across the patio, murmuring something in his agent's ear. "He's not him." Peter responded.

Neve rolled her eyes, "And I suppose you're the only one who knows the true Danny, hm?" She laughed lightly, "I've read enough bullshit Hollywood scripts to know that that's what you were about to say."

"He hasn't been himself in years." Peter brushed her off, "He escapes into the characters he plays, trying to hide parts of himself with them." He explained, "Eventually, he created a character for himself; Daniel Fox, Hollywood actor. That's not Danny."

"We're actors." Neve said, "It's what we do. We pretend. We play the part. Daniel's good at it, too. Everyone loves him."

Peter snorted, and stood up, "Not everyone."

He reentered the party, marching up to a waiter who was holding a silver tray of hors d'oeuvres. The waiter explained that they were walnut and blue cheese stuffed mushrooms, and Peter had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He was used to prison food; cold hamburgers, and beige macaroni and cheese. It felt unjust, to eat something so extravagant and pretentious, when his fellow inmates would be feating on dry rice tonight.

Nevertheless, he took the entire try off of the waiter, and sat cross legged on the floor, stuffing mushrooms into his mouth, as dozens of eyes watched him with shadows of judgement.

Danny shoved through the crowd before he could wipe the tray clean, grabbed Peter by the elbow and yanked him to his feet, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He whispered in Peter's ear, still smiling breezily for the crowd as he dragged him through to a private room. It had a pool table in it, and the walls were covered in movie posters, most of them featuring Danny's face.

Peter smiled bashfully at him, eyes zoning in on the liquor cabinet in the corner. He crossed the room and rummaged through it before pulling out a bottle of whiskey.

Danny snatched the bottle out of his hand, "Why are you doing this?" He demanded lowly.

Peter smirked at him, "Oh, I'm sorry." He slurred, "Am I causing chaos?" He tried to snatch the bottle back but Danny held it above his head. "But that can't be possible because you said that there was 'control in my chaos'."

"Jesus, Peter." Danny continued to hold the bottle out of Peter's reach, though that didn't stop Peter jumping to try and grab it. "You're fucked. You need water, and then bed."

"You were the one who told me to get a drink." He reminded him stubbornly, giving up on trying to grab the whiskey, and crossing his arms over his chest instead.

"Yeah, a drink. Not ten."

"So, cocaine is fine, but champagne is fucking outrageous, huh?" Peter snapped.

Danny rolled his eyes, "You haven't got a clue what you're talking about-"

"I'm sorry that my alcohol tolerance is shitty, Danny, but that's your fault!"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause everything is my fault, isn't it?" Danny exclaimed angrily, "How the fuck am I responsible for that?"

"I stopped drinking when I was sixteen! When I should've been at parties and clubs, trying Molly and coke, and getting blackout drunk, I was in prison! I didn't have the same experience everyone else got! I didn't get to make those mistakes and...and..." Peter rubbed his eyes, realising they were wet, and hating himself for it. "Crazy thing..." He voice fell flat now; quiet and defeated, "When I was inside, all I wanted was to experience a hangover."

Danny watched him sympathetically, and with those big sad brown eyes, Peter looked so heartbreakingly young again. Danny sighed, unscrewing the lid of the whiskey, taking a swig, and then handing the bottle to Peter, "This bottle was a present from Steven Spielberg." He told him, "So this hangover better be fucking worth it."

Peter wiped his tears away, the ghost of a smile returned, "You have appearances to keep up, Mr Fox."

"Fuck it." He shrugged, another piece of the old Danny returning, like a jigsaw puzzle of all the different versions of himself, meshed up into one.

And finally, after all the arguing, and hatred, and tension, and pain, Peter hugged him.

Their bodies slot perfectly together, just like they had on Peter's single mattress, beneath itchy blankets. And though they looked different, and smelled different, and wore different clothes, it was the same. The same skin, bones, and hearts. The same two boys, helpless and lost, drawn together time and time again.