Chapter Text
pete’s bones cracked loudly, like they wanted people to notice him. his eyes scanned the to-do list for the day that his new, personal assistant had written out for him. he kept forgetting the kid’s name. he couldn’t help but think that he looked almost a little too young, too. but he’d push it down if it meant debuting as a director.
pete knew that what he had was better than what any directors nowadays could make too, at least, what he had in mind for the future. this was just a little flick, meant to put his name out and get bigger studios with bigger budgets interested in him. peele, who?
but even if it was just a 90-minute budget film, he’d poured blood, sweat, and cum into that script. he didn’t want to make horror porn, he wanted to create erotic scenes and, at the same time, show off a good plot, a more unique slasher vision. it wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things when he ended up known alongside great directors like romero, argento, hitchcock, even rob zombie. no, not alongside, renowned as the best.
“dinunzio, you here to blow balloons or dicks?” someone asked. right. he’d kind of gotten off-track. right now was the last day of goremas, a horror con, and pete was surprisingly getting paid this time to help out. good time to form connections with people in the business, too. not that he was respected yet, just… noticed. no, not noticed, but he was there, and part of the team. that counted for something.
“i’m only gay if you pay me enough,” pete laughed in return, getting a snort out of his coworker. the balloons… some guy in an edward scissorhands costume accidentally popped half a balloon arch. now pete’s mouth tasted like latex. and his lower stomach was cramping like a bitch, so on that note, he was planning to clock out early…
the drive back to eltingville involved a few slim jims and a sandwich, and pete’s cramps were still acting up, but it was the last day of the festival anyway. part of him felt like a pussy for having to leave early, but after pulling out the old “cranberry juice” excuse about ten times in a single day, and spending a few minutes slumped over a toilet as he fought the urge to pass out, he’d decided he couldn’t push through it.
but if he had to explain why it was happening, he’d only be fucking things up for himself. and butchie would want to perform some of his favorite kinks on him. on camera. and while the thought was hot as shit to pete, he knew that’d fuck him over in the film industry. he’d only be known for being butchie’s fuck friend, not for any films he’d make.
no, even if the film he was making was as cheap as bitch pit, he had to make it good. even if they only had a few thousand dollars and one of the actresses was a crackwhore that’d told pete she wanted to be a star. at least she was passable. not good, just passable.
he was getting his car seat stained. pete didn’t know how many tylenols was safe to take, but he was pretty sure three was way too many. or maybe too few. they weren’t doing much to him, but he just wanted to get home anyway, so as long as he wasn’t fainting over the steering wheel, it was fine.
he craved another slim jim. but glancing over at the walmart bag that’d once contained snacks and now contained their packaging, he decided he had to hold back. he almost missed a turn as he made his choice, too. he pushed on.
he didn’t notice the differences, not at first. when he got in the shower and scrubbed at his jeans as if they’d personally offended him, he barely raised an eyebrow at the extra shampoo or anything else, just assuming he’d gotten laid at some point before he left for the trip and just forgot. it wouldn’t be the first time.
he assumed he’d just have to kick some fuckbuddy out in a little while. no big deal. he’d brought his backpack into the bathroom, a spare change of clothes in it. he usually changed there anyway. his hands were getting tired from scrubbing. his body felt fucking gross, but he couldn't linger on the thought. it wouldn't be good for him, for his head. he always scrubbed too hard. his skin had a bit more tintage than usual by the time he'd stepped out of the shower. he actually brushed his teeth today, too.
screw it. if it didn’t end up coming out in the wash, then he’d toss the clothes. whatever. not like he didn’t usually wear the same pair of jeans for days at a time. he had more anyway. fuck everything. by the time he got out of the towel and had his clothes on, he’d somewhat forgotten about the jeans. hadn’t even put on a pair of pants- it was his own house, he could do that.
it was only by the time he was checking if his milk had gone bad that he realized there was a bottle of 2%. which was bizarre, because he only drank whole milk. so he swung open the door to his bedroom, and in that instant realized he didn't have an overstaying fuckbuddy to deal with. he had something a million times worse. the definition of psychopath, william alan doomed-to-burn-in-hell dickey, passed out on his bed, his jaw bandaged up, and with a crumbled-up note on his nightstand.
pete knew bill had written it, he’d checked. bill's handwriting was always in flawless cursive. enough beatings at the dinner table did that to a kid, though pete would never pity him for that. he went through worse and turned out fine! he stepped out of the room quietly, realizing his internal rant had caused a large tear to form on the note, hands subconsciously attempting to get violent towards dickey.
goddamn butchie. he couldn’t kick bill out, that’d mean his career would be over. sometimes you’ve gotta be the submissive for your boss if you want to keep your job and pete knew he’d rather keep his cunt a secret, so this must’ve been the way for butchie to fuck him up the ass. keep him properly obedient.
and pete knew butchie could definitely afford to put bill in his own apartment. he’d hooked up with his accountant (ronnie? rodney?) way too many times not to know. butchie still got cash from his rich-as-hell dad, and that would be the only reason he was able to start up mofo productions at the young, not-quite-naïve age of sixteen.
fine. if he had to live with bill for a few days, he’d manage. if there was anything peter michael dinunzio was, it was determined. he’d made his way to one of the shelves were he kept his grand collection, now cleaner. fucking dickey. there was even a godforsaken list of all the items in the collection, alphabetized, checkmarked…
his lighter wasn’t there, and pete needed to sit down immediately.
he couldn’t help it, not at all, but his brain started spiraling in some display of rebellion against pete’s rough, yet collected image. not only had he touched his shit without permission, but he’d stolen that fucking lighter, that… the thing he usually avoided looking at half the time, the little monster that’d pulled him into that inferno ages ago. he could smell the smoke.
pete rolled up his sleeve, looking at the ancient scars on his arm. no matter how faded they got, pete would always remember the feeling. his breath got heavier, and he had to will his body to calm down.
he heard a particularly loud snore from bill, and that really helped snap him out of it. “call butchie,” he thought. “call butchie, and get this fixed.” he had to go back into the bathroom to fish through his backpack for his phone, but it didn’t take him too long to dial up butchie. after all, he was one of the first contacts on his phone.
butchie always picked up after the fourth call. never on the first or second, and rarely on the third. and the moment butchie did pick up, pete brought the phone to his ear, and said, knowing bill wasn’t going to wake up over this; “get this fucking candle-snorter out of my apartment.”
he could hear the screams of whatever shoot butchie had recorded today, and the familiar slaps of skin-on-skin and aggravatingly loud moans of whatever slut he’d picked up that day. could’ve been a chick from set, or some random crackwhore. what mattered to pete was how butchie laughed into the mic, not with evil but with sincere amusement. he could imagine the grin on the redhead’s lips. “are you boys fighting? that’s cute.”
another laughed made pete rub his forehead as he answered, “he took my lighter. he’s clearly plannin’ to murder me or somethin’. you’d be an accomplice.” no response. “butchie?”
pete wasn’t expecting concern. and being honest with himself, he knew butchie wouldn’t really get it. or maybe he did, but either way, butchie wouldn't be making it known. “roommates still shit from each other all the time. steal one of his figures. a batman or an iron man or something,” he said, as though that were helpful.
pete pulled himself up to his feet and glanced into the smudged, cracked mirror above the sink, and into his eternally tired reflection, his pale eyes, his short-as-shit curly black hair that he knew if he was born otherwise he'd be losing by now… the wrinkles forming on his skin. “he tried to murder me, butchie.”
“so? that was… a decade ago. and you’re both still breathin’. c’mon, it’s not like you came back from ‘nam or somethin– you like that, you slut?” of course butchie stopped mid-sentence to degrade his bitch. “‘sides, it means he’s authentic. you like authentic, don’t you?”
“i’ll leave.”
another pause, accompanied only by the moans of that chick.
“go ahead. i can find another asshole to make a film for me.”
“...he’s a creep.”
“so’s half the industry,” butchie said. even butchie himself was a creep. the thought of what he might’ve done to bill to get him to sign a deal with him and become an actor almost made things a bit better, like a twisted sense of come-uppance. “he’ll make the camera happy. and make you money. have fun, and don’t do anything ya might regret, alright?”
butchie didn’t wait for pete’s response to hang up. and that was when pete noticed how much his hands were shaking. his cramps had gotten worse during the argument, and he wondered if he was starting to build up an immunity against tylenol.
he could still hear bill’s snores in the other room, loud, disgusting, and he punched the mirror again, causing another crack to form across its surface, right over his right eye and going down his cheek.