The next two weeks are strange, oddly domestic and yet somehow different on a base, instinctive level. At first Scott wonders if maybe it’s too much, maybe a little too far from normal, even for them, but mostly he’s just happy, satisfied in a way he’s never been before. He’s never worried less, never smiled more. They fall into a habit, relating to each other in a new way, and it’s not easy, exactly, but it comes to Scott without a struggle, like the first few times he picked up a guitar. Every day brings something new, and every day it gets easier, more comfortable, more normal, even though Scott knows it’s not. It’s something he can’t describe, but it doesn’t matter. He’s caught up in it, and whatever Carter does, how it makes Scott feel, it holds him like he’s caught in a web, not touching the ground and unable to escape. It feels safe. Protective.
It’s not just when they’re having sex, either, which surprises Scott at first. One day he’s sitting on the couch just watching TV, and Carter comes up behind him and rests his hands on Scott’s shoulders, slowly sliding them around to ring his neck. It’s such a gentle touch, fingers barely resting on his skin, but it sends shivers all down Scott’s spine. By the time Carter drifts away again, Scott’s completely missed the rest of the episode he was watching - he can’t focus on anything when Carter’s touching him like that. But it’s good. It’s exciting and calming all at once, and it’s really fucking good. He picks up the remote and rewinds, and he watches the rest with his one hand tucked up under his chin, thumb stroking over the place where Carter’s fingers just were.
He keeps expecting to get used to it, this new thing between them, but it’s thrilling every time - that look in Carter’s eyes, the intent in his movements, the way he can make Scott react like he’s a puppet on a string. It reminds him of how things are between them on stage, how they’ve been even from the beginning. Up there, Carter is the boss, the one in charge. It’s his show. And Scott has always been happy to go along, to watch for Carter’s cues and react, whether the signal was something as technical as to turn the reverb up...or to get ready for Carter to kiss his face off. This, what they’re doing now, feels like that. Scott’s thinking about those days a little differently now. At the time, he’d thought the thrill came from performing, from letting Carter kiss and touch him in front of all those screaming fans. Now, he’s starting to realize that it wasn’t the performance at all. It was the dynamic - the control. He gets off on it just as hard now, behind closed doors, as he ever did on stage.
He starts looking for ways to chase that feeling more, not just when Carter feels like giving it to him. He hangs up Carter’s clothes and brings him his phone when it rings. He does dishes. He rubs Carter’s shoulders at the end of long work days. They’re the most mundane things in the world, but they feel different now. Exciting. Right.
He can tell exactly the moment that Carter gets what he’s doing. They’re cuddled on the couch, just watching sitcoms and chilling, and Carter sighs and looks down at the empty glass in his hand and makes to get up, get a refill. But before he can stand, Scott reaches out and takes the glass from his hand. He darts into the kitchen and mixes Carter another cocktail, just the way Carter likes it, and when he comes back to offer Carter the glass, Carter is staring at him with an intense, searching look. Scott blushes and ducks his face, hiding behind his hair. He wonders if Carter is going to ask him about this. He wonders what he’ll say if he does.
After a moment, Carter reaches out and takes the glass, gesturing for Scott to come back to his spot snuggled up against Carter’s side. Scott lets out a breath and settles in close, and Carter’s hand comes to stroke through his hair as he takes a sip of his drink. It’s the most normal thing in the world, should be, but Scott’s so hard he can’t even think, his heart pounding and his head floating. He hopes Carter never asks him to explain this shit, because he has no idea how he would even start.
But eventually, Scott’s luck runs out and Carter asks him to talk about it, put his feelings into words, make Carter understand what’s going on in his head. They lay in bed together, quiet, sated, and Carter pets Scott’s fresh-bruised throat gently, not rushing, just waiting patiently for Scott to answer.
“Calm,” is the first thing Scott says, the first word he can identify. “It makes me calm. Like... I can stop worrying because you’re there.”
“You’re getting better,” Carter tells him. “Holding your breath for longer. Getting... calmer. Is it easier now? To let yourself go?”
Scott shakes his head. “Not easier, just... I can fall farther, and it takes longer to get back up. Like... like you’re lowering me into a well or something, and every day I get deeper and it gets darker, but I know you’re at the top, in that little spot of light, holding the rope. We’re still connected even when I get so deep I can’t see you anymore. I know you’re still there, holding onto me. Does that make sense? I can’t... I don’t know how to describe it.”
Carter is quiet for a long time, just smiling at him. Finally, he takes Scott in his arms and hugs him tight, and kisses his cheek, and whispers, “You’re amazing. So amazing, Scott. Sometimes I can’t even believe you.”
Scott frowns. “I’m telling the truth...” he starts.
“No, baby. I mean I can’t believe you’re here, with me. That you’re mine.”
“Of course I am,” Scott says, shrugging. “I’ve never felt like this before, like I can... want things, and do things, and not have to worry about what people will think. Because it’s like you worry for me, you know? I know you can do stuff better than me...like, you can handle stuff...so I can just let you do it and not worry about messing shit up.”
Carter doesn’t respond, and Scott glances over at him quickly. “Fucked up, right?” he asks, more out of self-defense than anything, worried that that was the wrong thing to say.
Carter just shakes his head and says, “No more than me. If you knew how it makes me feel...the things it makes me want, Scott...”
And Scott wants to hear about it, he really does. But then Carter is rolling on top of him and kissing him again, and his fingers are going tight under Scott’s jaw, and soon enough, he forgets about the conversation entirely. They don’t discuss it again.
Then, one day, Carter says, “So I think we should go out tonight.” And just like that, all the fear and worry and insecurity is back like it never left, and Scott wants more than anything to say no.
“Okay,” he says, but his voice betrays him. Carter gives him a look, the one where he knows Scott’s not telling him the whole truth. He tells Scott that it’ll be fine, that they know how to handle things now, that he’ll take care of everything. And when Carter kisses him and slips a gentle hand around his throat, just a reminder, Scott believes him.
It’s not somewhere so public, so exposed this time. Carter hires a car so they don’t have to drive, and the paparazzi aren’t waiting for them at the front doors of the restaurant. Inside, it’s dark and warm, and it feels rich, though Scott doesn’t feel underdressed in his tight black pants and black button-down. His shirt is clean and neat, and his nails have a fresh coat of nail polish, and he spent a long time on his makeup, glancing at Carter in the mirror for his approval. Carter, of course, always looks amazing, perfectly dressed for any occasion, and this place seems accustomed to serving famous rockstars. They follow the hostess to a table set against the wall, surrounded by heavy drapes on two sides, almost like they’re in their own little room. Scott likes it. The table, the restaurant, the clothes... the entire atmosphere Carter’s created by bringing him here.
Carter orders for them both, but really only for himself, just a little bit more than usual. The waiter puts the plates down in the middle of the table, perfect for sharing, but Carter pulls them to his side, takes Scott’s silverware, leaves him with an empty stretch of table. Scott inhales slowly and stares at Carter, waiting.
“Put your hands flat on the table,” Carter says quietly. The curtains surrounding them are thick, and though the restaurant is quiet, Scott doesn’t think there’s any chance they’ll be overheard. He puts his hands on the table and watches as Carter scoops up a forkful of risotto. Carter takes the first bite, and his eyes slip closed, just for a second, as he moans softly at the flavor. Scott licks his lips. He didn’t eat much during lunch, just a few bites to keep Carter from noticing he wasn’t hungry, and he can’t remember eating breakfast either.
The next bite doesn’t go to Scott, but the third does. Carter holds out the fork and tells Scott to lean over the table without moving his hands. He’s not allowed to move his hands at all until their dinner is gone.
It’s strange and almost exhilarating to be fed in public like this, like a child. Scott keeps glancing out into the darkened dining room, even though he knows they’re secluded enough that no one can see. Every time his attention wavers, Carter snaps his fingers, and the soft, commanding click brings Scott right back to Carter, his hand holding the fork and his eyes watching Scott with a dark intensity. He’s enjoying this. Scott can see it. He’s probably hard under the table right now, Scott thinks, and his own hands twitch on the table, betraying the urge to reach down and press them into his lap. Carter notices, of course - Carter notices everything - and gives Scott a smirk, like he knows.
Carter stops feeding him and goes back to feeding himself for a few minutes, and Scott relaxes, watching him. This is so easy. He wants every meal to be this way. As long as he can remember, eating has been about having to decide, every fucking bite, constantly torn between what he wants and what he should do, the bite his tongue wants and his beer belly and flabby face don’t even remotely need. Here, now, there is no deciding. There is only Carter, and what Carter gives him. Carter’s expectations, his silent commands. He has been following Carter’s lead for over five years on stage. This is just an extension of that. Natural. Inevitable.
When they get home, Scott lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and Carter is at his side in an instant, asking if he’s okay, if it was too much, too overwhelming. Scott presses himself into Carter’s comforting bulk and shakes his head, and wishes he had the right words to explain. It worked. They worked. For the first time since that awful panic attack in the bathroom, Scott feels like things might be back on track after all. Maybe he can’t be the typical celebrity boyfriend. But this...this he can do. Carter even seems to like it.
They fuck after, in Carter’s bed with the light flickering from a few candles. Carter keeps up a steady stream of murmurs, encouragements, and Scott lets himself float. This night is what their first date night should’ve been, Carter tells him. This is what Carter had wanted.