Peter doesn't know how to ask for it, so he lets his eyes do the talking, lets his mouth, and he hopes that it's enough. And Roman waits for it, waits for that shine of permission, the way that Peter leans back against the wall and tugs, urges, asks for him to move in closer before he moves. That first push isn't deep, it's like he knows, like he's worried about hurting him, pushing too hard, too much. It's pieces of a puzzle that Peter doesn't really understand, and isn't even looking at right now.

He's not worrying about rumors, or feelings, or anything except how Roman feels as he presses into Peter's mouth. He's trapped against the wall, but that's okay. He likes it, is turned on by that fact, by how they fit together like this. He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, just letting him push, rock in against him, hips against his lips.

His eyelashes flutter, blue eyes finding those greens again for a moment, his face flushed, lips glistening wetly in the light of the bathroom as his hands stay on Roman's hips, fingers curling just a little every time that he pulls back like a silent entreaty to slide back deeper into his mouth. He can take it, he knows he can, even if Roman is thicker, feels good, tastes good against his tongue.

It's different, somehow. Different in that way that he wants to do this again. Someplace still and warm and quiet, do it again, fuck, curl up together after. With Roman, there's so much that he wants, even if he doesn't believe that they're things he can have. He moans heatedly, pupils dilated but not pulling away, even if he'd had room to.

Roman is different in this, just like he is in every other way.