You're in my blood, you're my holy wine

[velveteenwolf]

Peter won't say it, but he feels like an asshole even as he keeps telling himself he'd done the right thing. He wanted to protect Roman from this. From the Vargulf, from everything that was fucked with this screwed up little town, but most especially, he wanted to save Roman from himself. From the darkness that hadn't yet won him over, but the closer he was to this, the worse this whole shit sandwich got. He had felt it in the Mill. The darkness, the feeling that some day it was going to spill over, and the closer Roman was to this, the sooner that day was going to come.

The sun was out, just enough to be slightly too warm in the high afternoon until he slipped out of his shirt and shoes, drinking beers from the small refrigerator and wishing the sun could chase the chill from his heart. He felt guilty, he felt like he'd done something wrong no matter how many times he tried to tell himself he was just keeping Roman safe, out of this. It was his fight anyway. It had been.. nice. Having Roman by his side, someone who knew, someone that gave a shit and didn't judge him like Destiny and his mother, as if they knew better than he did what he was neck deep in.

He'd been drinking off and on the whole day. By the time he heard an engine pull up to the trailer he was buzzed, tipsy, maybe just a little bit drunk. He had been sitting on the front stoop, playing games with the cat, although after that many beers, the cat's claws were winning. But maybe the slight sting of pain was good -- it gave him something to focus on. Something that wasn't painfully gorgeous with two emeralds for eyes and lips people would kill for. Fucking Roman. Peter couldn't get him out of his head, and it was almost infuriating. Every time he had to remind himself this was the right choice.

He felt guilty, even as pissed as he still was about the Mill. But between that weird feeling he'd gotten, almost sick to his stomach with it, he could almost understand it. Roman didn't deal well with being pushed outside of his comfort zone. But at the same time, that made for an even better reason to cut him out of this whole fucked up thing. It goes to just how much he'd been enjoying his beers that day (and maybe some lot, if he's being honest about it) that he didn't Roman until he could smell him, until the shadow of his body slid over him and Peter shivered.

"Shit, Roman..."

He moved to get up, to try and walk back into the trailer, his shoulders stiff, refusing to let onto his indecision. 

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[blood_kink]

He probably shouldn't have been driving by the time he got in the car.

He'd spent the day getting high, drinking, naked and alone in the bathroom, half-dressed, wherever the fuck he wanted. There was no numbing this, but he tried to cut it away with lines of cocaine, drown it in the bottom of an amber bottle, blot it with the pleasure of the warm swell of blood over his pale skin, paint new lips over his own to draw Peter's attention back to them. To him.

He'd had his attention once, but it seemed as though every time they came together, he had it less and less. It seemed like Peter wanted him less with every touch, when it only left Roman wanting more and more.

He knew he was losing him before he lies started, but that didn't make that first lie easier. It was the twist of a knife that slipped too deep, letting more blood than he could afford to lose. And then, he'd lost Peter, and that was worse. Impossibly worse.

He's angry, and he's hurt, and he's got a lot to prove. To himself, and to Peter. He can be better, he can be exactly what Peter wants, and he can take what he wants. But he can't. Not from Peter. He's the only one, the only one he can't force, the only one it's real with. It has to be. Peter's the only real thing he has, and right now, he doesn't even have him. There's nothing to hold on to, no solid ground to stand on.

Peter's shirtless and standing up from the stoop while some fucking cat runs away. There's empty beers on the ground, and he just knows they're not from yesterday. Good. Good, Peter's been drinking. Good he's affected, maybe hurting too. Roman wants him to hurt, wants to know he feels this too. Regrets it. He can't be the only one bleeding this time.

"Yeah," he says, like a challenge. Yeah, it's him. He's here. Facing him, after. What do you have to say now? is unspoken in that 'yeah.'

And he waits. Stares him down, and just waits. Waits to see what he does, what he says, if he can even look him in the eye.

[velveteenwolf]

Peter tries to meet those green eyes, looks away, and there's a flash of confusion, of hurt, that moment where he's asking why he's doing this to himself. He doesn't even try to fake that he'd not hurt when he sighs, moving to the fridge to pull out the last two beers. He should do his best to chase him off, but this is fucking Roman after all, and Peter is aware that he'd probably not going to leave until he tries to force this issue, force Peter's hand.

"What the Hell are you doing here Roman?" He holds out a beer in offer and it's with a long breath that he's finally able to bring those blues up to meet Roman's greens. There's part of him that's terrified Roman will roofie eye him to get what he wants, when he's not even quite sure what that is.

He's leaning in the doorway, still topless, barefoot, and popping open the top of his beer as he takes a rather healthy drink. But even as the beer touches the back of his throat, he's already accepting that this isn't strong enough. There's a half-full bottle of whiskey on the bottom shelf of the coffee table he's musing on.

He can't tell Roman that he's protecting him, so he swallows, squares his shoulders and tries to put on a brave face, even if he's too inebriated for it to quite work. "There's nothing to talk about." And he turns to duck inside.

He can't let Roman know how much this hurts Peter, or he'll figure out how much of a crock of shit this whole thing is. And Peter can't afford that. Roman is in prime spot to get fucked if this all goes South, which Peter knows in his Swadisthana it's going to. He cared too fucking much to lose him for real.

[blood_kink]

Roman refuses to take the beer from Peter until he looks at him. He's standing there, fighting with himself because the voice, that iron will inside him wants to scream look at me but he won't. He feels completely powerless, completely at a loss as he waits, as he tries to catch Peter's gaze with nothing more than his own, but he looks away, can't bear to look him in the eye. He doesn't know why, but he feels the hurt well up again, feels emotion he can't name or control or handle, and he turns his head, putting on pissed because at least that's easier. He takes a deep breath and turns back, looking for Peter in Peter, looking for those human blues.

And there it is. Roman stays, he holds it, and finally takes the beer from him, cold condensation glass against his palm. He could give less of a shit about this pisswater beer. He doesn't bother opening it.

"Like hell there's not," he says, hoping for aggressive but afraid he comes off desperate. He never feels like this with anyone else, like he's in danger of losing. He never loses, never can't have. The world is yes for him, so much so that none of it matters. He can have anything he wants except for what he wants, and that one thing is a big, shirtless fucking no. His eyes slip down Peter's naked, tanned chest, admiring all that dark skin in spite of himself.

"Don't you fucking walk away from me!" he yells after him, and goddamn, it would be so easy to bring him back. So easy to take, but it wouldn't be real. It would be like all the rest of this bullshit, all fake, all whatever he makes of it. That's not what this is, it's not what he likes about this, about Peter. Peter's different. Real. It's just a beat, maybe two, and Peter isn't turning back to face him, isn't listening, he's walking away and Roman throws the beer in his hand and it shatters against the side of the trailer, close enough to Peter that he gets a cold splash against his side as the glass scatters and falls away.

[velveteenwolf]

Peter stops, freezes in the doorway as the bottle shatters against the trailer, and there's a faint spray of liquid. He stands still for a few long moments before reaching up, dragging a hand against his cheek to wipe it away; he doesn't notice the streak of crimson that comes with it. He takes a deep breath and sighs, shaking his head as he lets his eyes slide closed.

"What do you want me to say, Roman?"

It's not what he wants to say. He wants to beg him not to do this, even if this is a vague fucking thing that Peter can't talk about. He wants him to not push 1ike this, because he's already stretched so fucking thin. He's trying to do the right thing here, to keep Roman from being hurt, because he knows this is no fucking good for him and that he just needs to get out of here, even if he knows that he wont.

Fucking Godfreys. They didn't understand what it was to be able to lose, what it was to not be able to have every whim and desire. Sure, Roman was worse, but Letha was no less guilty of it, for all of her hair tosses and warm smiles. She wanted him, though not as intensely as Roman, which almost made her feel safer. Safer, because he didn't need her like he needed Roman.

He turns to face him, cocking his head, and his blue eyes almost demanding as they tilt up to meet Roman's greens. He hasn't noticed that he's bleeding, the warm wet slickness of bright crimson that's sliding down the left side of his face. It feels like sweat, and he ignores it, can feel it prickling on his brow.

"I just can't do this. Whatever the fuck that we've been doing. This-- thing."