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.
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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.