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.
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"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.