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.
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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.