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."
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"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."