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“what’s going on?”

you look up again, meeting uncertain eyes with a fake sense of amusement. you know what you’re doing, and so does peter.

“what?” you tease, running your hand over plastic price tags and years of dust, staring down at ceramic mugs and tiny scentless candles.

peter puts his hand on your back, walking with you, and as a subtle and graceful friend, you quickly move away from him, pretending to kneel down and look at a set of plates.

“that. this—this thing that your doing.” peter points to you like it’s a physical entity. some thing you’re holding just to hurt him. a handful of tricks.

“looking at cat mugs?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“avoiding me. pretending like you haven’t been evading every question i’ve asked.”

you frown, but don’t look up. you finger a curved handle, swallow and let the lies slip from your mouth without any effort. if you’ve been distant from peter recently, it’s nothing but an accident. a practiced maneuver. “i’m not avoiding you.”

“you haven’t looked at me all day.”

“i’m looking at you right now, peter.” and so you do.

peter smiles, laughs a bit, his chest rising and falling, but it’s frustrated. he runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. and then he bends down and wraps his hand around your arm, pulling you up before you get the chance to stop him.

and you would stop him, you know, if he hadn’t already pointed out that you’ve been doing it all day. for at least the past week.

his touch burns, like a singe on your already red wounds. and even though he’s smiling at you, being as gentle as peter always is, you can see your tension, can feel your own hesitation in his skin.

“did i hurt you, or something?” he asks, biting the inside of his cheek. “i know we—well, we’re not um, that hesitant with being close, touching and stuff, but if i did something accidentally—“

“you haven’t hurt me, peter.”

“okay… then what’s going on? do you need to discuss boundaries with me?”

“what?” you laugh.

“i’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” peter says, softly, like you’re some breakable thing. “i just want to make sure that you—that we’re okay.”

“of course we’re okay, peter.”

and then, that’s not quite true.

when you look into peters eyes, it’s not an auburn storm that you see. it’s not even yourself being reflected in his irises.

it’s flashing lights and music that made your head pound. there’s sticky floors and too many people—so much air, and too much breathing in such a small room. you see people laughing and singing, hands and bodies intertwined like it would hurt to be apart.

and it’s all sort of beautiful and disturbing, all sort of a lot—but then, there’s familiar hands, running up an unfamiliar body. peter had asked you to dance, but you knew it was only so he could laugh because he knew that you couldn’t.

when you look into peters eyes you see her. and there’s such a strong fire ignited in your chest, such a vehement jealousy that you have to look away.

you have to physically pull yourself away from him just so you don’t feel like that. just so you can tell yourself that it’s not fair.

“we’re fine,” you repeat, softly, and you look away from him. turn away, so you can block yourself away from his all too knowing stare.

you don’t pull away from his hands, but god do you want to. you want to take a break from him, a break from all of this until you can promise yourself that you just don’t care.

that you don’t crave his side stepping and hand holding and resting your head on his shoulder or leaning against his chest. that isn’t fair.

you clear your throat; you can’t lie to him, and it’s not like peter is going to let you. “it’s just…” you start, stepping towards him and then away. “i don’t know if lindsay would be comfortable with it.”

peters face flinched, he tilts his head at you. “lindsay?”

“i don’t want to get in the way of anything…”

“get in the way of what?”

you meet his eyes and laugh. “c’mon, peter. you’re not as discreet as you think you are. there was that night at the club and then the “study” dates you’ve been going on.”

“that wasn’t anything—“ peter is quick to get out, but you shove his shoulder, pretending your laughter isn’t painful.

“save it, loverboy. if you want to hold someone’s hand,” you tease, “it should be your girlfriends. i was surprised you even asked me to come gift hunting today.”

peter swallows. “she’s not my girlfriend.”

you nod, turning away from him. “yeah, okay.”

“i’m serious. we’ve been working on a project for bio-chem, that’s all.”

“i’m not blind, peter.”

he walks when you do, leaning his head down until he can see your face. “don’t you think i’d tell you if started dating someone and it was serious?”

“um, no, not really. we don’t ever talk about that stuff.”

“yeah, because you get weird whenever i bring it up.”

“i don’t get weird—“ you say, turning to glare at him. he’s closer than you expected though so whatever you were about to say falls into the air. it blows away with the feel of peters breath on your cheek.

“i would tell you,” he says, “if i had a girlfriend.”

you lean away from him, taking a deep breath in. “okay, peter. but the point still stands. you shouldn’t be holding hands with me while you’ve got a girl who’s waiting for you to get your head out of your ass. or stop lying. whatever.”

“i don’t want to hold her hand.”

peters voice is soft, and his hand is gentle as it lands on your waist. he pulls you to him, like he’s sure that you’re going to run away.

“well now i know why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

peter chuckles, staring down at you with burning eyes. and this time, when you look at him, you see only a secret catching fire. “i don’t have a girlfriend because i want to hold your hand,” he whispers, a finger brushing up against your jaw.

“o-oh.”

you stare at him, unsure what else to say.

what other announcements need to be made, what other proclamations you should probably get in writing.

peter smiles again, wider. he lets go of you and turns so his shoulder is to you. and then he grabs your hand.

“just so you know,” he says, smirk far too much.

just so you know.