he remembers falling asleep on the couch last night, arm over his head and a leg hanging off. dull to the world. the door opened with a jangle of keys, a heavy step over that creaky floorboard by the entrance. ( rustling, muttering, ) ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. peter woke up with a blanket, the sound of flashโs breathing heard โ he snores, lightly, peter swears โ through his cracked bedroom door. and the world carried on in this state of decay, this one moment where they exist outside it all. itโs easier to just not think, to not look. peter comes home late that night too, this time through the window and not the front door. thereโs no creaky board but the pane makes a groaning sound as it rises, as though in betrayed complaint that itโs even been touched.
and heโs tired but not down, limbs weary, the taste of a split lip that has already healed and sealed over on his tongue. it smells of beer. pungent, heady, of too many nights following friends to bars and wondering at the sounds splitting his sensitive ears. heโd still gone, of course, because heโd wanted to be normal. ( to be fun, wanted, important. ) peter pulls off his mask, tongue swiping over his lip. ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ข. โโ honey, iโm home. started the party without me ? โโ
there are a few cans already opened, but flash is only softened, the lines of his face washed away. a warmness clings to him, as thought the release of alcohol is what draws away lingering shadows. peter doesnโt like the inclusion of a vice, especially this particular one, but he enjoys the way the world seems to feel the way the color of bourbon looks. amber-bright and deep. ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐. โโ hold that thought, dude. and save some for me. โโ
peter showers off the grime of the city smog, brushes away the taste of his blood and sweat. heโs quick about it, used to the brutality of cold water on his poor limbs. a shiver has him throwing on three layers โ the last being a sweatshirt that hangs a little off his frame. must be one of flashโs, their laundry mixed by accident. in just a few minutes heโs throwing himself back upon the couch he woke up on, exhaling a bright, groaning sigh. his head is tossed back against the cushions, curls damp and splayed on the upholstery. theyโre getting long. he should get a cut soon. he tries to imagine getting a crewcut like flash and makes himself laugh.
itโs not often he drinks. he doesnโt like the way it makes him heavy and slow but doesnโt tamper the power. he doesnโt like how easily his control can be lost. but he drinks a can anyway, swiping it from the table, rings from many drinks before stained into the wood. โโ UGH ! just as bad as i remember . . . โโ and they sit, and they talk, and that golden ambience sinks into his eyes and his smile, and peter isnโt sure why thereโs a thread of tension between them ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐โ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐.
@aegant murmurs โโ i wish you were a girl . . . โโ
the summer-dream colors slip away, starkly white and blue. the shower is suddenly warm in comparison to the chill that climbs down every damn knob of his spine. he doesnโt feel the can pressed to his lips, he doesnโt feel it clatter against the table when he drops it down, movements mechanical. thereโs a ringing in his head that has nothing at all to do with the presence of danger, it sounds like the resounding toll of a bell after a funeral. it sounds like I WISH YOU WERE A GIRL. โโ what ? โโ he chuckles, forcefully. it feels like a cry. like something didnโt just crack because ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐โ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐. ( not pretty enough, not on time enough, not strong enough, not kind enough, not female enough. )
he looks away. at the floor, the window, the ceiling. โโ youโre a little tipsy, huh ? โโ his voice cracks, angry as a thrown mirror. he tries to tape it up but it just doesnโt quite look the same. โโ you wouldnโt like me if i was a girl. maybe you wouldnโt have dunked my head in a toilet as a kid but you sure wouldnโt have looked twice at me. you couldnโt have me like this if i was a girl, as your roommate, as your best friend, as your โ โโ
peter doesnโt know what the fuck heโs talking about. he talks another swig of the beer and it tastes like death and he hates it and his skin is crawling. he doesnโt know what the fuck FLASH is talking about. what kind of โ ? what would change, peter thinks, if i was a girl ? and that strange, ignored thing living in the space between them prods at his edges, ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ข ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐โ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐. the normal thing to do would be to ignore it. to laugh at flashโs words or to rib him about them, about his drunk, soft gaze and the way it makes peter feel. it would be so easy to pretend but all peter feels is angry. โโ i think thatโs enough drinking for you. thereโs nothing wrong with . . . thereโs nothing wrong. iโm right fucking here, man. where are you ? โโ
