"Daddy went home with Uncle Wyatt, means we can fuck in the living room, right?" he asked, just in case, even as the two of them stumbled toward the next set of stairs. Veronica was obviously going back to Ben’s to celebrate , but Ryker couldn’t tell if Ryan had beat them home. He couldn’t remember seeing his pickup in the lot.
"Wyatt is not my uncle, and never will be," Peter proclaimed, frowning, even as he tipped his chin against Ryker's chest to look at him, hands skating around his floral print shirt in search of an opening - alas, there was none! Ryker had tucked and buttoned like a proper gentleman.
“What about Ryan?”
"You're right. We should invite Ryan," Ryker deadpanned, resisting his grin just long enough for a hint of outrage to cross his boyfriend's face.
"Kidding, joking," Ryker droned a moment later, giggling as he walked them crab style to the stairs. Stumbling up the steps was worth letting go just to end the anticipation, and the brunette tried not to trip across his own floor (idly grateful about being forced to pick up the mess).
"Kiss me, boyfriend," Ryker cooed happily, feeling a bit like a big ol' ape thumping his chest as he caught Peter against him again, mouth descending on red lips. Peter tipped against him responsively, hands slinking around his neck. Ryker had his eyes closed, but they didn’t have to be for him to just know that shortie was up on his tiptoes.
He was at least sloshed enough, it seemed, to trip over his own feet and fail at basic key usage, but at least the kissing was good, Ryker decided. Really, it was always good, especially with Peter's mouth against his. There were other good ways to kiss, of course, but this was certainly the taller brunette's favorite.
Dipping his head below Peter's chin again, as soon as that soft, slick mouth pulled away from his, Ryker laughed idly against the column of his boyfriend's throat, half squeezed out of there by the curl of a shoulder.
"Ryker, you know I don't like it when you throw around the B-word like that," Peter murmured, using that tutting tone that he thought was so effective, and Ryker thought was so funny.
"M'not throwin’ it around," the loudmouth argued sweetly, more than pleased with the fact that he had heard it at all, let alone remembered after however many hours and a couple of drinks.
"You're the one who said it, my dear!" Ryker continued, chest puffing a bit as he straightened again, beaming smugly. His hands couldn't stop moving across Peter's body, around his waist, up and down his arms, over shoulders and hips and back. "I have been knighted in the hall of music as lover and protector, witnessed by a congregation of your peers!"
Suddenly, without warning, Peter got a grip on Ryker’s cheeks, fixing his gaze like a mother whose child kept running up and down the cereal aisle at the grocery store.
"I just said that to get that guy off my back. It's not that big a deal," he said, slowly - almost patronizing. "If I had meant it, I would have said so, not let you find out like that."
Caught in the cage of Peter's insistent fingers, Ryker could only stare, blinking, his smile not quite ready to fall away even as he felt a sinking between his ribs at the response. A good portion of his less conscious thoughts offered little more than a chorus of duh , but who was he to ruin such a great evening with a melancholy acceptance of (bullshit) excuses?
"Oh, I see," he murmured, aiming for a teasing tone even as a chill entered his blood. Not the cold air that had suffused his skin since getting out of the car. The rushing of his pulse seemed to slow, as if his own body needed him to take it easy. Peter slid his hands up to pull down the collar of Ryker's shirt, where flesh met fabric, and mouth at his collarbone as if he hadn’t said anything soul-crushing at all.
"Good enough to keep the creeps at bay." Was that supposed to sting so much? He couldn't guess. And despite the mounting sensation that his torso was being hollowed out with a melon baller, Ryker pushed forward to get his knees on the bed, dropping the two of them onto Peter's back, even as he relished the sensation of lips and tongue against his clavicle.
"Didn't realize the title would be so conveniently fleeting," he muttered, hearing the disappointment in his own tone and suddenly powerless to stop it. Instead, he buried his face against Peter's chin and nipped at the soft skin there.
Peter brought them to a grinding halt again , wriggling his hands between their bodies and pushed Ryker. The shove against his chest was enough to get him up and away, and Ryker braced himself just to keep Peter's hands from being the sole pressure point and support beam.
"It wasn't for you to hear, it was for him," Peter stated, voice threatening to turn icy. "And for the record, Ryker, you being an asshole doesn't make you more likely to be my boyfriend. It just makes you an asshole."
Control over his expression became impossible and he gave up the effort, sinking back and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
It didn't help that there was nothing worse than the sight of Peter being legitimately mad at him. If it was in response to a bawdy joke, at least the Loudmouth could be pleased with himself.
"Well, all the shit you insisted would help has basically done nothing, so..." Trailing off pointedly, Ryker shrugged, eyes widening as he glanced down at Peter again, only to flop himself over to the side a moment later. It was better to be flat on his back staring at the ceiling than being stared down by an angry pixie clad in Easter brunch clothes.
"Guess I should be glad some local twink hunter thinks I'm good enough," he muttered, arms draping over his eyes, while sour coils unfurled in his gut.
Fucking the mattress all together, Peter shot to his feet. Not with the bouncy energy Ryker had grown so accustomed to, but with something visceral and vehement.
"I don't know why you're so fucking desperate for a label. We hold hands and kiss and fuck, I don't know what more you want, it's not like there's anything more that we can do if we make it official," he ranted, barely containing some crackling spark of rage. "What, if we're boyfriends will you suddenly have enough money to take us on real dates? And not just McDonald's binges?”
Peter huffed angrily, raking a hand through his hair. But apparently, he wasn’t done.
"I mean shit Ryker don't you think if I wanted to be your boyfriend I would have said something by now?”
A lifetime of dangling whatever bait it took to convince anyone to rise to it had not quite managed to prepare Ryker for consequences like this. Ryker sure got his reaction; whether it was the one he wanted or the one he expected was always up for debate. Now, though, he was already absolutely sure that the answer to either was a big fuck no .
Jostled by the mattress, Ryker sighed again, throwing his arms out to the side dramatically. Thrusting himself up onto his elbows wound up being the worst mistake he made so far, perhaps only because he had to see the look on Peter's face while he denounced any minute chance of there being a new answer. Even after all the changes he had made, all the effort. Early mornings and long days. He could have spent the entire summer in a blue gray haze, confined to the attic in his underwear - leaving only long enough to sign the pizza delivery receipts and maybe get his rocks off in a number of roommate beds. Hell, he could have had strangers. Not just while Peter was gone but apparently the entire time, since even the fidelity of a dumb label was more than he deserved.
"It's not just a label," Ryker ground out, his throat and lungs thickening like leather as he pushed himself all the way up, only to fold forward so his elbows were on his knees, hands over his face. It was a shame he couldn't sink into the bed and disappear amongst the springs.
"It's a step. The next step. For some, a first. It's s’pose to sit between strangers or friends, and life partners on the stairway to fucking heaven. It's about promises to be here tomorrow and next week and next month and to let each other know if we can't suddenly." Sounding like a goddamn Hallmark card, Ryker shot to his feet, pacing across his room almost out of habit. The fact that his stash lay at the far end of his route was useless with Peter's gaze boring into his back - or maybe that was imagined too.
Either way, Ryker couldn't quite bring himself to reach for his pipe, no matter how alluring the relief was.
"But you're right." His hands gripped the dresser instead, fighting for balance and against that acid curl in his stomach that was threatening to turn into vomit. "If you wanted to be my boyfriend, you'd have said something by now. So I guess I won't ask again."
Why he expected Peter to give a real shit about a relationship, Ryker wasn't sure. Maybe that was just the extent of his clearly unfounded wishful thinking. Spending the night and going out was, after all, a perfectly reasonable amount of time to spend with people who apparently meant just enough to use against the threat of unwanted advances but not enough to mention in polite company. As if they had an enormous set of overlapping social circles. Hell, Wyatt was the closest thing to a classmate Ryker had ever been introduced to, and that had taken the beauty of Hayden Flores being irresistible to happen at all.
"Right it's not like I'm sleeping here four or five days a week and inviting you to bars and shit," Peter bit out "Fucking came back after the summer and I didn't fucking have to but I did, 'cause I wanted to. God, this was supposed to be fun! We never have a problem until you open your big fat stupid fucking mouth! Why can't you ever just keep it shut!"
Bowing over a hunk of wood with all his clean clothes in it wasn't helping the threat of vomit at the back of his throat, so Ryker turned in place, his arms across his chest as he leaned back against it instead. The angled roof was almost low enough to knock against his head, but that was as good an excuse as any to keep his eyes on the floor.
Loudmouth White, master of the last word, the edgewise in, the paramount of double entendre, and king of blatant profanity, couldn't find a single word to say. But what did that matter? Since Peter didn't want to hear anything from him anyway.
Offering an empty, deadpanned stretch of his lips, edges curling up into his cheeks and folding his upper lip into itself, Ryker lifted a hand to his face, two fingers dragging along the length of his mouth, and then flicked his pantomime key into the aether.
Peter was close to vibrating, infuriated. Maybe Ryker could have stopped it, but he didn’t.
"You're a fucking asshole," Peter grunted acridly, apparently so out of clever retorts that he was repeating himself. Nothing but dirty looks and seething brown eyes, he started toward the stairs, steps harsh. "Have fun smoking yourself into a coma and banging strangers in parking lots."
Ryker almost shrugged. Almost murmured, I will, thanks . Because apparently it didn't hurt enough yet. Fortunately, stubbornness over the zipper on his lips won that coin flip, and he wound up grinding his teeth instead. What room did he have to argue, after all, since he was the one starting shit - having the gall to think (in a half-drunken idiot stupor, apparently, since it seemed so obviously stupid now) that months of changing everything about himself to make Peter happy would actually result in anything. It was his fault, anyway, wasn't it? For believing all along that those demands were anything more than excuses to keep fucking and kissing and going out without having to have any important conversations. Ryker was an idiot, who apparently was just fine giving up probably the best thing that had ever happened to him, because no one wanted to promise him that it would last forever.
And here it was, coming to a concise, sudden end, all because he wanted to feel more important than for now .
Peter wasn't even out the fucking door before the impulse driven loudmouth slid down to the floor, his back scraping painfully against the brass handles of the dresser until his ass hit the floor. Knees folded up, he buried his face in his hands again and tried not to think about whether Peter got home safe or would ever come back, as the door down stairs slammed shut hard enough to shake the foundation. Thoughts of chasing him down were crushed under the very tangible sensation of a rock in his stomach, reminding him with every inhale that it wouldn't change Peter's mind about anything, because nothing ever did - and what was he going to do, offer a ride home?
Besides, just then, the only thing Ryker could make himself do was breathe. Face wet, fingers curled into his hair, feeling sorry for himself until the twisting and burning in his gut gave way to uncomfortable sleep.
Chapter 14
A too-warm sensation was unusual, if only because Wyatt's comfort level tended to be self-moderating when it came to sleeping under blankets, which were inexplicably still pulled up over his shoulder. Normally, by now, they might be relegated to waist level or kicked off entirely - depending on whether the air conditioning was working or not (though the crisp temperatures had been resolving that issue for a couple weeks now). More unusual than anything, though, was the weight of an arm around his waist and the heat of flesh pressed against his cheek.
It didn't take more than a moment in the conscious realm to recall how this had come to pass, let alone whom he would find when he lifted his head - wondering how he had wound up tucked beneath Hayden's chin, being the taller by at least an inch or two. Regardless, it was a pleasant place to be, and the dirty blond was tempted not to disturb the moment at all, at least as long as it could keep itself intact. Stretching his legs minutely to relieve the tension caused by a lack of movement was enough to have both of them swelling with a more conscious breath, though and Wyatt conceded a murmured Good morning .
"Morning," Hayden answered softly, shifting himself lower, when they started to untangle. As if he had even forgotten, Wyatt was starkly reminded of the remaining circumstances from the night before when Hayden adjusted, coming nearly nose to nose with him while their very bare skin slipped and skidded against one another. And to think, nothing had happened! He practically lured Hayden into bed with him, and after a good deal of lazy kisses and caresses, they simply went to sleep. And Wyatt was perfectly, delightfully pleased with that.
Whatever the protocol was for mornings like this, the abysmally experienced Jew had no real idea, least of all for something that sounded strange to his own mind - trying to explain how much more profound a mere embrace could be compared to the debauched acts already behind them. There were probably less intimate acts, but Wyatt couldn't think of them, especially Hayden's eyes on him.
Normally - Wyatt thought, with a glance at the clock on his night stand - he would be up making breakfast by now. Fully dressed! The fact that he wasn't any of those things contributed to continuing thusly, even as he considered offering his overnight guest something hot and-or caffeinated. Eggs and toast weren't completely out of the question either, though the dirty blond would surely need to put something on before that (even if it felt ridiculous to dirty his pajamas after sleeping all night without them).
"You're the prettiest person I've ever met," Hayden muttered, blinking tired emerald eyes, as if he had no idea how he ended up there that morning. Wyatt huffed a small laugh through his nose.
"That sounds statistically unlikely," he murmured in mock humility, his tone almost smug while his pulse reacted to the compliment.
"Do you have anywhere to be today?" he asked very quietly after a moment, flicking idly between two trains of thought like a metronome. Being utterly ignorant of the precise protocol for such a situation, Wyatt rather thought that left him immune to it, which left him wondering about the scope of possibility (especially with the warm and stirring press of Hayden's body against his own).
"Well, mass is at ten thirty, so..." Hayden trailed off, and before Wyatt could even think to tell him he would definitely be late, the brunette was laughing, face turned into the pillow.
"I'm kidding," he prefaced. "No, I don't have anywhere to be. Not until tomorrow."
Wyatt couldn't resist the curl of his lips, when Hayden laughed again. What a beautiful sound.
Until tomorrow was quite a lot to work with, and the delivery of the answer gave Wyatt the notion that anything was allowed to happen between now and then, a fact which had him queuing up their potential morning activities like a vacation coordinator.
"Well, I could make any number of things for breakfast, assum
ing you don't have any super common allergies," he started in a musing tone, as if he were just considering the options now. His arms shifted around Hayden a bit idly, hands smoothing down the length of his spine.
"I'm afraid we'll have to put clothes on for that," he added with a coy tilt to his mouth, feeling somehow risqué for the mention. "I have a pretty strict dress code for my kitchen. Not quite as strict as the diner down the street, though."
"Your dress codes seem to vary," Hayden mentioned. It took Wyatt far too long to process the quiet jibe, his eyes closing slowly a few moments too late, while he fought a (slightly self conscious) twist of his lips. Before he could wonder if he should laugh or huff - let alone whether the delayed reaction could even qualify as sincere - Hayden was speaking again.
“To be honest, I'm not sure if I could handle breakfast, right now. I th-think that wine is starting to catch up with me. I must be turning into a light-weight.”
Despite the casual tone of the conversation, Wyatt could feel his pulse creeping up his throat. Especially with Hayden sliding against him again, inching ever closer. Already tangled legs cinched snugly together, until there was no hiding the effect of slowed blood pressure and gentle stimulation.
"I have Tylenol," Wyatt murmured in offer, his smile widening on its own - feeling as helpful as he was warm. "And water, if that would help." A moment passed before the dirty blond realized that he was essentially insisting that they vacate the warm cavern the two of them had carved out of his bed.
"Not that I'm anxious to leave," he tacked on hurriedly, half-consciously tightening his grip at the thought of losing all that soft, warm contact. It was probably rude, having just been informed of his guest's apparent discomfort, but Wyatt couldn't quite resist a small shake of his head, slow enough to ghost his lips against Hayden's jawline.
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