With silence extending between his tirade and whatever Ryker could have said potentially, Peter had plenty of time to get a good look at what he was dealing with. Really, it was hard to tell. Shirtless and smelling of cannabis was how Ryker often roamed the house, and close to how he presented himself when they met. But Peter had to wonder if the extra-strong stench was real or imagined.
“I forgive you,” Ryker answered simply, clutching the structurally compromised paper bag in his hands.
"Thank you," Peter stated, aiming on getting his oxygen intake back to normal. With the technicalities and pleasantries of the apology out of the way, he had fulfilled what he was morally obligated to do (and what some cricket conscience in the back of his head had been beating him up about since this morning). Anything else was of his own volition. A thought which hadn't escaped Peter, as he tongued at his bottom lip in an effort to collect the right words.
Before he could get a single utterance out though, Ryker had turned away, taking his olive branch food bag with him. Peter's mouth fell open, and he almost had the gall to be offended. But he couldn't pretend that this was all about his own feelings anymore, when he had fucked up so bad.
"Wait a second!" he yelled, daring to venture across the threshold he had so vehemently thrown himself through the night before. Peter got all the way to the other end of the couch before Ryker looked back at him.
It did occur to him that if Ryker wanted anything to do with him, he probably would have advanced the conversation, or done something else that didn’t include literal escape. But Peter was nothing if not an instigator, and he figured that if he didn't take the hint now, he would when he got actually booted out the door, for good. Verbally or physically, he didn't care.
"Do you hate me or can I explain my case and try to fix this?" he demanded, hoping his voice didn't take on as much of a desperate edge as he thought it did.
There was that damn silence again. It would be the death of him.
"I don't hate you," Ryker said, whisper soft in a way that tugged at Peter’s heart.
Only to pop finger guns, winking behind his glasses as he added, "Not sure I know how."
After three months of actively seeing each other and almost four in between, Peter thought he might have gotten used to figuring out the unnatural responses Ryker had to just about anything that life could throw at him. This response still managed to catch him off guard though. Try as he might to handle this situation like an adult, Peter almost lost his entire train of momentum.
And yet, he decided that was as good a start as any.
He opened his mouth to say something, when he finally recovered from the shock of those goofy gestures coupled with the strained voice - but ultimately, he was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind Hayden's curtain. A loud, distinct sound, that was too forced not to be deliberate. Realization clicked in Peter's thick skull, and his cheeks warmed with embarrassment.
"Let's go upstairs," he decided, not really thinking of the implications when he bypassed Ryker to scoot on up the narrow steps he was so familiar with. Maybe he wasn't entitled to take that initiative anymore but if he didn't hurry the words were going to burst out of his mouth and bust through his front teeth.
The room was just as he'd left it; Peter was glad to see his absence hadn't inspired any melodramatic fits that sent furniture and belongings flying across the room (and he only wished he could say the same).
standing in the middle of the small space, he watched Ryker flop into bed and unwrap his first cheeseburger, going to town with little ceremony. That irked Peter a little, but he had to be relieved that the idiot knew how to keep his hands busy (and it occurred to Peter that if he wanted a true reparation, he should stop referring to him as "the idiot" in the privacy of his own head).
There was no way he was sitting down next to Ryker, so Peter stayed upright, leg jiggling in preparation of one hell of a pace. Might as well launch into it, before he tripped all over himself and forgot everything worth mentioning.
"You're right. About all that next step and promise shit." Two sentences in and he'd already crossed to the dresser, and back again. With so little space to work with, he was basically wearing a circle into the floor. "But the thing is I can't promise to be here next month or whenever it happens to be. I can't put a life-changing label on a relationship that's going to have to bend around my own fucking schedule and my home life. I mean I'm getting everything I want out of school but I might as well be living some secret life or some shit."
Why he couldn't have just said this before, Peter didn't know. It could have been that he was scared, embarrassed, nervous - all the awful, gut-wrenching emotions inspired by where he came from. But ultimately, everything came out of the woodwork at the worst moment imaginable. That was just fucking karma.
"I don't know how much I've told you about my mom but if she found out I was in GSA fucking strangers in the McDonald's parking lot, she'd fucking flip. She'd pull me out of school so fast I wouldn't even know it and I'd be stuck at home with her for the rest of my fucking life. But all that stuff is pretty easy to hide when I'm not tied down to it and I can lie about it. But - I don't know. It's pretty fucking hard to hide a boyfriend, the way you described it. Hard to lie about it too." Peter still didn't think all that did his reasoning justice, but for reasoning he had barely considered himself, it was all he had. All he could do was cross his arms and hope Ryker didn't think it was a crock of shit.
This was the part where he was saved or damned. Peter couldn’t imagine going through all this consternation for anyone else - this ballsy, senseless stoner scarfing down burgers at the end of his bed. Peter wouldn’t have believed it a year ago. Not even at the beginning of last April.
"I'd make a great secret boyfriend," Ryker offered suddenly, from behind his bun and patty. "Clandestine rendezvouses, flowery lady handwriting. Veronica'll write all my love letters if I ask nicely enough. You can call me girlfriend when your mom’s listening, I won't be offended...You're more important than the title, though." He stifled himself by eating again a second later, but that couldn’t stop Peter from swelling with a relieved sigh, eyes stinging. Maybe he hadn’t fucked up that bad.
"Yeah, that'll get her off my case for sure," he muttered, unable to prevent the sarcasm from seeping into his voice. It was hard to listen to Ryker talk about how important he was too, knowing that the only reason he said so now was because Peter had let the shit hit the fan. What if he had revealed all this a month ago? What about when they first met?
"I'm not asking you to go down with me, Ryker. It would be really shitty of me to expect you to change your life every three months or on short notice sometimes just because of how my situation with my mom is." Reminded him of that Greek myth with the Underworld guy and the pomegranate. Not that Peter deserved even to consider that similar to this, when he had no idea how things were going to go from here.
“You know my outfit from pride last year?” he asked, softer, when he didn’t know what else to say, half-afraid of whatever humorous defense mechanism might come out of Ryker’s mouth next. “What I was wearing when we met?”
“Sure do. My shirt’s still lying around somewhere.”
“I had to throw it away.” Peter huffed, jaw clenched in an effort to prevent moisture from beading up in his eyelashes. “I tossed it in a garbage can three blocks from my dorm. And the flags I got, and the stuff from GSA. Everything, because she’s a fucking snoop, and I can’t hide anything from her, and the thought of her finding any of it is too scary for me to even attempt to hide it somewhere in my room.”
Ryker, at least, had the sense to stop eating and hold prolonged eye contact then - but that might have been worse. Even so, Peter managed to shake himself enough to keep from crying outright. He refused to, not until he was rejected outright (even though that seemed unlikely at this point.)
"Look, Ryker, I really, really, really like you, way more than I ever thought I would." He practi
cally had to push the words out of his mouth. "I didn't mean to hurt you or lead you on, I wasn't even trying to. I’m just in a fucked up situation, and I don't have a solution for it."
All Peter could do was stand there and watch Ryker finish chewing, going through the motions of balling up his trash and wiping his hands down his pants. Peter tried not to grimace at that, even if his mind started to wander toward what Ryker might have been doing these last several hours. Probably not good, which was almost rewarding, in a sadistic kind of way. But also really heartbreaking and Peter wished he'd had the wherewithal to say something intelligent last night.
He watched, almost in slow motion as the lanky hunched form on the bed pushed to his full height and crossed the brief distance to pull Peter against him, arms around narrow shoulders before too much could really be done to stop him (not that Peter planned to). Just as he thought, Ryker smelled just like he did that first night, maybe a little different. If only every day could be as simple and wonderful as that whole interaction wrapped up in serendipity had been.
"Of course you really really really like me," Ryker murmured wryly, before Peter could get too needlessly emotional. "I'm hilarious, and sexy." Lifting his head a little, and straightening, he flattened his hands on either side of Peter's face. With a response like that, it was pretty easy for Peter to keep a straight face. Until Ryker followed up.
"And I'll do or be whatever you need me to.”
Peter knew what he wanted. A mother who was less of a bitch, and maybe a little less bitchiness from the rest of the world too. It never felt so bad when he was with Ryker, though. Too bad that couldn't last much longer than gratuitous weekends and busy nights that made him late for class.
“I do want you to be my boyfriend,” Peter said finally, circling his own arms around Ryker's waist, and lacing his fingers together behind his back, "But I can be all those things you want out of a relationship only some of the time. That’s the shitty part."
“Well you’ve been doing a pretty good job being those things so far, even though you wouldn’t label it anything,” Ryker retorted. “Besides, you’ve got yourself some extenuating circumstances. I would be pretty damn pleased if you just broke even and decided to be my boyfriend eight months out of the year.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. With you away all summer, I’m too nihilistic to be in a relationship anyway.”
“Oh.” Peter blinked, wondering if this was too easy a solution. More likely, he should have just come out with all his consternation ages ago.
“Well, in that case, Ryker, will you go steady with me, eight months out of the year?”
"Yes," Ryker answered immediately, like he was expecting the offer to be snatched from the table if he waited too long. With that, he pressed forward, sweeping into Peter's mouth a bit desperately. Kissing, Peter decided, was the perfect way to seal this little deal, tipping his head up to meet Ryker's on his way down, and sigh into the familiar slide of their mouths. He didn't even care that Ryker had bits of onion in his teeth. That he wasn’t his best self, or at least the version of best that Peter wanted him to be. He'd take it however he could get it, given how devastating the last several hours of his life had been.
It didn't take long for either of them to delve deeper, as Peter's arms slid up over Ryker's back radially, clutching him close even though his nose and taste buds tried to protest. Before it could get too hot and bothered (not a long or difficult climb, really), Ryker lifted his head to breathe, fingers flexing against the Peter’s cheeks and hair.
"Okay, but can our break ups be a little more fun from now on?" he asked, managing casual. "Not that this morning wasn't fun - actually. No. That sucked. But it'll be funny some day. Instead, we could write Dear John letters, or have a pregnancy scare. We could be driven apart by the death of a beloved pet. Maybe stage a spy adventure gone wrong where you have to get over the unexpected event of my death? I bet Hayden will play with us. Assuming Wyatt is any fun."
Now, he didn't really mind if his eyes rolled toward the ceiling, indulging the entirety of Ryker's ridiculous rant with his face between those clammy palms. Maybe he would take a shower, if Peter asked nicely. Maybe Peter could get in with him. So what if he had taken one two hours ago? Who cared? He'd be able to wake up for class tomorrow later, then.
"Or we could just not break up anytime soon," he said, resting his chin on Ryker's chest, if he was going to be expected to carry on the conversation from this distance. "I think that would be a lot more fun.”
"Oh! By Jove, you're right!" Ryker declared, his boisterous voice taking on a British angle as he lifted a finger toward the ceiling. "We don't have to break up again until May! Got all winter to ride that ass!" He swept Peter up against him, twirling the two of them around despite shrieking protest until tackling the shorter brunette onto his bed, as if he was nothing more than a sack of flour.
“By the way, I was mostly serious about a lot of the stuff I said before!” Peter proclaimed pointedly, trying not to turn shrill as Ryker bowed over him. “About cleaning and holding a job. That's about it though. I'm just telling you, no boyfriend of mine is gonna be a bum."
"Well, since I've been practicing for so long," Ryker muttered, head and eyes rolling sensationally. "Guess I'll keep up the perfect boyfriend routine." Glancing around, he shrugged a bit, situating himself more solidly between Peter’s thighs.
"It's kinda nice being able to find clean clothes without digging," he conceded, nodding sagely. "And that gross smell is finally gone. Are you proud of me, Peter? Have I been a good boy?" Wriggling higher, Ryker lunged at the warm spot between collarbone and adam's apple, latching his lips on skin.
He really must have been trying his hardest to get Peter to stop trying to be nice. All that babbling and throat kissing left Peter gritting his teeth against a delightful sort of snappy rage. He only ever felt this way with Ryker, and in a weird way, it was kind of cathartic and satisfying.
Unable to bear much more, Peter pushed Ryker by the shoulders, maintaining proximity even as he set his best version of dagger eyes on his now-boyfriend. "Ryker, I know you're excited, but if you don't brush your teeth soon, I'm gonna vomit."
Chapter 16
With the weather just starting to turn balmy, every window in the school was left thrust open at the behest of every teacher and student. Since the air conditioning wouldn’t come back on until May, for some stupid financial reason that left everyone fanning themselves with their sketchbooks, stuffy studios were chock full of overheated artists who couldn’t sit still for very long.
Hayden shoved a half-finished canvas in his cubby on the third floor, careful not to get the wet oil paint anywhere on him, or the wall. He had enough on his hands as is, and not even a rinse at the sink could get the greasy residue off his palms, as he gathered his things to head out for the day. Objective Painting wasn’t his favorite class, but he had a requirement to fill.
Trotting downstairs offered a cool breeze against the damp fabric of his shirt sticking to his back, made from motion and all the open windows around him. It was a little less sweltering on the second floor altogether, and Hayden situated himself in a chair toward the corner to wait out whatever dregs of this block of class time remained.
Occasionally, he sat there long enough to have his heartbeat picking up, if it had been a particularly off day for him. But that was easily remedied by the sight of Wyatt strolling out of one of the drawing classrooms, dressed, pleasant, and suspiciously dry.
“You’re not sweating,” Hayden said, almost in disbelief as he stood.
“I’m not,” Wyatt affirmed good-naturedly. “In fact, it was actually pretty drafty for me.”
Hayden huffed, but Wyatt took his hand, pulling him out to the stairs before they could get caught arguing about the heat. The artist started outside, but Wyatt pulled him back, mentioning that he had to pick up his paycheck.
“How was your day?” the dirty blond asked, leading the way to the mailroom.
“I’m sick of still-lifes though. I’m tired of painting fruit. What about you?”
“Fine. That professor is starting to grate on me though. All those snide remarks almost make me want to defend the students, and I don’t know a damn thing about art.”
“Maybe you could try modelling for a different class next semester,” Hayden offered, amused by the sour look on Wyatt’s face. “I’m taking a narrative figure drawing class. You could look into that.”
“Narrative?” Wyatt echoed, brows pinched.
“Costumes, and stuff. Scenes from Shakespeare.” Hayden beamed, already feeling ridiculous, as Wyatt levelled his judgemental gaze at him. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“I don’t think I’d like it though.”
“Well you’ve already explored one extreme. Might as well explore the other.”
Wyatt lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, sighing in a put-upon manner. Hayden might have laughed, or changed the subject then, but he got caught, once again, by the gold glinting in caramel eyes. He always did, and hadn’t found the right color pastel to convey them yet. It had to be just right.
Wyatt spoke briefly with the mailroom attendant, swapping ID for his check. Without any more business to attend to, they were free to head outside.
Mid-April finally offered them a break from the showers, giving way to trees that exploded with blossoms in pink and yellow. Peter had been complaining about allergies before the snow even stopped though.
“By the way, Peter wants to know if you’re still interested in helping out at College Pride,” Hayden said, remembering the yappy statement from the day before.
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