I Won't Let Go 'Til I've Got What's Mine
…and he keeps waiting. He bangs on the bathroom door again, a little harder this time. “We’re going to miss our bus!”
“I’m almost ready!” Gwen shouts from behind the door.
“Come on, Gwen!” He draws out the syllables and lets his voice get high and whiny, just the way he knows it annoys her the most.
“Oh my god! You are such a drama queen!” She huffs, finally emerging. Gwen looks amazing in a shimmering black turtleneck that stands in stark contrast to her white blond hair. Her eyeliner is tapered to a sharp point, ready to cut.
Peter looks down at his clothes: a soft green button down shirt, tan corduroys, and a brown checked jacket. He looks a little like Mr. Toad compared next to her, a fact that doesn’t escape Gwen’s notice.
“You sure you don’t want to change?” She makes a displeased face.
Peter shrugs. “I’m not trying to impress anyone tonight.”
Gwen’s frown deepens and she rolls her eyes. “Oh please. This is the moment where you show up at the party, hot as fuck, and then dance the night away!”
“I still plan on dancing the night away. I’m just going to be comfortable doing it.”
Gwen pouts before giving him an over dramatic sigh (she really is picking up his worst habits). “Fine, but at least let me put some makeup on you while we’re on the bus!”
Peter chuckles, unable to deny Gwen anything. “Sure. But come on! I don’t want to have to run!”
They bolt down the stairs and out the door, not quite running but still moving far quicker than Peter thinks should be possible given Gwen’s high heeled boots. She talks excitedly about their plans for the summer and shares odds and ends of gossip she’s overheard working in the labs during winter break. He adjusts the tote bag full of clinking bottles over his shoulder, feeding off her excitement and carefully stores this moment in his memory. He knows he’s going to need it come summertime.
“Come here,” She motions with her finger and opens up a small pot of glittery gel once they’re seated and headed to Harry’s. Gwen dabs delicately around his eyes, skirting the contours of his cheek bone, eventually pulling back and smiling at him. “Much better! You’re beautiful, Peter.”
***
Peter takes another (measured) sip from his too sweet drink. Usually he would be enthusiastically taking shot after shot of cheap liquor, but he knows his fragile heart can’t take it right now. So it’s a shitty vodka cranberry (heavy on the cranberry) kind of night instead. He sneaks another discreet glance at Harry — takes in his elegant profile as he chats with someone — and hates how good he looks even when leaning against a wall.
He flashes back to Harry’s words from the previous week and grimaces. He takes another drink, less measured than the last.
Peter slumps on the couch, feeling more sad than before. His brain unhelpfully reminds him that alcohol is a depressant and he struggles to not roll his eyes; of course his brain would pipe up with that useless fact four drinks in.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” Gwen collapses dramatically onto the couch, a ball of sunshine and pure joy. Peter tries not to scowl, schools his face into something a little more neutral. This is her night and she deserves to have a supportive best friend cheering her on.
“Bad.” He deadpans.
“Oof. Rough night?”
“More like a rough year.”
She winces, following his line of sight and seeing Harry. “Sorry.”
Peter waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, it’s not your fault. I just wish…”
“You wish what?”
Peter sighs and shrugs bleakly, letting his head loll onto the back of the couch. “I don’t know what I want, actually.” The words come out heavier than he intends and he feels a little pathetic, but mostly like a really shitty friend. He cringes. “Sorry, I don’t want to bring the mood down.”
“It’s okay, Pete.” Gwen rests her elbow on the couch, cupping her cheek with her hand, while the other finds a home on his bicep. She steadies him like an anchor. “You know, you don’t have to pretend to be okay. It’s okay to not be okay.”
“I know. But, this sucks, Gwen. I just wish I didn’t feel like this.”
Her mouth turns down. “I’m sorry, Pete.”
“It’s not you, Gwen. It’s all me and my emotionally stunted brain.” Peter lets out a dry humorless chuckle, feels the onset of tears, and rubs the palm of his hand into his eye. The last thing he wants to do is cry in the middle of a party hosted by Harry. He takes a deep breath, managing to tamp down those tears, but knows it won’t last. He’s just postponing the inevitable.
“You know what,” he slaps his palms on his thighs, forcing some energy into his voice. “I’m going to take a walk and then meet back up with you, okay?”
Gwen responds with a little snort in disbelief. “Just… don’t get into trouble okay? Text me when you’re headed home.”
Peter puts a hand to his chest in fake hurt. “Wow — me get into trouble? Never! But I promise I won’t get up to any misadventures tonight.”
***
Peter doesn’t really think about where he’s going. He’s ambling again, but it’s okay. At least this time he has his coat and cell phone. It also helps that he’s not outrageously drunk.
He passes by a row of storefronts and his mind instinctively flashes to that night last spring. Ben. He remembers his breathing exercises and focuses on everything but that. It doesn’t matter though, the images flash behind his eyes: a stringy haired man, a flickering yellow light, a pool of blood, a stupidly insignificant bottle.
He lets out a sob.
That’s enough to break the dam and the tears flow hard and fast. His chest heaves and it feels like a small miracle that it doesn’t just cleave in half from the pain. He stumbles toward his bus stop, pathetically swiping at the tears, and turning down a sidestreet. He sees the stop further up ahead and lets out a ragged sigh of relief. All he needs to do is cross the street. He can do that. That’s doable.
Peter wipes messily at his nose before hastily checking both ways for cars. He gets to the other side and feels as if he’s run a marathon — the tightness in his chest is a boa constrictor around his heart and threatens to suffocate him.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Peter bends over, hands on his knees, hoping to ride out this wave of panic.
Breathe in, breathe out.
A bark catches his attention and, through still wet lashes, he sees a man tug along a little dog just half a block away. He sees him give a resigned sigh when the dog decides to plop down expectantly and feels a surge of affection when the man goes to give the dog a brief scratch under his chin.
Peter nearly laughs out loud because, under the arc of light from a streetlamp, Professor Parker is perfectly illuminated like some comically cliche sign from the universe.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Parker stands up with a look of surprise. “Peter?” He tugs Sandwich over with a little whistle and they make their way slowly to him.
Breathe in, breathe out.
But this time it’s not because of the vice in his chest, rather entirely because of the flutters he starts feeling in his stomach.
Peter slowly straightens out as they approach, the tension within him melting away as he sees Professor Parker’s placid blue eyes. “Hey!” He tries to hide the thickness in his voice. “How’re you doing?”
Professor Parker is all smiles until he gets closer and has a moment to look him over. His eyebrows furrow with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Um. Define okay?” Peter feels some more tears suddenly spring up and he tries to will them away.
“What’s wrong?”
Peter lets out a small huff as he tries to unsuccessfully regain his composure. “I-I…it’s a really long story.”
“I’ve got time.” Professor Parker’s tone is soft and encouraging.
Somehow that makes it worse and Peter feels the tears come faster now. He fans himself before rubbing his thumbs against his eyes and blinking rapidly in an effort to keep the tears at bay.
“Oh man.” He groans. “Why do you always have to see me when I’m at my actual worst? Seriously, I’m a mess right now!” He manages to laugh around the tears and tries to make it a little less awkward without much luck.
“I don’t think you’re a mess.” Parker frowns.
“That’s really nice of you to say, but I am.”
Parker gives him a reproachful look, as if he can’t believe he’d say that about himself. “Why are you so hard on yourself?” He scans his face with worry. “What’s wrong?”
Peter bites his lip, not feeling nearly drunk enough to reveal anything to Parker, and decides to stall. He likes Parker’s company, but can’t quite bring himself to talk about Uncle Ben just yet. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
“Sure.”
The silence between them is…interesting. Peter doesn’t feel uncomfortable but he is acutely aware of how quiet both he and Parker are being, as if they’re dancing around something bigger. They round a corner, hear the din of a busy street and the booming bass of a nearby club, and continue walking.
Peter doesn’t mind the silence though. Parker’s mere presence is enough to soothe his frayed nerves. His entire being is calming and grounding in a way Peter can only aspire to be. He briefly wonders how Parker does it and imagines him practicing in front of a mirror every day, training his eyes to have that gentle wisdom that makes all worries go away.
An unbidden laugh escapes from him, cutting through their silence.
Parker turns sharply to him, confused. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” Peter grins, still imagining Parker practicing that wise face. “It’s just…Has anyone told you that you give off this calmness? Like, it just rolls off you? I don’t know what it is, but I think if you could bottle it up and sell it then you’d make millions.”
Parker looks at him funny, scrunching his nose as if unsure of how to take the compliment. “Surprisingly, you’re not the first to say that.”
That encourages Peter. “How do you do it? I mean, I’m cracking up here, just thinking about you practicing in front of a mirror or something.”
A bark of laughter comes out of Parker. It’s beautiful, the way it brightens up his whole face, brings out the crinkles around his eyes, and highlights the little dimple on his chin. “I don’t know? Years of therapy and self loathing, I guess?”
Peter snorts. “Self loathing, really?”
“Oh yeah! Lots of that!”
“Huh. Maybe that’s a Peter Parker thing, I guess?”
“God, I hope not.” Parker shakes his head. “That would be too sad. I was definitely not in a good place. Not for a really long time. I mean…”
Peter waits expectantly for him to finish that sentence, hangs onto every word as Parker bites his lip. He quickly realizes they’re a lot more alike than it seems and it adds another piece to the beautiful puzzle that is Professor Parker.
“But enough about me.” Parker masterfully turns the tables on him. “What about you? What’s wrong?”
Peter shakes his head. “It really is a long story.”
“I’ve got time.” Parker repeats plainly, shrugging and giving him a sidelong glance.
In that moment, it slowly dawns on Peter that maybe (just maybe) Parker also wants to spend time with him. Perhaps, he allows himself to hope, this feeling is mutual. He seizes this chance from the universe and with all the confidence he can muster makes his one request. “You know what — I’ll tell you but we have to go to your place first.”
Parker’s face is inscrutable and Peter briefly worries that he’s overstepped. He braces himself for a gentle rejection and prepares to make an excuse, but then sees the corners of Parker’s mouth tug up. “Sure.”
***
Peter resists the urge to pinch himself every few minutes. He’s in Parker’s house, sitting on his couch, drinking his wine, getting ready to tell him about himself. Play it cool, he reminds himself. This is just two dudes, hanging out.
Yeah, right, says the annoying little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously a lot like Gwen.
He fiddles with his hands, takes a sip of his drink, and tries to steady his nerves.
“Sorry, about that,” Parker closes a door behind him, leaving Sandwich in his office for the night. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.”
“No, not at all.”
Parker takes his usual seat across the couch, crossing one leg over the other, revealing a hint of his ankle. Peter resists the urge to stare like some Victorian era gentleman getting titillated at the sight of a bare ankle. He’s not about to act like some horny teenager, okay?
“So…” Parker’s tone is light, almost teasing, and the look he sends Peter feels downright criminal with the way it sets his body ablaze.
“Right, yeah.” Peter takes a heady gulp of wine, trying to find the best place to start his story without becoming a blubbering mess. He’s scared to let his tenderness show, afraid that it will scare Parker away. “Um. I suppose you know a little bit about what happened last spring.”
Parker sighs. “Yeah. Otto mentioned a bit.”
“Right. So you know about my uncle Ben and how he was killed?” Peter hesitates, feeling a shiver down his spine, and averts his eyes, focusing on anything but Parker. He can’t handle the intensity of Parker’s piercing blue eyes. He can’t bear the thought of seeing them accuse him: murderer.
“I know that you were there with him when he died.” Parker’s voice is impossibly soft, devoid of any judgment.
“Then you know it’s my fault right?”
Peter hears the way Parker sucks in a breath and maintains his gaze firmly fixed on the photo of Harry and Parker. He braces himself for it.
“It’s not your fault, Peter. I don’t know what you’ve been telling yourself, but it’s not your fault.”
Peter’s mouth quirks up as he flinches, but somehow he gathers enough strength to look Parker in the eyes. “But it is, Parker. I know it is. And ever since that night, it feels like my life has been one gut punch after another. I mean, I get it. Karma and all that. But still-” He sighs, feeling those pesky tears coming back, “It hurts.”
There’s a rawness in his voice he doesn’t recognize and it encourages him to word vomit. “Like, I can’t even visit my own aunt without being completely consumed by guilt so I’m just a jerk who ignores her calls! And now, my best friend is leaving for the summer, I’m obsessing over someone I absolutely have zero chance with, and, because of my stupid inability to communicate my feelings, I was an asshole and pushed away someone who was genuinely good for me, like a complete idiot! I’m a fucking mess.”
Peter breathes heavily, feeling weeks (maybe months) of pent up frustration released. He’s sure Parker’s wide eyes match his own as it slowly dawns on him what he’s revealed. He sends a quick prayer out into the universe: please don’t ask me any questions, please don’t-
“Wow.” Parker raises his eyebrow. Blinks. “That’s a lot.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter breathes an internal sigh of relief at Parker’s obliviousness.
“Would it help if I said I understand what you’re going through? I mean, I think I’ve been there… more or less.”
“Really?” Peter can’t help the incredulous tone — Parker is so put together. Surely, he’s joking.
“Yeah. Guilt over someone’s death: check. Being an asshole because I couldn’t properly communicate: double, maybe triple, check. Being in love with someone I absolutely couldn’t have: unfortunately, check.” Parker lists each item off on his fingertips, and ends it with a wry grin.
He looks to Peter, gives him that same reassuring look from earlier. “I lost someone close to me and for a really long time I blamed myself for it. I still do. But I was so focused on punishing myself that I pushed everyone I cared about away. I wasn’t honest at all. I mean that’s why-”
He weakly holds up his left hand, showing his bare ring finger.
Peter nods, understanding what he’s saying and feeling a new wave of appreciation for Parker. “What happened?”
“I tried to do what I thought was best for everyone else without ever asking what they wanted. I took it on like a responsibility.” He shakes his head in obvious regret. “I thought if I made everyone else happy, if I fixed all their problems, then someday I’d stop feeling so guilty. All I did was hurt everyone I cared about.”
Peter can hear the implied name in those words. “I met her, you know. Your wife. She was nice.” He’s not sure why it feels important to reveal that to Parker, but hopes that he understands this attempt at empathy.
“Ex-wife.” Parker corrects him with a clipped tone. “Yeah, MJ. She mentioned you. She thought you were sweet.”
“I’m sorry that it ended.” Peter’s unsure of how to phrase it — it’s not like you’re supposed to say congratulations to someone who’s getting divorced. Or is it?
“It’s fine, I guess?” Parker makes a face, looking relieved and then surprised at his reaction. “Our marriage was over a long time ago, but we still cared too much about each other to let go. I think we both finally accepted that we're just better off as friends.”
“Oh.” Peter’s sure his eyes are as wide as saucers. “That’s good, right?”
“Yeah, it’s definitely for the best. Like I said, I wasn’t the best at communicating. Actually no, that’s an understatement. I was the worst!” Parker’s laugh is self deprecating but charming nonetheless. “And while I love her, it took me too long to realize I wasn’t in love with her. Not the way I was with someone else, and that I was married for all the wrong reasons.”
Peter tilts his head. He wants to hear more about that, but can sense that that’s a story for another time.
“Yeah.” Parker’s voice is sad as he reflects. “My advice, you should tell that person how you feel. Maybe it’ll help sort everything else out.”
“You’re really good at giving advice you know? Between this and the wise face, I really think you missed your calling.”
Peter’s comment catches Parker just as he’s finishing a sip of wine. He enjoys seeing a crooked little grin settle on his face. “Oh, really? What’s that?”
“You would have made a great therapist.”
“Oh, absolutely not!” Parker throws his head back with a quick laugh. ”But, seriously, I know it’s scary, but sometimes you just have to tell someone how you feel.”
Those words linger in the apartment. Peter squirms a little, even though he knows they’re not pointed at him. If only you knew, Professor Parker, he muses. If only you knew.
Parker yawns and rubs his hands over his face. It’s adorable in a way Peter has never noticed in anyone else before. “Sorry, I’m just not used to being up so late.”
“No, no, I’m sorry — I should get going. I’ve been here too long.” He quickly begins to stand. Grabs his coat, ready to go outside.
“No, not at all!” Parker waves him off. “I mean…I’m just glad I could help a bit.”
“Oh, believe me, you’ve helped a lot!”
“Are you okay to go home?” The concern is back in Parker’s eyes and Peter revels in the attention. “You’re not a drunk-o-potamus this time, but you never know.” Parker’s smirk returns, and Peter feels a lightbulb go off in his head.
“No, I'm fine!” He assures his professor (maybe friend?). “But you know, I wouldn't say no to a ride home?” Peter’s not sure where this boldness is coming from, but he’s grateful for it. He asks the universe to grant him this favor (pretty please).
Parker smiles. “Let me get my keys.”
***
Professor Parker’s car is almost as practical and sensible as himself. The inside is clean, with no signs of wrappers or day old coffee cups, and smells piney-fresh. Peter smiles at the cd slot and aux cable — it’s charming, just like Parker himself.
“What?” Professor Parker asks, looking suddenly self conscious. “Is something wrong with the car?”
“No, it’s just…it’s very you.”
“Are you teasing me?” Parker laughs but Peter can hear a tiny note of panic. There’s a nervousness that Peter can’t quite understand, but it thrills him to know that he’s not the only one anxious about all this.
“No! I’m just…” Peter tries to put his thoughts into words before settling on a truth about himself. “I’m just making really bad small talk.” He laughs and is absolutely elated when Parker joins in. Whatever awkwardness was in the car slowly dissipates. “But seriously, thank you for the ride home.”
“Of course.”
“And thank you… for everything.” Peter looks tentatively at Parker’s profile, hoping to catch a hint of his reaction, to see if he can hear the yearning in his voice. It’s undecipherable.
Peter watches the city woosh by and feels a certain disappointment as he begins to recognize his neighborhood. He directs Parker to park on his street, grateful for an open space within eyesight of his door but feeling a little like Cinderella at the end of the night.
Perhaps it’s the earlier heart to heart or the wine still making its way to his head, but Peter decides in that moment to do something he may regret for the rest of his life (but he’ll regret it even more if he doesn’t). He chalks it up to simply being love drunk. “You know what I said earlier — about being obsessed with someone completely out of my league?”
“Yeah.” Parker turns off the car.
“You know I was talking about you, right?”
“Peter…”
“I know, I know.” Peter waves it off with a disappointed frown, stares at his feet, and hopes the ground could reach up and swallow him whole. “It’s ridiculous. I guess it’s just wishful thinking that maybe…”
“You’re my student, Peter.” Parker's face is full of conflict, as if he’s trying to articulate what he wants to say. “I just can’t.”
“Can’t or don’t want to?” There’s hope in Peter’s voice as he whips his head in Parker’s direction, ready to catch any reaction. He’s surprised to see Parker looking directly at him already.
“You’re my student, Peter.” Parker stresses, completely avoiding the question, even as his eyes tell a different story. Despite the darkness of the car, Peter can see the intensity in Parker’s gaze. Those brilliant blue eyes are almost electric and filled with something akin to hunger. It renews that hope and eggs him on.
“The semester doesn’t start for another three days, Professor.” Peter doesn’t intend for his voice to come out so sultry but he can tell it has an effect on the older man. He sees Parker’s nearly imperceptible shift at the word Professor and follows the involuntary movement of his hand toward his lap. Peter gulps as the pieces click into place.
It’s almost as if Parker can see the cogs turning in Peter’s head as their gazes meet back up. Parker inhales sharply, his features trained into the perfect poker face and that’s enough for Peter to take it as a challenge. Parker’s hand is still in his lap and Peter knows that this is his moment. Ever the scientist, he tests out his hypothesis.
“What’s wrong, Professor?” His eyes flick to Parker’s hand to see it flexing over his leg before flicking back up to catch Parker’s pupils dilating — the contrast is dramatic against the bright blue.
Parker doesn’t respond. Just arches an eyebrow and takes another breath, deeper this time.
In an uncharacteristic move, Peter calls his bluff. While he normally would have apologized by now, chalked that hand movement and the fuck-me eyes up to something else, he feels his body filled with courage like never before. It pushes him to be bold for once.
Peter leans over, not breaking eye contact and fully enjoying how dark and big Parker’s pupils are.
“Are you alright, Professor Parker?” He tries to keep an airy tone but lets the words drip slowly from his mouth like honey. He’s close enough to feel Parker’s short huff of breath, hear the soft gulp in his throat, and catch those eyes dart to his lips before meeting his gaze again.
“You’re my student, Peter.” Parker repeats, but it sounds oddly strangled and completely devoid of conviction.
“Not until Tuesday, Professor.” He whispers softly, close enough that he can feel his words land against Parker’s lips.
With that invitation, Parker launches forward and presses their hot and hungry mouths together. Peter feels him thread a hand through his hair, forcing him to deepen the kiss (and he absolutely has no problem doing that). The older man is desperate, his teeth nip Peter’s bottom lip with enthusiasm and cause him to let out an embarrassing moan that only spurs Parker more.
He’s not sure how long they last like that. They continue to kiss and Peter tries to memorize what this is like, what Parker feels like, because he’s too smart to delude himself into thinking this will ever happen again.
“You have no idea of how long I’ve wanted this,” Peter murmurs into Parker’s soft neck as they break for air. “How long I’ve had to just watch you…” He dives back to reclaim Parker’s lips.
The groan he elicits from Parker pushes him over the edge. He wants all of him, right now. He trails his hand down, towards the top of Parker’s pants and wavers over his zipper. He breaks away from Parker’s lips to make eye contact, because he needs to know that Parker wants this just as much as he does.
Peter momentarily forgets how to breathe, feeling the wind knocked out of him at the sight of Parker’s blue eyes filled with lust.
“Please.” His hand is on the zipper. His voice is breathy in a way he can’t even recognize and he repeats his question as he slowly unzips and bows his head toward Parker’s crotch. He’s fully aware of Parker’s heavy breathing right now but wants to hear him say it.
“Yes, Peter.” Parker’s voice is thick and he swallows as Peter inches the zipper down, gracelessly pulls at his boxers. Parker shifts to help him out, better angling himself out of his pants and underwear, and Peter has to stifle a gasp when he gets Parker’s dick free.
Peter wishes he could stop to really admire him but there’s a fear that motivates him: if he slows too much, then Parker will stop this in an instant, tell him it’s a misunderstanding. Leave.
So he keeps his head down, gives one good stroke to Parker’s (honestly beautiful) dick and relishes in hearing him moan. “This is okay, yeah?”
Peter sneaks a look up and Parker stares down at him — eyes blown, lips parted, disheveled. Louche. “Yeah…God, yes.”
He nods once and ducks his head. He takes Parker as deep as he can in one slide of his lips, which isn’t nearly all the way, but still has him jerking up into his mouth involuntarily, then slides out to just cover the tip, hand stroking up and over the length. He repeats that little pattern over and over, intermittently squeezing Parker’s thigh to check that this is actually really happening.
“Holy shit,” Parker wheezes, one hand white knuckled from gripping the steering wheel and the other carding fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter hmmms around him, tongue thick with saliva, sucking, letting it drip to coat Parker so that he can stroke where he has him at the base. “God, Peter, thats–”
He can’t really look up at Parker from this angle, so he reluctantly breaks away, feeling a tendril of saliva drip down his bottom lip. He catches just a glimpse of Parker staring down at him, wide-eyed and wild. Peter knows he will never forget that sight, as long as he lives.
He takes him back in eagerly and lets his free hand wander, hungry for everything in this moment, as he continues to bob. All he can focus on is on the symphony of little breaths, moans, and whispers coming from Parker and it spurs him to go deeper, hollowing his cheeks. He needs Parker to know how much he’s wanted him — for him to understand just a fraction of how much he’s been dreaming of doing this since the first day he saw him.
“I’m going to, uh-” Parker lets out a breathy sigh.
Peter knows what’s coming and pushes himself further, trying to get Parker to the back of his mouth. Finishes him just like that and feels him come so deeply down his throat that he hardly tastes the salt.
“Peter.”
Peter swallows before he dares look up at Parker, afraid of what he might find. Shame. Revolusion. Pity. No, instead he just sees big blue eyes looking at him with such tenderness he feels like he might break.
With all the elegance he can muster (and it’s not very much, given what he’s just done), Peter sits back up. He takes a moment before running his tongue across his teeth, savoring the taste of Parker. He turns to the older man, who’s still staring ahead, slack jawed and blissed out.
“Well. That was nice.” He says timidly, hoping to gauge Parker’s potential response. What if this is the worst blow job he’s ever gotten?
“That was… something.” Parker looks like he’s remembering how to breathe.“Wait — sorry. Yes. I liked that. I like you.” He turns to Peter, those eyes still impossibly wide and reassuring.
That single sentence makes it all worth it. It doesn’t matter that it’s awkward or stilted. It’s perfect nonetheless. He wants this man so badly, but knows that he has to approach this situation carefully. Parker is like a doe, Peter realizes — one wrong move and he’ll completely scare him off. “Good. I like you too.”
Peter gives Parker a shy smile before tugging at the door handle and opening the door. The cold air brings them back to their senses a bit. Peter steps out, but pauses before closing it. He looks directly at Parker and feels his stomach flip flop at the sight of his flushed face. “Thank you, for tonight. We should do this again sometime.”
He sends Parker one final smile and a wave as he walks to his door, desperately hoping it comes off as cool rather than over eager or pushy. It’s only once he’s safely in his bed that he remembers how to breathe properly and manages to convince himself that this is real.