Three months.
Wade has been planning this thing for three months. Three. Whole. Months.
He’s ugly and disfigured and unlikeable, freaky and unkillable, and like, he’s been dealt just the shittiest most garbage hand of cards ever dealt to anyone ever, so he was just kinda hoping that life would give him a break, some kind of break just because this is so important-
But no, of course not, because here he is, staring out onto the once beautifully assembled rooftop patio ballroom scene, watching as torrents of rain destroy every last decoration, each inch of effort he’d been devoting to this day and this day only. For three whole fucking months.
The box is an anvil in his pocket, a hot block of steel branding its shape into the meat of his thigh, and he suddenly can’t speak, can’t bring himself to even explain what the hell is going on because-
Because honestly? He’s humiliated about this whole damn thing, so humiliated that he’s tempted to toss his body straight off the side of the building. It wouldn’t be a permanent solution, not by any means, but it’d offer enough time to rot in the streets, damp and smelly and, for just a moment, fucking dead.
Fairy lights sputter pathetically from where they’re hung, their colourful illuminations fading into obscurity even under the visor of dusk. The table Wade had spent half an hour setting to perfection is soaked, the plates pooled with murky water, the cloth and napkins literally dripping, and all Wade can do is watch in horror as the heart-shaped balloons he’d hauled all the way up here thrash in the gust, knock into each other, float away into the storm clouds above.
He doesn’t have his mask on, or his suit, for that matter. He didn’t think he’d need it for tonight, not when he knew for a fact that this kind of thing should have been something executed with as much honesty and sincerity as possible, but even with the ugly layer of scars consuming the planes of his cheeks, his skin is red hot with embarrassment, and he’s certain that Peter can tell.
Lightning strikes, thunder rumbles, and then the chair set on Peter’s side of the table falls backwards, the cushion visibly soggy even from where they’re shielded by the stairwell exit.
Wade wants to cry. Really. He really wants to fucking cry right now.
“Pete,” he croaks, swallowing the tumor of a lump that’s developed in his throat, “Let’s- Let’s go downstairs, huh? Looks like some poor sap forgot to check the weather before they plopped an entire restaurant up here, I guess it sucks to suck, don’t it?” Wade’s leg bounces impatiently, but the sound is lost to the drumming rainfall. “I mean, hey, unless you’re talking real suckin’, ‘cause in that case, it totally doesn’t suck, not one bit, especially not when you’re the-”
Peter’s hand finds Wade’s, skin bare and moist from the damp air, “Babe?”
“-let’s go back down to ours, watch some’a those restaurant rescue shows you’ve been int’a lately and-”
A crash of thunder rattles against the back of Wade’s teeth, halting his maundering long enough for Peter to step out towards the ruined setup. He’s out of Wade’s grasp too soon, the rain flattening his hair and soaking through his sweater as he approaches the table, runs the pads of his fingers along the shorted fairy lights.
It’s a pathetic sight, if Wade’s ever seen one, and it breaks his heart.
“What’s all this about, Wade?” Peter questions. His voice is barely audible over the downpour, smooth and full despite the hollow noise it contends with.
A white burst of lightning, another crash of thunder. It’s cold out here, July be damned, and Wade can feel the chill deep in his chest, travelling down the branching path of his veins, manifesting in his jittering fingertips.
Peter watches him closely, his eyes brimming with something Wade can’t identify. “Wade,” He speaks gently, abandons the soaking tablecloth and the waterlogged plates and the drowned bouquet of roses and chrysanthemums, gravitates back towards Wade. “This is yours.”
Wade knows he’s not being asked a question- he’s tempted to deny it, shake his head and run headfirst off the edge of the building, bury himself beneath the slabs of concrete below. It’s not accusatory, not an inch of resent or anger between the lines, but he’s still quaking where he stands, shivering in place despite the shelter above his head and the dry state of his suit.
Taking another look at the swimming pool that should have been their dinner set-up, Wade drops his shoulders. “Wha’s’it to ya?” He spits, and he really doesn’t mean to be harsh, not when Peter’s staring up at him like that, but he’s heartbroken and he’s pissed off and he wants nothing more than to hide away from all this, run as far as he can and, if that’s not enough, maybe even change his name and identity and anything else that even remotely says Wade ‘total-fucking-failure’ Wilson.
Yet Peter, who’s loved Wade for years and who’s not got a single plan to stop loving him anytime soon, doesn’t flinch at the biting tone, or back away, or even so much as blink. No, Peter, bless his soul, he steps closer, ignoring the rigid hold of Wade’s jaw, slips in, lets his body fill the empty spaces between Wade’s limbs like hot tea, curling in and around like smoke, holding him from every angle- no escape, this embrace says.
The older doesn’t move, hardly allows himself a single breath of air. He’s zeroed in on the mess before him, the literal sea of disaster that should’ve resembled paradise, should’ve been something like the resort in The Impossible beforethe damn tsunami hit, not after.
“It’s lovely.” Peter whispers. He’s lying, of course, because there’s not a single universe where this shipwreck is lovely, where it’s not embarassing and stupid and only further proof that Wade can’t do anything right. “Was this for us?”
Wade scoffs, throat bobbing uncomfortably. “Course not.” Each word threatens to choke him out, lodge at the back of his throat and send him tumbling, suffocating, cheap and rough pea gravel as it rises like bile, burns his tongue. “‘S’all for you.”
Peter shifts, nosing into Wade’s neck. He makes a conscious effort to keep his shoulders loose and his breathing even, act as a remedy to Wade’s rigidity, as the counterbalance of relief to the stress polluting the air.
They’re out of the rain now, sheltered by the stairwell’s overhang, but Peter’s wet sweater is sopping against Wade’s jacket. It’s another reminder that tonight is nothing but a disaster, one that’s left the both of them soaked and chilled and unbearably uncomfortable.
Slender fingers rub against tense shoulder blades. “Wade, baby?” A beat of silence passes- Wade wants to speak, wants to explain himself, but another swell of humiliation coils around the base of his neck. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and his lungs refuse to accept any air. “Can’t stand when you’re silent, means something’s wrong-”
“Or that I’m eating, it could totally mean that I’m eating-”
Peter eyes him warily, ducking his head back just far enough to catch a solid glimpse of Wade’s expression, “Mm, touché, good point, very true- but, uh, from what I can tell, your stomach is empty and you definitely didn’t go ahead and have dinner without me- unless you did, but in that case I’d be pretty sad, ‘cause it’s taco night and your soft-shell tortillas are my absolute favourite.”
“Wouldn’t eat without you, Petey.” Wade confesses, gaze shifting away from Peter’s rain-soaked features to those of the ruined dinnerplace behind them. He’s hyper-aware of the velvet box that’s still in his pocket, and he finds himself struggling to stand against its opposing weight.
“I mean-” His eyes are restless, darting between the soggy table set, the dripping ghettoblaster in the corner, “I set this up without you, without anyone, actually, which is why this whole thing fuckin’ kamikazed into effin’ oblivion like it did, but hey, I guess that’s what I get for pullin’ this kind’a stunt on my own- ask me to take out a governour? Sign me the fuck up, I’m your Optimus bay-bee, that kind’a shit is my magnum opus, you know that-”
“I don’t think-”
“Gimme two guns and a target and I’m your woman, you know that, the whole damn world knows that, ‘s why I’m as filthy rich as one’a those oil tycoons in Saudi- but don’t get me wrong, my gentle summer hibiscus, I’d take any’a those capitalist pigs out in no time, wouldn’t even need payout, I’d do it for the vine, I’d do it for the-
“Wade, hey, I get that you’re, I don’t know, I- I need you to-”
“-and hey, hey, what in the name of little Mrs. White happened to Vine, huh? I’ll kill the fucker that took that beautiful platform down in no time, you gimme’a name and I’ll give’em a fuckin’ bullet in the head-” Wade’s mouth is moving and maybe Peter’s is too, but he’s too distracted by the ringing in his ears and the soda-pop fizz inside his skull to comprehend anything the other is saying. Humiliation cripples him, singes his nerves and bites at his flesh.
The rain is as noisy as his thoughts, and he can’t tell whether the drone of sound is coming from his head or his surroundings. Peter holds him, and though some part of his twisted consciousness can feel the contact, the hands on his shoulders and the face before his own, he’s far out of his body, floating above his physical form, looking down on what can only be perceived as a failure of a man and his superior counterpart.
Contending with Peter’s hold is difficult, the superstrength and the willpower behind it truly a force to be reckoned with, but Wade isn’t thinking sensically and, in a quick moment that only barely catches younger off guard, Wade is breaking free, shattering their togetherness and bounding towards his soiled setup in a single swift movement. He passes it easily, sparing the wilted flowers a faulted glance before powering further, faster, until he’s at the edge of the rooftop.
He doesn’t stop, won’t stop, and Peter knows it- Peter, who has a fraction of a second to react to Wade’s panic-driven path, springs out into the rain, throws his hands forwards, wrists aimed and fingers curled because of course, of course he’s always sure to carry at least one of the two webshooters for circumstances just like these, and-
“No you don’t-”
Wade only gets to witness the glisten of wet sidewalks twelve stories down for the pause of a second, and then he’s being yanked backwards, the weight of his body protesting against a sudden change in momentum as he’s forced back onto the roof.
He’s a fish out of water, back on solid ground, and he flops about accordingly, frantically struggling against the webbing stuck to his spine. His nails scrape helplessly against the concrete as he attempts to drag his dead weight back towards the edge of the rooftop, and his eyes are blurry from the rain, or maybe from the tears.
Rain pounds down on his back, thrumming erratically with his pulse, and he can’t tell which is which- his heart is bleeding, out here, indistinguishable from this awful rain, beating psychotically, or possibly not beating at all.
Palms flatten against his shoulders, fingers curling into the dip of his collarbone, and then there’s a voice in his left ear, quiet and certain and loving. “It’s alright, baby,” Peter soothes, sliding his hands under the wet cotton of Wade’s shirt, tracing the raised scars beneath. “Let’s go inside for now, hm? Let’s put on some sweatpants and slippers and stupid graphic tees and- and it’s all going to be okay, alright?”
Wade finds himself nodding, though he’s not quite aware of it, and then he’s being lifted easily, cradled between two strong arms. His eyes are closed when the rain’s needling stops, and then quiets- he can still hear it pouring, somewhere distant, above, but it’s far away now, where he can’t feel its terrible acid teeth against his skin anymore, can’t feel it blazing his entire night away.
One of the two arms curled around Wade shifts its weight before disappearing, and then a door is creaking open. Warmth envelops Wade’s shivering body like a gasp of steam, filling his nostrils and slipping beneath the clinging fabric of his jeans. He smells home, smells the vanilla-scented candle Peter had been burning earlier to void the stench of gunpowder and blood, and it grounds him, grabs the edges of his jaw and sets his head straight.
Peter carries him to the bedroom, lowers himself down until he’s propped against the headboard. He doesn’t let go, not to kick off his shoes, not to peel their dripping clothing off and away. Rainwater soaks into the duvet and the sheets and pillows, probably the mattress, too, and though Peter’s usually pretty stingy when it comes to what can and can’t be on the bed, he doesn’t hesitate right now, not with Wade shivering and silent within the fold of his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Wade finally says. He keeps his eyes shut and his arms tucked, makes himself as small as he can manage in Peter’s cumbersome grasp. “I couldn’t- I didn’t- I-” A groan sloshes from the back of his throat, long and rough and pained, hot and bitter like burned coffee, “Fuckin’ fuck, Petey.”
Rain drums against the windowpane to their right. The curtains are pulled and secure, but it’s as though Wade can feel the cold droplets splattering against his skin anyways, clawing through the thick layer of convoluted scarring, drilling down and into his blood vessels. It’s hell, all of this, and he’s been to Chuck-E-Cheese’s at midnight on a Tuesday- hell is something he knows well, too well, and this, right here, three floors below the most disastrous night of his existence- this right here is hell on a fucking spitroast.
Hell on a spitroast, no doubt, no question, and he’s the damn pig, turning like a fool over a fire that broils his skin and freezes his blood.
Without moving too drastically, Peter’s hands find their way to Wade’s abdomen, massage wide circles into the tightened muscles. He’s slow and gentle, his fingers like hot caramel on Wade’s stomach, up onto his torso, against the expanse of his pectorals. It’s patient and empathetic, careful in a way that only Peter Parker is capable of.
In turn, there’s not a part of Wade that thinks he deserves this kind of treatment, not a single iota of it, not after the awful night he planned, the travesty that became of it. “I had- I had an idea, y’know? And for once, it wasn’t like, some terrible wreck of an idea that ends with me trying to play city golf with discarded steel girders and some kid’s pokeball plus but- but- it was a good idea, I promise, I ran it by Stark and everything, and our neighbor! Uh- Clarence? The one that likes me and sometimes bakes us extra cookies- looks like Hugh Heffner and Estelle Getty’s metaphysical lovechild, with the puffy beard and the- Carl? Charles? Cer-”
“Leeroy?”
“Leeroy, that one, yes, him, that one- I ran it by him, he told me it was good, and I thought it was good, and I just wanted to-” he breaks off, clenches his hands into fists, unclenches them, buries his face into his bare palms, “We don’t go out a whole lot, Baby Boy, ‘cause you got me lookin’ like a flesh-coloured humpback that just won season forty-two of The Biggest Loser reboot, and we always run into trouble with those shmancy-fancy places and my concealed weapons- they’re legal, promise- and- and-”
“Breathe, baby,” Peter hums, soothing his hand over Wade’s ribcage, thumbing the faint ridges until the other’s respiration evens out. “Alright. Alright.” A strike of lightning gleams faintly through the blackout curtains, tailed half-heartedly by a faraway yawn of thunder. “You got it, baby. I got you, and you got me. S’all gonna be good, yeah?”
Peter waits for affirmation that never comes. “You wanna keep going?”
“I-” Wade begins again, breathing hard through his nostrils, “I figured that, that hey, you never get to go somewhere nice with me, ‘cause I’m Deadpool and most nice places ‘round here don’t care for degenerates bleedin’ and cussin’ on their kitschy polished floors, so- so what if I set somethin’ up for you, our own little high society restaurant complete with a bumpin’ ghettoblaster and the finest catering New York’s underground has to offer, and-
“-and I checked everything, Petey. Everything. I made the table and I hung the lights and I actually spoke with the owner of the building and made sure I would be allowed to set everything up on our fuckin’ rooftop because I knew you’d wanna get actual permission and that you’d wanna be up high, lookin’ over the city and stuff because- hey, because hey, hello, that’s where we met, remember?” He opens his eyes, then, and they’re so wonderfully blue and wide and sincere that it sends a shiver down Peter’s spine, spawns a lump in his throat.
“Course I remember, lovely.”
“Met above the city, so I wanted- I wanted to- fuck me straight to Etobicoke, I can’t-” He huffs out another breath of air, forces it from his lungs in hasty frustration, his hand solid over the box in his pocket, hiding its shape, ashamed, “It should’ve been perfect, ‘cause there’s not half a universe out there where you don’t deserve perfection, and- and of course I forgot to check the weather, three months of planning and planning and planning and sketchy phonecalls and a tonne of money blown and- and this bullshit is my finished product, doesn’t matter how hard I tried, I still couldn’t come up with something good enough for you, not even when it really mattered.”
Peter stiffens, ever so slightly, before he’s tugging Wade closer, locking their limbs together, gathering the other like a bundle of laundry and holding him tighter, tighter, tighter, until they’re indistinguishable from each other. He can’t help the sadness that slithers up his legs, snakes around his neck, pricks the corners of his eyes.
Wade continues. “I had everything planned out, organized and prepared and coordinated down to the second, Petey, the second, and even then-” His voice wavers, gives out.
“I’m so sorry, Wade.” Peter swallows thickly, clutching the other protectively. His heart breaks, breaks for Wade and for the way the world treats him, for the constant drought of bad luck that befalls his every whim. They’re both privy to the unfortunate, to problems and disasters and tragedies, but Peter’s only skimmed the surface of the devastation that’s plagued Wade’s life from the moment it began- all he wants for this man is peace, as much peace as peace can spare. He lives to give it to him, lives to love Wade Wilson like he lives for nothing else, for no other purpose.
And this- this broken tone and weathered attitude that claims his lover, it crushes Peter, makes him angry at the world, at the forces that repeatedly beat down the beautiful man in his arms.
“I’m so embarrassed,” Wade admits, gaze meeting Peter’s, and Peter-
Peter cries, cries with Wade, for Wade; it’s unfair, because life always is, and it’s mean, mean and cruel and vile, what this man has had to go through, what he keeps having to go through. They cry together, until they can’t tell the tear tracks from the raindrops, until their bed is soaked with everything they feel together, with the hurt in Wade’s voice, the anguish in Peter’s glassy eyes.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” They hold each other tighter, Wade’s face buried between the folds of Peter’s damp sweater, “You- baby, Wade, you created the most beautiful thing, you- you did that just for me, you did that because- I don’t know why. Because- because you’re spontaneous and lovely and considerate and- and you do everything you can to make me happy and that- that’s because you’re phenomenal, Wade, and it’s not fair that the damn rain ruined it, not fair at all, but- but that’s not your fault, you hear me?”
Peter nudges Wade’s head back, waits until their eyes meet, “You did something beautiful and special and- and that’s all, that’s what you did, you managed to make me feel like the most important person in the world, just by putting all of that together, and that’s- that’s what you wanted, yeah? I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I truly am sorry that the fucking wea-”
“Petey, language-”
“-that the Effing weather decided to ruin that, but that doesn’t make it any less important or any less wonderful, Wade. That doesn’t make you any less wonderful.” There’s nothing but honesty founding Peter’s words, colouring the lining of his voice. He’s open and gorgeous like this, bathed in only humble lamplight, and Wade can feel himself falling in love all over again, his heart rocketing, his stomach fluttering.
Everything about tonight still hurts, nags incessantly at the back of his mind like he imagines his mother would’ve, if he’d ever gotten to meet her, but right now-
Right now, the priceless diamond of a man before him, holding him, is all that’s important, to hell with the niggling humiliation and soul-consuming self loathing.
In Wade’s pocket is a box, a box that, ideally, he’d have been able to exhume under the pretense of a starry night, after a three-course meal, to the sweet, sweet stylings of Lionel Richie billowing like fine silk in the background, but he’s more than accustomed to ideal scenarios going to shit, and he’s got all the time in the world to hate himself for messing tonight up.
In Wade’s pocket is a box, as tall as it is wide, soft and compact and light as a feather. Regardless, it’s a burden of a weight on his shoulders, heavy as the Blob on the day after thanksgiving, and he’s not about to wait another three months muling it around, gearing up for another night that could very well just implode and collapse in on itself like this one just did.
Peter’s done nothing but support him, even in the aftermath of what is frankly the most humiliating evening affair of his pitiful existence, and Wade- he’s never been so sure that this is the man he wants to share the rest of his life with, that this is the man he wants to fucking marry.
His hand is migrating towards his pocket before he can give the action too much thought, fingers tingling when they skim the box’s lid. He’s been ready to do this for years, now, been ready from the moment he’d first laid eyes on New York’s not-so-golden boy, and although his heart is in his throat and his lips are shaking and his cheeks still insist on glowing with embarrassment, he’s never been so certain, so sure.
“I don’t know how you do it, Pete.” Wade professes, watching the other’s expression, “One second I’m throwing myself off of’a the building - again - and the next? The next you’re here, tellin’ me it’ll be okay, and then- and then, there I am, actually feelin’ okay, like the world ain’t about to end in bloody hellfire or whatever, and- and it’s something you do all the time, make things alright again, and-” he laughs, pulls the box from his pocket, hides it in the palm of his hand, “I’ve spent my whole damn life hating myself, hating the festering pit of acid and taco seasoning that just so happens to be my brain, and-”
Peter interjects with a lopsided smile, his eyes wet, “Golden Girls quotes, too, they’re a big part too, make up at least thirty-two percent of your brain, dontcha think?”
It’s a stupid point. Wade’s heart constricts, and he’s beyond tempted to hold the other closer, tighter, for as long as his physical form will allow. But he’s got a spiel he needs to say and a question he’s all but dying to ask, so the holding closer, tighter, longer can wait for at least a minute or two.
“Acid and taco seasoning and, excuse me, Golden Girls quotes, hated all of it, but somehow- somehow you waltzed in with that campy suit and that glorious, unbelievable peach of an ass - eat your heart out, Tomlinson-”
“Sorry, who?”
“Not important, not- wait, what was I saying?”
“I think you were going on about my gorgeous peach of an ass?”
“Nuh-uh!” With his free hand, Wade pinches the fleshy round of Peter’s cheek, “Glorious, I used glorious, and it’s gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but oh boy, it’s ethereal, a heavenly being in its own right, glorious, glorious, glorious-”
“Wade-”
“Off topic, whoopsie, you just got that effect on me, sweetie-petey, magical like a djinn you are, but like a-”
“A Robin Williams djinn, and not a Will Smith djinn, yeah?”
“You know me so well, baby,” Wade croons, the stress and disappointment from the night’s earlier debacle draining from his mind, depleting until all that’s left is the need to finally, finally put a ring on this lovely gift of a boy.
Smiling wider than he’s ever, Wade’s free hand finds Peter’s, their fingers interlocking, palms flat and pressed together. “I wanted to be outside, doin’ this, under the stars ‘cause I know how much you love lookin’ at ‘em, but I’m with you, cradled like a kitten in January, and honestly, Petey? I wouldn’t change a thing about this, not a single thing, because I love you, I love you more than anything, nothing excluded, and-”
Wade laughs, swivels his hand and flicks the lid of the box open, swallowing hard when Peter freezes against him, “And fuck it, Petey. MyPete, my little spider, will you marry me?”
There’s a long moment where Peter doesn’t answer, doesn’t even so much as move a muscle or flutter an eyelash, but then the moment ends, and he’s tackling Wade to the bed, raining down with insistent kisses against Wade’s neck, jaw, cheeks, lips. He’s crying, the sound distinct even with the pattering of rain in the background, but there’s a smile on his face, one that’s unmistakable in its presence, glimmering in his eyes, his cheeks, his quivering hands and pounding heart.
Peter holds his palms to the sides of Wade’s head, their faces an inch apart, gazes engaged and breath mingling. “Of course I’ll marry you,” He gasps, a fresh wave of tears swelling in his chest.
Wade doesn’t believe his ears, convinced that he’s fantasizing, but then-
“Yes, oh my fuck, yes, Wade- I didn’t even think- I didn’t even let myself think that you’d- I would’ve-” Cutting off, Peter forces himself to inhale, exhale, the smile on his face painfully wide, “You could’ve asked me years ago and I would’ve said yes, I love you, I love you.”
They’re both still soggy, their clothing leaking buckets onto the bed, but Wade doesn’t have the capacity to care, not now that Peter’s said yes, yes, because something’s finally gone right, even amidst the chaos of tonight, something’s finally gone well, his prayers finally, finally answered.
Straightening, so that he’s straddling Wade’s abdomen, Peter offers a shaky hand, a watery grin etched between his stretched cheeks. Wade’s hands are just as shaky, just as uncertain and excited as he lifts the silver band from the box, slides it onto what he knows is the right finger.
“I made sure to check which one,” He comments, admiring the way the ring fits around his lover’s finger, “And- and there are diamonds, obviously, but I- I didn’t want you to have to take it off when you put the suit on, so-”
“So you made sure they were embedded,” Peter finishes, cradling his left hand to his chest. Superheroes with super-precision or not, they're both shaking, both simultaneously shocked and awed and happy, so, so happy. “I love it.” He swallows, blinks away tears. His voice is syrup, smooth and thick and golden, “I love it. I love you. This- tonight, tonight was perfect, baby, thank you, thank you for everything.”
Wade shakes his head, propping his torso up with his elbows, “Don’t thank me, baby boy, you’re the one that said yes to this ol’ hag- I should be thanking you, nevermind that.”
Peter laughs, really laughs, the sound bellowing deep from his diaphragm, and they’re both laughing, disbelief and unadulterated joy tickling the underside of their joined tones. They stay like this for too long, Peter perched over Wade, their chests rising and falling in gasps of laughter and relief, until Wade fits his hands over the curve of Peter’s hips, easing up his sides and hooking behind his shoulders.
Wade guides them up, off of the bed and onto the carpeted floor. He doesn’t say a word, standing before Peter, not when he tugs the sweater off of Peter’s torso, tosses it to the side. He removes his own, kicks off his jeans, watches as Peter does the same- they’re not bare, but they’re warmer like this, infinitely more so when Wade steps closer, eliminates the sliver of space between them. Skin meets skin, scarred to smooth.
One hand finds Peter’s- Wade can feel the ring on his lover’s hand between his own knuckles. The sensation is overwhelming, so much more perfect than he could’ve ever have dreamt it to be. His other hand finds the small of Peter’s back, rests at the delicate curve of his spine.
They sway together, Wade leading, Peter following. It’s not sex, it’s not a picture perfect follow-up to a moonlit dinner, and it’s not set to any music, but it’s more than he could’ve ever hoped for.
It’s the engagement ring glinting whimsically on Peter’s left hand, the heart beating in tandem with his own, against his own, the rain-soaked hair and dampened mattress, the crashing thunder outside, the soiled balloons and forgotten flowers. It’s everything Wade didn’t want tonight to become, a disaster of epic proportions, and yet-
He doesn’t think there’s a thing he’d change, because here he is, his beautiful fiancé held in his arms, dancing with him, loving him, treasuring him like he’s the most important human on the planet. It’s all he needs, all he’s ever needed, all he’s ever wanted.
They dance like this, in place and to the beat of their own pulses, until the sun peaks over the horizon and the drumline of rain recedes into the distance.
It’s enough. It’s so much more than enough.