connor wasn’t confident in a lot of things, but one thing he was absolutely sure of was that being welcomed into into anything could never be this fun. the pair were already a couple bowls deep and had already ran through conversations of piano battles, internet memes, and the definite possibility of jamie moving into the casa rosa. of course, torrance moving away was definitely a loss, but he never could’ve expected this new opportunity to befall wet brain– which would have been reduced to a duo once again had jamie not swooped in. henceforth: the initiation. well, “initiation” made it sound a lot more dramatic than it actually was, which was smoking a lot of weed and going roller skating. sadly, unfortunately, clark was being forced to slave away at work, but the good part was that they did this all the time anyway.
as they sat facing breeze block in connor’s crappy honda accord, he lit a #thicc blunt (a special treat for a special occasion) and took a #nasty hit before handing it off to the other. “i’m so pumped, dude,” he said through a small coughing fit. “once you get them skates on you’re gonna be officially wet. how’s it feel?”
Smoking weed wasn’t something Jamie did too often - he was partial to inhaling tobacco smoke rather than cannabis. However, joining Dingle’s Local Stoner Band meant that that had to change, at least a little. In fact, he had just smoked more weed with Connor in the few hours they were hanging out than he had in the past year.
And, maybe it was the side effects of the weed that made Jamie forget to mention to his new bandmate that he hadn’t been in roller skates since he was twelve. But, hey, it must be something you remember to do, like riding a bike, right? Not that he could remember the last time he was on a bike either, but that analogy still fit in his eyes.
”Me too, man,” he replied to Connor, grabbing the blunt from him with a soft, ‘thanks’. “It feels pretty good,” Jamie answered with a light chuckle, taking a far less #nasty puff than his friend. “I didn’t get a cool initiation like this when I joined Honeytunes, so I already like being wet more.” He passed the blunt back to Connor, his gaze focusing on the Breezeblock before asking, “Just how well can you roller skate when you’re high?”
truthfully, jamie’s proposal was almost reasonable enough for him to consider taking it seriously. a shitty dad, a forced & uncomfortable dinner, and an innate desire to be annoying as hell. really, to his core, he understands it. he vibes with it. not to mention he actually considers jamie a good friend, and it would be the friendly thing to do to go along with this dastardly plan.
but the keyword here is almost.
( sms — gutterman ) oh
( sms — gutterman ) was i not supposed to? (:
he rolls up a few minutes later in his mom’s shiny bmw — there was intense groveling involved in getting to borrow it, but the moped and the wet brain ice cream truck were not going to cut it here — and his shit-eating smile is already beaming like the sun as he throws up a funky lil wave and slowly pulls into park behind jamie. (very slowly, mind you. his mother would have his head on a stick otherwise.)
his first steps out of the vehicle are worked like he’s on the runway. typically greasy mop of hair is freshly washed and combed, the fancy jacket for his mother’s company occasions is freshly ironed, and his singular pair of good shoes are freshly shined. he’d even managed to eliminate the weed stench that surrounds him like a perpetual cloud, by something of a miracle.
(the miracle that is a few days full of nothing but edibles, and a delicate spritz of some sample cologne from target.)
he abruptly stops in his tracks as he struts his way up the sidewalk, mocking an awestruck gasp. “jamie… you look…..” he places a hand over his heart, softly shaking his head. “wow. you look beautiful.”
Jamie really shouldn’t have had so much trust in Clark to play along. He was just so confident that once… just ONCE that his friend would do him this one solid. And, it’s that misplaced confidence that left his mouth agape as he realize that the person rolling up in the shiniest of cars is, in fact, Clark.
”Is he fucking kidding me right now?” He whispers to himself as he takes another drag of his cigarette. His initial shock turns into annoyance as soon as his friend steps out of the car, finally able to see Clark in all his squeaky clean glory as he strides across the sidewalk… and, wait… how can Jamie not smell the distinct scent of weed? How did he manage to scrub that pungent smell off of him? Did Clark go without smoking for a few days, just to fuck around with him?
If Jamie was an old timey cartoon character, steam would be piping out of his ears in fury. But, he’s human; instead, cigarette smoke puffs from his mouth and nose as he lets out a sharp breath.
”I can’t fucking believe you,” Jamie says in response, flicking the filter of his cigarette onto the ground and grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his boot. “Why are you dressed like an usher at church? I needed you to look like trash, like how you always do. Trash Clark, in that one fucking shirt I hate of yours,” he rants for a minute, his eyes laser-focused in on just how well groomed Clark’s hair is - Jamie didn’t even think there was any kind of hair products in Casa Rosa.
Jamie presses his fingers against his temples, wishing he just downed another mini bottle of tequila just to process just how annoying his friend really is. “This better be like, you trying to trick my dad into thinking you look normal and then you act like an idiot, or something,” he says, stuffing the paper sack into his bag before leading the way up the driveway to the front door. “I mean it, Clark. Please fuck with my dad, not me tonight.”
Is this his best idea, or his worst? Jamie isn’t entirely sure but oddly enough, he’s feeling… optimistic? Is that crazy of him to think? Possibly, considering he’s banking on Clark to listen to him. But, he’s choosing to believe that his friend’s penchant for annoying people will finally be directed towards someone else and not him.
He parks his car on the street outside of his father’s house, taking a quick look around before figuring out he’s the first to arrive. Fine by him, it gives him a minute to mentally prepare himself for yet another dinner with his dad…. plus Clark Ingram. A knot forms in his stomach at the thought.
Fuck. Maybe this is a bad idea.
Jamie shakes his head, trying to think that everything will go terribly, but the kind of terrible that he’s hoping for. Hopefully. He pulls his phone out and fires off a couple of messages to Clark.
( sms — trashboy ) please tell me you didn’t shower
( sms — trashboy ) i’m outside of my dad’s, i’ll wait for you out here
He shoves his phone in his bag and gets out of his car, slamming his door shut with his hip. Shit, it’s cold but, luckily, he has the perfect remedy for that. Kind of. Jamie fumbles through the contents of his bag before pulling out his most recent purchase in a brown, paper sack - four mini bottles of tequila bought at Dingle’s finest liquor store. Uncapping one, he gulps down the contents in one go, scrunching up his face at the taste. Terrible, but he’s gonna need to be at least a little buzzed to deal with whatever the night will throw at him. The paper bag crinkles loudly as he sets it on the top of his car, him pulling out a cigarette and a lighter from his coat pocket.
Jamie’s halfway through his cigarette when he sees lights coming down the street, perking up at the hopes of it being Clark. He squints at the car and waves awkwardly with his free hand - Yes, he probably looks stupid, but he’s hoping he at least looks stupid to a friend instead of one of his old neighbors.
The suit jacket is too small on Jamie. The six inches he grew in the span of two months made the sleeves of the woolen jacket hit at an awkward length on his forearms, the bottom of his skimming right above his hips. He thinks back on a time when the jacket was much too large on his little frame, his grandmother catching him in the middle of trying on his grandfather’s clothes. He remembers her little chuckle, her warm eyes looking down to him as she says in her native tongue, “one day that’ll fit you as it did your grandpa, jaemin.”
The day came and went, and now he’s wearing the ill fitting jacket to his grandmother’s funeral service.
Or rather, he’s wearing it as he runs away from the funeral service.
His heart pounds heavy in his chest as he sprints from the church, someone calling out to him. He doesn’t look back. Instead, the boy runs faster, faster away, until he feels his heartbeat in his ears, until pain shoots up and down his legs. Until he feels something rise up in his throat, and he realizes that he has to stop running, or else he’s gonna vomit.
He does, keeling over and letting little chunks of cereal land at his feet. Shit. He spits out one last piece, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of that all too small jacket. The jacket. He’s heating up in it. He peels the fabric off of his body, trying to catch his breath as he looks around. The church isn’t in sight anymore; instead, he’s greeted with houses that line the street on both sides, each one the exact same, but in slight variations in color except one that’s a garish shade of blue. He knows this street. It’s where his mother lives.
Jamie doesn’t want to go there.
He blinks once, twice, trying to figure out where to go. Torrance’s; he doesn’t want to bother her and her family. The Fong’s; he hasn’t seen any of them since Peter ran away himself nearly two years prior. The pier; he doesn’t think he wants to be around anyone.
And, just like that, he knows where to go.
It takes him about fifteen minutes, but he’s there. It’s an older house, cream colored with a grey roof. He pushes past a rickety fence gate that’s in need of repair, and shuffles up the walkway, slowly making his way up the sloping steps of the porch. He grabs a key hidden in the cushion of a porch swing and opens the door with ease.
His grandmother’s house.
A knot forms in Jamie’s stomach. The majority of the decorations of the house are packed inside a dozen boxes, each with his mother’s loopy penmanship written on the sides. Most of the furniture is covered in white sheets, lingering in the room like ghosts.
The room is too small to Jamie. The distinct lack of music, of laughter, of his grandmother makes the walls feel as if they’re closer, makes the ceiling cave in on his. He thinks back on a time when the living room felt larger than life, practicing ‘Un Sospiro’ for the upteenth time on the piano that sat in the corner beside a glass case of angel figurines. He remembers her hovering above him, her warm eyes looking down to him as she says in her native tongue, “that was beautiful, jaemin. one more time, for me?”
The pads of his fingertips skim the boxes, the covered furniture as he makes his way to the corner of the room. He stares down at the ghost in front of him, before gingerly peeling off the sheet to reveal the piano. He sets down both it and his jacket before sitting on the bench. The piano still looks as beautiful as it does in his childhood memories, the deepest shade of brown with keys that sparkled when the light from the window hit it just right. Tapered fingers press down on the keys, playing a quick scale. It’s still in tune. His grandmother must have made sure it was before she passed away. Something in his chest tightens at the thought.
Something catches his attention from the corner of his eye, from the glass case. He glances towards it. One lone angel sits on the top shelf, a lyre in her delicate hands. His mother must have not been able to reach it, leaving it for someone taller to grab.
The angel stares down at Jamie with warm eyes. If he was more religious, maybe he’d view this as a sign from his grandmother, watching over him from where ever she was sent to. But, he isn’t religious. He refuses to believe in a higher power that would take away the one person he loved most in the world.
Tears start to well in his eyes the longer he looks at the angel, a loud sob escaping his lips. He presses a hand to his mouth before another slips out. His legs tremble as he stands up, the growth spurt he had a few months before making it easy for him to grab the angel. From this close, Jamie can see the imperfections on the figurine. There’s a chip in her wings, she’s covered in a thin layer of dust, her halo’s discolored.
Jamie loves her just the same.
Carefully, he wraps the angel up in that ill fitting jacket, tying the sleeves together to keep her safe. He clutches it close to his chest, watery eyes squeezing shut.
He lets out a shaky sigh, and suddenly, he hears the door open.
“James?”
He doesn’t bother to look behind him, he knows the nasally pitch of his mother’s partner, Leslie.
“Listen, I know you’re having a rough time, but we need to get you back to the church. For your mother. She needs you right now.”
Jamie bows his head down, pressing his lips together in a thin line. He wants to tell Leslie that his mother doesn’t need him, she has her already, that he needs his grandmother back. He doesn’t. Instead, he tucks the figurine into the crook of his arm and sniffles.
“I need someone right now,” he says in his grandmother’s native tongue, before switching to English. “I just need a second. Can you wait in the car or something?” He hears a door shutting in response, and he lets out a soft sigh. Quickly, he wipes away the wetness on his cheeks as his gaze lingers on the piano.
“Goodbye,” Jamie whispers, his fingers skimming a few of the sparkling keys before he walks out of the ghost of his grandmother’s house.
I want you. I want you. I want you. The words were like a mantra in his head, called out louder and louder, screaming over the ugly thoughts that began to emerge from the silence, taking control of the wreck that was his mind and slowly, slowly pulling the pieces back into place. I want you. I want you. I want you. Again and again, over and over, until there was nothing left in Peter’s blood, in Peter’s heart, in Peter’s head, on Peter’s tongue, but Jamie fuckin’ Moon.
Jamie’s eyes flutter shut at Peter’s touch, letting out a low sigh as bruised fingers trace along his features, his own hand clutching the fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat quickens, if just for a moment, when a palm rests against his chest. Beat for beat. Breath for breath.
Are two hearts meant to be this in sync, or is it simply how theirs are?
A sharp intake of breath, and Jamie feels the soft press of Peter on his lips again. He matches each kiss with the same eagerness, the same fervor as the last, his fingers running through his dark hair. The other hand rests on his bicep, squeezing the muscle lightly once, twice. He’s breathless with each kiss, but this sweet of a death sounds a Hell of a lot better than stopping.
A small grin creeps up on his lips at Peter’s admission, his pinks positively pink from both the words and the body heat between the pair. It’s always been real for him… Has Jamie known that about his friend for a while now? Maybe, maybe not. All he can focus in this moment is just how soft Peter’s lips are, the intoxicating taste of him lingering on his tongue. He fills the empty space between them once, twice, three more times before pulling away a few centimeters, their noses touching.
Brown eyes study the birthday boy, Jamie’s hand unfurling from his hair to skim his face. The pads of two of his fingertips touch Peter’s lower lip, tapping softly on the pink flesh. Jamie suppresses the urge to kiss him yet again, unable to stop his widening smile at the thought.
“You, uh, still haven’t opened your other gift,” he says in a soft voice, as if speaking in louder tone would ruin the moment. His gaze travels to the silver package on the counter before landing back on him. “You want me to grab it for you…? Or, you could, uh..” he presses his lips against Peter’s jawline, letting out an airy chuckle against his skin, “open it later, and we can continue this. Whatever the birthday boy wants, he can get.”
Putty. Putty was all he was in Jamie’s hands, melted beneath his touch, softened by his taste of his tongue, malleable by that heartbeat speeding faster and faster against his chest, synchronising with his own. The lips against his own control him, guide his hands to rest upon sharp hips, allow his fingers to curl into the fabric of Jamie’s trousers, manipulate his breath to quicken and shallow, catching in his throat, choking him, choking him–
Worth it.
If this was gonna be his end, if this was gonna be his ticket to his coffin, Godfuckindamn, was it worth it.
Keep Reading
Happy birthday? Happy birthday?! Was that really the best that Jamie could come up with? Could he not think of anything better? How has he not dropped dead from sheer embarrassment? It must be God’s cruel joke, letting him say something that idiotic and just simply allowing him to continue on living.
“..did..you mean this..?”
The question makes Jamie snap back to reality, brown eyes meeting Peter’s. He gulps as hisfriend takes his hand and rests it against his rapidly thumping heart - its quickened beat feels the same as his own heart in his chest. It’s beat pounds throughout his whole body, from his ear drums to his fingertips, pressed hard against Peter’s pec. He wonders for a moment if he can feel his own pulsating heart, pounding, hammering just for him through his shaky hands.
“I…” he breathes out, trying to find the right words, but each time he opens his mouth, he closes it just as quick. Nothing sounds quite right in his head. He presses his lips together in a thin line, his fingers slide slowly up from their perch on Peter’s chest, brushing along his collarbone and throat until his hands lands on the side of his face. His thumb strokes his cheek bone and he sighs softly.
“I didn’t… plan on that,” he murmurs, his free hand reaching to grab one of Peter’s. He quickly interweaves their fingers and his palm a gentle squeeze. “I wasn’t thinking that I was gonna… do that when I came here. I don’t… I don’t know what really came over me. But… I think I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.”
The knot that’s perpetually twisted up in his stomach loosens a bit. “I… I know I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while.” It loosens up even more. “I want you.” It unfurls completely. And, there it is. The truth, something that Jamie has been hiding from himself for longer than he’d care to admit. He wants Peter. Peter Fong, the little rich boy he used to hate so passionately. Peter, the pathetic junkie from across the hall who has no boundaries.
Peter, who has always cared for Jamie. Peter, who Jamie cares about above all else.
The confession hangs in the air like the scent of peanut butter drifting from the abandoned box on the floor beside them. It lingers on his lips like the taste of Peter.
When did Jamie know? The first time Peter fell asleep in his bed? The third, with their legs tangled up in his sheets? The first time he saw Peter in one of his stolen sweaters? Did he first think it during their second-first meeting when he was eighteen?
Jamie’s eyes flicker from Peter’s gaze to his lips, his teeth sinking into the flesh of his own lower lip. He wants to kiss him again, has to kiss him again, in any spot he can. He brings up their clasped hands to his face, pressing his lips softly against the back of Peter’s hand before turning it and placing a gentle kiss on the inside of his wrist. He presses a kiss on each knuckle before setting their hands on Peter’s chest.
Jamie leans back down, pressing his lips softly against Peter’s for a moment. “…It’s real,” he murmurs after a beat, lips hovering just mere centimeters from his. “It’s real, it’s real, it’s real,” he whispers, pressing a kiss on the the side of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his lips again in between each phrase.
“Is…” Jamie pulls away just a bit further, trying to meet Peter’s gaze. “It’s real for you, too, right? Or, am I just making a complete ass of myself right now?”
Max is grumbling to himself as he walks down the hall of Spit Point, his expression annoyed enough to send anyone in the hall drifting to the other side out of his path as he makes his way to Jamie’s apartment, stupid fucking book in hand. Once he gets to Jamie’s door he simply turns the doorknob and enters, far too used to bursting into the Jamie’s apartment unannounced at this point to remember his fucking manners now. He doesn’t wait for Jamie to greet him, or really take the time to greet Jamie either, instead merely dropping his beat up second hand book onto Jamie’s coffee table and jumping right into the fucking steaming pile of fucking bullshit that was apparently supposed to be a renowned classic.
“What the holy fuck even is Romeo and fucking Juliet?” Max growls in frustration as he points at the play in question accusingly, “What the fuck! How did Shakespeare even fucking get away with publishing this fucking pile of shit, and which fucking brain damaged fuck died and decided it was good!” Max asks as he looks down at the book in question with his expression twisted in disgust, “This has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever fucking read! And I’ve read nothing but stupid shit!”
Max picks the book back up and flips through it irritably as he snaps, “They literally know each other for four fucking days and are suddenly up each other’s fucking asses in love? This dumb fuck doesn’t even bother to check if the bitch is breathing before he offs himself! And Juliet fucking stabs herself so that she could be with that motherfucker in death despite the fact that he ain’t shit? How the fuck is this a love story? It’s a story of teenagers being dumb as fuck is what it is!” Max tosses the book down onto Jamie’s couch this time, irritably asking, “why do they let fucking high schooler’s read this bullshit?”
Jamie is on a chair right beside his window, open wide to enjoy the crisp, Winter Air the lovely town of Dingle has to offer…. Kidding. He’s currently puffing on a cigarette and carefully blowing it out of his apartment, shivering despite both the thick sweater and knitted blanket on his lap. Technically, he’s not supposed to be smoking in his apartment, but he’s only breaking this rule because he’s expecting Max. Promise. He definitely, scout’s honor, does not smoke any other time in this conveniently located chair with a handful of circular burn marks in the right arm, and especially not in these circumstances - right when he wakes up, right before he goes to sleep, and when he’s too lazy to go up to the roof.
He’s blissfully unaware of the angry, thudding footsteps approaching his door until it’s too late, Max blasting through his entrance while Jamie is in mid drag. He immediately starts hacking up a lung, tiny puffs of smoke escaping his lips with each cough. Really, Max? Just going to barge in? Well… that be Jamie’s own fault, seeing as he left his door unlocked for him. But, his coughing dies down and he finally starts hearing what Max is complaining. Oh. Oh, he’s BIG mad. About fucking Romeo and Juliet. Would it be terrible if Jamie laughed?
He does laugh, but tries hard to cover it up with another cough, stubbing out his cigarette into an ashtray and quickly shutting his window. “Glad see you enjoyed Romeo and Juliet,” he deadpans to the best of his ability, biting back a grin as he wraps his blanket about his shoulders and shuffles over to his couch “And, I agree with you, man. Both Romeo and Juliet are idiots. Romeo more so in my eyes,” He replies, sitting down on his couch and picking up the play in mention. Jamie thumbs through the copy as he continues. “He’s first in love with Juliet’s cousin… What’s her name? Rosalie… Rosaline? But, she doesn’t like him, so he peeps on Juliet and is like, ‘I love this one, just kidding about earlier’? What a rebounding fool.” He shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “Honestly, the only cool character in my eyes is Mercutio. The ultimate friend and wingman, and Romeo really lets him die because he’s a piece of shit that doesn’t want to fight his own battles.”
“Lucky for you maybe.” Isa replies with a shrug, conversational as she continues, “I was planning on making banana bread tomorrow. Could have used the nutmeg. I would have brought you some too.” Isa blinks at that suggestion, eyes lighting up with the realization that Jamie was right before her eyes are flicking towards the door to Jamie’s room and back to him as she asks, “… have you got vanilla extract?”
“Consider it borrowing then.” Isa says easily at Jamie’s point, her hand gently running over the fabric of the sweater for a few moments before her gaze is flicking to Jamie as she says, “why would that stop me? Almost everything is too big for me. I’m four foot nine.”
Isa blinks at that offer, not expecting it considering… she just broke into Jamie’s house, but after considering it for a moment or two, she nods and folds Jamie’s hoodie neatly over her arm, “… alright. Do you have anything to eat?”
Jamie knows exactly what Isa is thinking the moment her eyes light up, already shaking his head ‘no’ before she can finish her question. “I live in Spit Point, Isa,” he states bluntly, gesturing vaguely the yellowed walls, decorated heavily to hide the unappealing hue, of his room. “You really think I can shell out bookoo bucks on something you use a teaspoon of each time? You broke into an imitation vanilla household.”
Jamie nods once before motioning for Isa to follow him, leading the pair out of his room and into his living area. “I, uh, should have leftovers in my fridge, feel free to check,” he says, pointing to his kitchen as he starts to pick up his art supplies. Shutting his laptop gently with his foot, he drops his sketchbook unceremoniously on his coffee table. “Fair warning, I also had Torrance and Peter here on different days, so there might be slim pickings. But, we can always order, like, takeout or pizza. Something, I don’t know.”
Was it just him, or did Jamie softly saying ‘fuck’ while pressed up beneath Peter deserve to be its own sexuality?
His lower lip bit on his grin, more to hold back a quiet gasp and curse of his own, Peter’s arms cement themselves around that thin, lanky frame, tightening in a mad attempt to keep his prisoner from escaping. Of course, he was much too busy trying to keep hold of Jamie’s wriggling body to take much notice of the way his sweater hiked up, the way his hip bumped up against bare skin, and shit, okay. Okay. He might have loosened up a bit there with his lack of focus, and now Jamie had freed himself of his hold.
Damn. Randy Savage was looking down at him in disappointment, no doubt. Was that in bad taste? That was probably in bad taste.
What was he doing? Right. Jamie.
Well, he wasn’t doing Jamie, but.. He was in a situation with Jamie. A compromising situation, no doubt about that. A compromising, complicated situation that mingled their breaths and locked their eyes and fuck, was Peter all too aware of those hands sliding up his arms, curling around his shoulders, of long legs smoothly raising up to lock around his waist to secure them into the exact position that he swears he’s had multiple wet dreams about throughout the course of their entire friendship–
Jamie was there. Peter blinks once, twice, the thoughts in his head screeching to a halt as the realisation bursts towards the front, pulling his attention to the only thing in the world that mattered right now– That mattered ever.
He was there, only an inch away. He could count each breath, he could count each eyelash, he could practically see the emotions flicker through dark brown eyes, one after the other, faster and faster and faster. Holding his breath if only in attempt to keep the moment from passing, Peter gazes deep into the eyes of his childhood friend, of his constant, his tongue flicking out to wet lips that part for words that don’t come, for an explanation that he doesn’t have. Should.. He apologise? For holding Jamie like this? Or.. maybe for the bite. He should apologise for the bite. That was, like, probably out of line.
“Jamie,” he begins softly, gazing down into a face that seemed curiously faraway– maybe embarrassed? Probably embarrassed. Shit. “I’m sor–”
And the words die on his tongue as Jamie’s hands raise up to cradle his cheeks, and his thoughts die on the spot as Jamie’s lips seal over his own. His blood is singing, burning through his veins, pounding in his ears louder and louder until there was nothing in the world but Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. One hand falls to encircle a sharp hip, to pull them close against him, to close whatever breath of cool air between them and–
And suddenly, Jamie was pulling back like Peter’s skin was burning him to the bone.
His eyes flash open at the abrupt switch between pure fucking euphoria to the aftermath of a trainwreck, the expression on his face a dead giveaway of his disappointment in the loss of warmth. Jamie’s words were muffled, buried beneath the million layers of utter confusion and desire that only seemed to multiply as Peter struggles to comprehend what the fuck just happened.
Clearly, this was all just a part of a dream sequence, but, like.. Why did Jamie pull away? His dreams almost never had Jamie pull away, and the ones that do usually had him pull away to fill his mouth with something else.
Did he have to make the next move? God, when did his dreams get so interactive? He slept to get out of doing the scary work.
His hands lower to cradle Jamie’s face, still stumbling over words that Peter just couldn’t give a flying fuck to understand, and tilts it up, tilts it towards him, tilts it just enough to be able to swallow those stutters and stammers back as he locks their lips tight once more.
Peanut butter. His favorite flavor.
Fuck!
All the while he’s blabbering away to Peter, the phrase ‘you fucking idiot!’ repeats in Jamie’s mind, growing louder and louder with each second. He fucked up, he’s certain of it. He has ruined Peter’s birthday, and probably ruined their friendship for not the first, but the second time in their lives. Fuck. Why did he do that? He still doesn’t know for sure.
Well… maybe he does know. But, that’s neither here nor there.
Peter definitely hates him now, right? There’s absolutely no doubt about that in his mind. He’d probably hate himself, too, he doesn’t blame him for that.
Jamie can’t quite figure out his friend’s expression. Is that look confusion? Anger? Disappointment? Something else entirely? Jamie doesn’t know, and he’s desperately wishing that if God is real, she’ll take pity on his soul and let him drop dead on the spot. Death is far more favorable than the dread filling up in his chest.
Jamie’s still in mid-ramble when Peter takes his face into his hands -whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckishedoing - and tilts his head up. He inhales sharply before feeling lips press against his once more and, for a moment, all the negative thoughts clouding his mind dissipate. His eyes flutter shut, and every single one of his nerves is on high alert. Peter’s lips are intoxicating, and Jamie doesn’t want to pull away. He can’t pull away, even if he tried.
He deepens their kiss, tongue pushing into his mouth. Jamie wants to, needs> to, taste Peter until he’s the only thing he can remember the flavor of.
Cold hands reach around to hold Peter in place, one snaking behind him to grab his shoulder and the other placed on the back of his head, tapered fingers tangling up in his hair. Jamie gives the dark locks a gentle tug, one leg brushing up Peter’s slowly until it hooked on his waist. It’s all too much and not enough, and he needs more, more of Peter.
Jamie moves his hand from his ‘friend’s’ shoulder to rest on his chest before rolling the pair until he was straddling his waist. His fingers unfurl from Peter’s hair and trail down from his head to the nape of his neck. He presses his body as close as he can to his, not wanting to know his body ends and Peter’s begins, for them to meld into one.
This moment feels a bit like Heaven to him, but that might sound a bit too poetic for a time where Jamie’s tongue shoved down Peter’s throat.
And now, he can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe, so he has to, unfortunately, break their kiss. He gives him one, two more soft kisses before stopping, keeping his lips close enough so they’re grazing Peter’s. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, not wanting this feeling of bliss to end.
But, of course, Jamie’s mind won’t let that happen and, here it comes again. The panic. It’s setting back in.
Fuck. Fuck! He shouldn’t have stopped kissing Peter. He should have kept on making out with him until he was blue in the face, suffocating from lack of air. Death by kissing certainly was preferable to the tightening in his chest, his heart beating far too quickly than it usually did. He pushes himself until he’s sitting upright on Peter, his hands pressed firmly on his chest. Fuck.
Jamie blinks, once, twice as he looks around at their surroundings, trying to control his breathing. He’s having an anxiety attack. Is he having an anxiety attack? Probably not, but that’s not to say that he’s not freaking out about just happened. He just made out with Peter. On a dingy kitchen floor. And, now he’s sitting on his crotch. His crotch. He should get up and run out the door from embarrassment. He should, right? Should he?
He doesn’t get up. Instead, Jamie runs his hands through his hair, trying to focus on something in the room other than him. He still can’t catch his breath, Peter left him breathless, and he’s positive his face must be tomato red, based on how heated his cheeks feel. The pads of his fingertips press against the swollen flesh of his lips. His tongue is heavy with the taste of peanut butter and Peter.
Peter.
Jamie hesitantly glances down to him, his breath still coming out shaky. Shit. He should say something. He should. He opens his mouth, but for one of the first times in his life, he’s speechless. Really? Really?! With his habit of rambling? With all the shit that’s running through his mind? This is the time he can’t think of anything to say?
jamie’s arms wrap around her shoulders and torrance feels the tension in her body dissipate almost instantly, replaced by a sense of solace only he seems to be able to muster. she stays firmly and silently locked in his embrace for an instant, before breaking away and walking into his home, hazel in tow. ‘ i am kind of hungry actually, ’ she admits, settling onto her friend’s couch, legs pretzeled up, ‘ i tried to smoke the sadness away with jesse earlier, but someone once told me that weed isn’t actually a food group. wild, right ? ’ at the very least, her sense of humor seems undamaged. there’s always that silver lining. ‘ anything you’re fine with me potentially finishing is fine. you know me, i’ve never really been picky. left that quality for my brother to have, ’ she adds, fingers combing through the fur of the cat now nestled up and loudly purring in her lap. her eyes scan the walls and furniture slowly ( not that anything’s changed in the two days she hasn’t come over ), before settling on jamie’s laptop screen. ‘ i’m not interrupting you in the middle of homework again, am i ? because i can go soon if you need me to. or i can try to help, depending on what you’re working on. ’
Jamie smiles faintly at Torrance’s joke, shrugging his shoulders. “Someone actually told you that?” He asks in mock shock, one hand pressing dramatically to his mouth. “Whoever thinks weed isn’t a food group have never been more wrong about something in their entire life.” He pauses for a moment to think of what left overs he currently has to offer her in his fridge, brown eyes glancing upwards. “I still have some pizza from the last time you were here, a lot of fucking takeout from last night…. Oh! And I have one of those comically large bags of cheesy popcorn. Any of that sound good to you?”
At her question about homework, Jamie glances towards his laptop and shuts it quickly. “Don’t worry about it, I’d much rather be hanging out with you.” Granted, he’d rather hang out with Tor than do anything else. But, he’s sure she knows that. “And, you can try to help me later, if you want. You happen to know anything about Botticelli or Caravaggio?” He asks, brow arching up.
