[ Jesus, this guy doesn't beat around the bush, does he? Peter winces again, and some phantom thing wraps around his ribs, uncomfortable but not painful. He grips his shirt and tries to breathe through it, feels heat flickering in his chest, warm but not hot.
But Peter does lie; he does pretend. So he tells himself this feeling isn't pleasant. He pretends that it doesn't mean anything. The rooftop -- that was a fluke. The light -- some stupid biological quirk.
That-- that feeling of completeness--
-- Just some stupid daydream after meeting another human after decades and decades of separation.
He wipes blood away from his upper lip, sniffs as the bleeding from his nose slows to a trickle.
It's just too fucking bad his lies to himself are so fucking obvious. ]
... Yeah.
[ It's a sorry excuse for an admission, to be sure, but it's hard won against the icy panic and denial pooling in his gut. He can't bring himself to look up from the floor, though; anything more than that one word feels like too much. ]
no subject
But Peter does lie; he does pretend. So he tells himself this feeling isn't pleasant. He pretends that it doesn't mean anything. The rooftop -- that was a fluke. The light -- some stupid biological quirk.
That-- that feeling of completeness--
-- Just some stupid daydream after meeting another human after decades and decades of separation.
He wipes blood away from his upper lip, sniffs as the bleeding from his nose slows to a trickle.
It's just too fucking bad his lies to himself are so fucking obvious. ]
... Yeah.
[ It's a sorry excuse for an admission, to be sure, but it's hard won against the icy panic and denial pooling in his gut. He can't bring himself to look up from the floor, though; anything more than that one word feels like too much. ]