Peter isn’t sure what the hell Drew was going on about or why he was so mad, but he decides a half an hour after he stormed out that it doesn’t matter. Drew was clearly going through something and even though it seemed to have a lot to do with Peter, it also seemed to have nothing to do with Peter.

This seems like something he should just stay clear of.

Drew will either be back or he won’t; Peter doesn’t have any control over that.

He reminds himself of this fact again when, ten to nine, he still hasn’t come back.

“You worried about your drama king?” Allison props her hands on the broom, nodding towards the door.

Peter rolls his eyes. “No, actually. It doesn’t really matter.”

“It kind of matters,” she disagrees. “You like him.”

Heat flares inside his gut. “No, I don’t.”

Allison throws her hands up then dives to catch the broom before it clatters to the floor. “You do too! I don’t know why you’re being like this—”

“Like what?” He meant it to come out sharp, as a warning. Instead, it was a question.

Allison quirks an eyebrow. “Employee or friend?”

He concedes. “Friend.”

“You’re pretending like you don’t care about him and you expect us to believe you because you normally don’t care,” she says.

Peter furrows his brow. “I’m not doing that.”

“You are, though.” She shakes her head then sighs. “You’re telling me you never felt this way about Kyle? Ever?”

Like usual, guilt replaces whatever he was feeling before as soon as Kyle’s name is mentioned. He really, really wanted to care about Kyle.

“That’s different.”

“What about Jake? Or Luke?” All of his exes that had faced similar fates as Kyle.

Peter chews on his bottom lip. “This isn’t like them. Drew and I aren’t—dating. We’re not anything.”

Allison snorts. “You’re clearly something,” she says. “I just don’t know exactly what.”

Peter thinks that’s probably a common confusion.

“Are you really not going to admit to liking him?”

“It’s just not like that,” he explains. “I’m not into that. You know that about me.”

Allison sighs and goes back to sweeping. He wipes down the tables and together, with Damien cleaning the kitchen, they get the place ready for the morning.

Music plays from the stereo behind the counter, Allison’s choice today, but other than that the team moves in silence. It’s effortless and common, the same mundane work they do every day.

Peter can’t stop thinking about Drew.

Allison and Damien invite him to the bar and, as usual, he declines. Peter reminds them that they should really plan what they’re doing for Nick’s birthday and the friends part when the restaurant is ready to close at half past nine.

He’s about to lock the door when, through the window, Peter sees someone walking in the middle of the street.

He cracks the door open just a little bit, narrowing his eyes in the dark to focus on the long-legged person.

With a start, Peter realizes he recognizes the stumbling guy.

“Drew?” he calls, slipping out of the door frame and crossing to the edge of the sidewalk.

Drew’s head snaps up. He grins, wide and easily. He throws his arms out and croons Peter’s name.

He’s a few feet away but Peter thinks he can practically smell the booze off of him from there.

“You’re drunk,” Peter says slowly, furrowing his eyebrows. His face erupts in wrinkles as he watches Drew try to walk towards him, legs crossing and his body swaying from one side to the other.

“No,” Drew says when he reaches him. His arms fly up and wrap around Peter’s shoulders. He’s still smiling.

Peter would be enthralled if he wasn’t so concerned.

“What are you doing?” He puts one arm around Drew’s waist by instinct, trying to steady him.

Drew’s head lolls to the side as he considers. “Oh! Yes. I was walking home.”

“Home?” Peter’s heart hammers.

“The motel,” Drew corrects himself, but the words seem to get stuck on his tongue. “Going from bar to motel.”

“Well, let me walk you,” Peter turns them towards the diner. “I’ll just get my keys.”

“No,” Drew tries to shove away from him and Peter holds harder. “No, no, no.”

“Come on, man,” Peter shoves a little and they both get through the door in one piece. The bell goes off as the door slams behind them. “I can’t in good conscience let you walk through the streets like this.”

“Like what?” He’s no longer clinging to Peter but he doesn’t look any stronger either; he seems completely trashed.

“Drew, you’re so drunk,” Peter sets him on a stool and then shoots his arm out to catch him when he starts sliding off. “Jeez, why didn’t Nick cut you off?”

“Nick! The bartender, right?” Drew nods to himself as if answering his own question. “He did but he can’t cut off other people!”

“You took other people’s drinks?”

“No!” Drew slaps Peter’s hand away lightly when he tries to steady him again. “They bought them for me.”

“Oh,” and Peter is definitely not feeling anything warm or pleasant in his stomach.

Drew reaches out and taps his finger against Peter’s throat. “No, no sad. Don’t like them.”

“Don’t care if you do,” Peter mumbles. His stomach stops flipping.

Drew sighs, long and heavy. Peter struggles to keep his expression still.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water,” he says. “Stay here.”

Clumsily, Drew salutes him. “Aye, aye!”

Peter laughs, patting Drew on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen. He fills up a glass as quickly as he can, shaking his head to himself. A few hours ago, he was getting yelled at by his weird, handsome friend, and now he’s drunk as all hell in his restaurant.

Once the glass is full, he contemplates grabbing some sort of food to get into Drew’s stomach to soak up the alcohol. He decides against it for now in case it just makes him sick.

He heads back to where he left Drew, stopping short when he sees that the restaurant is empty.

“Drew?” he calls. There’s no answer.

Peter quickly sets the glass down and looks around, going outside and checking across the street to see if he tried to make his way home.

He’s halfway to running out and checking every motel in town since he’s not sure which one Drew is staying at when he hears a loud crash coming from upstairs.

Taking two steps at a time, Peter rushes upstairs. His door is already open and when he gets inside, he sees Drew sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding the biggest piece of a broken lamp in his hands.

Drew looks up, expression wrought and grim. “I killed it.”

Peter could laugh. He swallows it and the relief down. He closes the door behind him and goes into his own kitchen, grabbing the ibuprofen and a water bottle from the fridge.

He comes back, sitting next to Drew on the floor, and hands him the water bottle, taking the lamp out of his hands.

He gently puts the broken lamp next to the rest of the pieces and shakes out two ibuprofen tablets, handing them to Drew. “Swallow these.”

Drew frowns then brightens, wiggling his eyebrows. “There are other things I’d rather be swallowing.”

He moves closer to Peter. Peter puts a hand on his chest, barely pressing, and Drew flops back to his side.

“Take the medicine, Drew,” he’s trying really, really hard not to laugh.

Drew dutifully swallows the pills and downs half the water. Then he sets it down and sighs.

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?” Peter shakes his head. “No. Why?”

“I killed her,” he gestures towards the lamp, frowning. “And you don’t want to kiss me.”

“You’re drunk,” Peter says as gently as he can. “If you want to kiss me, do it sober.”

“I want to kiss you now. I like kissing you.”

Peter feels his blood rushing to his face. “I like kissing you, too. But the last time we saw each other, you were mad at me. So no drunk kissing until we sort that out.”

“I was mean,” Drew throws himself to the ground, stretching across the carpet. His arms raise above his head and he yawns after the stretch. “I was so mean to you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not! I overreacted,” he struggles around the word, and Peter has to stop himself from smiling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been mean to you. You’re not using me.”

Peter blinks. “Um, no, I’m not.”

“You care about people and it’s none of my business anyway!” Drew sits back up, though it takes him a few tries. “I’m sorry I was mean.”

“Dude, it’s okay.” Peter hesitates, then crosses the invisible border he created for them, placing his hand on Drew’s shoulder. He squeezes gently. “We’re friends.”

Drew’s eyes widen and he cocks his head. His long hair falls, a few of the curls falling in his face. “We are?”

Peter swallows. “Of course we are,” he says. “So you can yell at me sometimes and I’ll yell at you sometimes, and then we’ll figure it out.”

Drew nods, fast. “Yeah. Okay.”

He yawns again.

Peter wants to know more but figures that it’s not a good time. “Listen, you can stay here if you want. Just to sleep,” he adds when Drew starts to grin wolfishly.

It falls to a pout immediately. Peter chuckles.

“Come on,” he pushes himself up and holds a hand out to Drew. Drew takes it with both of his hands and Peter pulls him up. Drew goes to the couch and throws himself onto it face down.

Peter goes to the linen closet and grabs a blanket. When he comes back to the living room, Drew’s snoring loudly. Peter shakes his head and drapes the blanket over his friend, retrieving the half empty water bottle and putting it on the coffee table.

Without thinking, he brushes a few of the curls away from Drew’s face. When he realizes what he’s doing, he pulls his hand away hard like it burned him.

“Night,” he says to the unconscious body.

Drew snores back at him.

Peter locks the diner’s door, sweeps up the broken glass and sets a timer on his coffee pot, dresses in his pajamas, and brushes his teeth. He lies in bed and tries hard, very hard, not to think about the man lying just a few feet away in the other room.

He’s thought it before and he’s sure he’ll think it again, but once more, Peter finds himself circling around one, lone thought: he’s so, so screwed.

—

The next morning comes quickly. Peter feels content, a happy sleepiness heavy inside his body. Especially considering how long it took Peter to actually fall asleep.

He smells the coffee from the kitchen, wafting in through his cracked bedroom door.

He stretches, rolling over. He freezes when his body presses against something hard.

Peter slowly cracks open one eye and then the other.

There, just a few inches away from his face, lies Drew.

Drew’s mouth is parted, his breathing coming out in short, whining huffs; his hair looks crazy, halfway covering his face, the pillows, his shoulders. Seeing it like this makes Peter think maybe he underestimated just how much hair Drew actually has.

He doesn’t remember Drew coming to his room or climbing into his bed. A quick glance down reassures Peter that they’re both still dressed and therefore didn’t do anything too bad, which is good.

As carefully as he can, Peter untangles himself from Drew’s legs and the blankets, crawling out of bed.

He slips out of his bedroom. The blanket he’d left for Drew is tangled into a ball on the floor but at least the water bottle seems empty. Hopefully the bit of water will keep Drew’s hangover from being too bad.

He wonders when Drew came to his room; why he did that; if that was the reason he feels so rested. He’d shared beds with partners before—not that he and Drew were partners, of course, but still—but usually, he just ended up annoyed having to share his space like that.

He didn’t mind it as much with Drew, even when it happened without his knowledge. He thinks he would quite like falling asleep with Drew as much as he liked waking up to him.

Peter quickly pushes that thought from his head and goes to the kitchen.

He pours himself a generous cup of coffee, adding a dollop of milk, and drinks the whole thing hot and fast. He pours himself a second cup and leaves it to cool while he starts breakfast.

Pancakes, he decides, will be good for Drew’s stomach. He’ll use his mom’s recipe, of course, the one with a splash of vanilla and just a teensy bit of brandy. They’re his favorite and he thinks that Drew will like them, with his sweet tooth. Well, Peter doesn’t know that Drew has a sweet tooth. It’s just a hunch, since the guy is a baker, but he’s pretty confident about it.

Peter thinks that his reaction to the pancakes will prove the hypothesis.

He finishes the batter quickly, used to making them. He worked hard when he was a kid to learn this recipe in particular, because making breakfast for his mom was an absolute must-do on any sort of holiday.

He finishes his coffee and pours the rest of the pot into his mug. He restarts a pot in case Drew likes coffee in the morning. He doesn’t know that either.

Since Drew is still asleep and the pancake batter is chilling, Peter pulls out his bag of potatoes. He carefully sneaks down to the restaurant’s kitchen and grabs an onion and green pepper, carrying his own contraband back upstairs as quietly as he can. He chops them and throws them in the oven with a drizzle of olive oil and spices. Then he starts on the pancakes.

The coffee pot has just gurgled to a stop and he’s about to pull the last pancake off the griddle when he hears the unmistakable sound of his bedroom door creaking open.

His muscles stiffen immediately but Peter focuses hard on not reacting. He finishes the pancakes and pulls out the hash browns from the oven, testing one of the potatoes. He tosses it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully with his mouth slightly open to alleviate the heat.

“What smells amazing and why am I dying?”

Peter turns around just in time to see Drew heave himself on the doorframe, hands clenched around the molding to hold himself up.

He looks terrible. Peter grabs a mug and starts pouring coffee. “I made breakfast. Sit down.”

Drew complies easily, sliding into one of Peter’s kitchen chairs.

“When did I get here?” Drew accepts the coffee and starts drinking immediately. Peter turns and grabs plates and forks from the cabinets, setting them on the table.

“You showed up after close last night,” Peter reaches into the fridge and grabs syrup and butter, setting them in the middle of the table.

“Did we get fucking plastered?” Drew lets his head fall into his hands, wincing. “God, too loud.”

Peter refills both their coffee cups and then starts dishing the food onto the plates. “You did, but that was before you showed up. Here.”

Drew takes the plate from Peter. “Thanks,” he mutters. “So we just—” he gestures between them with one hand, using the other to grab a fork.

Peter shakes his head and sits in his own chair. “No,” he says quickly. “I just put you to bed on the couch.”

Drew raises an eyebrow. “I woke up in your room.”

Peter shrugs and takes a bite of the pancakes. “Not my fault. I woke up to that as a surprise.”

Drew looks down at his plate, frowning. He opens his mouth as if to say something but seems to change his mind, taking a bite of his pancakes.

He chews it and then lets out a low groan. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is good.”

Peter tries very hard not to preen. “Thanks.”

Drew hums a you’re welcome from around another mouthful. He eats quickly and doesn’t even bother with the syrup or butter, just eating the pancakes plain. When he finishes, he moves on to the potatoes.

Peter can’t help but watch him. He eats his own food slowly, focused mostly on the way that Drew looks when he eats his food.

“Stop staring at me,” Drew mutters, shoving the last of his potatoes in his mouth.

Peter laughs. “Sorry.”

“Are not.” Drew looks up, smiling a little, before wiping it off his face and leaning back. “God, my head.”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, shrugging. “You were really drunk.”

Drew winces. “Was I an ass?”

Peter jokingly contemplates before shaking his head. “No, you were very nice.”

Drew rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

Peter considers it for only half a second before asking. “Yesterday when you—when you were in the restaurant and upset—”

Drew holds up a hand. “Can we not?”

Peter wants to say no, we can’t not. He knew better than to push when Drew was drunk and he meant it when he said it was okay because they were friends. He isn’t upset with Drew. But he doesn’t get it. And he doesn’t want to upset him that badly again.

But Drew’s looking at him, just shy of pleadingly, and Peter doesn’t have it in him to push.

“Okay,” he concedes. “But if it happens again, you have to explain.”

“Deal.” Drew agrees quickly.

Peter finishes his breakfast. It’s quiet and they’re both pretending like they’re not just looking at each other, but Drew has bedhead and his shirt is all wrinkled and Peter likes him in his apartment. In this part of his life. It—works.

He stands up to grab the dishes when Drew breaks the silence.

“Thanks,” Drew says, holding his coffee cup up to his mouth. “For letting me stay here. And, like, breakfast.”

Peter smiles. He hopes it comes off as polite instead of fond. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not,” Drew stands up and grabs the syrup and the butter. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

He puts the food away and Peter does the dishes.

And if they kiss softly without thinking about it when Peter walks him downstairs, needing to open the restaurant, then they’ll just blame it on the niceness of the early morning. And if Peter spends the rest of the day with his heart beating just in time and his smile effortlessly present, well, that probably doesn’t have anything to do with Drew anyway.

He keeps telling himself that and he thinks, maybe, if he says it enough, he’ll believe it.