The next day inches along, scraping minute by minute against his skull like a pounding headache. Peter wakes up and goes to work and generally tries to act normal, but his whole body aches as if he’s hungover.

Peter wishes he was hungover.

The memory of Drew’s kiss lingers over his every movement and word, a mocking reminder that he full on made out with the enemy. The guy is the main reason that Amelia’s is failing and he’s a bit of a dick and he kissed Drew and Drew definitely kissed him back.

Guilt flares every few interactions, a speedy flash of heat to remind him that he did something he regrets.

Or, that he did something he wishes he regretted more.

By the time the restaurant is ready to close down, early that night because it’s a Sunday and small towns mean small hours, Peter needs a drink.

His head still feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Peter ignores it and goes back to the bar.

He’s not hoping that Drew will be there and he doesn’t care that the last time he was there, they kissed. He just cares that his friend Nick and his friend alcohol will be there.

Peter pushes through the door, letting it slam behind him. The bang doesn’t interrupt the conversation in the room or disrupt the loud Bon Jovi album bleeding through the speakers. Only Nick and a few girls in a booth turn towards the sound; the girls look away and Nick hands him his beer of choice before he even is fully settled on a bar stool.

He downs the whole beer before even noticing that Drew is in the room.

When he does notice, he considers downing a second one just as quickly. He slinks into the seat and for a good thirty minutes, pretends like Drew isn’t there.

His skin is on fire the entire time.

Peter hates that guy.

He hates him and he thinks that maybe if he hated him a little less, he wouldn’t be sitting there thinking about how freaking hot he was.

Across the room, Drew throws his head back and laughs. Its full bodied and even from half a room away, Peter sees the long line of Drew’s neck, the thick press of his Adam’s apple—his mouth waters and his tongue stings with the urge to swipe over the thin skin there.

Drew’s long hair hangs in loose brown curls, pushed behind his ears. Peter watches as Drew runs a hand through the mess, his long fingers raking through the strands and leaving them upended and messier than before.

Peter hadn’t taken advantage of their one dumb, stupid, mistake of a kiss. If he had taken advantage, he would have let his fingers wind into his hair and use a firm grip to pull on the tangled mess, leading Drew to where he was so he could kiss him harder and better.

It’s a goddamn miracle Peter doesn’t storm across the room and grab the stupid, handsome jerk by the neck and kiss him until one of them passes out or punches the other one.

It’s a goddamn miracle because Peter can’t stop thinking about the way his lips were shiny and his eyes were hooded and—

He’s the enemy, Peter reminds himself, tearing his eyes away from Drew. He glares down at his beer, half a thought away from blaming the alcohol for his own stupid desire. He’s the Dark Side.

Sweat drips down the bottle Peter’s holding, rolling over his clenched fingers and across his wet skin. It feels far away.

Everything feels far away but Peter thinks that's probably because he’s far away.

It’s the hate, he’s positive. He’s so freaking attracted to Drew because he hates him so much and Peter’s never really hated that many people, let alone one that is reasonably handsome, so his body and mind are just a little confused. He’s just confused.

That one really good, really bad kiss just confused him. That’s all.

“You’re staring at him,” Nick says. He throws the towel over his shoulder and props his elbows on the bar top, leaning his chin into his hands. His amusement bleeds over his face, lips twitching again and again as he struggles not to openly mock his friend. “Just so you know.”

Peter raises the beer bottle and points it at him. “Shut up.”

He drinks heavily until the beer trickles to a stop and he’s emptied the whole bottle.

“Thirsty?” Nick jokes. His gaze follows Peter’s and when they both land on Drew, Nick laughs. It draws Drew’s attention and then he’s looking back at Peter and his eyes are a freaking ocean even from across the room.

Peter snaps his head away quickly, looking around the room as if that had been his intention all along. “Do your job and get me another beer.”

Nick rolls his eyes but dutifully straightens and gets another bottle, grabbing an opener to pry the lid off. He hands it to Peter, ignoring the way he chugs it down immediately.

“You’re mean when you’re horny,” Nick says way too goddamn loudly.

Peter chokes on the beer, sputtering around the small amount he had in his mouth. “I—I am not—”

“Mean?” Nick bites down on his bottom lip but his shaking shoulders give him away.

“I am not—that! Just—God!” Peter glares down at the bar top, just stopping short of folding his arms petulantly across his chest. His cheeks burn and he can’t even begin to think about how hot his ears are. He’s red, red, red and embarrassed and Peter thinks maybe becoming friends with Nick in high school was a really bad idea.

“I hate you,” Peter tells him, moving his glare from the counter to his best friend’s face.

Nick grins. It’s wide and toothy and not at all concerned by the declaration of hate. “Nah,” he disagrees. “You only hate one person. And I’m pretty sure you don’t actually hate him.”

Without meaning to, definitely without wanting to, Peter’s head turns and he’s looking at Drew again.

God, that man is hot as hell.

Peter groans and throws his arms up in frustration. “I’m gonna die.”

“Maybe,” Nick nods his agreement. “Hope not!”

A guy across the bar waves for Nick’s attention and after a quick salute goodbye, he’s off to do his job and leaves Peter alone with his thoughts.

He peeks again at Drew. Drew’s shifted his chair so that it’s pointed in Peter’s direction and he’s leaning it back on it’s rear legs. He cocks his head, eyes sharp and focused on Peter even before he had turned to sneak a glance at him.

The heat that had slowly been receding rushes back, bringing a bright blush to his cheeks.

Holy shit.

If Peter was a little hot and bothered by looking at the guy from his peripheral vision or watching him laugh, that’s nothing compared to now: that’s nothing compared to the way Drew looks with his gaze hooded and heated, focused just on Peter. It looks like his eyelids are heavy, like they’re weighted down. It looks sinful.

Holy freaking shit.

Peter averts his gaze quickly because, yeah, no, he’s not going to just make weird, heated eye contact with the hottest enemy he’s ever had—okay, so, he’s the hottest guy he’s ever seen, enemy or not, and he’s also the only enemy he’s ever really had, but still—

He looks again. Just a peak from below his lashes, a quick one that no one will probably notice.

Drew smirks.

Peter downs the rest of the beer.

He’s tied to the chair, tethered completely to it by the sheer possibility that crackles between them. Peter knows there are other people in this bar—his freaking best friend, for one—but he can’t force himself to care.

Peter always cares. That’s kind of his thing.

But right now—

He hears Nick’s voice not too far away, talking to someone. Their voice sounds familiar, too, and he’s not really surprised because the only surprising person that Peter’s ever met is exactly the person that is grounding Peter to a freaking bar stool right now.

Peter’s veins churn. His chest feels thin as air but potent like the storm brewing behind it; he watches Drew stand up.

Drew tosses a wad of cash onto the counter. He hadn’t stopped to count it or unfold the bills or break eye contact for half a second. Even when he was speaking to someone else lowly, he was looking directly at Peter.

It fills him with—something. He doesn’t stop to identify it. He only stops to breathe, hard and shivering, when Drew finally looks away.

By the time Peter lets out the quivering breath he’d been holding in, Drew’s crossed the room to stand in front of him.

He’s half a foot away from Peter, standing in front of the stool that Peter’s still faintly perched on. He drags his eyes down, down, down, then lets them climb back up, only to linger on Peter’s throat.

Peter swallows heavily. Drew’s eyes flash and then he’s looking at his eyes again, bright amber eyes locked onto Peter’s.

“Hey,” Peter says. It comes out small and strangled.

Drew smiles wider. “Hey.”

He’s the enemy, he’s the enemy, he’s the enemy, he’s—

Really, really freaking cute.

“Good drink?” Peter looks around the room, trying to distract himself from the way Drew’s tongue had just peaked out and swiped across his bottom lip. His gaze trips a little when he sees Nick across the bar, drying glasses and clearly struggling not to laugh at him. His eyes snap back to Drew.

Drew takes a half step towards him and plucks the beer bottle from Peter’s hand. He shakes it, noting that it's empty, and then leans forward to set it on the counter behind Peter. He’s so close to Peter when he does that, the long line of his jaw just centimeters away from Peter’s mouth, and Peter inhales sharply.

“About as good as yours, I’d say,” Drew tells him, pulling back out of his space. He crosses his arms, shirt tightening against him and showing off the long lines of his muscles. It’s enthralling and dries out Peter’s mouth.

Silence blossoms around them, enveloping them in a bubble that cuts off their senses from the rest of the bar. Peter already hadn’t been able to see anything else; now he can’t hear anything but Drew’s soft, soft breathing; can’t feel anything besides the beating of his own heart; taste anything but the beer and anticipation rolling in waves on his tongue.

Usually, Peter finds silence to be awkward or, on rare occasions, comforting. But this silence is something different—it curls itself underneath his ribs, sliding between his muscles and tendons. It jolts and spasms and reminds him that everything, even silence, can be felt.

His fingers twitch. He smothers the urge to touch by giving in to the urge to look, raking his eyes up and down Drew.

He wears the same type of dark, tight jeans he had been wearing the day before. These have a small rip in one of the knees and while Peter knows that’s a style, it’s clear that this hole has been ripped from natural wear and tear. Warmth softly unfurls in his chest. For no reason Peter can discern, he likes that.

Drew’s hair sits just below his shoulders, the loose curls a little wild and frizzy at the ends. His collarbone—well, that’s the part that Peter thinks he might like the most. It’s sharp, jutting out in a way that is almost comical. Peter wants to suck small bruises into the skin there, or maybe above or below it, and definitely on his neck—his neck is arguably Peter’s second favorite part.

Using more strength than he cares to admit is involved, he forces his eyes back to Drew’s. When their eyes meet, Peter lets out a little shaky breath and he smiles, just a little, even though he really does hate this guy.

That smile, apparently, is all the permission Drew needs.

He swipes his thumb across his own bottom lip, fingers curled around his chin briefly, then he jerks his head towards the door. “Come with me.”

He stalks off without waiting for an answer.

Peter watches him leave. He doesn’t slow his stride when Peter doesn’t follow. He doesn’t look behind him when he reaches the door and Peter is still frozen to the bar and he doesn’t wait for him, just throws open the heavy door and then lets it slam shut behind him.

Peter stares at the door. He blinks, twice, and then turns to Nick. The bartender gives him an incredulous expression, mutters something that looks a bit like goddamn and bastard, and waves his hands in a shooing motion towards the exit.

A light bulb clicks above Peter’s head.

Peter rushes towards the door, head snapping back and forth when he makes it outside and Drew isn’t just by the door waiting for him, which, of course he isn’t. Why would Drew just wait for him? Drew’s entire “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” attitude requires that he be the kind of guy to not wait. He’s an asshole and he’s hot as hell and he’s—

He’s leaning against Peter’s truck.

Peter decidedly does not stumble on the rocks when he slides across the parking lot.

Drew’s back is pressed to the passenger side door, hands shoved into his jean pockets, and his ankles crossed out in front of him. A cigarette dangles from his lips, the cherry bright red. When Peter stops in front of him, Drew’s cheeks hollow as he takes a deep drag, and he lifts one hand to remove the cigarette and blow out the smoke.

Smoking is gross, Peter thinks. But even in his own head, it comes out more like a whimper and something tightens in his chest in a really nice, warm way when Drew puts the cigarette back between his lips. They’re puckered around the paper, drawn together to hold it in place.

The paper burns, ash replacing the white up and up and up.

They stand there, the only sound the soft, undetectable burning of the cigarette and the heavy-hoofed stampede of Peter’s heart.

When the cigarette is nearly gone, just a small bud left, Drew drops it. Peter’s eyes follow it down. The red burns brightly against the gray asphalt. Peter toes the bud, pressing his shoe into it until the fire goes out and it’s smashed into the ground. He looks back up, feeling as if the fire from the burnt cigarette is spreading throughout his body.

Drew cocks his head. The smirk from before is back and it infuriates Peter, heating his veins.

Peter crosses his arms as if he’s cold. He looks around the parking lot. Drew looks so aloof. Peter’s pretty sure he’s never been aloof a day in his life; this, right here, swallowing words down in a dimly lit parking lot with a hot stranger, is the most aloof he’s ever been.

It doesn’t last long. “Do you need a ride home?” He blurts out.

Drew’s smirk smooths out into a smile, sharper than any one that Peter’s ever worn. “No.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Well, okay.”

“Unlock your truck, Jacobs.”

Peter’s knees turn to jelly.

“Thought you didn’t need a ride.” Peter feels like he’s filled with cement; he also feels like he is floating through the air, attached only to a balloon. There are needles underneath his skin and Drew’s gaze elicits each round of vibrations.

Drew pushes off from the truck, crowding into Peter’s space. He dips his head, just the smallest amount. His lips are centimeters away from grazing Peter’s jaw and he feels the space as tangible, air alight with kerosene.

“I don’t. Unlock the door.”

Peter stumbles forward again, brushing past Drew to stick the key in the lock. He hates how hard his hands are shaking, incapable of getting it right. If his truck could be unlocked with a click of a button, they’d already be inside the warm cab.

But the truck’s too old and Peter’s body is trembling too hard. Drew takes the keys from Peter’s hand and unlocks the door quickly and easily.

“After you,” Drew says. Between the last time he spoke and now, Drew’s tone fell an octave. It scrapes against his throat a little too roughly and sends shivers down Peter’s spine.

Peter climbs into the cab, scooting so that his back is pressed against the driver side door. He twists at the hip, barely in a position to be able to drive, but not yet completely splayed across the seat.

Is he going to be driving? Is he going to—

Anticipation sits in him, tightly wound like a string around a finger, cutting off the circulation and turning the tip of his finger pink. His vision blurs and he blinks, refocusing as Drew closes the door behind him and settles.

“Should I—” Peter gestures towards the wheel.

Drew shakes his head. “No,” he says. “That would be unsafe.”

“Me driving?”

“You driving while I do what I plan on doing to you.”

Heat replaces the anticipation...bright, bright heat, spasming inside his stomach, like a warning sign that he is all too eager to ignore.

His voice dies in his throat. He just nods, head jerking fast.

Drew scoots closer. He leaves a little space between them, eyes dark and flickering across Peter’s face. He feels it like a physical sensation, the drag of his gaze against his lips, ghosting over his cheekbones. His skin tingles in the same pattern that Drew creates with his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Drew murmurs. “That kiss has had me thinking.”

“A-about me?”

“About you,” Drew nods. Peter sways and Drew moves until they’ve met in the middle and there’s no space left between them.

Peter forgets. He forgets everything, all at once, in such a rush that he nearly blacks out from the intensity of the nothingness inside his mind. He can’t focus on any thought or emotion or fact; all he can do is feel.

And right now, all he can feel is Drew’s lips crushing into his own.

Drew kisses him with the expertise of someone who isn’t asking for permission but taking what is already his. There’s nothing soft or gentle here; where their last kiss had been something—well, something freaking incredible, Peter hasn’t forgotten that even if he is well on his way to forgetting his own name—this kiss is something entirely different.

This kiss dominates his every sense. He can smell the minty burn of Drew’s aftershave, taste the beer and smoke on Drew’s tongue, feel the scrape of Drew’s teeth against his bottom lip and Drew’s hands pushing and pulling and putting Peter exactly where he wants him.

The shock of how good it is wears off after a moment and Peter re-enters his body, electricity jolting his every nerve. He pushes against Drew, winding one hand into his hair, tugging at the long locks to pull Drew’s head back just a little, giving Peter a better angle. He puts his other hand on Drew’s neck, fingertips tingling with satisfaction that they’re finally, actually touching his skin. The burn of it is almost half as good as the burn in his stomach and he gives in to the need pushing inside of him, digging his fingers a little deeper. He’s rewarded immediately with a low groan ripped from Drew’s throat.

“Goddamn,” Drew allows himself to be pushed back against the passenger door, Peter climbing to crowd his space. “Fuck, man.”

It’s awkward, their legs too long and their bodies too big to be comfortably splayed across the cab of his truck. He shifts then just a little bit more, one hand thrown up against the now steamy window to hold himself in place, and their hips align and—

Sparks dance across his blackening vision. The sounds that fill the cab are animalistic, deep, heavy—they’re so good that the sounds alone are enough to make more sparks fly.

Peter juts their hips together again, a gentle, precise push of his hips just to see what Drew does.

Drew’s eyes flash.

His hands drop from where they’d been clenching onto Peter’s shoulders and Peter is trapped in his gaze, those dark, big eyes holding him completely still while his fingers start to work on the button of Peter’s jeans.

It pops open and he slides the zipper down, never breaking eye contact. Peter wants to look down, wants to see the way Drew’s long fingers look as they push at his jeans, but he can’t, not even a little glance. All he can do is drown in the black sea of Drew’s eyes and listen as his trembling breath fills the truck.

With his jeans now pushed down to his knees, Peter’s not just trapped by Drew’s eyes—he’s also physically trapped and he has to roll over Drew’s body, the hard lines of their bodies scraping against one another in such a delicious, slow way that he lets out a hiss. But then he’s on his side, pressed against the seat, and he clutches onto Drew to keep them both on the seat. He’s practically on top of Drew. He shimmies and kicks until his pants are around his ankles, toeing off his boots and then finally, finally, getting his pants all the way off.

“This is a goddamn Olympic sport,” he huffs out, shifting again so he’s holding himself up above Drew’s body. One hand clutches around the top of the seat, the other fisted and pressed into the cushion beside Drew’s head.

Drew blinks at him. His mouth is parted just a little bit, lips swollen from Peter’s own mouth having ravaged them. His hair is a wild mess, creating a dark halo around his head. Peter can’t touch it because he has to hold himself up but he does lower his mouth to Drew’s, swallowing the little surprised sound he makes at the sudden kiss.

Drew doesn’t stay surprised for long.

As if the kiss reminded him what they were doing, Drew throws himself into hyper speed. His tongue plunges into Peter’s mouth, deepening their kiss. He licks at the roof of his mouth, curling his tongue around Peter’s, slowly and carefully unravelling every bit of Peter until he’s a writhing mess. Drew holds onto Peter’s hip, fingernails digging into the skin there, and it hurts in such a delightful way that Peter kisses him harder.

Drew’s other hand slides down his chest, a trail of goosebumps following the movement. It lights him up from the inside, freezing him from the outside—a contradiction of physical sensations, following the confusion in his head.

When Drew’s hand stills and he pulls back from the kiss, breathing heavily, Peter momentarily remembers that they’re in the goddamn parking lot of the local bar and anyone could see them. Two grown men in the cab of a truck that’s parked pretty much in the center of the parking lot—there’s nothing innocuous about them.

Drew licks his lips, drawing all of Peter’s attention to watch the movement, and then Drew slips his hand into Peter’s boxers and curls around him and—

Peter doesn’t give a goddamn shit if they’re in the middle of the parking lot. He doesn’t care if everyone in Poplar can see them.

He moans out, long and loud and embarrassing as all hell. The sound fills the cab and he has to bite harshly on his bottom lip to keep from doing it again when Drew starts moving his hand up and down, twisting his wrist at the top, then down and up. It’s a bit dry and a bit of a burn and a bit too much, but in such a good way that Peter feels half a second away from passing out completely.

It’s everything Peter can do to stop himself from thrusting down hard and dirty and desperate against any part of Drew he can touch. His muscles tremble and ache with the effort of holding himself still.

Drew’s other hand, somehow, is still free and Peter nearly blacks out when he hears the sound of Drew’s jeans unzipping. He feels the scrape of Drew’s jeans against his own thighs as he pushes them down. Drew stops pumping him, fingers relaxing and holding him loosely, and Peter’s eyes fly open. He briefly wonders when they’d fallen closed.

“Don’t,” he gets out, though it’s barely more than a breath. “Don’t stop.”

Drew looks at him, eyes just pupil and lips curled into a dangerous smile. He shifts closer to Peter, slotting one of his legs between Peter’s, and their cocks align.

Bright sparks light up behind Peter’s eyelids.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans out, hips rotating and grinding down against Drew’s. Each time their bodies brush against each other, the two men let out matching little groans.

Drew grabs both of them in his hand and moves his hand slowly, up and down. Peter’s fingers tighten around Drew’s hip, holding him onto the seat, one of his legs thrown across Drew’s hip to give him better access. The dry burn of Drew’s hand from before is gone, their precome mixing together to let Drew’s fingers slide easily and wetly across them. He can’t move much at all from the position they’re in, forced to just let Drew do what he wants. It burns a little better and he doesn’t focus on how good it is to not have any control of the situation.

Peter buries his face into Drew’s neck, placing hot, open mouthed kisses on the juncture between his neck and collarbone. Each time Drew flicks his wrist, Peter gasps, his tongue flickering out and scraping against the sweat-salty skin beneath his mouth. When Drew tilts his hips, rocking into his hands, it brightens the feeling so thoroughly that Peter can’t stop himself from biting down hard.

A low, sharp sound rushes from Drew’s mouth, and he cants his hips again and again and Peter lets his teeth sink into the fragile skin there, sucking bruises when he pulls back, kissing the blossoming blue marks each time.

It’s too much and it’s not enough. Something desperate like a whine builds in the back of Peter’s throat. He wants more, needs more, more, anything, everything.

Drew works him as if he can hear the incoherent thoughts rambling inside Peter’s mind and it’s not until Drew complies with another hard thrust of his hips, jutting his cock harshly against Peter’s, that he realizes he’s talking out loud. He moans out Drew’s name in a long sigh, tongue wrapping around the sounds to taste the way they move in his mouth.

Drew’s other hand flies to Peter’s head, fisting the hair at the nape of his neck hard, and pulling him in for another crushing kiss.

“Shit, fuck, oh,” he mumbles between the harsh kisses and then Drew’s hips are stuttering. Peter looks down just in time to see Drew’s long cock twitch, the head furiously red, and then he’s coming, hard, all over his hand and the bottom of Drew’s t-shirt and Peter’s cock. The sight finishes anything left inside of Peter and he lets the kiss fall away to nothing but open mouths pressed together, lips barely moving, as his own vision tunnels, body tensing tight, and his own come joins Drew’s on their bodies.

When his head clears enough of the buzzing, Peter slumps into the seat. Drew’s body has slumped against his, too, and their heartbeats pound furiously against each other from beneath their respective t-shirts. Peter can only feel the body pressed against him, only hears his pulse inside his veins.

Eventually, their softening cocks and bottoming pulses are too much to ignore and, without a word, they pull apart from one another.

Peter wipes his hands on his boxers, cleaning himself up as best he can. He gets dressed as fast as he can, trying to wiggle into his jeans without hurting himself or pressing the material too hard against the mess in his boxers.

Drew glares down at his t-shirt, wrinkling his nose at the mess there. He lifts it gingerly and uses his boxers to clean himself off. Then he stuffs himself back into his boxers and yanks his jeans up; they hadn’t been kicked off the same way that Peter’s had and he looks so close to presentable in such little time that Peter is almost offended.

He feels thoroughly debauched. Somehow, Drew still looks unaffected.

Except, Peter can’t help but think a little vindictively, for those big bruises.

The hickies are vivid against his flushed but paling skin. Though Peter’s pretty sure his hair is long enough to cover it, right now the messy curls are pushed behind his ears and Peter likes the way his bruises color Drew’s neck.

“Well,” Drew says, clearing his throat. His voice is rough and, god help him, something twinges inside of Peter’s gut. “Not bad, Peter.”

Peter studiously tries not to blush. He fails miserably. “You, too,” he doesn’t sound half as disinterested as Drew had. He is so not aloof.

Drew winks at him, and then pats his pockets. He frowns, ducking down to the floor of the truck, and coming back with a pack of cigarettes. He salutes Peter. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Peter’s mouth drops a little but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as Drew unlocks the truck’s door and shimmies out, walking across the parking lot while the door slams behind him. Through fogged windows, he can faintly make out the shape of Drew lighting a cigarette and walking down the road, past the bar, and out of sight.

Peter sits there until Drew is long gone, until the windows aren’t foggy anymore, until his brain manages to come up with any thought.

Unfortunately, the only thought he’s able to come up with is:

Peter is so goddamn screwed.