Drew is going to sew his goddamn lips together if he doesn’t stop being such an idiot.

He managed to avoid Peter and Amelia’s in general for a whole week. He hesitated outside the building constantly but he didn’t go inside for a whole, entire week—and then he broke.

He goddamn broke.

Drew doesn’t need people. He doesn’t want people. The majority of his life exists simply through coasting and there’s something so innately purposeful about Peter that coasting isn’t possible when he’s around.

Drew should hate that. He kind of does.

It intrigues him more, though.

So he’d said fuck it after a week and stormed inside after hours for no good reason other than he wanted to. He goddamn wanted to

He’s so screwed.

He stormed inside and pretended like it wasn’t weird and baked him brownies and agreed to watch a movie at his place like they’re fucking teenagers and the entire time, all Drew could think about was his mouth.

Peter has a really nice mouth. Drew hates that.

He stands in front of the mirror, hating the largeness of it. The Sunnyside Motel is a giant piece of shit, Drew knows that, but the fact that the bathroom mirror takes up nearly an entire wall seems so unnecessary that it makes him hate the place even more. He can see his entire body and it’s making him regret his t-shirt choice which is making him regret ever being born.

Jesus H. Christ. He’s going to die in this town.

There’s something in the water. He’s sure of it.

Groaning, Drew grabs his jean jacket and throws it on. He needs to just get over himself. It’s just a movie at a—what is Peter? A friend? A fuck? A—whatever. It’s a movie at a person’s house and whether he wears the black t-shirt or the white one, it doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t even know why he’s so goddamn interested in Peter. He doesn’t know him well enough to care and he’s not naturally interesting enough to be enthralling; he’s basically nobody in a nowhere town and Drew, for all intents and purposes, shouldn’t give a shit.

Which, well, he doesn’t. He doesn’t give a shit.

He just cares a little. The whole spy gimmick is interesting enough to entertain him. He doesn’t care a single shit about the rivalry but he cares a little about how much Peter and Sal seem to care.

He doesn’t really get why Peter is so worried. The newness of Sal’s will wear off and pretty soon, he’ll be gone and without his desserts to boost up the clientele, there’s no way Sal’s will keep the lead. Peter’s way too good of a cook for that.

And if the guy ever goes into a single other restaurant and realizes that his place kind of looks like shit, he’ll be fairly unstoppable.

Drew grabs his keys and shakes his head, locking the motel room up when he leaves. He can’t keep obsessing. He needs to just say fuck it and let himself do whatever the hell he wants: that’s what he’s always done and just because this time it includes someone else doesn’t mean it’s not just as good an idea.

The walk to Amelia’s—to Peter’s apartment, apparently—takes twice as long as it needs to. Drew can’t convince his feet to actually lift and walk instead of just slowly shuffling.

By the time he gets there, it’s a quarter past nine and he feels something building up beneath his skin, lighting him up with little sparks. He doesn’t want to call them nerves, necessarily, because he’s not nervous about watching a goddamn movie with a guy, but he is—maybe anxious.

Unsure, a little.

It’s been a while since he actively wanted to do something. It’s been a while since there was anything worth doing.

Drew takes a breath that is entirely unnecessary and then pushes through the front door. The obnoxious bell rings out and he would have been annoyed if he wasn’t so thoroughly distracted.

Peter’s a good-looking guy. Drew has no qualms about admitting that. Drew had been attracted to him almost instantly and, even if he hadn’t been, their time in Peter’s pickup truck really would have tipped the scale in his favor.

But tonight—Peter looks something out of a goddamn blockbuster.

He’s behind the counter, sleeves of his red flannel shirt pushed up to his elbows. Underneath his flannel, he wears a thin white t-shirt. The collar of it is worn and obviously aged; he can see the way its stretched and accommodated being pulled over his head several times. His jaw has a hint of facial hair, a five o’clock shadow that sharpens his jawline and brings even more attention to his wide spread, light pink lips.

Peter looks goddamn good.

Drew thinks he should have worn the white shirt instead of the black one.

“Drew!” Peter straightens up quickly, elbow slamming into the wall behind him as he does so. He winces and pulls the offended body part closer to his chest, rubbing his elbow with his other hand. “Ouch.”

“Careful,” Drew intends it to come out wryly.

Peter grins at him, dropping his elbow. Drew thinks he might have failed.

“All good here?” The restaurant looks closed but Drew doesn’t really know what sort of routine the man has. He only gave him a few minutes for closing anyway.

But Peter nods. “Yeah, definitely. Ready?”

Peter locks the front door, then leads him to a stairwell behind a curtain, half-hidden behind the kitchen, and they climb up the stairs. Drew takes them two at a time and listens hard to his pounding footsteps, marveling at the way it matches the staccato pace of his pulse.

He’s a little surprised minimal exercise and a hot guy can change his pulse like this. He kind of enjoys it, though.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, there’s just a small hallway leading to one door. There’s a welcome mat at the front of it and Peter wipes his feet off almost thoughtlessly before sticking his key in the door, pushing with his shoulder, and throwing it wide open.

He steps inside and then looks back at Drew, raising an eyebrow. His hands fidget in front of him, toying with the keys, and his teeth keep tugging at his bottom lip. The flesh rolls around and reddens underneath from the attention which distracts Drew for so long that Peter eventually clears his throat.

“You coming in?”

The words, though shaped by the pretty pink lips, are enough to break the spell Drew had accidentally fallen under. He shakes his head to clear it and stomps inside, hesitating only briefly to also wipe his shoes on the mat.

The apartment is small and sparse. Drew mentally reminds himself to look around later; right now, he can’t tear his eyes away from Peter long enough to really look at the belongings. Instead, he just trails behind Peter until they stumble onto the couch and fall onto the cushions, next to each other but not touching.

Drew’s skin burns. He ignores it in favor of watching Peter fumble with the remote.

He flicks the TV on and the news comes on, blaring. Peter winces and presses down on the remote repeatedly until the volume comes out more reasonably. His cheeks tinge pink from the surprise and Drew grins.

“What are we watching?” he asks.

Peter’s eyes flicker over to him before pulling away, back to the screen. “I’m good with whatever. Want to see what’s on pay-per-view?”

Ah, the big bucks. As a frequent hotel connoisseur, Drew’s familiar with the options on pay-per-view at any given time. He nods his consent and Peter flicks to the channels, reading the options out quickly when he gets to them.

They agree on a random action flick that neither of them have seen before and while it loads on the screen, Peter bounces his leg, his knee moving up and down. He lets his gaze dart between the screen and Drew, face heating up each time he notices Drew is already watching him, too. It would have been annoying if it wasn’t so adorable and the differentiation is both tangible and embarrassing for Drew.

Eventually, the movie begins and both men reluctantly tear their gaze from one another to the screen.

The movie is full of cliche lines and dark scenes where the brightest color is the blood on the protagonist that he claims is “no big deal.” It’s arguably a very bad movie and if he’d been in his own bed in the hotel room, he would've turned it off after thirty minutes.

As it is, though, Peter is watching the movie intently, hands folded in his lap, and Drew’s content enough to just watch him out of the corner of his eyes.

An hour into the flick, Peter leans towards him a little.

“Should I go grab the brownies?” he whispers.

Drew raises his eyebrows, amused. “Sure,” he says at full volume because they’re not in a goddamn movie theater.

The realization hits Peter, too, and his eyes widen and he looks away quickly. Then he rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the cushion, going behind the couch to enter the kitchen. Drew can hear him muttering under his breath but he only makes out whatever and jerk, so he just laughs, turning back to the movie.

The protagonist is running through what appears to be a suburban battle ground and the love interest is screaming at him to stop. Drew has no goddamn idea what’s going on.

“Should I reheat them?” Peter calls from the kitchen.

Drew doesn't look away from the screen. He really has no idea who the guy is fighting. What the hell is the movie even about? “Whatever,” he replies.

There’s an explosion on the screen and Drew laughs. “Holy shit. What the hell is happening?”

Peter comes back in with a plate, stacked high of steaming brownies. Drew shoots them a look then raises an eyebrow at Peter. “Why are those steaming?”

“I heated them up.”

He hums. “That was fast.”

“The microwave.”

Drew’s jaw drops. “You put my brownies in the goddamn microwave.”

“You told me to!”

“I did no such thing.”

“I asked if I should heat them up!” Peter sits the affronted items between them on the middle cushion, folding his arms across his chest. It makes him look like an offended child and Drew bites hard on his bottom lip not to laugh at him.

When he regains control over his throat, he says, “I assumed you meant the oven.”

Peter rolls his eyes and grabs one of the brownies, pinching a piece of it off and tossing it in his mouth. “Whatever,” he grumbles around the dessert in his mouth.

It's disgusting and faintly adorable. Drew distracts himself by grabbing a brownie of his own.

Drew barely has a bite in his mouth before Peter has swallowed and starts staring at him as if he just said the most incredible thing.

With crumbs falling from his chin, he glares at the man. “What?”

Peter shakes his head, taking a bite from the brownie. He chews it contemplatively as he continues his staring.

Drew shrugs and finishes his brownie, staring back. He doesn’t know why Peter is staring at him like that and he doesn’t care; if Peter is going to be unabashed in his staring, then Drew will, too. It seems like a good enough compromise to the half-hearted attempts at looking away when caught that Peter’d been doing all night and the way that Drew had openly just glued his eyes wherever he wanted.

He can’t help it. He’s used to taking whatever he wants—he’s used to not really wanting anything. The two sided coin leaves him incapable of stopping himself from moving the brownies to the coffee table beside him and crossing the space of the couch, swallowing the surprised sound that Peter’s throat lets out when their lips touch.

Peter’s mouth is sweeter from the chocolate and Drew knows his must be, too. He chases after the taste with his tongue, pushing on Peter’s chest until he’s flush against the couch and Drew is climbing onto his lap, straddling his hip.

He clutches one hand to Peter’s bicep, the other on his cheek, thumb curled around his jaw. It’s sharp and good and Drew can use his position to lift Peter’s chin and kiss him even deeper.

Peter finally kicks into action, hands flying up and grabbing purchase in Drew’s hair. Peter tugs and it feels so good, Drew lets his head be torn away from the kiss so that the low groan he knows is in his throat can fill the space between them instead of Peter’s mouth.

From the way Peter’s eyes flash and his focus narrows on Drew’s mouth, Drew’s pretty sure that was the right decision.

The kiss had only been a second but they’re both panting. Drew’s head feels like it’s full of confetti, full of half strips of celebration that make it hard to see or know anything else. As they regain control over their breathing, Drew realizes his hips are rotating in small, circular motions and Peter is lifting his own hips up every few seconds, absently meeting him in the middle.

It feels so good and for a second, Drew contemplates diving back into Peter’s mouth and tearing the clothes off of them. A couch is infinitely better than a truck and he’s nearly positive there’s got to be a bed in this apartment somewhere.

Peter’s tongue flicks out of his mouth, wetting his bottom lip. “I didn’t invite you over for this.”

Drew shifts and watches in delight as Peter’s eyes flutter closed. “Well, why not?”

They snap open again. If Drew grins wolfishly, it’s not his fault.

“I—I just mean,” Peter struggles to speak and Drew happily helps it along, lifting his weight a little off of Peter’s lap before gently dropping it again. Just a shift, not much—but enough. Peter’s fingers clench in his hair, winding the strands up. He can feel the way Peter’s knuckles are scraping against the nape of his neck, his curly hair fisted. He wants Peter to kiss him again.

“What do you mean?” He lowers his mouth, resting so his lips are just barely, just almost pressed against the corner of Peter’s mouth. He slides his hands up until they’re clenching the top edge of the couch on either side of Peter’s head. It traps Peter just a little.

“I mean,” he sits up straighter and Drew knows the intent was to make himself seem stronger but all it really does is press him closer to Drew and they both know he’s fighting a losing battle. Drew can feel just how much Peter doesn’t want to win this argument. “I mean that I just wanted to watch a movie with you.”

And, sure, Drew can buy that. “Is that still all you want?”

Peter curses. Shivers run down Drew’s spine and he clenches around the couch’s material, just stopping himself from grinding his hips into Peter’s. He's so sure that Peter wants this too, but since the guy seems to be deliberating for some fuck-awful reason, he needs to at least have the decency to not rut against him before getting permission.

But then Peter lets out a low, “Fuck it,” and if he doesn’t kiss him right now—

He does. Peter lurches forward, tugging Drew down at the same time, and their lips crash.

It’s messy and harsh and wanting in a way the other night hadn’t been. It’s urgent not because they’re close to being caught or worried about who might be around. It’s urgent because Peter can’t keep his hands in one place and Drew really, really wants to get to know Peter’s body through his tongue.

It’s urgent because Drew, goddamn him, missed this.

The realization sparks a match inside his gut and he locks his thighs around Peter using all his strength to roll them so that he’s underneath Peter, lying longways on the couch. The maneuver was unpracticed and awkward enough that Peter has to slam a hand on the floor to keep from falling and one of their knees hits the plate of brownies on the coffee table, sending them flying.

“Oh, sorry—” Peter starts.

Drew cuts him off with a growl. “Leave it.”

The new position lets Peter take control and it’s a thousand times better than anything else they’d done. Peter yanks the shirt off of his back, the flannel and t-shirt coming off together. He throws them somewhere behind him, and then it's just miles of his skin, and it fills Drew with almost unbearable heat.

Peter pulls at Drew to sit up and when he eventually leans up on his elbows, Peter wastes no time in pulling the t-shirt off of his body. He looks at him, as he always does, but this time it’s so hungry that Drew’s thankful his knees aren’t expected to work for a while; he doesn’t think he’d be able to stand.

Peter presses them against each other again, laying his body against Drew’s, and sucking soft kisses into his neck. The bruises follow down his collarbone, one hard one on his chest that leaves him writhing and panting, a string of curses falling from his lips without his permission. Drew doesn’t know what the fuck people get up to in small towns but Jesus H. Christ, if they learn to kiss like this, he really ought to stick around them more often.

Peter keeps sucking and kissing his way down Drew’s chest, tongue swiping against his bare nipple. His back arches and his hands fly to Peter’s hair instinctively.

Peter grins and lavishes there, his attention diverted between one nipple and then the other until Drew is half a second from storming out in a rage or coming in his pants right there.

Peter, somehow, gets the message. He pulls his mouth away, lips slick with his own spit, and Drew wraps his name in a moan.

Peter’s eyes are all pupil now. His lips are red. His neck is shiny with sweat and then, his hands are undoing the buckles of Drew’s belt.

He shimmies out of his jeans, Peter helping to get them around his knees and tossing the shoes Drew toes out of off the couch.

When the jeans and shoes are on the floor, Peter gets on his knees and takes his off, too. It’s a bit awkward but Drew still can't tear his eyes away—the way Peter’s muscles ripple and adjust, moving and turning and god, he’s the hottest man Drew’s ever seen. He’s thought Peter was hot since the first time they saw each other, his own cigarette between the man’s lips, and now they’re both in just their boxers, inches away from one another.

Peter kisses him. It’s softer and gentler and he pulls away far too quickly instead of deepening it. Drew lifts himself up on his elbows, half a second from complaining, when Peter shimmies down and places the same soft, gentle kiss to the bulge in his boxers.

His boxers respond accordingly. His cock twitches and Peter grins. He throws one of Drew’s legs on the back of the couch and places the other with his foot flat against the carpeted floor. Peter settles between his thighs and, still looking at him with lust-blown eyes, mouths Drew’s hard cock through the fabric.

Peter flattens his tongue against the underside of Drew’s cock, the thin material of his boxers sticking, and the feeling is so much like an electric current that Drew feels himself shocked, fully and bone-deep. He throws his head back and Peter lets his hand join him, palming him softly.

“Fuck, fuck, Peter, fuck,” the words that he really wants are gone. He can’t figure out how to phrase anything or say anything that will get Peter to take the last barrier between them off and, fuck, all he wants is Peter’s mouth on him, but his words and throat won’t cooperate. As if to emphasize that point, Drew tries again to speak and a low, desperate keening falls out instead.

Peter catches on. He slides the boxers down, helping Drew get them off of one of his legs and letting the material fall to the floor, still around one of his ankles. Drew looks down at Peter, about to offer a condom, when Peter swallows him whole.

His elbows give out and he falls against the couch hard.

“Holy shit!”

Peter’s lips and tongue work together, enthusiastically and quickly. He slides his hand to the base where his mouth can’t surround, moving lower to palm at Drew’s balls where he places hot, open mouthed kisses at the base before sliding his lips and hand back up in tandem, tongue swiping across the head.

It’s furious and messy and Drew’s rocking his hips against Peter’s face, hands clenched around his shoulders in a goddamn Olympic attempt at not grabbing his hair and fucking his face. Peter licks a stripe up the underside of his cock and Drew’s legs lock up, all his muscles desperately trying to hold on to any sort of polite dignity.

Except his throat—his throat has given up on dignity. Moans, pleas, and groans fall from his lips every few seconds, unable to stop a near constant thrum of encouragement. Peter works him as if it’s all he’s thought about, as if it’s all he wants. Drew can’t think about anything; his body is too busy feeling and right now, he feels the sensitive head of his cock brush against the hot, swollen lips of Peter’s mouth and he’s half a second from astral projecting out of his body.

“Peter, Peter, man, stop,” he struggles to slur the words out of his mouth, hips already canting and fingernails digging so tightly into Peter’s shoulders that a ping of guilt makes its way through his hazy desire. “Stop or I’m going to come.”

He can’t believe the words are intelligible, but Peter pulls off anyway. Drew’s instantly half as relieved as he is disappointed. He swipes the back of his hand across his wet mouth, breath coming out a little too fast.

Then Peter grins, in such a bright and happy way that Drew manages to blink through the arousal to recognize it as something new.

He looks so good like that. Short hair all messy, face bright pink on the cheekbones, eyes a dark contrast against his pale skin. It’s enthralling and so attractive that all Drew can think about is somehow getting himself surrounded by that thick wet heat again.

Peter leans lower again and, carefully, slowly, licks the tip of Drew’s cock. “So what? Come then. Come for me.”

Peter barely manages to wrap his lips around him before Drew is coming. Hard, lightning hot flashes pulse through him, his head thrown back and a completely unnecessary and unstoppable long sound is pulled from his throat. One of his hands winds in Peter’s hair and the other curls lightly around his neck, holding gentlely. He can feel Peter’s throat working as he swallows around him, swallowing him down, and it makes the white hot heat flash again and again until his body is too spent to do anything but collapse.

His hands and legs fall, his muscles drained and his body weak. He winces when Peter pulls off of him, sitting back on his knees. Drew can kind of see him through his lidded eyes; he can see the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the tent in his boxers. Drew tries to lift himself to reach Peter’s cock, hellbent on giving him twice as good as he gave.

Peter laughs lightly and swats his hand away; it falls hard as if he was filled with lead. Drew glares up at him. “What the hell?”

“You’ve been staring at me blankly for ten minutes.”

“Was not.”

“Were too. I’m pretty sure you were asleep.”

Embarrassment flashes through him so quickly, he’s nearly out of breath from it. “Shut up. I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Peter reaches around, finds his t-shirt, and puts it back on. Drew tries to ignore the disappointment at seeing Peter’s chest covered.

“Well, I’m awake now.”

Goddamn him. Drew yawns.

Peter laughs. He tosses his head back to do it, letting the loud and happy sound fill the space. Drew is getting really sick of the various types of heat his body seems to produce when Peter’s around.

“Let’s call it a raincheck. Don’t really want you to fall asleep with my dick in your mouth.”

Peter pre-blow job would never have said that, Drew thinks. He adds it to the column of ever-growing things he finds intriguing about the chef.

“You want me to go?” Drew regrets asking instantly.

Peter’s face softens and Drew hardens his to make up the difference. “You can stay over. I just think you should go to sleep.”

Drew is not tired.

He yawns again. “Goddammit!” He throws his hands up, sitting up on the couch. “It’s psychosomatic!”

Peter laughs again. This time, Drew feels his lips twitch up a little, too.

“Fuck off,” he reaches around and finds his t-shirt, shimmying into it. He’s half-tempted to stay over like Peter suggested; that makes him get dressed faster.

Peter settles himself on the couch, tossing Drew his jeans and shoes, one at a time. Drew catches them and stands up, dressing quickly.

“So,” he says, reaching into his jeans pocket. He grabs a rubber band he has in there and uses it to secure his hair in a bun at his nape. He feels kind of like a shit-head, pouncing on Peter, getting his own rocks off, and then doing nothing to help the still obvious problem Peter has.

But now that he’s not fighting it, he can feel how tired he is. The adrenaline of the night, the workday, the fucking phenomenal orgasm—all the energy he normally carries has seeped away. The idea of sleeping is more appealing than anything else.

“See you around?” Peter asks.

It’s a cop-out. Drew can see it for what it is; Peter’s hopeful expression, hands tightly folded together in his lap, faux-casual tone—Peter is giving him the option to say sure, see ya, and then never step foot into the restaurant again.

It makes him want to take it less.

“I’ll stop by,” he says. Peter raises an eyebrow. “Sometime this week?”

Peter smiles. It’s not the shy one or the lecherous one, but just—a smile. Drew doesn’t think; he just returns it.

He finishes putting on his shoes, straightening and then glancing between Peter and the door. Should he just leave? Say goodbye? Kiss goodbye? God, what?

Peter’s nice smile turns back to the grin he’s more used to. “I’ll see you later.”

He lifts a hand, two fingers out in a quasi-peace sign while his other fingers fold down. It’s incredibly dorky. Drew, god help him, mimics the motion and then leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

When he makes it down the stairs and through the restaurant, he can hear footsteps on the stairs behind him—Peter probably realized he’d need to actually lock up behind Drew.

Like the chicken shit he is, Drew moves quicker and slides out the door. He starts his way across the street before Peter can reach him.

The icy air helps wake him up but does nothing to clear his head.

Peter might be the death of him.