Work Text:
Hunched at the farthest-back table in the coffeeshop, Killian waits with his mocha latte in hand, his coat's collar pulled up to hide as much of his face as possible. He doesn't want to be seen, not by anyone, and especially not by the person who comes sliding into the seat across from him silently, pulling closer to the table as the chair screeches along the tiled floor.
“It's almost comical how much you torment yourself over this.”
Killian lets out a noncommittal grunt and turns his head to look out the window, avoiding reality a moment longer. A hand softer than his own settles atop his knuckles; a slender forefinger slips forward to trace the plain band he has grown to fear and his body jerks involuntarily. When he makes to pull away, Peter's expression hardens and he is restrained, held in place by what looks like to everyone else a mere pale hand.
“If you hate me so much, Killian, why do you agree to these meetings?”
There's the soft clunk of a takeout cup hitting the table's linoleum surface and the rustling of a coat Killian knows is lined with fleece and snap-buttons. Outside, snowflakes the size of his fingertips thud mutely against the glass. A car honks, and traffic moves on. Killian tries to remember how he met Peter and all he can think of is teeth on his neck, music flitting from behind closed doors, people he doesn't know and a cup full of biting drink, a bed too small for him.
How long ago was that?
Was it a year, or two? Maybe a month ago? How can he forget something so pivotal to his own destruction?
“You know why.”
Peter's voice hits a tone of amusement. “Jog my memory.”
Killian closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he finally opens them and straightens up, he finds Peter drinking very calmly from his cup, his expression as serene as it is knowing. He has Killian right where he wants him, just like always, and it pleases him, makes him as deceivingly soft as a clawed cat in the cream. He looks just as he did that night some time ago, where the most Killian remembers is a pounding agony in his head and a smile sly like the devil's, and pretty, pretty lips.
A party, Killian remembers suddenly. That’s where he let this all get worse.
Instead of answering, he takes a drink from his own cup; dry from the cold, his fingertips rasp over the thin band of cardboard wrapped over it. He sets the coffee down and the youth does nothing but stare, green eyes darkened to near-black. It's cold and dark outside. There are other customers in the shop, but right now it feels like it's just the two of them, neither blinking nor moving. The music that plays overhead is sickeningly festive, too cheery for the churning turmoil in his mind. Killian hates the paper snowflakes and bright lights that tangle around the shop's counters and menu boards.
Peter has lights like that above his bed, he remembers. Killian saw them, and thought them an odd, juvenile choice of décor. Funny that his one moment of clarity that night was to mock a youth's living space, thinking the lights too fantastical and innocent for someone with eyes and hips that beckoned like pure sunlight mid-winter.
Killian remembers how he stood in the doorway, boots stuck to the ground as Peter peeled off his jacket and threw it aside, looking him in the eye the whole time. He watched as Peter unbuttoned his long work shirt and slid it like a new skin over his own smaller frame. He curled his sweaty hands into fists and breathed hard as Peter padded barefoot and barethighed back to the bed to lie on his back among fat pillows, resplendent against the deep greens of his bedclothes.
Peter said nothing as Killian moved, stiffly, to join him. He kept silent as he was straddled, and splayed his arms out to his sides, allowing himself to be touched. When he bent down to taste, he arched up and smiled larger than the world itself, and pinned Killian to him with cruel hands.
He blinks out of the memory when Peter's hand slides further down, into Killian's sleeve; his fingers curl around his wrist, and Killian tenses, lips pressing together.
“You don't have to be afraid of me.”
The laugh Killian releases is hopeless, too high. A couple sitting at the counter glances lazily at him, and he freezes. Their hands are intertwined too, soft and loving. Peter's hand is still on his; his thumb caresses the junction between his thumb and forefinger, sparking unused nerves back to life. “What else can I be?”
Peter moves forward. He catches Killian's nape and urges him into a kiss, one that has both their bodies bent over the small round table and their legs braced against their tall stools, drinks forgotten. Full red lips glide against Killian's dry ones; he moans in spite of himself and feels an ache of self-hatred in his chest.
“You can be mine.” Peter whispers into his mouth, fingers splaying into Killian's hair. “And I can be yours.”
“I don't want that.” Killian protests, but Peter's hands on him are so gentle, and careful, like he is reassuring this wild beast to stay and keep his jaw clamped. He pulls away and surprisingly Peter lets him, but the hand stays on his wrist and the finger continues tapping at his band, infuriatingly steadfast. “Peter-”
“I don't care that you're married,” Peter says, “And I don't care for her. You've known that from the beginning.”
“You lied to me.” Killian argues. “You- we shouldn't even be here.”
Even now, Peter's lie sits at the back of his throat, soured and thick. Since the party, it's kept Killian up most nights, and so have the memories of breathless moans and the slapping of skin, a body that glowed yellow under the lights tacked to the walls. How long ago was that? He can't for the life of him remember- if he asks her, will she suspect anything? Will she see the imprint of Peter's eyes in his own?
Peter watches him knowingly. “But here we are anyway.”
Killian looks outside again, heart thrumming nervously in his chest. What is it about Peter that sets the hairs on the back of his neck at edge? What is it about those eyes that makes them look like they know everything there is, has been and will be to Killian's life?
He can't deny that he saw Peter's text and went outside to stare at his screen, unmoving. He can't deny that he turned the key in the ignition and chose to ignore the unease in his chest for coffee and green eyes.
He watches the city outside and lets the silence fall between them like the snow does outside, happy to let the conversation die. There are so many things Peter says that he doesn't know how to answer.
There is the screeching of a stool's legs against cold tile, and the hand lifts off his wrist. The relief of it lets Killian suck in a deep breath, and he goes tense as he listens to the shuffling of fabric and fading footsteps, then the swish and heavy click of the shop's door.
Killian did such terrible things that night. He looks at his hands now and sees no table or napkin or coffee cup, but his own treacherous fingers curled deep into slender hips, sucked to the knuckle by a red mouth, or tangled in soft curls- grasping, stroking.
He gets up and throws away his empty cup, following Peter out the door. For a moment he contemplates abandoning his car and walking blindly through the streets to let the cold dull his mind, but then Peter is there at his elbow and Killian is trying very hard not to think all over again. He doesn't want his mind read.
“This way.” Peter says, and Killian follows.