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The jiggling of keys, clumsy fingers against the doorknob to his home…
It wasn't often Peter allowed his vices to take hold of him. Yet tonight they dug their filthy claws into his very being, threatening to bleed the common sense out. It's a damn shame Miguel has to see Peter in such a state, especially since they've only known each other for such a short amount of time.
Peter can feel Miguel's eyes boring into the back of his head as he struggled with the locks and he couldn't bear to look over his shoulder. He knows he would only be met with that disappointed scowl, like Peter had done something he shouldn't have. Though, he supposes that much was true.
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
He tenses up, fingers freezing on the doorknob for just a split second. “Aren't you busy?” He grimaces at the way he sounded, words slurred and heavy on his tongue like some drunkard.
“No, I'll be fine,” Miguel says, “Besides, I don't want you passing out on the floor.”
He pushes the door open, and almost feels like he should decline. This isn't going to lead anywhere, just like every time Miguel finally decided to visit.
“It isn't like you to be so nice,” Peter bites out his next words instead. His tone is far too bitter, it's unfair to Miguel and he knows it, “I thought you hated my guts.”
“I do, just not tonight,” Miguel utters out with a soft smile that makes Peter want to punch it off his face. Or kiss it off, it doesn't matter what he did.
“It doesn’t work like that,” He huffs out, unwilling to lose an argument to Miguel even if it was one-sided, “Either you hate me, or you don't.”
Peter stumbles on his feet as he kicks off his boots, silently cursing himself when Miguel is quick to catch him in his arms. He should have shut the door when he had the chance. It doesn't help that Miguel's hands on him are terrifyingly gentle, holding Peter up against his own body. He should hate this, he knows he should.
But he doesn't. How could he?
“I'll hate you tomorrow,” Miguel whispers, a quiet promise against his ear, and Peter swears his heart is about to leap out of his throat.
All he wanted was him.
He hated this. His heart, his foolish, foolish heart…
“Will you love me tonight then?” Peter blurts out before he could register the words in his mind, immediately regretting his rashness.
It must be the alcohol, it has to be, it can't be anything but. It's gotten to his head and strangled the judgment out of him and replaced it with Miguel just as it always had so many nights before. He doesn't know if he should despise Miguel or himself for this.
It feels like an eternity before he sees Miguel visibly drop his arms to his sides, sees the way his jaw clenches. He misses the warmth of his touch already and Peter wants to scream to the gods for damning him for being the man that he is.
“I don’t make a habit of telling liars what they want to hear,” Miguel's tone is something harsh now, putting that distance between them once again as he steps back from Peter.
He barely thinks when he slams the door on Miguel's face, locking it and bolting up the stairs faster than the heart racing in the aching space between his ribs, not wanting to catch the way Miguel yelled his name from outside his home.
Nothing ever comes of his visits. He doesn't know why they bother.