Work Text:
A gust of wind passed from Paul’s window into his room. Trickling his back an awful lot like fingertips. His fingertips.
It was torture, how no matter how many years passed, he could never shake that feeling. That feeling that Peter would come back one day. He knew deep inside though that that day would never come.. a one night stand.. its all that was. Even if they both wanted it to be more.
Even though it was near impossible, he tried to ignore it anyway. Tapping his pen on his desk in frustration, pulling at his hair.
He had been trying to come up with a song idea for the entire night. The only light bulb going off being the literal one illuminating his desk. But that was his own fault.. he couldn’t force an idea out like that… until…
“What if I wrote a song… about Peter?” He thought. No… no he couldn’t. That would mean he’d have to think about him even more and that would spiral and…
The thing is, this wasn’t the first time Paul had thoughts about Peter. It happened quite frequently actually. Sometimes he’d… indulge… sometimes he wouldn’t. This time he was on the fence. He felt that gust of wind again.
“Fuck…” he cursed under his breath, biting his lip as he gazed down at the empty page. He could feel the words coming to fruition. He could feel a spark of inspiration.
“When the loneliest eyes
and the emptiest arms
Finally decide to meet
With a head in a lap
And a tongue tied in knots
And the loneliest eyes
Try and speak”
He wrote quick and hard. Remembering that night in the hotel as it happens. The feeling of laying his head on Peter’s lap after the matter, his large fingers combing through his hair. The way he was so gentle yet it was obvious how much passion laid inside him. “It was just a one night thing” was a phrase that both Paul and Peter repeated in their heads all the time, yet as Paul reflected back, it was obvious not only he felt it should be more, but the other man did too. It was like they were making each other hurt for no reason.
Well…there was a reason. Not so much that the two were worried about how people would view them because they were two men (Paul was no stranger to fucking up his public image) but they both still had wives, though different ones now.
“You were born for me
Beautiful and blue
I could die here with you
For a couple of nights
You could say you’re my wife”
That last part… it came from a place of deep yearning from that time in 1993. How he was still with his first wife, how guilty he felt cheating but also how much he needed Peter. He wished love wasn’t this complicated, he wished…wished wished wished… that they could just run away to the middle of nowhere together. Away from fame, away from society, away from everything.
“You could stay
Or run away if you please”
Paul couldn’t imagine what they’d do… but he did know one thing… he needed those lips on his again. It was an unquenchable thirst. One he’s had for the past six years. He needed his fingers entangled in his hair again, his breath moving down his neck again, his soothing voice telling him “it’s okay… you’re okay… I got you”.
“Peter… damn it… I’m gonna fucking kill you” Paul winced as more memories just kept coming and coming. He needed Peter so badly it felt like if this lasted any longer, he’d die. He got up and fell onto his bed. Frustrated, he grabbed the nearest pillow and grabbed onto it. Wrapping his arms and legs around it, pretending it was Peter. He cried… not like he was afraid to cry. He cried unapologetically.
Over the years he’s almost taken pride in his sensitivity.. as that’s where he gets his inspiration. He let his imagination take over, and instead of seeing a droopy, lifeless pillow, he sees the body of a man who once made him feel full of life. He kissed it passionately, hoping this weird fantasy would satisfy him for a short while. This was until he stopped himself, standing up from his bed.
“I’m not about to do this… lonely bastard…” Paul thought to himself before slumping back into his desk chair. He sighed, picked up his pen, and just wrote… wrote… wrote.
~~~~~~~~
While Paul was doing this, Peter was also back in his home, writing away… definitely with a lot more frustration. But similar to Paul… what he was writing was directed at the other man.
There was so much anger pent up inside him he could barely take it. This anger was in part towards Paul, however, he was more angry at himself for wanting him so badly all these years. The only way he could think of letting his anger out besides violence is to write a “letter” to Paul. He wouldn’t send it though of course…
~~~~~~
**Dear Paul
Every day that goes by that you’re not here, I spend beating myself up over it.
“This is so… stupid” Peter cursed under his breath… but he continued.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel angry at you for what happened though…
Because you know what? Fuck you Paul. Fuck you and your smug ass. You think you’re so clever. Well yeah, I guess you are. Finding the perfect way to stick in my mind, to keep me tied to the memory of you.
And don’t try and tell me you didn’t mean it, if you didn’t you’d at least TRY and contact me after your tour. But of course… nothing. At this point I haven’t even bothered looking into your whereabouts now. I bet you’re doing great though, am I right? Without me?
One last thing… did you really love me or is that all you saw me as… a sexy thing. Some vulnerable man you could experiment on. You knew I couldn’t resist. You know everything it seems. How I bore my body and soul to you that night… you could probably do whatever you wanted given the chance.
The truth is, I’m frustrated. I don’t hate you… but I sure as hell don’t like you. Or maybe I do… I just hate that I like you. I haven’t decided yet.**
~~~~~
Peter took a deep sigh as he stepped away from the page. Taking a moment to scan over everything he just confessed to. It soothed him for a bit, until the contents of the letter made him think more and more about everything. He needed to go to bed.
That night, both the men tossed and turned, struggling to sleep even a second. They needed each other so bad it had become both mentally and physically demanding. It was like they were polar sides of a magnet trying to connect, but there’s a huge brick wall in the way. That wall being their doubt and… well… shame.
“I love you… Peter..” Paul whispered as he laid his head on the same pillow as earlier.
“Fuck you, Paul” Peter rubbed his eyes vigorously. As if that would erase any memory of the younger man.
A long journey of healing was to come for the both of them, they just underestimated how hard it would truly be.
Paul ached.
Peter scolded.
They both yearned for each other.
And in their own ways, they were both in denial.