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Roman stands, a silhouette against the window, curtains drawn, light seeping in through the gaps. Peter takes a seat on the floor even though there are chairs in the room, lights a cigarette, holds it out to him; he doesn't take it. Peter shrugs and puts the butt of it back in his own mouth, takes a drag. He waits.
The silence between them seems to stretch on forever, then Roman moves, footsteps on floorboards jarring Peter from his thoughts. He begins to pace, up and down. Peter can't see him now, and he wonders if that's deliberate on Roman's part, if he doesn't want to be seen.
Peter's growing impatient, Roman's tension getting to him. "What did you want to see me about?" he asks. "Have you found anything?"
Roman stops pacing, and Peter can feel him standing directly behind him. He tries not to hunch forward, but does so anyway, stubbing his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe.
"No," Roman says, the word clipped.
Movement. Roman folding himself down to his knees, coming to sit behind Peter. Peter feels a cool hand settle at the nape of his neck and tries not to flinch at the unfamiliar touch. It's only Roman, after all.
He draws in a sharp breath when Roman presses his lips to the top of his spine, soft and warm and wet. There's a moment, a fraction of a second, where he wants to lean into it, where a kiss is a kiss and he can't see who it belongs to, and then his brain catches up with his body and he jerks away, up to his feet, and stumbles to the window, turning to face Roman accusingly. "What are you doing?"
Roman's eyes are wide and dark as he unfurls and stands, face a picture of hurt and self-righteousness. "Just go with it," he says, and comes forward, pressing his hands gently to Peter's hips. Peter's breath catches in his throat and he doesn't know where to run, where to look, as Roman kisses him, tongue pressing insistent against Peter's mouth.
Peter's hands come up, push against Roman's chest but he doesn't budge, and when Peter takes in a sharp breath as a hand curls tight in his hair, Roman's tongue pushes its way into his mouth, licking over his teeth and caressing his tongue and it's almost—almost good, if only Peter could escape who it is kissing him. He closes his eyes, tries to count to ten. Why is Roman doing this?
This time, when he pushes, it's with all his strength, and Roman stumbles backwards, ungraceful in a way Peter's never seen him before, and he feels almost bad at the look flickering across Roman's face, like Peter just ran over his puppy. Then the expression hardens and there's nothing there anymore. He turns, striding across the room and the door of the en-suite slams shut, sending vibrations shooting through the floor.
Peter's balls ache. His head hurts. He wrenches open the curtains and turns to leave, and that's when he smells blood.
"Shee-it," he mutters, taking a moment to gather himself before pushing open the door to the en-suite.
Roman's standing at the sink, a razorblade in one hand, the flesh of his chest open and oozing red beneath the thin white sliver of an older scar. Peter stands there, watching, and Roman watches him back from the corner of the mirror.
"Do this a lot, do you?" Peter asks eventually.
Roman shrugs. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing I guess. Could've waited 'til I'd gone though. Seems impolite."
"Yeah, well, I don't care much for manners."
"Tell me about it."
Roman smirks. "I don't care much for manners." He drags a finger through the blood on his chest and slips it into his mouth, sucks on it.
Peter shakes his head. "Fucking upirs," he mutters.
"What?"
"Nothing." He grabs a towel from the rail and throws it. Roman catches it deftly and presses it against the cut, wincing slightly, then grinning.
This, Peter thinks, is why he doesn't get mixed up in other peoples' problems. Because other people are fucked up and just like ice-bergs, they go way down deep and what you see is only a fraction of what's there. And if you aren't careful, you're likely to crash right into those hidden problems and end up sinking yourself.
He waits out in the bedroom for Roman to sort his shit out, and when Roman emerges his t-shirt's back on, blood blossoming through the white cotton. He sits on the bed, and actually looks a little lost, like a cub without its pack. Peter stands facing him, waiting.
"I just thought," Roman says. "If you knew what I felt. If I showed you ..."
"You could have just told me."
"Words mean shit. You should get that."
And he does. He does get it. But he still doesn't get Roman at all.
"You should go," Roman says, shoulders tensing, voice taking on all the authority of his wealth.
Peter doesn't move.
"I said—"
"I should go. I heard you the first time."
They watch each other, Peter taking in the creases in Roman's forehead, the gentle pout of his lips. Shee-it, he thinks, and crosses the few feet to the bed, leans down with one hand on the mattress, and presses his lips to Roman's. It's gentle, brief, but enough to kick his heart up a notch, to make his dick stir. He's not into men, he reminds himself, but if he was, Roman would be just crazy enough to do it for him. Is. Maybe.
He takes a step back, heads for the door.
"Where are you going?" Roman shouts after him angrily. "What does that mean?"
There's the sound of glass shattering and he takes the stairs two at a time, and then he's out, Roman's words echoing in his head. What does that mean?
Peter doesn't know. Maybe he'll never know, but, he figures, there are bigger mysteries in this world, far darker and far more pressing than whatever it is between the two of them. And right now, he doesn't want to know any of them.