If Peter could talk about it, he would say that he always knew he was gay. He just felt weird, for a while; he was that kid no one would play with and he figured that was his lot in life. Actually, he was fine with that. Peter felt better when he was amusing himself; when he was quiet there was no danger of saying the wrong thing. Unfortunately, his ears worked just fine, and in his silence he heard his mother's friends' conjectures about his reasons for being so quiet and reserved. The first time he'd heard the word, his little nine-year-old brain retained it. For months, it reverberated off the walls of his subconscious, and when he learned the meaning, he had actually cried. Alone, in his room, of course. He didn't know there was a word for people like him, and if there was a word, that meant there were more people like him. More people that were made wrong, just like him. Suddenly, Peter's loneliness lifted, and his parents were relieved to see him make friends. He was a nine-year-old playing the role of a lifetime, dancing like hell to please God and the people who provide for him, and this delicate balance created a performer. He still feels like coal that may one day be lucky enough to be a diamond. Maybe proximity to Jason's million-dollar smile is the ticket.
When the muscles of Jason's torso ripple below Peter's hand, he succumbs to a fascinated, ruined sort of noise. God, he's so beautiful. If there ever has to be someone after Jason (and Peter cannot imagine how or why), there's no way he will ever compare. Hasn't people heard that their physical state deteriorates with age? In this moment, he's sure Jason is the exception: that he'll look exactly like he does in this moment for the rest of his life. He hopes he gets the chance to be disappointed.
This is what he is musing on when all of a sudden, he finds himself pressed into the mattress. The noise the move elicits is something like a gasp and something else like the relief of a prayer answered. Jason's sliding down his body and Peter's all body electric, his core tensing and smoothing at contact.
"Fuck, Jason, your mouth," he marvels, head tipping back against the feeling of Jason's mouth all over Peter's skin. He finds himself once again needing to watch the way Jason looks pressing into him, kissing over him. He wonders briefly if he should be the one to be offering this kind of overwhelming comfort, but it's hard not to feel greedy with that mouth on his skin.
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When the muscles of Jason's torso ripple below Peter's hand, he succumbs to a fascinated, ruined sort of noise. God, he's so beautiful. If there ever has to be someone after Jason (and Peter cannot imagine how or why), there's no way he will ever compare. Hasn't people heard that their physical state deteriorates with age? In this moment, he's sure Jason is the exception: that he'll look exactly like he does in this moment for the rest of his life. He hopes he gets the chance to be disappointed.
This is what he is musing on when all of a sudden, he finds himself pressed into the mattress. The noise the move elicits is something like a gasp and something else like the relief of a prayer answered. Jason's sliding down his body and Peter's all body electric, his core tensing and smoothing at contact.
"Fuck, Jason, your mouth," he marvels, head tipping back against the feeling of Jason's mouth all over Peter's skin. He finds himself once again needing to watch the way Jason looks pressing into him, kissing over him. He wonders briefly if he should be the one to be offering this kind of overwhelming comfort, but it's hard not to feel greedy with that mouth on his skin.