|The Morning After
Author: magalina PM
Complete. Sam wakes up to find himself naked in bed next to one of his best friends. He thinks Peter is going to hate him and that Jay is going to help him out. He’s going to be surprised on both accounts. Slash.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Chapters: 7 - Words: 27,740 - Reviews: 113 - Favs: 183 - Follows: 86 - Updated: 12-23-10 - Published: 04-19-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2798330
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Short, two part story done mainly just to write something porny. And that doesn't even come until the next part (which I haven't written yet, so I'm posting this to push myself to do it). Enjoy :)
Edited by Insomiak! And thanks strawberrie0 for pointing out my mistake, already fixed it :)
The morning after
Sam and Peter have known each other for seven years, but Sam has only wanted to sleep with Peter for about six and a half. He doesn't feel guilty about it anymore, like he's betraying his friend by making him believe his looks and touches are completely innocent. He doesn't feel depressed about it, either. But that could be because Peter is sleeping next to him right now, and he doesn't seem to be wearing much under the covers.
Sam is a bit surprised at first. It's been about five months since the last time he woke up next to someone. Then he's warm all over, a sense of fulfillment enveloping him as he takes on Peter's features. And then his stomach drops as memories from last night start to make their way through his brain.
He remembers drinking. He remembers Peter drinking more. He remembers an argument and then stumbling onto his bed under Peter's body.
He had been drunk but Peter had been completely wasted.
Sam tries to tell himself he isn't even sure something happened last night, so maybe he didn't take advantage of his friend. Maybe they just wrestled a bit and fell asleep without noticing. But he can feel he's naked and a quick (okay, maybe not quick) glance under the covers reveals that Peter is too. There's also another kind of evidence down there he doesn't even want to think about.
Peter's fingers twitch slightly before he turns on his back, managing to lower the covers just below his hips and Sam stares at the dust of hair going from his chest to his groin almost in a daze. He gazes at the small scar on his side from that time, years ago, when he leaned on the stove and at the very obvious bruise marking the spot where Sam probably attached his mouth just a few hours ago, right where his neck and shoulder meet. Peter's hair is too short for fingers to get tangled in, but it looks like Sam did his best anyway: the light brown strands are all sticking up backwards.
In slow, quiet movements, Sam gets out of bed, repressing a shiver as the morning chill slipping through the window hits his bare limbs. He tip-toes across his room to the bathroom and locks the door behind him, instantly collapsing against it with a shuddering sigh.
All he can think about is that Peter will hate him. Because Sam has wanted to sleep with Peter for six and a half years, but he's been in love with him for five years, eleven months, two weeks, three days, six hours and about fifteen or sixteen minutes. Approximately. And if he just ruined everything because he was unbelievably horny last night he is not going to be able to forgive himself.
A small, depraved part of his mind is disappointed he doesn't remember more about what happened. He knows Peter well enough (and has fantasized about him enough times) to guess his expressions or what he could have possibly said during everything. But Peter was terribly drunk last night, all his inhibitions forgotten, all his walls down, and who knows how he acted, what he said, what kind of noises he made. That treacherous part of Sam's brain is unbelievably disappointed.
Meanwhile, the rest of him is in a kind of trance, because Peter is never going to speak to him again and all he can do is sag against his bathroom door, naked and in need of a toothbrush.
A glance in the mirror makes him want to hit himself. He looks completely and utterly fucked. His mouth is swollen, his dark hair, though as short as Peter's, is a complete mess, his chest is covered in red marks and… there's something about his eyes. It's like his dirty self is peeking out of them, making them twinkle with something close to satisfaction. He looks away before he actually punches his reflection.
With what feels like a super-human effort, Sam pushes himself off the door and steps into the shower. He brushes his teeth under the spray, trying to think of something to say that can somehow fix everything.
Fuck, he wishes he could remember what happened.
He can tell that, whatever they did, he wasn't on bottom. Which makes it all the worse. Sam may have been drunk, but he didn't do anything that he wouldn't have wanted to do while sober. As for Peter…. He's going to die, actually die, if he hurt him.
It takes courage he doesn't even have to walk out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later. He opens the door as quietly as he can, hoping to delay the confrontation, but when he looks towards his bed, Peter isn't there. His mouth goes dry and he clutches the towel around his waist in a tight grip.
Peter left. Peter left and he probably hates him. Sam took advantage of his friend and ruined everything because he has always been a pathetic fuck-up.
He puts on his underwear and some jeans he finds on the chair near his bed, all the while feeling numb, not even registering the cold. His mind is blank when he drags himself to the kitchen, a headache dully starting to appear. He nearly screams when he sees Peter sitting at the kitchen table, but doesn't, stumbling backwards in shock instead. Peter looks at him like he's an idiot (fuck, Sam feels like a downright bastard), and sips at his mug.
"Pet– What, uh, hi," he splutters and then wants to bang his head against the doorframe. Peter stares at him over the rim of his mug, blue eyes slightly narrowed, and Sam feels very naked. He crosses his arms over his chest in what he hopes looks like a casual gesture.
There's a heavy silence in the room that might drive Sam mad if Peter doesn't break it soon. When he does, his soft, low voice brings back memories that the dirty part of his brain enjoys way too much.
"Hey," Peter says, lowering the mug onto the table. The room smells like coffee and rain and Sam is starting to get cold now. His feet are freezing, bare on the tiled floor and his arms covered in goose bumps. "I grabbed your sweatshirt. I was cold."
Sam then notices Peter is wearing his college sweatshirt, the one he had on the night before, and an electric chill runs through him.
"´S okay," he mumbles, not daring to look into Peter's eyes again. He hesitates a moment, considering going back into his bedroom to find more clothes, but decides against it. He's afraid that if he leaves, Peter won't be here when he comes back.
He gets himself a mug from the shelf and sits at the table across from the other man. Then he remembers he can't actually drink air and gets up to get coffee from the pot. Peter looks a little amused when Sam sits back down, but there's a weird strain around his eyes that wasn't there yesterday. He looks pasty under the kitchen's white light, a bit sick, maybe. He drank too much and he probably regrets everything that happened.
Sam doesn't know what to say. All he can think of it's how sorry he is, but the words won't come out of his mouth.
"You were right about the rain," Peter says out of nowhere. "It poured all morning."
Sam cannot believe he's talking about the weather. He looks at the clock above them and finds that it's already past midday. Then he freezes because, how does Peter know it had been raining all morning? He wants to know if Peter was awake while Sam slept. If he lay next to him for hours, hating him in silence or maybe wondering what had happened last night. Sam knows Peter has to be aware of what they did, even if he can't remember the details.
"We'll have to leave the game for next weekend," Peter continues and Sam feels relief flood him. Whatever Peter is thinking, he's still willing to be next to him. He doesn't hate him. But Sam doesn't like that he's apparently planning on not talking about it.
"Peter, I–" he begins, but he's cut short by the man's sudden, trapped look. Oh, boy, what the hell happened last night? Did he do something so awful Peter doesn't even want to bring it up? Or is the idea of sleeping with Sam that revolting? "I…think next weekend sounds great," he finishes, looking away.
Peter nods, the mug back over his lips. He starts bouncing his foot on the floor and the table rattles slightly.
Sleeping with him was once a possibility. Back when they weren't friends but were more than acquaintances, there used to be certain vibe around them. The vibe two available and…sexually compatible people feel when they spend so much time together. For some reason or other, neither of them acted on it until eventually they were too close and there was too much to lose.
Watching Peter jump from one relationship to another over the years had hurt Sam, but he hadn't been exactly celibate himself.
He'd still wanted Peter, but he wouldn't make the first move. Strained silences and awkward conversations were not something he wanted to go back to. Not with Peter. And now he's fucked it up.
Just yesterday, a morning like this would have been spent talking about nothing, not thinking of something to say. Mentioning the weather would not have been so telling. Sam feels wretched; he wishes he could turn back time. Why did they have to drink so much? Why couldn't Sam, for once, keep it in his pants after a couple of drinks? Why couldn't Peter?
They don't really talk after those first few sentences. Peter tries to make small talk and Sam finds it impossible to look at him and go along. He wants Peter to yell at him, to acknowledge what happened somehow. He doesn't want to ignore it, this way it's just going to be worse later. But he can't bring himself to say anything either, the words don't want to leave his mouth. There's too much that could go wrong and only a little chance that things will go smoothly.
An interminable hour later, Peter leaves — making up an excuse about having a doctor appointment — and Sam lunges for the phone.
"Yes," Jay answers after the first ring.
"I had sex with him," Sam bursts out and instantly feels lighter, an enormous weight lifted off of him.
There's a small pause and a rustling sound coming from the other line.
"Sam? You were on speakerphone just now," Jay laughs. "About half the floor heard you. You had sex with whom?"
"Peter! I slept with him," he cries, not feeling a bit embarrassed for the moment.
"…what?" Jay's tone is suddenly serious, all humor slipping away from his voice. "Peter? Our Peter?"f
Sam nods, his free hand over his eyes. "Yes."
"You complete asshole," Jay hisses. "Why? When?"
"Last night. We were drunk."
"Of course you were. Where is he now? Is he still there?" Jay has a very effective way of being intimidating even over the phone. All crisp and business-like, so detached that one would think they haven't known each other for years. It makes Sam feel even worse because Jay only sounds this way when he's completely serious about something.
"He just left. Jay, I…I don't know what to do. I didn't mean to…."
"You are having lunch with me," Jay cuts him off. "Meet me down here at two and we'll talk. I can't believe– Jesus fuck, I have to go. I'll see you later."
Sam starts to feel cold again when he puts the phone back and he walks to his bedroom with his head down to look for a shirt. Peter took his sweatshirt, he realizes as he finds the man's sweater thrown over a chair. He hesitates a second before putting it on. It itches against his bare skin, but he ignores it as he looks around him. Every little thing in the room is evidence of what happened the night before. The few items of clothing no one picked up yet are still scattered on the floor, there are half-empty glasses on his nightstand and his bed…his bed is mostly bare. Only the cover remains on it, the pillows and sheets have been kicked aside.
Sam stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, staring down at the mess before he grabs everything in his arms and takes it to the laundry room. He throws the lot (pillows and all) inside the washing machine in a fit of fury and closes the lid with a loud bang. Seething and miserable, he goes back to the room to clear away every thing that will remind him of what happened. The clothes end up in the machine, too. Glasses in the sink and bottles in the garbage bin.
Later, when he's already on his way to meet Jay and he realizes he's still wearing Peter's sweater, he wishes he could throw himself in the trash, too.
Jay is already waiting for him at the small restaurant downstairs from his office, looking strange in casual wear so close to work, and Sam rushes across the street to meet him. He plops himself on the chair across from his friend and sighs. It had been threatening to rain since he left his apartment, but the dampness in his hair is from practically running all the way there.
"You're on time. You really must be worried," Jay says around the cigarette in his mouth. He gives the sweater a pointed look, his eyebrows up, but Sam only looks at him. It's Saturday and the place is mostly empty so a waitress is instantly standing in front of them. They order coffee and a bagel for Jay and then go back to staring at each other in silence.
"Jay…." Sam begins but stops when the man holds up his hand.
"I thought we agreed that fucking your friends wasn't a good idea after what happened with Stephen," he says and Sam slumps in his seat. "And after Mike and Will and that other guy with the legs, the Italian one, I thought we agreed that fucking your roommates was an even worse idea. Especially if that roommate is your friend and has a history of having made too many drunken mistakes already without adding you to the equation."
"He's not my roommate," Sam mutters, not being able to deny anything else.
"He's been sleeping on your couch for over a month now. He goes grocery shopping for you, for fuck's sake. He does the fucking laundry. If he's not your roommate, then he's your wife. Or your maid, you choose."
"He doesn't pay rent, he's just staying until–"
"He pays with his ass, apparently." Jay cuts him off. "Or his cock. Though I'm willing to bet that given how long you've been drooling over him you didn't give him a choice, did you? Did he even–?"
"Shut the fuck up, Jay. Do you want me to start crying? Because I fucking will if you don't stop." Sam growls at him, still slouching and barely able to look up. Jay sighs, taking his cigarette between his fingers and then dangling his arm across the back of his chair.
"Okay, that was out of line. I'm sorry, sweetie," he says, the sarcasm in his tone nearly cutting Sam in half. "I can't fucking believe you, Sam."
"Look, I didn't plan it, okay? It just happened; I can't even remember most of it." Jay gives him a murderous look before the waitress arrives with their order.
They stare at each other in silence while she sets everything down and, when she's gone, Jay makes a show of sugaring his coffee and ignoring him. Sam buries his face in his palms, nervous and angry. Jay can be an asshole when he wants to, but Sam knows he can't help himself when Peter is concerned. Is not that he's attracted to him, no matter how many times Jay may have fooled around with another guy when going out with them to a club or a bar over the years, he's into women like…well, like Sam is into Peter.
It's more of a fraternal thing. Jay has known the two of them since College and Peter (even now, at twenty-six years old) has the talent of seeming helpless even though he's as much of a hornball as Sam himself. Jay was always the one to drive them back to the dorms when they were too drunk – or high – to walk, and the one who cleaned the puke off the bathroom floor, and the one who put out his shoulder whenever one of them needed it to cry on. His patience, though, always had a limit when it came to Sam. But it only took one look at Peter's big eyes, a small quirk of his pretty mouth, and Jay would agree to anything.
"Okay," Jay finally says, dropping the cool act and putting the cigarette out in the ashtray next to his bagel. "Tell me what happened but please, spare me the details."
"I don't know," Sam begins, speaking into his hands and looking at Jay through his pale fingers. "It was like every other night. We were talking and drinking only we didn't stop after a couple of glasses. Peter said he wanted to get drunk and we just kept going. Then, I don't know why, we started… arguing about something. I can't even… And then we were suddenly in my room and, well… you know. Only I can't remember anymore after that."
"How do you know you had sex? Maybe you didn't even get to that, if you were so drunk you can't remember a thing, maybe you couldn't get it up and you just fell asleep."
"We were naked this morning," Sam says and Jay glares at him. "And something definitely happened, there was…someone was able to get it up, Jay. I know that, at least."
After a moment in which Jay looks like he's considering punching Sam in the face, he asks, "What about today, then? Did he say anything?"
"He acted like nothing had happened. He started talking about the weather. The weather, Jay." Sam's voice cracks a little and he clears his throat and sips at his mug to hide it, his hands less than steady. "Anyway, it was awkward and horrible and I don't know what to do."
"Where do you think he is now?" Jay takes a bite off his bagel, his eyes fixed on Sam. "He didn't call me."
That's what's probably bothering Jay the most, Sam thinks. If Peter is so upset about what happened, why hasn't he called him? Probably because he knew Sam would call him too. Maybe because he can't even put words to what happened.
Sam shrugs. "He said he had a doctor's appointment. Bullshit, on a Saturday? He could be anywhere."
"Okay. Okay, just go back to your place and wait for him. He'll either come here or go back there."
"But, Jay…." Sam can hardly speak. He runs his hands through his hair once and takes a breath. "What if I did something awful to him?"
Jay sighs. He stares at Sam for a moment and a small smile appears on his lips.
"You'd never hurt him, Sam. Not even drunk out of your mind. He's probably just embarrassed and hung-over, wait for him at your place."
And this, this is what Sam wanted from Jay. Reassurance and a smile, nothing else. And Jay never fails to deliver, even if he's an ass about it.
"Thanks Jay." Sam breathes and Jay scoffs, reaching into his pocket for a new pack of cigarettes.
"Well, you wouldn't, would you?"
"Of course not." A pause and then, "I love him."
"I love him too, only I have a better way to show it." Jay lights his cigarette and puffs out a cloud of grey smoke to the side. Sam stares at his cup of coffee before looking up again.
"No, I mean I love him."
Jay lowers the hand with the cigarette onto the table, his eyes hard on Sam. His mouth pulled up in a small, incredulous sneer.
"No, you don't," he says, his words slow.
"Always have," Sam replies.
"You don't love him; you just want to fuck him." Jay's voice is rising and Sam catches the waitress looking their way. "Fuck him and remember it the morning after, that is. You're a real dumbass, Sam. I mean it. Stop saying ridiculous things and–"
"I'm not joking, Jay. I do and if I made him fucking hate me…I don't know what I'll do," Sam says and clasps Peter's sweater in his hand just out of Jay's view. It's a really ugly sweater; Sam doesn't know why Peter likes it so much. Besides, it's still itching. Sam can smell Peter on it, though, and that smell makes something inside him stir.
"I don't believe it," Jay mutters, putting the new cigarette out, almost sending the ashtray skidding to the floor. "I don't freaking believe it."
Jay looks at him, stares right at him for a full minute until Sam starts to fidget in his seat and averts his eyes.
"Don't you dare tell him that," Jay says and leans back in his chair. Sam frowns.
"Why not? I have to; otherwise he'll think…he'll think I just wanted to fuck him."
"You do just want to fuck him, Sam. You just don't realize it."
"I don't!" Sam stands, reaches into his pants' pocket and fishes out an old bill. "I'm gonna go wait for him."
He slaps the bill onto the table and turns to leave.
"Sam," Jay sighs. "I'm not saying this to mess with you, just think about it."
But Sam doesn't turn around. He stalks out of the restaurant, his mood worse than when he came in. He can't help but rush back home, hoping that Peter will go back, a thousand apologies ready on his lips and Jay's words fresh in his head.
-end part one