The Debt of Guilt [BxB]

3: after

May
1995

The television in Peter's motel room only offered three channels, and Peter had spent the last hour flicking between them. He was too indecisive, as he was in all other areas of his life.

He got up to pace around the small space, pausing in front of the mirror as he ran his fingers through his chestnut curls, his brown eyes staring back at him. He looked neglected. Cheekbones poking out, skin paler than anyone else's in this stupidly sunny city, and hair that always sat wrong. He was still that same kid who never really grew into his skin properly. Even now, at twenty one years old, it still felt like his limbs were disproportional to his body, like an action figure made up of all the wrong pieces.

He stopped looking at all his insecurities when the telephone rang. He crossed the room, taking it off the wall and pressing it to his ear, "Hello?"

"Hi, this is reception." A bored voice was on the other line, "I've got some guy on the phone here, asking after a Peter Wicks."

Peter's breath caught in his throat, but he desperately tried not to get his hopes up, "Who?" He choked out nervously.

"Didn't say." The receptionist drawled, "Can I put him through to you?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." Peter tumbled over his words. The line went dead for a moment, only the sound of beeping echoing in his ears. He tried to steady himself, fiddling with the wire chord that anchored the clunky telephone to the wall. Breathe. Just breathe.

The beeping stopped. Silence.

"H-Hello?" Peter asked softly.

More silence. Maybe the sound of breathing. But Peter wasn't sure whether that was just his own breathing. He was too busy listening to the sound of his erratically beating heart.

"Is anyone there—?"

"It's me."

Peter had spent years wondering what it would be like to hear Danny's voice again. Of course, he had seen him on the television screen, playing the hero and the beautiful heartthrob. But he was never talking to Peter, any more than he was talking to the millions of others who watched Danny's movies. But now, Danny's words were for Peter and Peter only.

Peter thought that hearing Danny's voice again would make his heart stop, and his world implode.

Instead, he felt nothing. Just emptiness.

Then the anger seeped in.

It was so overwhelming, he fought the urge to slam the phone against the wall, pack up his things and head straight back to England.

"P-Peter?" Danny murmured quietly, "Are you there?"

Peter took a deep breath, tightening his grip around the telephone, "Yeah, I'm here, Danny." He replied calmly.

There was another pause, "What are you doing in LA?"

Peter felt stupid admitting that he was here for Danny. "What are you doing in LA?" He asked instead, childishly.

"Work." Danny responded simply.

Work. As if that word alone came close to encapsulating what it was Danny did for a living. He was an actor. A millionaire. A celebrity. From a rainy trailer park to fucking Beverley Hills. All the drugs and the flashy cars anyone could ever want, right at his fingertips.

"You seem to be doing well for yourself." Peter continued, "I see your face everywhere. All over magazines..." He thought back to earlier, "On the side of buses."