The Debt of Guilt [BxB]

39: after

May
1995

Peter was staring out of Danny's bedroom window, eyes tracing the curves of mountaintops and the spirals of fluffy white clouds. He tried not to think about Danny, sprawled out on the bed behind him. He tried not to think about Roy. Or about his brother.

He tried not to think about anything, really. Because once he started thinking, it was difficult to stop. All the mistakes he had made, the regrets he had accumulated. It had been so easy to blame Danny for everything that had gone wrong in his life. Peter had spent five years hating Danny for the decisions he had made. But that was only because it was easier. Easier to blame someone else. Easier than admitting that he was the problem. He was the reckless one. He was the monster.

He heard the bedsheets shuffle, and Danny's gentle footsteps behind him. Peter continued staring out the window, refusing to think. Refusing to acknowledge that twisted sickly feeling of guilt. Shame. Regret. Self hatred.

"Hey." Danny said softly behind him, reaching out to touch Peter's bare shoulder. "Are you—?"

Peter pulled away from his reach, wrapping his arms around his chest self-consciously, "Don't touch me." He whispered, finally turning around to face Danny.

There was a flicker of disappointment in Danny's eyes, but he dropped his arm to his side nevertheless. He was shirtless, his muscles twitching beneath golden tanned skin, and his hair was a curly bundle of chaos, dipping into red-twinged eyes. "Sorry." He mumbled, combing his fingers through his blond locks, stress written across his expression.

Peter was shirtless too, his skin paler and muscles weaker. He had never felt inferior to Danny when they were teenagers. Even though Danny had that charming smile and those effortlessly rugged curls, Peter had never been jealous. He had made his peace with being average. Painfully average. But now, stood next what was essentially a cardboard cutout of perfection, Peter felt ugly and exposed. Maybe it was because he had just stripped down every barrier he had tried so hard to maintain in front of Danny. Now he was raw and bare. Everything on display, everything up for grabs. He had lost whatever parts of himself that still belonged to him.

"Peter." Danny said his name quietly, carefully. "Are you okay?"

Peter should have left as soon as they had finished. In fact, he should have left before they even started. But something was keeping him here. All the unsaid words and silent gazes. He nodded stiffly in reply to Danny's questions. He didn't trust his voice. He was too close to breaking.

"Do you wanna talk, or...?" Danny was clearly struggling too — this wasn't a conversation he was ever prepared to have. He had been friends with Peter since he was twelve. Ten years ago, now. Five of those years were spent apart, Peter hating Danny and Danny missing Peter. He didn't know it was even possible for things to get any messier between the two of them, but it seems he had proved himself wrong.

Peter leant back against the window pane, arms crossed over his chest. His eyelids fell shut as he fought the urge to cry, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. "I-I don't even know what to say, Danny." He admitted shakily.

Danny nodded in understanding, tugging at his hair distractedly, "Was that...?" He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip, "Was that your first time?"

Despite himself, Peter let out a short humourless laugh, "No."

Danny's expression twisted in surprise, "Oh." He breathed out, "Uh... Who was...?" He cleared his throat awkwardly, "Who was it?"

Peter rolled his eyes, "Why do you care?"

Danny shrugged, "I'm your friend." And that felt all kinds of wrong right now.

"It was some guy in prison." Peter obliged.