tampered | Will you chew it until it bleeds? [Closed]

Entry tags:

Will you chew it until it bleeds? [Closed]

When; September 24, Evening
Rating; R for language, content
Characters; Roman Godfrey and Peter Rumancek
Summary; Don't bite the hand that feeds, werewolf or not.

Coffee in hand, Roman easily can pretend that he's been out loitering in the streets doing what he pleases. It's a lie. Just working. Working at a casino. He is still having a had time wrapping his own head around it. A Godfrey with a day job. Sometimes he is so pleased that only Peter knows just how much it means. That is like Bill Gate's son working at Best Buy, a Kardashian at McDonalds something like that. Smelling like cigarettes and repressing a yawn he steps into the ground level apartment that he has come to share with the gypsy boy.

"Hello?"

At first it seems like no one is home. Are any lights on at all? His keys come out and rest on the coffee table.

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None of the lights are on, but there's a low whimper at the sound of Roman's voice. Peter had over-extended himself, and the result is this exhaustion that's seeped into his bones. It's taken a couple days, but he finally just crashed out, dead. He's so, so tired. But he's also hungry, he's starving but he can't make himself get up, get out of bed. He'd not even under the covers, instead of sprawled out like a human boy, he's curled up on top of the bed like an injured dog.

The clothes he's in aren't his own, and he'd been fine when he'd dragged himself home from dealing with Lydia and Scott and all the other werewolves. He'd thought he was fine, but, no, he's not really okay at all. His eyelashes flutter and he slowly lifts his head, looking to the door and the distinctive sound of Roman's keys. He owes him explanations, yeah, but they've never been good at that.

He needs food. Meat, red and bloody. He nuzzles into the blankets as if that will somehow enable him to hide beneath him. He almost call out to him, but, he waits, instead.

"Peter?" One more call. Softer. Okay. Well. No sense in calling for someone who he assumes is just not here. Sigh.

In theory living together was going to be fun. They could hang out all the time. Just be guys. Fuck, Roman isn't sure what he was expecting out of it. All he knew is that the idea made him happy. So far it has been like living alone at home. Roman takes off his coat and then walks down the hallway doing nothing to soften his footsteps.

It takes him past the first small bedroom. Oh wait. A double take and he sees what could be a dead body laying there.

"Peter?" He goes as far as to toe open the door and flip the light on.

That whine is far more audible when Roman toes the door open, and he looks up at him, just barely lifting his head from the bed. Peter looks like death warmed over, just about. His blue eyes are wide, and he manages to look like a kicked puppy despite being gone for days, for the better part of a week. Someone was supposed to call him, but Peter had gotten distracted amidst the people and talk of other werewolves and pack.

He'd been fine, or so he thought. You know, until he'd nearly careened into the wall after closing the door. He'd managed to stumble onto the bed and curl up and try to sleep it off. Which had helped, yes, but he was still weak. He needed food, needed raw meat with blood he could suck up onto his tongue. He needed the metal, the warmth, the life of it.

"Roman," his voice was low and a little gravelly.

Worry really rises up fast. "You look like shit." Roman comes into the room stepping over whatever might be around. He places his coffee down and crouches.

"What the fuck happened to you? Are you sick?" Or has he just been partying? Somehow since his shift Peter has become so popular. It mist be nice, he figures almost bitterly. He is rather likable. Why the hell not?

Living life without a parental unit to turn to is liberating, sure. It would be helpful to have someone take up the baton of care. He's not sure of what to do. "You need something?"

"Pushed myself too far on the full moon. Finally caught up with me, I guess."

Partying wasn't exactly Peter's speed most of the time -- too many people, too many expectations, and the drinks were never strong enough. He thought he could maybe put up with those first two if they fixed the last one. He shifts a little, edges just a touch closer toward where Roman's crouched by the bed. He's familiar, if nothing else.

"Red meat. And bloody." It was like when he'd woken up after Chasseur had shot him with whatever the fuck. His body needed the protein, the iron, the vitamins. The wolf inside him needed the blood on his tongue, meat against his teeth. Maybe not the answer Roman had been looking for, but it was honest, anyway.

"Too far? What do you mean?" Because he sadistically wants to know what he missed out on by not being what Peter is.

A simple enough request. They have some food. Not that much. And honestly, Roman was expecting something else. Something more medicinal. Or perhaps strange. Everything is a touch strange with Peter Rumancek.

"I'm not a short order cook," he says as he leans one way to regard the prone boy with his so called roofie eyes. After a moment of silence he sighs. "I'll see what I can do."

"I couldn't make it back. I pressed it too far past dawn like a dumbshit. Means I had to try and fight shifting back, which pretty much fucking sucks." He's just going to try and dodge the part about passing out naked at Lydia's feet for the moment. Because, yeah, that's a whole can of worms he's not sure he wants to touch. And it seems like the kind of thing that might be rigged to explode.

"Good thing I'm not asking for it cooked then, yeah?" Peter grins weakly, blue eyes cast up to meet Roman's greens. It always feels a little dangerous, looking into his eyes, when he's never entirely sure that Roman couldn't twist him on his finger if he wanted to. He trusts him not to, which is miraculous in itself. He curls on the comforter, letting his head fall back against it again.

"Thanks,"

"Here I was thinking you party too much." Faux judgmental isn't convincing on Roman. He takes a sip of his coffee cup before putting it on the nightstand. Maybe the smell will help aid the rousing process for Peter.

Excellent omission idea. The curious developing attraction between his friend and Lydia might make it a more hot button subject then it should be. She's beautiful. And she's got someone's attention. Why can't Peter give his attention to someone else that is beyond Roman? Why does he feel a spike of jealousy when it is only natural. They have the same taste. It should be something to bond over.

Should.

Green eyes so far are completely invested in that trust. Obliviousness to his own nature, his own origin is only part of it. He's fought so much for Peter's safety in the face of failure again and again. Endangering him with his own devices just doesn't seem fair. Oh the things he could make a person do. Free will would be far more satisfying. All these thoughts dip and swirl like cream in his coffee.

"Thank me after you tried it. Steak isn't bacon. You can tell with bacon." Roman stands. His thin, tall frame is exaggerated even more so by the fact that Peter is laying down. "Don't fall asleep."

Out he goes from the room to the small kitchen. A pan rattles as it touches to the stove. Click, click of the gas igniting beneath it.

Peter just settles for huffing with amusement and a hint of laughter as Roman accuses him of partying too much. Really, if that was to be flung at either one of them, it probably shouldn't be Peter. He breathes in the scent of the coffee, a flutter of his eyelashes as he tries to keep himself conscious.

Peter still isn't quite sure what he thinks about Lydia. She's different, not human, and somehow decides to be candid and open about it. She's friends with werewolves. And the dawn after the full moon, he'd found himself at her feet, drawn like a magnetism he's not sure he even wants to think on. His feelings are still in a riot after everything that happened in Hemlock. It's too much. Or should be.

"It'll be fine. Just want it warm, don't really cook it." He wants it bloody, bleeding red. Heating it is just for the illusion, for the feeling of something taken from a beating heart. But, he'll never explain that.

"I wait with eager anticipation." He'd do his best to keep from falling back asleep, but promises were in short supply. He resigned himself to waiting as he breathed in the smell of the coffee.

The party animal of the pair would be Roman. Peter surely must know about his date with Lydia. What about his date with the other girl? No woman. It was Carla's birthday. Carla who is nearly a decade older than him and gave him the needed dosage of scorn and patronizing that a grown female could dole out. Well. It shouldn't matter. That was sort of before he knew Peter was here when he was trying to distract himself from problems at home on his own.

His thoughts stay in this strange state as he peels the flattened steak from the packaging. The blood is cold but still runs red and striking on his hand. Before he thinks twice, Roman licks it off the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger. Oops. It's a slicing, icy taste. Somehow he doesn't regret it. Then again, always a fucking freak.

"Okay," he shouts to the other room, maybe too loud. Wake up, gypsy! "Lukewarm or just warm?"

He knew about the date with Lydia, which he wasn't jealous about, not really. She was pretty; Peter could see the attraction. And Roman was, well, Roman. There wasn't much that could stop that, and so he didn't try. The sun rose in the east, set in the west, forests smelled like freedom, and Roman went after pretty girls. He doesn't know why his feelings are so conflicted about it, how things curl awkwardly in his head if he thinks too hard on it.

So the solution, obviously, is not to.

He kind of drifts, on the edges of consciousness, not quite awake, but asleep enough to just faintly startle when Roman shouts from the kitchen, a bit too loud. He rubs at his face and his lips curl faintly. Jerk.

"Warm. But before the blood cooks off."

He wasn't feeding the human boy; he was feeding the wolf inside his skin as best he could with human teeth.

Pretty girls with pretty eyes, pretty tits, pretty mouths and pretty smells really do capture his attention. For the life of him though he isn't sure what gets to him about hard bodies, hard cocks and hard jawlines. Guess that doesn't make him entirely gay, just maybe more impossible to pin down even in the midst of his teenage years.

He heard that but asks, to keep him engaged. "What?"

Warm but before the blood cooks off. His mouth sets in a line as he stabs the corner of the steak to flip it over. It's thawed luckily. Blood is in the pan anyway, bubbling and taking on a watery consistency. So different then when it's fresh, it has it's own warmth and natural thickness.

"Are you gonna come and get it? I'm not a fucking live in maid or cook!" Wake up, Peter. C'mon. Well, it looks as though it is still collecting blood around the top and a steady poke to the center proves that it is warm. Not hot. With another fork stab the steak transfers with a wet slap to the plastic plate. All part of the retro collection found in the pantries.

To think. Someone might have lived here before they did. They just up and left everything in this shabby place except for their clothes. Wouldn't that make this place a tomb?

Even though he made loud claims at what he wasn't, Roman is standing in Peter's doorway with the plate and the fork.

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Will you chew it until it bleeds? [Closed]

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