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Peter doesn’t know how he got here.
Or rather, he knows how he got here. He’s in the hotel room because he was with the basketball team, and he was with the basketball team because the sponsor of the school newspaper had got wind of his hobby and asked him to be one of their photographers. And the basketball game is away for the weekend at the championship, and they dragged him along with them to take as many pictures as possible. So, he knows why he’s at the Comfort Inn Hotel, with half the team scattered up and down the hall. He just doesn’t know why the hell Flash Thompson is standing in his doorway. And he definitely doesn’t know why he can’t think of anything to say.
He just stands there, mouth open, until Thompson finally huffs and pushes past him.
“Wait,” Peter scrambles to life after him, “Wait, hold on, I have this room to myself.”
“Not anymore.” Flash slings his duffel next to the tv stand, glaring around the room.
“There’s one goddamn bed, Eugene.”
“They gave me a cot.”
There’s an edge to Flash’s voice that, instinctively, gives Peter pause. He takes a breath, calm down, and another, calm down, calm this down.
“What are you even doing here? It’s the Warriors game, you’re not playing.”
“I am playing.” Thompson’s voice matches the incredulous look on his face. “Lenski broke his arm. Where the hell have you been, Parker?”
“What?”
“I’ve been sitting out there for three fucking hours. Why the fuck didn’t you open the door?”
Peter, in point of fact, had not been in the room since that afternoon. But, since he had left and come back through the window, Thompson's confusion is perhaps understandable.
“You think I’ve just been sitting here this whole time, listening to you knock?”
“No.” Flash hefts the cot from the hall into the room. “That’s why I asked where you were. How did you get in here?”
“I don’t know, Flash. Maybe you were in the bathroom.”
Peter crashes back on his bed as he speaks, picking up his calculus notes and pushing his glasses up his nose.
And, for the entire time Flash is setting up his bed, Peter is very avidly reading those notes. He watches the symbols on the paper in front of him till they swim, peeking only once, when his new roommate steps off into the bathroom. He pops his head around the notebook, and -
“Whoa,” Peter says.
“What?” Flash's voice is muffled; when he sticks his head out of the bathroom doorway there’s a toothbrush sticking out the side of his mouth.
“Are you in the friggin military Flash? Who taught you how to make your bed like that?”
“Hhm.” Flash disappears back into the bathroom.
“I’m serious, man,” Peter says when Flash emerges after a heavy session with the mouthwash. “You gotta show me, like, is it a trick?”
“It’s just how I make my bed, Peter." He snaps out the words, and the back of his neck is red like it had been when he first pushed his way through the door. "Christ, it’s hot in here.”
It is abominably hot in the room. Peter had tried to coax the air conditioner to life when they’d all first checked in, but then he’d seen that stuff on the news, and the police sirens were so close he could hear them, even with the windows closed. He’d been gone all afternoon, had come back ached out and sore, and opened the door to this.
“It doesn’t work.” Peter wipes his face on his sleeve, watching Flash messing with the dials on the AC. He’s burning up in his shirt, likely not unlike Flash. But, with all the casualties his torso has accrued, there’s no way that shirt is coming off.
“Why the hell didn’t you ask Coach Tyes to get a new room?”
“I wasn’t here, Flash.”
Peter’s stewing, miserable about the whole shirt dilemma, but he jumps when Flash slams his palm against the unit. Flash hits it again, swearing.
“Hey! Jesus, seriously? Was that necessary?”
“Shut up, Peter.”
“Flash, you have been informed that you’re an asshole, right? Someone must have told you, it’d be cruel to keep it from you this long.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious.” Suddenly Peter feels like one of those crazy people that can’t shut up, even if it kills him. He can see the tension in the muscles across Thompson’s back. But, he just keeps talking.
“Your teammates. Someone must have told them, right? They know they’re playing with an asshole? Things won’t get messed up when you’re out there, if someone mucks up a play, if they get one too many fouls? This is the championship, right? You just barely made the cut, Flash. You’re already a junior. Maybe tonight’s the big night. Who gives a shit about the team, it’s the scouts you gotta impress.”
“Give it a fucking rest, Peter.”
Peter bites his lip, blows out his cheeks, and sinks back onto the bed.
A second later, he sits up.
“Hey, is your old man gonna pay for your college?”
“Are your aunt and uncle paying for yours?”
Peter cringes.
“No. Jesus, I didn’t realize it was such a nerve.”
“It’s not a nerve, Peter.”
“Well then what the fuck do you have up your ass? Why are you like this, Flash? You know - you do understand, right, that the odds of getting drafted by some scout in high school is straight out of a fucking 50s propaganda movie.”
“Shut up, Peter.”
He stands up like a shot as he says it, and Peter scrambles back further into the pillows, flat against the headboard.
“Christ,” Flash turns away again, “I never know what the fuck you’re saying.”
He sounds calmer as he speaks - sounds like maybe someone had told him about the same breathing exercises Peter was trying very hard to remember how to use. Just, not this second.
“I was saying,” Peter helps out, “you’re never going to play basketball professionally.”
If his nostrils flare, Peter can’t see it. With Flash facing the window, Peter can only watch the muscle of his back tense up all across his shoulder-blades and into his neck, twitching even underneath the fabric. Peter can’t even tell that he’s breathing - can’t, until he focuses in on the tiny ripple of fabric down the sides of his shirt. Flash's breath picks up once, and then he's turning and Peter looks up to see him walking in, in and onto the bed. He bends, and for a moment his hand is just hovering over Peter’s shoulder. But, it curves in, skin meeting skin as he runs it up Peter’s neck, and they’re so close, their lips are just there, and Flash isn’t moving so Peter does, just cranes his neck a little and they are there, their lips brushing and Flash doesn’t move for a second, just a few. But, when he does move, he does so with ferocity; not just with the kisses that only get greedier, but with his whole body, pressed in and pushing Peter back against the pillows.
“Uh,” Peter manages, the next time his mouth is free, “uhm, I think - “
“Peter, jesus, just stop talking.”
He begins sucking at Peter’s neck after he says this. Then the hand that was on Peter’s hip ends up under his shirt, and Peter jumps.
“We should turn the light off.”
It comes out fast, and a little hoarser than he was really expecting. Flash, who had been busy working out some aggression on Peter’s neck, pauses. Then -
“No,” and Peter squawks when Flash goes in for his neck again.
“Come on, Flash, I’m serious - “
Flash doesn’t move for a second, basically just breathing hot air on Peter’s neck while he makes the decision.
“The light,” Peter reminds him, and Flash practically growls, cuffing Peter as he stands. Then, he flips the switch.
For the few seconds his eyes are adjusting, Peter can’t see a thing, but there’s a bit of a glow coming from underneath the curtains, and really, it doesn’t really matter, because Flash is back and kissing him ferociously. He’s moving his whole body again, surging up against Peter, and Peter gasps, and then he gasps a lot in a not-so-good way when Flash’s hand presses past the bruised skin on his side. Flash pauses, but Peter’s pulls him in, necking him back into it, and it works, for a minute, till it happens again. This time, Peter can hear them both breathing into the silence, and then Flash presses his palm straight into Peter’s ribs. Peter lurches up, and the lights are back on.
“What the hell, Peter?”
“I’m fine.”
“Right, take off your shirt.”
“I fell. I was - it was on my skateboard.”
“Right.”
Peter gulps. He sighs and then shrugs and then pulls the shirt up off over his shoulder. He knows the inventory, can see Flash counting it up. The purple bruise over his ribs and the light brown ones that litter his arms, his shoulders. Those are from where he bangs into stuff, it’s not always easy, controlling the swing. If Flash looks any closer, he might even see a few of the scars. But, he doesn’t. He just stands there, and then he picks his own shirt off, and Peter gets a glimpse of his bare skin before Flash Thompson shuts the light off again.
It’s a we’ll talk about this later kind of moment.
This time, Flash comes in with purpose. The whole while he’s kissing down Peter’s neck his hand is cupping the bulge in Peter’s boxers, palming every so often and Peter presses into it.
“Shit - Eugene - “
“What the fuck, Parker,” Flash grunts, pressure on Peter’s dick and Peter gasps down a laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, “sorry - “
Flash surges up against him, shaking his head and kissing, pressed in to Peter’s forehead and then he rutts into Peter’s hips with his own, friction in the cloth between them. Flash is breathing hard against his mouth, and every once in a while Peter nudges his head up a little, pulling him in for a heavy kiss. Flash sticks two of his fingers in his mouth, and, when Peter mutters a ‘what’re you doing’, sticks the thumb of his other hand in Peter’s. He pushes his own boxers down, licks his fingers sloppy, and, breath catching at how Peter’s sucking on his thumb, pulls Peter’s boxers down to his thighs. It’s a shuddering kiss when he presses them together, shuddering and careful like he’s not sure exactly how they’ll fit, but it feels good, damn it feels good, cold where Flash’s hand isn’t and hot and tight where it is. Peter’s balls are tight already, and he tries to hold it in but that doesn’t really help. He jumps when he comes, banging into Flash’s forehead and leaking out at the same time all over his hands.
He can tell Flash is gritting his teeth.
“Sorry,” Peter says, “shit.”
“It’s all right.” Its funny but it sounds like he means it, and it kind of sounds like he’s surprised about that. Peter shifts, sitting up until he’s the one pushing Flash back, and Flash looks surprised about that, too, but he goes all tense when Peter bends in over his dick.
“Don’t - uh, I mean, you don’t have to - “
“Can I?”
Peter’s looking right at him, and Flash shrugs, a little shrug-nod, and then -
“Can we - can we turn the light on?”
“Uh - yea.” Peter sits back, then scrambles up and over to the light switch, and it’s funny, they are still in the same hotel where half the school basketball team is probably already asleep. Flash had scooted up a little on the bed, but it’s perfect positioning, Peter just bends in, licking and sucking and tonguing at all the veins that had just been pressed up tight against his. The thought of it, of that, them together, it makes his dick jump, and he does his best to translate the thought with his tongue, working till he gets a low moan. He keeps at it, grinning against Flash’s dick after he peeks and sees his hands gripping white on the mattress.
When Flash comes, Peter keeps on licking light, till Flash nudges him. He’s lying on his back, banging at Peter’s head with his knee, and Peter pulls off, spitting his mouth clean.
“Peter,” Flash says after a second of not breathing, “did you just spit that on the floor?”
“Yea. Yep, I did, i did that,” he springs up. “I’m getting a towel.”
“Kleenex, Peter, jesus.”
“Right.”
He grabs them from the bathroom and wipes it up and out of the rug as best he can before tossing it towards the wastebasket and collapsing on the bed.
“You gonna use that cot, or…?”
Flash turns his head slow, his eyes wide, and Peter can only try to match his expression.
“I don’t know what else to do,” Flash says, edging on hysterical. “I’ve tried everything.”
“Actually - “
Peter tries to squirm away but Flash is on him, legs hooked around his ankles, arm tight across his chest.
“Do I have to be on you 24/7,” Flash hisses in his ear, “to get you to be quiet?”
“No,” Peter shakes his head, pressing his hips back deep, “just - “
“Fuck.” Flash’s breath is harsh. “Do you - do you want the lights on or - “
“Oh my god I do not care.”
“Really?” He’s mouthing Peter’s neck again, and Peter pulls back a little.
“Yeah. Do you?”
Flash shrugs.
“Lights on is better for me.”
“Ok.” Peter turns over, kissing Flash deeply. “Lights on it is.”