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“Peter, we’re out of butter!”
“And why’s that?” He said, yawning as he entered the living room. He scratched at his hip, then dropped his hand when he caught Wade staring. He glanced down when his gaze was still drawn there, and realized he was actually wearing Wade’s shirt—and since he only had a pair of grey boxer briefs underneath, it appeared as if he were wearing the shirt alone. “Oh,” he said, his cheeks reddening at Wade’s smirk, “You left this in my room. Thought it was mine.”
Wade hummed, “Uh-huh. Makes sense, cause it’s not like my shirts come down to your thighs or anything, sweetums.” The blush darkened. Peter scowled at his roommate.
“Shut up, it’s whatever. Don’t act like you don’t like it,” he hissed, and stalked the rest of the way to the kitchen. “Did’ja make coffee?”
“Nah,” Wade said, and Peter heard his footsteps approach. He leaned against the doorway and watched Peter as he started to brew a pot. “But, I made pancakes.”
“You always make pancakes,” Peter complained, spinning to glare at him. Wade handed him a mug from the cupboard, “That’s why we’re out of butter.”
Wade slapped him on the ass on his way out of the kitchen, “Don’t complain, baby boy, or you won’t get dinner either!”
“Oh, joy. What’re you making? Taco mix again?” Sarcasm coated every syllable of Peter’s words.
“HA! HA! Let’s see how you like it when you get no food!”
Peter shook his head, pushing the ‘On’ button and waiting for the coffee maker to kick on. He scowled at how long it usually took. They might need a new one. When did he buy this one? Four—had it been five years? Did they even last that long? Well, it must’ve been, ‘cause it was about a year since he’d lived with Gwen, and she always kept track of that nonsense.
They still saw her constantly. Wade claimed he couldn’t go a day without his Gwen-fix, and Peter silently agreed. Gwen had always been his favorite person, still was. Wade was just—what was Wade? He’d found out they were soul-mates nearly a year ago, and they’d been friends since. Then five months ago, Wade had moved in with him and now they were this—nothing. They were at a stalemate. Peter was pretty sure both of them wanted something more—honestly, he was pretty sure he was in love with the insane merc—but both of them were too stubborn to break the silence first.
He glanced down at the tiny tattoo on his wrist—yeah, he was definitely in love with the jackass. His name was literally tattooed on Peter’s wrist—how much more obvious could they get? Two months prior, they’d gotten drunk (just about a week after having gone in to get their timer’s uninstalled together) and Wade had proclaimed what a good idea it’d be to get each other’s names tattooed in the timers’ place.
“Listen, Petey-boy,” he’d said, slurring his words together. “We’re soul-mates, capiche? We gotta do something to celebrate! Let’s get tattoos! Here, gimme,” he grabbed onto Peter’s wrist and scribbled something on his newly clean skin. He looked down at it, and after the spinning stopped, the words spelled out ‘Wade.’ “Now, do me!” Wade had been so drunk he hadn’t even commented on the sexual innuendo.
Now, Peter’s wrist was coated in black ink over a sloppily scribbled ‘Wade.’ Honestly, you could barely tell what it said unless you knew already. But, Peter liked it. It’d been two months and he hadn’t once debated its’ removal—well, at least not seriously. He’d threatened it many a time, but Wade probably already knew he wouldn’t do it.
The timer on the coffee maker went off, signaling that it was ready to start mixing the coffee. Peter grunted, hitting a few buttons on the machine and turning away. He went to the sink and started the water, waiting for the water to mix with the suds and soak all the dishes. He then grabbed the sponge and began scrubbing at everything Wade had carelessly tossed in since the previous night. There was a blurt laugh from Wade, startling Peter who dropped the sponge and grunted. Great. Now he’d have to dig around in the disgusting, dirty-ass water to find that.
Despite reaching his hands around and the feeling of the nearly-empty contents of his stomach rising, a smile found its way onto Peter’s lips. Things had been going surprisingly well since he and Wade had become roommates.
Wade had stopped killing people! Or well… that wasn’t quite realistic, now was it? But, he was really trying. He brought the guns out less, his trigger finger stuck more. He really only killed in the bad situations—and while Peter was far from okay with even that—he knew the guy was trying. He couldn’t exactly blame him for that. It wouldn’t be a cold turkey thing with a mercenary; he’d known that from the get-go, so he’d take what he could get.
“Petey, get your cute little ass out here! Friends is on!”
Peter dropped his head back, blinking up at the ceiling, “It’s a re-run. We’ve seen them all.”
“It’s the one with the flashbacks though. IT’S IMPORTANT, PEITRO,” Wade scolded from the living room.
Peter, whose hand had just grabbed onto the sponge, dropped everything and crossed the kitchen in two steps. He stood in the doorway, glowering, “You know that’s not my name.”
Wade blinked at him innocently, tipping his head to the side like he knew not what Peter spoke of. “Whatever do you mean, sweetums? The name on your birth certificate is Pietro Benjamin Parker, is it not?”
“It is not.”
“In that case, should I be calling you Benji instead?”
“Only if you want me to call you Winston,” Peter said in return, turning on his heel and stalking back into the kitchen, where he was forced to once again dig around the filthy water for the sponge he’d dropped—twice, now.
“Sounds like a plan, Benji!”
“I fucking hate him,” Peter muttered to the soapy dishes.
He was nearly done when he heard Wade’s footsteps enter the kitchen and then both of Wade’s hands planted themselves on either side of Peter’s hips. He tried not to swallow. He tried not to be obvious in any way, shape, or form. “What a good little house-husband you’re being.”
This time Peter did swallow, but he kept washing the dish in hand in order to maintain some sense of apathy. He said, “That’s sexist. Wanna try again?”
“How is it sexist? You’re the dude.”
“And you’re not?” Peter volleyed back, making the dire mistake of twisting his head to look at Wade. The demure look in his roommates’ eyes was way too much. Peter straightened, and only just managed to keep ahold of the plate he was cleaning.
Wade let out a breath which Peter felt against the back of his neck—he shuddered—cursing himself almost immediately for allowing the motion. Peter could practically feel Wade’s smirk. Wade followed Peter’s suit and straightened, and when he did so, his groin brushed against Peter’s ass and Peter could feel—holy shit. Oh god. Oh dear. Too much. Oh no. This was bad. Peter dropped the dish, but Wade was already walking away and failed to notice—or had just pretended not to. “Nah,” Wade said, “I wear dresses too much to be the dude.”
The coffee maker beeped and Peter set aside the final dish. He dried his hands on the towel, and crossed the room to the machine. “Want any?” Peter called, completely ignoring their previous conversation.
Wade was not in the room when he turned around. Fucking asshole. He did things like—well, that, and then just bailed? What a dick-hat. Yeah, Peter knew he’d have to work on his creative cursing. It was a wonder he’d yet to pick anything up from Wade.
He didn’t make Wade a cup, preparing one for himself, and then standing in front of the coffee maker for much too long, worried on how to approach Wade when he entered the room. Normally, he finally decided. Yeah, like there was another option. He had dwelt briefly on seduction but that was much too much too fast so yeah, normal it was.
Wade was grinning at the TV, and it was only a commercial. “Love this one,” he muttered. Peter glanced at it, but it was literally just a car commercial. Not even anything amusing. He eyed Wade out of the corner of his eye, but his roommate never cleared up his own reasoning.
Peter brought his coffee mug up to his mouth and Wade said, “Where’s my coffee?” Peter chose not to respond; instead he just flipped him the bird. Wade grinned, which Peter wasn’t expecting. He said, “Wanna put that finger somewhere else?”
Peter choked on his coffee, sitting up and leaning forward to place the mug on the table and deal with his lungs. “What,” he coughed, “The fuck, Wade.”
Wade shrugged, “Eh, thought I’d give it a try. You know I want more than this.”
Peter sat back again, looking at Wade. What? He tilted his head, “What.” Wade shrugged again, avoiding Peter’s eyes as he faced the TV. “No, seriously. What?”
Wade exploded, “We’ve been dancing around each other for weeks! And as much as I love dancing, and you know I do, I’d rather it be horizontal than vertical. My hips aren’t made for this shit, Peter. I’m not Shakira!”
Peter’s mouth had dropped open at some point during his whole spiel. He closed it, doing so forcefully with his empty hand, and dropped against the arm of the sofa. “What,” he shook his head, “Are you saying you wanna have sex with me?”
“Obviously,” Wade said, getting up and moving into the kitchen. Peter knew he’d return seconds later with coffee, but he followed him nonetheless. Wade, turned, and his eyes widened before calming—obviously surprised to have been followed, but not entirely shocked. He said, “I mean, yeah.”
Peter ignored Wade’s spastic slip-up, he’d made similar mistakes many times before. “I—don’t know what to say.”
“That’s a first.”
Peter—who’d grabbed his own coffee mug when he’d followed Wade into the kitchen—set it down on the table and looked at Wade over the surface, using the table as a physical—as well as metaphorical—object between them. Peter dug his hands into the wood, gripping it as tightly as his sanity. His anxieties were already bubbling over the edge of the pot, so this was all he had to hold onto.
“Yeah?” Peter said, tilting his head, and feeling his cheeks heat up.
“Yeah?” Wade repeated, “What does that even mean?”
Peter sputtered, “I don’t know! You’re not asking me out or anything! You’ve literally—well, more like technically—or figuratively? I’m trying to cut that word out—doesn’t matter!” He shook his hands to match the shaking of his head, and shuddered, “What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say, Wade?”
“I want you to say ‘hell yeah,’ and jump my saggy, old bones,” Wade said, grinning triumphantly. He held his mug up and took a long sip from it, before approaching the table and gripping the opposite side as Peter.
“Well, when you put it that way…” Peter harrumphed, “First of all, you’re not even that old. Second, what do you want, Wade? Really?” Because Peter didn’t know himself. He needed to be brave, but he couldn’t, so instead he’d push Wade to make up for the distance he lacked.
“Stop using my name like that! It’s patronizing!”
“Is not—”
Wade held up a hand, “I want it all!” Peter squinted at him, briefly worried he was about to start into another High School Musical re-enactment. But he didn’t, instead he continued seriously, “I want more than,” he gestured between the two of them, “this. I want a soul-mate, not a roommate.”
And so did Peter. But how did he—how was he supposed to—UGH. He could kiss him, that’d be a wordless step but like…no. He’d have to circle the table and Wade would know it was coming and he was too jittery and anxious about this whole “confession” thing to get anywhere on his wobbly legs. And anyway, they’d have to talk about—this—afterwards so he might as well contribute verbally but like—no. Just no. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked down at the table. He lifted his mug and took a sip of coffee. He glanced at Wade.
Oh no. Why’d he always forget about Wade’s insecurities? Honestly, it was probably because the guy was so big and self-centered and seemingly confident. He was always bragging about something or another and forcing himself into every conversation within the vicinity, and he just never let them show through. But there was there. And so prominent that it was a shock they’d gotten here to begin with. They’d literally started their entire relationship—although that was a bit strong a word, more like their entire ‘acknowledgement of one-another’s existences’—on the wrong foot. Wade had run off and left him with nothing but a name. And now here they were two lust-filled roommates. Apparently. If Wade’s words were to be trusted (and that was rude, Peter realized, because he really did trust Wade—especially not to lie in a situation such as this).
Wade was wilting like a flower. His lips—which had already been twitching between a serious pout and a smug grin—were now focused in a straight line and that was never a good sign. His eyes were downcast, and he was looking at his hands. “Nevermind,” he said out of nowhere. “Forget I said anything,” and then he was crossing the room in a blatant attempt to disappear. If Peter let him leave, he’d be out the window and missing for at least a week.
Peter grabbed his arm just as he was about to pass by, “Wait!”
Wade didn’t turn around, he shifted in a way that was obviously meant to shake Peter off, but Peter held tight. Peter was stronger than Wade on any good day, and he latched on like the spider he was. “Wait,” Peter said, voice gentler this time around. “I didn’t mean that I didn’t agree.”
Wade half turned to him, still looking away, but his shoulders tilted in Peter’s direction to show he was listening, “You didn’t say anything.”
“I never do,” Peter said. But not this time. This wasn’t like the time he’d allowed Gwen to walk out. He wasn’t going to let Wade leave him. Not again. “But that’s only ‘cause I don’t know what to say to you! I don’t know how to voice these—” he let go of Wade’s elbow and made a vibrant gesture with his arms to showcase his chest, “—emotions.”
“That was lame,” Wade said, and he faced Peter, a smile on his lips. They were dry and chapped but Peter imagined they’d feel amazing wrapped around his—ahem. No. He wasn’t that dirty. That was Wade’s forte. Peter cleared his throat, and blinked away the thoughts now clouding his mind.
Peter pouted, dropping back a step now that Wade was turning around to face him. He felt his lower back press against the kitchen table. Wade smirked and said, “So—?”
“I don’t,” Peter sputtered, and grunted in an effort to stop words from pouring out of his throat. Just say it, idiot, Peter thought. Just fucking say it. You didn’t say it enough to Gwen and that’s why you lost her. Don’t lose Wade. Do not let him go. Just say it. And so he did, “I love you.”
Wade had been about to open his mouth before Peter spoke, but it snapped shut. “You don’t?”
Peter’s mouth dropped open to mirror Wade’s, and then he said, “Wait no! That’s not what I meant. Ignore the ‘don’t’ part.” ‘Cause he wasn’t saying it again until it was repeated or—something. He’d barely forced the words out. He’d barely just admitted it to himself, and now he was admitting it allowed to Wade! He could’ve patted himself on the back for how adult he was being in that moment.
Instead, Wade did it for him, “Nice character development there, Parker. You were almost a little commitment-phobic at the beginning of this story. I was worried for you—well, me, really. I was worried for me. Or us, I guess.”
“What,” Peter was mostly done trying to understand what Wade was ranting about all the time. But he could never compute that message to his mouth. He wasn’t going to understand no matter the answer, but he always asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Wade said, and then he was close to Peter. And not like close, but like close. It was like breathing down his neck close, like hold the fuck up are we really going from 0 to 60 in this quick a time close? He put out a hand to stop Wade’s chest, which was practically touching his own. Wade’s hands were on the table on either side of Peter’s hips, and his waist was pressed against Peter’s, and their legs were tangled a bit and oh no. Oh no.
“I think maybe it matters a little bit,” Peter’s voice rose an octave as he tried to slide out from under his roommate but there was no helping the situation. Cause Wade was kissing him.
Apparently they were done talking.
Peter’s eyes were still open, so he could see the way Wade’s eyes were clenched shut and his mouth was forceful—not anything like they should look if he were actually enjoying himself. Thinking about it, Peter realized the discomfort Wade was obviously feeling was probably because he’d yet to open his mouth, let alone return the kiss. Peter sighed and opened his mouth.
If Peter had an inner-voice like Wade supposedly did, it would probably be commenting on the fact that Peter had ‘sighed’ as if he didn’t fucking wanna make out with Wade’s face—which he really, really did. But he didn’t—have an inner voice, that was—‘cause he’d just obviously cleared up that he wanted to and oh god why was he still not kissing Wade back?
His heart thundered apart, speeding up so rapidly the feeling in his wrists felt like fireworks. He could feel the beat-beat-beat just underneath his skin, and as he lifted his hand to touch tepidly at Wade’s neck, he knew his roommate could too. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, Wade was relaxed. He smiled into the kiss, and his eyes slipped closed.
Wade pushed forward and then the arms braced just against his hips were gone—well, not gone, per say, since they were actually everywhere at once. One was actually grasping at his hip, and the other fisted into his hair to angle Peter’s head. He gasped and Wade took full advantage of his loss, pressing his tongue to the roof of Peter’s mouth and drawing back a step. They took to kissing just as they did to fighting, and when Wade drew away, Peter reached up and drew both of Wade’s arms to his hips.
Wade blinked at him, pulling fully backward to raise an eyebrow at Peter. There was a sloppy smile on his panting lips. Peter smirked in response, and tilted his chin up in a motion which Wade apparently understood—because he lifted Peter back onto the table just as he’d wanted. Peter let go of Wade’s hands and pulled Wade’s head back to his own, wrapping one leg around Wade’s hips. Wade gasped, and shifted against him, allowing Peter to take dominance over the kiss.
Peter’s hand slip down and fell against Wade’s neck, pushing him back so Peter could tilt forward further into him. Wade moaned against his lips and Peter felt him grin.
God—he smelled so good this close. He’d always smelled good—weirdly enough. Wade smelt of maple syrup, and the vanilla hand soap Gwen had forced them to start using. It was an oddly alluring combination that made Peter want to lick his neck—and he did so as soon as Wade took in a breath of air. When he bit down, Wade yelped, “Didn’t figure you to be a Dom, baby boy.”
Peter rolled his eyes, and tugged him back into a kiss. “I’m not,” he pressed the words against Wade’s lips.
“Could ‘a fooled me,” Wade said, biting his lip and tugging it back into his own mouth. Peter grunted, allowing a moan when Wade dropped his lip.
“Shut up,” he said. “Just shut up and kiss me,” Peter wished more than anything that Wade was still able to grow hair. He wanted to tug at it, he wanted to play with it, and use it as a way to kiss him more easily. Instead, he stretched his hand against Wade’s neck again, pressing his thumb against Wade’s Adams apple.
Wade grunted, and then gasped, opening his mouth more, “The neck play is pretty surprising too. Was Gwen into this?”
Peter pushed him back, slipping onto the floor, and grabbing Wade’s wrist to spin him against the table. He then pushed him back onto the surface and climbed over him, “Don’t talk about Gwen while my tongue’s down your throat,” he pressed kisses against Wade’s jawline and down over his neck.
“Well, technically I wouldn’t be able to if your tongue were—” Peter cut him off by actually doing as he’d threatened.
“Seriously, Wade,” he said, kissing gently at Wade’s lips and drawing back. Wade’s hands came up to rest at his hips, and Peter drew his own shirt over his head, “Shut up.” When the shirt came over his head, he glared at Wade, who was pouting beneath him. “What?” He was only in his boxer briefs now, and while he was slightly uncomfortable being almost completely naked in Wade’s fully-clothed presence; he was also pretty okay with it.
“I liked you in my shirt, it was kind of a,” he grinded against Peter’s ass—and Peter, in turn, yelped—“turn on.” Peter grunted and shimmied further forward.
“Too bad, so sad,” Peter said, a frown marring his lips.
Peter settled back when Wade made grabby-hands for him. His knees were on either side of Wade’s waist, and his ass was just inches north of Wade’s crotch—which Peter felt as soon as he moved backwards. He let out a breath of air, somehow surprised despite having just felt Wade’s erection seconds before. “Com’ere.”
Peter placed one hand on Wade’s shoulder and grinned when Wade fisted his fingers in Peter’s hair and drew him back down. “Only if you’re good,” Peter said; his lips were a centimeter away from Wade’s. He hummed, closing his eyes and dancing backwards when Wade leaned up to try and capture his lips.
“We should probably talk about this,” Peter said, licking his lips.
Wade reached around and got a firmer grip on his hair, “Wait,” Peter said, alarmed, but Wade didn’t listen. And that’s how Wade ended up slamming their lips together so hard that their teeth clacked. Peter startled back, completely unsurprised, while Wade nursed the cut on his lip where Peter’s teeth had caught.
“That was your fault,” Wade mumbled, licking the blood from the miniscule wound.
“My fault,” Peter said, holding a hand to his mouth. He might’ve cut his tongue. Did Wade bite it? Or did he? “How was that my fault?”
Wade shrugged for the nth time. A new pout formed on his lips as he said, “You wouldn’t kiss me.”
“Fuck off,” Peter said, sliding off Wade’s lap and onto the table beside him. He swung his legs over the edge and moved to stand.
Wade reached out for his wrist, “Hey, wait.”
Peter grinned over his shoulder, and hopped off the table, stepping out of the room. He heard a noise of discontent behind him and ducked back into the room. “Wanna change settings?” He said, “Race ya!” before scurrying off to beat Wade to the bedroom.
“Hey! No fair!”
Wade tackled him to the bed, only allowing Peter enough time to twist over onto his back. And then they were kissing again.
Maybe they’d talk later.
At least they were further than they’d been that morning. Obviously they were soul-mates—thank god they were finally acting like it.
Later, when they were curled around each other like question marks, Wade asked, “Ya think we met at a bad time?”
Peter, who was reading some book Gwen had loaned him the week earlier said, “You always have bad timing. Wouldn’t be anything new.”
Wade hit him, and he finally looked up, a mischievous grin on his lips, “No, Wade, not at all. I think we met at the perfect time.” He leaned over and kissed his soul-mate on the lips, “It just took us some time to figure it out.”