Then why should anyone else? [a pause. He's relaxing, if that means anything. Turning the tables so he's the one scrutinizing John, not the other way around.] They don't deserve you. They don't care about who you really are. They want the light version of what's inside your head.
[This is so fucked up, but he just needs to keep talking like it's sensible. Try to see the world through Petre's disturbed eyes and come up with something that will resonate with him.]
I'm just messing around. No one's gonna have me the way you want, Petre. This isn't a game anyone could win.
[And he really can't see it - or doesn't want to - just how insane his notion of whatever he feels for John is. It isn't love, he knows that, but it's the sense that they belong together. That he'll never find anyone like John because they're two of a kind. One of them's enlightened about it because life gave him the chance to restart from scratch and become this. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to be the only one. And John is his only chance.]
I don't want you to mess around.
[They'll change him. Mold him into their perfect version of what a good boy John Allerdyce should be. He'll leave.]
[No, no, he can't get angry. That takes them right back into attack mode and things get worse. Goddamnit, he is clinging onto calm until actual, physical cracks start to show from the effort.]
If this - whatever we've got is as real as you think it is, what the hell is fucking around with another guy gonna do? How's it even gonna satisfy me if you're the one I'm supposed to be doing it with? Since when are you insecure?
[Not his choice to make. Doesn't that just twist his insides the wrong way.]
Because you're-- [He grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, his own assessment that anger is starting to seep through while he makes the barest of efforts to keep it in place.] Because you're running.
[He gets up, walking over to Petre and standing in front of him, much closer than he normally would. This moment feels so incredibly delicate, and he doesn't know if this is the right move or entirely the wrong one, but he needs to make it. He needs to look right into Petre's eyes, close and steady enough to show the trust he really doesn't feel at all.]
At least trust me that much. You know me well enough to trust me that much.
[Figuring shit out. That's so - childish. Here he is, trying to show John everything exactly the way it is, and he still wants to go elsewhere to find something that's not there. He won't find it. And for all he knows he'll just keep searching forever.
He'll leave.
Petre brings a hand up to John's face. Cupping it, not so gently, just solid where it's place.]
[He manages not to wince, but it's such an effort that he strongly suspects he'll just collapse when the grip is gone. This whole thing feels like Russian Roulette and he's running out of empty chambers.]
[The funny thing is, it doesn't even take any effort to be convincing. There's no lie behind it when he presses his mouth against Petre's - this is something he does desire, and would likely have given into already if it didn't come with such a heavy price.
In fact, his kiss is hungry, almost desperate for everything he can't allow himself. The madness that would come along with any step beyond this one is something he won't accept, but in this single, delicate moment, he kisses like he could go over that cliff without so much as a push.]
[It doesn't even take him a second to respond. His hands are already moving to both hold John's face when he angles his head, responds the kiss in kind because he's tired, because his mind is wired from all those days and nights of being reckless and self-destructive. Later on he'll look back at this and realize he could never enjoy it properly, but relish on the fact that it happened in the first place. And that he remembers.
He opens his mouth, licks John's tongue, presses his lips and sucks softly, only to repeat the same kind of kiss until they've both exhausted each other. It's all fire, all energy, and Petre's mind continues to be set on one thing: have John. Consume him completely.
So a hand moves down to tug at his belt, bring their bodies closer together as he starts to unbuckle it with impatient hands.]
[He jerks away when he feels Petre's hands on his belt, suddenly aware both that he made a mistake in indulging even a kiss and that he may end up having to give more now that Petre's mind is apparently bent on it.
Fuck. Never assume he's being reasonable. Never.]
I've proven myself. [He's panting, flushed, obviously affected by the kiss but holding out on going any further.]
[Even Petre looks exhausted when he opens his eyes to look back at John, almost like he was suddenly shaken awake from a dream. He's breathing hard, lips parted and full, red and wet, hands reaching for John's waistline again. He doesn't want to let go.]
I don't want to stop.
[He moves in closer again, turns his head to kiss John once, move to plant more kisses on his cheek, use his teeth and tongue on his ear and neck.
(He hasn't slept for two days. Maybe had sex with three different people during that time, got drunk and threw up. Smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes and stole even more than that from willing hands. This is the worst way to end that rampage of self-destruction, but he won't bring himself to care.)]
Petre - [It's a gasp, almost a sound of encouragement, as Petre's lips move across his face and down his neck. There's a second where all he can do is tip his head, bare his neck for more of that licking and biting -
- but then he snaps out of it again, resisting the urge to shove Petre away (he still needs to use this, convince him that it's worth using to bargain away that order) and managing to just step back again for the necessary distance. Further this time, out of reach.]
Petre. [His voice is sharper, though not angry.] You need a shower and a sleep. Get your head on straight before you decide this is how you want it to happen.
[He must've developed some notions about how it'll be, right? Maybe not romantic ones, but at least better than this? It's the best John can come up with.]
[There's a tired breath when Petre stops, just like John told him, resisting the urge to reach out again with a pathetic hand. He could have ignored him, kept going and forced him to stay still, ruined it all over again, but he's exhausted. He does need a shower and sleep. He may not be fully human, but there's only so much his body can take, and it's starting to affect his mind as well.
John was right. He needs to stop.
(He wishes John would be holding his face with his hands. Keeping it up. Looking him in the eye. Just - something.)]
[He won't relax completely just because Petre seems to have calmed - he's trusted a few too many times in this conversation and gotten burned for it every time. But he does soften a bit.]
['We'. Like John's ever made any kind of promise to Petre, like he hasn't to drag it all out of John like they were fighting to extract teeth.]
No. You just need to not have it.
[The bitterness is returning, though. In his eyes there's a subsided anger that doesn't translate in the line of his lips. Looking at John from a lower level, like an animal deciding whether or not it's going to strike. With a frown he sets his jaw, lips full and pursed.
He knows what's going to happen. The second the order is off John's running out to tell all his friends. Go to them and leave him. Again.
[It's a real effort not to sag with relief when he feels the order hit him, that strange shifting of his thoughts like gears reversing of their own accord.
It's over. He did it.
And once again, there's very little satisfaction, because Petre almost looks hurt beneath all that anger. It's not possible, not something he feels at all, but John can't help seeing it. There's no winning in this, not if Petre only shows his weakness when John refuses something he has every right to refuse - it's there, he has to acknowledge it, but it's still selfish and unfair. So why does it eat at him?]
Go clean up. Want me to grab you something from the kitchen? [He is a regular kitchen raider, after all, and it's one of the few things on which they give him a pass. It's some way he can - not apologise, there's no fucking reason to apologise, or thank him. He doesn't know why he wants to do it.]
[it's a groan of sorts, bringing a hand up to rub at his eye heavily. Maybe he's getting a headache. Something Harry could help him with. If they let Petre go anywhere. But he never asked for permission to leave his room, he wasn't going to start now.]
Go.
[He turns and walks back into the bathroom. Shuts the door behind him. It's going to be quiet in there. No rustling of fabric, no water running. Just quiet.]
[Chasing him away again. What if he stayed, just once, to find out if Petre really does have any weakness? If he constantly does this because he needs time to break down in some way, reveal the emotion he denies?
Maybe he will, but not this time. He's come dangerously, dangerously close to giving in. He needs the distance as much as Petre does.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then Petre's disappearing back into the bathroom, and he doesn't want to shout it - it's not intended to be harsh, for once. All he wanted to do was tell Petre to get some sleep. Instead, he slips out the door.]
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I'm just messing around. No one's gonna have me the way you want, Petre. This isn't a game anyone could win.
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I don't want you to mess around.
[They'll change him. Mold him into their perfect version of what a good boy John Allerdyce should be. He'll leave.]
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[No, no, he can't get angry. That takes them right back into attack mode and things get worse. Goddamnit, he is clinging onto calm until actual, physical cracks start to show from the effort.]
If this - whatever we've got is as real as you think it is, what the hell is fucking around with another guy gonna do? How's it even gonna satisfy me if you're the one I'm supposed to be doing it with? Since when are you insecure?
[Nope, there's a tiny crack.]
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Because you're-- [He grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, his own assessment that anger is starting to seep through while he makes the barest of efforts to keep it in place.] Because you're running.
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[He gets up, walking over to Petre and standing in front of him, much closer than he normally would. This moment feels so incredibly delicate, and he doesn't know if this is the right move or entirely the wrong one, but he needs to make it. He needs to look right into Petre's eyes, close and steady enough to show the trust he really doesn't feel at all.]
At least trust me that much. You know me well enough to trust me that much.
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He'll leave.
Petre brings a hand up to John's face. Cupping it, not so gently, just solid where it's place.]
Show me.
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Show you what?
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[Something they've done before. John knows what - he said it himself. When I kissed you.]
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In fact, his kiss is hungry, almost desperate for everything he can't allow himself. The madness that would come along with any step beyond this one is something he won't accept, but in this single, delicate moment, he kisses like he could go over that cliff without so much as a push.]
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He opens his mouth, licks John's tongue, presses his lips and sucks softly, only to repeat the same kind of kiss until they've both exhausted each other. It's all fire, all energy, and Petre's mind continues to be set on one thing: have John. Consume him completely.
So a hand moves down to tug at his belt, bring their bodies closer together as he starts to unbuckle it with impatient hands.]
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Fuck. Never assume he's being reasonable. Never.]
I've proven myself. [He's panting, flushed, obviously affected by the kiss but holding out on going any further.]
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I don't want to stop.
[He moves in closer again, turns his head to kiss John once, move to plant more kisses on his cheek, use his teeth and tongue on his ear and neck.
(He hasn't slept for two days. Maybe had sex with three different people during that time, got drunk and threw up. Smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes and stole even more than that from willing hands. This is the worst way to end that rampage of self-destruction, but he won't bring himself to care.)]
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- but then he snaps out of it again, resisting the urge to shove Petre away (he still needs to use this, convince him that it's worth using to bargain away that order) and managing to just step back again for the necessary distance. Further this time, out of reach.]
Petre. [His voice is sharper, though not angry.] You need a shower and a sleep. Get your head on straight before you decide this is how you want it to happen.
[He must've developed some notions about how it'll be, right? Maybe not romantic ones, but at least better than this? It's the best John can come up with.]
Now I have proven myself.
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John was right. He needs to stop.
(He wishes John would be holding his face with his hands. Keeping it up. Looking him in the eye. Just - something.)]
... So, what. I take off the order now?
[His voice is weak, not as bitter as he'd like.]
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You don't need it. We don't need it.
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No. You just need to not have it.
[The bitterness is returning, though. In his eyes there's a subsided anger that doesn't translate in the line of his lips. Looking at John from a lower level, like an animal deciding whether or not it's going to strike. With a frown he sets his jaw, lips full and pursed.
He knows what's going to happen. The second the order is off John's running out to tell all his friends. Go to them and leave him. Again.
(When did he ever said he'd stay?)]
Forget what I said.
[There.]
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It's over. He did it.
And once again, there's very little satisfaction, because Petre almost looks hurt beneath all that anger. It's not possible, not something he feels at all, but John can't help seeing it. There's no winning in this, not if Petre only shows his weakness when John refuses something he has every right to refuse - it's there, he has to acknowledge it, but it's still selfish and unfair. So why does it eat at him?]
Go clean up. Want me to grab you something from the kitchen? [He is a regular kitchen raider, after all, and it's one of the few things on which they give him a pass. It's some way he can - not apologise, there's no fucking reason to apologise, or thank him. He doesn't know why he wants to do it.]
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[it's a groan of sorts, bringing a hand up to rub at his eye heavily. Maybe he's getting a headache. Something Harry could help him with. If they let Petre go anywhere. But he never asked for permission to leave his room, he wasn't going to start now.]
Go.
[He turns and walks back into the bathroom. Shuts the door behind him. It's going to be quiet in there. No rustling of fabric, no water running. Just quiet.]
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Maybe he will, but not this time. He's come dangerously, dangerously close to giving in. He needs the distance as much as Petre does.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then Petre's disappearing back into the bathroom, and he doesn't want to shout it - it's not intended to be harsh, for once. All he wanted to do was tell Petre to get some sleep. Instead, he slips out the door.]