Peter takes a pill from the container, a quirk of an eyebrow at Roman's outburst. There's so much weight to it and yet Peter shrugs it off like it's nothing, as best as he can, anyway. He lets his tongue slip from his lips, the round white pill dissolving on his tongue before he reaches over to steal Roman's flask from the inside pocket of his jacket. It makes his eyes flutter because it's too close, too much contact, but part of him wanted the contact. Not that Letha was a bad girl or anything like that, but he didn't want her. Not like she wanted him to want her. He would have let her make him fuck her and he would have been thinking about the asshole next to him in the convertible the whole fucking time.
"I'm not mad."
Which is a lie, but he's not mad at Roman, not really, not realistically. He curses, huffs under his breath with a shake of his head after he downs the pill and the scotch, handing the silver flask back.
"That's not how it happened. Fuck. I told her I wasn't going to fuck her but she didn't care." He neglects to mention that he's used Roman's name, that if Letha is brighter than she seems most of the time, she might actually know. "Godfreys are the fucking same; can't understand that you don't own people."
He tilts his head back, letting the pill he took settle, waiting for it to settle in, calm this... whatever it was. And then he gets this dumbshit idea in his head and he's acting on it before he can stop himself. It's the razorblades. It's how they smell like copper and not just the metal they're made from, how he thinks it's more than just the cocaine.
He tells himself he's not flirting, he's just curious. He just wants to know how fucked Roman is, how far down the fucking rabbit hole Peter's letting the Godfrey heir drag him.
He steals one, carefully held between those eerie matching fingertips of his middle and ring fingers. He rotates it side to side, letting it catch the starlight, letting the blade gleam. And then he licks it. A brief motion, just letting pink muscle lap carefully against steel, but he tastes more than just that. He tastes copper and iron and blood and his blues are still looking into greens and he almost wants to say this is Roman and his fucking roofie eyes, but he knows better.
"Sick fuck. Always figured you'd be into cutting other people."
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"I'm not mad."
Which is a lie, but he's not mad at Roman, not really, not realistically. He curses, huffs under his breath with a shake of his head after he downs the pill and the scotch, handing the silver flask back.
"That's not how it happened. Fuck. I told her I wasn't going to fuck her but she didn't care." He neglects to mention that he's used Roman's name, that if Letha is brighter than she seems most of the time, she might actually know. "Godfreys are the fucking same; can't understand that you don't own people."
He tilts his head back, letting the pill he took settle, waiting for it to settle in, calm this... whatever it was. And then he gets this dumbshit idea in his head and he's acting on it before he can stop himself. It's the razorblades. It's how they smell like copper and not just the metal they're made from, how he thinks it's more than just the cocaine.
He tells himself he's not flirting, he's just curious. He just wants to know how fucked Roman is, how far down the fucking rabbit hole Peter's letting the Godfrey heir drag him.
He steals one, carefully held between those eerie matching fingertips of his middle and ring fingers. He rotates it side to side, letting it catch the starlight, letting the blade gleam. And then he licks it. A brief motion, just letting pink muscle lap carefully against steel, but he tastes more than just that. He tastes copper and iron and blood and his blues are still looking into greens and he almost wants to say this is Roman and his fucking roofie eyes, but he knows better.
"Sick fuck. Always figured you'd be into cutting other people."
He holds it in his fingers like it might bite.