Chapter Text
“So, we aren’t gonna talk about the blood in the sink?”
Peter blinks heavy and slow. His arms hurt, still stinging from the alcohol he put on them. The open wounds won’t stay open very long, they never do with his healing factor. It’s more out of habit when he does it now. The worry of infection.
It would be better if it were drugs. Wade told him that once. That if he were gonna destroy himself, that if he were addicted to something, it should at least feel good on the drop down.
But cutting does feel good.
It’s the angriest he’s ever been at Wade. So he had to get it out. Had to release the pressure valve. Bloodletting, that’s the closest he’s come to an accurate definition.
“No.” He says to the shadow on his wall.
There’s warmth against his back now.
“I said I was sorry.”
“I was still mad.”
A hand bigger than his lays on his stomach. Wade has scars and he hates them. Peter places his own hand against Wade’s. Sees how small it is. Sees the fresh blot of red, turning dark pink in front of his own eyes.
It felt so good.
He isn’t allowed to say that though. But. It did. The hot warmth of blood against his skin. The numbness of watching his blood drip. Mesmerizing.
He was stupid though, doing it on his arms. Thighs next time. Somewhere that no one thinks to check. An old bit of advice still ingrained in his gray matter from high school.
It’s a sickness. Like Wade’s cancer. It’s stuck in him. It grows. And sometimes it’s fine, in remission. And then some days it’s a battle he doesn’t want to face.
He didn’t want Wade seeing him like this.
“It’s not okay for you to kill yourself over and over again.” He says.
Wade presses his thumb against the mark just under his palm. He hisses between his teeth.
“And this is okay for you to do?”
Peter doesn’t say anything to that. It’s not a fair comparison and they both know that. But life is hard, so hard sometimes. And Peter turned to this more than once, before he and Wade knew each other.
“It was stupid. I shouldn’t have done it.” He shouldn’t have left evidence, that’s what he means. The hand on his stomach moves to wrap around his hip and pulls him into Wade’s body.
“I love you.”
It wasn’t worth it, Peter knew that. He’s so tired. He’s cried, been frantic while he lets the blood and tears dry. Now, he just wants to sleep. Not talk about it. Not have Wade leave again.
“I love you too,” Peter says, “I’m sorry.”
He sleeps then, body aching and arms burning.
The blood in the sink will still be there in the morning.