Chapter 7: 2AM Confessions
The sharp, digital scream of Derek’s alarm shattered the fragile peace. He jolted, disoriented, tangled in warmth that wasn’t entirely his own. Sunlight, harsh and intrusive, slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across the unfamiliar landscape of Peter Kavinsky’s back, inches from his face.
Peter. In his bed.
The memories slammed into him like a rogue wave: the 2 AM door crash, the smell of beer and cheap cologne cutting through the usual scent of old paper and dust, Peter’s loose-limbed sprawl onto the narrow mattress, slurring stories about someone setting off the dorm sprinklers with a faulty vape pen. Laughter Derek hadn't expected to feel bubbling up at 3 AM. Peter’s sleepy, flirty murmur about Derek’s eyes looking like storm clouds before they broke open. Then… stillness. Exhaustion claiming them both, the small bed forcing proximity, the line between them blurring into shared warmth.
Now, Peter groaned, a low, pained rumble deep in his chest. He shifted, pressing back slightly against Derek’s front. Derek froze. Every point of contact ignited – Peter’s solid back against Derek’s chest, the heat radiating through thin t-shirts, the way one of Derek’s arms had somehow ended up draped loosely over Peter’s waist during the night. He could feel the defined muscles beneath the fabric, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Peter’s breathing. The scent of stale beer mingled with something uniquely Peter and the faded detergent on Derek’s own sheets.
His pulse hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Panic, sharp and acidic, flooded his mouth. This is bad. This is very, very bad. He needed to move. Now. Before Peter woke up and realized… realized whatever this was. He carefully, painstakingly, began to extricate his arm, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.
Too late. Peter stirred again, a deeper shift this time. He rolled slightly, turning his head on the pillow. Bleary, bloodshot eyes blinked open, unfocused, then slowly sharpened. They landed on Derek, mere inches away. Derek saw the exact moment recognition dawned, followed by a wave of confusion, then dawning, slightly horrified realization that mirrored Derek’s own internal scream. Peter’s usually charming face was pale beneath the stubble shadowing his jaw, etched with the deep grooves of a brutal hangover.
“Shit,” Peter rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper. He squinted, wincing against the light. “Derek? What…?” His gaze darted around the small dorm room, taking in the band posters, the overflowing bookshelf, the lone bean bag slumped in the corner. Comprehension flickered. “Right. Your room. Last night. Uh.” He swallowed hard. “Did I…?”
“Pass out? Yeah,” Derek managed, his own voice strained. He finally succeeded in pulling his arm free, rolling quickly onto his back, putting precious inches of scratchy sheet between them. The sudden cool air where Peter’s warmth had been felt strangely jarring. He stared intently at the ceiling, counting the faint water stains he knew by heart. Hands-on coaching. Erica’s grin at Mario’s flashed in his mind, making his ears burn. Had Peter remembered saying that? “You were pretty gone. Just… crashed.”
Peter pushed himself up onto one elbow, rubbing his face with a groan that sounded like it came from his boots. He looked wrecked – hair plastered crazily to one side, the disarming smile replaced by a grimace. “Christ. My head feels like Boyd tried to use it for kettlebell swings. Sorry, man. Seriously. Didn’t mean to invade your space like that.” He glanced down at the cramped bed, then back at Derek, his expression unreadable for a second, before settling into a look of genuine, albeit pained, apology. “You okay? Didn’t elbow you in the face or anything, did I?”
Derek risked a glance. Peter looked so… vulnerable. So unlike the effortlessly charismatic heartthrob who held court at parties. It was disarming. “No,” Derek muttered, sitting up too quickly, the blood rushing from his head making the room tilt. “Fine. Just… surprised.” Surprised you came here. Surprised you stayed. Surprised waking up that close to you didn’t feel entirely wrong.
An awkward silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the persistent buzz of Derek’s neglected alarm. Derek fumbled to silence it, the sudden quiet somehow louder. The air hummed with everything unsaid – the late-night laughter, Peter’s drowsy compliment, the accidental intimacy of shared sleep.
Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet heavily on the worn carpet. He stretched, the hem of his t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of taut stomach, the defined lines of his abs momentarily visible. Derek looked away, his face flaming again. Stop it.
“God, I need water. And painkillers. Like, industrial strength,” Peter mumbled, standing up. He swayed slightly, bracing a hand against the wall. “Mind if I use your sink?”
“Go ahead,” Derek said, staring fixedly at his hands clenched in his lap. He heard the faucet squeak on, the splash of water, Peter gulping noisily. The mundane sounds felt absurdly loud in the charged quiet. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Peter’s body, the imprint of his back against Derek’s chest. It was ridiculous. Stupid. Peter Kavinsky, waking up in his bed? It defied the natural order of things. Peter was… Peter. And Derek was… not. He saw something special. The thought, unbidden and terrifying, slithered in. No. Drunk ramblings. Forget it.
Peter reappeared in the doorway of the tiny bathroom, water dripping from his chin, looking marginally less like death warmed over. There was a different kind of tension in his posture now, a hesitation Derek hadn’t seen before. “Look, Derek… about last night. Whatever I said… I was pretty hammered.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, avoiding Derek’s eyes. “Probably talked a bunch of nonsense. Didn’t mean to make things weird.” He offered a weak, lopsided attempt at his usual smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Derek’s stomach clenched. Nonsense. Of course. What else could it be? The fragile, hopeful thing that had fluttered in his chest when Peter mumbled about his eyes shriveled instantly, replaced by cold embarrassment. He’d been an idiot to even consider… anything. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice flat, carefully devoid of feeling. He stood up, busying himself straightening the already rumpled sheets, avoiding Peter’s gaze. “We should probably get going. Classes.”
The dismissal was clear. Peter’s smile faded completely. He watched Derek for a beat, his expression unreadable again, that unexpected depth surfacing briefly – a flicker of something that