Chapter 9: Drunken Resolve
The sticky heat of the party clung to them as they stumbled out of the frat house’s oppressive noise and into the cool, damp air of the campus night. Derek’s head swam pleasantly, the world tilting on a gentle axis. Erica and Boyd peeled off towards the sophomore dorms with slurred goodnights, leaving Derek leaning heavily against the rough brick of Prescott Hall, Peter a steadying presence beside him.
"Alright, Hale?" Peter asked, his voice low and close in the relative quiet of the quad. "You gonna make it up the stairs?" He eyed Derek’s slightly unsteady legs.
Derek grinned, a loose, easy expression that felt alien and wonderful. "Told you," he slurred slightly, pushing off the wall. "Champion beer pong player. Stairs are… nothing." He managed the first flight with surprising coordination, fueled by residual adrenaline and vodka. Peter hovered just behind him, a warm shadow ready to catch, a silent reassurance Derek hadn’t known he craved.
The third floor corridor was deserted, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that hummed like drowsy insects. Derek fumbled with his key, the metallic jangle loud in the hush. He finally got the door open, revealing the familiar sanctuary of his small dorm room: band posters on the cinderblock walls, textbooks stacked haphazardly on his desk, the narrow twin bed looking suddenly, overwhelmingly inviting. Peter stopped just outside the threshold, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe.
"You good?" Peter asked, that same quiet concern back in his voice, the one that had offered water amidst the chaos. "Grab some water from the sink before you crash."
Derek stood in the doorway, halfway in his room, halfway in the dim hallway. He felt the buzz of the alcohol, warm and insistent, but it was layered now with something sharper, clearer – the memory of Peter’s hands steadying him, the intensity in his eyes at the party, the way he’d murmured let me know. The careful distance Peter had maintained since Derek’s drunken declaration last week seemed suddenly fragile, pointless. The fear that usually clamped down on him was muffled, distant.
He didn’t step back. Instead, he turned fully to face Peter, blocking the doorway. A reckless surge of courage, born from tequila and Peter’s proximity and the sheer exhaustion of overthinking everything, propelled him.
"Stop," Derek said, the word coming out rough but clear. Peter raised an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips.
But Derek didn’t wait. He reached out, fingers curling into the soft cotton of Peter’s t-shirt near his hip, and tugged. It wasn't a forceful pull, more a decisive invitation. Peter, caught off guard, stumbled forward a step, crossing the threshold into Derek’s room. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them into the small, intimate space.
Before Peter could react, before Derek could second-guess the burning impulse, he surged forward. He pressed his mouth against Peter’s.
It wasn't graceful. It was clumsy, fueled by liquid courage and weeks of pent-up want. Lips met with bruising pressure, teeth clacked awkwardly. But beneath the clumsiness was undeniable heat, a raw need Derek hadn't fully allowed himself to feel sober. His hands fisted the fabric of Peter’s shirt tighter, pulling him impossibly closer, trying to erase any space between them. Wants cock. The thought was electric, primal.
Peter stiffened for a fraction of a second, startled. Then his body responded. A low groan vibrated against Derek’s mouth as Peter’s arms came up, not pushing him away, but wrapping around him. Big, warm hands splayed across Derek’s back, pulling him flush. Peter’s mouth opened slightly under the frantic pressure, warm and yielding. He kissed back, hard and hungry, his tongue sliding against Derek’s with an intensity that stole his breath. One hand slid up Derek’s spine, tangling in his messy dark hair, angling his head for a deeper, more controlled connection. The kiss deepened, turning hot, wet, desperate. Derek melted into it, the world narrowing to the slide of Peter’s tongue, the scrape of his stubble, the overpowering scent of him – sweat, cheap beer, and something uniquely Peter that made Derek dizzy.
He felt strong. Wanted. Taken. He ground his hips forward instinctively, seeking friction, a choked sound escaping his throat against Peter’s mouth.
Then, abruptly, Peter slowed it down. Gentled it. He pulled back just enough to break the frantic rhythm, though his arms remained locked tight around Derek, their foreheads resting together. Both were breathing hard, ragged gasps filling the small room. Peter’s eyes, dark and intense under hooded lids, searched Derek’s flushed face.
"Derek," Peter murmured, his voice thick, rasping. "Fuck. You feel... incredible." He pressed a softer kiss to Derek’s swollen lips. "But you’re still drunk. Really drunk." His thumb brushed Derek’s cheekbone, tracing the heat there. "This," he gestured between them with a slight tilt of his head, "this thing... I don’t want it like this. Not when you might not really mean it tomorrow. Not when you didn’t mean it last week."
The words landed like cold water, cutting through the passionate haze. Shame and embarrassment warred with the persistent thrum of desire. Derek flinched, pulling back slightly, though Peter’s arms didn’t fully release him. "I meant it," Derek protested, the words thick. "I mean it now. I wanted… I want…"
"I know," Peter said softly, firmly. He held Derek’s gaze. "And I want it too. More than you probably realize. But not tonight. Not like this. I saw you stumble twice on the stairs. I saw how much you drank. This decision? It deserves a clear head, Derek. So we both know it’s real. That you know it’s real." He brushed a strand of damp hair off Derek’s forehead. "I won’t take advantage of this."
The sincerity in Peter’s voice, the refusal wrapped in undeniable care, pierced Derek’s drunken defensiveness. Peter wasn’t rejecting him. He was protecting them. Derek swallowed hard, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a shaky wave of exhaustion and a different kind of ache. He slumped against Peter’s solid chest, resting his forehead on the warm curve of Peter’s shoulder. The steady beat of Peter’s heart thumped against his temple.
"Okay," Derek mumbled into the cotton of Peter’s shirt. "Okay. Clear head." He took a shaky breath, the reality of his intoxication settling heavier now. He felt heavy-limbed and suddenly very tired. "Just… can you stay?" The question came out small, vulnerable. "Not… not for that. Just… stay? Sleep here? My bed’s small but…" He trailed off, not daring to look up. "I don’t want you to go yet."
He heard Peter exhale, a soft sound. Felt the arms around him tighten slightly, pulling him into a secure embrace. "Yeah," Peter said, his voice rumbling softly against Derek’s hair. "Yeah, I can stay. Scoot over, champion. But water first. Seriously. Then sleep."
Derek managed a weak nod. Peter kept one arm looped loosely around Derek’s waist as they maneuvered to the tiny sink in the corner of the room. Peter turned on the tap, filled a plastic cup, and pressed it into Derek’s hands. Derek drank greedily, the cold water grounding him fractionally.
The logistics of the twin bed were awkward. They kicked off their sneakers. Peter, in jeans and t-shirt, slid in first, his large frame taking up most of the space. Derek hesitated for a second before climbing in beside him, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip, from thigh to ankle on the narrow mattress. There was nowhere else to go. The warmth radiating from Peter was immense. Solid. Derek turned onto his side, facing away, trying to create a sliver of space, acutely aware of every point of contact.
Peter’s arm settled heavily over Derek’s waist, pulling him back snugly against the solid warmth of his chest. Derek stiffened instinctively. "Relax," Peter murmured, his breath warm against the back of Derek’s neck. "Just sleeping. Promise. Go to sleep, Derek."
The arm was heavy, possessive, anchoring. The feel of Peter’s entire body curved around him, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against Derek’s back, the sheer presence of him… it was overwhelming. Terrifying. And incredibly, unbelievably comforting. The constant thrum of anxiety that usually lived under Derek’s skin quieted. The frantic buzz of alcohol was fading into a deep exhaustion.
He closed his eyes. The scent of Peter – now mixed with the faint detergent smell of his own sheets – filled his senses. The heat seeped into his bones. The heavy arm, the solid wall of muscle at his back… it felt like safety. Like shelter. Like something he hadn’t known he needed.
His breathing slowed, syncing gradually with Peter’s deeper rhythm. The chaotic energy of the party, the frantic kiss, the sharp sting of rejection-turned-protection… it all receded. His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was the solid warmth at his back and the surprising rightness of it. Not what he’d asked for, but perhaps exactly what he needed. The unspoken promise of morning hung heavy and sweet in the quiet, shared darkness.