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Mid-life Crisis (But I Want You)

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He wants to feel embarrassed. 


He needs to feel embarrassed. 


He would've been too embarrassed if he wasn't as lost, desperate, frustrated and heartbroken like he finds himself now.


He barely feels nowadays. Divorce is a bitch and Linda is too –Quentin can't stop thinking.


He needs a release, an answer, and peace.


But, he's more focused on getting the release than answers to what will his life be now and what will he do. Perhaps he could move out of New York and go to Italy. He can afford it. Maybe he could leave his company to his nephew because his own son is too young to manage a company. Maybe he could travel for a while, scape the fast American life and enjoy good food and different people. He could marry again and have –


Stop thinking. 


Sometimes it's difficult to stop. 


He doesn't have an answer, even if he lies to himself that he does. He doesn't have peace, even if he lies to himself that he does. And, he doesn't have a release; that, Quentin can't lie and say that he does. Because he fucking doesn't.


He hasn't had a release, time for himself, good sex, great talks, and an enormous meal ever since – he can't even remember.


And, he's too tired to deprive himself of that. He deserves it. Lord knows he is a good man, that he is an exceptional father, a great boss, and a good husband.


He can have this little time for himself and his enjoyment and only that. To let go for a while and feel like he has control in his life. For once. A break. For once. Pleasure. For once.


Please. Please. Please. 


Call it a middle-age crisis, but he is tired of his own bullshit.


That's why he couldn't afford to feel embarrassed when he hired a male escort.




Quentin actually was too exhausted and felt too lazy to find a hookup for himself. And, that wouldn't be hard –he is conventionally good-looking, has money and charm. Besides, he's great with his tongue, so he's being said– but, he can't bring himself to go to a bar, club, whatever the fuck, buy drinks and talk with someone.


He doesn't feel like doing the whole take-someone-home protocol.


He's too old for that shit.


He really doesn't feel like acting happy, excited and charming in order to obtain a fuck. He just wants a nice night, with good wine, excellent music, and pleasant sex. 


He has never paid for sex in his whole life. He didn't need to. And, he is sure he still doesn't need to. Still... 


He opted to go online and search for a trustworthy company that offered escorts. It is so much easier. 


Quentin is honesty into fancy things –and people. So, he found himself a place where it looks pretty well and professional. The catalog (ugh, that sounds so wrong) has a nice selection and variation of models that got Quentin raising his eyebrows at his computer. He has a type, like everyone else and it's common, to be honest. Pretty much next-door type of person. Like Linda, his ex-wife. 


He won't think about his ex tonight. 


Brunette, fair skin, dark eyes (sometimes green), short, petit (he likes to carry his partner while having sex) and not straight hair. 


But, something just didn't fit or feel right when he was going through the woman's section and every one of them seem to be wearing too much make-up, too many fake smiles and cringy, cliché lingerie. Lingerie has never turned him off. He prefers to see the body in its natural. Bare and naked. Why a piece of clothing would turn him off more than what's underneath? 


That's debatable perhaps. 


He hasn't done dudes since college, it's never been his main interest, he prefers women and he can count with the fingers of one hand with how many guys he's hooked up with. He honestly used to do it when girls didn't want to do it from behind and Quentin would go with a guy because they're tighter and kind of fun, to be grotesque, sorry–Besides, there's something endearing about a man's bodies, Quentin likes them. Though, smaller, shorter, smoother and more delicate than his own body. He likes to dominate and have someone small under him.


That doesn't make him a criminal, right? 


So, without little, persistent thought. He went through the male section. 


And, God help him if excitement didn't stir his stomach when he did that. 





That's how he found him. 


Peter. And, just Peter. Like that, plain and simple. No last name or nickname. Just Peter. 


And, it felt right to have the name roll off his tongue, Quentin did so when he so the picture and the name underneath. And, wow, is that Peter boy kind of gorgeous? 


Brown eyes, fair skin, short, slim but built, feckless, crooked nose, sweet smile with braces, curly hair and perky ears. 


The description read that Peter is a sweet, shy soul, who talks little when nervous and talks to much when in trust, he likes dates and dinners, he enjoys sex and he's kind of kinky apparently, he is fairly new and he doesn't like rude men. 


The kid basically contained his favorite physical features of his type of person, he has different characteristics –Like the fucking braces– but, Lord, Quentin discovered he liked that. 


He hasn't feel excited like he's looking forward to something, intrigued by tomorrow since his divorce began. But, bless that website and the kid because Quentin felt a little spark in his chest that made him smile and sleep well that night. 


Because there was no going back. He booked Peter. Just Peter. 




The day came after a week and Quentin liberated himself from work and left his guy on the chair in charge of everything during the weekend. His son won't be staying over because he and Linda are visiting grandma, so it was convenient for him. Quentin plans to fully relax and he will.


He deserves it. He continues saying that to himself even if he feels like that isn't true. 


That website he found makes the clients have direct interaction with the –he hates the word escort. With the workers. So, he was provided with Peter's personal phone number and they texted to discuss Quentin's needs for the meeting (apparently an escort does not only offers sex but innocent, casual company too) and to set the date of their appointment. That's how Peter called it. 


He was a really polite, professional and kind little guy; Quentin noticed. 


Quentin was told what Peter was into and what he wasn't into, what were the limits and when boundaries could be broken. Quentin was okay with all of that, in fact, he was delighted, he wouldn't want to fuck a prostitute (hey now, escort) if they weren't enjoying it. He wants someone who is willing and inclined to having sex and spending a good time. 


Not, someone who's just there, legs opened and moaning fakely to get the client off Quentin well hopes that isn't the case with Peter because he will stop the act right then and there. 


Quentin needs to admit that he became too eager for their meeting two days before it was going to happen, that he jerked off to the three pictures of Peter that the site contained. One, with Peter's face smiling at the camera (weirdly enough, the braces were a huge turn on), two, where Peter's whole body is pictured, tight pants and a black dress shirt hugging his arms, three, a shirtless portrait of Peter sitting in a high stool. 


That was enough. And, again, Quentin wasn't embarrassed. 




Quentin was expecting a text to arrive, saying something like 'I'm outside' or 'I'm here' –in the end, Peter is a young person, with millennial tendencies. 


But, the knock on his door surprised him truthfully and Quentin actually jumped slightly. 


He checked the hour on his watch and it read 9:01. Peter is late by just a minute. Quentin appreciates punctuality. 


He took a deep breath, he couldn't help his heart from accelerating from nervousness. There's nothing to be nervous about. He unlocked the door and opened it. He didn't know if he should be smiling or acting serious, he didn't know what his own expression looked like because he was too busy focusing on the person before him. 


And –there Peter was. 


Short and pretty. He is wearing a dress shirt and black trousers, shiny shoes, and perfectly combed hair. He is gripping the backpack strap on his shoulder and he quickly looked up as soon as Quentin appeared. He was biting his upper lip but he let go it promptly because he was smiling crookedly and awkwardly up at Quentin. His lips were shut. Dammit, he couldn't see the braces. 


"Mr. Beck?" 


God, he was just as cute as the site showed and his voice match. He sounds young. He is young, dammit Quentin. 


"Peter," He affirmed and he finally smiled when Peter raised a hand fastly.


He shook his hand. Quentin liked the evident size difference in their hands (probably everything) have. Like the fact that Quentin needs to look down slightly –yes. 


"Alright," The man was still grinning, delighted. Already. "Please, come in." 


Peter mumbled a quiet thanks and did what he was told. 


Quentin shut the door and he didn't lock it, just because he wouldn't want to freak Peter out. He stood by the door, somewhat feeling awkward because he just didn't know how this sort of thing proceeds. He watched Peter's back facing him because he's looking around with his eyes at Quentin's small but elegant apartment. He's probably figuring out if Quentin isn't a murderer. 


"So..." He sighed, giving a step forward, hands secured inside his pocket. 


Peter then turned around and smiled at him, quite widely –the braces. Blue and red bands adorning them. Quentin wanted to kiss him already– "You live in a nice building, Mr. Beck." 


Mr. Beck. God help him once again. 


"Thank you," Quentin held a polite smile, "Uh, I'm glad you liked it." 


Peter nodded and hummed, he looked down shortly and Quentin noticed the freckles. Peter is way more attractive in person if that's even possible. 


A silence filled the air and Quentin shifted in his place, mind blank and mouth dry. Hey now, where did his charm go? 


Down the drain along with his divorce and dignity, apparently. 


Peter saved the moment.


"Mr. Beck? I'm glad you look like in your pictures, you know." 


That made Quentin chuckle and look at Peter, he raised his eyebrows, "You've been catfish before, huh?" 


Peter shrugged, small redness started to show on his cheeks, "Maybe." 


"Mad world we live in," Quentin sighed and pointed at the living room behind Peter, "You wanna sit, Mr. Peter?" 


The younger man –boy, really– gave him a funny look as they approached the couch, "It's just Peter, Mr. Beck." 


"Then it's just Quentin for me," He smirked, "Do not make me feel old, alright?" 


They're standing side to side. Peter looked up at him and gave him a timid smile, before he nodded, "Okay."


"Please," He raised a hand, motioning for Peter to sit.


And, the boy did, placing his backpack on the ground and leaning back on the couch with his hands rubbing up and down his thighs, and –


Okay, Peter looks like he is playing dressing-up like an adult with that shirt en trousers. Quentin shouldn't find endearing the fact that Peter looks like he could be studying highschool, with that damn backpack, braces, and babyface. Though, to be honest, Quentin's always had a thing for younger people, sue him. 


Well, actually don't... sue him. 


Peter smiled at him, again with shut lips. It disappointed Quentin because he wants to see the braces more. He wants to feel them on his tongue, on his neck, fingers, and dick–


"Mr. Beck?" 


Quentin raised his eyebrows. 


The boy grinned sheepishly, he quickly brought a hand up and covered his lips with his fingers, "Quentin..." 


"Attaboy," Quentin chuckled. 


"I don't think you look old," He admitted, looking down shortly after, "I think you look really good." 


And, Quentin kind of knew this was part of Peter's job, to complement the client, to make them feel good and powerful. But, shit, that little comment seemed honest and Peter looked abashed, maybe he does means it. But, oh, maybe Quentin is just lying to himself. 


Still – "Thank you, Peter," Beck nodded once, he eyed the boy up and down, quite irreverently, "You too." 


"Thank you," Peter said softly. That voice. He wants to know how it sounds when it screams. 


More silence followed and they looked away from each other. Quentin should have had to turn the music on like he was planning on. He always has something to say, but what on earth could he discuss with an escort, with a total stranger seating in his living room, with a nineteen-year-old? God.


So, he decided to stick with the truth and honesty. 


"Listen, Peter, uh..." Beck trailed off, he rubbed the back of his neck and continued, "I'm new to this and I've never really done this, so forgive me, but if you could tell me how this goes or..." He made a funny, distressed face. 


Peter giggled at that and blinked patiently, "Well," He sighed and interlocked his own hands together around his knee, "It's up to you, really. I-I could just take my clothes off right now and let you fuck me–" 


The man cleared his throat and rested his hands on his waist. 


"... Or, we can talk first if you want? 


"Yeah, I prefer the later," He quickly nodded and he was glad he chose that because Peter seemed relieved. 


"Okay," Peter said in that same soft tone. 




Peter looked up at him and slide to the side slightly, "Do you wanna sit next to me?" 




Quentin did, keeping a respectful distance, he cleared his throat again in nervousness and turned his head to look at Peter whose eyes were already on Quentin. Peter looked away promptly and started playing with his sleeves. Quentin grinned. 


"You wanna hear music?" 


Peter looked at him again and smiled, "That'd be great." 


Something about Peter's smile was comforting. 


"What do you wanna hear?" Quentin grabbed his phone and Bluetooth speaker from the coffee table. 


"Uh, whatever you choose it's fine, Quentin,"


Peter was a shy kid. So, Quentin reached over and handed Peter his phone. He shrugged and raised an interested eyebrow, "Come on, I wanna listen to what you like." 


The boy bit his upper lip, again, making an effort to cover his pretty smile. Quentin noticed that. And he can understand Peter feeling self-conscious about the braces perhaps, but, he definitely doesn't realize how well they suit him. 


"Fine," He said as he took Quentin's phone and started typing away on the YouTube search bar. It didn't take long before his speaker emitted sound. 


He tilted his head because he didn't recognize the song. It was probably some millennial thing, but it wasn't bad at least. It was really good, to be honest. It was slow and pleasant, kind of soothing and sexy. He dug it. He hopes Peter keeps having a good music taste. 


"Is that okay?" Peter asked, giving his phone back. 


"Of course," Quentin smiled and nodded, he leaned back and took a deep breath. 


"You know," The boy began after a moment, "If it makes you feel better, I'm sort of new to this too." 


Beck stared at him, "Yeah?" 


He hummed. 


"Since when, if you don't mind me asking?" 


That explained why Peter seems sort of amateur and timid. Or, maybe that is just his persona. Either way is excellent. 


"Uh... I think I started three months ago," He answered shortly. 


Quentin would ask why, but that is invasive and they don't know each other. Besides, he doesn't want to make Peter uncomfortable, he already looks a bit out of place and Quentin hopes that goes away because he doesn't think he can fuck with someone who looks uncomfortable. He really hopes Peter is willing to do this, but... Can he really expect that? This is Peter's job in the end, and sometimes you have to work somewhere you don't like to pay the bills; like when Quentin worked as a barista and he was miserable.


But, this is totally different. 


"Well, I started doing this about twelve minutes ago," Quentin said. 


The boy laughed and covered his mouth while doing so, he raised his eyebrows and teasingly said, "I can tell." 


"Really? I look that inexperienced, huh?" Quentin gave him a lazy smile. He's too busy being careful about not appearing like a creep because he's staring at Peter's face too much. 


"Well, I don't know about that yet." 


Beck snorted and bumped his elbow with Peter's. 


Before silence could settle in again, Peter talked, calmly, joining the music. 


"Are you nervous?" 


The man looked up, thinking. He clicked his tongue and shook his head, "Not really. I'm more excited, I guess." 


"Excited?" Peter giggled and leaned back like Quentin, "You haven't got laid in a while?" 


Quentin wheezed, "That and..." He looked down with an embarrassed smile, "Your pictures in the site got me looking forward to this." 


Peter's smile got bigger and he got closer. Quentin noticed it. He placed a hand in-between their thighs and if Peter happened to move another inch, he would be touching Quentin's leg. 


"You liked them, Quentin?" Peter asked with a teasing tone. 


(At least Peter seems more at ease now. That's good.) 


Quentin snorted at the question because... Peter, I've jerked off to your pictures. But, he wouldn't say that. Instead, he went with something more romantic, even if he's just talking with a hooker –Hey, be nice. He thought to himself. Peter is an escort, excuse you. But, just that this situation still seems kind of ridiculous and surreal. 


"You're just..." Beck sighed and shrugged, defeated and honest, "Really pretty, Peter." 


The boy smiled, really smiled. It was timid and cheeky. Quentin feels like Peter likes to be complimented. "Thank you, Quentin," His hand was almost touching the side of Quentin's leg, but he ignored it because he'd like to control himself, "You too." 


He snorted and gave Peter a funny look before shaking his head and raising his eyebrows in amusement. Pretty. Quentin? –No. Peter is pretty. Like, pretty for real. He looks to delicate and soft to be too masculine, but he looks to boyish and sharp to be too feminine. He's the perfect mix with his broad shoulders and narrow waist. 


Peter is pretty. And, Quentin has never called a guy pretty.


Quentin is suddenly sweating for some reason. He looked forward at his turned off TV and lifted a hand to undo the first two buttons of his shirt. He feels like they're too tight and he can't breathe. It's warm even though they're in New York and the month of November doesn't play nice with the chilly days. Maybe the heater is too high, that's probably it. Or, maybe he's just nervous and impatient because he feels like fifteen years old once again, it's fucking him up silly because –how the fuck is this going to escalate to sex? 




"Mhm?" Quentin is looking blankly at the TV. He suddenly feels... sad now. 


When Peter turned his torso to completely face him. Quentin looked at him, a little dumbfounded and –okay, what


Peter smiled at him loosely, his braces peaked in a little and Quentin watched that. Peter noticed and he shut his lips. Quentin wished he could tell him he didn't need to do that, that he should smile freely. But, a small hand was touching his knee and Quentin looked down, he watched it slide up his thigh and perhaps his breath got stuck in his throat. 


Because Peter was touching him and looking at him with those doe eyes that appeared to be the human version of a puppy. 


Damn you, Just Peter. 


"You just need to relax." 


No shit


Peter leaned in even closer, he was smiling softly, his hand rubbed up and down Quentin's leg and Quentin himself didn't know what to do with his own hands. Peter's lashes were naturally curly and short. Quentin stared at them too. 


Peter bit his bottom lip and blinked up at Quentin, slowly, almost seductively, but Quentin knew Peter was maybe faking that, because he wants Quentin to feel comfortable and sure, he wants to make him want Peter and make him all hot and bothered –Quentin wants what Peter wants, he wants him if Peter wants this. It's a kind of a turn off if Peter is doing this automatically, like a robot. Just saying words. Though he's been pretty sincere so far, something is off. 


Still, Quentin nodded to the comment. Because Peter is right, he does need to relax. He deserves it. 


His mind was just wondering away to how much he will have to pay his lawyer for their next meeting with his wife, but something cut his ongoing mind. Someone did. 


More like a pair of lips did, to be precise. 


Because – Peter is kissing him. 


Quentin actually maintained his eyes opened for a moment because it was too soon and unexpected. He was caught off guard and he barely noticed when the leather couch whined because Peter shoved himself against the man. 


Their teeth and noses knocked together and they both cringed. But, they weren't stopping. 


Something was weird to Quentin, he was still pretty much baffled as he raised a hand to hold Peter's shoulder, he wasn't certain and he was slow. He didn't know why Peter was suddenly not acting shy and why this seemed... forced. 


Yeah, that's it. This felt forced. And, okay, yes; Peter shouldn't expect a sincere outcome with a hoo- escort. But, there are certain limits. 


Quentin wanted to mess up and pull at Peter's perfectly combed back hair. He wants to run his finger through the wet curls. But, he didn't. He couldn't. Not when Peter was giving these little breaths (it was hot, to be honest) mixing with the wet sounds, he opened his mouth willingly trying to encourage Quentin to do the same, he tongued at his lips and bit them carefully. 


Quentin was barely kissing back. He was busy concentrating on the speed of the events and Peter's hasty actions. 


Peter tasted like he washed his teeth with abundant mint toothpaste and then flossed his teeth twice. Quentin liked the new feeling of braces scraping from time to time against his lips. It was good, Peter is hot and Quentin's been wanting to kiss him since he jerked off to his pictures. 


But... He didn't expect it to go like this. So distant and cold. 


Cold. Like the snow outside. That's how their kiss felt. 


Quentin doesn't want to make out with him like this. And, it's not like he wants to know Peter's full life story. No. But, at least he wants to chitchat a little more. (Ugh. He's such an old man. Linda hated it when Quentin was emotional) –He is that kind of guy. 


Is it wrong that he wants to act civilized before getting to fuck? 


Quentin tried to get into the kiss. He really did. Even if Peter was being too quick and efficient, almost inexperienced, he seemed out of it; like he wanted to just get this done. 


But, what drew the line was when Peter's hand on his thigh moved shakily and abrupt, then his soft cock was being squeezed through his slacks. 


"Woah," Quentin merely gasped and pulled away, his own hand came to grip Peter's wrist tightly, "Peter, hey–" He got cut off by Peter following his lips and colliding their mouths together, "Hey..." 


Peter hummed. His hand started palming him. 


"Peter," Quentin sighed and pushed his hand away, his own lips weren't even moving against the other's, "Peter, stop –Hey, Peter." 


The boy finally stopped when Quentin pulled away completely after saying his name firmly. Quentin sighed again and leaned back on the couch, he had to look away because Peter seemed hurt and disappointed. Peter let go of him slowly and sat back too, wiping his fingers on his wet, flushed lips. 


Quentin sighed again and brushed off nonexistent dust off his legs. His hand is shaking a little and he saw that Peter's were too. His lips are tingling. 


"Did I do something wrong?" Peter asked in a small voice, his looked horrified like the world came crashing down with preoccupation. 


Quentin fell like an asshole. "No, no, hey," He cleared his throat and tried to look at Peter in the eyed but he was avoiding Quentin's gaze, "I just –I think... We should slow down a bit, okay?" 


"You don't want to..." The boy frowned. The word fuck was left out, leaving decency, but Quentin understood perfectly with the other's expression. 


"No," He said, then he shook his head and stuttered, "I mean, yeah. Of course, I'd just like if we could talk some more?" 


Great. Now, this young person thinks Quentin is a fucking lame old man who can't get it up –


"Sure, that'd be nice," Peter said breathily and nodded. He looked relieved. And, Quentin couldn't figure out if that was good or bad, "I like talking." 


The man nodded too and looked at the speaker still playing music. His mind was too loud, he wanted to turn the volume up, but he couldn't move. Something was off, he couldn't deny it. The kiss left him like this instead if aroused. He needs to ask. He needs to be a good man and care. 


"Peter, do you really wanna do this?" His tone was concerned. He wasn't looking at Peter, "–Have sex, I mean." 


Maybe Quentin's time of success and flirting came to an end, maybe people don't want to literally drop their clothes for Quentin anymore, maybe he isn't as hot as he used to be, maybe he isn't cool anymore, maybe he is just old and silly –and he should totally forget about this and tell Peter that this was stupid and that he should go home. 


"Yeah, why?" The boy asked with evident confusion, "I want to." 


"I just –don't want you doing something you aren't sure," He gave Peter a serious look, "I mean, if you wanna leave, that's totally fine. I wouldn't get mad or anything." 


"No, no, no. I –sorry," Peter answered quickly and got closer to Beck once again, "I can get really nervous. I always get like this... with anything, really," He cringed slightly, at himself, like as if he was embarrassed of himself, "It's just me, but I totally wanna do this, Mr. Beck. Sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable." 


"You didn't," Quentin almost scoffed at such wrong assumption. 


Peter smiled at him, sweetly. It was nice. Quentin smiled back and reached forward to pat Peter's knee. Just a friendly gesture to silently tell him that everything was alright. 


He stood up and watched Peter's confused expression "Now, I'll fix myself a drink. Do you want one?" 


A much-needed drink. He offered, completely forgetting Peter wasn't twenty-one yet. But, honestly? Drinking isn't the worst thing they'll do tonight. So, he didn't give the matter too much of a thought. 


“Y-yeah," Peter stayed at his seat as Quentin directed himself towards the little bar he has in the corner of his living room. 


"What are you into?" 


"Uh, I don't really... Vodka?" 


"Vodka with cranberry juice?" Quentin grinned over his shoulder, "Vodka it is." 


He stood behind the bar. Preparing their drinks. He saw Peter playing another song on Quentin's phone. For once, the silence wasn't awkward or uncomfortable, it was pleasantly nice actually. 


"Do you have kids?" Peter asked after a minute, smiling slightly at the car toys and coloring books under the coffee table. Quentin forgot to put those away. 


"Uh, yeah," Quentin answered slowly. He looked up and found Peter looking at him with an expression that he couldn't quite decipher what it meant. He couldn't name it, but Peter was staring at Quentin's hands, then, it hit him – "I'm not married if you're wondering that, Peter," He chuckled shortly, "Not anymore, at least."


(Not that Peter should care) 


Peter lowered his gaze and anxiously played with his own fingers, "Sorry, I'm not supposed to ask any of that." 


"Hey, don't worry," Quentin smiled, "Ask away if you want." 


Nobody does so anymore, anyways. The only one who asks him every day how Quentin is, it's his son, the only light in his life right now. 


"Here you go," He stood in front of Peter and handed him the cold drink. Peter thanked him politely, and Quentin watched him take a large sip. He chuckled when Peter tried to hide his grimace, "I little strong, huh?" 


"Sorry, I'm not used to alcohol," The boy giggled. 


"How come?" 


Quentin sat down and Peter told him about a really unfortunate experience where he got drunk in high school at a party and threw up all over his aunt's car. Quentin laughed when Peter said with mortification how many weeks he was grounded and how he had to clean the car. 


They talked. 


Like Quentin wanted. He was glad because Peter looked like wanted it too. 


Their conversation was casual, Peter told him vaguely that he was in college and that the escort thing was his second job, he didn't specify anything, not that Quentin was expecting that. Quentin told the kid a little bit about his divorce, nothing too deep, just that he's still in the process off. Peter rubbed the top of his hand even if Quentin wasn't feeling emotional, but the comfort was nice. 


Peter told him with legit embarrassment that he was stoked when he found out Quentin was hot. He told him some tales about bad experiences that made Quentin laugh and feel bad at the same time. 


He discovered Peter is a really nice kid, very intelligent, humble and with his feet on the ground. He loves animals and winter. He is very well-read and cultured too –it kind of got Quentin wondering why the hell was he doing the escort thing. But, he decided he shouldn't judge. 


For once in a while, it felt good to not have his mind cursing him with too many thoughts. He was distracted and more into Peter to think. It felt good too that Peter seem genuinely interested in what Quentin was saying. 


Beck fixed them another round of beers and he saw with his own eyes how Peter couldn't handle alcohol that well. He was right. 


The vodka got to him fast. But, it wasn't bad. Peter was cute, giggling and talking more. He was touchy too, his hand would find itself on Beck's arm, shoulder or leg. 


Because, holy shit –suddenly Beck was the funniest guy telling a joke because Peter was laughing. 


Quentin didn't really know how his arm ended up resting on top of the backrest behind Peter's head and with Peter plastered against his side. Their legs are touching and Peter's arm feels comfortable digging on Quentin's ribs. They felt warm, maybe it was the liquor or the physical contact. Both were great. 


Quentin hasn't had that in a long time.


He let Peter play with his undone buttons, it was an innocent, distracted gesture –that was making Quentin feel a little on edge, having those gentle fingertips brushing against his bare chest was working him up but he was good at hiding his intense attraction and wants. 


The atmosphere was different somehow. Better.


He was in the middle of explaining why summer is better than winter when he noticed the look on Peter's face. Quentin stopped talking altogether and stared at the half-closed eyes glaring at him. Peter is grinning lazily. He isn't drunk, just a little tipsy. He is relaxed and Quentin is too. 


The man ran a finger up Peter's smooth cheek till he was pushing back a single curl off his forehead. He's still kind in awe at how pretty Peter is. 


"What?" Peter smiled toothily, he ran his tongue over his braces. He does that a lot. Quentin wants to do that too. 


"Nothing," He murmured. 


Peter's face inched closer, "You wanna kiss me?" 


Quentin just nodded, entranced. 


"Then kiss me." 


Oh, he did.


And, this time it was cautious, wanting, erotic, soft and ardent.