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Peter has been living, or rather, hiding out, in Mark Hoffman's apartment for weeks, and the passage of time has come to a standstill, at least, in his own mind. But today he had taken initiative, he had thrown himself into a deeper circle of hell, and browsed house listings- because being holed up somewhere bigger seemed like a start at reversing his insanity.
Since Peter's seemingly indefinite vacation/suspension, seething had become his daily task, and when he bit into the stale biscotti he took with his coffee, his teeth hurt from the subconscious clenching of his jaw. He would sit on every surface in the house as the sun moved lazily across the sky, and brainstorm insults to call his lover/burden when he eventually came home, just trying not to think about all the murder he was doing. On this particular day however, his daily activity had left little time for him to do his regular planning, and so his insult was rather simple when he heard the click and subsequent creak of the front door.
“I hate you.” He began, in prime position to begin the petty tango of bitterness he sought each day just to feel something. Previous songs they had danced to included the crashing of plates being thrown against the wall and, Peter's personal favorite, incessant shouting followed by muffled moans underneath his palm.
“I love you too.” Mark’s biting sarcasm was so close to sending Peter over the edge. He whipped around from where he sat at a barstool. He watched the oaf of a man kick off his shoes and wander into the hallway, face aloof and nonplussed.
“They caught you yet?” was all Peter could ask. He had convinced himself that he was praying for Mark’s arrest, but deep down he knew that would have already happened if he had really wanted it that much.
“What do you think? I’m standing right here.” his amusement was gone now, and replaced with irritation. He threw the fridge door open and began digging through the countless boxes of takeout and half empty bottles of hot sauce, “the fuck’s your problem today?”
“My problem,” Peter started, pausing to put a finger on what he was irritated about, not that the two needed a reason to be mad at each other, they often just were. “I’ve gotten so bored I’m looking at fucking house listings. Can you believe that? I want to settle down with a fucking murderer who no doubt killed a group of joggers who got in his way today because of his batshit ‘moral code.’”
“It ain’t my moral code.” Mark mused, pulling the milk from the fridge and necking it straight from the carton. Peter would have recoiled had it not been the thousandth time he had seen him do it.
“Oh- excuse me then. I didn’t realize I was talking to a saint.”
“You’re forgiven.”
And the sadistic side of Peter laughed, because what did he have left to lose in morals or dignity? Mark strode over to where he sat, planting a firm kiss on Peter’s forehead and ruffling his hair. Peter was embarrassed by how pliant he was under the other man’s hands, even though seconds before he could have torn his throat out.
The ironic thing was he had shoved a pen in his own throat because of him.
Peter could hear Mark's curiosity building in the way he smacked his lips, questions on the tip of his tongue. Strahm got riled up just thinking about the inquiry that would follow.
“Houses? What kind?”
“The kind you live in.”
Mark shot him a tired look.
“An old crappy beach house. It's falling apart and it's ugly as hell. It reminded me of you.”
“That's sweet.” Mark's eyes crinkled as he gave a sarcastic smile, Peter found himself grinning even though he hadn't intended to.
“Craving domesticity are you? Who would have thought?” Peter’s smile vanished at that jab.
“I'm not a fucking housewife.” He stood up from the couch, clenching his empty coffee mug with white knuckles.
Mark nodded, finishing the remainder of the milk and tossing the empty carton on the counter, leaving a trail of milk behind it.
“Fucking slob.”
Mark grunted, a staple of his wide vocabulary.
“I'm just musing.” He said, “I didn't think we'd end up like this.”
“I wish we hadn't” Strahm poked, watching as Mark's face stayed amused. They had been in each other's presence enough that he knew not to take statements like that seriously. Peter still wanted to see them hurt, draw out those puppy dog eyes. When Mark was vulnerable, Strahm could pretend that he had a heart.
Mark sidled up to Peter, placing his strong, calloused hands on his waist, which had only become more toned after the stress excercising he did to distract him from the anxieties that came with fucking a serial killer.
Mark nuzzled into his shoulder, slight stubble tickling the spots that weren't covered by Peter's crewneck.
“What was it you said when you first talked to me?” He asked, plump lips grazing along his neck and down his shoulder. Peter could feel his heat through his sweater.
“Can't remember, but you looked at me like your dog just died. I guess you always look like that though.”
With that Peter felt himself being shoved backward, he tumbled over the back of the couch, hitting his head on the edge of the coffee table. As he reeled from the pain he heard Hoffman laughing.
“That's What I was thinking.” He chuckled, Peter could only half see him through his swimming vision.
“Fuck you.” He mustered, getting up and tackling Mark to the ground, wrapping his tie around his hand to pull him towards him as they both toppled downwards.
He made sure Mark slammed his head extra hard on the floor.
“Checkmate.”
“The fuck?” Mark gawked, genuine confusion on his face though he had just pulled the same trick.
Peter let his guard down by laughing, and Mark kneed him in the groin, causing him to cry out in pain. Still, before Mark could rise, Peter lowered himself, straddling him harder, and clenching his thigh around Mark's wide middle.
Mark frinned up at him, eyes still glossed over from knee-jerk tears, and bucked his hips upward.
Peter’s stomach swam at the contact.
Mark tilted his head, bucking upward again and establishing a firm grip on Peter's thigh.
Peter threw his head back involuntarily, then snapped back down to glower at Mark, all spread out and messy beneath him.
“Wanna fuck?” He sighed, lifting himself from Mark's chest and holding a hand out to help him up. His lust for the other man usually fought with self-loathing at his own degeneracy. By acting annoyed he could at least maintain a shred of dignity.
Mark nodded with the fervor of an excited puppy, Peter could imagine him flecking slobber out of his jowels. He supposed Mark's lack of dignity also made him feel better about himself.
“Buy a house with me then.”
“sure.”
And their lips met like they loved each other, and maybe they did.