Chapter Text
Late April, 1994.
It was a warm Sunday afternoon when Peter got out of the cab with a small luggage in one hand and a bass case on his back. The luggage was regular size actually, it was just his six-foot seven figure that made it smaller than it should have been.
He stepped into the front of the big house, or what people call ‘mansion’. The mansion felt like a second home after the tour buses these days. Yet what felt more than home was not the mansion itself, but the man who owned it. The man whose name is as big as the universe, the man who despite being painted as a big boy maniac, yet Peter knew how lonely he was to live in such a big mansion without him.
It was emotionally and sexually challenging, yet they tried to make it work. Every night hearing each other’s voices, talking about each other's days. One always had a unique, strange, and worth to be laughed at story everyday, while the other… Not so much since he isolated himself from the outside world. Everyday was just a repeating cycle.
Yet for Peter, that one’s story always excited him more than anything. It wasn't necessary for the story though, it was the voice. That deep, baritone voice that relaxed even for a six foot seven vampiric man like him. He could listen to it all day long if only he didn't need to go on stage to perform.
The phone was never that innocent though, in fact never coming close to that. It always started harmless enough.
“How was the show?”
“You sound tired.”
And then the pauses would stretch just a little too long.
Peter would lie back in some anonymous hotel bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling while the other man's voice dipped lower — softer, almost distracted. He could hear fabric shifting on the other end. A breath caught just a fraction too long.
“Tell me what you’d do,” the man would murmur, as if it were a joke.
It never was.
Peter would oblige. Slowly. Deliberately. His voice dropping into that velvety register he used on stage — except this wasn’t for an audience. This was private. Intimate. Dark.
He’d describe hands. Mouth. The weight of him. The way he’d bend him, hold him, press him down into the mattress of that massive Malibu bed. He’d talk until the other man's breathing turned uneven, until the sharp edge in his voice dissolved into something slutty.
Sometimes Peter could hear the faint creak of the bed. Sometimes the small, involuntary sounds his man tried to swallow down, forgetting Peter knew every one of them by heart.
They’d hang up eventually, both pretending they hadn’t just undone themselves for each other through nothing but voice and imagination.
All the shit Peter wanted to do that man was finally going to come true today. The reason he was even able to come to Malibu was not because he finished the tour tho, the tour was far from finished. In fact, it has just begun.
He was there because he had six shows in California in the span of eight days. He just finished a show in Seattle last night and took a flight in the morning even though no concert in like three days. He just didn't want to waste that meantime other than spending it with his boyfriend. He’d rather drain his energy all at once if it meant meeting his man as soon as possible.
He smiled to himself every time he thought about it. Him, the pathetic big goth guy from Brooklyn, dating the biggest rockstar that ruled the earth in the early nineties.
Even in 1994, even during a so-called break, that name still dominated every rock magazine Peter flipped through backstage. Interviews. Rumors. Criticism. Worship.
Axl Rose.
Who would have thought? The media and fans, women and men would riot if they knew about this. No one would ever put them in the same sentence, let alone imagine them in the same bed.
What would they say anyway when you tell them that the big goth vampiric guy who sang Christian Woman was fucking a feminine rockstar with messiah complex who sang Sweet Child O Mine?
He pulled a little crafted wooden box, painted green out of his pocket. Opened up the lid before pulling out a key. The key he kept safe despite the chaos of touring with the gothic metal band he fronted. The key that only he had the access to after its mansion’s owner.
Words couldn't even describe how much he missed him, but the way he quickly unlocked the door and opened it might be.
Though little disappointment was written on his eyes when he stepped into the living room. Instead of the warm, beautiful face he yearned the most, he met an empty house. The sound of air conditioning is the only thing that keeps the house from the deafening silence.
He didn't even remember it was even a surprise homecoming, last time he recalled he had been telling his boyfriend about his coming home.
Yet the house was so empty you will start to wonder if there was even someone living here. Well, you can see someone really did living here just look at the messy coffee table which Peter noticed when stepped further inside the living room.
A lot of milk shake cups. Like a lot. Along with french fries, some fruit leftovers. He squinted his eyes as if to observe, or rather convinced himself. Kinda weird things to see actually, last time he remembered Axl was a coke addict, not milkshake. No cigarette packs in sight either. Was that man secretly getting more clean, despite already being the ‘cleanest’ guy in his band for almost half a decade?
Or did he brought someone over? His sister maybe?
However he quickly shook his head as he got his focus back to the reason why he was there. He dropped his small luggage just at the bottom of the stairs before quickly climbing upstairs, walked to the destined room, pushed the unlocked door. His hard-beating heart slowed immediately when he saw a figure peacefully laying sideways on the king-sized bed.
The man he yearned for months like a knight who just got home after got sent to a war for his wife.
Moreover Axl looked exactly like those women in renaissance painting, with the way he slept without wearing any clothes (he hated that), and one hand gripped the blanket that was covering him from the chest. As if even in his sleep, he was afraid if anyone would pull that blanket off him.
And honestly, Peter totally would.
Slowly, Peter walked closer to the bed, afraid to disturb the man with any slight sound nor movements.
He took a deep breath as he reached just beside him, in front of the nightstand before kneeling. Drink the sight in front of him. Reminiscing every inch of his beauty.
Axl was so fucking beautiful.
Beautiful was not even a strong word to describe that face. That presence. With the sunlight radiating to his already glowing pale face. That messy red hair all over the pillow, falling down to his temple, framed his striking feature.
There was something about that face though that made Pete’s brows knitting slightly, a change. Not a really significant one, unless you had memorized someone’s face the way he had. Axl had always been sharp, yet there was a little softness on his cheeks.
It wasn’t unattractive. God no. If anything, it made him look… younger. Almost delicate. Like something that needed guarding instead of worship.
His eyes moved lower. To the lips, those were fuller too. Those pink pouty full lips he wanted to kiss so bad until he lost his breath.
He swallowed.
Had he just forgotten? Was this what distance did? Distorted memory? Or had something actually changed?
It took everything in him not to do any unspeakable things just yet.
His hand hovered just an inch above Axl’s face, suspended in the warm beam of afternoon light. Close enough to feel the faint heat of his skin, but not close enough to touch.
Four months of hunger, of late-night calls and unfinished touches, all coiled tight inside his chest. He wanted to wake him. Wanted those green eyes to snap open and widen at the sight of him there.
Wanted that crooked smile, that soft, breathy voice saying his name like he’d been waiting at the door all day.
His gaze drifted down beneath the thick blanket. He couldn’t see much — just the outline of Axl’s hips and thighs, the rise and fall of his breathing. Slow. Deep. Peaceful.
Peaceful wasn’t a word he would’ve used for Axl four months ago.
And then the milkshakes downstairs crept back into his mind.
Milkshakes. Fries. Fruit.
No cigarettes.
No coke cans.
No beer bottles.
Peter’s jaw tightened faintly.
He wasn’t upset nor suspicious in a jealous way. He just felt displaced.
Four months away and Axl had changed in small, quiet ways. Ways Peter hadn’t witnessed. Ways he hadn’t been there for.
He finally encouraged himself to touch the sleeping man, though it was a mere thumb slid slightly, tracing the corner of Axl’s mouth in a silent claim.
“You get softer when I’m gone?” he murmured under his breath, voice barely air.
But beneath the teasing thought was something else. Something almost… territorial.
As if the world had touched what was his and altered it while he was busy playing vampire god on stage across states.
His hand finally settled fully against Axl’s cheek, palm cradling him.
Axl shifted in his sleep at the contact, brows knitting slightly, lips parting with a faint breathy sound.
That small, vulnerable sound sent a completely different feeling through Peter’s body.
He froze.
Axl’s fingers tightened around the blanket instinctively, knuckles paling. A quiet sound left him — not quite a word. Not quite a whimper. Something in between.
“…no…”
Peter leaned closer immediately.
“Axl,” he murmured softly, thumb brushing his cheek again. “Baby, hey.”
Axl’s lashes fluttered.
For a split second, his eyes opened but didn’t see. They were glassy, unfocused. Still somewhere else. His breathing picked up, chest rising sharper now.
Then recognition hit.
“Pete?”
It came out broken. Like the name hurt.
Peter barely had time to answer before Axl pushed himself up clumsily, blanket slipping, arms wrapping around Peter’s neck with sudden urgency. Not seductive. Not playful. Desperate.
Peter had to brace himself against the mattress to keep them from toppling sideways.
“Axl— hey—”
But Axl was already kissing him frantically.
His lips pressed against Peter’s like he was trying to prove he was real. Like he was afraid if he didn’t anchor him fast enough, he’d disappear again. His hands fisted into the fabric of Peter’s shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer.
Peter felt it then.
The trembling.
Axl was shaking.
When Axl pulled back just enough to breathe, his eyes were wet. Not glossy — wet. Tears clinging to his lashes.
“Don’t go,” he whispered immediately, voice cracking.
Peter blinked.
“Ax—”
“Don’t go,” he said again, more urgently now. His hands slid from Peter’s shirt to his face, holding him there like he was afraid of losing grip. “Don’t— don’t leave again. I can’t—”
His voice broke entirely.
Peter’s stomach dropped.
This wasn’t about lust. This wasn’t even about missing sex.
This was raw, unfiltered fear.
Axl pressed another kiss to his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw — messy, tearful kisses like he was trying to memorize him in reverse.
“I thought—” Axl swallowed hard, breath hitching. “I keep waking up and you’re not here. I keep thinking you’re here and you’re not. I can’t— I don’t like it. I don’t like it.”
Peter cupped his face fully now, grounding him.
“I’m here,” he said firmly, low but steady. “I’m right here.”
But Axl shook his head slightly, tears slipping down now.
“For how long?” he whispered.
That hit harder than anything.
Peter felt the way Axl’s body pressed against him — clingy, almost childlike in the way he refused to create even an inch of space. His hands had moved down now, gripping Peter’s arms, then his waist, like he needed constant contact.
“You said nine days,” Axl murmured against his collarbone. “Nine days ain’t enough.”
Peter wrapped both arms around him then, pulling him fully into his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere today,” Peter said quietly, pressing his lips into Axl’s hair. “Or tomorrow. Or the next day. You’ve got me.”
Axl let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a sob of relief. His fingers slid under Peter’s jacket, palms flat against his back, holding tight.
And when Axl buried his face into Peter’s neck and started crying for real, soft and helpless, Peter felt that same strange instinct flare in his chest again.
Not hunger nor dominance, more like protectiveness.
Something that made him realize four months hadn’t just changed Axl physically.
They had done something to his heart.
Peter pulled him fully into his lap now, sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping both arms around him, pressing Axl’s face into his chest.
“I’m here,” Peter said firmly, low and grounding. “Look at me.”
Axl reluctantly lifted his head, eyes red, lashes wet.
Peter wiped under his eyes with his thumb, slower this time.
“You think I flew down here after a show just to disappear?” he asked quietly. “You think I’d waste three days off if I didn’t want to be right here?”
Axl’s lips trembled again. “You don’t know what it’s like here when you’re gone; can’t sleep right. I eat stupid shit. I just… wait.” He leaned forward and kissed him again, slower now, still desperate but less frantic. “Don’t go,” he repeated, smaller this time.
Peter nodded quietly, hands began to move more naturally — smoothing down his back, sliding up his spine, fingers combing through that messy red hair he had missed so badly.
He pressed a soft kiss to Axl’s temple, another to his cheek. Axl melted into each one, eyes closing, breath shaky but calmer. Peter’s hand drifted lower absentmindedly, brushing over the blanket wrapped around Axl’s chest.
“You still sleep naked like a heathen, huh?” His fingers hooked gently at the edge of the blanket.
And that was when Axl stiffened. His hand shot down fast, grabbing the blanket and clutching it back against himself.
“No,” he said, too fast. “Don’t.”
Peter blinked, surprised at the defensive act. He paused instantly, releasing the fabric. “Okay.”
But Axl didn’t relax, his grip tightened instead. Knuckles pale. Shoulders tense. Eyes suddenly alert in a way that didn’t match the softness from seconds ago.
“I just—” Axl swallowed. “Not yet. I just wanna hold you.”
Peter raised his brow a bit at that, but didn’t push. As much as he wanted to brutally fucking his man right now, he would never crossed any boundaries. So he just hold him, kissed him again, slowly this time. Letting his hands redirect to safer places. Into his red hair, over his shoulders, down his arms.
He traced along Axl’s tattooed biceps, over his forearms, feeling the familiar shape of him. Then up again, palms warm against his back through the blanket.
Axl visibly relaxed under that instead, pressing closer, burying his face against Peter’s neck again.
Peter kept touching him gently, possessive in a quiet way. The way Axl always yearned for. But inside, something twisted. Axl had never been shy with him, never guarded like that.
If anything, he was the opposite. Reckless. Exhibitionistic.
Four months apart and suddenly he didn’t want Peter to see him?
Peter’s fingers slowed slightly in Axl’s hair. “Babe, you okay?”
Axl nodded against him. “Yeah.” But his breathing had changed. Slightly uneven.
Peter leaned back just enough to look at him.
Axl avoided his eyes.
That’s when the worry properly settled in Peter’s chest. He dismissed that by tucked a strand of red hair behind Axl’s ear and brushed his thumb along his cheek again.
And that was when Axl suddenly wrinkled his nose. “You reek,” he muttered hoarsely.
Peter blinked.
“…Excuse me?”
Axl sniffed dramatically this time, even though his eyes were still faintly red from crying. “Jesus Christ, Peter. What died on you? Is that Seattle sweat or just… you?”
Peter stared at him for a beat.
This was the same man who had just sobbed into his neck less than five minutes ago, clung to him like he was oxygen, and begged him not to leave.“Oh, I reek?” Peter said slowly, sarcasm sliding smoothly into place. “Not even five minutes ago you were practically trying to crawl inside my ribcage, crying like a kitten and begging for me not to go again.”
Axl huffed and looked away, though the tips of his ears turned pink.
“That was before I could smell you properly.”
Peter narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re coming with me.”
Axl immediately shook his head, clutching the blanket a little higher against his chest again. “Nope.”
“Scared I’ll corrupt you?” Peter teased, leaning closer.
Axl rolled his eyes, but it was a touch forced. “Please, I just woke up.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
A flicker crossed Axl’s face. He looked down for a split second, then looked up again as if he found another excuse “I’ll make something while you shower,” he said, brushing invisible lint off Peter’s shirt like he was dismissing him. “You flew in. You’re probably starving.”
“You know you don’t have to perform for me,” he murmured.
Axl gave a small huff of a laugh. “I’m not performing. I just… didn’t even properly welcome you.” His gaze dropped. “Been exhausted lately, didn’t even hear you come in. That’s shitty.”
Peter’s thumb brushed along Axl’s jaw gently. “From doing what exactly?”
“Sleeping weird. Waiting around. Being dramatic. Take your pick.”
“You sure?”
“Go fucking shower, Steele,” he said softly. “Before I change my mind and throw you out.”
Peter smirked and finally stepped back toward the adjacent bathroom.
He turned on the shower and let the water heat up longer than necessary, steam slowly filling the room. When he finally stepped under it, the heat hit his back first, sliding down his spine in a slow sheet.
He exhaled.
For a second, he allowed himself to relax into it — the sound of water drowning out everything else. No audience. No tour bus. No bandmates. No noise.
Just him.
He had imagined this reunion completely differently; hunger, filth, naughty immediate sex and touches. Maybe he expected some little tears, not this level of fragility.
He met Axl when his wildness was already withering, he befriended with his fragility, yet when it came to that Axl was never this fragile to the point he looked like he was completely broken.
Peter frowned, as he reached for the soap, worked it over his skin slowly, watching suds trail down his chest, down his stomach, over muscles that had tightened from weeks of performing under stage lights.
He tried to reason it out. Four months apart could make anyone sensitive. Maybe Axl just felt insecure. Maybe he’d gained a little weight and didn’t want to be seen immediately.
Or did someone hurt him? Or maybe he himself hurt him with his absence?
But Axl was no stranger to this musicians-on-tour shit, he must have understood better. Instead he cried like Peter was deployed.
It was irrational actually, for a 32 years old man to act like it towards another 32 years old man.
Maybe that's love, the side of love Peter had just discovered.
He rinsed off and reached for shampoo next, taking longer than he needed. Massaging his scalp slowly, deliberately. He tried to tell himself he was overthinking. Four months was enough time for anyone to change a little.
Stress. Sleep. Food. Loneliness.
But Axl had never been shy with him. Not once. He had never guarded his body like that.
He shut the water off at last and stepped out, drying himself slower than usual. He studied his own reflection once the mirror cleared enough — damp hair hanging loose, water still tracing down his shoulders.
Something had shifted.
And Peter hated not knowing what it was.
He dressed without a shirt, pulling on clean jeans and running a towel through his hair once more before tossing it aside.
He walked down the stairs without making a sound, stopping just right at the kitchen door. Immediately assessing the scene.
An apple pie sat on the kitchen island, half-finished. The lattice top hadn’t been completed; strips of dough lay unevenly across the filling, one side still bare. Flour dusted the marble surface in careless streaks.
Beside it, raw chicken pieces rested in a metal bowl, already seasoned but untouched. A pan waited on the stove, oil poured but not heated.
On a cutting board nearby, vegetables sat unchopped — a bell pepper split in half, a carrot peeled but whole, a knife abandoned mid-task.
It didn’t look like someone cooking.
It looked like someone starting three things at once and finishing none.
Peter’s gaze shifted to where Axl was as standing by the kitchen island, slightly hunched forward, his head was bowed, red hair falling forward around his face. One hand resting on the marble countertop for balance, another was somewhere over his lower abdomen.
The floor creaked faintly under Peter’s weight unintentionally, it made Axl react instantly.
His hand dropped away from his stomach as if burned before straightening too quickly, turning around with a smile that felt practiced. “You’re out,” Axl said, pushing a small smile onto his face. “I thought you were gonna take longer.”
Peter’s eyes swept the island.
“You baking?” he asked.
“Was going to,” Axl replied, moving toward the bowl as if to justify it. “Figure you’d like some homemade apple pie.”
Peter would utterly impressed by the action if only Axl wasn't looking like like standing upright required effort.
He stepped around him slowly, turning Axl gently by the shoulders until they were facing each other. “You woke up, what, a half hour ago?” Peter asked quietly.
“Something like that.”
“And you’re already trying to cook a full Sunday lunch?”
Axl rolled his eyes faintly. “It’s not that dramatic.”
Peter glanced at the half-browned apples again, the untouched vegetables, the oil heating too long on the stove.
It was dramatic, not because of the food. Because Axl looked like he was pushing himself to perform normally.
Peter reached past him and turned the stove off. “We’re ordering,” he said simply.
Axl frowned. “I can cook.”
“I know you can.” Peter’s tone stayed calm, but firm. “You’re abandoning this. You can continue later. I’m in charge now.”
Axl studied him for a moment, green eyes narrowing slightly. Pretend to get irritated knowing damn well he liked it when Peter told him what to do. “Bossy.”
“You like it.” Peter didn’t bother asking again. He reached for the cordless phone resting on the kitchen counter. The long gray antenna slightly bent from use, flipped open the small notebook that sat beside it. Numbers scribbled in Axl’s handwriting, some crossed out, some circled.
Peter dialed the number to Pacific Coast, the place where Axl always ordered. The two made some agreement over what food they going to order and agreed for some Italian. One carbonara, one marinara. Large pizza, half pepperoni, half just cheese. Then he paused to glanced at Axl.
“Fried chicken?” he mouthed.
Axl nodded faintly.
“And a bucket of fried chicken,” Peter continued into the phone. “And fries.”
“And milkshakes. Two.” Axl added almost too fast before the man on the other end repeated the order loudly to someone in the kitchen.
Forty-five minutes, he was told. Cash.
Peter agreed and hung up, placing the cordless back in its cradle.
They left the kitchen as it was, Peter guiding Axl by the small of his back toward the living room. The unfinished pie sat abandoned on the island, apples slowly oxidizing in the afternoon light.
The living room felt warmer now.
Peter flipped through the tapes without much thought before settling on one. He pulled out a Frankenstein, which their comfort movie before immediately got up and went to the kitchen.
They settled onto the couch, Axl curling naturally into Peter’s side this time without being asked. Not desperate like earlier, just close. His head resting against Peter’s shoulder.
Snacks came first — whatever was already in the cabinet. Crackers. Chips. Leftover candy. Something salty. Axl picked at them slowly.
Peter returned from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
He poured generously.
Then, without hesitation, he went back and grabbed a carton of cold milk from the fridge.
Axl blinked at him. “You’re not serious.”
Peter took a long swallow of wine like it was beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then calmly poured some of the milk directly into his wine glass.
The liquid swirled into a pale, unsettling shade.
Axl stared. “That’s disgusting.”
Peter took another drink, unbotheredly. “It’s efficient.” He handed him the untouched second wine glass. “You want?”
Axl shook his head almost immediately. “No.”
“No?”
“I’ll pass.”
He reached the carton of cold milk instead, taking a slow sip straight from it.
The black-and-white flicker of Frankenstein filled the room, eerie music humming softly through the speakers.
Peter leaned back, arm draped over Axl’s shoulders. His fingers moved absently through red hair again, slow and grounding.
Axl watched the screen, but not fully.
He was quieter than usual.
Peter took another swallow of his wine-milk monstrosity. Axl glanced at him sideways, his gaze lingered on him longer than necessary. He always found Peter hot, even like this.
Especially like this.
Big. Calm. In control. Drinking something deranged without flinching. Peter turned his head slightly, catching him staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Axl’s lips curved faintly.
But Peter saw the flush creeping up his neck. It was something that happened only to teenagers.
Peter leaned down and brushed a kiss against his hairline, then let his hand drift through the red strands slowly, soothing.
On the screen, lightning flashed dramatically over the laboratory scene.
In the reflection of the television, Peter could see them both faintly.
Him relaxed, Axl curled into him.
It must be already forty minutes later since they order cause there's a knock on the door. Peter muted the television and stood before Axl even reacted.
“I got it.”
Axl nodded from the couch, curled slightly on his side now. Peter opened the door to a delivery kid who looked like he very much did not expect to be standing in front of this house. Moreover, standing in front of Peter. The kid tried so hard not to freak out as Peter handed him the cash and told him to keep the change. And then Peter shut the door with both arms full of cardboard boxes and a large paper bag greasy at the bottom.
The smell hit the room immediately once he set everything down on the coffee table.
Warm tomato sauce. Garlic. Melted cheese. Oil. Fried coating. Salt.
Axl shifted.
It was small at first, just a subtle tightening around his mouth.
Peter didn’t notice yet. He was busy opening boxes, stacking lids aside, laying out napkins.
Steam lifted from the pasta containers when he peeled them open.
The carbonara smelled rich. Heavy. Egg and cheese and pepper.
The marinara was sharper. Acidic. Tomato and herbs.
Axl inhaled automatically—
And immediately looked away.
Peter glanced at him then.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Axl said too quickly, but he swallowed.
The smell of the pasta seemed to cling to the air. Thick. Warm. Almost sweet.
Axl pressed his lips together, blinking once like he was steadying himself. His hand brace lightly against the couch cushion.
Peter caught it this time.
“You sure?”
Axl nodded, but his eyes were unfocused for a second. “It’s just strong,” he muttered. “The sauce.”
Peter frowned slightly but didn’t comment yet.
He handed Axl a plate anyway. “Eat.”
Axl reached for the fried chicken first, not the pasta. Didn’t even look at it. He grabbed a piece of chicken and took a bite, chewing slowly at first — testing.
No reaction, then a fry. That stayed down too. He visibly relaxed.
Peter noticed the avoidance now. “You’re not touching the pasta?” he asked, picking up his own fork.
Axl made a face. “You can have it.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Suit yourself,” Peter said evenly. He took a bite of the carbonara, then another. Then switched to the marinara, picked a piece of fried chicken.
He ate steadily, methodically. Greedy in his usual way when it came to Italian food and fried chicken, especially the chicken. Normally he would have demolished half the bucket without a second thought.
But tonight he slowed down.
Each time Axl reached for another piece of chicken or another slice of pizza, Peter let him.
He finished both pasta containers almost absentmindedly while keeping one eye on Axl.
Axl avoided looking at the pasta entirely.
Even when Peter lifted a forkful near his own mouth, Axl’s nose wrinkled faintly.
The smell was still bothering him. Yet he reached for another fry, then another piece of chicken.
Peter leaned back, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“You hate marinara now?” he asked casually.
Axl shrugged, chewing. “Not in the mood.”
“Since when?”
“I don't know, why does it even matter anyway?”
Peter tilted his head slightly, didn't push before lifting his glass — the red wine clouded faintly from earlier milk contamination — and took a drink like it was nothing.
Axl kept eating, working steadily through the fried chicken, then the fries, and eventually claimed most of the pizza without much commentary. He didn’t rush — he just kept going, almost absentmindedly, like his body had decided it needed something specific and wasn’t willing to negotiate.
When the room finally quieted and the food was mostly gone, Peter stood without a word and began gathering the boxes.
Axl meanwhile, just reached for his milkshake.
Peter carried everything into the kitchen, rinsed plates, stacked containers, wiped down the counter. The unfinished apple pie still sat where it had been abandoned, apples darker now, the crust drying at the edges.
He covered it more carefully this time.
When he returned, he had the bottle of red wine in one hand.
He didn’t pour it yet.
He sat down beside Axl again, close enough that their thighs touched.
“You wanna smoke?” Peter asked casually, knowing damn well it was a habit Axl had after food. But Axl shook his head almost immediately. “Slowing down.”
“Since when?”
Axl shrugged, gaze fixed on the television. “Just… don’t wanna wreck my throat.”
Peter’s brow lifted faintly.
“You’re on a break.”
“Still,” Axl said. “I don’t wanna mess with my vocal cords.”
Strange. Because when he was actually touring, everyone knew he smoked like the world was ending. Now, on break, in his own house, he was cutting back.
Peter didn’t comment. He just uncorked the wine instead and took a long drink straight from the bottle before finally pouring some into his glass. He offered it again, silently this time.
Axl shook his head. Peter watched him over the rim of the glass, then leaned back and stretched one arm along the back of the couch behind the redhead.
“You’ve changed,” he said quietly.
“That’s what happens when you leave someone alone for months.”
Peter studied him for a second longer, then huffed softly through his nose. “Stay there,” he muttered. He stood and walked toward the stairs direction where his suitcase was still sitting unopened near the stairs.
Axl watched him go, curiosity flickering across his face.
“Got you some things,” he said.
Axl perked up slightly. “Souvenirs?”
“Something like that.”
Peter unzipped the case and began digging through it, pulling out random bits collected from weeks on the road.
The first thing he handed over was a necklace.
It caught the light immediately. A pink beaded cross — delicate, almost whimsical. The beads were soft rose glass, threaded around a small silver cross at the center.
Axl blinked. “…Pink? Where’d you get that?”
“Some theatre in Colorado,” Peter said, leaning back again. “Figured you’d hate it.”
Axl turned it over in his hands. He didn’t hate it. In fact his mouth curved faintly, almost shyly. He held the necklace up, letting the beads slide through his fingers. It was pretty. Dramatic in that strange theatrical way he liked.
Before he can do anything with it, Peter reached forward and picked it up. He turned the necklace between his fingers, the glass beads catching the warm lamplight. “C’mere.”
Axl didn’t argue. He shifted a little so Peter could reach around him.
Peter pushed Axl’s hair gently away from the back of his neck first, gathering the red strands to one side. The simple gesture made Axl tilt his head slightly without even thinking about it.
The beads were cool against Peter’s fingers as he draped the necklace around Axl’s neck.
Up close, the pink suited him more than Peter had expected. The color softened against Axl’s pale skin, the small cross resting lightly against his collarbone. Peter fastened the clasp behind his neck.
“There,” he murmured.
Axl reached up automatically, touching the beads. “Well?”
Peter didn’t answer right away, his hand resting briefly against Axl’s shoulder while he looked at the necklace sitting against his chest. “Ridiculous." He smirked
A light slap in the chest was Axl's respond. Yet Peter’s hand slid up again, brushing Axl’s hair away from his neck once more. Then he leaned down, his lips landed just below Axl’s ear for a low, lingering kiss.
Axl inhaled softly.
Peter pressed another kiss lower along his neck, his lips grazing the skin there while his hand steadied lightly against Axl’s shoulder.
The beads shifted faintly when Axl’s chest rose with a deeper breath.
“Looks good on you,” Peter murmured against his skin.
Axl tilted his head back slightly without realizing it, giving him easier access. “Of course it does."
Peter chuckled quietly and kissed his neck again, slower this time, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the edge of the necklace where it rested against Axl’s collarbone.
Before things escalated into something more that would made Peter forget another stuff he brought for Axl, he stood and dug back into the suitcase.
This one made Axl’s eyes light up immediately when Peter pulled it out.
A crucifix.
Old. Dark wood with a worn metal figure fixed to the front. The edges were slightly chipped like it had lived a long life somewhere before Peter found it.
Axl took it instantly, Peter hadn't even sit back down.
“Oh that’s nice,” he said, inspecting it closely.
“You’ve got like twenty of those already.”
“Not like this.”
Peter leaned back deeper into the couch, watching him examine it.
There was something boyish in the way he looked at it. “You always bring me weird stuff,” Axl muttered.
Peter smirked faintly. “You like weird.”
Axl glanced at him sideways. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Peter watched the way Axl handled the crucifix — careful, almost reverent despite the way he collected them like trophies. “You and your Jesus thing,” he muttered.
“I just like the aesthetic.”
“Yeah?” Peter leaned closer, resting his elbow on the back of the couch. “You always did have a thing for dramatic suffering.”
Axl snorted faintly.
Peter reached over and took the crucifix back from him, weighing it in his palm before muttering casually; “You think I could fuck you with this?”
Axl’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?!”
“What? It’s sturdy.”
Axl smacked his arm immediately, scandalized. “You fucking insane?”
“Probably.”
Axl squinted at the crucifix again and then at Peter. “That thing is a few inches bigger than you, asshole.”
Peter blinked slowly. “Rude.”
Axl huffed, trying not to smile, but it tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. “Don’t compare yourself to religious artifacts.”
“You just did.”
“I did not.”
Peter tilted his head, studying him with that slow, predatory amusement that always made Axl’s pulse shift.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Axl rolled his eyes and looked away, clutching the crucifix to his chest like he suddenly regretted letting Peter hold it at all.
Peter reached forward again, eventually taking the crucifix back from the redhead only gently this time. He ran his thumb along the worn metal before tapping the end lightly against Axl’s lower lip.
“Open,” he murmured.
Axl stared at him, and didn't hesitate to part his lips slightly.
Peter slid the edge just past them, slow and deliberate, watching Axl’s eyes down his mouth carefully. The way his plump lips shaped around it.
Axl’s breath hitched faintly around it.
Peter held it there for a moment before pushing it a little further. Not that deep to the point reach his throat, just enough for it to rest against his tongue.
The sight of the crucifix wrapped around the same plump lips that would wrapped around Peter's eleven inch pure girth cock for countless times was completely blasphemous.
And as for someone who wrote lyrics like "Jesus Christ looks like me." Of course Peter impressed to the point made his cock hard, he gulped down. That's when Axl breaking the eye contact just to look down between his boyfriend's legs. A bulge visible underneath the jeans.
He whimpered slightly which made Peter twitch a little, he thrusting the crucifix in and out three times before drawing it out fully. A thin line of moisture caught the metal. Peter’s eyes darkened. He brought the crucifix up and dragged his tongue along the surface without breaking eye contact.
Axl’s pupils blew wide instantly.
“You’re fucking disgusting,” he whispered.
“You like it.”
Axl didn’t answer that, because he did like how unhinged his goth boyfriend was.
Peter leaned in closer, voice low against his mouth. “You should just suck me off.”
“I just ate.”
Peter hummed, unconvinced.
“I’m dead serious,” Axl added, pushing lightly at his chest. “I’m not doing some Nikki's spaghetti reenactment in my living room.”
Peter let his hand slide down from Axl’s neck slowly, deliberately, lingering at his collarbone before pulling away.
“Fine,” he said evenly. “I can wait.” He leaned back, taking another slow drink of wine straight from the bottle, eyes never leaving Axl. “You’relucky I’m patient,” he added quietly.