The sound Peter makes in response is something close to a clearing of his throat. He had been trying for a laugh and that was the best he had to offer, a humorless sound to ride along with his casual shame. "And tables, right?" Staring somewhere over Adam's shoulder, Peter goes quiet as he lifts his beer, letting his mind wander while he tries to gather up as many words he can, a number which still manages to amount to zero no matter where his thoughts drift. Peter takes another long drink before sliding it back down onto the counter, pressing his lips together and wondering what exactly he's supposed to do to make all of this right.
"Every time I try... I just end up telling myself I don't need any of it." Peter's still staring down at the counter, but it's an admittance all the same. All of this: the city, the emptiness, his apartment -- all of it speaks to things next to no one else knows about, and Peter no longer sees the point in trying to keep his words from following down the same path. He can try to cover it up, but there's nothing else to talk about. All of this is a part of him and even with Adam here, there's no hiding behind the possibility of it meaning anything else.
As much as he doesn't think himself capable, Peter slowly lifts his gaze until it once again finds Adam's. It would be so easy, so unbearably easy to brush aside all of this and beg Adam for the physical. Peter doesn't run on sheer emotion alone, but he won't let himself ask for it yet. There's something else in the way and Peter doesn't know what it is, and he wants to, he needs to figure it out before it eats him alive and sends him back to consciousness with nothing to offer.
"I don't know how--" Peter tries so hard to force himself to carry through with the rest of that sentence. And maybe he doesn't need to say it, maybe Adam can find the words well enough on his own. Scrambling to fill in the blanks, Peter contemplates taking the easy route and saying that less furniture means there's less to clean and shouldn't everyone be so lucky to have next to no earthly possessions. Peter has an entire city full of guilt, he doesn't have room for anything else. But he finally finds the words, pulling them out from somewhere worn raw. "I don't know how to go back to the way it used to be."
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"Every time I try... I just end up telling myself I don't need any of it." Peter's still staring down at the counter, but it's an admittance all the same. All of this: the city, the emptiness, his apartment -- all of it speaks to things next to no one else knows about, and Peter no longer sees the point in trying to keep his words from following down the same path. He can try to cover it up, but there's nothing else to talk about. All of this is a part of him and even with Adam here, there's no hiding behind the possibility of it meaning anything else.
As much as he doesn't think himself capable, Peter slowly lifts his gaze until it once again finds Adam's. It would be so easy, so unbearably easy to brush aside all of this and beg Adam for the physical. Peter doesn't run on sheer emotion alone, but he won't let himself ask for it yet. There's something else in the way and Peter doesn't know what it is, and he wants to, he needs to figure it out before it eats him alive and sends him back to consciousness with nothing to offer.
"I don't know how--" Peter tries so hard to force himself to carry through with the rest of that sentence. And maybe he doesn't need to say it, maybe Adam can find the words well enough on his own. Scrambling to fill in the blanks, Peter contemplates taking the easy route and saying that less furniture means there's less to clean and shouldn't everyone be so lucky to have next to no earthly possessions. Peter has an entire city full of guilt, he doesn't have room for anything else. But he finally finds the words, pulling them out from somewhere worn raw. "I don't know how to go back to the way it used to be."