[ What's voiced surprises Peter just as much — he isn't even really able to process that he's asked it, in some sort of autopilot fueled by his steadily unraveling emotional state, and the undesirable environment they're in now. It's a very human request: small and weak and wounded, and the way it's met in return is just as human. Peter can't quite process the fact that his cousin has been overwhelmed by the sentiment, can't read what's going on behind the older man's eyes, but it's something that doesn't quite need to be read. The energy there between them is the first exchange of emotion that Peter's really shared with anyone else since the accident happened, allowed himself to share, and that in itself is telling enough.
Wordlessly, the link between them that Peter had temporarily attempted to break is re-formed, and now he's relenting entirely to it. He nods, reaches for Will again, standing with him. Two bodies act as one; in his exhaustion, Peter's freed from his usual anxiety affecting his movements and behaviours. He's usually stiff, tense; now he's gone lax, sloping against Will, one arm slipping inwards around his cousin's waist. The coat draped over him is instantly a warmer buffer against the crisp night ocean air — a breath of warning as to how cold the ocean beneath them truly is. Peter's been drawn to the waves since he boarded this ship, but just now he finds he only wants to get away from them. They threaten to swallow him up, hungrily.
Will's body is solid, and firm, and warm against him, and Peter moves with the man, head tilted sideways to rest against his. It.. was only a nightmare, it isn't like he's been physically wounded, but his energy is drained in the familiar way by now, depleted, as though a parasite has taken everything from him, or just enough that he's able to keep moving onwards, but only that. He knows better than to try to fight it. He doesn't fight it.
The journey will be a slow one, but he won't offer any resistance while moving alongside Will from the decks, a relatively easy latched-on guest for his cousin to deal with. It's strange to come back down these polished halls after what's happened, when everything's so still and quiet, most people asleep behind their doors — it's like stepping into a dream, but a melancholic one. There's an odd pinch of something in his chest again as the soles of his oxford shoes make dull thuds against the floor, a loneliness: this place isn't home, and he can never really go back home. Returning to America isn't— home.
But for the first time since the accident, he'll be with family through a night, and there's an odd sensation of awareness when they get into Will's suite: Peter knows that much, is aware of it. He breathes more slowly, the waves of emotion and panic coming into something more downwards. More quiet. ]
Did you take a suite by— by yourself? [ He hasn't known any of the details of Will's arrangements; most people do have solitary housing unless there's a spouse or children involved, but some had been assigned roommates, and the thought creeps into him now, looking along the silent, grand space as they move into it. ]
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Wordlessly, the link between them that Peter had temporarily attempted to break is re-formed, and now he's relenting entirely to it. He nods, reaches for Will again, standing with him. Two bodies act as one; in his exhaustion, Peter's freed from his usual anxiety affecting his movements and behaviours. He's usually stiff, tense; now he's gone lax, sloping against Will, one arm slipping inwards around his cousin's waist. The coat draped over him is instantly a warmer buffer against the crisp night ocean air — a breath of warning as to how cold the ocean beneath them truly is. Peter's been drawn to the waves since he boarded this ship, but just now he finds he only wants to get away from them. They threaten to swallow him up, hungrily.
Will's body is solid, and firm, and warm against him, and Peter moves with the man, head tilted sideways to rest against his. It.. was only a nightmare, it isn't like he's been physically wounded, but his energy is drained in the familiar way by now, depleted, as though a parasite has taken everything from him, or just enough that he's able to keep moving onwards, but only that. He knows better than to try to fight it. He doesn't fight it.
The journey will be a slow one, but he won't offer any resistance while moving alongside Will from the decks, a relatively easy latched-on guest for his cousin to deal with. It's strange to come back down these polished halls after what's happened, when everything's so still and quiet, most people asleep behind their doors — it's like stepping into a dream, but a melancholic one. There's an odd pinch of something in his chest again as the soles of his oxford shoes make dull thuds against the floor, a loneliness: this place isn't home, and he can never really go back home. Returning to America isn't— home.
But for the first time since the accident, he'll be with family through a night, and there's an odd sensation of awareness when they get into Will's suite: Peter knows that much, is aware of it. He breathes more slowly, the waves of emotion and panic coming into something more downwards. More quiet. ]
Did you take a suite by— by yourself? [ He hasn't known any of the details of Will's arrangements; most people do have solitary housing unless there's a spouse or children involved, but some had been assigned roommates, and the thought creeps into him now, looking along the silent, grand space as they move into it. ]