He stumbles home drunk, but he remembers.
Every detail, like a stitch fraying in what was meant to be a seamless bond, crashing through his mind with unbearable intensity, screeching like a distant siren howling in a raging wind, trailing off as a haunting echo that should have long ago dissipated across the current.
He can still feel the heat from those fingertips, the wet pressure of a wandering tongue, sparking unimaginable sensations of pleasure beneath his prickling skin like he'd never felt before. Like he'd felt once upon a time in what seemed now a distant universe, painfully vague and out of reach.
And the heat ignites within him again, teasing along his quivering muscles, shallowing his breath until he needs to stop for just the barest moment, just long enough to stabilize his lungs, his yearning heart, beating with a the faintest background of regret. Still, it's not strong enough to drown out this piercing craving.
He eventually manages to reach his bed, kicking off one shoe before forgetting to remember the other.
He falls back against the pillow, turning away with shame from the sound of a gentle, content snoring, filling the room with an air of calm. Of trust. Which he had broken.
The bed creaks and an arm drapes itself gently around Peter.
Wade sleeps on.