"I think you must be stupid. Utterly wrong and ignorant. Do you ever wonder how many people have been harmed because of your shitty policies? You're just a fucking puppet riding on Daddy's coattails. I don't hate you, Peter. What I want is to never have known of your existence. I wish I'd gotten to finish out my course, and have that art show, and been able to sell my painting to the person of my choice. Which would never be you. For any amount of money. Hating someone takes a hell of a lot of energy. It's bad for creativity. But I'll make an exception for you."
Peter blinks. For some unknown reason (surely it must be because of the pain), he's almost certain he feels a tear slip over the bridge of his nose and onto his cheek. It rolls down his face as he lies there and waits.
It's mortifying.
Sebastian leans closer. His voice is a rough hiss of violence. "I want to have never had to deal with your face and what you represent. I guess what I want is for you to go away and stop getting people hurt or killed because a lot of old fucking white men like weapons and hate anyone who is different than them."
"Who?" Peter rasps. "This is personal for you."
There's a heavy pause. He can hear Sebastian breathing. "I don't even want to tell you. That's how much I don't want to give youanything."
Peter's eyes close. He hates that he's hard. He hates that his dick is throbbing, that some part of him is so fucked up and confused that he finds this situation to be horribly arousing.
A beautiful man who's going to taunt him and be dismissive, casually hurt and dominate him, the rage prickling against his skin like passion. And all of it aimed at Peter. God, he'd never let Peter come. He'd make it always hurt. He'd?—
"My sister. She'd be twenty-four in three weeks, just graduating from college. Congrats on overturning Roe v. Wade, asshole." Sebastian sniffs, wipes at his eyes. "We were inseparable. She made everyone around her—" There's a long pause where he takes a breath.
Sebastian's hand is suddenly on Peter's face, pressing his cheek into the ground hard enough to have his neck protest. "You shouldn't even get to see my fucking face." The weight is steady. Peter's fingers clench into fists, squeezing as hard as he can, trying to make his short nails break his own skin. He wants to bleed.
"The baby was stillborn. We were waiting for approval to remove the fetus, and her body became so toxic that she slipped into a coma. She's still alive, but we're now at the point where we have to face facts. She isn't coming out of it. Think about that… And then you show up and you buy that painting? That's the school we went to. Did you know that? I'd rather die than let you fucking have it," he growls.
His nails bite into Peter's face, below his eye and into his cheek, and he wonders if the man is going to make him bleed, dig his fingers in and try to rip his flesh off.
Sebastian gasps and lets him go. He's up and out the door, gone in the night before Peter can say or do anything.
3
Amonth later, Peter comes back to his house and finds Sebastian on the doorstep.
He's smoking. Peter smoked when he was deployed. They all did. Chewing tobacco was the vice of choice. But that's nasty, and his father would have disowned him. He gave up the habit when he came home, but he's not disgusted by Sebastian's smoking like he should be.
Far from it.
He looks like a young James Dean or something. The way he holds the cigarette lightly between two fingers is annoyingly sexy. He stands up, all lanky grace and ease, when he sees Peter coming up the walk. Flicking the cigarette to the side, he exhales as he watches Peter.
Peter has nothing to say. He probably should, since he's the grown-up.
"I thought about breaking in. Figured I'd best not, though. It's not a good look to say, 'I guess you're not a total asshole after all,' and then assault you. Besides, you might shoot me. I assume you have guns."
Peter nods. "I host the NRA on Sunday mornings. I make muffins for Liz Cheney,” he says and takes the opportunity to look away from the young man and get out his keys so he can unlock the door.
“That’s a joke, right?”
“It is. Liz hates muffins.”
“A brat. Be still my heart.”
Peter jolts. What the hell does he mean by that?
"My sister woke up last week. An expert from out of town, some sort of experimental treatment, and it fucking worked."
"That's good. I'm glad." Peter is glad. And he knows already. There are a lot of perks to being in Congress. Being able to help someone, literally pick up a phone, make a call, and save a life is an awesome gift that no one should have. Or everyone.
But that isn’t how life or society works.
"Look, I need to know just how worshipful I need to be here. Did you have anything to do with that doctor or what?"
"I'm not Obama," he says, seeing no point in answering the question. Did he call in a favor or three when the AMA was having a conference in his state last month? Yes. Would the specialists have come to their Podunk hospital without his involvement? No, probably not. But it's not like he personally saved the girl's life with his own medical skill.
