Chapter 2
The picture mocks him. It's the bane of Peter's existence. Two days later he can't stand it anymore, and he takes it with him to the office, leaving it with his assistant.
"He didn't want me to have it. Can we give it back?"
"Give it back?" she asks, looking at Peter like he's crazy.
Peter shrugs. "Donate it?"
"I don't know how that would look," she says, gaze narrowing in contemplation.
He leaves the painting with her, goes to a meeting, a fundraiser, and then gets pummeled and flattened at the jujitsu place he's been going to since he got back from deployment.
It's possible he's getting too old to do that, too. Maybe he should take up running or yoga. They both sound terrible.
What's a sport that won't shorten my life expectancy? he texts his sister.
LITERALLY anything that doesn't require physical combat. She quickly responds.
He sends back a thumbs-up because she isn't wrong. He'll put it on the long list of things about his life he needs to change.
He's pulling up to his small two-story house when he gets an alert that his back door alarm (which is silent) has just been tripped.
He rejects police help because the same thing has happened three times already, and he needs to just get the lock replaced, but he's never home to make the appointment.
He should probably get his assistant to do it, but wouldn't that just make him an asshole?
He goes around the back of the house to be sure.
He doesn't see anyone or anything suspicious.
But the door is ajar. Which isn't a great sign.
The house is dark but the moon is bright, and as he goes inside, he can just make out a man coming down the stairs. Unarmed.
Instinct propels him forward, military training telling him to act while he has the advantage. He recognizes Sebastian just as he's raising his fist.
"Fucking hell!" Sebastian yells and stumbles at the sight of Peter's raised arm. He trips, missing the next step, and slams into Peter, knocking him back.
Peter's knee gives, and they both go down in a heap on the carpet below. Thank god for carpet, he thinks.
"God dammit." Peter grunts, and then Sebastian's forehead collides with Peter's lip, and Peter tastes blood.
"Ow, what the fuck?" Sebastian gasps.
The scent of booze hits Peter immediately. And cigarette smoke. Sebastian pushes up and sits on Peter's groin but doesn't get off him. He puts his hand to his forehead, rubbing the area. His other hand is on Peter's chest, palm over his hardening nipple.
"Shouldn't you be stronger? I didn't expect you to get knocked over. I thought you were in the military. You look all buff. I'm disappointed."
"Shouldn't you not break into people's homes?"
Sebastian's hand hasn't moved. There are two points of contact, Peter realizes. His groin and his chest. Peter lies there helplessly, hoping the shock and pain will keep him from getting hard for a minute or two.
"I want my painting back."
"You smell like a bar."
"I have had a fair amount of booze. Your lip is bleeding," he says and licks his own lips. He smirks at Peter, and that's it. Peter's time is up. He is definitely getting hard.
"Fuck, I don't have it. I took it to work. But I'll give it to you tomorrow or something. Actually, you can just go get it. I'll tell Becky to expect you."
"Ooh, your assistant. Her name is Becky?" He says it like he's spitting the word out of his mouth. "You mean the chick that was glued to you at the art show?"
"Yes, that's her. She's a woman, though. Not a chick."
"God, I knew you'd be pedantic. Did not expect you to be quite so…" His gaze slides down Peter's body. "It looks like muscle," he mutters.
His fingers, which have been lightly resting on Peter's chest, his middle finger on top of the small bud of his now hard nipple (god, how mortifying), press down a little harder. "Jesus, fuck, what a chest."
Sebastian reaches up to his own chest, pressing fingers into his pec, and shakes his head. "No comparison. You're like… I've had girlfriends who'd be jealous of the rack you're hiding," he says and meets Peter's gaze.
There's something hard in his expression. This isn't flirting. It's meant to be insulting.
"Do you have to wear a support bra? Are these moobs? Or do you just give it up altogether and call them tits?"
Surely Sebastian Craft doesn't want to start a fight. He wouldn't be that stupid, would he? Getting drunk and picking on someone far larger than himself just to work off some of his rage, get a cheap thrill from violence… Okay, Peter relates, but it isn't a good idea.
"Why do you hate me?" Peter asks. Because he's not going to fight the young man. He needs to de-escalate this. And he's not insecure about his pecs, thank you very much. His constituents frequently comment that he should do a shirtless calendar. Becky thinks it's hilarious.
Sebastian pouts, his bottom lip sticking out like he's sad for Peter. "Is it hurting your feelings? Let me guess, you need everyone to like you, absolutely everyone? Used to the entire world bowing down before you. How fucking inspiring," he sneers.
God, his mouth. The heat of him against Peter's now hard cock.
Peter used to get into a lot of fights when he was young. Any damned excuse to get punched and he took it gladly. There is so much beauty and precision in pain.
Finding a fight was easy when he was younger. And also when he was in the military. He doesn't do it now outside of sparring, of course. That's one of the more sensible restrictions of adulthood.
He misses it, but he survives and gets pain in other, more structured ways.
What Peter doesn't have is someone in his life who is genuinely mean.
Someone who wants to make it personal. Who cares enough and is worked up enough to really figure out exactly how to bring Peter down with not just actions but words.
It's a lot harder to fight against words. Sebastian Craft is an artist with paint and cruelty.
Peter blinks, turns his head away, and waits.
Like all good bullies, Sebastian knows surrender when he sees it. He sighs and squeezes Peter's pec sharply. Peter draws in a shaky breath, trying to stay calm. He should do something, but he has no idea what.
He can't think. It doesn't even occur to him to shove off the younger, weaker man.
"I don't think you're god's gift. You're not gonna be the next Obama or JFK."
"I'm a Republican, and the other one was assassinated."
Sebastian blinks at him. Then he carries on, ignoring Peter's comment.
"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 you anything."
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.