My Favorite Underwear
Summary: Arkora. Angstified. Jason thinking about how annoying Petr is.
AN: "She" of course, is Dina. Ever present Dina.
oh baby, know what you're like?
you're like my favorite underwear
it just feels right you know it
oh baby, know how you feel?
you feel like my favorite underwear
and i'm slipping you on again tonight
- my favorite underwear, liz phair
He made lists inside his head: the chittering of that damn chinchilla, the haphazardly strewn socks, the half-eaten boxes of Chinese food in the fridge that were never finished, and the way he made a bed.
And he’d breathe and rub his temples, and count to ten. These things all rubbed him the wrong way, but they were a part of Petr. They made him who he was, and without them he wouldn’t be… well, Petr. And he didn’t want to date a clone of himself.
Besides, he could deal. Compromise, right? That was one of those big C’s that Petr was always harping about: compromise, commitment, closeness…. Jason couldn’t remember the other two C’s. He remembered interjecting “cocksucker!” in the middle of Petr’s speech. Perhaps “chicken and pasta” was the other C.
Compromise, though, was one thing Petr asked for specifically. Petr knew him well enough not to pressure for the second C, or rather the ominous m-word that usually went with it.
He collapsed on the bed and heard Petr puttering around in the kitchen. Was he making him some food? He hoped.
He breathed in through his nose and exhaled deeply. He wiggled his nose; the pillow smelled like Petr--his hair gel, rather. God, he hated that smell. He casually tried buying Petr better smelling gel, but Petr insisted that the only gel that would keep his hair in place was the kind he already used. And he knew better than to tell Petr that his hair gel smelled like shit, because that would only agitate and upset him.
Besides, he could deal with the smell. And Petr didn’t wear it that often, and washed his hair usually before they went to bed. And it wasn’t as awful as Jason made it out to be, anyway. Compromise, right?
Petr padded into the bedroom with two plates of reheated leftovers. Jason rolled over onto his back and then sat up, holding out his hand for his plate of tacos. Petr munched on Chinese food while Jason flipped on the television. The ticker running across the bottom of the screen reminded him of the show he had taped earlier during the game, and he switched remotes to start the VCR.
Boxers and a blue ring illuminated the screen and he stared perplexed, wondering where his show was. “Where’s my…” he began, and then he noticed the time on the VCR.
“Petr, what did you do to the VCR? Did you mess with the time?”
He shrugged, “Daylights savings.”
“I already changed the time, Petr.”
He shrugged again, “Oh. What’s the matter? Did you miss something on tv?”
Jason blinked. He could smell the gel in Petr’s hair, and Petr had fucked up the VCR so now he couldn’t watch his show--the show he always watched, and always made certain to tape when they had game nights--and didn’t Petr know him at all?
“Here’s your hot sauce,” Petr said, pressing the small glass bottle into his hand. Jason glanced down at the sauce he only used on carne asada tacos, and never on chicken ones, and he stared down at the reheated, soggy, carne asada tacos sitting in his lap, and he nearly smiled.
But he didn’t, because Petr had still fucked up the VCR.
They watched Sportscenter, and Jason finished his plate and shoved it towards Petr like he always did, and Petr crumpled it up, throwing it on the ground next to his side of the bed. Petr stretched and leaned against the pillows, never taking his eyes off the tv screen. He chuckled softly at some lame joke and Jason rolled his eyes.
He leaned over and kissed Petr’s neck, and let his head rest on his shoulder, breathing him in: that familiar smell that was Petr and his awful hair gel. He licked his lips and he tasted the last two years in New Jersey; he could close his eyes and still know exactly where Petr’s eyes and nose were, and further, could close his eyes and easily find his way about the apartment. The socks were hazards, but the other piles of clothes provided enough padding should he fall.
Petr turned the tv off and in the quasi-silence Jason could only make out Petr’s breathing, the ticking of the clock, and the bass of a random car stereo…
… and the squeaky wheel in PJ’s cage. That damn rat was up exercising at this hour. And Petr spent far too much time doting on that rodent. He had a dog as a child, but he had to draw a line at allowing a chinchilla in bed with them.
It was a bit of an invisible line sometimes though and Petr sometimes “forgot” that Jason didn’t like PJ sharing a pillow with him.
She’d never dare buy a rodent as a pet, let alone sleep with one, but he’d made his choice. And the compromise thing wasn’t that hard, and he figured he owed Petr for all the times Petr had saved his ass, or run interference on his behalf. And the compromises weren’t that big. It did him some good to let things run off his back every now and then anyway.
Petr shifted, and Jason sighed. They fit perfectly together, and when Petr kissed him he could taste home. He relaxed against the feeling of Petr, and any agitation or concerns or stresses or cold feet melted away--not that there were anyway with Petr. Petr was home, and this was why Jason chose him. Everything was right when he was with him, and he was certain he’d made the right choice.
Petr’s hands slipped below the waistband of his boxers and he was more than certain.