((Leave me here to die, I’m having relationship philosophical feels.))
Peter doesn’t really understand Wade. Sometimes, he does because Wade is just as predictable as he is entirely spontaneous and unpredictable. He knows how Wade will react to some things, how his weird habits kick in, and all of these minute details that have taken careful observation to catch onto.
But he doesn’t really get how he thinks.
Peter is used to the way that Wade fucks—fast and rough, something desperate like he’s going to fall apart unless he grabs at Peter to pull him closer while he pushes into him. It’s wild and gratifying and Peter would be lying if he says he doesn’t love it. It’s more than just the way that it makes him arch his back until he feels like he’ll break, the way his voice isn’t his own when Wade pulls broken moans out of him. There’s just this feeling that Wade needs him, and that’s something easy to fall in love with and make a home in.
But then Wade stops, still buried deep inside him with blue irises now thin slivers around his pupils. Reality doesn’t quite crash back into his senses immediately, but it’s easier for Peter to note the dull ache in his back and the fabric of the sheets gripped in his fingers when Wade isn’t taking him apart from the inside out.