Peter listens, his heart thumping hard, but his upset kept quietly, soft exhales. Again, he wishes he could lean into the words, but..... he can't. What he'd done... ruined.... how he'd ruined it. It's unforgiveable. What he'd done to his family. To— Charlie.
Of course his mother would hate him. Fucking hate him. At the core of himself, Peter knows he deserves that hatred.
So he sits there unmoving, listening to the man's words, the softness, kindness of them, but knowing he doesn't deserve that much generosity. Someone who would tell a stranger they believe in him.... it speaks to this man's character. Peter feels the familiar beast that lives within him, deep in the pit of his stomach, the guilt — tighten itself, so much it hurts and he gives a soft sound. He didn't mean for this person to care about him, to believe in him — it isn't fair to Nara'a.
Something tenses in him suddenly, an odd shudder that slips down his spine. Hating himself is usually a numb detachment, but sometimes he feels it like a knife cutting inwards. Peter feels himself withdrawing a little, wanting to shrink away. He opened up too much, and now someone's worried about him, cares about him, someone who has enough to fucking worry about. He hates how easy it is for him to crumble. It's fucking pathetic.
"I'm— sorry. Sitting here like some dumb.... kid, about to cry on you.... fuck." Peter gives his head a slight, rigid shake. "You shouldn't— have to. But thank you. For.... listening. I'm sorry."
no subject
Of course his mother would hate him. Fucking hate him. At the core of himself, Peter knows he deserves that hatred.
So he sits there unmoving, listening to the man's words, the softness, kindness of them, but knowing he doesn't deserve that much generosity. Someone who would tell a stranger they believe in him.... it speaks to this man's character. Peter feels the familiar beast that lives within him, deep in the pit of his stomach, the guilt — tighten itself, so much it hurts and he gives a soft sound. He didn't mean for this person to care about him, to believe in him — it isn't fair to Nara'a.
Something tenses in him suddenly, an odd shudder that slips down his spine. Hating himself is usually a numb detachment, but sometimes he feels it like a knife cutting inwards. Peter feels himself withdrawing a little, wanting to shrink away. He opened up too much, and now someone's worried about him, cares about him, someone who has enough to fucking worry about. He hates how easy it is for him to crumble. It's fucking pathetic.
"I'm— sorry. Sitting here like some dumb.... kid, about to cry on you.... fuck." Peter gives his head a slight, rigid shake. "You shouldn't— have to. But thank you. For.... listening. I'm sorry."