May
1995

The television in Peter's motel room only offered three channels, and Peter had spent the last hour flicking between them. He was too indecisive, as he was in all other areas of his life.

He got up to pace around the small space, pausing in front of the mirror as he ran his fingers through his chestnut curls, his brown eyes staring back at him. He looked neglected. Cheekbones poking out, skin paler than anyone else's in this stupidly sunny city, and hair that always sat wrong. He was still that same kid who never really grew into his skin properly. Even now, at twenty one years old, it still felt like his limbs were disproportional to his body, like an action figure made up of all the wrong pieces.

He stopped looking at all his insecurities when the telephone rang. He crossed the room, taking it off the wall and pressing it to his ear, "Hello?"

"Hi, this is reception." A bored voice was on the other line, "I've got some guy on the phone here, asking after a Peter Wicks."

Peter's breath caught in his throat, but he desperately tried not to get his hopes up, "Who?" He choked out nervously.

"Didn't say." The receptionist drawled, "Can I put him through to you?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." Peter tumbled over his words. The line went dead for a moment, only the sound of beeping echoing in his ears. He tried to steady himself, fiddling with the wire chord that anchored the clunky telephone to the wall. Breathe. Just breathe.

The beeping stopped. Silence.

"H-Hello?" Peter asked softly.

More silence. Maybe the sound of breathing. But Peter wasn't sure whether that was just his own breathing. He was too busy listening to the sound of his erratically beating heart.

"Is anyone there—?"

"It's me."

Peter had spent years wondering what it would be like to hear Danny's voice again. Of course, he had seen him on the television screen, playing the hero and the beautiful heartthrob. But he was never talking to Peter, any more than he was talking to the millions of others who watched Danny's movies. But now, Danny's words were for Peter and Peter only.

Peter thought that hearing Danny's voice again would make his heart stop, and his world implode.

Instead, he felt nothing. Just emptiness.

Then the anger seeped in.

It was so overwhelming, he fought the urge to slam the phone against the wall, pack up his things and head straight back to England.

"P-Peter?" Danny murmured quietly, "Are you there?"

Peter took a deep breath, tightening his grip around the telephone, "Yeah, I'm here, Danny." He replied calmly.

There was another pause, "What are you doing in LA?"

Peter felt stupid admitting that he was here for Danny. "What are you doing in LA?" He asked instead, childishly.

"Work." Danny responded simply.

Work. As if that word alone came close to encapsulating what it was Danny did for a living. He was an actor. A millionaire. A celebrity. From a rainy trailer park to fucking Beverley Hills. All the drugs and the flashy cars anyone could ever want, right at his fingertips.

"You seem to be doing well for yourself." Peter continued, "I see your face everywhere. All over magazines..." He thought back to earlier, "On the side of buses."

He hoped that Danny was ashamed. He hoped Danny was embarrassed of being so stupidly famous. "Yeah." He sounded guilty. Good, Peter thought. "I got lucky."

"Lucky?" Peter hadn't realised how hard this conversation would be. There was far too much to say, and his anger was already getting the best of him. "You call it luck, Danny?"

"Peter—"

"Why did you never call me?"

"I—"

"You never even tried to explain yourself."

"Peter, you know I—"

"I was alone in there." His voice started to shake but he pushed down the pain. Danny needed to hear this. He needed that guilt. He needed to take it off of Peter, and live with it himself. He owed Peter that.

"I know I owe you an explanation, and I—"

"You're a fucking coward, Danny! And one day, all your adoring fans are gonna see you for who you really are. Just wait and see."

"Shit, Peter." Danny cursed sharply, "Can we talk about this in person? I have to see you—"

"Oh, so now you want to see me?"

"Yes!" Danny exclaimed. "I do, Peter!"

Peter wanted to put up a fight, but the only reason he came to LA was to see Danny. He couldn't back out now. He had come too far. "Fine."

Danny released a sigh of relief, "Great. I'll have a car come pick you up in an hour?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

Peter slammed the telephone down, harder than he had intended to. His fingers found their way into his hair, and he tugged at his locks in frustration, resisting the urge to scream out in anger. All this time he had spent planning what he would say if he ever got the chance to speak to Danny again, and now he was too blinded by rage to even form a coherent sentence.

He pulled his shoes on in a haste and stormed out of his motel room, desperately trying to get out of his own head. He just needed a walk to clear his mind, and gather his thoughts. That's all.

He needed to punch Danny in the face, too. That would definitely make him feel better.

He passed another poster for 'The Dawn of The Cursed' and wanted to rip a hole through Danny's face. Stupid poster for a stupid movie, Peter thought bitterly.

Peter found himself stood inside a familiar coffee shop, and when he looked up, he saw the same barista who had served him earlier that day.

The barista smiled at him warmly, "Back again?"

Peter was a little embarrassed, but stepped up to the counter anyway. He noticed the barista's name badge pinned to his apron this time, now he wasn't so blinded by anxiety. His name was Roy.

Peter glanced back up into Roy's hazel eyes, and forced a smile. That was an American thing; pretending to be happy all the time. He had noticed that in the short time he'd been there. It was already rubbing off on him.

"Uh...yeah, hi." Peter looked down at his scuffed converse, "Sorry, I...I don't know why I'm here again." He really didn't.

"That iced tea must've really left an impression on you, huh?" Roy teased.

Peter stared back at him, "You remembered my order?"

Roy shrugged, "We don't get many British guys in here."

"Right. The accent." Peter murmured in realisation. He didn't like standing out. He just wanted to blend into the crowd, and for the first time in his life, he wished he had an American accent.

"So, uh...another iced tea?"

"Huh? Oh...no...no, thank you." Peter looked like a real idiot now. Coming in here, confused and alone, refusing to order. "I mean, I...you...you guys need to learn to make real tea." He blushed when he said it, but Roy started to laugh.

"Oh, yeah?" He rose his brows questioningly.

"Sorry." Peter's blush deepened, "It's not...it's just that we do it so differently in the UK."

Roy rose his hands in surrender, "Hey, we all have our strengths and our weaknesses. America's weakness is that we can't make tea, I guess." He smirked, "Our strength is that we don't like tea. That stuff is horrible."

Peter tried not to look offended, "So, what do you drink?"

"Just plain ol' coffee. I'll make you one now, on the house."

Peter stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, "Why would you do that?" He realised how demanding and rude he sounded, and instantly felt guilty.

Roy only laughed, "You're a funny one."

Peter started to smile, and for a moment, he forgot all about Danny.