[ His mind is mostly made up by the time Peter agrees, which might be apparent when Quentin nips a little harshly at his ear for the joke. Even so, he does want to have a look at Peter first, if only to know where to put his hands. Happily, the scrunched apartment means they don't have to be apart for long, just for the time it takes him to turn the music up and dig out an extra towel. That's all, then he's helping out with that shirt (let me--) and those jeans (i got it--), crowding Peter under the stream in the standing shower. ] 

So how long have you been wanting to do that? [ Quentin peels out of his own shirt and sweatshirt at once, leaving them on the floor in front of the sink--pants too. He's fit, but soft around the edges, pale except his flushed cheeks and cock and a set of neat, narrow cuts healing on the inside of his right hip. If he's self-conscious about them, it doesn't show; Quentin's focus is on the blood pooled around Peter's ribs, blotchy marks looking even darker in the harsh bathroom light. He clicks his tongue, but the noise is lost under the sound of the water. ] Kiss me, I mean. First time we met? No--it was when you saw me talking to that toddler at the park, huh? Got the biological clock ticking. 

[ His hands graze down Peter's chest, fingers pause to outline the worst of the damage. Quentin kisses his mouth shallowly, then the hinge of his jaw--the hollow of his throat--his nipple as Quentin pushes him against the shower wall-- ]