Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter had never dealt with consequences before. Or at least not real consequences -- nothing so overdramatic as this.

He’d expected a slap on the wrists. Maybe a weekend sitting on a splintery desk in a pinstriped tie's chokehold. At worst he'd be scrawling meaningless sentences over and over again in erasable ink.

I will not misbehave.

I will not misbehave.

I will not misbehave.

I won’t not misbehave.

Instead, he’d gotten a slip of expulsion, a trunk full of wrinkly uniforms he wouldn’t need anymore, and a one-way ticket all the way across the pond to a dingy little town known as Storybrooke, Maine.

Peter wouldn’t let it phase him. He could adapt and adapt quickly; hell, Darwin knew shit about evolution compared to him.

He was surprised, however, that it even came down to expulsion at all. He’d been caught red-handed with everything over the years: weed, pills, knives, booze, two or three girls, seven or eight boys, the list went on. A fat cheque always made it disappear. Throwing a rock through a dormitory window apparently crossed some sort of line.

At least, that was the official story. There is always more than what the record shows. But the record did show that something went through the window, and it showed that Peter was predominantly to blame. And so that was the story, and the only story he’d be telling -- he certainly wouldn’t be throwing around the label.

And the label was to blame.

But that's all it was: a label, nothing more. He was the same as he’d always been. Yet that insignificant label warranted a change in the way others treated him. He was still mulling over the ways he could possibly make his diagnosis advantageous - there wasn't an obvious answer, but there had to be at least one.

He recalled the insatiable urge to choke all the doctors and specialists who had clucked at him whilst jotting scratchy notes on clipboards and wanting to break the cold hands that attached him to MRIs and CT scans as they tried to put a name to whatever was wrong with him.

Eventually they’d settled on a diagnosis: high-functioning antisociality with narcissistic tendencies.

More eloquently put?

Sociopath.

It had taken them two months and four specialists to draw that painfully obvious conclusion.

But with the word the wrist-slapping was gone, and suddenly Peter's indiscretions seemed more malicious.

Malicious enough, apparently, to ship him off.

When he first arrived to his new home, Peter hadn’t been sure what to make of it. The sizable house was a rather affronting coral colour with deep green trim. He hadn’t expected the gingerbread architecture. The front garden was cut short and yellowing, the shrubberies had the suggestion of once being carved intricately, but years of neglect complemented the desolation.

Inside it was all the same ugly coral colour, and a great deal less visually stimulating than the wallpaper Peter was accustomed to back in Yorkshire. The lights overhead were dim and yellow, old fashioned, but warm. It was controlled chaos, slightly cluttered but not dirty. Antiques that dripped with nostalgia hung on pins along the walls; candlesticks and clocks and rocking horses.

It took a few minutes to unpack, dispersing clothes into a wardrobe, and hanging posters and pennants along the walls. Smashed underneath clothes and DVDs was the black nozzle from a hookah he didn’t remember taking.

Crumpled up next to it was his old school’s crest and the notice that informed him of his expulsion.

Fully unpacked, he tossed his trunk against the footboard and took a seat on the bed, sinking into the memory foam beneath him. With a sigh, he reclined flat on his back, noticing how the mattress swallowed his sides. The suffocation was oddly apt.

It was a few hours before Peter’s legs started to itch. He hated lying still and suddenly fancied taking a little walk. It’d be better than sitting around waiting for something to happen.

He had little to no interest in stalking down Main Street and getting the intimate view of Storybrooke. That was merely a matter of time.

Besides, the town itself was quaint and homely and incredibly normal. He’d been in villages like it many times before. He knew how it would operate. It seemed as though every single town like it had the same library in the same location and the same diner with the same checkered floor and the same dinky holding cell in the same sheriff’s office.

The only thing that set Storybrooke apart (and in the same respect jogged his curiosity) was the wood surrounding the town. They seemed ominous, those woods, and secretive. Something about it was exciting, and Peter found himself keen to take a look around.

And so at six o'clock Peter laced his trainers, knotted his muffler, and stepped out the door without a word.

The wood wasn’t swampy, the forest floor was secure under his shoes, not yet dewy. The sylvan mist surrounded him, chilly and damp against his skin.

From the other side of the trees, he could make out streetlights glowing like will-o-the-wisps from fairytales. There was a low rumble of cars heading from town and back home. Other than that? No sound but the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets.

By itself, the forest was just like any other Peter had seen in his life. It called back to the lonely moors in the countryside he was once very familiar with.

There was still that feeling, though. It was, oddly enough, a similar feeling to being in the middle of the city with acid running through his veins and knowing he could do absolutely bloody anything and get away with it. In the city, it was because of the anonymity the crowds gave him, there in the woods, he ventured it was the solitude.

It wasn’t long before he came upon a break in the trees. In the centre of this break, was an old well made of stone with a decaying wooden peak overhead. Peter might have thought for a moment more what the hell a well was doing in the middle of the goddamn forest, if he wasn’t too busy wondering what the hell a car was doing in the middle of the goddamn forest. But there it was.

Peter knew next to nothing about cars, but he was able to tell that the one before him in the middle of a roadless forest was of medium-large size, was slightly dated but well taken care of. He came around boot of the car, peering in the rear window to see a large duffle bag and fleece blanket shoved in behind the passenger’s seat in the otherwise impeccably clean carriage.

He came around the front of the vehicle, seeing a boy resting on the bonnet, leaning up against the windscreen. His face was shrouded into blackness due to a hood that descended below his brows, obscuring his vision, his hands rested limply on his lifted knees, a lit cigarette balancing between thin white fingers.

Peter watched as the smoke coiled and curled off the stick and felt himself twitch. Tobacco wasn’t his substance of choice, but it had been so long since he had fire on his tongue.

And so Peter cleared his throat, causing the body beside him to jolt against the glass.

“Evening,” Peter smiled congenially, resting his hands easily in his pockets.

The boy started, his face angling towards him and becoming visible in the fading evening light. Peter felt the corners of his lips spasm. The boy looked somewhere between sixteen and twenty, with a thin nose, concave cheeks, and a strong chin; Peter couldn’t quite make out his eyes, but had an unsettling feeling they were fixed on his.

“What?” The boy drawled confusedly, his voice a titch higher than Peter had expected.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Evening. It’s a sentiment of greeting between afternoon and night.”

The boy didn’t say anything, the scanty light indicated his lips were pursed into a thin line until the glowing cigarette broke them apart. He took a long drag and held it in his cheeks before exhaling out of the side of his mouth, one slow chemical jetstream of haze that mingled with the natural mist surrounding them.

Peter’s tongue felt heavy and excessively wet in his mouth. Pleading for nicotine, he thought.

With trademark nonchalance, he took a step closer to the bonnet of the car, absorbing the scent of tobacco and some cheap musky spray.

His smile aimed for charming. “Got a fag?”

“What the hell?” The boy lurched backwards, cigarette falling from his fingers and onto the dirt between them.

Peter furrowed his brows for a beat before the light-bulb switched on. “Oh. Right. A smoke I mean.”

The boy just stared, causing Peter to roll his eyes.

“I just want a cigarette. I won’t bite.” He paused, “Unless you like that sort of thing.”

The boy’s mouth hung open, looking stupid. Peter noted, however briefly, that his teeth were straight and white, devoid of nicotine stains. He wondered for a beat if anyone sucked them away.

With a smirk, excitement in testing the boundaries, Peter extended his hand towards the little white and red box peeking out from the boy’s pocket. A large hand circled around his wrist before he could make contact.

Peter’s eyes darkened and he lifted a brow. His eyes met the other boy’s for the first time. They were grey, flecked slightly with apprehension, confusion, and yes, fear. There was something else, though. Curiosity, perhaps? In that, at least, it was mutual.

The boy shook Peter’s hand away but reached into his pocket himself, taking out the paper box. With marked dexterity the boy thumbed a single white cigarette upwards and nodded towards Peter, who accepted the cancer stick with a small smile.

The boy’s hand disappeared to his pocket again until he pulled out a red Zippo. Peter took it, brushing his fingers against the boy just to feel the flinch under his palm.

When he turned away with the lighter in hand, he thought he could still feel the boy’s grey eyes fixed on him.

And so this boy was utterly predictable; predictable was boring. Peter figured that was enough for one day.

He put the fag between his teeth and watched the compact flame as it flickered at the end of the lighter. Just as he was beginning to feel the heat, the flame took to the end of the stick a few centimetres away from his nose. Smoke filled his lungs, coating his mouth and throat in a warm musk, calm falling over him like a blanket.

He exhaled, blowing rudely into the other boy’s face.

“Ta.” He smiled and turned away, only making it a few paces before the voice sounded again off his right shoulder.

“I think you have something that’s mine.”

It was annoyingly calm.

Pivoting over his feet with fluidity, Peter tossed the small red cylinder in the boy’s general direction. He intended to continue walking away, but found himself pausing in surprise when the boy caught it in midair.

Peter almost coughed, feeling the smoke turn peppery midway in his chest.

Absently, he took a long drag, watching as the boy took a white stick from the red and white box and light up in a beat of silence. Peter hadn’t realised exactly how tall or slim he was before.

Then, the other boy spoke, blurry air dancing around his face. “I’m Felix.”

Peter exhaled sharply with an amused chirr. “Oh what, are you gonna ask to exchange mobile numbers now?”

Felix squinted, mouth drawn into a closed-lip smirk. "Not exactly. No.”

There was something infuriating in the way Felix drew out his vowels.

Peter ticked his head to the side and popped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Perhaps, it seemed, Felix wasn’t so predictable or boring after all. One more smoky breath and he deemed it worth his time.

He took a deliberate step forward, introducing himself with a smile that aspired to lift the dead.

Felix allowed his hood to fall back over his shoulders, revealing messy blond snarls and a scar that had previously been hidden in shadow, the signature of two thin blades winding up his nose and over his cheek.

Somehow, they wound up chatting.

As they did, Peter noticed that Felix was rather...something.

Something in a way Peter wanted to unravel, to rip to shreds, to watch come undone.

Beneath his caution and restraint, Felix seemed to have a lighted wick in his stomach. Peter couldn't help but notice how that wick seemed to turn into a fuse whenever he came closer.

Yes, it had been a boring prospect earlier, but Felix had reflexes. There was more to him than the lightning-quick crush he seemed to be developing. And this drew Peter’s curiosity.

Back at school, Peter had influence over any number of boys and girls just like Felix. Usually they’d been the leaders of any number of organisations and clubs, allowing Peter to conveniently use any perks of membership or “leftover” funds without having to be obliged to actually attend meetings or any of that rubbish. Those other boys and girls were all marionettes just waiting for strings and the right pull. He wondered for a beat if Felix would be just as willing as them or more.

Unfortunately, there was only one way to tell for certain. And that one way was to listen to the whole David Copperfield exposition. It wasn’t that Peter was particularly interested, but it helped to know where people came from; it made working them just that much easier.

It took Felix a little bit of prodding to open up, as though he didn’t like to talk about himself. This would preferable in most cases, but Peter needed something to work with.

That being said, he was slightly aggravated when Felix remained minimalistic.

“What’s your deal?”

Felix blinked, amusement hiding under his eyes. “I’m not sure I have one.”

Peter found that when he looked interested and leaned forward, Felix was more willing to share.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Peter shrugged nonchalantly.“You go to school?”

Felix shook his head, taking a long puff before sighing out smog. “I’m waiting for my GED scores back.”

“So you just dope up all day?”

“I’m not quite that lucky.” Felix lips tilted to a smirk. “I’m training to be a mechanic at Tillman’s Auto.”

“Sounds like you’re seventeen going on thirty-five.” Peter contemplated the repercussions of pursuing this. “You work all day then?”

Felix paused to take another breath. He let it out abruptly. “‘S my only option.”

“Is that what you want? To work and get your GED and drift away into mediocrity?”

“No.”

Felix finished with a small frown, dropping ash, grinding it into the dirt with his shoe. Then he turned to Peter with a tiny flicker of admiration. “How about you? People say you’re a menace to society.”

“I’m flattered.” Peter scoffed darting his brows upwards. “You’ve heard of me, then?”

“It’s a small town; people talk.”

“So do you believe it?” Peter asked with a haughty toss to his head. “That I’m a menace?”

Where the rest of the world was in a fog, there was intense clarity as Peter flashed his eyes into Felix’s. Silence seeped in between them with nothing more than howling and low sounds of the forest between them. Felix’s eyes were more black than grey then, pupils dilated with nicotine and - if Peter was reading him correctly - something else.

“I don’t know what you are.” Felix returned with a shaky breath, turning his head to look out over the wood.

“Good,” Peter nodded happily with himself, taking a drag and blowing toxic air into Felix’s face again, just to see if he’d let him.

He did, barely flinching and simply taking the exhaust as though it were oxygen.

There was a pause. Felix was staring, but Peter elected to ignore it. He smirked, deciding to push just a little bit further, shifting a bit closer to the other boy. Felix was all strings, drawing tight and knotting up.

With a slightly huffy breath, Peter dropped the fag to the ground, watching the grass underneath them shrivel away from the heat. “I need something stronger. Have anything?”

Felix’s eye flickered, lips sliding into a closed snicker. “How strong were you thinking?”

And so they pulled doors closed behind them and they disappeared.

The next thing Peter knew he returned to the ugly little coral and green house with his brain fuzzing in simultaneous stimulation and sedation. His muffler was askew, his hair tousled, and he smelled like smoke and sweat and musk and the inside of a car.

It wasn’t what it looked like, but it might as well have been.

He’d wound up laying flat in the backseat, smoking something stronger than tobacco, rolling his neck against the leather seats as his senses skyrocketed to hypersensitivity. He’d pressed his heels into Felix’s chest, plastering the kid against the door and flushing him in a way that was pathetically obvious as they slipped away into murky tideland.

Peter remembered looking at the boy through his haze, mentally flying through the stratosphere. He’d never had a problem charming people before -- particularly the destitute and desperate -- but with Felix it had been a whole new level of easy.

And that was comforting. It was hard being a child, one whom people wouldn’t take seriously. Peter liked having control and power, but that was hard to accomplish a month from eighteen.

He wasn’t sure if he could get his fists over the greater workings of Storybrooke, but at least he had one marionette to work with.

And then he was facing gaudy stained glass and pushing against mahogany doors.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Felix wasn't exactly sure what to make of Peter after that first meeting. People typically ignored him -- he was enough of a wreck to be considered off-putting but not quite enough of a wreck for anyone to actually give a damn, so any extraneous attention was out of place.

No matter what reason Peter had to start talking with him, Felix was grateful that he had. He hadn’t realized he was lonely before. And Peter had a way of making him feel less lonely, as though he were part of something.

Within a matter of weeks, the two were nearly glued together at the hip, apart only when Peter went to class (which he couldn’t be bothered to do every weekday), when Felix was working at Tillman’s, and on the nights they elected to stay sober and depart to their own respective houses.

Even so, Felix still wasn't entirely sure what to make of him.

The boy was alluring and intoxicating all on his own (though perhaps intoxication was a conditioned response). He was extraverted and ambitious and likable and all the things Felix wasn't.

And he had this way of making it seem like he owned the entire fucking world, and that he was willing to share it.

An unrealistic thought, but a nice one.

And it was also a nice thought that after a long day of scraping metal and revving engines, and a few hours of following Peter around Storybrooke for this reason or that reason, he could fall back into the rear seat of his car and faze into invisibility with his only friend in the world.

Felix didn't consider himself a stoner. In fact, before he met Peter he rarely smoked at all, and he used to save the reefer for special occasions. Not since Peter.

But Peter had a way of making highs skyrocket even higher.

It was only a few weeks after their first meeting, but in that cloud suspended in the metal atmosphere of Felix's car, it felt so much longer. It was all disconnected from everything else, from the streets of Storybrooke, from their daily lives. And it was almost another world, one without responsibilities or having to grow up.

But because that cloud gave them a disconnect from the real world, it was so easy to get carried away.

Especially when he saw how Peter’s eyes gleamed through the smoke. Especially when Peter flashed his crooked smile whenever he suggested various games to play.

Especially when he asked, “Have you ever shotgunned before?”

Felix was motionless, the thought of Peter’s mouth pressed against his in fierce playful pressure going straight to his jeans.

“C’mon,” Peter’s eyes danced. “Let’s play.”

It should have been innocent when Peter belted him down across the back seat. The music swelling from the stereo up front should have been innocent too, but there were saxophones and the low bass thrummed in Felix's spinal cord.

It should have been innocent when Peter swung his legs over Felix's lap and sat down so close they were scraping together.

But - shit - it was anything but.

Felix was rendered dumb as the boy on his lap sucked on the stick between his fingers, with eye contact that stripped him down to rattling bones.

Peter smirked and blew over Felix’s face, lurching forward, overcome by toxic laughter. Felix’s head was airy and fell forward, hitting Peter’s collarbone through his clothes, burning the material when it came into contact with the lighted end of Felix’s joint, causing Peter to drop his on the rubber floormat.

Felix felt a nimble hand thread through the hair at the base of his neck. The goosebumps were instant, but he couldn’t have been nervous if he tried. Then the hand pulled his head back, snapping it upwards to the ceiling, and all he saw was the dim illumination of Peter’s face.

That face, with its pixie edges and fogged command was so close, radiating and breathing and hot against his body. Felix wanted to suck bruises onto Peter's neck, but he wasn't sure how.

With a sly look, Peter plucked the joint from Felix’s mouth and put it between his teeth. Sweet earthy smoke slid down his throat, making his lungs heavy in seconds.

Taking another long drag and holding it in his mouth and chest, he tightened his grip on the back of Felix’s neck, culling him in.

His intelligent fingers worked Felix’s mouth open, and he replaced them with his gaping lips, shooting the smoke between their tongues. The heat charged through the gaps separating them, surrounding them in a murky curtain.

Felix felt it pulse through his entire body, prickling to the ends of his fingers and toes, all pins and needles, except for his heart that was pounding hard enough to shatter his glass ribs.

Peter retreated, and Felix was a deer in headlights, spluttering out evidence of the fire in his chest.

Lifting his brows, Peter put his fingers to his lips again, shifting forward and bumping their hips together, slotting like puzzle pieces. Before Felix could even wonder why, the exhaust switched lungs a second time, bittersweet and hot, sliding down like silk bullets.

Felix ignored the flush mapping his flesh and preoccupied himself with making tiny rings from Peter’s smoke. An inane attempt to distract himself from the prickling growing between his legs and the weight of Peter sitting directly on top of it.

But it seemed as though Peter didn’t want him to be distracted, shooting air back into Felix’s mouth, keeping his face near as it cleared, saturating Felix’s bottom lip with his breath and a flash of tongue before ducking away.

It was something straight out of a fantasy. He couldn’t breathe. Felix suddenly found his clothes very annoying.

His chest deflated, smoldering vapor cascading from his mouth like a thunderstorm rolling in. Peter laughed at the absurdity of it, mumbling something about games.

He could feel Felix getting hard, and his cock tickled to a similar effect, but instead of getting off or shifting away, Peter drove into it, allowing denim to rub against denim.

Felix was incredibly responsive, biting his cheeks to keep from moaning and tensing up from head to toe. Peter found it rather hot in spite of himself. He half wanted to ease the tension, but he was having too much fun playing the game.

“You don’t know how to do this, do you?” Peter smirked at his friend’s reaction.

Felix shook his head. “I can.”

“Prove it.”

Something in the murky air, and something in the hazy green of Peter’s eyes gave Felix enough gumption to take a hit himself, a long breath until the dry air seeped to the top of his lungs. Then he grabbed Peter by his scarf, pulling him down, and pressing his open lips onto Peter’s smiling ones, sighing flame between them.

Where Peter’s shotguns had called back to the game’s namesake, attacking and blowing all the way down into the other boy’s lungs, Felix’s breath was one endless fog, wafting and intermingling between their open mouths, guided only by the faintest breeze that his lungs could squeeze out, longing to keep the contact as long as possible.

The smoke moved around their heads, skirting and rolling into the air around them more than into Peter’s mouth. Felix wanted to add pressure or tongue to their contact. He wanted to skim his tongue along the inside of Peter’s mouth, to catch his lips and never let them go. To rake his hands through and push away all of Peter’s layers. To hold Peter on his lap and fuck him there.

Even if he had no idea how to go about it -- wouldn’t hurt to try.

Felix tried to press forward without breath, and for a moment, he thought it might work.

He didn’t get very far before a hand to the chest restrained him. Peter drew one of his brows upwards and smirked, shoving Felix backwards into the leather seats and away from the smoky smooth lips.

“Down boy.”

And when Peter smirked, Felix thought he might’ve come right there if he wasn’t so damn frustrated.

Obviously, Peter liked to flirt. And there was no doubt he spent a great deal of their time together, both sober and high, flirting and murmuring heated suggestions he wouldn't actually carry out. Felix might have thought it actually meant something if not for the fact that Peter flirted with everyone.

He’d bat his eyes at Ruby when they’d go to Granny’s for breakfast on Saturdays, giving her a large tip and going through the typical suggestions and clever comments about waffles.

He’d smile at that girl from school, Wendy, and thank her for the chemistry notes, making his his vibrato billow between them.

He’d wrap his arm around the boy from the soccer team and say something incredibly British about “football” with a smile that was too broad to be genuine.

And then he’d look Felix in the eye as though daring him to do something about it.

What Felix wanted was to grab Peter by the shoulders and burn him with the ashes from his last cigarette. He wanted to snatch the arms that bumped the boy’s shoulders. He wanted to bite the lips that smiled at Wendy and occupy the tongue that flirted with Ruby. All thought stopped there, however; the truth being he couldn’t do anything, and Peter knew it. So, he’d keep a straight face and just let it happen.

He’d gone in over his head within the first few minutes of knowing the kid and, the funny thing was, he didn’t mind it.

He didn’t mind it at all, actually, and when he stumbled back into his house that night, no longer made light from the influence of fog, he still had a small smile on his face.

Peter had been annoying at the time, fucking teasing and playing him like that, but in hindsight it hadn't been so bad. And even if it had been, it was the closest Felix had ever gotten to anything. If annoying was the price for being seventeen and entirely inexperienced, and if Peter would be the one to annoy him, Felix was oddly okay with that.

He made a beeline for the kitchen and had proceeded to open a box of Cheez-Its with his teeth before he even noticed his mother. She was leaning on the counter, still in her nurse’s uniform with a too-full wine glass and an irritated expression.

If he’d noticed her before, he would have turned back and bought food at the gas station. He tried to ignore her, stuffing his face with the crackers and filling a glass with water to try to drown her out.

He wasn’t quick enough, though. And she spoke.

“You smell like pot.”

Felix just shrugged and crammed a few more crackers in his mouth, partially from hunger and partially because he didn’t want to say something out of line.

His mom sighed. “Where do you even get that shit, huh? Your sorry excuse for a job? Smells bad enough in there I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Felix sighed irritably and decided to damn niceties and strike chords. “How was the psych ward today? Say ‘hi’ to Dad?”

“Felix, I’m warning you--”

“I hear electroshock therapy is making a comeback. Hear it brutally destroys a man from the inside--”

The woman slapped an open envelope onto the counter. Her fair brows knit together and her stained lips pursed. Curious, Felix approached it and, upon noticing the paper with its teal GED Testing Services logo, saw red.

“You opened my mail?”

“You flunked.” Her voice raised. “You’re in the fucking 200s. Did you even attempt to pass or were you too busy making a dick of yourself and getting high?”

Felix crumpled the envelope and shoved it down the garbage disposal, which immediately choked and spluttered to the foreign substance, cogs stopping.

“Smart.” His mother commented. “Try controlling your anger every once in a while, huh?”

“Why?” Felix slouched against the grinding sink, feeding himself more crackers. “You don’t.”

She said something in reply, but Felix had stopped listening, paying more attention to the vibrating in his pocket. Pulling out his phone, he turned away rudely from the woman and headed down the hall and into his room, smiling softly at the fuzzy text on the screen.

“Where the hell are you going?” The voice came from the kitchen.

“To bed.”
________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

A few weeks later, Peter sprawled flat on his bed with his muffler draped over his face, old smoke lingered on the fabric and he inhaled it slowly. He longed for a high, for a haze, for something to remove the humiliation of miscalculating.

Felix, so it seemed, was the outlier in Storybrooke. Everyone else had built a brick wall and dug a moat kilometres deep around themselves whenever Peter tried to make nice.

At first, it had been a challenge, and Peter was able to smile and chat his way into some of the citizen’s heads. But they were always reserved, always pushing away, as though he had a sign painted onto his forehead proclaiming Danger!

That warning sign wouldn’t have been lying, and it was funny to see grown men skirt around him with their tails between their legs, but damn, Peter couldn’t get anything done with everyone so wary.

Back at school, he’d had any assortment of boys and girls (and a few professors) at his disposal. It hardly mattered what he wanted, because he knew he’d get it. But an ugly diagnosis and a new backdrop can change everything, and the doors to the townspeople's minds were sealed tight.

Part of him wanted to rise to the challenge, just to have the knowledge that he could do anything , but frankly it would take too long. He’d have to find each person individually and then evaluate if they were important enough for him to bat his eyes and make the charm drip from a tap. It was exhausting.

It would come with time, he knew. He just had to be patient and wait for the opportunity to present itself.

In the meantime, it wasn’t as though he was completely alone. Within a few days, it became clear that Felix was completely smitten with him. And within the month? By that point Felix was all but literally giving him head.

So, even if it didn’t balance out, it made things interesting.

One person on his knees for Peter’s every command was better than nobody. And perhaps if the citizens of Storybrooke saw how tender he could be with the another living, breathing human being, they’d warm up to him and sink in under his wing.

In spite of himself, Peter felt a feather-light tickle under his ribcage as Felix entered his mind.

He had pulled out all the stops on this one, and it appeared as though his efforts would be rewarded. He’d noticed over the weeks of nightly walks and conversations with Felix that the boy wasn't one to do anything halfway. It’d pay him back handsomely if he could get that all-or-nothing mantra on his side.

Peter didn’t mind putting time and effort into relationships as long as he was paid back in full. With interest.

It appeared, he thought, as though with Felix, he’d get collateral added to the cheque.

In the meantime, it was awfully fun to lace his words with double entendre and make the taller boy squirm. He often thought back to the shotgun game they’d played in the back of Felix’s car. It had been two rewards for the price of one, getting the physical stimulation from the raw actions and the mental rapture from watching Felix’s mind blow out. The whole experience had been exhilarating.

There was something about messing with Felix that always was exhilarating, though.

He flashed back to a few days before. He’d skipped sixth period and since Felix wasn’t off his shift yet, wound up lying back in the bed of some bloke’s pickup over at Tillman’s. He spent the time narrating his frustrations with the town whilst rolling his feet over Felix’s shoulders as the boy blushed and pretended to screw a license plate back on.

Felix had shrugged away the feet and set his teeth. Peter could all but hear the internal commentary. Focus, focus, focus.

“Am I distracting you?” Peter had teased.

Felix grunted his affirmation.

“But I’m not even trying. Shouldn’t you have better self control than that?”

There wasn’t a formal reply, just a tiny simmering growl.

Peter shifted forward on the back of the truck. “Aren’t you fun when you’re on your knees.”

Felix glared through piercing eyes that, in that moment, looked more silver than grey. Peter laughed, disguising the metallic bite he felt behind those eyes.

He could feel the hot tension locked into Felix and wanted to laugh. He knew that in that moment Felix wanted nothing more than to crash their mouths together. He wanted to start a tussle, Peter knew, that would end with Felix bent over the edge of the pickup, moaning and bucking back as Peter drilled into him.

And honestly Peter half wished Felix had done just that.

Blinking himself out of his memory, Peter frowned to find himself sinking into the memory foam, his zip pulled down, kneading away at a half-risen stiffy.

Shit.

He hadn’t meant to start wanking, and he rarely did anything without intention. But, hell, he was tired, and it had been a long day. Might as well give himself release, he thought with a shrug. He’d wanted a high anyway…

No. Hell no.

Peter shook his head and put himself away. He would not lower himself to the whims of his own biology and base chemistry just because he didn’t have extrinsic sedation.

But, on the other hand, that is the entire point...

No, he chastised himself. It’s the principle of the thing.

He certainly wasn’t going to get himself off to the memory of silver eyes.

He wasn’t going to do himself what he knew Felix would be more than happy to do for him. He just had to wait for the opportune moment, for all the pieces to slot together, and (most importantly) to make sure he had a way out in case things went badly.

But he was getting a little impatient.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Although Peter's house wasn’t winning any awards for interior design, in comparison, Felix’s was complete shit.

There was a musty smell of dirt, dog piss, and beer throughout the place, dirt gathered in stray corners, the boxy telly in the den had antennas. Dishes piled high in the sink, any photographs had cracked and hung skewed against the dirt-smeared wall.

Peter tiptoed down the dark hallway towards the sound of running water. He stopped for a moment as a light flicked off and on again from beneath a door. Breaking and entering wasn’t anything new to him, but this was the first time he’d done it while people had actually been in the house. He waited a moment, but then continued on down the hall until he reached the door he was looking for, lifting the lightswitch and dipping behind the faux wood and into Felix’s room.

The carpet was bleak patterns that all faded together in the same dingy brown. Stacks of books tottered in the corners, squished together from floor to ceiling. Thick, leather bound ones, the kind assigned for analysis in school. There was a rickety bedside table with a dying shadeless lamp. His mattress was sunken in to the point Peter could tell in seconds the exact position the boy slept in (on his back like a soldier). The sheets were well-worn and thin. No posters or photographs lined the walls, but there was a single crack extending from corner to corner opposite the seated window, mimicking the same pattern as the scar on his boy’s face.

Pathetic was the only word to spring to mind.

At least it didn't smell like the rest of the house; it smelled like Felix. Cheap cologne, tobacco, weed, the leather from his car, hot skin.

Peter fell down on the bedspread, the rickety mattress giving way underneath him. There was a yellowing copy of The Catcher in the Rye on the bedside table and, with nothing else to do, Peter began to thumb through the brittle pages.

He wasn't reading, not really, and was just biding his time before things would get interesting.

He’d flipped through the entire book by the time Felix pushed the door open, toweling through his hair. He was in thin flannel pyjama bottoms and a damp t-shirt that clung to his skin so tightly that Peter could make out his ribs and the concave of his stomach with his lips twitching upwards for half a second.

Felix jumped when they made eye contact, but was otherwise entirely calm and, so it appeared, amused. “How’d you get in here?”

“The front door,” Peter snorted, closing the book. “You really should lock it up at night.”

Felix grunted. “What do you want, Peter?”

With a toss of his head, Peter slid into an upright position, with one knee raised and the other falling over the edge of the bed. “I was bored and you didn’t answer your phone.”

Felix didn’t reply, sifting his feet underneath him, wringing out his hair and throwing the towel onto the nearest stack of books.

“Wasn’t because you were taken with this shit, was it?” Peter asked, lifting the book to eye level.

“That shit?” Felix’s amusement wavered.

Peter shot the taller boy a funny look.

“What?” Felix grumbled, taking a seat on the falling mattress. “I like to read.”

“Because you have no friends?”

“You think I have no friends?”

“I know you have no friends.” Peter grinned and added, “Apart from me, that is.”

Felix rolled his eyes, opting against response.

“So, The Catcher in the Rye?” Peter leafed through the pages of the book on his hand, squinting at the tiny font.

“I like it,” Felix shrugged.

“It’s about a bastard who doesn’t do anything but sit around and complain about how fake everyone is and how everything changes.” Peter scoffed. “As though he can’t do anything about it.”

“He can’t. Has to grow up eventually.”

“No you don’t.” Peter said easily. Then he paused. “What do you like about it?”

Felix sighed. “Dunno. He’s pulled into growing up when he doesn’t want to...and he’s alone enough, but he needs somebody. I can relate.”

“You need somebody?” Peter evaluated him. “That’s awfully weak of you.”

Felix snorted; a closed up smile and a sort of victorious mirth. Peter’s ribs tremored under his skin, and he had a sudden urge to redirect the subject.

“How can you stand this? Sitting by passively reading about other people having adventures.” He scoffed. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of your own?”

“In Storybrooke?” Felix’s voice dripped with disdain, but his eyes twinkled lightly.

“It happens more than you think,” Peter replied easily, leaning forward over his knees, tossing the book behind him on the mattress. “Affairs. Soap opera drama. I think the Sheriff’s fucking the Mayor-- or vice versa.”

“Allow me to rephrase. Nothing happens to me.”

Felix caught his eyes again, and the fog set in, rolling over the planes of the room, breaking apart at the stacks of books and set the floor ablaze. That damn tremor was back in Peter’s ribcage.

“Can I?” Peter asked slowly, scooting closer to Felix on the bedspread.

Felix’s light brows furrowed as he choked on the breath in his throat. “What?”

“Can I,” One hand found Felix’s bony knee, and his voice lowered. “Happen to you?”

Felix’s shoulders were stiff, as though he was sitting on the head of a pin, his eyes wide, his breathing lagging.

“You really shouldn't be so responsive,” Peter laughed. “It only encourages me.”

The grey eyes darkened.

“What’s the look?” Peter’s lips drooped.

“And,” Felix shifted on the bedspread, turning so he hit Peter's lifted knee. “What happens if I want to encourage you?”

“You don’t.”

Felix wasn’t the argumentative type, and thus sighed, averting his eyes to the floor. In everything but the warmth radiating from their sides, the previous exchange was forgotten, usurped by typical conversation. It was slightly infuriating to Felix, Peter could tell, but he still didn’t do anything about it. Peter wondered how much longer he could push the boundaries before Felix snapped, and as he wondered, he skimmed his hand over Felix's damp sleeves and shoulders.

He pressed in closer. “Wanna shotgun?”

“We’re not smoking.” Felix frowned, shoulders stiffening away from their typical slouched languor.

“I know.”

Felix felt as though the blankets had been yanked from underneath him. He was almost sheepish when he asked-- almost begging, “What are you playing at?”

“Believe it or not,” Peter was all smiles as his other hand ran up Felix’s side to his shoulder, capping over the edge and pressing into his chest. “I’m being very straightforward right now.”

The door swung open and Felix shot halfway across the bed away from Peter as a tall, severe woman in a nurse’s uniform entered the room. Her lightly-lined face had a few days worth of makeup on it, doing nothing to mask the surprise and frustration on her face.

Peter looked over to Felix and felt a hammer in his gut from the way the boy folded over on himself. He seemed so small…so distressingly useless.

The woman’s nose wrinkled. “Really, Felix?”

Felix’s teeth scraped together as though he’d been stabbed.

“First you flunk out of school. Then you’re too stupid to actually get your GED. You decide to slave away at the fucking auto shop. And then with the drugs. You already seemed sold on being a failure. But now you’re queer, too? Your daddy’d shoot you for this.” She spat out every word like it was venom. “Are you so determined to disappoint me?”

Felix let out a shallow breath and did his best to look intimidating. “I actually don’t think of you at all if I can help it.”

Her hand flew, cutting through the air and smacking down across Felix’s cheek, leaving a sharp pink mark across the scarred side of his face. “You’re so ungrateful. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Felix didn’t respond. Peter could practically see words boiling in his head, but his need for composure kept them caught in his throat.

Peter, on the other hand, didn’t have the same need. He slid off the mattress as the woman continued to spit acid at her son as though he weren’t there and began fumbling through drawers. The keys were on top of the dresser, and Peter grabbed them, snatching the bag of weed next to them as an afterthought.

He walked up to the side of his friend and quickly pressed the keys into Felix’s palm.

“Drive me home.” He ordered, cutting the woman off mid-sentence and headed out the door, knocking shoulders roughly with her on his way past.

He didn’t have to look to know that Felix would follow him, never mind what punishment his mother might have stocked away, but he did nonetheless. And Felix had followed with a handprint on his cheek and a light missing from his eyes.

Felix didn’t look Peter in the eye when he turned the key in the ignition and they were both silent until they broke to Main Street. Felix had only just pressed the turn signal to go to Peter’s street when the silence broke.

“Keep going.” Peter ordered, sounding bored.

Felix blinked at him, but returned the signal to its neutral position. “Where to?”

“I’ll let you know.” Peter tossed his head, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an unfiltered cigarette. “Want one?”

Felix shook his head.

“You sure? It’ll relax you.” Peter flicked the radio on, and they drove for a while longer to the low thumping of the Billboard’s Top 10.

Peter puffed silently as he watched Felix drive, instructing him occasionally to keep going.

It was all very good timing, he thought. But still, he hadn’t liked how the boy had folded and sunk into a shell in the presence of his mother. That wasn’t a trait he could use. So, he frowned.

“Why do you still live there?” He asked.

Felix rested his left arm against the window and massaged his temples. “I’m seventeen; I don’t have a choice.”

“Sure you do. There’s always options. Get a flat somewhere in town.” As an afterthought, he put in, “My family owns the entire bloody town, I’m fairly certain we can be an exception for legalities.”

“We?” Felix’s face knit together. It felt like he was holding a breath. “You want to live together?”

Peter laughed. It hadn’t been his exact thought, but it wasn’t an unappealing idea. “It does add up like that, doesn’t it?”

They came up to the green sign posted between two oak trees: Leaving Storybrooke.

“Keep driving.”

And of course, Felix did. He kept driving for hours, and the lonely country road turned to motorway. They kept on the motorway for a few hours, occasionally bobbing their heads to the radio, occasionally listening to Peter spout stories and opinions about this or that. It was comfortable, the scene in Felix's room almost forgotten, and the night just turned blacker the longer they went.

Eventually, though, Felix had to take an exit to fill up at the petrol station. Peter shot out of the car, paying for the petrol itself, rummaging amongst the magazines and soda bottles while Felix filled the car, and returning with a large paper bag. He pulled out a packet of Marlboros and two fizzy drinks, but then rolled the top of the bag, concealing the contents from Felix’s sight.

Before pulling back onto the motorway, Felix turned to him, grey eyes boring through the surface, watching Peter as he took a sip from his Coke, watching his throat dip as he swallowed.

“What?” Peter demanded roughly, removing his lips from the bottle.

“Are we running away?”

“Don’t you want to?” Peter smirked and then twitched his nose. “No. Not yet.”

“Then what are we doing?” Felix asked as he pressed on the accelerator, charging onto the motorway.

“Blowing steam,” Peter said with a tone of finality, lifting a cigarette between his fingers, lips twitching upwards. “Or, well, smoke I suppose.”

“How do you mean?” Felix passed the only other car on the motorway and accelerated, the streetlights above blurring.

“You need to walk away from your shitty life,” Peter relaxed his head against the back of the seat. “Your mum’s a bitch, your dad’s psychotic, you’re going in circles. And I’m the only person in the world who’s willing to help you take those steps away. So I will from time to time.”

Felix still didn’t seem to understand, but didn’t break his eyes from the road.

They kept the car running until midnight. They’d skirted and wandered on motorway all the way to some lonely car park on a hill somewhere in New Hampshire.

They parked, and Peter slid into the back seat over the center consul, wrapping the fleece blanket Felix kept in there around his shoulders, as Felix stepped outside for a more graceful trip around.

Felix opened the door of the back seat, keeping it ajar for a beat, and scanned the boy leaning against the opposite window with dark curiosity.

“If you won’t come in I’ll just stretch out and sleep here on my own.” Peter sighed with a shrug, pulling his paper bag from the petrol station with him into the back seat.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Felix ducked his head and pulled himself into the vehicle beside Peter, locking the doors behind him.

“I’m not,” Peter shrugged easily, “I’m doing this for me.”

Felix paused. “I don’t understand.”

“You know,” Peter tossed his head towards the boy opposite him. “I can’t do everything on my own. It helps to have people I can use to my advantage.”

It didn’t seem to phase Felix that Peter just flat out told him he was using him. "What advantage do you need?"

"The freedom to do whatever I want when I want it.”

“You’re eighteen; shouldn't that come with the territory?” Felix didn't seem to buy it. “And how does this come from that?”

Peter gave a small smile and batted his eyes. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

Felix flushed.

“Ah yes,” Peter said softly, lifting his eyes to Felix’s after one lingering sweep up his entire body. “What could I possibly have meant by that?”

Felix fell back against the closed door, looking at Peter quizzically. With a small shudder that looked involuntary, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter.

As he flicked it on and off in nervous habit, it was as though someone was shaking an electric torch over Felix’s face as different facets darted in and out of view. A shaking brow, teeth over the edge of cracked lips, nose flaring, cheek twitching upwards.

“Don’t you have something to say?” Peter’s tone was bright, but his eyes lacked any illumination.

Felix shook his head, confused.

“Then allow me.”

His mind buzzing with possibilities, what-ifs, and weighing the likelihood of different courses of action, Peter pulled off his jacket, noticing how Felix’s eyes shamelessly swung down as the material fell to the ground under the seats.

He grinned. “You’re being obvious.”

Felix withdrew into himself, flicking the lighter on and off again.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, your little crush on me is endearing.” He laughed as Felix blanched. “But I’ve had enough.”

Something was broken behind Felix grey eyes. “Okay. Sorry I'll...stop.”

The overhead lights in the car flipped off, leaving them only with the hanging streetlamp a few metres away to distinguish and features or expression from the other. It was almost like candlelight.

Brow lifted, Peter shifted forward on his knees so he was just before the boy. He hummed slightly as he took his hand and ran his fingernails against the grain on Felix’s jawline. The taller boy shivered, but caught his wrist just as Peter’s fingers were sliding up to his ear.

“What are you doing?” Felix’s whisper was desperate. Begging and pleading for ambiguity to vanish.

“Ohhh,” Peter drew out the vowel, allowing his pitch to rise. “Bit more than a crush, then?”

“You just said--”

“Aren’t you funny,” Peter teased, swinging his leg over Felix, straddling his hips, waving momentarily downwards to scrape against the slowly lifting denim. “Like I said, I’ve had enough.”

Felix blinked, confused by the contradictions.

Peter pushed down trying to balance on the narrow seats, sliding onto his hands and knees, noticing how Felix followed and fell in under him like a shadow. He had Felix pressed against the car’s door, slumped into an upright position.

He locked eyes with the confused boy, lowering his fingers and watching as the lower lip dipped with him. His middle finger fell into the cleft of Felix’s chin, drawing it lower onto his throat, scraping his nails lightly against the bulging Adam’s apple that bobbed nervously.

Felix was quiet, causing laughter to well in the other boy. He was tentative, but his hands lifted and settled on Peter’s waist, feeling the muscle underneath his clothes.

“I’ve had enough of the flirting,” Peter murmured, pressing lightly into Felix’s throat, making the boy splutter and feeling a rabbit’s pulse beneath his fingers. “Haven’t you?”

Felix’s breath labored, hands gripping tighter on the waist looming over him.

"Flirting's boring." Peter licked his lips, rotating his hand to push the fringe above Felix’s eyes back.

Felix’s face was blown, all confusion and questions he didn't dare ask.

“Don't be stupid. You’re too smart to be stupid.” Peter feigned impatience. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Felix’s breath was shaky, weak from the constant use of smoke. His eyes were intense, stabbing through the green. “Maybe.”

“Too bad,” Peter’s hands raked through his hair, before skimming it down the other boy’s skinny shoulders as he went. “Spelling is almost as boring as flirting. Do you know what’s not boring?”

He laughed as Felix stared at him, waiting for the facts of boring versus not boring to enter his brain.

With a toss of the head, Peter tightened his grip on Felix’s shoulders, shifting to align them to the best of his ability.

“Fucking,” He said after a beat, watching Felix turn crimson at the word. “Fucking isn’t boring at all.”

“You want to…” Felix’s eyes drew tight. “You wanna fuck me?”

Peter laughed. “There it is; not stupid after all.”

He craned down, catching Felix’s lips between his. One slow movement, soaking in the motion of two mouths together. Minute pressure as the softer padding met rough skin. Innocent suction that broke on contact with a muted, sensual popping. It was disgustingly and uncharacteristically soft, almost tenderly ramming down barriers and boundaries to permit the deviant to crawl through.

Peter pulled away; he watched as Felix’s eyes came fluttering open, hazy already. With a devilish grin, Peter reached into the paper bag, pulling out a slim bottle.

“That was quick,” Felix’s eyes grew as he panted with half frightened amusement.

“Not really; it’s been months to get to this point.” Peter nestled his teeth on the ridges on either side of Felix’s neck. “But you’re not ready yet. Not by far. But you’ll need it. Trust me.”

Felix’s chest heaved, eyes sparking in the dim light.

“Even with it you’ll be sore tomorrow,” With a smirk, Peter trailed his fingers down Felix’s waving stomach. “Excruciatingly so.”

Felix’s hand slipped lower, skimming over Peter’s arse before pushing him in closer until he was sitting in the space between Felix’s parted knees with his thighs on either side of Felix’s hips. The other hand fell forward gripping the jutting hipbone like a guardrail. Peter’s fingers coiled around the hem of Felix’s t-shirt before pulling it up over his head, accidentally and unapologetically bumping his nose with it. Felix took the hint well, starting to toy with the buttons on Peter’s cardigan.

Peter caught Felix again, his hand meshing through hair pulling him in. His tongue broke through into Felix’s mouth, wrestling back into his throat. Saliva pooled and threatened to seep through the crevices between them as Felix's tongue wrestled back. somehow they both wound up in Peter's mouth, grating muscle against teeth.

Peter's hips raced forward, knocking against Felix’s, bruising the thumb between them. Felix moaned into the movement, a mutual prickling between them, as hardness grew harder. Peter grinded against it as Felix tore the cardigan off, driving to press against the full length.

Shoving Felix's tongue out of his mouth, Peter nibbled on the sensitive area where bottom and top lip meet, tearing away his shirt by the back of the collar. Felix’s tongue broke through the instant fabric was out of the way. Peter sank into it, head falling back as the larger tongue flattened in his mouth, pressing against his teeth.

Peter pulled on Felix’s hair, allowing oxygen to separate them by molecules.

And when that wasn’t quite enough, he descended, craning to draw his tongue across the open space between Felix’s vacant lips, rolling elastic off Felix's hips and down his legs, prompting the boy to lie flat and spread on the leather seats before him, one leg lifted over the headrest and the other falling down to the ground. His stomach was heaving over a visibly quivering erection, precome dripping down towards his base.

Felix had to suppress the urge to start shaking on the seats. But he was naked and Peter was looking at him as though he was some new toy he’d just won or some rule he wanted to break.

Peter lowered himself so his breath hit skin, Felix’s head shot back with crossed eyes. Peter’s tongue caught liquid salt, curling it around to drink and let it melt in his mouth. He flicked his tongue into the slit crowning Felix’s head, absorbing the fluid that drooled out. Felix crooned and writhed against the leather as Peter’s tongue danced around him.

“Look at me, Felix.”

Felix lifted his heads, eyes wide, and Peter teased with his tongue, brushing flat along the skin, opening his mouth as though to take him in, before second guessing it and running his lips down to his base, pressing lightly over the vein. Felix knotted up, his spine arching like a cat, an unholy noise garbling up from the back of his throat.

Peter felt hands in his hair and hummed softly, tapping his own hands on the hips on either side of him. He looked up. Felix was washed out but flushed in the cheeks, chest heaving and eyes quivering. It was a pretty sight in the same pretty way he wanted to rip apart.

With a cocky smirk, he then sat back onto his knees, looming over the boy sprawled out beneath him, taking the slim bottle up again and squeezing it in short spurts over Felix bare chest. His hand caught the gel over his stomach, fanning his fingers over the boy’s middle before withdrawing with nothing more than a syrupy handprint against pale skin.

“Do you think about me?” His breath permeated every inch of the smoke-stained interior. “Do you touch yourself for me when you’re alone at night?”

Felix looked as though the entire world had gone black, all except for the boy pressed in over his face He had goose pimples from sweat evaporating away from his skin. Completely dumb, he nodded once.

Peter smiled, not quite satisfied. “I want to see.”

Felix’s breath hitched but he obeyed, a cautious hand sliding over his torso to absorb the gel with flickering fingers sliding in between his legs. His hand was soft at first, almost gentle, as it circled around his cock, his breath quivered as he felt the cool gel hit his skin and heated with the contact and he swiped forward in one deliberate movement.

Peter saw the precome as it leaked out Felix’s tip, mixing with the lube and looking so similar he couldn’t tell the difference. Felix’s fingers slid back to his base to make its way again, but faster and his knuckles flexed with heated pressure and rhythm.

“Keep going.” Peter’s voice caught on the consonants, eyes darkening, lowering the zip over his own jeans.

Felix’s hand pumped slowly at first, staring into Peter’s eyes. The darkness behind them enveloped him into a world of green. Peter lifted a brow and Felix quickened his pace, pulling and tugging and pumping harder and faster until the shivering became involuntary.

Peter’s hand had disappeared beneath fabric without his permission, the built shoulders titling with his motions. Pressure built, the pins and needles were contagious, slipping between Felix and Peter and into both of them.

For the second time, Peter hadn’t meant to touch himself. But the look on Felix’s face was enough to make him forgo his convictions. Just this once.

Grey stared into green, hazy light between them, vision blurring and doubling.

Peter felt filmy sweat take over his body, fluid and electricity erasing language and coherence. He slipped his own hand up and down, squeezing harder than normal. He could feel it all, swept up in imagination. Watching how Felix pulled on his own cock, mimicking the motion so he could imagine it was his in the larger hand. He pumped his own hand, pretending it was another’s flushed and wet erection between his fingers.

Spit seeped through his lips as Felix rocked and curled into his palm, eyes never leaving his, as though he were afraid it’d disappear if he blinked.

Felix’s face was contorting in, his eyes threatening to close. Peter suddenly felt something else pooling in his stomach. Greed and want and a kind of possessiveness that filled his lungs and drowned him.

Catlike, Peter pounced, smashing down on top of Felix, grasping the previously occupied hand and holding it above his head. Felix stared, pupils shaking, as Peter’s hand flexed around him.

His voice was raspy, sifting like wind against stone. “Let’s see if reality is better than fantasy.”

Peter winced as Felix reciprocated the sentiment, the callouses scraping up against him tentatively, pulsing patterns into him.

Felix flattened his palm against Peter, slowly drawing his fingers through the trail of wiry hair by his stomach before coiling back around, encircling it completely, pulling back towards them.

Peter wouldn’t be outdone by his own distraction, pushing and kneading at Felix, falling back to use both hands, one to roll and catch the liquid as it spurted out, and one to skim down the whole length and tease at the base.

Felix whined, eyes blowing back. “Peter...I think I -- oh shit, I’m gonna…”

Peter relaxed his hand, drawing his palm almost delicately up the shaft.

“Hold off.” He panted, feeling the burning that was building, but not quite there yet. “Top comes first.”

Felix winced, as though nodding hurt him, fingers splaying along Peter, pumping faster to catch the smaller boy up to him. Peter’s face fell down to Felix’s, labored breaths mixing between them.

Peter laughed when Felix’s hand seemed to weaken, but then spasmed over him, causing mutual twitching and shaking.

Nearly faltering, Peter’s tongue hung out, vision doubling as Felix bit down on it, fingers steepling with well-versed precision, hitting all the right nerves.

Peter moaned, loud and ragged into the other’s teeth, diaphragm lurching, shooting out messily into Felix’s hands. He stayed his hand for a moment, knees weakening beneath him, basking in the warm euphoria, the warm prickly orgasm flushing through his veins.

Felix’s hand immediately fled Peter, shooing the other hand on him, beginning his own furious rhythm, sliding Peter’s come to mix with everything else along his shaft.

As Peter’s vision came back to clarity, his stomach clenched at the rate and ferocity that Felix clawed at himself, extra incentive behind the memory of Peter’s release.

Felix nuzzled his lips under Peter’s chin, asking permission.

“All right, Felix.” Peter tongue caught on the folds of skin over his ear, replacing Felix’s hand with his. “Go ahead.”

Felix’s hips tilted into Peter’s hand, breaking through his grasp, sliding through with wet ease, spurting and making a mess as he went, a trilling guttural that broke through Peter’s ears, vibrating through his skull.

Giving a final brush before Felix deflated completely, Peter took Felix’s sticky hand, dripping with both of them, pressing it against the boy’s mouth, easing the white streams of come through his lips to mix and dissolve into the saliva.

Felix swallowed it greedily in a way that made Peter’s heart stammer.

Although the effect in his ribcage angered him, Peter smirked as Felix’s sopping hand coiled around the back of his neck and their mouths came together; there was something thrilling in tasting himself on Felix’s rough lips. Keeping the contact, he scraped his teeth before adding tongue to soothe the wound.

It was silent for a beat, except for the humming of the streetlamp and the heavy breathing and the wet popping between kisses.

“What now?” Felix’s breathing slowed when they stopped, not taking his eyes away from Peter’s.

“We burn through the pack,” Peter sat back, cracking his neck, admiring the aesthetics of his friend unraveled. “And in about twenty minutes, I’ll show you why you really need that bottle.”

Everything moved in slow motion in the back seat of Felix’s car as the rest of the world slipped, leaving them behind in their own little neverland.

They nestled under the fleece blanket, with Peter’s head leaning back onto Felix’s chest. The seat of his jeans scraped along the inside of Felix’s thigh, but they reclined, taking fire onto their tongues and murmuring to each other through the haze.

“If we do run away,” Peter craned his head back to get a better look at Felix. From his position under the boy’s face, he could see the bumps and ridges of his scar in startling three-dimensions. “Where would you want to go?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Well I can’t make all the decisions,” Peter returned his head to a comfortable position to start smoking again. “You do have some say.”

“Some say?” Felix chuckled.

“You’re not my housewife or anything,” Peter shoved his shoulder backwards to hit Felix’s protruding chest plate. “But I think we both know you’ll do what I want.”

Felix kept a tiny whirring in the back of his throat. “I know what’s best for me.”

“No you don’t. I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“I don’t know about that.” Felix tightened his hands around Peter’s waist, pulling down the denim and stained boxers still hanging off Peter’s form. “But you happened.”

As the cloth skimmed down his legs, Peter laughed and turned around, kicking to be better free of constraint. He faced Felix, pushing up to his knees so he loomed over the blond. “And I’m about to happen again.”

And then in the haze of smoke, lips met skin again.

Peter felt a burning tongue dripping and trailing up on his neck, roiling into it. Felix bobbed his head up to the base of Peter’s jawline, flicking his tongue as it hit muscle and nerves. And then, rolling back on itself, the tongue traced downwards, taking a moment to leave a small shiny pool in the dips under his collarbone.

Peter watched as he went, eyes shutting and little small gasps drowning in his throat as the tongue got to know his sweat and skin intimately. His hand shot into Felix’s hair as his teeth and tongue caught his nipple, tangling through to keep it there a second more before the kisses moved to his abdomen.

Tongue and lips and spit ran down from force of gravity. The same basic draw seemed to control Felix, too, as his head fell down and he busied himself sucking and biting on Peter’s hip bone.

“Don’t be shy,” Peter growled, jostling his hips to bring his cock closer to Felix’s nose.

Felix simply laughed and began to coat the other hip with his tongue. And then he started over again, getting to know every inch of Peter with his mouth. Every inch, that is, other than the precise places Peter wanted him to know.

He dragged his tongue up Peter’s body in one final sloppy brush upwards, leaving a stream of thick wetness to fall down, ending as he capped at the tip of Peter’s chin, taking up his lips.

Peter’s tongue took over from there, graciously granting Felix’s respite from its work while at the same time stabbing it with tremors and sharp pricks of hunger.

Hands slipped and slid over wet skin, Peter pressed forward, and Felix fell on his back, the wind bursting out of him with more power than he could get on his own.

Peter nudged into Felix’s face, biting. His hands flittered to Felix’s shoulders and dragged down, digging in his nails, leaving streams and rivers in his wake.

He smirked to himself. It was impossible to tell what fluid was what on Felix’s sprawled body. It was hard to tell sweat from lube, and impossible to identify Felix’s flaking come from Peter’s. Only the blood that started to trickle had anything to identify itself.

Peter’s hands grazed downwards, flexing over ribcage and pelvis, until they landed comfortably on Felix’s knees. His palm straightened, sloping over kneecaps to the inside of Felix’s legs.

Grey eyes widened and breath hitched.

Peter smirked, pressing outwards so Felix’s knees were spread out underneath him in the same manner they’d been before -- one lifted into the back window, the other digging heels into the floor.

He kissed Felix again and again. Lips and teeth scraping and biting, heavy and intoxicated tongues collided and spun as Peter’s hands turned slippery under the bottle and moved to the tops of Felix’s thighs; the boy shivered as Peter’s hands moved inward.

“Nervous?” Peter cocked a brow.

Felix panted, but Peter could tell the answer was yes.

Biting down on Felix’s chin, Peter relaxed his tongue against the cleft at the same moment he broke through muscle, making the body beneath him jolt. He sniggered. “You should be.”

Felix writhed under him, receptive to every movement with startling exaggeration, making the prickling welling up under Peter’s abdomen and between his thighs even more intense.

He felt Felix’s tongue slide up the inside of his cheek, slick and needy. Peter wrestled him out, watching Felix’s head hit the seat as he pressed a bit harder.

“Tell me how you want it,” Peter’s breaths were toxic and delayed as he smeared his lips over Felix’s scar. “Should I fuck you hard? Make you beg for mercy? Or,” He widened his eyes in mockery of the idea. “Would you rather I make it delicate? Do you want to make love?”

Felix’s voice had practically blown out. He shook his head on the fleece blanket. “Neither.”

“Oh?”

Felix sighed out as Peter’s fingers moved.. “I want it...like you….Just you.”

“Sweet of you.” Peter’s teeth grated against his lips, scraping down to his chest. “But is that permission?”

Felix shivered on his hands, nodding furiously and combing Peter’s hair though his fingers.

Peter smirked. “What’s the permission for?”

“Whatever you want.”

“You shouldn’t have said that.” Peter laughed and it looked like there was a fire flickering in the back of his eyes. His tongue slithered over Felix’s teeth, and he sucked away the nicotine.

Chapter Text

The windows of Felix’s car were fogged as usual. But, this time, it wasn’t from smoke.

Startled, Felix had broken the kiss apart when Peter snuck a second finger through and began to separate them, pressing against his insides.

Felix’s teeth gritted together, trying to break his jaw. “Slow down.”

Peter glared, but delayed the steeple in his fingers. Virgins typically took an extra dose of patience Peter didn’t have, but Felix’s reactions came without delay, so it almost evened out.

He suckled onto the lips below him, and with horrible sluggishness, intending to tease him and make Felix regret his request, pressed a blunted fingernail against the straining muscle.

A whimper died in Felix’s throat, along with murmurs and expletives and the unholiness ridden in a two syllable name as he reared his head back to hit the grooves in the seat underneath his hair.

Peter cocked a brow and tongued his own bottom lip. “Oh you’ll have to take more than that.”

Felix’s eyes sparked, heated and heavy -- even the shine in his eyes was begging and demanding to be swept up and away, rocked and pounded. “I know.”

“Then let’s get on with it, shall we?”

It was hard to say, in the quaking car parked in some insignificant city in New Hampshire, when the preparation bled into foreplay, and when the foreplay bled even further.

Peter scraped his teeth down the thin neck in front of him, sucking blotchy purple bruises all over Felix’s chest, collar, neck. As he did so, he coiled his free hand around a sweaty and trembling thigh, lifting it up onto his shoulder, bending the boy in half. A low rattling gasp rose from the forced flexibility, but doubled over with reasonable ease.

Peter felt Felix heels bump against the bottom of his shoulder blades as he shifted in order to lift his lower half, removing hands and positioning himself with an oddly considerate additional dabbing of gel.

He raised a brow to the boy in front of him, who was shaking with heavy breath, with eyes that never shut up, darting up and down his body, nervous and curious and adoring and one of the closest things to perfect submission Peter had seen in a long time.

“Ready?”

Felix nodded.

Peter was lit up, smirking as he asked, “Now, do you mean?”

With an aggravated sigh, Felix tightened his leg, compressing Peter between calf and thigh, pressing his hips upwards, leaking cock hitting Peter’s stomach. There was a yelp, and Peter adjusted his hips, breaking through the surface with a sigh and jolt.

Peter had one white-knuckled hand wrapped around Felix’s wrist, pressing it against the door above their heads. The other poked and prodded into the dips and imprints from Felix’s bones, laughing at the stillness he displayed.

“Now, now, Felix,” Peter muttered into the thick air, still moving and pressing Felix further into the seats. “Don’t just -- oh god -- lie back and think of England.”

There was a beat of pulsing, delayed breath. “Oh?”

Peter hummed, laughed, and allowed a ragged chirr to rise in his stomach as he pressed on. “You’re giving me ideas I’m not convinced you’re up for.”

“I am,” Felix had to close his eyes and pause to allot for a sharp whine. “If you are.”

“Patience is a virtue.” Peter teased, pressing their hands harder into the door and slamming his hips with added vehemence.

Peter was buried to the hilt, revelling in the way Felix tensed and shook, wrestling around under him. His eyes flashed and he memorized how the boy reacted to every motion, every slip of his hands, charging into it but then collapsing down and unsure what to do.

Felix was a garbling mess, liquefying and melting in the heat compressed on top and inside him. He felt higher than he’d ever been before, every touch felt as though it left a burning, searing mark. He was somewhat embarrassed with himself for his lack of experience and the way he found himself petrified to the spot, allowing Peter alone to utilize agility. But then he found his brain incomprehensive to coherent embarrassment in favor of soaking in euphoria as Peter found the right bundle of nerves.

Peter nipped at whatever skin was closest, which happened to be Felix’s mouth. Only by proximity, he moaned guttural into the surprised and nervous whimpers and trills, overpowering them, vibrating through the metal atmosphere around them.

The hands pressed against the door shifted together, melding and intertwining, fingers gone white, falling over the edge of the seat and hanging by their own accord, trembling with the movement of the attached bodies.

Felix’s legs scraped down from Peter’s shoulders, skimming the inside of his thighs down his arms and settling in between his ribs, squeezing together to shatter the bone. He removed his mouth from the hovering boy to suck on his ear, biting when Peter’s hips started shifting erratically, losing rhythm and gaining force.

Graphic profanities hit against the windows, hanging in the air as more came streaming from gritted teeth and gasping lips.

“Peter -- can I?”

“Me first.”

“Hurry up.”

And so he lost all semblance of pattern or organisation, falling victim to impulse and magnetic pulls. He hitched and he pounded and the car rattled along with him as he pressed violent and harsh
kisses and bruises wherever he could reach.

He climaxed with his teeth embedded into Felix’s jaw, unintentionally biting down and tasting iron. Peter allowed his head to fall back, the sensation between his legs prickling and releasing the tension and pressure that had dictated his movements.

And then, once it was over, he directed all his attention to the blond boy with his legs wrapped intently around his middle, open and patient for Peter to finish all while begging and whimpering for more.

It was all quite elating. Peter smiled and started up where he left off, a bit gentler from fatigue.

Felix woke up the next morning just as the streetlamps were going out in respect of the sunrise, the sky dusty pink and speckled in grey. The often overlooked time between night and day, when the world stopped and everything was beautiful.

He laid still for a beat, sticky from sweating against leather, feeling Peter's stomach rise and fall against his, the soft cheek resting limply by his collar, small wisps of air puffing onto his skin in accordance to the buoying diaphragm on top of him.

He couldn’t help but stare at the funny little way Peter furrowed his brows, as though he were concentrating on something, limp jawed and a tiny gap between his lips.

It was almost frightening how different Peter looked when he was asleep.

He looked peaceful and almost passive. His limp, sleeping form was a world away from the one who’d rocked the entire car on its wheels only a few hours before.

The air was cold in the vehicle, smoke and heating had long since faded, but it was warm underneath body and fleece blanket. Thankful for the warmth, he carefully pulled in the blanket a bit higher and pressed the body in a little tighter, eliciting a sleepy groan and opening eyes.

Peter twitched, his hair tickling Felix’s breastbone, rolling his neck lazily. He seemed content to take his time waking up. Felix didn’t mind; it wasn’t so bad being a mattress. Even if the leather seats of his car had a very good chance of ripping his skin off when he’d eventually try to sit up. It was worth it.

Felix had one arm under his neck, fingers massaging the bumps on his spine, and the other hand draped over Peter’s shoulders sometime in the night, keeping him balanced on his stomach without falling from the narrow seats.

Peter then lifted his face, chin digging into Felix’s skin. He was full to the brim with a sleepy sort of calm, and Felix absorbed it.

“Well that was fun.” Peter blinked his way into fuller consciousness..

The corners of Peter’s lips twisted upwards with a small hum, brows lifting. His hand slipped up from where it had been hanging off the seat, sliding over sore, stained skin, rubbing his fingers into a particularly splotchy bruise he’d sucked onto Felix’s collarbone.

“It’s four hours to Storybrooke. We should get going.” Peter spoke after a beat, pressing down on Felix’s chest in order to return to an upright position. “Should probably get dressed before the carpools start to arrive.” He looked out the window. “Well, we’re late for a few of ‘em...but we haven’t been arrested for dogging quite yet, so I’d say that’s a good sign.”

He crawled off Felix, pushing a little too hard into the boy’s stomach, before fishing around for clothes on the floor. Felix simply reclined and watched him, the slight line of muscle on his stomach, the oily sheen of dried sweat, flaking come, and greasy residue from various fluids that’d been so vital a few hours before. His hair had been pulled and teased and stuck up, slicked against the grain. He was a mess, and Felix couldn’t imagine how torn up he must have looked then.

“Those are mine.” Felix found himself talking as he thought, gesturing to the plaid shorts Peter was working up his thighs.

Peter gave a funny little laugh. “If you recall I came in mine last night. I’m not going to wear stained pants.”

“And I’m supposed to?”

“Yes.” Peter grinned broadly, all teeth and glowing eyes. He wadded up the material in question from the floor and threw it across the seat. To his surprise, Felix caught it. “You’ll get off on it more than I will.”

Felix frowned, but couldn’t help but admit skimming his fingers over the stale bits of fabric set his stomach humming. He shifted on the seat for a beat, settling elastic under his hip bones without sitting up, trying to put off the inevitable.

Peter lifted up the wrinkled remains of Felix’s t-shirt, holding it far enough away so Felix couldn’t reach it from his reclined position. With a glare, Felix resolved Peter was doing this on purpose, but pulled himself up to set about getting dressed, and nearly doubled over in the same movement, jolting pressure away from his hips as best he could.

Peter tongued the inside of his cheek, his voice corrosive but soft, like velvet. “Sore?”

Felix tried to glare at him, he really did, but found it evaporated instantly into the opposite. Every inch of skin and every strand of muscle begged and pleaded with him, screaming bloody murder, but in all the best ways.

Peter slid in closer to him, pulling his t-shirt back over his head, waiting for Felix to get around to pulling his arms through. “Well I did warn you, didn’t I?”

Felix sighed silently as Peter’s head poked through the top of his polo, collar sticking up in the back. Felix reached over to smooth it, and found himself pressing a thousand kisses onto Peter’s lips.

Peter was the first to break away, and he did it with a grin, while sliding into the passenger’s seat in the row in front of them.

“Come on, then.” He teased. “We’re burning daylight.”

Felix had to spend a whole minute adjusting how he was sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to find a method that would cause the least pain and throbbing in the four hour journey back to Maine. Once he found a semi-comfortable position, somewhat contorted onto his left hip, he noticed the boy beside him.

Peter was leaning onto his knuckles, amusement pouring from his eyes and his lips pulled back and a cigarette between his teeth.

This time, Felix found it very easy to glare. He spoke, but the words fell flat. “Do you have to look at me like that?”

“Yes.” Peter smirked. “I’m enjoying this far too much.”

They backed out of the parking lot around the same time a few lonely Subarus came trickling in for the carpool, it was silent for a beat, but Peter wouldn’t have that.

“It’s normal, if you’re wondering.” He said with a shrug, falling back and reclining the seat a small bit with his feet on the dashboard. “The soreness.”

“Didn’t know it was this bad,” Felix muttered, adjusting the mirrors to complement his new position as he flipped the turn signal to head down a road.

“Guess I’m just talented,” Peter laughed. And then he shrugged, fishing in the glove compartment for a lighter. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I will?”

“‘Course.” Peter lit the end of the cigarette. “I’ll make a slut of you yet. You’re already halfway there.”

Felix felt his ears get hot. “Am I?"

“Please. You were whorish.” Peter arched his back in order to realign his spine. “You owe half your pain to yourself and your begging.”

“Don’t think I was begging,” Felix offered weakly.

“Give it a bit and you will be,” Peter said in a crossbreed between a threat and a promise, prompting a small laugh that rattled in Felix’s ribcage.

The radio flipped on, and they drove in silence.

It must have looked like a scene, Felix couldn’t help but think when they stopped at the drive thru for breakfast. They looked a mess, hair still tangled, oily from sweat, grimy from sex. He imagined his car must have smelled strongly enough the poor prepubescent cashier might’ve gotten a secondhand high from the levered window. It must have been rather affronting: the smoke and drugs and sweat.

He’d have to clean out the carriage of the car, he knew. Shampoo the whole interior, spend half his paycheck in cleaning the leather. It couldn’t be harder than getting smoke stains out, though. It wouldn’t be too much of a chore.

He tried to keep his mind and attention on the road, but it was a bit difficult with the constant flashing back. He could still feel the ridges of Peter’s ribcage on the insides of his thighs. If he focused, he could still feel the hunk of metal rocking under the brute force that pounded above him. He could remember the magnet tugging at his pulse, the wet lips leaving behind splotches and bruises that would take a week to go away.

Removing a hand from the steering wheel, Felix opened his palm towards Peter. The smaller boy raised a brow at him over his breakfast. “What?”

“I need a smoke.”

Peter thumbed a cigarette up to the driver with a smirk. “I think I’ve made you an addict.”

Felix couldn’t bring himself to do anything but smile.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was the second time Peter had been on this particular motorway, headed towards Storybrooke. The first had been a sulky journey from the airport to Storybrooke itself about a month prior.

His brother had come to the airport to pick him up. No fuss made, just stiff greetings in the terminal, an overpriced airport breakfast for the road, and Neal’s little yellow car.

Through the majority of the ride, Neal looked straight forward, Peter stared out the window, watching the familiarity of busy streets and crowded walkways and skyscrapers whizz by.

The city streets turned into motorway, and the motorway turned into a lonely country road until they broke through a dense patch of forest. Oak and maple trees towered overhead, creating a permanent dusky appearance as mist rolled by like tumbleweeds in the midmorning chill.

And then, all too soon but long overdue, he saw the white sign on metal posts. It broke through weeds and ivy, the black lettering causing stark contrast against the green foliage but seeming to mesh oddly well with the grey mist surrounding them.

The butter yellow bug drove down Main Street just a touch above the speed limit. Peter viewed the shops with a critical eye. It looked much like various villages he’d visited when he went on holiday to the Continent. The quaint shops shared walls, all painted pretty colors before a spotlessly swept footways and parking metres that almost shone in the sunlight. People in bright peacoats shuffled by with their heads ducked to their feet, shuffling to their destinations.

If Peter looked to his left he could see Granny’s Diner, to the right there were the docks, and just up the road a bit was Gold’s pawn shop. And so on and so forth.

After a little while, Neal spoke. “Hopefully Belle’ll be off work. We’ll need someone to let us in.”

“You don’t have a key?”

Neal grimaced. “Yeah, but I’m not gonna sit in the receiving room twiddling my thumbs until Dad comes home.”

“I don’t need to be watched,” Peter sat forward in the seat. “You can just drop me off.”

To his surprise, Neal shot him a look of doubt.

“Not likely, man.”

“What do you think I’m gonna do?” Peter asked, arching a brow. “Set the place on fire?”

Neal glanced into the rearview mirror with the same expression the men in white lab coats had shared while prepping Peter for MRIs.

Peter gnawed on the inside of his cheek. So it appeared Daddy-dearest had sewn doubt into his behaviors even before he’d landed in Maine. Not exactly fair, now was it?

He thought about how to play it. Perhaps offended would be the best route, he considered. Something to jog sympathy or empathy or whichever was preferable. So, he sighed.

“My diagnosis is high-functioning.” Peter leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s a personality disorder, not damnation.”

“Look, Peter,” Neal said after a moment, resting a finger on his temple. He waited a bit, swallowing, and then added, “This is new. To everyone. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”

“I’m not different,” Peter said, trying to break through Neal’s skull. “I’m the same as I’ve always been. It’s just got a label now.” He gave a halfhearted little chuckle to seal the deal. “I’ve never much liked labels.”

Neal looked at his brother through big doe’s eyes. Peter had to conceal a smirk behind a faux heavyhandedness that best fit the situation.

It appeared as though Peter had an ally, if he’d just continue to play his cards right.

Neal, on the other hand, wasn’t sure how to take it. Reality had sunken in and it was apparent they were strangers.

Neal had been twelve when Peter was born, and already living in the States away from the family. He’d gotten the call that his stepmother went into labor in biology, and he’d still been so sour over his falling out with his father that he hadn’t even known she was pregnant.

He didn’t want to be strangers with his own brother, and so he made more of an effort to take holidays to see his family on the other end of the Atlantic. The only tangible results from his effort, however, was half an album of old polaroids showing himself holding up an impish baby, walking with a surly toddler, and trying to understand the complex and ever changing rules of all the games the five-year-old wanted to play.

Eventually, they lost touch. He tried to reach out to Peter when their father did It again and left his son behind half a world away in favor of coming to Maine, but by then Neal had a baby of his own and legal issues to deal with, and his intentions had not matched his actions.

But Peter was his brother, no matter what else he was, and their family was already fucked up enough. Perhaps they could try to be friends. Was Peter capable of having friends? He didn’t know, and if he was going to be entirely honest, the fact his own blood was a diagnosed sociopath was slightly frightening.

Neal and Peter were never close, but he couldn’t imagine his little brother cutting up animals for the hell of it or any of the other trademarks of antisocial personality disorders. Their father definitely had sociopathic tendencies, but Peter seemed to possess a certain degree of understanding.

It wasn’t long before they exited the business end of town. Neal turned right and drove onwards in a lonely lane. Soon enough, they reached a fork in the road entering the residential end, stopping abruptly by the curb nearest a tall house that seemed to loom over all others -- the ugly coral one with green trim.

Neal pressed on the gear shift, and they dispersed from the vehicle. Peter’s feet prickled as they woke up after the hours of sitting, but he covered his hobbling as they made their way up the porch steps.

Before they could ring a doorbell, the stain-glass door opened to the happy face of a pretty woman in a plaid skirt. She smiled and offered a friendly embrace to Neal before turning to Peter and sticking her hand out, introducing herself as Belle.

He looked her up and down briefly. He hadn’t expected his father’s fiancee to be fit in any sense of the word. Nice surprise. She had to be closer to his age than to his father’s. Good for him, Peter thought after short evaluation, stepping through the door and into the house.

Neal made himself scarce, murmuring something about picking up Henry from school and turning back into his butter-yellow car.

As though this was normal, Belle simply smiled and led Peter through the house, giving the Grand Tour. He hardly paid attention as she indicated the den, living room, office spaces, dining room, kitchen, et cetera. He knew he could figure it out on his own; it was a house, not a bloody maze.

Belle stopped at the foot of a carpeted staircase. “You’ll be up there in the attic.”

Out of sight, out of mind. Peter lowered a brow and looked up the dark staircase, swallowing his thoughts and headed up the stairs under the guise of settling in, clunking his trunk against the carpet as he went.

At the top of the stairs there was a small foyer, a door leading to a small porch alcove was on his right, and a plain wooden door with an aluminium handle. It pushed open without Peter having to twist the knob. He frowned, making a mental note to fix it.

The room itself was small, with sloped ceilings and slanted walls. An empty four-poster with splintered posts crammed against the plaster, little to no headspace on the side furthest away from him. There was an antique bedside table that Peter doubted had any real value with a shaded lamp beside it. On the opposite wall, a paper thin telly and empty picture frame.

Fully unpacked, he tossed his trunk against the footboard and took a seat, sinking into the memory foam beneath him. With a sigh, he reclined flat on his back, noticing how the mattress swallowed his sides. It seemed oddly fitting and suffocating.

He flicked on the telly and stared blankly at the intertwined sex lives of an incredibly attractive crop of hospital staff. His eyes glossed over and he ignored it, he was never one for telly. It was too passive, too boring. He could never figure out the entertainment in sitting around watching other people (and usually fictional people) have adventures or play games. Peter didn’t like sitting on the sidelines.

As the atrociously written dialogue meandered on, Peter allowed his mind to wander. Thus far, Storybrooke had met all expectations. The question, then, laid in what he could do with it. Ideally, he’d be able to get the entire town under his thumb and therefore do whatever the hell he wanted; he’d gotten close enough to it at school before his expulsion.

He knew his father had rather substantial influence in town, and therefore he already had some transitively. The question was the extent of it.

He’d have to test the waters, learn exactly how the tide swelled around Storybrooke before he did anything.

A few lengthy soap operas passed before Peter’s legs started to itch. He hated sitting around and suddenly fancied taking a little walk. It’d be better than sitting around waiting for the shit to hit the fan once Mr. Gold came home.

And so he tied on his muffler, headed out the door, and the rest was history -- cumulating in thick smog and an exchange of mobile numbers that had previously been denied.

The second time on the motorway, and the second entrance into the little pathetic town, was a significant improvement as far as Peter was concerned.

Returning to the present, he shifted his feet on the dash of Felix’s car, snagging a peek at the boy from his peripheral. He knew Felix had an odd attachment to the vehicle. Peter could only venture to guess why, but he figured it had something to do with the fact he let him get away from his family and it was one of the only things Felix could really call his.

So, it made sense to figure that there was something personal and invasive in putting his feet on the dash.

Felix noticed, but didn’t comment. Peter gave a little smirk, victory hidden in that tiny gesture. He rather liked being invasive.

New Hampshire faded away with the morning and before they knew it, Felix was pulling up by the curb nearest the ugly coral and green house.

The driveway was empty, but Felix didn’t even attempt to turn in, not even after Peter told him to put it in park and follow him in.

Felix hadn’t been in the Gold’s house for a few weeks. Not since Peter turned eighteen. He didn’t know if he expected it to look different, if he thought all scenery would change along with the rather considerable shift in his own life. However, the house was exactly the same, only the furniture was polished a bit differently, but everything else was in its designated spot, as though it would never move.

That is, until Peter walked by an antique clock and rotated the minute and hour hands along its face. Probably just for the hell of it, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

He followed Peter on his heels, as he tended to do, and found himself caught up in the memory of that last time he’d entered the house.

He’d pushed through the fancy stained-glass doors himself, with Peter’s breath on his neck. The kid had been particularly bossy the night, but since it was his birthday, Felix couldn't count it against him. He couldn’t deny, however, that there was something annoying with receiving a text a three in the morning only to find out his friend was at the Rabbit Hole, without him, grinding up against some guy who met the twenty-one and older benchmark to buy him drinks in celebration of the fact he could legally get through the doors.

Since when did legalities matter to him anyway?

Either way, Felix had skulked off to his car within thirty seconds of receiving the text, picked the boy up, and found himself walking through the front door of the Gold’s house as though it were normal.

The second they were through the door, Peter had thrown an arm around Felix’s reasonably higher shoulders, bringing him to a lower hunch than usual. He leaned into Felix and stumbled with an idiotic look on his face, acting far more intoxicated than he actually was.

Felix might’ve asked why, but after taking a few more steps into the cluttered house, he saw for himself.

Mr. Gold sat in a velveteen armchair, a needle and thread in hand. He’d looked up when the boys burst through the door, irritation settled into his sharp face.

Felix found himself stiff when he made eye contact with the older man. He hadn’t exactly met him in friendly circumstances, and wondered vaguely if Gold remembered the Great Rent Assault of 2004. Probably did; Felix didn’t wager any of the Gold men to be the type to forget that sort of thing.

Thankfully, Gold didn’t seem to care, or even take notice. He frowned at Peter, simply muttering, “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hi, Dad.” Peter slurred dumbly.

Gold shook his head, grabbing his cane and coming to an upright position. “Just get some sleep, Peter.”

Peter shrugged and turned his head to the side, pretending to find something very interesting in the freckle on Felix’s cheek, pawing at it with the pads of his fingertips. Felix tried not to blush as Peter smiled and mumbled, “C’mon, tuck me in.”

Without thinking, Felix’s eyes shifted over to Gold for a second, hesitant. The older man simply waved his hand with an indifferent expression.

The second they shuffled to the staircase, Peter dropped the drunkenness facade, all but leaping up the stairs, three steps at the time. He turned around as he reached the top step, noting Felix’s confused look.

“What?”

“What was that about?” Felix stopped a step down from Peter, having to look up at him was strange. “With...with your dad.”

“Oh that.” Peter sighed, as though bored. He turned on his heels, prompting Felix to follow with a hand motion that reminded him a bit of his father’s (not that Felix would dare say anything). “Got to keep him angry enough to lemme do what I want. There’s a--what might you call it--a fine line between us.”

“Fair enough.”

Felix hadn’t been in Peter’s more than twice before Peter’s birthday, but it hadn’t changed between visits. The scent vaguely hinted reefer and tobacco, but the maid cleaned it enough that it mostly carried the scent of night air and cut wood. It was all color-coordinated in greens and browns (since apparently color coordination was what the wealthy did), lit by warm lamps that gave the impression of firelight.

More interesting, however, was the fact that it was very obviously simply a place to fall asleep. Peter was the type who needed stimulation, something to do, some sort of action, at all times.The TV on the dresser and the laptop on the bedspread hardly sufficed for someone like Peter.

Felix fell down on the mattress at the other boy’s go-ahead, surprised in the lack of buoyancy as he fell through the foam.

“Find a movie or something,” Peter prompted, waving at his laptop before turning around to fish through his wardrobe. “Don’t want to go to bed yet.”

Felix obliged, moving the computer to his stomach. It might have burnt him had he not been wearing a rather thick sweatshirt. He swished his fingers on the track pad, and then paused, a strange look on his face. Without looking up from the screen, he spoke. “You got a message from Wendy ‘bout five hours ago.”

“Did I?” Peter sounded as though he didn’t really care.

Felix looked up to elaborate, but found any words die in his throat as Peter shucked off his jeans and crawled in next to him on the mattress.

He coughed. “Yeah. Just a happy birthday thing.”

“Typical of her.” Peter rolled his eyes, and flopped an arm over the side of the bed, reaching for a box of cigarettes.

Felix risked another glance over to his friend, careful to only look him above the shoulders. “You sound upset.” He waited a beat, watching Peter’s brows draw up on his forehead. “Over….her?”

“As though she’d ever be that important.”

Snapping the computer shut, Felix slid it from his stomach and laid it down between them on the mattress. “Then what’s wrong?”

Peter pursed his lips. “You act as though I allow external things to affect my mood.”

“You’re human.”

“Barely.”

Felix wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but he accepted it with a graceful shrug and a silent breath, thumbing a stick from the box in Peter’s hand.

“But what about you?” Peter asked with a smirk, lighting the cigarette for the boy beside him while shifting to his knees so that he was hovering above Felix’s head.

“I think I’m more than barely human.”

“Observant, but,” Peter laughed, shaking his head. “Not my point. My point is that you let external things affect your mood.”

“Isn’t that normal?”

“Normal? Yes. But who wants normal?”

Felix exhaled a long stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth, causing a tiny cloud to hang in the air between them for a beat before dispersing and distributing evenly through the room.

“Which brings in the question,” Peter tossed his head. “Why does Felix let things get to him?”

Felix really didn’t want to discuss it. But, this was his comeuppance for pissing Peter off with his inquiries, so it was probably best just to sit still and let him talk.

“It’s kind of funny, really.” Peter said. “You just bottle everything up and try to deal with it as calmly and reserved as possible. But then you just explode. It’s fun to watch, actually.”

Felix smoked silently for a beat, before finding the stick snatched from his fingers and between Peter’s teeth. He took a long drag and exhaled with his trademark disinterest in averting the smoke from Felix’s face.

“Do you know why? I do.” Peter gave the cigarette back to his friend.

“Dr. Hopper’s made several suggestions on that,” Felix muttered under his breath.

“What the hell does he know?” Peter shrugged. “I think I know you better than he does.”

Felix paused. “You do.”

“There. You see?” He fell back down on the mattress without shaking it, burrowing his shoulder blades through the downy duvet. “So, all that’s left is the question of your utterly capital composure.”

Felix twisted his head on a pillow to face Peter, trying to stay in the moment and not let his imagination run away with him.

“And do you know what I noticed?” Peter lifted a brow, mouth crooked. “Your face.”

This was not what Felix expected, and he therefore accidentally took the smoke in and out in the same breath, coughing and spluttering from the harshness in his throat. “What?”

Peter used his finger to draw a line along the side of his own nose. “Your scar. It’s a hieroglyph.”

“What do you mean?” Felix was completely lost.

Peter’s eyes flashed. “A little bird told me you got it when your father was having a temper tantrum. Same little bird told me he used to have tantrums a lot before he got locked away in a padded cell. Makes sense, then, that you’d want to avoid them-- temper tantrums, I mean. Instead of replicating the behaviour modeled for you, you want to do the opposite. But you can’t all the time.” He smirked. “You’re just one big mess of daddy issues aren’t you?”

Felix’s face skewed, a strange mirth hidden in the colloquialism of his eyes. “And what about you?”

Peter frowned. “I don’t have daddy issues.”

“Looks like it.” Felix’s eyes shifted to the door.

“But I don’t.” Peter sighed, as though suddenly bored with the conversation. “He’s got son issues.”

Felix nodded, as though prompting him to go on. There was another sigh, a curse to whoever thought up exposition in the first place.

Peter didn’t really want to explain, but for some reason found the story slipping out.

When he was little, he’d been reasonably close to his father--likely one of the repercussions of being chubby cheeked and bright eyed or of having a mother walk out on a newborn. But, as Peter gained autonomy the two were at odds more and more. They were alike in the worst ways, in the ways the other couldn’t stand, and different in ways that couldn’t be admired.

But Peter had quickly learnt the art of manipulation, and mostly from his father, but soon surpassed his ability.

He was only ten when he first ran away, leaving behind a scratchy note with everything Mr. Gold feared and hated about himself brought to his attention. Reminding him of how he left Neal behind in the States when he was too afraid to stay or even try for citizenship. How two wives walked out on him already.

Peter had been as smart about it as he could at his age. He went to a city, spent a night or two in the dumpster before using an obvious passcode to extract a decent amount of money from the LINK machine. He’d lost almost all of it learning how to gamble from filthy tramps before the police were able to track him down.

The Gold boys weren’t able to recover after that, because Peter got older and his “problematic attitude” was apparently mirroring his father’s too much and too little for the man’s liking.

When Mr. Gold announced they’d be moving back to the States, Peter cut the final cord with one syllable. “No.”

It had been eleven years in the breakdown for Peter and his father, so it really wasn’t surprising that neither of them were entirely ready to let go of the grudge.

Of course, the real issue was that Mr. Gold wanted family and love, but was always self-directed to a fault. It was the desire for family and love that made him miserable, but it was also that desire that gave Peter leverage. So, the past was really quite favorable to him, no matter what issues might be seen to the unacquainted eye.

Felix paused as the exposition unfolded. And when it was through, he asked, “Do you always psychoanalyse everyone?”

“Yes.” Peter smirked. “It makes things...bearable.”

“Peter, it’s your birthday. Take a break.” Felix mused with a shake of the head.

Peter didn’t see what his birthday had to do with it, but managed to come up with some smart-ass retort in order to have the last word, before opening up his computer to scroll through Netflix himself.

He’d stayed over, leaving for work before breakfast, and hadn’t been through the doors again until they returned from New Hampshire. But, of course, the two situations weren’t entirely comparable.

Felix wasn’t exactly sure how he ended up pressed against the glass door of a shower, ripping denim from Peter’s hips. He thought that, maybe, Peter had mentioned something about washing up, but he couldn’t be certain.

Peter, on the other hand, knew precisely what he was doing, holding onto either side of Felix’s face, bedding his fingers into the other boy’s cheeks, shifting them about so he could slide the door open and they could shinny through.

Felix flinched as the water turned on, hot pinpricks drumming against his skin. Peter laughed, adjusting to the heat with more grace. They scrubbed away sweat and grime from themselves and from each other, with soap that was probably too expensive to be so generous with.

It was sensory overload, the thousand streams of water hitting hard-- sharp little daggers, the steam that heated their lungs and aided a familiar air to the natural high, the musky smell of pretentious soaps, the twist of sopping, slippery hands on skin, pressing forward and digging nails under the pretense of hygiene.

Then Peter found himself pressed against a ceramic wall, a soapy hand pressing up his abdomen, rising up like steam to his neck and stopped threaded through his hair. The water pressure was almost directly on him, pounding his cheek and running down his jaw.

Digging his nails into Felix’s shoulders, Peter pressed the boy in closer, rubbing against him, biting down as Felix’s tongue slipped into the concave of his front teeth.

Breaking away, Peter lifted onto his toes, his teeth hitting the folds of skin around the blond’s ear. “So tell me,” Peter skimmed his fingers into the dip in Felix’s back. “Heads or tails?”

Felix’s eyes widened for a beat, pupils blackening through the jetstreams pounding onto them. He did nothing to hide the way his eyes fell down Peter’s body, landing for an increased amount of time on his upright cock.

He then, through his straight teeth, smiled. “Heads.”

And his knees hit the ground along with the pounding from the showerhead.

Peter felt his stomach quiver, raking a hand up Felix’s face, thumb playing at his scar, damn near cooing, “Good boy.”

Felix wrapped his fingers around Peter, slowly, flicking water around in the glass and ceramic cell they’d locked themselves in, retracting excess skin further, eliciting a warbling sound mixing in with the pounding water. With a held breath, he ran his lips in a quick circle, tongue tentatively skirting over sopping skin, eyes glued to Peter in attempt to monitor the reactions.

He gaped his mouth and attempted to fit his lips over Peter’s head, but the hand in his hair shoved him back.

“Watch the teeth.”

Felix’s cheeks tinted red through the water, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Peter rolled his eyes, giving impatient instructions that came off more like orders -- flatten tongue, hollow cheeks, open wider, --not that Felix minded. On the contrary, he memorized every word; hell or high water, he’d learn.

The water pressure seemed to increase, poking holes through their skin. Peter settled his shoulders against the wall, water catching on his eyelashes and dripping off his nose, pressing his hips forward, fronts of his legs against hot shoulders and the waterfalls that fell off the slope.

“Go on,” He raked his hands through the hair darkened by water. “Don’t you want to?”

He watched as the breath shot out of Felix, trembling in the collar, shaking on his knees.

And then lips wrapped around him again, careful and perhaps providing too much of a buffer. His tongue started in, dragging along, trying to mimic what Peter had done the night previous. Peter prompted him along, pouring soap onto the mop of blond hair and skimming his hands through it, the pads of his fingers and edge of his nails scraping into Felix’s scalp.

Felix proved to be a fast learner, if not still a bit tentative and sloppy. But one couldn’t exactly critique skill with a tongue drawing little circles against skin, with the air hot and humid. The water hundreds of little hands punching his skin while that tongue slipped along, absorbing precome with a low heady vibrato.

Peter felt lips move in over him, slowly, centimetre by centimetre. He against the wall, pushing hips forward, rubbing soap out of Felix’s hair.

There was a tiny pull on him, caught up in the walls of a mouth closing over him, an uncomfortable and unintentional pinch of teeth, and Peter buckled over. His chest curved over the head as it twisted and tossed about, his hips canting forward at the tongue’s increased audacity.

He stayed down, bent over Felix’s head, breathing heavy in his ear as the streams of water hit his back. He issued a command every now and then, an increase in tongue or suction, waiting only a split second for Felix to eagerly oblige.

It took a while, but Peter hit the back of Felix’s throat, mostly by his own design, with a jerk to the hip. The boy spluttered, trying not to choke, withdrawing. Peter might have been able to sigh aggravatedly, had Felix not been moving his tongue over and under and around, cutting into the tip.

Electrocuted and upright, Peter’s head slammed into the wall when he came. He hit hard and, for a few seconds, saw stars in addition to the trembling and prickling rushing through his veins. The steam blurred but the streaks in the glass door were textile and clear, the pricks of light dotting in and out as he blinked.

He turned back as Felix rose to his feet again, watching the boy’s throat bob up and down as he swallowed audibly through the harsh percussion of the shower. Peter didn’t mean to, but he practically beamed as his chest heaved, crushing his lips back to Felix’s, feeling their swell and tasting salt.

“Told you.” Still feathery from orgasm, Peter laughed into Felix’s teeth. “Slut.”

Felix pressed him against the wall again, pecking over both Peter’s lips before favoring and biting on the bottom. He smiled, teasing in his own way. “Halfway, at least.”