Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter's day had been an unmitigated disaster, a storm of grief and rage that left him shattered in ways he hadn't known were possible. It started at the funeral. Henry's funeral, the one Peter still couldn't believe was real. 

The sky had wept gray tears all morning, mirroring the ache in his chest as he stood by the graveside, surrounded by a sparse crowd of relatives and old neighbors who murmured condolences that felt hollow and insincere. 

His eyes were raw from the tears that he wouldn't let fall, his vision blurred as he stared at the polished casket being lowered into the earth. How could this be happening? Henry, his infuriating, larger-than-life brother, reduced to this?

It was so positively unbelievable that he had doubled over in manic laughter during the service, the other mourners sharing concerned looks with each other, probably thinking grief had caused him to finally snap.

His mother had pulled him away, tight-lipped, like she was embarrassed of Peter's outburst. It made him giggle even more; her son's funeral was happening right in front of her eyes, and yet she still cared more about saving appearances. His father shook his shoulders a little too roughly, hissing at him to pull himself together.

Pull himself together? His brother was dead and they wanted him to act like a piece of himself was gone as well? 

Not this time. 

Peter was tired of being buried by expectations, living life in the way others wanted him too, never getting a chance to be his own person.

And now, the one thing he had that belonged only to him, was gone, and it was only now that he realized all the praise in the world would never make up for this.

And it was the people he was supposed to trust and look up to that were the ones who made him believe differently.

In the shadow of the funeral tent, rain pelting against the fabric, it all boiled over as Peter turned on the two people who he had given up his entire childhood and dreams for.

"You did this!" he said, voice low yet louder than the thunder outside could ever be. "You made him feel like he was nothing! All those times you punished him for being himself, for not fitting your stupid mold. You drove him to this!"

His mother flinched, clutching her purse to her stomach. "Peter, darling, that's not fair. We loved Henry too-"

"Loved him? You barely tolerated him!" Peter hissed, his throat burning from the force of his words. "You told him he was worthless, that he'd never amount to anything. And now he's gone, and it's your fault!" 

His father reached out a hand, but Peter slapped it away. "Don't touch me. You finally see it now, don't you? The damage you caused. Well, it's too late. And I hope you live with that for the rest of your lives."

They stood there, stunned into silence, as Peter turned and walked away, the rain soaking through his black suit. He lingered by the tent for hours after everyone else had left, the mud squelching under his shoes as he paced, hair plastered against his face.

Part of him clung to a childish hope: maybe this was all one of Henry's elaborate pranks. Maybe his brother would leap out from behind the flapping canvas, laughing maniacally.

“Ha! Fooled you, Worm! You should see your face!" But the tent remained empty, the only sound the relentless patter of rain. 

Finally, defeated, Peter trudged home.

Now, hours later, Peter was back in his own flat, the one he'd meticulously curated to be the antithesis of their childhood home. White walls, minimalist furniture, everything in its place. No clutter, no mess. 

He flicked on the lamp, casting a warm glow over the living room, but it did nothing to chase away the chill. The city lights twinkled outside the window as darkness fell, indifferent to his grief. 

He poured himself a glass of water, hands still trembling from the drive home, and flopped onto his bed. He didn't bother changing, the pristine sheets now stained with mud and rainwater. 

He didn't care.

His phone sat on the coffee table like a loaded gun. Those missed voicemails. He'd glimpsed them earlier, thumbnails of Henry's name lighting up his screen over the past months. Why hadn't he answered?

Because he was busy? Because phone calls made him anxious? Or because, deep down, he'd always seen Henry as the problem child, the one who didn't fit into Peter's so-called perfect world?

With a deep breath, he unlocked the phone and navigated to the voicemail inbox. There were twelve in total, spanning six months. The first one was from back in March, Henry's voice bursting through the speaker like he was right there in the room.

"Oi, Perfect Peter! It's your favorite brother. Listen, there's this new burger joint downtown, massive patties, chips the size of your arm. You'd probably order a salad or something boring, but come on, live a little! Meet me there Friday? Seven-ish? Call me back, yeah?"

Peter's lips twitched into a half-smile despite himself. He could picture Henry at the other end, grinning that lopsided grin, phone wedged between shoulder and ear while he fiddled with some project. Peter hadn't gone. Work deadline, he'd told himself. The next voicemail, a week later.

"Peter, mate, you missed out on those burgers. They were epic, had this spicy sauce that nearly blew my head off. Next time, eh? Oh, and I've got this new project brewing. It's like a drone, but with fireworks. Artistic explosions, I call it. The kids at the center love it. You gotta come see the prototype. Saturday? Your place or mine?"

Peter pressed pause, rubbing his eyes. Flashbacks hit him: Henry at twelve, building a "robot" out of cardboard and string in their backyard, dragging Peter out to watch it "fly" (it crashed into the fence). 

"See, Worm? That's how you do adventure!" Henry had laughed, while Peter whined about the mess. Why hadn't he said yes this time? He hit play on the next one.

"Alright, Peter, third time's the charm. Project's coming along, added some LED lights, looks wicked at night. Fancy a demo? Or we could just grab a pint. Been ages since we proper caught up. Miss your nagging, believe it or not."

The cheer was still there, but Peter detected a slight edge now, a forced lightness. He scrolled forward. 

April. 

Henry's voice sounded a bit rougher, like he'd been up late.

"Peter, it's me. Look, I know you're busy with your fancy job and all, but... dinner? My treat. There's stuff I wanna run by you. Call back soon, yeah?"

Peter's stomach twisted. He remembered seeing that call come in during a meeting. He'd silenced it, intending to ring back later. But later never came. The messages grew sparser after that. 

May.

"Peter, seriously, pick up. I need to talk. Things are... not great. And Mum and Dad, well, you know how they are. Just... call me?"

No laugh this time. Peter's heart raced as he listened to the next, from early June.

"Peter, come on. I get it, you're not big on phones, but this is important. I'm... I'm struggling, alright? Feel like everything's piling up. Scared I might do something stupid. Please, just talk to me."

Scared. 

The word echoed in Peter's head. Henry, scared? The brother who'd once jumped off the roof into a pile of leaves on a dare? Peter paused the playback, his breath coming in short gasps. A memory surfaced: them as kids, Henry defending Peter from bullies at school. 

"Back off, that's my little brother!" Henry had shouted, fists clenched. Peter had hidden behind him, safe in his shadow. Now, Henry had needed him, and Peter had been the one hiding.

He forced himself to continue. 

July.

"Peter, if you're ignoring me on purpose, that's low. Even for you. I thought we were past the whole 'perfect vs. horrid' nonsense. I need you. Call."

The accusation stung. Peter whispered to the empty room, "I wasn't ignoring you. I just... didn't know." But that was a lie, wasn't it? He'd seen the notifications, dismissed them as Henry's drama.

August. 

Henry's voice was quieter, defeated.

"Peter, it's bad. Really bad. Can't sleep, can't think straight. Scared of what I'm thinking. Please, pick up. I don't know who else to turn to.

Peter's eyes welled up. He imagined Henry alone in his cramped flat, staring at the ceiling, the weight of whatever demons he'd been fighting pressing down. 

Like at sixteen when he disappeared for over a week, coming back smelling like a hospital room, eyes tired, face pale, and pushing past Peter without a word, locking himself in his room. 

And then the last one, from the night before it happened. Peter had listened to it earlier, but hearing it again was like a knife twist.

"Hey, Peter. It's me. I... I'm sorry, yeah? For everything. For being such a crap brother, for all the times I made your life hell. For the messes, the arguments. For not being good enough. You deserved better than me. Better than Mum and Dad, better than this whole broken mess of a family." 

A long pause, Henry's breathing ragged. Peter could hear the tremor in it now, the unshed tears.I never said it, but... I love you, y'know You're my little brother. Always will be. Take care of yourself, alright? Bye."

 The voicemail ended. Peter let the phone slip from his hand, clattering to the floor. He thought of all the things he should have said: 

"I love you too, Henry." 

"Come over, we'll talk." 

"You're not alone." 

But he hadn't. He'd built walls of routine and order, shutting out the chaos that was Henry: his brother, his protector, his pain in the neck.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice hoarse. "I should have been there. You were... you were everything."

His eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion, and sleep claimed him before he could fight it.

When Peter awoke, disorientation hit him like a wave. He wasn't in his bed anymore. Instead, he stood in the middle of the old supermarket in their hometown, the one with the flickering fluorescent lights and the eternal smell of baked goods mixed with floor polish. Shoppers bustled around him, carts rattling, announcements crackling over the intercom.

"What the hell?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. This had to be a dream. Why here, of all places The last time he'd been in this store was years ago, back when he and Henry were kids, fighting over who got the last chocolate bar.

He pinched himself, yelping at the pain. "Okay, this is weird," he muttered, rubbing his arm.

Something small and solid rammed into his legs, nearly toppling him. "Oi! Watch it!" a familiar voice grumbled.

Peter looked down, and his heart stuttered. It was Henry. Not the Henry he'd buried today, the one ravaged by years of pain and self-destruction, but Henry at twelve, spiky brown hair sticking up in all directions, those piercing green eyes narrowed in annoyance, freckles dotting his nose, and wearing that ratty jumper he'd refused to throw out. 

Peter's mouth went dry, and without thinking, he whispered, "Henry?"

The boy froze, then squinted up at him suspiciously. "How the heck do you know my name? You some kind of stalker or what?"

Peter's mind raced, scrambling for a cover. "I... uh, you look just like my brother. Same name and everything. Spooky coincidence, right?" He forced a weak smile, his voice shaky.

Glancing around, he noticed no parents in sight no Mum with her pinched expression, no Dad mumbling about the shopping list. 

"Where are your folks, anyway? Shouldn't they be with you?"

Henry scuffed his trainer against the floor, kicking at a stray crisp packet. "Forgot me again," he muttered, his tone casual but edged with something raw. "They're always doing that. Off at some fancy dinner or whatever, probably didn't even notice I wasn't in the car."

The casualness of it hit Peter like a gut punch. He remembered those "forgotten" afternoons all too well-Henry left to fend for himself while their parents fussed over "proper" family outings. 

"That's not right," Peter said softly, crouching down to Henry's level. "You shouldn't be on your own like this. Look, if you want, you can come back to my place for a bit. I'll call your parents, sort it out. I've got snacks, games, whatever."

Henry eyed him warily, but there was a spark of interest in his gaze. "Your place? Strangers don't just invite kids over. Dad says that's how you get kidnapped and end up in a van with no sweets."

Peter flushed, realizing how it sounded. "No! I just mean, you can't stay here. It's late. l've got food, and a warm place to sit. I'm not a creep, I promise. I'm not the kidnapping type. I'm more the 'boring adult with a neat flat' type."

Henry stared at the hand for a beat, then shrugged again. "Fine. But if you try anything funny, I'll scream so loud the whole shop hears." 

He placed his small, grubby hand in Peter's, and Peter couldn't help but notice how light he was when he hoisted him onto his hip for the short walk out. Too light, like a bird with hollow bones. 

For a 12-year-old, Henry should have weighed more, should have had that gangly growth spurt energy. Instead, he felt fragile, ribs pressing faintly against Peter's side.

Henry wriggled but didn't protest the carry, launching into a torrent of chatter as Peter pushed through the automatic doors into the crisp afternoon air. 

"Supermarkets are boring anyway. Did you see that new comic shop down the road? They've got all the best ones-Spider-Man, Batman, even that weird one with the aliens. Mum says comics rot your brain, but she's wrong. Oh, and your shoes? Total dad vibes. Why're they so shiny? You polish 'em every night or something?"

Peter was barely listening, making small noises of assent just so Henry didn't call him out. The boy wriggled in his arms, but made no attempt to escape, instead continuing to talk like him and Peter were old friends.

This dream was twisted, pulling at threads of regret he'd tried to bury. Why show him Henry like this-vulnerable, forgotten?

What was his subconscious trying to punish him for now?

Still, Peter tightened his grip just, his hand on Henry's back and his head resting just slightly against Henry's shoulder, subconsciously leaning into Henry's warmth. 

They arrived at Peter's flat somehow, and Henry wriggled down, darting inside the moment Peter unlocked the door. Henry spun around, wrinkling his nose dramatically. 

"Ugh, it's like a library exploded in here, but in a boring way. Who puts books alphabetized? And that lamp? Looks like it belongs in a museum for sad people."

Peter chuckled despite himself, closing the door. "It's called minimalism. Keeps things tidy. You'll appreciate it when you're older."

"Minimal-what? Sounds like a disease," Henry shot back, flopping onto the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "Got any games. Or TV? This place needs some chaos."

Peter rubbed his temples, already feeling the familiar throb of a Henry-induced headache. "How about food first? You look like you could use it."

Henry perked up instantly, his stomach growling audibly. "Yeah! What've you got? Pizza? Burgers?"

"Sandwich okay?" Peter asked, already heading to the kitchen. Henry followed, bouncing on his heels, narrating his every thought.

"Sandwiches are boring, but fine. Just don't make it all healthy with, like, lettuce and stuff. Mum's always tryin' to shove vegetables down my throat. Says it'll make me less horrid. As if!"

Peter's hands stilled on the bread. "She says that a lot, huh? That you're horrid?"

Henry huffed, leaning against the counter. "All the time! Dad too. 'Henry, stop bein' so horrid! Henry, why can't you be more like Peter?'" 

He mimicked their parents' voices, high and nagging, but there was a bitterness there that made Peter's stomach twist. He handed Henry the sandwich, ham and cheese, no lettuce, and watched as the boy devoured it in seconds. 

"Well, you must've been starved," Peter teased, trying to keep things light.

 Henry wiped his mouth with his sleeve, shrugging. "Mum didn't let me have dinner or breakfast. Threw my plate in the bin last night to teach me a lesson."

Peter's smile froze. The nonchalance in Henry's voice, the way he accepted it as normal, made his skin crawl. 

"That's not okay, Henry," he said, voice tight. "You know that, right? You need to eat."

Henry rolled his eyes, hopping off the counter. "Whatever. I'm used to it."

Peter's smile froze. The words landed like a punch, casual but heavy, and he had to look away to keep his composure. "Right," he managed, voice tight. "By the way, I never told you my name. I'm Peter."

Henry's head shot up, his expression twisting into a scowl. "That's my stupid little brother's name!" 

He crossed his arms, glaring like Peter had personally offended him. "You don't look like a Peter, though. You're too tall and boring."

Peter huffed, a fond ache blooming in his chest. "Yeah? Must be a popular name. So, tell me about this brother of yours. Bet you don't like your Peter much," he said, leaning against the counter.

Henry made a face, scrunching his nose like he'd bitten into a lemon, picking at a thread on his sweater. 

"He’s not that bad, I guess. I mean, yeah, we scrap sometimes, he's always tattling to Mum about me. But it's not like I hate him or anything. Peter's... he's a good kid, y'know? Annoying as heck, always following the rules, but honest. I'd do anything for him. Like, if a monster came crashing through the door right now, l'd punch it right in the nose to protect him! Swear on my life!"

He puffed out his chest, eyes fierce. "Even if he doesn't think I would. I would even share my last sweet!"

Peter's chest tightened, a sharp pang of emotion making it hard to breathe. He leaned against the counter, forcing his voice steady.

"That's... that's really something. Your little brother must be dead proud to have a brother like you. Sounds like you're the hero in his eyes."

Henry shook his head, his grin fading. "Nah. Peter doesn't like me much. Always saying stuff like, "Henry, why can't you just behave?' He doesn't get it. l'm protecting him from being boring, y'know? But deep down... I think he wishes I'd just disappear sometimes." 

The words sliced through Peter like a knife, guilt twisting in his gut. He bit his tongue to keep from yelling the truth: that it wasn't true, that he'd admired Henry's chaos, that he'd give his right arm to hear those pranks again.

Instead, he swallowed hard and steered the conversation. "What about your parents? They must be proud of a tough kid like you."

Henry's expression soured, his small shoulders slumping. "Proud? Ha. They don't like me much either. Mum's always on about how l'm a disappointment, how I ruin everything. Dad just sighs and says, 'Why can't you be more like Peter?' It's like... fact, isn't it? I'm the horrid one. They ignore me on purpose half the time anyway." 

He stated it with the certainty of a kid who's heard it one too many times, no tears, just quiet resignation.

"That's not true," Peter insisted, moving closer. "You're not a disappointment. You're... you're brilliant, Henry. Full of life."

Henry snorted. "Yeah, right, tell them that. Anyway, let's do something fun! What's in here?" 

He hopped up and started exploring, rifling through drawers, knocking over a vase (thankfully plastic), and commenting on everything. "This book? Boring! Who reads about history? And your music? All slow stuff. Where's the rock?"

He rummaged through drawers, declaring Peter's sock collection "the most boring ever." "Who sorts them by color? Weirdo!"

"Organization is key," Peter defended, but he was laughing.

Henry then tried to "improve" the living room by stacking cushions into a fort. "C'mon, Peter! Help me build this! It'll be epic!"

Peter joined in reluctantly, but soon they were both giggling as the structure collapsed. 

It reminded Peter so much of their childhood, the headaches Henry caused, but also the joy. He didn't stop him, even when Henry nearly broke a lamp.

Then, as the sun dipped lower, Henry spotted the cookie jar on a high shelf. "Ooh, sweets! Gimme!"

"Ask nicely," Peter teased.

"Please, oh great boring adult?" Henry batted his eyelashes dramatically.

Peter chuckled and handed it down, but as Henry reached up, his sleeve slipped, revealing angry red lines crisscrossing his forearm. 

Deliberate cuts, fresh and precise. Peter's blood froze. He grabbed Henry's arm gently but firmly. "Henry, what the hell is this?! Why would you do this to yourself?"

Henry tried to pull away. "Let go! It's nothing."

"Nothing? This could seriously hurt you! Infections, scars; does it even hurt? You need to tell your parents about this right now!"

Henry yanked harder, rolling his eyes. "They already know, dummy. It's for them to be proud of me for trying to be better." 

Peter's world tilted. "Proud? Henry, that's insane! Cutting yourself isn't 'being better.' It's dangerous!"

Henry puffed out his chest defiantly. "It's discipline. Helps me stop being horrid. I'm getting good at it, see how straight they are? Practice makes perfect!"

"Henry, stop. This isn't right. You don't deserve to hurt like this. You're not horrid, you're a kid, a great one. Whatever they say, it's wrong. You know that, deep down, right?"

Henry tried to pull away again, his voice rising. "Let go! You don't know anything! You're just some weirdo who looks like my brother!"

Peter's knees buckled. He sank to the floor, pulling Henry down with him, his free hand trembling as he traced the scars without touching. 

"No," he whispered, voice shattering. "No, Henry, you listen to me. You shouldn't do this. You don't deserve it, not a bit. You're... you're brilliant. Brave and funny and the best big brother any kid could dream of. Whatever your parents say, whatever anyone says, it's lies. You're good, Henry. You."

Henry tilted his head, those green eyes, so young, yet so damn weary, searching Peter's face.

"Why'd it take you so long to notice, then? Huh? You've always hated me, always sided with them. Why do you care now?"

The question hung in the air like a guillotine. Peter's shoulders shook, tears spilling hot and fast down his cheeks. He clutched the front of Henry's shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist, as sobs wracked him. 

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "God, Henry, I'm so sorry. I was blind. I let it happen, I let them make you think that. But you're everything to me. Always were."

For a moment, Henry just stared, then his small hand came up, brushing awkwardly through Peter's  hair, just like he used to when Peter was the little one with nightmares. But his voice, when it came, was edged with cruelty, soft and slicing. 

"How's it gonna feel, Peter? Waking up tomorrow and I'm not there? No more horrid brother to ruin your perfect life. You wanted the peace and quiet so bad, remember? All those times you wished I'd just... disappear."

Peter sobbed harder, burying his face in Henry's shoulder. "Don't say that. Please don't leave." 

Henry's expression softened, just slightly. "Wake up," he murmured, voice barely audible over Peter's ragged breaths. "Wake up and enjoy it. The quiet you always craved."

Peter jolted awake in his bed, heart pounding, tears streaming down his face. The room was dark, the rain still drumming on the window. His suit clung to him, cold and damp.

He gasped for breath, curling into a ball as the dream's weight crushed him. No supermarket, no twelve-year old Henry. Just emptiness, echoing with the ghost of a brother's voice.

"I'm sorry, Henry, I'm so, so sorry."

The words were left unanswered.