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𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐅𝐔𝐋 | 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔.

in his six years of parenting—that he’s done all by himself, he might add—gojo satoru has never thought he’d see the day. but here’s megumi, standing before him and shyly pointing to a small arrangement of roses. long gone is his snarky, sarcastic, ruthless son—instead, now he’s blushing, staring up at gojo hopefully.

“what’d you say you needed these for?” he raises a brow at the boy, and megumi huffs, cheeks turning a deeper shade of crimson as he looks away bashfully.

“to give them to someone,” he mumbles, “it’s valentine’s day.”

gojo blinks, and then his lips twitch, and then he’s full on smiling. it’s the big, eye crinkling, nose twitching, and cheek stretching kind—except there’s a hint of smugness to it.

“so,” he wriggles his brows, crouching to his son’s height. he has to crouch rather low, given his towering height in comparison. “you got a crush, huh? what’s she like? she must be one hell of an angel to put up with a stinker like you,” he pinches the spikey haired boy’s nose.

megumi crinkles it in distaste, scowling at his father’s tendencies to insist on being the most insufferable man he’s known—and he’s not personally gotten to know a lot of grown men in his six years of life.

“she’s nice,” he crosses his arms, “and she’s not annoying like you.”

“hey,” gojo pouts, eyeing a worker in the flower shop that chuckles at the jab thrown at his expense, “i’m a catch. you wouldn’t get it, no one likes dicks—i mean, jerks like you,” he corrects himself, praying the six year old devil before him doesn’t pick up on the colorful words he tends to let slip.

gojo satoru loves his son.

well, megumi might not really be his son, but that doesn’t matter. he’s raised the boy since he was an infant, and he’s his son if gojo’s got something to say about it.

and gojo never pictured himself a single father in his early twenties, yet here he is—and he doesn’t think he’d ever look back. and sure, they have a bit of a push and pull relationship, but still, gojo pretends like he doesn’t know megumi crawls into his bed some nights and snuggles into his side, and he’s sure megumi looks the other way when he sniffles a little every time the boy’s height is a bit taller on the kitchen wall he marks it on.

“whatever,” the child grumbles, eyeing his little batman watch on his wrist, “can we get going soon? i don’t want to be late.”

gojo stifles a chuckle, ruffling megumi’s hair before grabbing the bouquet he’d picked out.

“alright, you little booger,” he walks up the the register, “lets get you a valentine so you don’t die alone.”

and because he’s a doting father, he simply bites his tongue and fights back the eye twitch when he sees the bill—who knew a small bouquet for a six year old could be so expensive?

“so,” gojo whispers, nudging the six year old’s shoulder gently, “which one is the unlucky kid you’re into? point ‘em out—but don’t be obvious okay? don’t let—”

megumi raises a brow, unimpressed before shyly pointing a small finger in your direction.

gojo blinks, looking to the right of you, then the left, and then he’s craning his neck to see if there’s anyone behind you.

nobody.

“you’re kidding right?” he asks flatly, turning back to his son.

“no,” he megumi grumbles, glaring up at his father.

“a teacher? you have a thing for a teacher? megumi, you can’t—hey! where are you going?”

megumi’s made a beeline for you, flowers clutched in his small hands as he walks away, and gojo follows swiftly, shocked to his core. none of the parenting tips on google ever had a suggestion for this, and he’s starting to think he didn’t do his research thoroughly enough.

“megumi, give me your flowers,” he whispers, looping his finger into the small handle of megumi’s backpack and pulling him back.

“why?”

“because i need them,” gojo insists, eyeing your figure up and down—it makes it a lot easier to not seem like a creep when you’re constantly wearing dark sunglasses. gojo thinks at least megumi’s got good taste, he can certainly see the appeal.

you’re perfect—your smile is radiant, sweet, it makes learning fractions seem like a fun activity. you turn and see them approaching, throwing a beam at the small child in front of him, and gojo pouts just the slightest bit that he doesn’t elicit such a response from you.

“hi, megumi! is this your father?” you wave cheerily at the small boy, and for the second time ever, megumi gets shy again. he nods, and gojo stares with his mouth slightly agape.

“yeah,” he mumbles quietly. “this is my dad. he’s a little weird sometimes,” he warns, and gojo sputters, staring at his traitor son with wide eyes.

“hi,” you smile warmly, holding a hand out for gojo to shake, “i’m megumi’s new teacher—his old one left,” you explain, and gojo nods, though he’s not sure he’s processed any of what you’d just said.

you’re pretty, and your voice is even prettier.

“i’m gojo satoru, megumi’s father,” he introduces himself, “and i’m not weird,” he explains through an awkward chuckle, shooting a glare at the mop of dark locks beside him.

megumi shoots back daggers his way, and before anything else can be done or said, gojo snatches the flowers from megumi’s hands and holds them out for you.

“hey—”

“here ya go,” gojo grins, flashing you his most charming smile. your knees buckle just a little bit, but you will yourself to take the small bouquet from the extremely attractive man in front of you. “here’s a little welcoming present for ya, for dealing with this handful here,” gojo grins widely at you as he points to the child next to him.

“thank you,” you beam, “but megumi is a very sweet child, he’s always on his best behavior.” said child beams at the praise, and even though a small part of gojo is proud to hear it, another part of him wants to roll his eyes.

“he’s nothing like that at home, don’t be fooled,” he flicks megumi’s forehead, and if not for you watching, he’s sure it would’ve landed him a bite to his finger from megumi.

he thinks he wants you around all the time if that’s the case.

and megumi’s face is puffed up in pure rage as he latches onto gojo’s leg—gojo tries his best not to wince from nails digging into his thigh.

“but it was my idea—”

“megumi insisted that i welcome you,” gojo interrupts with a chuckle, “he’s a thoughtful kid. i raised him to always put others first, you know?”

you blink before nodding slowly, eyeing the two as they seem to have a battle with each other through harsh stares.

“oh, uh…of course,” you say finally, “that was very thoughtful of the both of you.”

and you don’t know much about gojo, but you can instantly tell he’s just as much of a handful as his son. even so, something about it is as endearing as his smile. and maybe it’s a tad bit unprofessional to form a small crush on a student’s father—one you just met no less, but gojo satoru has a charm to him that’s hard to resist.

“well, you let me know if megumi gives you any trouble, he can be feisty when he wants—” he’s cut off by a sneeze, and gojo looks at you as you sniffle lightly. he’s only known you for five minutes, but even the sound of your sneeze makes his heart rate speed up, and he wonders if raising a (mean) kid for six years has really made him this lonely.

“sorry,” you chuckle quietly, sniffling once more. “i’m allergic to flowers.”

suddenly, megumi beams, grabbing your hand and pulling you in the direction of your classroom. “i told him not to do flowers, but he’s stubborn,” megumi explains, and gojo stares as his own son turns and sticks his tongue out at him with a smirk. “bye dad! see you after school,” he waves.

standing there and watching your face tug with a grin as you giggle, gojo waves slowly at the both of you as you walk off.

“okay noted,” he mumbles, ghost of a pout curling on his lips while his shoulders slump in defeat, “no flowers next time.”

BONUS:

“megumi, your teacher is way too old for you kiddo, you should let me have a shot—”

“my teacher is too pretty for you,” megumi grumbles, glaring at his father, “you’re ugly.”

gasping, gojo places a hand on his chest with hurt, pouting deeply. sometimes, megumi is left to wonder if his father is fit to raise a child when he’s too busy acting like one himself.

“now that’s just mean, i’ll have you know i was quite a favorite amongst the—”

“and you talk a lot. and you look old cause your hair is white,” megumi mumbles as he walks off to the pantry to grab a snack, and gojo stands at the doorway with a wounded pride and a backpack to carry up to megumi’s room himself.

ty ris for beta reading and for your big brain ideas sobsobsob

also this is not canon accurate before anyone starts

this is bullshit

why even make the movie

SEUNGKWAN I MISS YOU SO BADDDDDDDDDDD

Even if our paths may not have crossed one another’s as often as I’d like to, it has settled heavily on my chest, like an overwhelming grayness that has enveloped the whole of me. The words spoken tonight will forever linger in our minds. As we change into new clothes we’d sleep in, before we completely drift off into slumber and delve into the comfort of our dreams, where the loss isn’t real, where nothing is, we think of what we could have done. We think of hugging our friends a little tighter the next time. We think of tying loose ends. We think of choosing to be kind than to act on impulse and regret it afterwards. We think of how this loss has become a gathering of love. But hope it never happens again. We hope to meet in better circumstances.

masterlist

☾ wizarding world ---❋ over the moon (f.w.) ---❋ juliet (n.l.)

☾ bangtan (방탄소년단) ---❋ it never was you (k.sj)

☾ seventeen (세븐틴) ---❋ lovebug again (b.sk)

☾ timestamp drabbles ---❋ 10:00 PM

---

honeybody | tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

summary something about music makes you desperate to feel it. something about Peter, pretty and magnetic and light, multiplies this immeasurably. or, you and Peter want to try everything [wc: 12k]

warnings fluff, friendship, idiots in love, falling in love, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, intimacy, the intangible breadth of the human experience or something similar, mentioned/implied past self-harm (nothing graphic)

the honeybody playlist

<3

You perch on the edge of a yellowing cushion, nose tickled by the sweet sick smell of pot and cheap beer, and worry about being by yourself. Are you overstaying your welcome? The room is crowded to the point of awkwardness, two girls crammed onto the sofa besides you having a lovers quarrel, perfect noses turned up at each other. 

You look down at your covered thighs and rub your thumb over the smooth material, thinking. If I go home, I can sleep. But, if I go home, my life remains the size of my room. 

"They're nice pants, I agree," a voice says. 

You look up, mostly worried to be laughed at. And he does look like he's laughing, Peter something. 

"Hi," you say, shy and not knowing if that's what you were supposed to say. 

The perpetual amusement on his face wanes ever so slightly, replaced by something soft. "Hi," he says back, and then, glancing at the arguing couple next to you, "Do you want a drink?"

You say yes, eager to escape from the unpleasant smells and tensions of the main body. Peter something from Biology 102 juts his chin, a gesture to follow. He leads you into a kitchen similarly crowded but smelling more of salt and cocktail mix than smoke. Your shoes stick to the floor as you follow him to the drinks. 

"What a terrible assortment," he says, groaning at the countertop of booze, unimpressed. 

You can't think of something to say back. He turns to you with his eyebrows pinched, guilt evident in his face. 

"We have classes together, right?" 

"We did. Biology. You're Peter." You cringe as you say it. 

He only smiles. "I am Peter. You're…" 

You tell him. He winces and nods like he remembers, and maybe he does, patting his thigh. "I remember. You changed classes?" 

Your turn to wince. "I dropped out." 

He looks shocked for a moment, kind brown eyes wide like a child's. He's the type of handsome to give you chills if you think about it. 

"Well, that's something exciting to drink too." 

Exciting is not the right word. However, he's pretty and giving you attention. You let him make you a lukewarm mix of things and drink it like it's water, leaning against the cool front of the refrigerator. Peter towers above you, chin basically flat with his neck to see your face, too close for comfort because of the rowdy nature of the party. Still, as he speaks, you decide you like his closeness more and more. He has a nice voice, soothing, and when he chuckles halfway through his own joke you decide he has the most attractive laugh any boy could ever hope to have. 

"I mean, I'm sorry you dropped out but I envy you for never having to see Professor Müller again. She's twice as scary as she's ever been." 

"Has she divorced her husband yet?" Your words are careful, concise, likely too soft for the volume of the room. 

He hears each one perfectly and his laugh is a riot of butterflies in your stomach. 

"No, they're hanging in there." 

Small talk is tricky. There are intricacies you likely haven't learned. He's looking down, and you're looking up, but meeting his eyes is hard. You glance at his broad chest again and again to the point where you could likely draw the Bruce Springsteen shirt he's wearing with your eyes blindfolded. 

You find he isn't put off by your quietness. He fills any awkward gaps with chatter without steamrolling you. He listens. He smiles. 

"I came with Avery," you say, bending the plastic cup in your hand. It crunches. 

"I like Avery," he says agreeably. "I mean. I don't like her. Like like her." He clears his throat. "She's nice." 

"I'm surprised she's put up with me this long. Um, you know, she told me you sell photos. To the Bugle. You're a photographer?" 

He scratches the back of his neck. You push your lips together all lopsided as he smiles like he hadn't wanted you say that, and you go to correct yourself. 

"I mean, I'm sorry, was that-" 

He leans in a little closer and drops his hand. You're close enough to kiss, and that realisation makes your heart skip. "Don't be sorry," he says quickly. He's almost whispering. "Only, it's a secret. I don't know how Avery knows." 

"It was in the-" you get distracted by his eyes, unflinching, and look down at his stupid shirt for salvation, "-girls chemistry group chat. Apparently." 

He sighs and leans back. Why he's stressed over this is not apparent to you. When he straightens quickly you pretend you hadn't been staring at his jawline.  

"Are you in this chat?" he asks. 

You shake your head.. 

"I can't imagine how they would know," he says mostly to himself. 

His lips perk up from their thoughtful frown, a beatific smile taking its place. It's an image you're sure to replay in your head for weeks, this normal conversation, this interaction with somebody who's talking to you just to talk to you. You can't believe how pretty he is.

"Isn't it a good thing, to be credited?" you ask gently. 

"Have you seen the photographs?" he asks without a hint of sarcasm. 

You shake your head, a palpable wave of relief washes over him. You pretend not to notice. 

"It's a good thing," he agrees. His hands drift to his stomach. "Are you hungry?" 

You're not. "Yeah." 

"Wanna go get something? Ditch this popsicle stand. Smells like an ashtray in here." 

You think it might be a really bad idea to disappear into the night with a guy you've just met properly. Still, you're lonely, and stupid, and somebody lovely wants to go get food with you. 

You find yourself elbow to elbow with him in a greasy McDonald's, illuminated by neon and laughing harder than you have in a really long time. It's the first meal you've eaten in months that isn't a microwave meal in bed. It's nice. You like it. You like him. 

"Oh, gross." 

"What?" he asks, a milkshake covered fry an inch from his open mouth. 

"That's weird." 

"It's 'weird'?" he asks, extremely amused by you. There's a fondness to his disbelief. "Have you ever tried it?" 

"No," you admit, watching in disgust as he eats it.

Your mumbling amuses him tenfold. He giggles to himself as he plucks a fry from the bottom of his carton, translucent with grease. He dips it generously in his open milkshake and offers it to you. 

You don't reach for it. He shakes his head, bewildered, and moves his hand slowly to your mouth.

"Try it! You might like it. It might be your new favourite flavour on the entire planet, and you'll have me to thank for it." 

You doubt that. 

Honestly, you think you might lick the tables if he asked you to and the shame of it makes you flush white hot as you take the fry from him and eat it. 

"Do you like it?" Peter asks eagerly.

You wrinkle your nose. "Can't tell." 

He picks up a second fry, dips it in his thick shake and passes it to you fast. His fingers shine with grease. You take it from him.

"Atta girl," he praises. 

You melt under his watch. You're embarrassed that he's looking at you like he is - attentive, soft - though there's a thrumming pleasure that comes with his company. 

You chew the hybrid food in your mouth and find it isn't half as bad as you worried it would be. 

"Yeah?" he asks smugly, nodding until you nod with him. 

"Yeah," you say, laughing, eyes shying away from his. "It's nice." 

"I knew it! Knew you'd like it." 

"How did you know?" 

"I can tell. I've got amazing intuition." 

You dip one of your own fries in his shake and tilt your head back to avoid spilling it down your shirt, smiling so hard it makes it difficult to chew. 

"Your photos in the Bugle, what are they? Like, nature shots?" 

The smile slips off of his face. He thinks for a moment, tapping the table with his fingertips, staccato. 

"Do you want to be friends?" he asks you, brown waves falling into his eyes as his head inches to one side. 

You bite your bottom lip and start to smile, then lose it, worried he's pulling a prank on you. 

"You're fun. We mesh. And if you agree to be my friend, I'll tell you who I take photos of," he sells at your hesitance.  

"Yeah," you say. It comes out weird. You clear your throat. "Yeah, I wanna be your friend." 

His smile flashes, soft then contagious, ridiculously bright. He brings his phone out of his pocket, his screen smashed to pieces and held together with clear scotch tape, and clicks in the code, bringing up a small folder of pictures. 

"I take photos of Spider-Man." 

You blink. You look between the phone and your new friend, letting out an excited gasp that startles him. 

"You've met Spider-Man?" you ask, louder than you've spoken all night. 

He gawps at you. "Well," he says bashfully, seeming in two minds from your attention. "I mean… you could say that." 

"No fucking way," you mutter happily. Then, before you can stop yourself, "What's he like? Is he nice? Is he funny? People always say he tells good jokes." 

His cheeks are pinking. "I'd say he's pretty funny." 

"Wow. Peter, this is awesome," you tell him truthfully. 

"Oh," he says, eyes hard to read. "Thank you." 

You pass the phone back to him. "Of course. Wow, Spider-Man. Hey, you don't take them on your phone, do you? They're so crisp." 

"Crisp," he repeats. 

"You know, high definition," you sing-song. 

"I have a camera. A few cameras. I fix them." 

"You fix cameras?" 

He tells you all about it, and he doesn't stop at cameras. He can fix everything. Laptops and TVs, video game consoles and fancy mechanical keyboards. You listen in awe. 

"Well, what do you do? For fun?" he asks.

You waver. "I'm a waitress." 

He raises his eyebrows. "For fun?" 

"I mean, no. It's my job. I just, I don't know what I do for fun." You bring your hands together and run your wrist with the pad of your thumb, suddenly unhappy with yourself. "I guess lately I work and then I come home and, you know, do all the things you have to do." 

You cringe at yourself. Peter starts collecting the rubbish and mess you've made on the table, slipping everything inside the beaten paper bag, eyes flitting in your direction as he says, "Hey, that's alright. Life gets really busy. Having a full time job must be pretty hard, yeah?" 

You nod mindlessly, grateful for his rescue. "Yeah." 

"Before your job, what did you do for fun?" 

You don't expect the question. "Anything. I would do whatever," you say eventually.

"Skydiving?" he challenges. 

"Well, no." 

"Paintballing?" 

"No, but-" 

"Go karting?" 

"You asked me for my hobbies, not my bucket list," you complain with no real heat. 

His laugh echoes through the entire restaurant. You look around to see if anyone cares and he doesn't, reaching out to grasp your wrist lightly, a friendly clasp that makes your skin burn. 

"Maybe we should try doing some of these things. Get you your hobbies back. Hobbies make everything worth it. What's the point in working so hard if you never have time to slow down?" he asks earnestly. 

You beam, staring at his hand. There's no sign that he's just touched you, no mark, no burn, nothing. It doesn't make any sense. 

He finishes off his drink and shoves that in the paper bag too, turning to you with a question already on his lips. 

"How about skateboarding?"

-

"You're overthinking it," Peter says, watching you hesitate in front of his skateboard. 

The sun shines like sticky hot toffee in the sky, piercing the autumn cold. The skatepark complex is busy, more busy than you expected, kids and teens and twenties like you and Peter fighting for space. You and Peter stand off to one side, away from the bowls and congregation.

"I don't want to fall," you confess.

"I won't let you," he says firmly. "Get on." 

He offers his hand. You bite your lip, feel the sun warm the back of your head as you stall. 

"I'll help you on. It's easy, I swear." 

You put one converse-heavy foot on the board. Peter had texted you to wear shoes you didn't mind getting all dinged up and you'd realised that was every pair of shoes, besides your flats for work. He also insisted on bringing knee pads and a helmet. You feel like an idiot. He obviously doesn't mind how you look considering he's tightened the helmet so much your hair is crushed and messy. 

"Is this really necessary?" you'd asked. 

He'd rolled his eyes. "Yes." 

"Look," he says now, "move your foot back a little bit." 

"It's gonna move."

He puts his foot behind the wheels. "There, now it won't. Angle your foot, like this," he shows you with his own, though it's the inverse foot and you get confused. He's patient. "Good job. Now this one, straight on the curved part." 

You wobble and grasp his wrist too tight in your fingers. He moves a little closer. "Alright. You'll push with this one," he says, pointing at your foot on the back of the board, "from this side. But don't worry, I'll show you. For now, let's just practice standing." 

You giggle breathily, nervous at being so close to him. "Not something I thought I'd ever have to practice doing." 

He laughs with you. 

"I know. As soon as you can balance, everything will feel a lot less scary." 

You wobble again. He sighs sympathetically, a half smile on his lips. "Want me to hold you up?" he asks. 

"Yes. Please," you agree. 

You can't help the tiny gasp of fright that leaves you when he lets go of your hand, though he's quick to wrap his both hands around your waist, steadying you on the board. He moves his foot from behind the truck and you're suddenly aware of the boards freedom to fly out from under you. 

You grab onto his arms unthinkingly, feeling the unmistakable curve of defined muscle. It only furthers your dizziness. 

"You're good," he murmurs, fingers flexing on your waist. You can feel his touch in your ribs. "How do you feel?" 

"Fine." 

"I'm gonna move you back and forth, okay?"

He does. It's odd. You sway forwards and backwards, barely moving. It's not as scary as you think it is. 

"You can use your hands for balance if you want but most people get away with having them loose at your sides," he tells you. His instructions are slow, said with a melodic cadence. 

His words click. "Oh, right. Sorry," you rush to say. 

You pull your hands away from him quickly and almost topplez ending up with your hands right back where they'd been moments before, scared at the change in your balance.

"Hey, you're good to hold onto me. Whatever you want to do," he reassures you.

He moves you for a few minutes. You're distracted by his touch and his proximity, of his smell and trying to work out what it is, and then worried about your own smell and how you look, and if you're making a good impression in his head. This is the first time you've seen him since the night you'd gone for food, though he'd texted you every now and then, friendly things, between the waiting days. The weekend had approached quickly. You offered the scarcity of your spare time to him in an uncharacteristic display of courage, texting him: 

I don't have work tomorrow if youre still okay to teach me how to skateboard 

Omg yes I've been looking forward to this all week!! You know where Maloof skatepark is? 

Yeh. Do I need to bring anything?? 

Just yourself and a pair of shoes u don't mind ruining, I'll bring everything else :D

"Okay, climb off." 

"Which-?" 

"This foot first." 

You clamber clumsily off of the board and his hands linger on your waist for a warm second. He climbs on the skateboard swiftly, movement smooth as honey. He's agile. 

"I'm gonna push with my leg," he lifts it up to show you. Impressed isn't the right word. "It's really easy, I promise you. You're gonna get this in no time." 

"Do you want the helmet?" you ask him. 

"No, sweetheart, you keep it." 

It's almost like being struck. He demonstrates how to push off, how to put your foot back behind you. You're too busy buzzing with something unfamiliar to pay attention. 

"See how I'm bending my knees a little bit?" he asks. 

You nod with no clue. He comes to a controlled stop and kicks the board up with his shoe, something that in consideration is mildly impressive but has you squeezing your palms closed tight. He braces it against his leg.

"Are you thirsty? I've got drinks," Peter says. 

You sit with your backs to a cold metal wrought fence sipping Sunny-D, the climbing sun cutting through the afternoons chilly weather until you're basking in it, lifting your face with your eyes closed. 

It's not quite peaceful, the childish hubbub and the sound of wheels, blades and metal screeching loud in your ears, but it could be. You can imagine how it might get to be white noise. 

Peter nudges you with his elbow. "You're like a cornflower." 

"A weed?" you murmur, bemused. 

"No!" he scrambles at your teasing tone. "They love the sun." 

"Like sunflowers." 

"Sunflowers aren't really flowers, either. The part that looks like a flower is a capitulum of florests. That's why the middle is weirdly big. It grows like the wood of a tree." 

"So the sunflower isn't a flower," you say, tilting your head towards his. "It's just a plant of- what did you say? Florests?"

"It's a plant covered in lots of little flowers, basically," he sums up for you.

"A plant made of flowers." 

"Exactly." 

"I'd know this if I hadn't dropped out, I assume." 

"That and a handful of other tiny useless facts."

Useless or not, he's hot when he talks, when he explains. You might think he was glaring at you, his eyebrows pinched, his mouth almost pouting like he's mad with himself for needing to concentrate. Whatever it is, it's pretty. He looks like a painting, you think. The Fallen Angel. 

He stops thinking so hard and lifts his head to drink. You watch him swallow and wonder after what kind of friend he wants you to be. 

"Flower or not, all I meant was that you look like you're enjoying the weather," he says after a moment. 

"It's nice. I like the warmth." 

"You're not too hot?" 

You look down at your hoodie. You are warm, but you won't take it off. "Nah," you say, smiling peaceably. 

He takes a second to digest this. His own hoodie is tucked away in his backpack, bare arms on show and a sight. You trace the small arm hairs with your eyes, then his veins, then a scar so silver it would be invisible without the sun's exposure. 

"You wanna try again?" 

You get up reluctantly and he sets his board back out and tucks his foot in front of the wheels. You step on, wobble, find your balance. He's more gentle with you than you think he should be. It's like he's known you for years. 

"Can I move my foot?" 

You nod. 

"Just stay steady. You have your knee pads, but I'll catch you if you fall anyway. All you wanna do for now is stand on the board." 

You trust him to do what he says he will and catch you. You take in a deep breath as he moves his foot, knees slightly bent, arms at your sides, trying your best to be steady. 

"Hey, amazing! Alright! Look at you!" Peter cheers, ecstatic.

"Should I be moving?" you ask through a small smile. 

He shrugs and moves backwards, close enough to grab you but far enough away that you have space to get comfortable on the skateboard by yourself.

"Do what feels right," he advises. 

The sun hits him, turns his hair alight. He's the prettiest boy you've ever met, his eyes dark in the halo of light, eyebrows darker. Light kisses the hills of his cheeks and taper, carving deep shadows under his jaw. You falter on the board, distracted again, and his jaw clenches, his hands reaching out to scoop you up before you can fall flat on your face. 

You're one foot touches down and the other slides out under you, skateboard rolling. Peter laughs straight away and you follow his example, giggling as his fingers hook under your arms. You barely feel them. He smells nice. Vanilla, you think, mixed with something aromatic. Amber, maybe. Whatever it is, it's warm. He smells warm. 

You remember to pull your foot off of his board and feel like you're made of jelly. He pulls his hands off of you but doesn't move away, peering down at you in question. 

"Did something surprise you?" he asks curiously. 

"I- yeah. I don't know." 

"Wanna go again?" 

You get up on the board again. It takes time and mishaps. Peter doesn't ever let you hit the ground. 

The sun edges further and further into the sky. By the time it's begun its descent you can push off by yourself, able to traverse a few slow feet without falling. Peter throws his arm over your shoulder when you dismount by yourself and shakes you gently. 

"Amazing. You're a real Tony Hawk," he compliments. "Next time we'll see if I can get you turning. You don't have anywhere to be, do you?" 

"Nowhere." 

"Wanna get something to eat? There's a place nearby that does Pão de Queijo, you'll love those." 

"Is it like the whole milkshake thing? 'Cos there's only so many stamps on my freak-of-nature card left." 

"Very funny. They're just cheese puffs, swear. Maybe we can get milkshakes on the way for a completely unrelated reason," he says, a vexing smugness behind his joke. 

"Ew, Peter." 

"Ew," he agrees.

-

Do you want to go to a painting class with me

Yeah it's like a Bob Ross rip off at the creative arts centre . They have all the stuff there we just have to pay like 49 dollars 

? 

a painting class? 

Which is on me if u say yes obviously 

You want me to go paint with you ? 

Yeah it'll be fun

I don't own anything  

Peter we can do all that stuff for free at my house if u want to 

wait 

is painting one of your pre job hobbies???

oh awesome. if that's OK with u then sure we might as well. also a relief cos its 49 each so that's like 98 dollars for us to paint waterfalls :0

yeh lol. i have the stuff

You stare down at your phone. Your answer blinks but you can't make yourself press send. You know you don't have to organise these big things to spend time with me, it says. Only, what if he does? What if your friendship doesn't work without something to do? You've known Peter for three weeks now and gone skating every weekend, though last time you'd given up early and insisted he impress you with tricks. He had delivered, and your mouth had been bone dry by the end of it. He'd barely broken a sweat. 

You delete your draft and start anew. 

Do you have a tarp or a big sheet we can lay down on the floor? I have carpet and I rent 

I'll get you a tarp, sweetheart

You scream to yourself and push your phone deep into the sofa cushions beneath you. It chirps and you leave it. It chirps again and you scrounge for it. 

look at this video https://youtu.be/A5L8bdYY9FY

he's eating a tomato

You laugh to yourself, giddy with the pleasure of having a friend. Giddy that it's Peter. 

-

A rattling knock at the door. 

A text before you can get up. 

I'm outside maybe

You open the door in your painting clothes with your hair intricately done to look messy-pretty. Peter is wearing his usual nice clothes, thigh hugging jeans and his brown jacket, but under it is a shirt that smells like burning. 

"S'my soldering shirt," he says quickly, apologetic. 

You smile and hope he reads it for what it is; It smells like it. Also, I'm happy you're here. 

He shrugs off his backpack. 

"I brought sandwiches," he announces. "Like, thanks for inviting me, no I'm not going to murder you sandwiches." 

"Peter, I never thought you were going to murder me." 

"Good. May says hi." He pulls a plate from the bag, cookies covered in saran wrap. 

"Oh my god. Why don't you say hi this way?" you tease, accepting the plate from his hands. The cookies are still warm. You could scream. "Is it rude if I eat one now?" you ask him. 

"It would be rude if you didn't. I sw- rushed here so they'd stay warm." 

"Thank you." 

Beforeyou can psych yourself up, you step forward and hug him with one arm. You'd argued with yourself for hours this morning while cleaning if this was an acceptable thing to do. Friends hug, don't they? 

You do it quickly, reasoning that if he finds it weird then at least it's short. You pull away before his arms are even properly around you. Peter looks mildly confused but is ever a boy of endless generosity and so has the kindness to pretend you're not acting socially inept, instead setting his sights on your apartment. 

"It's bright," he says. 

You read it as a comment on lack of decor. 

"White," you agree. "Can't mess up if it's all the same colour." 

The walls, the rug, the cabinets. Though they're all a dull offwhite. It's horrible, you think, really horrible, but you're so afraid to try and to mess up that you've never bothered. 

Peter stretches the plastic tarp he's acquired out over your floor as you eat one of May's cookies, sighing at the taste of sugar and chocolate chips. You hold the cookie in one hand and use the other to weigh the tarp edges down with four worn paperback books. 

"You read a lot?" Peter asks, beaming. You can't understand it. 

You nod and finish up the cookie. 

"That's a nice hobby to have, sweetheart." Again with sweetheart, so warm it makes your fingers tremble. "What kind of stuff do you like to read?" 

You tell him the bare bones of your reading habit as you spread your freshly-dusted art supplies out onto the trap. You'd bought fresh turps and canvas and laid them out already. 

"What are we painting?" you ask him. 

He nods to himself and opens up his laptop from his rucksack, moving it so you have a good view with YouTube already paused. 

"That's not a waterfall," you say. 

"It looks pretty, though, don't you think?" 

It's an aurora borealis tutorial. "It might be above my skill level." 

"Not mine. Don't worry, I'll get us through it." 

You'd primed the medium canvases with a thick layer of white gesso. Peter rubs his fingertips over the smooth surface deliberately and turns to you. 

"I thought we'd take our time. I know the idea is to paint along with him but we aren't in any hurry. I watched it twice last night and I really think we can manage it," he says, confident. 

First, three stripes of a turquoise-green. Mixing that colour is a struggle that you both giggle through. You add white, Peter adds green, you add too much blue and he adds too much yellow. Eventually you get something right, the both of you already smattered in flecks of oily colour that transfers onto the pristine canvas, marring them. You look at each other with wide eyes. 

"We can just do the stripes across them," Peter says. 

"The background is dark," you agree. "It'll cover it up." 

You paint big green stripes. Peter tips linseed oil on his jeans and you have to take a break to clean it up, kneeling knee to knee with him and dabbing his leg with a rag. 

"I'm really sorry I don't have anything for you to change into," you apologise. 

"It's not your fault," he says, quiet, so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your forehead. 

When he's mostly dry you, in what is the most arduous and quite frankly terrifying step, fill in the gaps with a blue so dark it's almost black. 

"The wine-dark sea," you murmur. 

Peter looks at you in a way you can't decipher.

"You know, Homer?" you ask. 

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. His voice is cloudy with something as he asks, "Explain it to me?" 

You look down at your painting and make small, careful strokes, working to cover the last corner. "I don't really know everything, but; they didn't have a word for blue, or maybe they didn't have a perception of the colour blue, back then. Culturally."

You go silent with concentration as you fill in the last stroke of dark paint, attempting to be as neat as you can be. 

"So they were all colourblind?" he asks. 

"Maybe," you murmur. "I don't know, I don't think so? I think it might've been about language and how they used it rather than just not seeing it at all. Homer once described Zeus' eyebrow as 'blue', like a synonym for 'dark'." 

It feels weird to disagree with him. You're worried about being pedantic, looking out your peripherals at him. He's leaning over his canvas with a stripe of paint up his arm like a turquoise vein, his shirt sleeve, soft with age, curling up. You can see a chest-aching silver of his muscled bicep. He doesn't seem annoyed at all. In fact, he seems pleased. 

"That's awesome, in a way. Don't you think so? And what, blue was just dark or dark red?" 

"I'm not sure. I don't really remember. I read about it a long time ago," you say hesitantly, afraid of sounding stupid.

"Maybe we can have a look after we're done painting. I'm sure you're right," he says lightly, sitting back on his calves with a pleased smile. "We are literally modern Picasso's." 

Well, they did look quite abstract. 

You paint gentle lines of purple atop the black, taking it straight from the tube with your brushes, waiting your turn like little kids. It becomes invisible as it blends, lying in wait for the white paint meant to go on top.

You clean off your brushes in the turpentine and squeeze out a big dollop of titanium white. 

"This is the tricky part," Peter informs you over the instructor on screen. "We have to use a lot of white, keep the lines really skinny and blobby but also try not to mix it with the blue underneath too much. Think you have the chops?" he asks, voice low, like a formidable opponent from some texas ranger movie. 

You don't. 

"Yeah, we can do it. Looks easy," you say, eyes on the screen. 

It's finicky. The white smudges and gets dirty fast. You don't suppose it will matter when you do the final brush strokes, but still. Peter's perfectionism begins to show and he grows quiet with concentration, white stripes arcing over his canvas in delicate hand. 

"The fun part," he declares when he's done. "You have a big brush, right?" 

"Only the one," you say, sorry. 

"That's okay, I like sharing with you." 

Peter goes first, slowly and then with more confidence when the beginning stroke goes well. He drags the dry brush from the bottom to the top over still wet paint. Where the white spread upwards it lightens the turquoise green and purple, and the aurora borealis is born on his canvas. 

You both look at it in shock. 

By the time he's finished you're beaming. It's so pretty, so simple. 

"I can't believe I made that," he says, then flushes pink. 

He clears his throat and cleans the brush off in turps, wipes it dry on the painting rag. He hands it to you and you take it impulsively, but after a moment you pass it back. 

"Will you do mine for me? Please?" 

"What? You don't want to do it?" he asks, incredulous.

"I'll mess it up." 

Peter takes the brush from you though he looks like it's the last thing he would ever want to do. His shoulders relax, down in fashion with the corner of his mouth. 

"Why would you think that?" he asks. 

You shift uncomfortably. "I just would." 

His face goes stony, and he looks like he did at the skatepark, that flash of fallen angel. His eyebrows furrow and there's a particular sullen quality to his pout. It's gone as quick as it came, overwhelmed by something like determination. 

"You try it. If you mess it up I'll finish it off for you. Final offer." 

"That's the only offer you've given me." 

"Exactly." 

It goes without a hitch. Peter squeezes your forearm gently, says, "I knew you could," and leaves a white-lilac fingerprint behind. Later, when he's left for the night and you're lying in bed with your arm still phantom tingling, you look at the paint mark and figure that it makes sense. A physical mark of how you feel. A soft colour of a soft touch. 

-

Peter waits for you outside the hotel restaurant where you waitress on Friday, 5PM, and looks exceedingly happy when he spots you like he hadn't expected you, despite your being his one reason for standing there. 

He has a bag hanging from the crook of his elbow and his earphones wired in. He pulls them out when he sees you. 

"Watcha listening to?" you ask. 

"Aw, look at you, sweetheart," he cooes instead of answering. 

You don't understand, looking down at your waitress skirt and tights, your white blouse and black overcoat. Your name tag is shining silver in the lamp light. 

"What?" 

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, handing you the drinks tray.

Before you can answer he's shrugging out of his jacket, transferring his bag from one hand then the other. 

"Here." He takes the drinks back and passes you the jacket. "Let's swap." 

"Peter, I can't wear your jacket." 

"I've got this hoodie on," he says, gesturing to his dark blue hoodie with a grin. 

Your cheeks burn. You pretend it's from the cold breeze, pushing your arms into his jacket quickly, shy but thankful for the warmth. It's thick and warm from his wear, corduroy with a puffier inner lining than you were expecting. Chills line your arms as his heat sinks in.

"Where's your jacket?" Peter asks. 

"It put it in my locker and then I lost the key, and the super isn't here on Fridays. So." 

"Typical." 

"Of me?" 

"Of the super. Four day work week! The nerve of that guy." 

You laugh and start to walk, prompting Peter into motion. He wraps your stiff fingers around a warm cardboard cup unnecessarily. You almost question him aloud. You bring the cup to your nose and sniff, quickly forgetting your question as it's replaced by another. 

"Pete, what is this?" 

"It's a honeycomb latte from Tim Hortons. You've been trying so many new things, I thought you'd like it. I'll get you something else, though, if you hate it."

You sip. It's nice. "This is grim," you lie, and it's so obvious it shocks a laugh from him. You're gifted a peek at the underside of his perfect jaw, his lovely neck as he tilts his head back. 

"How will I sleep tonight?" you ask after another burning sip.

"It's decaf, bug." 

"Bug! Like an insect." 

"Exactly." He grins. You take a big mouthful of latte and feel it heat you up inside out. 

He tucks his phone in his pocket but pulls the wired headphones through and offers an earbud to you. You plug it in your ear and listen to his music as you walk mostly in silence. It's nice to decompress after work, nice to enjoy his company without having to talk. There's so much talking, all day, and it's a comfort you can't believe you're privileged enough to have for him to be by your side, hands swinging, almost touching, between you. 

"What song was that?" 

"Raspberry. By Grouplove."

"And what song is this one?" you ask. 

"Honeybody." 

You smile to yourself. 

"What?" he asks, grinning, words all soft and warped with humour. 

"I've never heard any of your songs before." 

"You hate them?" 

"I really don't. They suit you." 

He grins and starts to sway, his drink sloshing, the bag hanging from his wrist rustling with his movement. You step around a mysterious mark on the sidewalk and when you return to his side Peter holds his hand out. You take it and he's suddenly pulling you in, your face by his face, giggles bubbling out of you when you realise he's serenading you in a falsetto. 

"Oh, honeybody, whatcha doing Sunday? Maybe sippin' a coca cola with me, babe?" he begins. 

It's ridiculous, and it makes you laugh, the beat of the song easy to fall into as he stretches your joined hands between you, his shoulders moving in dance. 

"Hands down on the ground, I'm begging you to please - honeybody, please me?" 

He laughs as he sings, words off kilter and high pitched. You smile so wide it hurts your cheeks and try not to spill your drink as his eyes flare wide and he spins you around. People must be looking at you, they have to be, the streets are quiet but not abandoned, and no one can hear the music but you - it must be something awful. And, as someone who is always so paranoid of what people think, you realise you don't care. This is fun. Your heart is racing as you dance, you skirt flaring in the breeze as you almost skip into dance moves, head bobbing left to right. 

Honeybody, want ya body.

You dance through an instrumental pause like idiots, and then hum along to the words you don't know when they start again, Peter moving your hand in his back and forth over the empty air in time with the music.  

It's magnetic in its awkwardness. Why do people dance? Because something about music makes you desperate to feel it, and something about Peter's pretty face open with the simple joy of singing in the street multiplies that. You're not sure you could've kept still if you wanted to, a vestibule of immeasurable slap dap joy. 

The song slows, swells, and you and Peter calm yourselves down now that the pop-y baseline is fading. You turn to each other and smile and laugh breathily, embarrassed and so disgusting stupid happy it hurts your cheeks. You let yourself look into his eyes, their amber flecked, sunwarmed-honey brown, ink black pupils blown wide. He drops your joined hands back down but doesn't let your fingers go, swinging them forwards and back between you. You don't just let him, you help, and you find that you love the weight of his palm in yours. 

The new song is slower but still jumpy. The singer has a deeper voice, a very deep voice, and you can't make out what he's saying until the bridge. 

I'm just a lover boy. I'm not cut out to be cruel. 

You look at Peter and reckon it of him. You can't imagine he's ever been cruel in his life. 

"What is this one called?" you ask, tightening your fingers around his. 

"Low beam," he tells you smoothly, an impersonation, grasping your hand back with a similar pressure. 

"I can't tell what he's saying," you confess. 

He tilts his head and listens to the song, humming and then singing, his voice steady and deep but without the passionate inflection of the singer, whose voice has climbed into a higher pitch for the next two lines. It sounds nice, and Peter's voice sounds nicer. 

"I know what you're all about, I know what you're on. Baby let me down, I just don't belong." 

You barely have time to think about how much you relate to the singer's words before Peter drops his voice down all sticky-deep and croaky. 

"I know what you're thinking, you can take me for a ride. Baby let me have it, 'cos I'm never gonna hide, you can keep on running-" 

He tries to keep singing his dramatic rendition and can't, your roaring laughter too infectious to ignore. 

How could you not laugh? He sounds so ridiculous, his impression of the singer so outlandish and yet spot on. You laugh hard enough that you have to bend over in the street and press your thighs together, gasping for air. You know it's the euphoria of dancing with him making you dizzy, know that this giddiness is a collection of all the ways he's made you feel high with the pleasure of being cared about. 

Peter's own laughter fades before yours, though he's not immune to each fresh wave, each shiny giggle. You wheeze and he snorts in response, pulling his hand from yours to pat your back sympathetically. 

"Alright, bub, laugh it up. We have places to be. Get it all out of your system." 

Get it out of your system! You laugh until tears well in your eyes. 

"If you don't stop laughing I won't heat your grilled cheese up. You'll have to eat it cold." 

You gasp, half mocking as the giggles taper. "Not my artisan-style grilled cheese! The horror!" 

You're not blind enough to miss the fondness on his face as he looks down at you. "Exactly: the horror."

"May won't let you do that to me. It's, like, a human rights violation." 

It's his turn to laugh. You stand giggling in the street with his hand buried in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, clinging to you for dear life. You only manage to sober up when his drink tips over the lip of the cup and miraculously drips into the opening of the plastic bag suspended from the crook of his elbow, ruining your sandwiches. 

-

"There's a phone call for you at the front desk," someone tells you. 

You rush to the desk and accept the phone from the secretary, leaning over the top, and raise it your ear. Nobody ever calls you, really, and it's unlikely they'd know you were here: you're picking up someone else's shift, a night shift.

"Hello?" 

Peter's voice, without greeting. "'In the 1980s a theory gained prominence that after Greeks mixed their wine with hard, alkaline water typical for the Peloponnesus, it became darker and more of a blue-ish color. Approximately at the same time P. G. Maxwell-Stuart argued that "wine-eyed" may simply denote 'drunk, unpeaceful'.'"

"Where'd you read that?" you ask quietly, peeking out the corner of your eye at the secretary. She seems to be uncaring. 

"Wikipedia." 

"So the wine-dark sea isn't red?" 

"I think it's up for interpretation still. Wikipedia isn't exactly the best source. But certainly not red in our context," he says. You can hear how tired he is from the slight monotony of his voice. 

"So it's not red to them, because they saw blue as a dark red," you say, not really arguing so much as thinking out loud. "It's 'cos their wine was blue?" You confuse yourself. 

"That's what I thought at first, too, but if you look at other languages from the same time period, it's very common for their syntax to also lack any mention or translation of the word blue." 

"I'm too stupid for all of this, Pete. You'll have to work it out for me." 

"You're not stupid," he says hotly. 

"I'm not not stupid." 

"You're not stupid. Don't say mean things about my friend." 

You laugh at the seriousness of his tone. "You got it, boss. Anything else? I gotta get back." 

"Right! Sorry, I called you to ask you out, not to theorise dead languages with you."

Your heart stutters. "Ask me out?" 

"There's a rerun tomorrow morning of Big Eden at the movies near your place." 

"What time?" 

"Like, 8AM." 

You check your watch. It's already 10PM. "Will you be okay with waking up early? You sound really tired." 

He laughs nervously. "What?" he asks, voice pitched up. "I'm fine. Of course I will be. So that's a yes?" 

"You're all scratchy… but yes, that sounds fun." 

"Is it ugly? My voice?" 

"It's nice," you say, too honest. 

His answering silence makes you want to slam the phone back into its receiver. A sound like fast wind statics the line. 

"What was that?" 

"What was what? You finish soon, don't you?" he asks. 

You sigh. "Yes, thank you God. Fifteen minutes." 

"You'll text me when you're home?" 

"Sure thing. Catch you later?" 

"Catch you later," he repeats, voice edged with lightness. You put the phone back and slink off to finish up your duties before clocking out and retrieving your things from your locker. 

It's cold and dark. You pin the feeling of being followed on plain paranoia. You hear the strangest sound, a thwip like wet paper towels hitting the floor, and it freaks you out badly. You rush home. 

Peter's timing is impeccable, your phone pinging as soon as you've locked the front door. 

Home?

Yes sir

Plans tonight? 

Calm down my racing heart and then knock out for moveis tomorrow :33 

Racing heart??? Everything OK? 

Yeah, just scary sometimes walking home. I felt like someone was following me 

His reply takes a little while. 

Fuck. Next time I'll meet you there? Even if we don't have plans, I'll walk you home whenever you want. 

You smile to yourself. 

Yeah. that would be nice. Thank you Peter 

-

You're so tired in the morning that your eyes burn. You don't care. You haven't seen Peter all week and there's a hole the size of him in your palm. You meet him outside the movie theatre and instantly narrow your eyes at him. 

"Peter! What the fuck?" 

"What?" he asks, sluggish, dressed briskly in a white shirt and olive green pants. His rucksack bulges on his back, hopefully full of contraband. 

"Your eye!" you say, furious. "What do you mean, 'what'? You have a shiner!" 

You catch his face in your hands, less gentle than you mean to be. You breathe out and try to be careful, tilting his head down and to one side to get a good look, gasping at the extent of it, a horrible wine stain of purple red on his cheek. 

"Peter, did you go to the hospital?" you murmur, chewing your lip. 

You brush your thumb over the very edge of his eye. He wraps his hand around your forearm and strokes down, a little bit of the worry you're feeling dripping away with it. You can't get over how messy it is, how his eye is squinting shut with it. 

"May looked at it. It's ugly but it's fine." 

"How did you do this?" you ask, and maybe he can hear how weirdly close you are to tears, because he tightens his grip on you and meets your eyes. 

"I'm alright," he says emphatically. "I- I ate shit on the rails. Everything's fine." 

You hadn't expected seeing him hurt to evoke such a visceral reaction. You clear your throat and tuck it away, blinking rapidly to push any wetness from your eyes. 

"Jesus Christmas, Peter," you whisper.

"Jesus Christmas," he repeats dryly. 

You drop your hand from his face and ball it into a fist, faux annoyed with him. His hand remains on your arm, slowly climbing up, and the press of his fingertips is a small heaven. Your annoyance doesn't last long; you're too concerned about his face to hide it. 

"Are you really okay? Maybe you should go home." 

"Are you kidding? I missed you all week, I'm not going home. I would've come with a stab wound." 

You might have smiled if his bruise wasn't as awful as it was. 

"Peter…" 

"Come on, it's Big Eden. I guarantee you'll cry and I already bought the tickets," he says this with a mischievous, self-satisfied grin. 

You look at the white t-shirt he's wearing with a little goblin man riding a skateboard, want to laugh at it, want to cry about his face and kiss it better or at the very least hold a tincture to it for a few hours. He's injured and it must hurt like a bitch, and yet he wants to watch a movie with you. That softens your resolve. You're quickly finding that Peter Parker is hard to say no to. 

"Well," you say, rolling the words around in your mouth, "if you already bought the tickets…" 

He cheers and readjusts the strap of his Jansport on one shoulder before leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Yes! Alright, let's do this thing. I have a ridiculous amount of snacks in this bad boy." 

You sit smack dab in the middle of the theatre. Peter is at first a pillar of strength, whispering jokes and forcing snacks not suitable for your early morning appetite into your hands. He grows less talkative as the movie continues and soon, with a struggle and a half, he's lightly dozing, his head thrown back. 

You can't decide whether to be enraptured by the movie or the sleeping boy besides you. Again, you're overtaken by this want to kiss his aching contusion like it might help.

The movie plays and all you can do is look at Peter's face. 

"Listen, you know what they say when you get lost in the woods? If you stay put, stay in one place and don't wander, they'll find you."

You reach out your fingers an inch from his face, half an inch. 

"And I was just hoping you'd let yourself be found this time. I was hoping you'd let us find you. But you keep wandering and-"

You touch his face. He stirs and you can't pull your hand back in time. You're not smart enough to lie, find you don't really want to, and he sees your hand and presses his own overtop without saying anything. 

You twist in the padded velvet seat. Peter slides your hand up his face, towards his eye, leans into your touch like a cushion. 

You worry he's fallen asleep again when his mouth ticks up into a small smile. 

"Was I asleep for long?" he whispers. 

You shake your head. He drops your hands from his face and pulls them into his lap and they stay there for the rest of the movie, catching teardrops. 

You cry too. A lot more. 

"This was the first movie I saw as a kid where I realised it was okay," he says quietly over wide shots of the town, "for me to love boys the same way I loved girls." 

That prompts a fresh wave. You sniff them away, squeezing his hand in his lap and feeling that overwhelming fondness for him that you always feel these days, as well as the pleasure and thankfulness that comes with being trusted brazenly. 

"Yeah?" you ask, eyes shiny. 

"Yeah." 

The lights come up as the credits begin rolling. Peter, despite his obvious fatigue, gets up quickly. He pulls his rucksack on and wipes his eyes, wincing when he brushes against his awful bruise.

"Maybe not the best movie to watch with a black eye," he says self-deprecatingly. 

You're busy trying to think of how to say what you want to say. 

"Thank you. For bringing me to see the movie with you. And for telling me," you say, looking down at the red carpeted floor, it's sprinkling of popcorn, descending the steps to the doors.

He nudges you with his elbow. "Thanks for coming with me. And waking me up before the best part." 

You blush at the memory. If he thinks you woke him on purpose you won't correct him. You don't want to make a big deal of his coming out to you if he doesn't and so you follow him quietly out of the theatre and into the bright day. His eye looks better in the light. 

He sees you looking. "Hm?" 

"Your eye looks less awful now." 

"Must've been the cloud cover this morning, enhanced my shadow," he says offhandedly. 

It really must've been. You feel sore from all the crying and can't imagine how he feels. 

"You could've warned me about the movie, Pete." 

"No! The best part about Big Eden is watching it for the first time and having it destroy and rebuild your heart." 

And don't you just feel yourself falling for him a little bit more? 

You bump his thigh with your hip. "You're evil, Parker." 

He laughs loudly. 

You try to keep too much hopefulness out of your voice when you ask, "So you're busy today?" 

His smile turns disappointed. He explains how much studying he has to do for an exam on Monday and apologises for bringing you out just to ditch you. "I'm really sorry. I love that movie and I was selfish enough to want to see it with you but if I don't study for this I'm gonna flunk the class." 

You wave your hand at him. 

"It's really okay. I'm glad we had the morning together. No hard feelings," you say breezily. 

He walks you home and tells you to text him and promises to try and reply, dropping a kiss in the centre of your hairline, hands braced on the top of your head. His smile tugs at his bruise as he walks away backwards, waving at you and nearly mowing down an old man and his dog. You pretend to shut your door, stand there listening to his panicked apologies through the crack, hungry for those extra seconds of his voice. 

-

Peter's room is busy. A million photos, a surprising amount of them featuring you, decorate the walls, the side of his wardrobe, wherever he can fit them. Some are Polaroids, some are 4×6s on Walmart paper, some you're not sure about. There's the ones he's obviously taken on his phone - you painting, you walking towards him outside the movie theatre, you on his skatebaord, determined. Photos he'd taken with his F2 from your escapades - bowling, go karting, air hockey. You hold your puck in your hand, hair a mess from the fierceness of your competition, wearing the usual glee that comes with his company. You stand outside the 7/11 with a slurpee in a bucket on for bring your own cup, cherry and blue raspberry and piña colada all mixed together in a rainbow mess, pink and blue sticky syrup down the front of your shirt. Peter, having encouraged you to try the F2, with his own slurpee, his inside a heavy casserole dish. So heavy you'd thought there was no way he could carry it - you'd struggled with the bucket, it's flimsy plastic handle untrustworthy - and yet he'd marched it home. A second picture, Peter on the floor in his living room with your slurpees and two comically long straws made of normal sized straws and sellotape for the occasion, Constantine playing on the TV. A third, you cross-legged on the floor watching the screen, half your slurpee gone and the movie now changed to chicken little. That always made you laugh to remember, how he'd demanded something fun after Constantine's hellish nightmare. 

Slightly aside form the photos is your aurora borealis painting. 

"We'll swap. I'll have yours and you'll have mind. That way we can't look at them and pick out all the mistakes we made," Peter had suggested. 

He was right. Having his painting propped on your dresser is nice, and you don't ever look at it and think about its flaws. Your own is a different story.

You turn your face from it. Where you lie flat on your back in Peter's bed he sits at his desk, head down, finishing up some practice questions. His allowance of your company is a win, you think. He'd been reluctant at first, unusual for him, as he let you do most everything you asked to do. 

"Please? I'm so bored here. I won't make any noise." 

"It's not about noise, it's about FOMO." 

"FOMO." 

"If I know you're there I'll want to know what you're doing and then I'll want to do it with you."

"I won't do anything. I'll just sit on your bed silently. Please? At least let me be bored somewhere interesting. Please." 

You watch him work, his earphones singing their bumpy song, dark head of hair bobbing as he goes. In the perfect life, you stand up and pull his hair from his face and he pulls his desk chair out and sets you in his lap, and everything is soft and lilac forever, his fingertips colouring every inch of your body, every centimetre of your hands and your arms and your chest and your neck. 

You feel awful for thinking it of him and quickly bring your hands up to hide, covering your eyes with your palms. Your heart beats so loudly you worry he can hear it from where he's sitting.

The squeal of his desk chair's wheels. His music, louder as he pulls out his earphones. 

"Are you okay? I'm getting distressed vibes," Peter says loudly. 

You rubs your hands down your face and hold them to your cheeks. "Leave me alone." 

"Don't be like that," he says, standing from the chair. Your watch his arms bulge as he does, how the muscles move and contract with his weight. 

"Budge up," he demands. 

You stare at him. 

"Come on." 

"You're not done." 

"I am now. Move over, heathen, it's my bed." 

"I had to plead with you to let me visit because I'm a 'distraction', but when I tell you to work I'm a heathen." 

You move over until your arm is pressed into the cool wall. He sits down with his back to your knees, pulling his sweatshirt over his head in that infuriating way that boys do, flashing his naked back at you. He sheds the sweatshirt on the floor to your shock-horror and looks over his shoulder, hair disheveled. 

"I was always gonna let you come over," he says, like it's obvious, "just had to mess with you a bit first."

"That's mean," you bemoan. 

He raises his eyebrows and lies back, his spine pushing into the soft swell of your tummy. You hear it click. 

"Peter, oh my god." 

He sighs as he stretches, using you like a roller. You blush at the sound he makes as he readjusts, your brain labelling it as a moan even when you begin it not to. You try not to breath weird as he curls up on your abdomen, a touch, face pressed above your naval, eyes on your eyes. Peter can't be comfortable in his position but he looks like there's nowhere he'd rather be. It makes you nauseous. 

You turn your face into his pillow and decide you can't deal with this right now, and you won't. Peter's hands are clasped together, knuckle of his thumb pressed into your ribs. Your own hands lie at either side of you, itching to move, to touch, to hold. 

You ball them into fists. 

"What should we have for lunch?" he asks. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a poor imitation of a normal person.  

He hums to himself in thought and you still as you feel his hand traverse the curve of your ribs. He traces the pattern of your shirt gently, fingertips touching you so slightly you might convince yourself you'd imagined it if you couldn't see his arm moving out of the corner of your eye. 

"The sandwhich house outside the 71 station had signs up for po' boys," he suggests, almost murmuring. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. "You like shrimp?" you ask, slightly wheezy. 

He flattens his hand with a laugh. "I like po' boys." 

You can't help it, you hate yourself for it, but the heat of his hand as he slides it lightly over your ribs makes you tremble. He doesn't say anything, but his hand quickens, as if to soothe, trailing back and forth over your rising abdomen. If he moves his hand up a few inches- 

"Or I can make mac and cheese," his hand pauses as he turns it over in his head, "I can make breadcrumbs. Oh, there's imitation lobster in the freezer. We could have lobster mac and cheese." He raises his head off of your tummy and smiles at you. "Right?" 

You force yourself to speak, scared to move, "I'm not sure I'm very hungry." 

He nods and lays back down, rubbing his face gently against the material of your shirt. It catches on the beginnings of his stubble. Your entire body flushes, a too hot feeling blossoming in your chest. 

"PB and J?" he offers.

Your hand shakes as you raise it behind him, warring with yourself. He's rubbing my chest. I'd hardly be the weird one if I stroked his hair, you think. Would I? 

You touch first single strand, then the outline of a curl. Peter turns his head before you can, crushing his curls, face to his ceiling with a dispirited grumble. 

"It's no use," he says, hands scrubbing his face. "Too many options." 

Then, as if remembering himself, "Oh, sorry. I'm crushing you," he says, sitting up. 

"N-" you physically stop yourself from protesting his departure and instead pull yourself up before he can try anything heartstopping again. 

A pointless exercise, you realise, when he moves to fix your hair for you, flattening your bedhead. He pauses with his hand over your ear and smiles triumphantly.

"Cereal," he says. 

You grin, appeasing. "Cookie crisp?" 

"Yes! Absolutely. Cookie crisp. And Apple Jack's." 

"Not at the same time, though." 

Peter's silent. He stands up and makes for the door, refusing to look at you. 

"Not at the same time, though, Peter. Right?" 

"You don't have to eat it!" he complains, rolling his eyes. 

You follow him down the stairs. Your socks are new and slippery. He's quick, and in your scramble to catch up with him and prevent any atrocity you mist the last step and gasp. 

Peter doubles back. "What?" 

You laugh, forcing mouthfuls of air into your lungs in relief. 

"I missed the last step," you admit, waiting for his judgement. 

He smirks like you knew he would. "Aw, doll, can't even get down the stairs by herself." 

"I can." You hate yourself for how his words make you stammer. "It's your fault, I was chasing you." 

"You were chasing me?" he asks, something evil in his eyes. 

You take a step back that you don't have and fall onto the stairs as he takes a step forward. You want to laugh but Peter doesn't, and so you don't, sitting on his wooden stairs with your hand wrapped around the banister, looking up at him worriedly. 

"No," you say. 

He takes your face into his hands. His black eye is healed. The only colour on his face is the beauty mark just below his nose.

His hands are hot. They cradle your cheeks, fingers pushed under your ears, tilting you up. He's playing a game of intimidation with you, you know, and you swallow, his touch calming but his proximity nerve-wracking. 

"You think you could catch me?" he asks, amusement written clear as day on his pretty face. 

"For cereal," you clarify, bargaining for your life. 

"Right, and if you caught me? Then what?" 

"I would have stopped you." 

"Yeah?" 

You stop with your lips parted. He strokes your cheek with his thumb. You feel suddenly overwhelmed and he must see that, because he pulls his hands from your face with enough gentleness to turn your stomach. 

"Hey," he says. "I'm kidding. I wouldn't hurt you, you know that?" 

And your eyes widen. "Of course I know that," you tell him quickly. You drop your head into your hands and feel your skin where his hands had been. "I didn't think that." 

"You looked pretty freaked out," he mumbles. 

You hold your hand out and he takes it, pulling you back onto your feet, chest touching his chest. He shuffles back. His fingers move down your hand to squeeze your wrist. Weeks and weeks of this. He's more familiar to you than anyone has ever been before, yet you have so much left to learn. 

You want to reassure him. No, Peter, you didn't make me uncomfortable or anything. It's just your hands feel like they were meant to be held to my face. I want to hold them there. 

You wrap your arms around his waist like a coward. Your face disappears into the strength of his chest. He wraps his arms around you without a word.

"I know you wouldn't," is all you can say. 

-

The picnic blanket is a kaleidoscope of colours against the rich green swatch of grass where you lie. Peter sits with one leg up in the opposite corner, your game of uno between you. 

"I think you're slipping cards," Peter accuses. 

"How could I? I don't have sleeves. Or pants." 

"I know what you're like," he says. 

He's right, you are slipping cards. A wad of them are sticky under your sweaty thigh. Peter gives the handheld fan he's propped up across from you both a good wack to get it going again. 

"I thought you were an engineer," you say. "Uno." 

He lays down a +4 and you sigh, picking up an extra four cards. 

"It's fixed. It's fixed, it's just temperamental. It has personality." He sounds personality out. Per-suh-nah-li-ty. 

"Uh-huh," you say. 

"Uno." 

Fuck. You put down a yellow and he sighs, picking up another card.

"It's actually offensive to me that you think I'm slipping." 

"It's offensive to me that you think I wouldn't notice." 

Another card, another. 

"Uno." 

He puts one down. "Uno." 

You pick up. He picks up. 

"You notice nothing." 

"So your leg, it's flat to the blanket for no particular reason?" 

"Uno," you say, your one card wavering in your hand. You refuse to lie to him but won't tell the truth, either. 

"Uno. You have a bad poker face." 

You place your last card. "I win." 

He puts his last card down on the blanket and steadies his gaze on your. His eyes flit to your leg. He throws himself at you. 

His weight pushes your back flat to the picnic blanket and his hand pushes under your thigh. His fingertips dig into your leg and he scoops up a handful of your cheating cards, moving off of you and brandishing them. 

You giggle and stay lying down. He drops them on your chest, red cards stark against your short white summer dress. 

"I knew it. You lose." 

"I won!" 

"You forfeit for cheating!" 

You concede, simpering. He kneels between your legs, looking only at your face, and then he catches sight of your legs and he stops smiling. You know he sees them. 

He looks at your face, as if to say, argue with me about them.  

"It's okay," you murmur. 

He follows a white, raised line once. His hands are steady and kind. His fingertips feel like the kiss of a soft mouth. 

You bring your legs up and push your knees together, folding them to the side and away from his view. He straightens your dress to hide your underwear and you can barely bring yourself to be embarrassed. His fingers linger, pinched in the white of your skirt.

"Are you sure?" he asks. 

"I promise." 

His relief is palpable. 

He crawls backwards on his knees to clean up the mess of cards. You listen to his movements, his breathing, the shuffling of cards as he puts them back in their cardboard box and the zipper of his bag. You think about the mess of scars on your body and how he's seen them, too inattentive to notice his creeping approach. 

He dangles a daisy picked from the surrounding grass in front of your eyes. 

"You're my best friend," he says, love sewed into the seams of each syllable. "The best friend I have ever had. Nothing will change that." 

You accept the flower and sit up, passing him the last red card from under your ribs. 

-

"Why did we agree to come here?" Peter asks into your ear, leaning over the sofa where you're sitting. 

"You didn't miss the smell?" you ask him innocently. 

"Or the taste," he informs you, arms hanging either side of your head. 

He rests his chin in your hair and you poke your tongue towards his cup until he gets what you're saying and holds it to your mouth. 

"Me neither," you say after you've swallowed. "Yuck." 

"Shall we go home?" he asks. 

You tilt your head backwards and watch the underside of his jaw move. He raises his head to look down at you. It's weird, like he's upside down. 

"We shall," you declare. 

Peter pulls you off the couch side through the apartment, down flights of stairs and onto the street, which smells better than the stuffy tang of beer that had lingered at the party by a small, almost invisible margin. 

The sky is split by our star's descent, a brilliant mix of orange and pink and white and blue, clouds dancing across it like lovers, unhurried. 

You and Peter walk much the same, crossing streets and ducking through cold alleyways until the road to his aunt's house appears in the distance, hands brushing against hands, dancing around each other.   

A car drives past playing sweet classical music. Another blares heavy rock. A dog sticks his head out of the window and wags his tail, tongue heaving. You and Peter wave at him excitedly. 

The sun sinks further through its rainbow sky like the fat yolk of an egg having escaped its shell, almost bobbing against the honey yellow horizon, a wave of light. 

There's no music to be heard as Peter knits his fingers through yours, pulling you towards him. You spin into him like it's a game, the edges of your skirt flaring out, the petals of a baby blue tulip over your thighs. 

You spin out for the simple pleasure of watching it. Peter digs through his pocket for his phone and sets his music to shuffle. The first song to come on is all you need. 

You spin out, spin in, arms joined and high in the air. Away again, in, you trip over your own feet and drop your head into his chest, something akin to peace wrapping itself around you like sheer ribbon as you laugh breathlessly.

Peter says your name. You lift your head from his chest and see reflected on his face how you're feeling now - light, pure light. 

"I think you're my honeybody," you tell him, beaming. 

He raises his hands to your neck, moves them up in synchrony to your face. He ebbs like a wave, hands falling down, pushing under your arms as he pulls you into a hug, leaning backwards. Your shoes leave the ground, Peter hugging you so tightly it aches, face buried in your hair. He sets you down on sure footing and kisses you, misses your mouth by an inch. You both giggle incessantly, fingers on faces and pulling each other in until you get it right. 

By the time you make it home the sky is dark as wine. 

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️

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