It’s a sprain, or a severe fracture, or a tear in his... something. Peter wasn’t really listening. The only things he heard were “medication” and “prescribed”. Blissfully. Mercifully. Prescription grade painkillers. There may be a God after all.
The loft is a little too chilly. The air turned down a few degrees past uncomfortable, settling a cold blanket of air over everything. Maybe Felix was trying to save money—he had a bad habit of doing that. Saving things. Like a little squirrel stowing away nuts for the winter. He’s a saver like that. He hoards, he plans, he prepares. Despite the cold however, Peter’s knee still feels three sizes too big, the compress too heavy, and the bed is the only thing not driving him insane.
He groans, though it turns to a whine faster than he’s willing to admit when he shifts to try and sit up. The sound is pathetic and feeble to say the least. Far needier than Peter is ever comfortable sounding—unless he’s putting someone on. And normally that’s just what this whining noise would be, him putting someone on, like a little coat, to parade around for all the world to see. Exposed and humiliated. Unfortunately, with his knee swollen and the air down to Antarctic degrees, Peter does not, in fact, have the energy to put anyone on. Not even Felix.
Peter lay sprawled out, limbs splayed wide, blankets bunched up awkwardly under his torso, situated safely away from his injured leg. He hears Felix bustling around in the kitchen two rooms over. The loft’s floor plan is so open that most sound carries, so it’s easy to track the other boy’s movements. There’s the clinking of dishes as they’re set one by one against metal, the tap turns on briefly, then off a few moments later. He’s washing the dishes.
When he comes to stand in the doorway the light from the living room backlights his thin silhouette. Peter blinks a few times, eyes trying to adjust to the harsh light coming in. Felix palms the doorframe with his left hand, “Yeah?”
“m’ cold.” “I’ll turn on the heater.” He deadpans, ever serious.
Peter whines, “That won’t be enough.”
He hears the taller boy chuckle, “No?”
“Then what do you suggest?” He’s already stepping into the room, hands moving to fold over and under sinewy biceps as his arms cross.
“Come warm me up yourself. With your body.” Peter says, smirking up at the tall boy. That much should’ve been obvious. Of course he’s looking for sex. When is he not?
Felix regards him for a few moments, eyes thoughtful and gray in the dim light as they fall over Peter’s form with tedious attention to detail. He’s looking for an excuse to say no. And though there’s a glaringly obvious one on Peter’s left leg, he pipes up before Felix has a chance to speak again, “The meds just kicked in. Come on.”
And despite how stupid it looks, he raises his arms up and clamps his hands like he’s a child asking to be picked up. Felix stares at him like he’s an idiot, but eventually sighs and moves forward to perch on the side of their bed. He keeps staring, without a word, and Peter laughs.
“Come on, Felix. I won’t bite.”
“Yes you will.” He says with another deep chuckle, leaning forward into Peter’s space, stopping short just before the boy’s face. Peter wraps his arms about his skinny neck with ease. Felix uncrosses his arms as he does, shifting to get his own arms around Peter. They shift together to get him into a better upright position.
He turns his mouth to press it against the smaller boy’s ear, “But I don’t mind.”
It’s incredibly difficult getting someone with an injured knee into a comfortable position to have sex. First Felix tries to lay Peter out flat on his back, but realizes too late that it puts too much pressure on Peter’s knee when he settles between Peter’s semi-parted thighs.
Peter tries, rather valiantly (stupidly) to hide the pain, but the watery gloss over his green eyes betrays him. Showing his weakness like a neon sign, obvious and blunt. He tries and tries to fight the prickling sensation at the corners of his eyes, but it’s no use. The water seeps forth regardless.
Fat round tears spill over and begin rolling down his heated cheeks, and there’s no hiding that it hurts. The illusion that they could continue on like normal is gone, faded away, lost in the steady stream crawling down Peter’s face. His shame is as plain on his face as the discomfort as it burns through him; sending hot burst of pain jolting up from his knee to the back of his skull. He sobs, utterly uncontrolled, and Felix freezes above him, eyes as wide as saucers. The way his voice cracks around the cry only adds to his embarrassment.
“I’m…f-fine.” Peter growls at him through grit teeth, jaw firmly locked. “Don’t you dare stop what you’re doing, Felix. We—“ he has to pause to let another sob rattle through him, and god it’s so humiliating, blubbering at Felix like he’s helpless.
He hates this. He hates his knee and he hates the pain and he just wants to be able to go back to their normal routine. He won’t change just because his body can’t keep up with him. He’s too young for this to be a problem yet. In truth, Peter might have been able to tolerate being immobile for a few months if it didn’t mean that the source of his immobility would cause him to cry every now and then. He hated crying. It felt like he was being wrung out, like his insides were on display, like he didn’t know how to control himself.
It takes a few tries, a few steadying deep breaths, but he finally manages to calm himself enough to continue speaking, “It’s been a month.”
Felix sighs. It’s the first movement he’s made since the sobbing began. “I know. That’s…a long time for us.”
“That’s like a decade for us.” Finally, he thinks the sobs are over, but he’s still feeling incredibly vulnerable, still on display like an exhibit.
Peter can’t understand why Felix isn’t more desperate for this to work. Doesn’t he care? The lust must be hidden behind the mask Felix wears when he’s over thinking things. Sometimes, he’s noticed, when Felix becomes overwhelmed he shuts down.
Peter wonders if that’s what’s going on now. Has he shut down, already? The thought floats around in his head, drifting aimlessly. Peter can finally feel the medication begin to kick in, the vague reach of soothing painkiller grasping at him, the relief thread-like as it curls around the tight tendons in his knee.
“I need you. Now.” That’s as close to begging as he can manage.
Felix rubs his thumb over one of Peter’s cheeks, wiping away a few of the tears leftover. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I hate this.” He pouts, laying his head back to glower at the ceiling. His body is starting to feel heavy now, sleep pulling at his consciousness. Eyelids drooping, he tilts his head to stare at Felix, sniffling now that he’s given up the illusion that he’s still completely in control.
“I know.” Felix agrees quietly, easing himself up and off Peter’s body. That’s it. They won’t be trying anymore tonight. And he was so close.
The plea is a sigh, “Don’t…” he exhales, unable to get out the next word. Go.
“I know.” Felix repeats, and Peter can feel the bed dipping again as the tall boy eases into the space next to him on the right side. His eyes are closed but he can sense Felix beside him, his weight pulling Peter toward him like the firm inevitable pull of gravity.
He’s sleepy, he’s exhausted, and his meds have taken full effect.
So he lets his head tilt toward the taller boy, and is pleasantly rewarded with the warmth of another body. He falls asleep, pressing into Felix’s side as the other boy wraps an arm around him to keep him securely tucked in.
It takes them another week to figure it out, but it starts one morning while old re-runs of America’s Next Top Model are on. Peter has his left leg safely propped out of the way, head resting against Felix’s arm. He’s been comfortable for about an hour, but suddenly he decides it’s too bony and elbows Felix to make him lift his arm up. The other boy does so with an eye roll, and settles it around Peter’s frame as he burrows into his side.
Felix starts carding through his hair once he’s comfortable, stroking his head lovingly, almost reverently. It’s nice, and warm, and Peter really would like nothing more than to jump onto his lap and snog him senseless. But his stupid, dumb, god forsaken knee is still injured. So he’s stuck with just snuggling, G-rated cuddles, and occasional kisses.
At this point it’s been well over a month (five weeks to be exact) since they’ve had sex and it’s slowly (but surely) killing Peter’s ever present libido. It feels like he’s dying, slowly eroding away under the bland onslaught of Felix’s determination to “not hurt him”. Peter knows he needs to rectify the situation as soon as possible. But it’s impossible to get Felix’s attention when fashion is on the screen so he waits for a commercial break before he strikes (figuratively speaking).
A Shamwow! Commercial lights up the screen and Felix rolls his eyes. “You know, we have one of those, and it doesn’t work nearly as well as advertised.”
“No? Well that’s a shame isn’t it?” Peter murmurs, turning his face in to kiss Felix’s neck. He feels the other boy relax even more and has to grin.
“And why do they have to play the Progressive commercials so much? I mean Flo’s funny, but she’s not that funny.” He can tell Felix is trying to remain distracted, but a nip to the ear will fix that in a heartbeat.
He nips, Felix stiffens. “Peter…” It’s Peter’s least favorite voice, the “I’m-about-to-say-something-responsible” voice. Peter braces a pout in the corner of his mouth, waiting for those stupidly responsible words to come. “We can’t.”
Peter’s eyes complete a perfect roll before Felix can even hit the “t” in the word “can’t”. “And why not?”
“Because you’re still injured. It’ll just hurt you again and I don’t want—“
“What about what I want? Hm? Stop trying to protect me. We need to have sex. I can only be patient for so long. My body needs a release.” Sure, he could have been jerking off this entire time but that felt too…desperate. He wasn’t that desperate. Not desperate enough to take care of the problem himself. Besides, it felt so much better when Felix did it for him. Felix was ever so devoted to the task, made it as pleasurable as possible, because that was his sole purpose—getting Peter off. It was the kind of thing a boy could easily become addicted to, and Peter was not above admitting he was beginning to feel the symptoms of withdrawal setting in.
Felix gives him a look that tells Peter he should know something obvious. “Haven’t you been taking care of yourself?”
“No.” Peter says plainly, bottom lip puffing out. “Can’t you do it?”
“Will that satisfy you?”
“No, but I’ll settle for that if I have to.”
Felix stares at him for a few moments, the gears in his head turning—calculating the worst possible outcomes no doubt—before he finally exhales and says, “Okay.”
Now he’s between Felix’s thighs, nestled in tight, his own legs awkwardly splayed underneath Felix’s much longer ones.
Felix is careful to keep his own legs stretched out and still so he doesn’t jostle Peter unnecessarily. All these annoyingly careful movements make Peter feel as if he’s made of glass. At least, that’s the impression he gets from the way Felix’s fingers barely press into his skin as they glide over him. Peter’s fully nude and stretched out, like a pretty little doll put out on display. While Felix sits behind him, fully clothed. There’s something very wrong with this picture, but Peter is slightly concerned that if he complains all of this attention will stop, so he remains quiet.
Felix kisses his neck, fingers squeezing at his thighs, thumbs stroking in closer and closer to the source of Peter’s discomfort.
Peter sighs out Felix’s name. After going unsatisfied for so long he can hardly wait, he’s already painfully hard, his skin almost too sensitive. But still Felix takes his time, rolling his thumbs in slow circles, moving closer and closer inch by excruciating inch. He knows where Peter wants to be touched, and he’s taking his sweet time on purpose and ignoring him. Like the total insufferable prick he can be when no one else is looking. A side he only lets Peter see.
“Felix,” Peter whines, voice pitching up to the height of annoyance, “Please.”
Felix can count on one hand the amount of times Peter has ever seriously used the word “please”. There has never been a time where Peter has used that word and not gotten what he wanted right then and there. He knows the power it has. He knows how it sounds when it leaves his lips, and he definitely knows how much it turns Felix on to hear him using “manners” of all things. (Peter has always thought this an odd kink, but he supposed that wasn’t the weirdest one he’d heard of.)
Finally, with this extraordinarily rare plea, Felix relents on his decision to tease and lets his fingers trail lazily over Peter’s firmly hardened cock. The boy shivers, oversensitive and keen on getting a release. He feels like a raw nerve, exposed and open, like the slightest touch can send a thunderstorm of shockwaves through his system. He is so ready for this. Beyond ready.
Through some sixth sense, Felix must figure this out, cause his long fingers are wrapping around him, overlapping over the stubby warmth of his cock. His hands are so wide that his palm cradles the blunt head easily. He squeezes and Peter has no choice but to purr. The sound is pulled from him, relief washing over him. Finally, finally he’s getting what he wants. What he’s wanted for six entire weeks.
Another kiss is pressed to his neck before Peter feels the other boy lean to the right, reaching for the lube no doubt. To contain himself, Peter drops his hands on Felix’s thighs, rubbing encouragement up and down in smooth short strokes, squeezing every now and then to keep things heated. Hot. He wants Felix to feel him, to be ever aware of his presence, to know how prominent the lust coursing through his veins is.
The bottle flicks open and Peter nearly holds his breath, nearly choking with anticipation, he can hear Felix spreading the liquid over his palm with his fingers, trying to warm it up before he uses it on Peter’s skin. But it’s still cool when those long fingers encircle him again, and despite the chill Peter doesn’t shiver—he moans. He moans like it’s the greatest sensation he’s ever felt. And it is.
Felix’s hot palm mixed with the coolness of the lubricant is almost too much to handle at first. Everything is in loud colors, washing over him in bright waves, like all his senses are being assaulted at once. Heat rubbing up and down his skin, sweat forming between his shoulder blades and under his fingertips, the smell of pine and bodies pressed together. He isn’t sure if it’s the fact that he hasn’t orgasmed in a month or the fact that Felix is just really good at jacking him off, but the whole ordeal feels fucking fantastic.
He knows that he should try and slow things down, to tell Felix not to start up such a fast pace so soon, but he’s rendered speechless. His head drops back against the boy’s chest, while his own chest heaves out long moans and shuddering groans. Peter can’t stop himself from digging in with his nails, his muscles spasming in a joyous dance they haven’t stepped through for five weeks. It feels good.
Really, really, really fucking good.
The orgasm starts building in his toes and his fingers, the beginnings of the familiar tingle his only warning that the ending is near. A new wave of warmth spreads over him, soaking down to the bone in its intensity, and his muscles begin to coil in anticipation. At first it’s alright—it’s just his torso and his uninjured leg—but then it hits his knee and it throbs with pain.
At the same moment the orgasm hits him, he becomes aware of a flare of pain surging up along with the shocks of pleasure, and it makes everything all the more intense. He isn’t sure how he makes the sound that rips free from his throat, but he feels Felix stiffen beneath him and knows he has to say something to let him know that he’s actually fine. This is all fine. The pleasure of the orgasm framed by the pain of his muscles doesn’t actually diminish the experience by much.
He still ought to tell Felix he’s fine though. He should insist that they can do this again--possibly in thirty minutes. But all Peter can do is pant, head lulling toward where he thinks Felix’s face might be. He doesn’t have to look far before Felix’s mouth is pressing to his forehead, a silent question of concern in the kiss.
“M’ fine.” Peter pants, eyes drifting closed.
“It sounded like that hurt.” Felix says, sounding as if he’s having an internal debate with himself over what he should do next. “Are you sure you’re—“
“I’m fine, Felix. That was brilliant.” It takes an enormous amount of effort, but he lifts his hand to pet the side of Felix’s head, patting him a few times to reassure him. Felix eases beneath his touch and presses into it like a lithe little cat, rubbing up against his master’s praise.
Felix’s hands sweep down Peter’s sides, drifting over his stomach to fold together in a light hug. He’s skeptical, but satisfied for now. That’ll have to do for now. He’s too sleepy for anything more at the moment. Felix senses it, carefully shuffling out from behind him to lay him out on their bed. Peter thinks to protest, but Felix quickly kneels beside the bed and licks him clean, and absolutely every coherent thought flies right out of Peter’s head.
Peter isn’t used to Felix saying no yet. It still bristles him every time that single, emotionless word comes out of his turned down mouth, “no.”
Like a sharp jab.
A pinch to his cheek.
A shot at his pride.
It’s like some sick game, and Peter can’t tell if Felix is having fun playing it or not.
Eventually, he lets himself think about it. To speculate how Felix can keep resisting all the tempting offers Peter has laid out.
“Just let me suck you off at least, Felix.”
“How about if you suck me off? Yeah?”
“How about if I beg?”
“I’ll wear a pair of glasses if you want.”
“I’ll wear nothing but your shirts for a week! So I’ll smell just like you.”
This gets him a slightly longer pause than before, but in the end it’s still, “No.”
“What if I tell you I love you?”
That…might have been a mistake.
All Peter gets in return for that one is a sharp glare and then a severe look of disappointment. Which is far worse than anything Felix could ever say to him in anger. The worst thing is he doesn’t say anything after that. He just turns away and leaves.
Peter didn’t see him for the rest of the day.
Later that night, Peter felt the bed dip slightly, and the covers shift, as Felix silently got into bed. He remained on the far side of the bed, completely detached, for the rest of the night.
Felix starts ignoring him. Perhaps more thoroughly than Peter had expected.
Despite his success two weeks before, the third week revealed itself to be rather…stubborn.
Firstly, Felix returned to his normal work schedule once Peter insisted he was alright enough to have sex. He could hobble from one room to another if he had to—and some of the boys (namely Curly and Rufio) had agreed to stop in for a few hours during the day to help Peter whenever he needed them. Which meant Felix didn’t need to hover and fret and stay home. So he didn’t. He returned to work and reluctantly left Peter in the hands of the other boy(s).
Peter could put up with Felix’s stupid worried face if it meant he had a chance to seduce him, but with him out of the house seducing him would take more…effort.
It wasn’t too terrible having visits from the boys. Curly was the first to stop by, wearing the most endearingly frustrating expression of concern-turned-delight when he discovered Peter’s well-being. He stepped into the loft with a giant basket filled with muffins, hot chocolate, teas, bath salts, and other amenities. The basket was overflowing with thoughtfulness, and if Peter weren’t already used to Curly’s sweet nature, he might have felt nauseated by the amount of effort the other boy had put into his gift. Still, he wasn’t hard pressed to admit Curly wasn’t actually terrible company.
He sat quietly with Peter and let him control the conversation. He didn’t argue when Peter chose activities for them to do. He let Peter pick everything first; first choice of muffin, first choice of bacon, first choice of the accompanying juice boxes he’d added to the basket (to help Peter gain some vitamins apparently.)
Curly let him take what he wanted and didn’t bristle at Peter’s remarks. Regardless of how harsh they got. Which was a sort of power Peter always enjoyed wielding, but somehow, with his knee injured, the usual dominance in the conversation made him feel as if he were drastically over compensating for the fact that he couldn’t do much physically.
So he abruptly stopped in the middle of his story about how he’d pranked an odd couple several months before and said something he’d never thought he’d hear himself say in a million years, “So how’s…Slightly?”
For whatever reason, Curly had allowed himself to be sucked in to some type of relationship with very possibly the most annoying kid in their entire group. Sebastian (Slightly as he’d dubbed himself during introductions) Kingsley. He took the name seriously, and fancied himself someone important with a great purpose in life. He also had the annoying habit of becoming bossy whenever Peter, Felix, or Rufio weren’t around. Just thinking of him while Curly considered what his question meant was enough to feel irritated. Slightly didn’t even have to be present to be annoying, just the thought of him was enough, which was almost impressive.
Anyway, Slightly had one look at Curly and turned pink, which made his inevitable crush on the mop haired boy utterly unsurprising. From that moment on Slightly had done nothing but harass the poor thing, pulling on his proverbial pigtails like a grade school child expressing their affection for their crush. He hadn’t gotten much better even after he’d forced Curly into agreeing to tolerate him on a dating basis.
Originally, Peter’d been sure that the crush would never go anywhere. How could it? Slightly made even the most entertaining games torture. Every time he spoke, Curly seemed extremely put off by his harsh tactics and brash nature, and no one but Tootles (and Nibs) could put up with his behavior. Eventually, perhaps when he realized how impossible it was for anything good to happen with Curly, Slightly finally resigned himself to moping around and occasionally helping Tootles in the kitchen. All in all, he didn’t seem like he’d be the type to make an impact on their lives—aside from his ability to be a serious pain in the ass, but somehow…between stealing Tootles’ snacks and trailing after Nibs, Slightly had somehow won over the heart of Curly. Once he stopped trying so hard he’d become…endearing? Somehow? At least, that’s how Curly explains it.
Now Curly, by no means, is a particularly extraordinary boy (like Peter is), but he certainly knows how to leave his mark on the world. It isn’t necessarily through grand physical accomplishments, but through the quiet moments he has with his friends. Peter’s noticed that everything he hears about Curly is something along the lines of “he sat with me when…”, “he talked to me about…”, “he helped me through…”, blah, blah, blah. He was always helping others and caring about their mundane emotional problems.
Usually, Peter found it incredibly boring. (Boring and yet still impactful.) So it made no sense to him why someone like that would wind up with someone like Slightly. The most unimpactful person Peter could think of. He’d put it off to pity at first, but whenever he saw them together—holding hands, Slightly brushing his fingers across the sea of curls on his boyfriend’s head, and Curly constantly adjusting the other boy’s scarf so it would remain secure—he felt the strong urge to barf. It was too sweet, too kind, too cute, too…much.
And yet, here he was, asking Curly how that very annoying brat he was dating was doing.
Curly looks just as stunned as he feels.
So Peter repeats the question, to pull them both out of their daze. “Well? How is he?”
“He’s…” Curly swallows, mismatched eyes flitting across Peter’s face for any sign of a cruel joke or a trick. Finding nothing but a vague sense of confusion there, Curly braved an honest answer, “Good. Um…why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Peter tries to play off his new found sense of consideration as mild curiosity. Cause that’ll sound plausible, right? He can tell the other boy isn’t really buying it by the way his nose begins to crinkle, a small frown setting in along with it. The expression looks wrong on his face, as if his face isn’t used to using the muscles it takes to make any sort of negative expression. It makes his face look all pinched up and weird—what Peter imagines a crab might look like if it’s shell weren’t in the way. So Peter tries to move on, plowing the conversation through this awkward little lull it’s fallen into. “I’ve had a lot of time to think recently. With…the knee and all.”
“Oh. Did all this thinking…reveal something to you?” Curly tilts his head, shifting the mass of curls on his head to the right.
Peter ponders this for a moment before settling on a laugh and swatting at the air in front of him as if there were a bug flitting by his face. “Nah. Not really. I just thought….”
What had he just thought?
He didn’t ask other people about their boyfriends. At least, not Curly anyway, he’d only talk about Slightly, and Peter could always do with less of that in his life. What’s going on with him? He hadn’t felt right all morning, and now, with Curly here ready to listen to him for the next several hours, Peter finds himself more curious about what Curly has to say than what he himself has to reveal. The idea of wowing him with some tale didn’t seem as interesting at the moment.
But honestly, Peter had never found himself uninteresting before.
He blinks at the other boy stupidly, as if he’ll read his mind and suddenly have an answer for him.
“You just thought…?” Curly prompts, looking increasingly more concerned and confused by the second. He looks ready to pull out his phone and dial Felix, to build a fire and send smoke signals if he needs to.
“That…it’d be…nice to ask, I guess.” He says lamely. It sounds dumb when he puts it like that, but Peter can’t think of anything better to say. He sees Curly consider this, looking a little dumbfounded by its simplicity.
“Oh.” When Curly finally relaxes a short time later, Peter exhales in surprise, unaware that he’d been holding his breath. “Well that’s awfully nice of you, Peter.”
“I know.” He agrees with a frown, trying to regain his air of composure. Something strange is definitely going on with him.
It shouldn’t be surprising that the news Peter is acting strange—considerate—gets back to Felix. Peter isn’t surprised at all that Curly chose to tell him.
The worried look on Felix’s face makes Peter frown. When Felix is worried, his eyebrows press together, his mouth tilts down into a deep frown, and his eyes turn even grayer than usual. Peter doesn’t like that expression as much anymore. In the beginning it’d been a fun game, just another tactic to get what he wanted, but now that Felix had seen Peter cry all he could think of when Felix looked at him like that was “He’s not thinking of me crying again is he?”
He can tell Felix knows about the weird moment this afternoon. Though he and Curly had recovered and turned the conversation to one of their more normal ones, it still felt weird that he’d let it get awkward in the first place. Awkwardness was so unlike Peter. And though he’d recovered earlier that afternoon, at the moment Peter feels as if he were right back in the moment right after he’d asked Curly about Slightly; awkward and dumb. He gets the feeling, judging by how Felix’s expression somehow worsens, that he won’t be able to recover from this as easily.
But he insists he’s fine anyway, and eventually that gets Felix to stop hovering.
Instead, Felix now flits between the bedroom and the living room, moving books in and out to distract himself. He wants to ask about Peter’s behavior, and if he feels alright. Peter can tell by the tense way his shoulder blades move and the stiffness in his neck as he looks about the room.
Peter’s really tired of that question.
Are you okay?
Instead, Felix surprises him with, “You wanna take a bath with me?”
Peter hasn’t said yes so fast in a while.
It’s been somewhere between 8 and 10 weeks now and Peter can tell his knee isn’t as swollen as it used to be. It’s more obvious when he’s in the bath with Felix and their knees are side by side. He thinks most of the swelling has gone down—though honestly he’s starting to have trouble remembering what his left knee used to look like. Was it ever the same size as his right one? Regardless, it’s getting less painful and he can even get some motion out of it--which bodes well for his sex life.
He’s getting much too used to Felix telling him no.
It's becoming alarmingly obvious, cause he doesn’t even try to seduce them when they’re both naked and submerged under a thick layer of hot water. Peter sighs, leaning back and resting his head on Felix’s chest with ease. The other boy has his arms resting up on the lip of the tub, to give Peter the freedom to sprawl out as he pleases. Their legs are almost aligned, at least, up to a point. Felix is so damn tall that it’s a miracle he fits in any sort of human sized bathtub.
Peter can feel Felix soft and relaxed behind him, totally devoid of arousal. And for once, Peter finds that he’s okay with that. He closes his eyes and lets the heat of the water soak in down to his bones. He hasn’t let go like this in a while.
“So…I heard you asked about Slightly today? Were you playing a game or something?” Felix murmurs against his cheek, pressing a soft kiss there as an afterthought, as if he were already apologizing for disturbing Peter’s relaxation.
Peter huffs out a sigh and keeps his eyes closed, he can’t be bothered to work up the energy to be annoyed that Felix is bringing this up, “Yeah I asked. No it wasn’t a game. I just thought…”
“…it’d be nice?” Felix supplies. Peter feels Felix’s body stretch as he reaches for something, shortly after he feels the water slosh about the tub, and a soft rag pressing onto his back. Felix must be straining to wash that area. Peter’s certain he doesn’t have much room behind him, but he knows moving forward will require effort, so he steels himself and slumps in place a moment before he reluctantly scoots forward. "How unlike you."
“I suppose so. I am capable of being nice, Felix.” It’s almost a little insulting that Felix is questioning him. The other boy’s smile presses to his cheek again before falling onto his neck, the rag dragging dutifully across his body, slipping over his shoulder and down his ribs.
“I know that. You’re capable of anything.” Peter grins as he feels Felix begin to mouth suggestively at his shoulder, tilting his head to the left so that his neck will be more exposed. Felix purrs against his skin, and Peter moves back till they’re pressed together back to front, with Felix nearly draping over him. The rag is dragging over his stomach, down toward his right hip.
“Does that turn you on?” Peter laughs, Felix grins.
“Maybe.” He hears Felix’s fingers dip into the water beside his left thigh.
“That’s a pity. Seeing as I can’t have sex, and all that.” Despite this admission, he feels a familiar warmth begin to fill his belly.
“Oh really?” Long fingers connect with his thigh, the water adding an odd sense of indirect contact despite the lack of clothes.
“Just the other day you were insisting you felt well enough to take me from behind. What happened to that resolve?”
“I just thought it was about time I started listening to you, Felix. Are you telling me I should start ignoring you instead?”
“You could never ignore me.” He practically growls in Peter’s ear, arousal rushes over him, his cock beginning to fill. He can feel Felix getting just as hard behind him, the soft poke of Felix’s arousal prodding at his backside. “I wouldn’t let you.”
Even though they’ve done this many times before, so well that Peter knew he had Felix’s body memorized, his heart races as if this were the first time Felix has ever touched him.
“What would you do to hold my attention?” Peter asks, grinning madly.
They don’t actually end up making it out of the bathroom. Originally Peter planned to let Felix show him exactly what he intended.
That was before Felix had to bend over to pull the stop from the bathtub to allow it to drain. The moment that happened, Peter lost all modicum of control. Before he knew it, he was grabbing Felix’s hand and pulling him toward the countertop they stacked towels on. There was a long stretch of countertop by the north wall beside the door, with a sizeable storage space. Pulling Felix to that spot and pushing him to lean over the counter was a simple matter, the tall boy moved with him effortlessly, as if they were one being. Not two split it to bigger and smaller parts.
Seeing Felix wet and bent over for him—patiently pliant and yet somehow still jittery with eagerness—was the hottest thing Peter’d see in a long time. The body before him looked perfectly sculpted, like something animated from one of his most pleasant dreams. The water turned Felix’s hair a dark golden, making him look almost angelic despite the drastic cut of his cheek bones and the pallid smudges underneath his eyes. Eyes that were now turning over his shoulder, wide and smoldering, the gray became lighter—brighter underneath the florescent light. Perhaps it was the backdrop of pure white countertop beneath him, maybe it was the fact that they hadn’t had sex in a month, but at the moment, Felix was easily the most beautiful thing Peter had seen in his entire life.
“Sorry, Felix.” Peter says, leaning down to capture those taunting lips as they turn up into an easy smile. “Looks like you’ll have to wait to show me.”
“If I must.” Felix gasps in between the rain of kisses Peter showers him with. “Grab the lube. It’s—“
Peter scoffs at this, tearing himself away from the delightful creature in front of him. “I know where the lube is, love.”
“Well hurry up then,” Felix whines, and it’s like music to Peter’s ears.
Somehow Felix is tighter than Peter remembers. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t actually fucked him with his fingers in over a month. Jesus. Over a month. It feels like an eternity of torture. It occurs to Peter, as he watches Felix’s body greedily suck in first one then two fingers, that it’s amazing he hasn’t gone insane yet. Maybe he has. Maybe that’s why he asked Curly about Slightly.
He doesn’t want to think about Slightly of all things right before he’s about to fuck Felix senseless. But it is curious. This sudden onset of insanity.
Felix mewls, like a kitten hungry for more, and Peter loses all sense of coherent thought.
“Peter.” He whines. Peter’s name has never sounded so sweet. Like a prayer, or praise, like his very name is salvation, and saying it will bring one straight to some sort of safe haven. “Come on…just fuck me already.”
Normally, Peter isn’t one for taking orders, but the way Felix drawls over his name, like it’s a challenge and a plea at once, has Peter hurrying to line himself up with the tight ring of muscle in front of him. Pressing in is easy, easy as breathing, so incredibly easy it can’t possibly be legal. It’s like being able to breathe for the first time in months.
Peter sighs out Felix’s name, splaying his hands on the other boy’s back, moving his hands in slow soothing strokes up and down either side of his spine. It’s a perfect fit, they were always meant to fit together this way—and he never gets tired of thinking of them as puzzle pieces, pieces that could only ever fit with each other and no one else.
“I’ve missed this.” Peter says, leaning forward to kiss Felix’s spine.
At first, Felix sighs, and Peter thinks that’s gonna be the end of it, but just as he’s about to say something else a small “…yeah,” drifts up from over Felix’s shoulder. Peter presses him harder into the counter, more flat against the towels they hadn’t bothered moving out of the way.
Droplets are slipping down from the jut of Felix’s spine, curling around his sides, pooling over his rips and dripping down onto the unused towels beneath him, causing the towels beneath his body to dampen. Peter gets entranced, watching each droplet’s slow descent, waiting for the moment one of them suddenly veers off course.
The moment doesn’t come.
But Felix’s needy whine does.
And Peter can’t stop himself from moving his hips.
It’s rather slow in the beginning. Peter isn’t used to putting this much pressure on his knees anymore, and Felix is as tight as a virgin. It’s sinful and sensuous. The water desperately clinging to Felix’s lithe frame makes him look like a drown angel. Peter’s getting high off all these thoughts and images, giddy from the mere fact that he’s actually inside his beloved again. It feels like magic thrumming through him.
At first, all he wants to do is savor the moment.
So he keeps his thrusts slow, simple rolls of the hips, but then he hits Felix’s prostate (entirely by accident mind you). And the boy cries out so beautifully Peter immediately wants to do it again. So he does.
He hits it over, and over, and over, and over again.
Until Felix is shifting back to meet him, pressing himself back faster and faster, pressing Peter deeper and deeper. Felix’s pants of turned into sharp cries, grunts in the back of his throat, long drawn out moans. Helpless litanies of Peter’s name, like some long lost song that’s just come back to him. A distant memory returning, a far off dream reoccurring. The nostalgia of it all makes it so much more intense.
Soon he hears Felix’s cries pitching up, and he knows the boy is close. It feels like they’ve been at it for only a few minutes, but already Peter can feel the climax building. He watches the way Felix’s shoulder blades move, the way he claws at the towels around him like he’s desperately trying to hold off, and he won’t say anything but Peter’s name.
Over, and over, and over again.
“Peter! Peter! Peter!”
It’s more than Peter deserves.
At last, the wave hits him in a hot flash. Screwing his eyes shut, he moves thoughtlessly, thrusting until he’s utterly spent, savoring the sensations while they last. Then, while he’s still fully seated and rapidly softening, he reaches around and milks Felix for every lost drop of his release.
They collapse onto the small stack of messied towels, Peter’s hand getting caught underneath their two sweaty bodies. Then they just…breathe for a while.
Peter is utterly tingly by the time Felix wipes him down with a rag and carries him to bed.
“Too much strain on your knee.” He insists.
For once, Peter doesn’t mind.
He’s waiting for Felix to lay down, watching him from their bed as he paces back and forth, picking up things about the room. He wonders why Felix bothers taking care of him so dutifully as he watches the other boy slip a pair of sweat pants on. He wonders why Curly and the others bother visiting him. He wonders why there’s a sudden nagging buzz in the back of his mind.
You don’t deserve this.
It won’t stop. It chatters more than Slightly does when he’s excited. Repeatedly reminding him over and over that this blissful existence he shares with Felix isn’t something he should be enjoying. He doesn’t deserve it.
Peter has never done anything thoughtful or kind hearted, if he knew it wouldn’t benefit him in return somehow.
Felix opens a drawer across the room, sifting through some clothes.
He’s never remembered anyone’s birthday’s on his own.
Felix spots whatever he’s looking for and lifts it free from the drawer.
He’s never made something all about Felix.
Felix folds it, opens another drawer just below the one he’s just closed, and begins searching for something else.
He’s never taken care of someone else or comforted them when they felt sad.
Once he’s found what he wanted in the new drawer, Felix closes it and turns to Peter, “Top or no top?”
“What?” Peter’s brought from his brooding. He tries to focus on how bright Felix’s eyes look at the moment, a small smile tugging at his usually bland mouth. “Um. I’m kind of cold.”
Felix nods, and goes to the small closet on the west side of the room.
What does Felix get out of this that he couldn't find somewhere else?
A sudden desperation floods over him then.
What do any of his friends get out of it? Peter hardly spares them a second thought before he does something. Why do they continue to orbit around him? What’s he done to deserve all this? For the first time in his life, Peter feels a sense of self-loathing.
It’s stunning really.
He’s never thought less of himself before. Only more. There was never a point to thinking less, because it never got him anywhere. In fact he often sneered at the others when they had moments of low self-worth. Yet here he was, lying in bed naked, waiting for Felix to return, and feeling less than extraordinary.
Felix approaches then, setting a small pile of clothes down by Peter’s feet, holding nothing but a pair of snug briefs. He holds them out to Peter, who remains stunned in his own discovery of self-doubt.
It’s odd. He’s never seen Peter make this expression before, but he doesn’t want to disturb his thoughts, so he kneels and maneuvers the underwear up Peter’s legs until he reaches his thighs and says, “Up.”
Peter blinks a few times before lifting himself up and tugging the underwear into place. Felix moves to grab the smaller pair of sweat pants he’d grabbed for Peter, but the boy stops him with a frown. “I can do it.”
He says it with his lips pouted and his brow furrowed, so Felix backs off. After wiggling into the pants Peter reaches for the t-shirt sporting some sort of sassy message on it like “I’m with stupid” and then the floppy pull over and he’s fully dressed. He pauses when he realizes the pullover is Felix’s and effectively dwarfs his entire body.
“It’s like a dress on me.” Peter says as if this is news.
Felix snickers and stands, circling the bed to get in on his side. “You say that every time you wear one of my things.”
It’s familiar. Felix’s scent. Hints of pine and the forest, with highlights of the earth and hot stone, mixed in with some secret spice that Peter can never name. It smells like home. Like the black sludge Felix drinks every morning after he gets up at the crack of dawn, like the cinnamon rolls he pulls from the oven every other Saturday, like the hot stove he cooks on night after night, he smells like dish soap and water and sex, and their life together in the loft. Everything that Peter has accepted as his home has something to do with Felix.
Felix, he realizes just as said boy slips under the covers to join him, encapsulates home.
Felix is home.
But beyond that, his friends—Curly, Rufio, Nibs, Tootles, the twins, that weird kid Neal, and that tiny boy Henry, and hell even Slightly—they all make this place home too. In their own smaller ways, but at the center of it all is Felix.
Who is, at the moment, staring at him like he’s just grown another head.
“What’s wrong?” His brow furrows, smile turning to a frown in a matter of moments. The expression is so prominent on his face it’s as if his entire being turns down with it.
Peter ponders this for a few moments, taking in the worried expression on the other boy’s face, before he decides to try something he’d seen Felix do many times before. He smiles, and says, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
I’m going to be better Felix. I promise.