Chapter Text
There were three rules that Harley always followed.
(Before Peter, that is, and oh, isn’t that a pleasure? To be able to say there’s an after.)
1.Set your spawn. (Or - always know where your home is. Know where a safe bed is.)
2. Carry a water bucket. (Or - the ground can always fall out from under you. Be prepared.)
3. Armor up. (Or - protection doesn’t hurt. Make sure it hides the stains.)
After Peter - the rules change.
Peter takes Harley’s hand and helps him change, helps him adapt his rules. Not just for Minecraft, but for real life.
Your home can be a person. Pick a good one. Pick a safe one. Pick someone who is warm.
Preparing for the worst doesn’t mean expecting the worst. Expect the best. Be optimistic. Not everyone will try to hurt you.
Being soft is okay. Showing your soft underbelly is okay. Be vulnerable. It’s not a weakness to have emotions. It’s human.
Sometimes, Harley looks back, back to who he was before Peter, before streaming, before being the mechanic - no, even further back - before Abby died. Before his dad left.
Slowly, with lots of help, and lots of communicating - Harley grieves. He grieves what he never had, and what he’ll never get to experience. He grieves his sister, and the life she’ll never live. He grieves for the nieces and nephews, for his own children that won’t know their aunt.
And it’s okay. It’s okay to grieve.
In fact, Peter encourages it. Peter pets Harley’s hair, and reminds him to drink water, and touch some grass every once in a while.
It’s Peter’s idea, when they’re on their epic road trip, for the ranch. It’s Peter’s idea, sparked from listening to Harley monologue about grieving and having a safe place and animals - it’s Peter who says okay.
It’s Peter who finds the barn, and the house, and the pond, and the twenty five acres of land in upstate New York.
(Harley says it’s Peter who saved him.)
(Peter says they saved themselves and found the other along the way.)
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“Take me to meet Ophelia,” Peter requests, and oh, Harley’s never been able to say no to his boy, not when their hands are pressed together, palms suctioned cupped against each other, fingers twined into twisting vines. Harley looks down into chocolate eyes, watches the streetlights dance across dark eyelashes, and thinks - does anybody ever say no to you?
So he does as requested, Harley takes Peter back with him, and what was a lonely drive turns into an adventure.
They stop in Cookeville, a convenient place to get gas and lunch, and when Peter asks for something sweet, well, Harley’s got the exact place in mind.
(Only after, of course, Harley has pressed a gentle kiss to the smaller boy’s lips, held his entire world between his palms, and stole the air right from his lungs.)
Peter posts a picture to his twitter account when they’re back on the road, Harley tagged in it.
Peter @sayhellopeter
Ralph’s is clearly superior.
Peter @sayhellopeter
Alternate description: Peter seated cross legged in the bed of a red truck, each hand occupied by a blueberry cake donut. His hair is windblown and messy, cheeks kissed red by the sun. There’s a baseball cap resting on his kneecap, and the shirt he wears is so oversized it billows as the wind blows. Each donut has one bite taken out of it, and Peter has extended the donut in his right hand towards the cameraman. Next to him, in the bed of the truck, are two boxes: one from Ralph’s, and one from Big O’s, both logos clearly visible.
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
I did not want to purchase Big O’s donuts. I only performed this horrid act under threat of severe harm. The only donut shop is Ralph’s.
Peter @sayhellopeter
he almost had an aneurysm when he realized he’d have to buy from his ‘mortal enemy’ so that i could have a fair taste test
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
and it was all for nothing. ralph’s was easily the superior choice.
Peter @sayhellopeter
You described a bap to the forehead as “severe harm.” I’m not sure you get an opinion anymore.
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
Aren’t you the same guy who moo-ed at some horses earlier?
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By the time they make it back to Rose Hill, it’s so early in the morning the rooster isn’t out yet. Harley ushers an extremely sleepy Peter into the house, helps him take off his sneakers, and bundles the smaller man into his bed before stumbling back down the stairs to double check that the door is locked.
When Harley gets back to his room, and looks at his bed - he remembers. There’s a Peter in his bed. And it should probably be nerve wracking, and terrifying, and so damn scary Harley has a panic attack - but fuck, he’s tired, and at the end of the day (or night? Morning? He’s not sure anymore.)
It’s just Peter.
So they nap, and Peter wakes up before Harley, but then rolls over and falls back asleep, so it’s Harley who gets to wake up with fluffy brown hair in his mouth and a lump of sleeping warm Peter against his chest.
After a nap, and after Peter’s met Ophelia and fed her an apple, after he’s played with the barn cats that have appeared in Harley’s absence - he requests to meet Abby, too. And Harley’s been mucking the stalls, but he stills, shovel still primed to scoop up a load, but he says okay, anyway. They slap a saddle on Ophelia, and one on Jelly Belly, and Harley holds the reins for Peter. He leads them out, past the fields, out to the creek with a path alongside it and a small bridge running over it.
“She said it had Bridge to Terabithia vibes.” Harley says, voice hushed amongst the rustling leaves and rushing water. “She was always happy out here.”
Peter looks at him, and looks at the water. He kneels down, uncaring of the mud caking his knees.
Harley watches.
Peter drags his fingertips through the water, smiles at the coolness tickling his skin.
He might say something, Harley’s not sure, but when Peter turns around Harley’s there, waiting to wrap him up in a hug, arms wound around each tightly and unapologetically.
(The morning they leave, while Harley’s packing up Ophelia, Peter takes Jelly out to the river again. He fills a mason jar, found in Abby’s room, with water, scoops up sediment from the bottom and adds tiny rocks from the bank.
He presents it to Harley when they make it to New York. It still sits in their kitchen, on the windowsill above the sink, where the sun can shine through it and send light spiraling through the water. It feels like she’s still with him.)
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Peter @sayhellopeter
gatlinburg? More like GARLIC-burg, amirte????
Peter @sayhellopeter
Alt. Descp: Harley holding a bag of jerky, facing the camera. HIs stetson is perched precariously on his head. A blurry hand is visible at the bottom of the image, as if gesturing to hand over the bag.
(Not pictured: Peter’s matching stetson.)
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“Sometimes,” Harley murmurs, head ducked, “Sometimes I don’t miss her at all.”
It’s silent, his therapist, Andie, waiting. They tend to do so, wait for Harley to come to his own conclusions.
“Does that make me a bad person?”
Silence, again. Harley watches their fingers as they wind yarn for a new project - he helped Andie pick the color.
Cotton candy skies, a light blue and pink mix that looked like Harley and Peter’s trip to the aquarium.
His therapist says they’re going to make a fish.
“I don’t think so. I think she’d be happy knowing that I didn’t drown in the pit she left.”
His therapist continues to wind yarn.
“I think it’s okay. It doesn’t matter what she’d think, honestly, because she’s not here anymore. It’s just me.”
Still - more yarn. The ball grows.
“I’m the one that’s alive. I’m here, and I’m a person. And I don’t have to hurt all the time.”
Finally - the winding stops. Harley looks up, meets Andie’s gaze. There’s a small smile on their lips.
“That’s a big thing, Harley. A big realization, for you.”
He nods, looks down at his fingers.
“It doesn’t feel as big as it probably should,” He admits, one corner of his mouth starting to crook up into a smile.
“That’s okay. You’re still learning, and growing. It’s okay to not see it yet.” Andie reassures, fingers resuming the winding of the yarn.
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The ranch, and the land, and the barn, and the house - it’s overwhelming in the best ways. Harley never thought he’d make it this far, never came up with a plan beyond his early twenties.
(His therapist has a lot to say about that, it turns out.)
When they first move in, it’s a lot. Being in person, all the time, it’s a lot. And it’s new, and exciting, but it’s a lot.
Every moment that Harley can, he reaches out, reaches out across the small gap for Peter, twists their fingers together. Feeling their skin against the other’s, it’s symphonies, every single time, it’s choirs and symphonies and church bells ringing and fireworks exploding long into the next morning.
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There are two things Harley learns, after the ranch is officially theirs.
The first is that painting the house is a whole fucking process. There’s spackling, and sanding, and taping, and laying out floor cover, and priming. And then they actually have to paint the damn thing.
It’s a lot like therapy. Each session, there’s prep, and there’s processing, and there’s completion, and there’s cleanup.
His therapist Andie says Harley’s never met a task he can’t logic his way out of, and Harley spends far too long attempting to explain why he wasn’t trying to logic his way out before he realizes - oh. That’s exactly what he’s doing.
(Which is probably why he has homework and pre-work. Because if he’s worked out what he thinks the problem is, it’s easier for Andie to look at it and say, “No, Harley, that’s what you think the problem is. If Abby were here - what would she think the problem is? How about the solution?”
Andie appeals to the little voice in the back of Harley’s head that sounds suspiciously like Abby, he’s found. It should be annoying.
It’s not.)
The other thing Harley about the ranch is about the futility of trying to make sense when the world is against you.
There’s a keypad by the garage door. They don’t know the code, and neither did the previous owners. They don’t know what type of garage door it is.
Initially, Harley takes it personally.
Peter spends many mornings laying on a blanket in the early morning sun, listening to Harley curse out a piece of technology older than they are put together. He basks in the sun, a cat on one side and their dog on the other, rays of sunlight highlighting the different colors in his hair.
Harley spends far too much irritated by the pin pad, and it comes to a head when he looks over, realizes - it doesn’t matter. They can start anew - and he rips it off the siding, leaves it on the ground, and gently shoves the dog over so he can take the spot next to Peter.
And he decides, sitting on a picnic blanket with Peter conked out in the sunshine, three cats curled up around their bodies laying in various positions against them.
He decides, looking down at Pete’s sleep slack lips, mouth open, eyelids fluttering, fingers grasping at Daisy's fur - that it doesn’t matter, not to him. Not for himself, not anymore.
And that’s the thing about grief - there aren’t stages, there aren’t steps, or checkboxes. It’s all encompassing, all consuming.
You have to decide for yourself to get through. That’s what Harley learned in treatment. You have to do it for yourself.
(And it’s not Andie’s, or Abby’s, or Peter’s voice saying that - it’s his own.)
Harley’s living for himself. He just so happens to have his best friend, his lover, his partner - by his side, acting as the voice of reason when Harley’s own thoughts are Not Being Nice.
Peter changes his name not with fanfare, or a celebration, but with a social security form left on the kitchen table, folded into an envelope and sealed, a stamp with Obama’s face on it on the top right corner.
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Ab’s @abshomeforall
This week’s spotlight is on Ophelia, a gorgeous white and brown mare, jockeyed by Peter Keener and led by Harley Keener.
Ab’s @abshomeforall
Alt. Descp: Peter, seated astride Ophelia, a grin so wide the sun reflects off his teeth. He’s wearing riding boots, slim fit pants, and a button down shirt. The logo of the ranch is stitched on the left side of his chest. A riding helmet sits on his head, brown curls peeking out from below. To his left, one hand smoothed against Ophelia’s neck, the other grasping the reins, stands Harley. He also wears riding gear, the logo of the ranch clear on his chest. His mouth is open in laughter, crinkles by his eyes betraying his true amusement. Peter’s reaching down with one hand towards Harley, and there’s so much love in his eyes it’s overwhelming. In the background, Daisy is a golden blur as she chases one of the barn cats, just in focus enough for the viewers to glimpse the ranch’s logo on her bandanna.
Ab’s @abshomeforall
Come meet Ophelia, Peter, and Harley at this weekend’s open house - all are welcome!
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