Chapter Text
Peter frowned, the bright summer sun making him squint as he looked up at the brick mossy building that would be his home for the next six years of his life, if the lack of interest adopting parents have shown meant anything. Tightening his hold on his suitcase of minuscule belongings, he looked down to his dirty Skechers, stumbling forward when he felt the hands of his social worker nudge him gently.
Hoping that everything he had read about foster care and orphanages was wrong, he opened the door, only to be bombarded with a wide range of sounds. Yelling, pots and pans banging together, doors slamming… they all hit Peter, crushing any optimistic feelings he may have had, crumbling them into tiny pieces, sprinkled on the dirty hardwood of the house.
Stepping into the house, Peter set his suitcase down, eyes scanning the main foyer. There was a staircase leading to the upper floor directly opposite the door, and two hallways on either side leading to who knows where. Simple paintings were hung up, a waist level desk against the wall with small meaningless decorations, most chipped or broken in some way.
“You must be Peter.” Peter’s head jerked up to see a tall middle aged man, with bleach blonde hair swept back. He had his hand held out towards Peter, a soft smile on his face. “I’m Mr. Westcott, but you can call me Skip.”
Peter nodded, looking back down without reaching out to shake Mr. Westcott’s hand and fiddling with the sleeves of his oversized plaid shirt. “Hi Mr. Westcott.” The man frowned and knelt down so he could see Peter’s face, ducking to try meeting his eyes.
“Hey, I know this isn’t the most ideal situation, but I promise, you’ll love it here.” Peter didn’t trust the man’s smile, nor the weird look in his eyes, but nodded regardless. Heavy hands on his shoulders pulled him from his thoughts.
“Thank you for taking him Mr. Westcott. I still have some forms I would like to go over with you, but after that he’s all yours,” his social worker said. Mr. Westcott nodded, then sent a little smirk towards Peter.
“Perfect,” he clapped his hands together, causing Peter to flinch at the abrupt sound, “Petey, you can go right upstairs and set your stuff in your room. Third door on the right, You’ll be sharing with Harley.” Peter nodded, then started towards the stairs, stopping when a hand rested on his arm. He looked up into Mr. Westcott’s icy blue eyes. “I really think you’re gonna like it here Petey.” With a wink and a squeeze to his arm, the older man released Peter and moved further into the house with the social worker. Peter shivered, the uneasy feeling in his stomach growing, before he shook himself and took the stairs up to the second floor.
The house was about as much as you could expect for a home to mainly teenage boys. There were markings on the beige coloured walls, chunks missing in the wood trim, a pole missing from the staircase… the whole house seemed to be breaking apart. Peter could think of worse places to be, but there were also better ones.
The short trek down the corridor was spent looking back and forth between both sides of the hallway at the name tags on all the doors, looking for one that said ‘Harley’. Reaching the third door on the right, Peter frowned. There wasn’t a name tag on it, just a small ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging from the doorknob. Biting his lip, Peter knocked gently, only to be met with a large groan and the creaking of bed springs.
Peter jumped back as the door swung open. A taller boy with dirty blonde curls stepped out. “Does no one in this house read signs? It says ‘do not’- oh.” The teen speaking in a slight Southern accent, who Peter could only guess was Harley, looked down at Peter. His face softened for a moment before a glare fell in place. “What do you want?”
Peter sucked in a quick breath, shuffling from foot to foot. “I-I’m Peter.” Peter stuttered. “Mr. Westcott. He-um, he told me t-this was my r-room. Wanted me to-to come put my stuff a-away.” Harley just stared at the boy for a minute, his glare not wavering, before he sighed and pulled the door open farther. Peter stepped into the room, doing a once over and seeing a single bed on each side of the room, a window in between them. Aside from two dressers at the ends of each bed, the room was bare.
“Okay, Peter. I’m Harley.” Peter opened his mouth to respond but Harley held up a finger. “Hey, not done. This is my side of the room.” He waved a hand towards his bed. “Don’t touch anything and stay on your side and all will be good.” Peter gulped but nodded, backing up and sitting on his bed. Harley stared at Peter, plopping down onto his own bed and grabbing his headphones, putting one in. “How old are you?”
Peter pulled at his sleeves, “Twelve,” he said quietly. Harley eyed him before sticking his other earbud in and turning his attention to his phone.
“Fifteen.” Peter looked at Harley, analyzing his new roommate who was well immersed in whatever was on his beat up device.
It could be worse. Peter thought. I could be living on the streets.
-
“Boys! Dinner!”
Peter was shocked from his nap, eyes snapping open at the sound of his new caretaker shouting from down the hall. The sound of doors slamming and pounding feet on the stairs echoed inside Peter’s head, pulsing on his skull. He sat up, looking to the right only to see Harley’s bed empty. Jumping out of bed, he ran to the door, not wanting to be late to his first meal in the foster home. Peter didn’t know what the rules were here. If he was late, did he not get to eat? What if it was ‘first come first serve’ and he ended up with barely a meal?
Peter ran down the stairs, following the sounds of chatter and silverware against plates to find the dining room. He wasn’t given a tour when he first got here, not too long ago. Trying to find his room and his… not-so-warm welcome from Harley exhausted him to the point where he decided to just lay down and take a nap.
And that brings us to now, where Peter stood in the door frame to the dining room, panting and out of breath from his panic to get downstairs. Did he need his puffer? He feels like he needs his puffer. Looking up, Peter blushed at all the eyes on him, tucking his head down, his shoulders scrunching up.
“Sorry Mr. Westcott.” Peter mumbled. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mr. Westcott stand from his chair at the head of the table and make his way over to Peter. Placing himself behind Peter, Mr. Westcott smiled, grabbing Peter’s upper arms and shaking him minutely.
“Call me Skip, Petey.” Peter nodded, knowing full well that he will not be calling his current guardian that. “Boys, I’d like you to meet our newest addition to the family. This is Peter.” Peter glanced up, spotting Harley in the far corner of the table, and four other boys who he didn’t know. Harley met his eyes briefly, only to look away just as quickly. “Petey, this is Ross, Adam, Flash, Miles, and you already know Harley,” Mr. Westcott said, gesturing accordingly.
Doing a quick once over, Peter took inventory. Ross and Adam must be the older two, looking like they were days away from getting out of the system. Flash was sitting next to the two, feigning disinterest, but Peter could see a weird look in all of their eyes. He made a mental note to steer clear of those three. Flash may look closer to Harley’s age than the others, but he gave off a strong ‘I’m better than you and I’ll make sure you know it’ impression.
Miles looked to be the closest to Peter’s age, maybe fourteen, so Peter tried to send a small smile to the boy, only for Miles to scowl and look down at his plate. Peter frowned, dropping his eyes and staring at the floor.
Guess he was on his own here.
Mr. Westcott, not seeming to notice the silent exchange between the boys, or just not caring, continued on. “I trust you’ll all welcome him accordingly.” With a smirk and lighthearted laugh, Mr. Westcott slapped Peter’s back, throwing him into a stumble towards the empty seat in between Harley and Miles. Rubbing his shoulder, Peter sat in the chair, silent for a moment, before turning to Miles.
“Hi, I-I’m Peter.” He smiled, remembering his manners his Aunt and Uncle taught him, and held out his hand tentatively. Miles looked at him out of the corner of his eye, before jutting his shoulder out, as if to block Peter’s hand from coming closer.
“Yeah, I know,” he bit out. Peter bit his lip, nodding in resignation, and twisted back properly in his chair. He slumped forward, looking down at the plate of food sitting in front of him, no longer hungry.
He didn’t notice Harley’s glare sent to Miles, nor his concerned glance towards the back of Peter’s bent head.
-
Peter couldn’t breathe.
Every inhale was like he was swallowing fire, which, maybe he was. There was fire everywhere. It was surrounding him. All he could smell, taste, feel. Fire, fire, burning, smoke, everywhere.
“Aunt May! Uncle Ben!”
“Peter?”
Peter was running. Running and coughing and choking, trying to breathe through the heavy smoke, the collar of his T-shirt covering his mouth and nose. He was running through the halls of the apartment, slamming into walls on sharp turns he couldn’t see coming due to the smoke, tripping over flaming items left on the floor from before.
“Peter!”
“Aunt May! Uncle-“ Peter jumped back as a beam fell from the ceiling, the loud crash causing a sharp ringing to erupt in his ears. That was all he could hear now, the ringing. He kept running. He had to find is Aunt, his Uncle. They were calling him. They were saying his name.
There was smoke, and ringing, and burning, and he can’t breathe-
Peter jerked upright, heaving heavy gasps and sobs. He tried to untangle from his sheets, only to fall to the floor in his panic, something solid but gentle cushioning his head from the fall.
“Peter! Calm down!” Someone was shouting, telling him to calm down. Don’t they get it? He can’t calm down! He needs to find Aunt May and Ben and he still can’t breathe- “Hey you, you’re okay, just- breathe, Peter!“
A hand suddenly grabbed his, pulling forward and resting it on something solid and warm, moving up and down. “Just, follow my breathing. You feel that? Do that too, match your breath.” The voice kept speaking soft encouragements, all of which Peter drowned out, only focusing on the heartbeat he felt on his palm. It was steady, thumping heavily against Peter’s hand. Peter gasped in another breath, falling forward so his forehead landed against that chest, just above his hand clutching the fabric there. He felt hesitant fingers card through his hair, only to grow more firm as he sunk into the feeling. Peter just breathed, letting the comfort sweep over him.
“Pete? Hey, let’s get you back into bed.” Oh shit. That was Harley’s voice.
In the midst of Peter’s panic, he never noticed Harley waking up to the sound of his whimpers, or him jumping over to his side of the room to catch his head when he fell. He didn’t notice Harley until the teen was lifting him from the floor back onto his bed, one hand behind his shoulders, the other under his knees. Harley pushed Peter’s shoulders until he was laying down and pulled his blanket up under his chin. Peter looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to w-wake you up.” Harley looked at him with sad eyes, vastly different from the glare he was on the receiving end of for the past few days.
“It’s, it’s okay Pete. You don’t need to be sorry. Are you okay?” Harley asked. He was rubbing his thumb against Peter’s shoulder in a soothing motion, firm but gentle. Peter nodded then smiled shyly at Harley, wiping his eyes with a knuckle. “What?” Peter flushed and tugged on his blanket.
“Nothing just- my… Uncle Ben used to call me that. Pete.” Harley’s eyes widened slightly as he pulled back, the hand on his shoulder slipping off into his lap.
“Is it, okay for me to call you that? ‘Cause I’ll stop if-“ Peter shook his head and smiled.
“It’s okay. I like it.” Peter frowned and looked to the side, “Mr. Westcott calls me Petey a lot though, and I don’t really like that.” Peter didn’t really like Mr. Westcott in general. The unsettling looks during dinner, his tight grip on Peter when he insisted Peter call him Skip… overall he was just very uncomfortable with the man.
“Yeah, Mr. Westcott does a lot of things I don’t particularly like either. Welcome to the club.”
There was a pregnant pause. The creaking of the house settling and the city noises outside the small open window were the only sounds to be heard. Neither boy spoke or looked at each other aside from stolen side glances, Peter laying down and Harley resting on the edge of the younger’s bed. Peter took another look at Harley before steeling himself and asking the question he had been wanting to ask the other boy since their first meeting.
“Do you really not like me, Harley?” Harley sucked in a breath before releasing it slowly. Taking that as his answer, Peter sniffed with a frown and rolled over, facing the wall. He heard Harley huff and move back to his side of the room. It was silent for another moment.
“I don’t not-like you Pete, I’m just, trying to not get attached.” Peter looked at the wall for another long second before rolling back over to face Harley’s bed, waiting for him to elaborate. Harley looked at Peter and frowned. “When you came in here… I saw myself standing there. Kids like you won’t last long in here, if at all,” Peter flinched, “and I just want to distance myself so it doesn’t hurt as much when you’re gone.”
“W-what do you mean gone?” Peter could feel his heart rate speeding up. Is that why he felt so off when Mr. Westcott was around? Was he going to-
“Peter. I’m sorry- hey, that’s not what I meant.” Peter looked up, pulling at his swollen bottom lip from where it was trapped between his teeth. Weird. He doesn’t remember doing that. “I just mean, most of the kids your age that come here don’t even last a week. You're part of the younger age group so they normally end up sending the younger ones to a different home ‘cause the older guys don’t… do well with small kids.”
Peter pouted at the older boy. “I’m not a kid.” Harley chuckled quietly.
“Pete, just by pouting like a little puppy proves you’re a kid.” Harley said. Peter stuck out his tongue and crossed his arms, because if he was a kid like Harley said, then he was going all out. Harley laughed, but quickly sobered up, considering Peter. “What was your dream about?”
Peter stiffened and pulled at his fingers, looking everywhere but at Harley. “The fire. There was a fire. Both my aunt and uncle… that’s-it’s why I’m here.” He said finally. Harley bit his lip, looking like he wanted to comfort the other but thinking better of it.
“Hey, Pete?” Peter glanced up, brown eyes landing on Harley’s soft blues. “I know I haven’t been all that nice to you, hell, you thought I hated you, but I- I am here for you. If you need it, I’ll be here.” Peter smiled and rolled onto his back, looking up at the popcorn painted ceiling.
“Thank you Harley.” Harley look at the small kid, sighed, then laid down in his own bed. He smiled when he heard a sleepy mumble of ‘Good night Harls’ from across the room.
“Night Pete.”
-
It had been about two weeks since Peter moved into Mr. Westcott’s foster house, and he decidedly hated it.
Not only was Peter the youngest foster kid there, he was also the smallest. That meant he was picked on constantly by the older boys. They would break stuff and pin it on him, take extra food and stick it inside of his folded sweaters to make Mr. Westcott think he stole it… they even hid his inhaler from him, which he only found out about in the midst of a particularly bad asthma attack.
On top of that, Mr. Westcott was terrifying when he wanted to be. Although he never truly hurt Peter physically, the mental scars were there. Every time Adam, Ross, or Flash (and on the odd occasion, Miles) went up to him with another fib on how Peter was causing trouble, the Mr. Westcott Peter met on his first day was gone. Instead, he was met with an icy stare, clenched fists, and shouting. A tight grip on his arm, shoving him this way and that. Shouting to go to his room, clean the kitchen, scrub the windows- the list went on and on. Whenever Peter tried to explain that it wasn’t him, he didn’t do anything, Mr. Westcott simply would say; ‘Grow up Petey, learn to take responsibility for your actions.’
So it was safe to say, Peter hated it there.
However, after the night he and Harley hashed out their problems, Peter finally had a friend in the house. Harley was always there. He was always standing by him to tell the others off, to stand up to Mr. Westcott and set the record straight, to help him with the chores he was unfairly stuck with doing. Harley took to protecting Peter like an older brother to a little brother. He cleaned his scrapes, and iced his bruises when the boys got a little too rough, he comforted him when he woke up from yet another nightmare.
It was Harley and Peter. Peter and Harley.
And Peter was okay with that.
-
All five boys stood in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner and talking quietly amongst themselves, while Mr. Westcott sat in the living room, relaxing on his recliner, bear in hand. It was not his first one of the night. A football game was playing loudly through the TV.
Peter and Harley were clearing the table while the older guys washed and dried the dishes, and Miles swept the floor. One thing that Mr. Westcott didn’t budge on was after dinner cleanup. All the boys had to pitch in after dinner so that Mr. Westcott could watch his game and ‘relax from taking care of you brats’. There was a quiet over the house after dinner times, the only sounds being the TV, and the clanging of dishes being scrubbed and put away.
The sound of glass on the floor shattered the quiet.
Peter stared down at the scattered pieces of a broken plate at his bare feet in pure fear. The other boys all froze and turned towards Peter, taking in the broken dish and his wide eyes. Peter looked up, his mouth opening and closing multiple times, not able to get a word out, nor a breath in. The other boys started murmuring quietly. Peter heard a quiet ‘oh shit’ from Ross. Harley held his hands up, speaking gently.
“Pete, don’t move, I don’t want you to cut-“
“Wha’ the ‘ell was tha’!” Everyone turned to the kitchen entrance to see Mr. Westcott, swaying in place with an empty beer bottle in hand, an angry glare taking over his face. It was an unspoken rule between the boys that if Mr. Westcott was drinking, you did not interrupt him. Although everyone seemed to hate each other, that was one thing they stuck together on, because a drunk Mr. Westcott was not someone you wanted to get in trouble with. Unfortunately, the sound of a dish shattering was enough to rouse Mr. Westcott out of his drunken haze.
Mr. Westcott glanced over the room before they landed on the broken dish on the ground. Peter whimpered quietly when the man’s eyes met his. Mr. Westcott snarled and started forward, pointing a finger at him threateningly. “You-!”
“It was me!” Harley jumped in front of Peter, placing the younger boy behind him and hiding him from view, shoving some glass with his foot out of the way so he didn’t step on it. “I did it, I dropped the plate. I’m sorry.” Peter shook his head, gripping the back of Harley’s hoodie and tugging.
“Harley what-“ Harley moved one hand to his back, grabbing Peter’s and squeezing once. Whether it was to be a comforting gesture, or a way of telling Peter to keep quiet, Peter didn’t know. He shut his mouth, looking over Harley’s shoulder to see Mr. Westcott regarding the boys silently. The man suddenly growled and launched his empty bottle at Peter and Harley, the two yelping and ducking so the bottle hit the wall instead, shattering on impact.
Still crouched low to the ground, the boys looked up at Mr. Westcott towering over them. “You,” he pointed at Harley, “come wi’ me.” Turning to the others, all watching with wide eyes by the sink, he waved an unsteady hand. “Th’ rest o’ you, clean up thi’ messs.” Mr. Westcott turned around, stumbling out of the room and towards the hall.
Harley gulped and turned around to Peter, who was looking up at him with terrified eyes. “Hey, it’ll be fine, just- clean up and go upstairs. I’ll be up in a bit.” Harley smiled tightly at Peter, ruffling his hair gently, before maneuvering around the broken glass to follow their guardian.
-
Peter worried for Harley. That seemed to be constant nowadays. Harley had a tendency to take the fall for Peter whenever the need came, and it made Peter angry to no end. He wasn’t stupid. He may only be twelve, but he knew what Mr. Westcott did to Harley when he took him away. It ate Peter up inside knowing he was the cause for this, but there was nothing he could do. Harley would leave okay, only to come back into their shared room to the point where he almost couldn’t walk some days.
Today was one of those days, only Harley wasn’t walking into the room alone.
“You piece of shit! Wha’ did I tell you? Huh? Wha’ did I say?” Mr. Westcott slammed the door opened, dragging Harley into the room with one hand holding the collar of his shirt, the other at the belt of his jeans, fumbling to slide it out of the loops. Peter gasped and moved from his bed, dropping the book he was reading and backing into the corner of the room behind the door. Mr. Westcott was stumbling and slurring his words, still tugging Harley roughly towards his bed. Peter took a quick glance, looking over Harley and noticing the beginnings of a shiner making itself present below Harley’s left eye. Peter bit his lip anxiously, watching Mr. Westcott manhandle Harley towards his side of the room.
“If I wanta be drun’, it’s none of your buis… business! These kidss don’ need you savin’ them from a ‘bad paren’” Mr. Westcott used quotation gestures as he spoke, his tone and snarl unlike anything Peter has seen from the man before. Peter tucked himself behind the door close to the ground, peering out quietly as he watched the scene unfold.
“Mr. Westcott stop! Please I’m sorry I’ll leave you be, just-please stop-“ Mr. Westcott shoved Harley to the ground, shaking and crying and not noticing Mr. Westcott fold his belt and bring it down onto his back until it was too late. Harley yelped loudly, trying to scramble away, only to have his hair gripped and pulled back towards the man.
“You ain’ goin’ no where ‘til you learn yer lesson, kid.” One, two, three more hits and Peter had enough. Pushing himself up from behind the door, Peter ran over to the two, shoving himself in front of Harley and pushing his hands against Mr. Westcott’s chest.
“Mr. Westcott stop! Leave him alone!” The man stumbled back slightly, seeming surprised at the resistance he received, only to look down and snarl, flailing his arm out, the belt in his hand meeting Peter’s cheek with a loud snap. Peter fell back with a cry, his hand coming to rest on his bleeding cheek. Feeling arms wrap around his middle and tug him back against a heaving chest, Peter turned and gripped onto Harley tightly.
Looking down at the two kids sobbing and holding each other, staring up at him with pure fear, Mr. Westcott took a step back and snarled. “If ya ever though’ someone wass gonna ‘dopt you, yer outta yer min’.” Dropping his belt to the floor with a loud clang, the boys flinched as Mr. Westcott stumbled to the door and slammed it shut.
Harley let out a relieved sob, pushing Peter back softly and taking his face in his hands, sniffling at his runny nose from crying. “Are-are you okay? Did, did he- oh god Peter.” Harley’s thumb brushed lightly over the cut on Peter’s cheek, resting his forehead against Peter’s and breathing deeply. Peter was shaking, gripping onto Harley’s shirt tightly, tugging as if he was making sure he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Har-Harley,” Peter hiccuped, “What was that? W-why was he-“ Harley shushed him and pulled Peter back into his chest, rocking him gently and running his fingers through Peter’s messy hair.
“Mr. Westcott has a tendency to come home drunk,” Harley said. “He doesn’t like it when I tell him off for it, ‘cause really with a house full of kids you’d think..” Harley shook himself, starting to rub up and down Peter’s back. “Anyways, I guess tonight he was a little more agitated than usual.”
“Does he, does he always do that? Is that why you’re always hurt?” Peter said. Harley sighed, nodding his head and leaning back with a small hiss, looking Peter in the eye.
“Yeah, that’s why.” Peter sniffed. Tears welled up in his eyes. He hated seeing Harley hurt. Harley was like the older brother Peter never had. He protected him and kept him safe… even sacrificing his own safety to do it.
Peter and Harley sat curled up on the ground for a while, just holding each other as the shaking and crying slowed to a stop. Harley looked around the room, taking in the minuscule amount of items they each had to decorate the room. Harley never had much to begin with, and for Peter with the fire… They both never had a lot, both learning to survive with the bare necessities. Harley’s eyes swivelled from the room to window above them. It would be a bit of a drop but…
Steeling his body, Harley made a decision and shook Peter, pulling the younger up to his feet with a grunt of pain, and pushing him towards his bed. “Grab what you need, we’re leaving.”
Peter stuttered, looking back at Harley. “We’re… we’re leaving? What do you mean?” Harley was grabbing two backpacks, tossing one onto Peter’s bed, and filling the other with clothes, some bandages they kept in their room, and Peter’s inhaler.
“I mean, I’ve had enough of this place.” Harley looked up at Peter, the kid who he came to call his younger brother. The kid who currently had a smear of blood over his right cheek, cutting way too close to his eye for Harley’s comfort zone. Harley stepped up to Peter, resting his hands on his shoulders, leaning down slightly to be eye level with Peter. “It was one thing for him to come at me, but I’m not letting it happen to you. Come on, I’ll grab our toothbrushes and some soap, you make sure to pack a blanket.” Peter looked up at Harley, eyes red from crying, but a spark of hope ignited in them. Harley smirked, “Your small body can’t handle the cold out there.” Peter laughed lightly, sniffing and rubbing his nose, sending one last smile to Harley before grabbing some clothes, his book and notebook, and yes, a blanket, and stuffing them into his backpack.
A few minutes later and the boys were standing in front of the window, sneakers on and jackets zipped up, backpacks in hand. Harley looked at Peter with a smile, Peter returning it hesitantly.
“We’ll be okay, right?” Peter asked. Harley nodded and pulled Peter under his arm.
“We will. I won’t let us be anything less than that.”