Work Text:
The tattooed boy moves to Rose Hill when Harley is seventeen, beginning his senior year of high school. Ink seems to cover his entire body, a network of black veins- thin lines jut out from the collar of his crewneck t-shirts, trace up and down his biceps, form little patterns on his legs that Harley can only see on the rare occasion that he trades his Levis in for well-worn, paint-covered shorts.
They rarely encounter each other in the halls of their town’s one and only high school, but the boy seems to have taken up a little spot in the back of his mind and doesn’t ever seem to leave it. They share only one class (Chemistry, and the boy always sits in the back with his inked-up arms folded across the desk and his head in his hands) and Harley barely ever risks being spotted staring at him, for fear of being embarrassed by the new kid.
He doesn’t really seem like the kind of guy who would intentionally try to make someone uncomfortable. The boy is quiet- barely ever speaks, really, and when he does, he seems to not have very much to say.
His voice is soft. Gentle.
A harsh contrast with the three skulls that march up the length of his spine.
(Harley’s only caught a glimpse of them once, when they were changing in the boys’ locker room and he pulled his shirt off. His torso is completely covered in tattoos, from roses to little words to symbols Harley doesn’t recognize, but the most noticeable of all of them is the solid skulls, maybe the size of a penny each, placed carefully at intervals along his spine.)
He wonders what they mean. Finds that he’s a bit too nervous to actually ask; there are some scary kids at Rose Hill High, Harley among them, but the tattooed boy is an enigma that he’s not ready to unwrap just yet.
They don’t properly meet until Harley says the wrong thing to a pair of his fellow seniors and winds up getting the shit beat out of him. They’d jumped him while he’d started his long walk home- he doesn’t have the funds to fix his truck right now, not by himself or with any help from an actual mechanic.
He’s not a small guy by any standards, but Clay Brennon was thick where he wasn’t and had very little trouble dragging him off of the sidewalk and into a nearby alleyway before dropping him right behind the dumpster, out of eyeshot, and landing a metal-toed workboot right in his ribs.
Now, Harley prides himself for being able to take hits. He’s always been able to bounce back from them, no matter who they’d come from (his father, grade-school friends, one of the many town’s raging homophobes).
But Clay puts a lot of power behind that first kick. So much that Harley chokes out a strained fuck before trying to push himself up against the wall, staring Clay in his eyes as much as possible when his ribs feel like they’re on fire.
The bigger boy just glowers before rearing his leg back and, this time, whipping it right into Harley’s shoulder.
This time, something cracks, making way for an avalanche of pain that spews into his chest cavity and sends him crashing to the pavement in a shuddering heap. His arm is immobile. The simple act of forcing oxygen in and out of his lungs is nearly too much for his ribs to take.
Clay smirks, pulls his foot back for a third blow. Harley flinches back against the wall, smacks his head into the metal of the dumpster with a harsh clang, when he sees that the tip of Clay’s boot is on trajectory for his nose.
He closes his eyes, bracing for the knockout hit, and waits.
And it never comes.
There’s a shouted curse followed by a loud thud and an angry murmur, unintelligible from Harley’s spot on the ground. He breathes out a single sigh, mindful of his burning ribs, and opens his eyes to see the tattooed boy wrapping his arms around Clay’s middle- Clay, who probably ways twice as much as he does- and absolutely slamming him into the dumpster wall.
It’s ruthless, the way the boy’s biceps tense beneath layers of black designs. He stands like a statue a few feet away from Harley’s spot on the ground, staring down at Clay’s motionless body, chest heaving.
His eyes, though, aren’t angry at all, Harley realizes. They’re amber-brown in the late afternoon sunlight. Like melted chocolate.
He doesn’t look sorry for knocking the absolute shit out of Clay Brennon’s skull.
But he doesn’t look happy about it, either.
The boy stands very still for a moment, outlined by the setting sun like a Greek god weary after a long battle. Harley can barely make out the swirling patterns on his arms- they seem carefully thought out and placed just right, and he thinks they might be some sort of very artistic form of vines or flowers traced thinly across his skin.
It’s slow, the way he turns and approaches Harley’s little haven beside the wall before crouching and sitting back on his heels. He looks as if he’s approaching a wounded animal.
Harley feels an awful lot like a wounded animal.
“I’m Peter,” he says in that soft, careful voice of his. The boy- Peter- reaches a hand out into the space between himself and Harley, palm up. His hands are ink-free, but the cuticles of his nails are choked with something blue.
Paint.
“Harley,” Harley chokes out, wincing when his ribs expand. It feels as if someone is squeezing a fist around his lungs, fingers interlaced with bronchi, pinching tighter and tighter the more he tries to breathe. “Thanks.”
Peter shrugs, shoulders tight and tense beneath the fabric of his white t-shirt. He doesn’t look at Clay where he lies in the center of the alley. Right where he’d been dropped.
“No big deal.”
Feels like it should be.
The hand is still outstretched between them, and because Harley feels a bit awkward leaving it there (and couldn’t get up on his own anyways), he takes it. Peter’s fingers are long and thin, and his palm is warm. Small, especially compared to Harley’s.
His size doesn’t seem to affect his ability, though. Peter tightens his grip and, in one swift movement, manages to sweep Harley up and lay his arm across his shoulders, lacing one arm around the back of his ribs.
Harley grunts when the pain in his chest flares up, gripping the spot at the left side of his ribs. Peter hums a sympathetic hum and scoops up his backpack. Somehow, he manages to hold Harley up while simultaneously bending down to pick up their respective belongings.
There’s a little butterfly behind his ear. Its wings are filled in with red, but it doesn’t look the same as the ink that forms its outline- it looks like paint , and from the way the color dodges out of the lines every which way, Peter probably did it himself.
“I like your tattoos,” Harley blurts out. He wants to pull the words back in the minute they drip off of his tongue, sure that some kind of offense and Peter won’t like having it pointed out- aren’t people with tattoos stereotypically hostile? What if Peter’s one of those?
But Peter just smiles, clutching both his and Harley’s backpacks against his chest, and tilts his head gently to the side so that the butterfly is in full view.
“I like your earring,” he says- it seems like everything that comes out of his mouth is just above a whisper.
Harley blushes, self-consciously reaching up to brush a finger over the little black stud in his left ear. The metal is cold against his skin, but he’s gotten so used to having it in that he rarely notices anymore.
“I did it myself,” he says, hissing when they start to walk and his ribs are forced to take his weight. His shoulder throbs; he’s sure something’s broken.
Peter hums again and takes more of his weight. More than should be possible, really- Harley must weight more than he does, with their height difference, and Peter doesn’t look like the overly-buff jock type.
Dark hair tickles Harley’s chin as he’s forced to lean in closer. Peter doesn’t seem to notice.
He smells like lemons and acrylic paint.
“Yeah?” Peter asks. His eyebrow quirks up, and Harley’s eyes are drawn to a little irregularity at its peak.
He grunts when his foot falls a bit too heavily. “Yeah. Took- ah- took a needle an’ heated it up an’ shoved it straight through. Hurt- hurt like a bitch.”
Peter laughs, guiding him around the corner and into the main street. The sunlight blinds him for a moment. A far cry from the damp shadows of the alley.
“I’d guess it would,” he says. “Probably should’ve gotten that done by a professional.”
“My ma’ wouldn’ let me.”
Peter nods, quiet for a moment. There’s nobody on the sidewalks, nobody at the windows- everyone is either at work, at practice for their respective sport, or getting ready for dinner.
Harley’s grateful.
“Yours let you do that?” Harley asks, trying to keep his mind off of the flaring pain in his shoulder and ribs. He waves a hand at the ink lining Peter’s arms, his neck.
Peter shakes his head.
“She passed a little while ago,” he says. His eyes are fixed on the path ahead of them- he won’t seem to look up and meet Harley’s. “My dad, too, and my uncle. My aunt lives in New York.”
Harley blinks.
Mother, father, uncle. Skulls- one, two, three, marching up his backbone like a little army of dead loved ones.
He tries to imagine how it would feel to lose his momma. To lose Abby. Finds that the closest thing he can think of is how his father left.
Hollow is the only word that he can think of that truly describes it. Like an empty glass.
Harley doesn’t think he could bear that. The weight of his father’s absence is already almost more than he can take.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, gritting his teeth at a grinding sensation between his sixth and seventh ribs.
Peter just shrugs. Keeps walking. It occurs to Harley that he doesn’t really know where they’re going, where this boy is taking him, but for some reason, he doesn’t speak out. Doesn’t ask questions.
“It was a long time ago,” he says after a moment of silence, voice low and level. “It’s okay.”
Harley can tell that it’s not. Still, he doesn’t press.
Peter leads him down Main Street, still bearing the majority of his weight on his lean frame. He doesn’t stumble under Harley’s weight or the added baggage of their schoolbooks, just keeps moving; his muscles are tense and straining beneath his shirt. None of that tension works its way into his expression, though, kept neutral and calm.
They turn into another alley. For a moment, Harley thinks Peter’s only moved him to a less central area so he can continue Clay’s little mission without being stopped. Peter only leads him to a side door in one of the brick buildings lining the narrow walkway, though, fishing a pair of keys out of the pocket of his jeans and gently helping Harley over the doorstep.
“This where you live?” Harley asks, half-sarcastic; there’s graffiti all over the walls, beer bottles and White Claw’s discarded beneath the rusty staircase, and a general air of hostility to this building.
But Peter just nods passively and carefully lifts Harley off of his feet- oh God, oh God, oh God- before positioning him on his back, legs on either side of his waist, and starting the trek up the stairs with their books still clutched to his chest.
Harley isn’t proud of the little squeak that escapes his lips when one of Peter’s hands finds a grip just beneath his thigh, a few inches above his knee. It isn’t acknowledged- either he doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care.
His ribs are numb, now, and even though that’s probably not a good thing, Harley finds himself grateful for the reprieve. His eyes come to rest on an inked vine that pokes out from the collar of Peter’s shirt, crawling up his neck from the sleeve covering his left arm. It’s carefully etched into his skin, delicate lineart for someone who seems to be quite the opposite of fragile.
Can you legally get a tattoo in Tennessee if you’re a minor?
Is Peter from Tennessee?
Is Peter even a minor?
“How old are you?” Harley asks, trying to keep the trepidation out of his voice. To his relief, Peter grins, showing off sharp canines, and laughs a quiet laugh.
“I’m seventeen,” he says, clearly aware of what he’s wondering. “These are technically illegal.”
Harley bristles.
“I knew a guy who did tattoos where I used to live and convinced him.” Peter’s voice is easy, relaxed. Unconcerned. “My aunt said it was fine- don’t worry.”
He wants to worry.
But Harley’s done illegal things, too (maybe he’s smoked a blunt. Once. just once, and he’d hated it and never done it again).
So instead of berating this boy- this boy he’s just met, who he has no right to judge- he just says, “He did a good job.”
A single nod in response. Peter pulls himself up the last few steps, slowly setting Harley down once they reach the landing. He winces when his weight is forced back onto his feet and his ribs seem to grind together, cracked edges grating against each other.
Peter grabs his keys again, grabbing a different one this time, and inserts it into the tarnished metal lock of a door covered in cracked green paint.
“I needa call my ma’,” Harley mutters. He doesn’t move to take his phone from Peter’s overloaded arms, though. Just follows him inside with only a hint of the trepidation that he should be feeling entering a complete stranger’s home.
Despite Peter’s appearance, his apartment- or his aunt’s, maybe- seems to be pretty well kept, if not small and a bit beaten-up. The paint on the walls cracked just like that of the door, like it hasn’t been repainted in a long time and probably hasn’t been cared for the way it should be. His furniture is mismatched- an overstuffed brown sofa against one wall decorated with a dark red throw blanket, a pair of side tables (one of which is made of chipped, barely-painted wood and the other of some sort of weird metal that Harley doesn’t recognize), a lamp with an odd amalgamation of shimmery beads hung from its skeletal frame in lieu of an actual shade.
“You go ahead and sit down.” Peter sets their books on the metal side table, nearly knocking a coffee cup full of blue liquid onto the floor, before pressing Harley’s phone into his hands. “And call your mom. I’m gonna go get some bandages.”
He disappears, then, through an open doorway into what looks like a bedroom. Harley sits, mindful of the pain in his ribs, and dials his mom’s number, holding his phone up to his ear and biting his lip.
She always gets worried when things like this happen.
Macy picks up after one ring and Harley can already hear the worry in her voice. “Harley?” She asks, voice shaking. A twinge of guilt settles deep in his stomach.
“Hey, momma,” Harley murmurs, trying to keep his voice low in case Peter’s listening from the other room. “I’m okay, it’s okay.”
“What happened?”
He winces. “Got jumped again.”
The silence on the other end of the line speaks volumes.
“But I’m okay,” he says quickly, blinking as his shoulder starts to burn. “Kid from school came by an’ helped me out. I’m at his place now- I’m okay, ma.”
“Harley Keener, if you’re at some stranger’s house-”
A clatter from the other room makes Harley jump. Peter shouts out a quick sorry before going back to- back to whatever he’s doing.
“He ain’t a stranger, momma,” Harley sighs. “Name’s Peter, he’s in some o’ my classes. Chem.”
There’s a deep, shuddering sigh. Macy’s quiet for a moment.
He knows how she gets when he gets hurt.
He knows to give her time.
“You hurt?”
Time to lie. “Only a little bit.”
“You promise?”
No. “Yes.”
More quiet.
“Get home for dinner, baby.”
Harley heaves a quiet sigh of relief, nodding even though he knows she can’t see his face, and grins. “Course, momma.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Peter only comes back in once he’s hung up and put his phone away- out of respect or because he was listening in, Harley doesn’t know. But it isn’t like he said anything particularly private, so either way, it doesn’t matter.
There’s a splodge of yellow on his left cheekbone. Had that been there before?
“Somethin’ on your face,” Harley mutters as Peter pushes a wad of messy bandages into his hands.
For all of his expressionless mystery, Peter’s awfully bad at holding back the rosy flush that rises to his cheeks. He swipes his hand against his face, only succeeding in smearing whatever it is even further, and ducks his head when Harley laughs.
“May I?” He asks, and to his delight, Peter nods.
Harley is careful as he lifts his good arm and brushes a feather light finger against the splodge of yellow, carefully rubbing in little circles into his skin until all of the color has transferred from the other boy’s cheek onto his hand. He pulls back, suddenly awfully aware of the surprised expression on Peter’s face and the heat in his own.
“Paint,” Peter says faintly, eyes fixed on Harley’s finger.
Harley clears his throat, self conscious, and sets to work on his ribs; he doesn’t take his shirt off all of the way, just pulls it up and tucks the hem beneath his arm.
“You an artist?”
He nods, averting his eyes to the beaded lamp and the cup of milky blue liquid.
“What do you like to draw?” Harley asks, pushing for conversation in order to distract both of them from the fact that his stomach and chest are very much on display.
Peter shrugs. Then, after a moment of hesitation, gestures to the sleeve tattooed on his left arm.
“Drew ‘em myself and had someone else do the needlework,” he murmurs, carefully not looking at Harley.
For a moment, he wonders if Peter’s lying. He’s seventeen- teenagers can’t draw for shit, right? Those designs are way too intricate for someone their age to have done.
But then he thinks about the blue beneath Peter’s cuticles, the yellow on his face, the mug full of what must be paint water.
“That’s pretty cool, dude,” Harley says.
He gets a smile in return, and that’s where it starts.
❀
Peter’s the first one to approach, yet again, three days after their run-in in the alley. Harley waits for him instead of moving first. Half of him is afraid of rejection, the other of confrontation- after all, what if Peter only helped him because it was the right thing to do? Does he really expect to form a friendship after that? What if Harley just makes a fool of himself?
Clay Brennan comes to school the day after the alley with a black eye and a broken forearm. Harley doesn’t say anything- that woud be fucking stupid, after all.
Neither does Peter. He does send Clay a few dark smiles when teachers aren’t looking, though, and from the way Clay reacts, whipping his head around to stare at a wall, Peter’s managed to get him a bit scared.
Harley shouldn’t take pleasure in that.
He does, though. Like the awful human being he is.
(He doesn’t feel that bad about it.)
Harley sits alone at lunch, normally doing his homework in the shade of a big oak tree behind the high school. He makes his way through the crowds heading toward the cafeteria, just like he always does, and takes his seat with his Ancient Literature notebook settled on his knee.
A shadow falls across the blank page after he’s been sitting still for a few minutes, unable to stop procrastinating long enough to start his schoolwork.
Harley tenses, expecting to see some of Clay’s friends- his posse, really- here to finish the job and wreak vengeance. He looks up, ducking his neck forward, bracing for a hit-
But it’s just Peter.
Peter, outlined by the bright August sunlight, wispy curls flying around his face in the gentle wind.
Peter, grinning that toothy grin of his with an apple clenched in his left hand and his right stuffed into his pocket.
Peter, tattoos crawling over his shoulders, fully on display in the loose-fitting black tank top that flutters around his waist, giving Harley a glimpse of the little roses that crawl up his navel.
“Can I sit here?” Peter asks after a moment, pointing at the empty spot on the grass next to Harley’s leg.
Harley, like the dumbass he is, just nods wordlessly.
He seems to take that like enough of a confirmation. Hair bouncing, boots crunching against the fallen acorns, Peter crouches down and presses his back up against the rough bark of the oak, shoulder just an inch or so away from Harley’s. So close that he can practically feel his breath, the brush of his wispy hair, the warmth radiating off of his body.
Peter shrugs out of his backpack. Discards it in the dirt, turning his torso that he can face Harley fully, takes a bite of his apple.
A fleck of juice lands on Harley’s bicep.
He stares as Peter chews, jaw working methodically like the gears in the cars that Harley so loves. As his throat bobs when he swallows.
Maybe the middle school bullies weren’t wrong.
“Whatcha working on?” Peter chirps, voice devoid of the accent Harley’s gotten so used to hearing.
He blinks.
Is Peter talking to him?
“Oh,” Harley says, suddenly feeling very much like an idiot. “Uh- Ancien’ Liter’ture.”
Peter doesn’t seem put off by the weird way he’s staring- and he knows it’s weird, he’s not stupid.
Instead, he just leans in, pressing his shoulder against Harley’s, and traces a finger down the length of his notebook, lips moving wordlessly as he reads over his homework.
They sit, and they talk, and Harley stares.
And it continues.
❀
They become closer friends over the next month or so, Harley and Peter. He finds himself swept up in the storm that is this dark-haired, ink-covered star of a boy. Feels drawn in by him, held close by him, burnt up by him.
He learns.
Learns that Peter moved here from New York because his aunt was going to lose her job and the only opportunity she could find required a transfer.
(Her name is May, and Peter says that she’s the nicest person he knows. Harley doesn’t know how that could be possible- but he does know that Peter must have gotten that perpetual kindness from her.)
Learns that Peter’s friend- the tattoo one- is also seventeen, and his name is Ned, and he’s just as talented as Peter is.
(Doesn’t know how that’s possible, either.)
Learns that he’s alone most of the time; Peter just goes straight home to work on his art and his homework and spends his nights alone and eats dinner alone because his aunt works too many shifts to keep them in that messy little apartment.
(Harley doesn’t want him to be alone like that. He doesn’t want himself to be alone, either.)
He’s hesitant, practically buzzing with nerves, when he approaches Peter after school one day and asks if, maybe, he’d like to come over to his house. Peter doesn’t seem at all taken aback- he just grins and nods, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, before gesturing for Harley to lead the way.
(Harley also learns that Peter is a very affectionate person; he holds his hand while they walk together, and even though Harley knows that people are watching through cracked curtains, he doesn’t have the heart to let go.)
(That might also have something to do with the butterflies in his stomach. But he’s not thinking about that.)
(He refuses to think about that.)
Macy welcomes him with open arms, of course. She’s still in her clothes from work- shift number one at the diner, the first of two- and Harley can tell that she’s tired, but something in her recognizes that Peter needs a hug from a mom and promptly gives him one.
From the way Peter melts in her grasp, muscles relaxing so much that Harley realizes he’s never seen him not tense, she’s right.
Macy’s heard all about him from Harley; she knows about his parents, about his uncle, about how his aunt works almost constantly and Peter’s alone most of the time. He’s told her about his art, too- his tattoos.
She’d been unsure when he’d first mentioned how them (after all, Macy knew that Peter was a minor and it was very much illegal to tattoo a minor) but after Harley had explained their significance and the way Peter designed them all himself, she had warmed up to the idea pretty quickly.
Jonathan Keener’d had tattoos.
They remind her of him.
Harley won’t blame her for being a little bit wary.
They go into his room once Peter’s done his introductions. He’s smiling, a happy flush high on his cheekbones, dark eyes flickering with fire under the unsteady light of Harley’s nearly-burnt-out lamp. He really needs to remember to replace that bulb.
“Your mom’s so nice, ” Peter sighs, flopping back onto Harley’s checkered comforter and staring up at the popcorn ceiling. “You got a sister, too, yeah?”
Harley nods an affirmative. “Abby. She’s at school.”
Another labored sigh. “I wish I had a sister.”
“No, you don’t,” Harley snorts, lowering himself to the bed next to Peter and turning so that he’s facing the other boy. “She’s a brat. Breaks into my room an’ takes my stuff.”
Peter doesn’t face him, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, but his eyebrows do lower a fraction of an inch and his lips tilt downwards in a small frown.
The butterfly behind his ear is red today. Harley had colored it in with a marker, holding Peter’s ear against his head with his lip trapped between his teeth. He’d been very careful to make sure the color had stayed inside the lines.
He likes coloring Peter’s tattoos for him. Peter seems to like it, too, if the little smile he always gives Harley is any hint.
“I don’t want to be an only child,” he mutters, flipping onto his side so that he can look straight into Harley’s eyes. His hair flops against his head, long and unruly, probably due for a cut.
Harley tries to think of things from his perspective sometimes. It’s difficult- they’re very different in too many ways to count- but, in this situation, he understands why Peter would want someone else to be around.
“You’re lonely,” Harley says, tilting his head when Peter blinks back what looks like a tear. His heart gives a little pang; Peter’s never shown many emotions other than happiness around him.
“I am,” he whispers, closing his eyes.
He burrows against the mattress, burying his nose in Harley’s comforter, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Harley’s at a loss for words- he’s not very good with emotions, and Peter, even though they’ve barely known each other for a month now, knows that.
It’s slow, hesitant, the way he reaches out and lays a tentative hand against Peter’s shoulder. He waits for the other boy to pull back- sure, he’s never minded before, but Harley’s still cautious.
So it’s a big surprise when Peter, instead of pulling away, moves closer. He pushes himself up on one elbow, pulling himself across the minimal space between himself and Harley, and tucks himself into Harley’s chest .
His tattooed arm- the left one- finds itself trapped between their bodies, clutched tight to his torso. Harley adjusts his grip so that his arm is draped over Peter’s shoulder, holding him close.
He’s very warm. Very small, too.
Peter’s one of those people who seems larger than life until you get to know them.
Harley’s one of those people who seems small until you get close.
They lie there for what must be hours, just breathing, breathing, breathing, inhaling and exhaling in sync.
It’s nice.
Quiet.
Calming.
❀
“Can you design a tattoo for me?”
The paintbrush falls to the floor with a clatter, slipping out of Peter’s slim fingers. They’re covered in red paint- it’s really a miracle he hasn’t dropped it already, if Harley’s being honest. The flower he’s been working on for the last hour stares back at them, one petal half-finished. There’s a smear of paint on the canvas.
Peter doesn’t seem at all concerned with the mark. He furrows his eyebrows, so close they’re nearly touching, staring at Harley with an expression he doesn’t think he’s ever seen on his friend’s face.
They’re at Peter’s apartment after a long Thursday of school, tucked away in his painting room- or his bedroom, really, but Harley can tell from the papers taped up on the wall and the unmade appearance of Peter’s bed that he doesn’t really get much sleep in. Peter’s been working on a carnation for the last hour. Harley’s been watching (he’s supposed to be doing his homework, but honestly, he’d rather watch the meticulous, careful strokes of Peter’s hand).
“You want me to what?” Peter asks, voice low and confused.
Harley leans down to pick up the fallen brush, pressing it into Peter’s paint-covered hand. He looks like he’s bleeding.
“A tattoo,” he says again. “I want you to design one for me.”
When Peter doesn’t say anything, a Harley shrugs, trying to ignore the burning hurt low in his stomach. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought it’d be cool-”
Peter waves his hands quickly, blinking as he tucks the paintbrush into a jar full of cloudy pink water. “No, no, sorry!” He says, nearly yelling. “I’ll do it, yeah, it’s just- that’s a really permanent thing, dude, and you want me to design it for you?”
The hurt dissolves into that warm feeling Harley’s noticed more and more since he met Peter. “Yeah, of course, Peter. I trust you.”
That brings out the little grin that he’s become so accustomed to- he’s got such a pretty smile, Peter, with those sharp canines and the way his left cheek dimples.
“Really?” He asks, ducking his head bashfully.
Harley reaches out and takes Peter’s hand, ignoring the sticky paint that smears onto his skin. He smiles, gentle, reveling in the way Peter squeezes back.
“I trust you ,” Harley murmurs.
They sit like that for a while before he lets go and Peter takes up his paint brush again, ignoring the little smear of red in the corner of his canvas. He fills in the rest of the petal in even, careful strokes, Harley watching carefully, before pushing his canvas aside and picking up a pair of sharpies- one blue, one black- from his bedside table.
Peter presses the blue pen into Harley’s hand, keeps the black for himself. He sweeps the curls behind his left ear, exposing his butterfly tattoo, and moves so that he’s sitting right in front of Harley where he’s perched on his bed- right between his legs.
“Color it in?” He asks, already uncapping his own sharpie and starting to sketch something out on his wrist.
Harley knows this routine. He nods, moving forward so that his chest is pressed up against Peter’s back, and uncaps the sharpie with his teeth. Peter’s hair is soft, curls snagging in his fingers, but he’s careful to make sure that he doesn’t pull as he holds it to one side and gently lays the marker in one of the blank spaces of the butterfly’s wing.
By the time he’s finished, Peter’s got some sort of symbol on his wrist and he’s leaning back against Harley, eyes drooping closed. Harley gently takes his marker, laying it aside with his own, and wraps an arm around Peter’s front to keep him from falling.
When he gets tired, he’ll pass out pretty much anywhere. He’s fallen off of chairs, out of trees, slumped over the median of Harley’s truck once he’d gotten it fixed and started driving them home.
“Hey, Pete,” Harley croons, slowly leaning back onto the bed with Peter clutched in his arms. “Go on to sleep.”
Peter seems to take that as an invitation. He finally stops fighting his drooping eyes, going limp against his chest and curling up on the bed, just beneath the air conditioning vent, his chest rising and falling steadily.
Harley waits until he’s fallen asleep to press a gentle kiss to his temple, exhaling softly against his skin, before allowing his own eyes to close.
❀
It’s another month or so before Peter finishes the design for Harley’s tattoo. They run through four or five drafts- symbols, words, simple designs that Harley just doesn’t feel- before he really finds one that they both like, and when Harley sees the black ink sketched out on a sheet of tracing paper, he can’t help but sweep Peter up into a tight hug.
It’s a dandelion.
The petals are all in full bloom, and the way Peter’s used a thin-tipped ballpoint pen to do the final sketch gives it a delicate air that draws Harley in. It’s just the size of a quarter, small and dainty, and he laughs aloud when he first sees it.
Peter’s laughing, too.
He’s a beautiful human being, all soft curls and gleaming teeth and big eyes. Over the last few months, Peter’s skin has gained a soft glow from the Southern sun. A healthy tan that brings his flush out.
He’s such a beautiful human being.
“I love it, Peter,” Harley laughs, tightening his grip on Peter’s waist before lifting him up and spinning them both around. His feet are off the floor, and there are warm hands on his shoulders and Peter is pressed up against him and they’re laughing, laughing, laughing.
And Harley wants to kiss him.
But he doesn’t, setting him down softly and taking the sketch in his hands, holding it up to the sunlight.
“You do?” Peter asks breathlessly, grinning up at him.
Harley nods.
“I do.”
“You really wanna do this?”
Another nod, this time faster. “I really do.”
Peter places a hand on his shoulder, reaching up to place his other on the side of Harley’s neck. He finds his earring between pointer finger and thumb, gently brushing them against his earlobe before tilting his head to one side.
“Y’know, a lot of tattoo parlors do piercings and tattoos,” he says conspiratorily.
Harley blinks.
“You wanna-”
“Yeah,” Peter grins. “I do.”
❀
The primary problem Harley had thought they’d face (getting into an actual tattoo parlor when the legal age for entrance is eighteen) doesn’t turn out to be a problem at all. Once again, he finds himself wondering what kind of a crowd Peter’d gotten himself into in New York, because he manages to get someone to mail him a pair of fake ID’s with both his and Harley’s pictures. Peter’s nineteen, according to the card (which Harley doesn't think is very believable). Harley’s twenty.
He could totally pass for twenty.
Easy peasy.
The second problem, sneaking out of their respective houses, proves to be only a bit more difficult than the first.
Peter doesn’t have any difficulty figuring out how to get himself onto the curb in front of his house by the time Harley’s snuck out of his window, carefully avoiding setting their alarm off and waking his sister and mother.
He’s waiting in his favorite hunter-green jacket by their agreed rendezvous time (twelve o’clock, right on the dot). Peter looks like he’s going to pass out from excitement- Harley guesses he’s never had to sneak out to get a tattoo, what with his aunt working.
Harley pulls up right next to the sidewalk and unlocks his car doors, gesturing for Peter to hop in. He does, practically bouncing, and pulls Harley into a quick hug. The arm of his seat digs into his stomach, but he doesn’t find that he minds.
“You got the sketch?” Harley asks. In response, Peter holds up his piece of paper with their dandelion.
“Awesome,” he whispers.
“And you have your ID?”
“In my wallet.”
Peter’s grin widens. He pulls his jacket off, exposing muscled arms and his favorite black tank top, and points at his left ear.
“It’s yellow today,” he whispers as Harley takes his truck out of park and pushes forwards.
Harley smiles, taking one of Peter’s hands in his own as they set off across back country roads in the direction of a tattoo parlor with good Yelp reviews and nobody to recognize them.
“That’s a beautiful color on you.”
It’s an hour long drive, but the gas tank is full and their spirits are high. Harley holds Peter’s hand the entire time, stroking circles with his thumb, and listens as Peter braces him for what’s about to happen and babbles about the first tattoo he’d gotten (his butterfly) and how much his sleeve had hurt (a lot).
He’s content to not say anything.
Doesn’t really need to.
The lights of the parlor are neon bright as Harley parks the truck and, finally letting go of Peter’s hand, hops out of the car. He follows Peter to the front door- for once, entirely satisfied to not be leading.
“You ready?” Peter asks, grinning so hard his canines gleam in the red light.
“I’m ready.”
And they go inside.
It smells like ink and paint and disinfectant. Harley stays behind Peter as they walk up to the front desk, where a woman with pink hair and a rose on her collarbone greets them and makes their appointment. His stomach rolls as she checks their IDs, but the woman just nods, introduces herself as Kelly, and tells them to go ahead and take a seat.
“You wanna go first?” Harley asks, grinning as Peter twitches nervously.
He’s never gotten a piercing before.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he soothes, stepping aside so that Peter can take a seat. “It’s not gonna hurt, Peter, okay? You’re gonna be just fine.”
Peter nods. Holds his hand out, palm up, for Harley to take. He does so without complaint, knuckles against knuckles, crouched down beside the chair so that Kelly can reach Peter’s ear.
The needle gleams in the bright light. Peter shivers, squeezes his eyes closed.
His teeth are gritted. Muscles clenched, fully on display in his tank top.
He looks like Aries. Drowned in blood and black.
“It’s okay,” Harley whispers as Kelly wipes down Peter’s ear- the left one, which seems to be his go-to side for decoration- with alcohol and readies the needle. Peter flinches a bit, but otherwise, he’s still.
“And-” Kelly takes a deep breath, punches it through, slides a little black crystal identical to Harley’s through Peter’s ear, “ done! ”
“Fuck,” Peter mutters, clenching his fist around Harley’s. “ Fuck, ow.”
“You’re fine, you big baby,” Harley laughs. “Looks good.”
He blinks. Grins.
“Of course it does, stupid, it’s on me.”
Harley just chuckles, glad the red lighting hides his blush.
Peter does look really good with that earring. Hot.
“Your turn,” he chirps, hopping out of the seat and moving aside. “Where’re you gonna get it, Harls?”
He’s thought about this at length.
Knows exactly where.
With a gentle smile, Harley taps the spot behind his left ear, still holding onto Peter’s hand. He sees the minute his eyes widen in realization, the minute his grin widens into something sentimental.
“You can color it in,” he explains, tone distinctly affectionate. “And then I can color yours.”
Peter looks like he’s going to cry.
Harley feels like he might.
Heart pounding, blood rushing in his veins, Harley takes a seat in the chair and leans back. When Kelly asks for the design, he passes it to her, and when she asks where he wants it, he gives her the same answer. She raises her eyebrow. Looks to Peter.
“That’s going to hurt,” she says, deadpan.
Peter shrugs and taps the spot behind his own. Right on the butterfly.
“It’s where he wants it,” he says warmly.
Harley offers up his own hand when Kelly takes her spot on his left side. Peter moves to his right, gripping it in both of his own, and whispers for Harley to take a deep, deep breath.
The needle rattles his brain in his skull like a huge maraca. It feels like there are bees inside of his head, ricocheting off of the inside of his bones, trying to get out. The needle stings, and his head pounds, but Peter just stays there and murmurs for him to hold still, all the while watching Kelly’s handiwork to make sure she doesn’t slip up.
It’s done in about twenty minutes. Feels like a lot longer.
Kelly tapes the bandage over the flower after Peter’s seen the finished product. He looks satisfied, and that’s enough for Harley- he wants to see it once it’s healed, not before.
“I’ll pay,” he says, shushing Peter when he tries to argue. “No- you did the design, Peter, I’ll pay for both of us.”
It’s terribly quick, the time it takes for him to be convinced.
They leave once they’ve paid, Peter holding his hand. Harley’s ear is stinging. He imagines Peter’s still hurts, too.
There’s a chill in the air that wasn’t there before, and judging from the position of the moon, only an hour or so has passed. Harley checks his phone, and- yep. One o’clock in the morning, no texts or calls from his mom or Abby asking where he is. He breathes a sigh of relief.
They cross the parking lot, shoulders brushing up against each other. Peter doesn’t say a word. He looks deep in thought, eyes far away, shining against the sky full of stars above.
His earring glimmers black. Harley’s new tattoo throbs.
Peter’s skin is pale in this light, red and blue shining from the tattoo parlor’s windows. He keeps stride with Harley as they make their way through the nearly-empty parking lot toward Harley’s red truck despite his shorter legs. Harley slows down to match his gait.
“This was fun,” he says quietly, smiling down at Peter.
He still doesn’t look up.
Harley’s stomach jolts, but he doesn’t say anything, instead opting to face forward and keep moving toward his truck. Does Peter regret it? Is Harley having something on his body of his own design freaking him out? Was this a mistake?
He doesn’t look back to Peter until he gets to the driver’s side door. Harley expects to see Peter on the opposite side of the car, hopping into the passenger seat like he always does, but there’s nobody there.
This time, it’s his heart that drops.
Harley turns around, looking around desperately to find his friend- could something have happened between the last ten yards and now?
But instead of finding him with his eyes, a pair of hands land on his chest, right beneath his collarbones, and push him up against he side of the car.
Peter stares up at him, eyes wide in the dark, hands planted firmly against his skin. His tattoos stand out against his pale skin. He worries his lip between his teeth, eyes meeting Harley’s with an intensity that he’s never seen in this boy’s eyes, and involuntarily, Harley’s breath stops.
“Am I reading this wrong?” Peter asks, voice low and husky. He’s still holding Harley against the truck, leaning into him just enough to keep him there without hurting him.
Wordlessly, Harley shakes his head.
“Can I-”
Before Peter can finish his question, Harley reaches out to take him by the shoulders and, quick as a flash, whirls him around so that Peter is the one pressed up against the truck. He shudders, and Peter’s shivering, too. His bare arms are warm.
“Yes,” Harley murmurs, ducking his head down to connect their lips.
It’s quick, the first kiss- just a peck, a little touch. Peter’s lips are chapped and cold in the night air, and Harley’s sure his are the same. Still, his heart jumps as he pulls back and Peter’s still looking up at him.
He’s smiling, though. Exuberantly, happily smiling.
Genuine in a way that only Peter seems to be.
This time, it’s Peter who leans in. He wraps his arms gently around Harley’s shoulders,leaning up against the truck, and slowly presses his lips up against Harley’s. He moves them, just once, twice, before pulling away and doing it again, and Harley is helpless to do anything but follow.
He’s never done this before.
One of his arms finds Peter’s waist and settles there at the crook of his spine. Peter opens his mouth and Harley gasps when he swipes his tongue up against his lips, opening his own and letting him push past his teeth.
This feels- this feels different.
Peter knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure- but he’s careful, gentle, as his hands brush up against Harley’s collarbones and shoulders and biceps. He pulls back, pushes forwards, pulls back again, and Harley lets him.
It’s a daring thing, one he’s only seen in movies, what he does next, slipping his left hand under the hem of Peter’s shirt to meet bare skin before disconnecting their lips and taking Peter’s jaw in his right. He shudders beneath Harley’s skin, closing his eyes as his head is tilted to one side.
He seems to like it. Harley can’t really tell, but he figures Peter would pull away if he didn’t.
“Is this okay?” He asks hoarsely.
Peter just nods, eyes still pressed closed. Harley nods, trying to push his smile down, and carefully turns Peter’s head so that he can press a kiss to the butterfly behind Peter’s ear.
This time, Peter’s the one who gasps. His hand fumbles from Harley’s shoulder to the handle of the backseat door of his truck, and, blind in the dark, Peter opens the car door.
Harley takes his cue, lifting him up into the truck and following, carefully closing the door behind himself. Peter reconnects their lips immediately. Guides Harley’s hand back to the side of his neck, lets him slip his other back beneath his shirt.
Harley’s hand creeps higher, higher, higher, before settling on the side of Peter’s ribcage. He pulls back, eyes wide.
“I love you,” he blurts, even though he knows it’s too soon.
He can hardly see Peter’s smile in the darkness, but he can hear it in his voice.
“I love you, too, Harls.”