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The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
alive, ahaha, fuk-
[he/him]
📍 wouldn’t you like to know
197 following | 2.2M followers
Peter @sayhellopeter
just another Minecraft player trying to find his place in this world
[he/him]
📍 New York, New York
4269 following | 1.3M followers
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The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
Some of yall have never met an avenger in real life and it shows
Pigeons aren’t real @tinfoilhatgang
context????????
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
no
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Peter @sayhellopeter
I saw iron man today!!!!! He flew over my head but didn’t wave back :(
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
hes underserving of ur praise, kind of a dick irl tbh
Pigeons aren’t real @tinfoilhatgang
Again, I request: context????????
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
no
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Peter @sayhellopeter
Come watch Mech, Ned, and I in the MCCs!! We’re the green team!
Peter @sayhellopeter
Twitch.tv/sayhellopeter
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
pete you’re red/green colorblind why are we the green team
Peter @sayhellopeter
it’s your favorite color
Ned, Ned, and Neddy @guyinthechair
I have no words.
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“Mech? Did you mute us?” Peter’s voice, slightly tinny, emanates from Harley’s headset where it’s resting on his desk. “I’m about to finish the stream, just waiting on you.”
Harley’s been spinning in his chair for fifteen minutes, head thrown back, chair leaning back almost far enough to tip. His phone, resting on his desk next to his headset, has been buzzing almost nonstop since he left the server abruptly.
It was too much – listening to Peter shoot the shit with the chat, listening to Ned joke with him about the latest manhunt video. He kept getting lost in Peter’s stream, kept zoning out while staring at the monitor with the stream pulled up.
“Mechanic?” Harley leans forward, stops his spinning and slips his headset back on.
“Hey, I’m back. Sorry, got lost there for a second.” His voice is flat, no matter how much he tries to inject cheer into it – he sees Peter catch it, eyebrows shooting up when he speaks. “Thanks for having me, chat, it’s been a pleasure as always.”
He listens to Peter finish his goodbyes, hears the tone of someone leaving the Discord call. He thinks he zones out, again. Harley’s not sure how much time he’s lost.
“Mech, stream’s over,” Peter says. His voice is softer, brighter, lighter when he’s not streaming.
Harley hums, taps his fingers on his desk. His thoughts move through a fog, he’s wading through the thickest chowder this side of the Mississippi. His phone vibrates, again.
“The stream was good, I think,” Peter says quietly. “Chat was going crazy when the three of us were all together again. I think the last manhunt ending threw a bunch of people off.”
Harley scoffs – he thinks the noise is audible through his microphone. He doesn’t feel present.
“Ned asked me the other day how the coding was going on the x ray data pack was going, I think he’s getting antsy to get his hands on it. You know how he gets, wants to get his hands on the code and get familiar with it before playing it.” Peter fiddles with something on his desk, Harley can hear the rustling of his hands fidgeting.
“Sorry, Pete,” Harley says after a few moments of comfortable silence. “For checking out there at the end.”
Peter’s chair creaks as he moves – probably leaning forward, Harley thinks – and he can picture the younger boy in his head, can see the furrowed brows, hands twisting together. Harley knows what Peter looks like. It shouldn’t haunt him as much as it does. Peter doesn’t know what Harley looks like.
“It’s okay, Mech,” Peter pauses, takes a deep breathe. Harley hears it drag past his microphone, into his lungs.
What would it be like, he wonders, to breathe Peter in? To rest their foreheads together, share air in and out? What would it feel like to cradle the younger boy’s face in his hands, plant a kiss on his forehead? Would Peter blush? Would they hug?
“Are you physical, Peter?” Harley can see the other boy in his mind’s eye, blinking in surprise. “Like with your friends, and your aunt. Do you hug them, touch them?”
“Yeah, I think I am. Ned says I am.” There’s more bubbling in his chest, Harley can almost hear the words threatening to come out.
Harley expects him to keep talking, to spill whatever else is threatening to come out – instead, there’s the ever-familiar video call tone, and Peter’s face pops onto his monitor.
It shouldn’t take his breath away, not when he sees Peter nearly every day, spends his days recording videos and talking to the other boy. Regardless, Harley’s breath is caught in his chest, thoughts still caught somewhere in that soupy place, somewhere he can’t come back from, and he’s only half trying to come back, honestly.
Peter’s face helps. Seeing the small smile stretch across pink lips, brown eyes lighting up – it’s easier to float in the soup, rather than sink.
“I like affection,” Peter says. Harley feels blessed to watch the words leave his lips. Harley wants to kiss those lips, wants to run his fingers through those waves, wants to wrap his arms around those shoulders and cling. “Aunt May says that I’ve always been that way. I just like touch, I guess.”
His words trail off as Harley slides closer to his desk.
“What about you, Mech? Are you,” Peter pauses, eyes bouncing around his screen as he seemingly searches for the right word, “Physical?”
Harley nods robotically before realizing Peter can’t see him. (Peter’s never seen him. How could he like you when he’s never seen you, Harley thinks, sinking that much farther into the haze.)
“Yeah, I am,” His voice is breathy. “Don’t have many people to give affection to, but yeah, I like hugs, and stuff.”
Peter hums, his hands barely coming into view at the bottom of the screen. He’s holding a cube-shaped object, flipping it around in his hands. He turns it inside out, flips it around, repeats the movement.
“Is that one of the fidgets?” The question slips out of Harley’s mouth without permission.
Peter has the audacity to look straight into the camera, raise one eyebrow. “Yes, Mech, it is one of the fidget toys you sent.” His tone is one of unending patience. It’s endearing to Harley, strikes a match deep in his belly.
“Do you like them?” Peter’s sparked his interest, now – gotten the attention of the engineer side of his brain. “How does it feel, in your hands?”
“It’s good, I guess. I like the way it flips inside and out. It does make this noise, though, it’s got a clickity-clack type sound when I use it.” Peter doesn’t comment on the sudden change in Harley’s demeanor, just rolls with it. “I thought Michelle was going to come through the screen and choke me with it the other day when I raided her stream.”
The obvious humor and underlying embarrassment in his tone make it clear that Peter’s not telling the whole story. Harley wants the whole story. He wants all of Peter.
“How is Michelle?” Harley asks, grabs an earlier prototype of the same object Peter’s holding. It’s extremely satisfying and mind-numbing to fidget with.
“You’re fishing, Mech,” Peter’s blush betrays him. “Didn’t realize you cared so much.”
“Yeah, well, I do listen to what comes out of your mouth.”
“Only because you’d rather something else be in it.”
The clatter of Harley’s fidget hitting his desk is audible to Peter, even through his second-hand microphone.
“That’s not what I meant,” Peter defends weakly.
“What did you mean, then?” Harley asks, unable to help himself. The red roses on Peter’s cheeks are only deepening in color the longer the conversation goes on. Harley feels more like himself the longer they talk.
“I,” Peter sets his fidget on his desk, steeples his hands and rests his forehand in the space where his thumbs meet. “I don’t know what I meant.”
The mumbled confession is enough to break Harley, a barking laugh jolting out of his chest.
“Peter,” Harley wheezes laughter around the other boy’s name, feels as if the younger’s given him a life vest, helping him stay out of the depths of the haze.
“Oh, jeez, Mech,” Peter’s head hangs down, but he’s chuckling. It’s one of the best sounds Harley’s ever heard.
“I like it when you laugh.” Harley’s earnest, same as always. He doesn’t lie, appreciates honesty more than anything else. “You laugh a lot when we talk. It’s nice.”
Peter’s laugh tapers off into giggles, then quiet as he scrubs a hand over his face and up into his bangs, shoving the waves off his forehead.
“Hi, Mech.” He accompanies the statement with a small wave.
“Hi, Peter,” Harley responds, mirrors the wave. His eyebrow quirks up in question. “I thought we’d already greeted each other?”
Peter scrunches his face, shrugs his shoulders. “You’re here now, though. You weren’t really here before.”
In this moment, Harley’s glad Peter can’t see him, can’t see the way the smile slides from his cheeks, the way his hands drop into his lap.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to ruin the mood.” Peter offers after a few minutes of silence.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Harley says, almost monotone. His lifejacket is disintegrating.
“I wish I could hug you.” Peter says.
“Me, too.” Harley stares at Peter through his screen. It’s getting late. Harley knows he should go to bed and try to sleep. He also knows it’s hard to sleep when his brain is floating off in a soupy daze. “Peter?”
“Yeah?” Peter’s gaze is so earnest, and open. Harley makes a split-second decision.
“I’m gonna switch to my phone so I can lay down, if that’s okay. It’s getting late here.”
“Course, Mech,” Peter brightens, somehow. “I think I’m gonna do the same.”
A weight, heavy and dragging, lifts off Harley’s shoulders and chest now that he knows he doesn’t have to stop talking to Peter, that he can keep listening to the younger boy’s breathes.
Harley switches the call to his phone, waits for his computer to shut down. He slips his hoodie and t-shirt off, yanks on a long-sleeve instead. He peels his jeans off his legs, kicks his socks away, then nestles into the covers on his bed.
“You there?” Harley can feel the antsiness seeping into his bones, invading his veins, even in short time it’d taken him to change and lay down. He lays on his back and sets his phone on his chest.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Peter’s voice washes over him. “Just getting comfy now. I think Ned screwed up the pillows last time he was here.”
Harley chuckles, hopes Peter can hear it. “Does he just steal your pillows regularly then?”
“Mhm, sorta kinda. We both tend to play until we’re too exhausted to see straight, then just collapse into bed. Hard to figure out who’s pillow is whose when you can barely plug your phone in, y’know?” Peter’s voice is muffled, almost as if he’s pushing his face into said pillows.
“You’re cute,” Harley says, unable to come up with anything else to say but wanting the conversation to keep going.
“What are you even going on about, Mech?” There’s laughter in Peter’s voice. Harley would bet good money he’s blushing.
“You are, Peter, you’re very cute.” Harley knows he should say it in a teasing manner. He doesn’t, can’t bring himself to – Peter is captain of the life raft and Harley is sinking into the depths, staring up at him. Peter deserves more than teasing.
“I think you’re due for some sleep, mechanic man,” Peter responds. “Y’know, just because you go by mechanic doesn’t mean you aren’t human.”
Harley hums in response. He doesn’t know how to say that sleep escapes him more often than not, that he’s haunted by nightmares of childhood past, that it’s easier to stay a whole person and be awake for hours and talk to Peter than it is to sleep.
“It’s okay, though,” Harley’s head pops up off his pillow. “I know you, Mech.”
“Harley,” He surprises himself, unable to hold back. He doesn’t want Peter to call him by his screen name, not when it’s just them. He wants to give some part of himself to the younger boy. “My name is Harley.”
Peter is silent for a while – 193 seconds, to be exact, never let it be said that Harley’s anxiety wasn’t good for anything – before he speaks again.
“I know you, Harley,” The inflection in his voice is the same as earlier, the words nearly the same, the only difference is the name he calls Harley. “I’m so lucky to know you.”
Harley doesn’t have a response, can’t find anything funny, or cute, to say back. He doesn’t want to, wants to catch this moment and bury it in the depths of his heart, pull it out once in a blue moon and revel in the butterflies spreading through his limbs. He doesn’t say anything, just texts Peter a smiley face, waits to receive one back.
Neither hangs up, or says goodbye, or goodnight. They can’t end the moment, not when both boys can feel the electricity, the sparks shooting through the air. It’s terrifying in all the best ways.
Harley’s jolted out of sleep a few hours later. He’s curled on his side, phone resting on the pillow beside his face. He can hear Peter breathing, can hear the softest snores coming through the speaker.
“Harley,” His name comes out as a sigh, so softly he thinks he’s imagined it coming from his phone.
He’d think he imagined it, if it weren’t for the next words that came through.
“Love you, Harls,” Rustling overtakes whatever words come next – Harley imagines Peter flipping over in bed, or rubbing his face deeper into his pillow. “My Mechanic, my Harley.”
Harley claps a hand over his mouth, tries to muffle the giggles. He’s not sure the last time he’d woken up in the middle of the night happy, but this? Hearing Peter sleep talk, hearing Peter say his name in his sleep, maybe even reaching for him? Harley would stay awake for hours, waiting for another hit.
He lets his body relax back into the pillows, tugs the blanket up to his chin from its place around his waist. Peter’s breathing is even, steady, soothing.
Harley matches the other boy’s breaths, falls back asleep in between moments of imagining how Peter’s hand would feel in his and how it would feel to hold the other boy all night.
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The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
best night of sleep ive gotten in a while tbh
Ned, Ned, and Neddy @guyinthechair
Does it have anything to do with the call that had only two people in it and lasted over 15 hours?
The Mechanic @mechanicwastaken
wouldn’t u like to know, weather boi
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The next time they play together, they're coming off the high of winning the MCCs. Both boys are overjoyed and overwhelmed - they’ve spent weeks practicing and improving Peter’s parkour skills and Harley’s communication skills.
It had worked in their favor, all the late nights and minimal sleep when they won with Ned as their third. They’d celebrated by going the fuck to sleep, and then waking up 12 hours later and immediately calling each other.
“Good morning, Pete,” Harley’s morning voice rasps through the mic.
“Good morning, Harls,” Peter replies, navigating his cursor until his camera is on. He adjusts his hair, snatches a hoodie from off screen and slips it on.
“How did you sleep, darlin?” Harley asks as he logs into Minecraft.
“Most satisfying sleep I’ve had in weeks, honestly,” Peter pauses. “Want to just fuck around and chill for a bit? Ned won’t be up for a while.”
Harley grins. “Yeah, Pete, let’s just make a world and make it ours.”
They proceeded to do exactly that, creating a survival server with a random spawn. For the next four hours, the two hit trees, killed animals, mined resources, and raided villages to their hearts’ content.
“I’m going to build a house here, I think.” Peter says, gesturing with the spruce planks held in his avatar’s hand towards a clearing.
“Okay, bud,” Harley says, dropping any non-cobble blocks he had in his inventory. “I’m gonna go beat the dragon, okay?”
He waits for Peter to nod and hum in agreement, then builds a Nether portal and heads to the other dimension.
“How do you feel about dark spruce?” Peter’s question comes through softly as Harley runs through a crimson forest searching for a Nether fortress.
“It’s fine with me, Pete,” Harley says, words faltering as he has to stop and kill a few hoglins crowding him. “I trust your design choices, babe.”
Peter’s silent for a few minutes – Harley doesn’t notice, keeps up a stream of describing what biomes he’s running through. The older boy only notices the younger’s quiet when he finally finds a fortress and starts killing blaze and collecting blaze rods. “Peter? You okay?”
He chances a look away from his main screen, sees Peter still seated in his chair at his desk. The smaller boy hasn’t moved, is just sitting still with what can only be described as a dopey look on his face, head tilted to the side and resting on one hand. “Peteeeerrr.”
Harley’s singsong tone startles him as Peter shakes his head abruptly and his hand disappears from sight, presumably back to his mouse.
“Sorry, zoned out there for a min,” Peter says, eyes shooting around his screen as he builds. “How’s hell?”
Harley chuckles and watches Peter blush as the noise filters through his headphones. “Feels like home.”
The joke falls flat, Peter giving his camera a stern look. Harley swears he can feel the other boy’s eyes staring into his soul.
“Harley,” Peter says, then stops.
He hasn’t used the elder’s name in conversation since the night they fell asleep on call, sent Harley a text the next morning asking if it was okay to keep calling him by his screen name so he didn’t slip up on stream or in videos. Harley had responded in the affirmative, telling Peter to call him whatever he was comfortable with. They hadn’t talked about that night since.
“Yeah, Peter?” Harley asks as he leaves the fortress, having finally collected enough blaze rods to fill in the end portal with eyes of Ender. “What’s up?”
He tries for casual, tries to keep the pure emotion from seeping into his voice – based on the look Peter gives his camera, Harley’s not sure he succeeded.
Peter is quiet long enough for Harley to make it back to the portal and step through, running back to the clearing he’d left the other boy in earlier. Peter’s managed to start the foundation of a house out of spruce planks with oak wood as accent blocks. There are two doors, windows, a furnace room, the start of an enchanting room and a storage room.
“The house looks good,” Harley offers when it’s clear Peter isn’t going to elaborate on whatever was on his mind earlier. “I like the layout.”
“Thank you,” Peter whispers. When Harley looks at him, the younger boy’s brows are furrowed, lips downturned.
“Peter,” Harley says. “Peter, what’s wrong?” He’s whispering, trying not to break the quiet between them.
“Nothing’s wrong, Mech,” Peter responds. His eyebrows have smoothed out, Harley notices, mouth a smooth line.
“Please, babe,” Harley’s nearly begging. The younger boy hasn’t paused in his building of the house, moving onto the roofs as if Harley can’t see the ocean of emotion behind his eyes. There’s something in Peter’s face, something threatening his composure, pushing at the edges of the walls he holds his emotions behind. “Peter, talk to me.”
Harley moves his avatar in front of Peter’s and blocks the way. They’re standing in the upstairs of the house, one large room. Peter’s set up two beds, side by side, two chests acting as nightstands.
The slam of Peter’s hands onto his desk startles Harley and he accidentally drops the blaze rods he’s holding in his off hand. They fall to the floor of their house.
“What are we doing?” Peter asks. Harley chances a look at his face cam, sees the blank slate Peter’s maintaining.
“Right now? We’re playing Minecraft together,” Harley says, slowly, carefully.
“Harley,” Peter takes a deep breath. “Harley, we are building a house. I built a house, for us.”
“I… know? We’re standing in it?”
“We’re standing in the bedroom, Harley.” Peter sounds tired.
“Yes, the beds are in this room, Peter,” Harley acquiesces. “That does make it the bedroom.”
“There aren’t any bedrooms downstairs, Harley.”
“That’s okay, babe, there are two beds and only two of us.”
He watches Peter close his eyes and sigh.
“This is our bedroom, Harley,” Peter spells out, slowly. “This is our house, and in it, our bedroom. With our beds, next to each other.”
Harley feels as if he’s missing something big. Peter keeps stating obvious things, looks as if Harley is breaking his heart with every second the taller boy doesn’t say the exact right thing. Harley doesn’t know what exact right thing Peter wants to hear – but he wants to say it.
“I wish it were real,” Harley offers. “I wish we could sleep next to each other in real life.”
“I do, too.” Peter says. His avatar circles around Harley’s, crouching and un-crouching. There’s a blue flower in his off-hand, an apple in the other. He drops both at Harley’s avatar’s feet.
“Oh, I found some sheep,” Harley says, backing his character away so he doesn’t pick up Peter’s food. “I have some food already.”
“Oh my god, Harley,” The words come out mumbled as Peter drops his head into his hands. His fingers clutch at his bangs, the small portion of his cheeks that Harley can see redder than a glazed strawberry. Peter’s lips are pinker than normal – how does he know what shade of pink Peter’s lips normally are? – and he wonders if Peter would groan the same way he currently is if Harley bit down on the same plump lip Peter’s been nibbling on all afternoon.
“Babe, please, just…” Harley doesn’t know how to finish his sentence.
He wants to kiss Peter.
“Mech, I honestly don’t know if you’re fucking with me or not,” Peter’s words are muffled where his hands are still held over his face.
Harley has feelings for Peter.
“Mech, are you even listening to me?” Peter is exasperated, the older boy can tell when he blinks and comes back to his body. Harley feels like he’s been shot through time, gone into hyperdrive with a broken reactor, stepped into Chernobyl without a radiation suit.
“I always listen to you, Peter.”
His words must surprise the younger boy in some way – he blinks, pushing back from his desk. Harley watches as Peter takes off his headphones and sets them down, walks out of view of the camera.
Harley sits in front of his computer and waits for the other to return – Peter didn’t turn off his camera, or mute himself, or log out of the server, so he must be returning. (Right?)
There’s a loud crash from Peter’s end of the call, but nothing changes in view of the camera. Harley waits.
He decides to help decorate the house – their house, he guesses. It shouldn’t feel normal to say that, he would surmise if he put more thought into it.
As his avatar runs around in the forest surrounding their house – and doesn’t that give him a thrill, the idea of their house – he hears another loud crash. Hoping Peter at least took his phone with him when he left the room, he opens up snapchat and takes a picture of the chicken coop from the window in his room.
>Harley, 1110: you okay? heard a crash
As Harley stares down at his phone, he realizes he has an unread message from Michelle. He must’ve missed it this morning when he woke up, or wasn’t paying attention earlier when it came through.
(Why would he be paying attention to anything other than Peter? He hasn’t gotten to be alone on a call with him in weeks, they’ve spent so long preparing and training – the idea of having Peter all to himself was intoxicating in the best way.)
>Michelle Jones, 0857: Let me know when you’re not busy and can hop on a call.
>The Mechanic, 1113: how long do u need? busy on n off all day
>Michelle Jones, 1114: It’ll take a while, probably. Plan at least an hour if not two. I’m free in two hours.
Harley doesn’t know how to reply, wants to reach through the phone and shake answers out of her. He’s struck by the wave of rage flowing through him, the heat spreading from his scalp, down the back of his neck, jumping down the knobs of his spine where it’s pressed against his chair.
He sets his phone face-down on his desk, leaves the message open but without a response. Harley looks up at Peter’s camera, his attention caught by movement. The shadows on the floor are changing, maybe a door opening and the hallway light shining in, Harley thinks.
“Thanks,” He hears Peter say, the word barely audible. Whatever else the smaller boy says is lost over his shoulder as he enters his room and sits back down, spins his chair to face his desk.
There are red rings around the younger boy’s eyes and he’s sniffling as he slots his headphones back over his ears. Harley knows he’s staring, can’t help himself from looking at every inch he can see of the younger boy.
“Where were we?” Peter asks, voice artificially bright and cheerful as it rings through Harley’s headset. It’s his streaming voice, the one he uses when he’s trying to keep the divide between his streaming persona and his true self clear. Harley’s never heard him use it when it’s just the two of them on call.
“Um, I’m getting wood and then I’m going to head to the stronghold.” Harley responds cautiously. He still doesn’t know what he said wrong earlier to send the other boy away, but instead of getting his Peter back he got the persona, and Harley doesn’t want the same thing to happen again.
“Okay, I’m going to keep working on the house,” The house, Harley notices, not their house, but the house. “Then probably go find some lunch.”
There’s no room in his tone for Harley to argue, to try and convince Peter to stay.
“Okay, Peter,” Harley responds, trying to keep the unexpected tears from flooding into his voice. “That’s good with me, I’ve got some other stuff to do today anyway.”
Peter nods, lips pressing back into a thin line, cheeks puffing as he holds a breath in. Harley hears a door slam through Peter’s microphone, wonders who he was talking to earlier.
“Mech, make sure you get some lunch, okay?” Harley blinks a few times at the contrast between the tone of Peter’s request and the younger boy’s earlier statement. “I know you sometimes get into stuff too deep and forget.”
Harley nods, yet again forgetting Peter can’t receive visual confirmation of his request. (As if Harley could ever say no to anything Peter asks for.)
“Yeah, bud, I’ll even send it to you on snap chat, how’s that? Can mother hen me from thousands of miles away.” The suggestion, although absurd, seems to break through Peter’s carefully constructed ‘streaming smile’, and the younger boy grins, teeth glaring white and eyes crinkling.
“God, Harley, you’re ridiculous.” The reflection of Peter’s screen is visible in his glasses. Harley can see Minecraft open on one monitor, discord on the other. He can’t tell which channel Peter is looking at on discord, but he hears the ever familiar clicking of the other boy’s keyboard and surmises that Peter’s sending a message to someone.
“You wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t, babe,” The words slip out, the term of endearment tacked on at the end. It’s Harley’s turn to clap a hand over his mouth.
Peter’s eyes flicker to the camera and peer straight into Harley’s soul. The angels sing, the birds chirp, the leaves on the trees rustle as their eyes meet – even if Peter doesn’t know it.
“Mhm,” Peter hums in response. It’s so anticlimactic after the intensity of his gaze – Harley’s getting whiplash from this boy.
(Why does he want to keep getting whiplash?)
Somehow, Harley manages to stop watching Peter and goes back to throwing eyes of Ender in an attempt to find the stronghold. Before long, they’re laughing and joking again, same as they were before Harley messed up and didn’t say the right thing.
“Alright, alright,” Peter says, words and laughter mixing to create the most lyrical song Harley’s ever heard in his short life. “I’m gonna hop off here in a minute, Harls.”
The nickname isn’t new – Harley’s mom used to call him that, before – but he hasn’t been called something other than ‘Mechanic’ or ‘Mech’ in so long it nearly brings him to his knees.
“Yeah, Pete,” Harley catches his breath, unsure of when he became out of breath. It’s like every conversation he has with Peter, the younger boy ties him to an anchor and flings him into the ocean only to provide a life jacket barely out of reach. “Go eat and take a break, baby.”
He hopes to all the gods that exist, the one he isn’t even sure he believes in, any and all gods listening that Peter doesn’t catch or comment on the change in pet name.
Obviously, there is no god, or he doesn’t pray hard enough – Peter closes his eyes, keeps them shut. Harley can see the younger boy biting his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. Every time he lets up the pressure, it slips back out, becoming redder and more swollen with each repeat of the cycle.
Harley wants to know what noises Peter would make if someone – for example, Harley volunteers – were to nibble on his bottom lip.
After a few long moments of Harley watching Peter bite his lip, the smaller boy opens his eyes, pastes the ‘streaming smile’ back on.
“I’ll text you later, okay? Maybe Ned will want to stream for a little bit.” Peter’s eyes are tight. If Harley concentrates and turns the volume as high as it’ll go on his headphones, he can hear a soft rubbing sound – the younger boy rubbing his fingers together just off screen, but close enough that his mic is picking it up. Harley wants to push a fidget into his hands, stop him from rubbing off his own skin.
“Okay,” Harley responds belatedly. As soon as the word is clear from his chest, Peter disappears from his screen, camera off. The booping tone of him leaving the discord call is loud, echoing in Harley’s head, taking up the space where Peter’s voice usually occupies. Without Peter talking to him, without the static he associated with Peter’s breathing, there’s empty space to fill.
Harley’s never known what to do with empty space.