Chapter Text
Peter's first memories were dictated by blissful naivete; he knew not of the lower-class restrictions on fun and whimsy soon to strangle the growing joy out of him. Poverty was a static ribcage: no room to breathe, and no choice but to suffocate from the inside out. Peter found his joy in simple things, such as exploring the world around him- or at the very least, what was within his grasp. He found pleasant pastimes in running the hills that outlined his southern Texas property; counting the clouds that gathered overhead and assigning them names and stories. He was a creative at heart; few things entertained him so as did the tales he told himself. His mother often encouraged him not to play with his food, often unaware of the elaborate schemes his uneaten hot dogs were enacting on one another. His father hardly noticed, but echoed his mother's concerns- that Peter was out of touch with reality, and that his habits only pushed these concerns further. But Peter was not concerned. He knew of reality, but it did not please him. The truth was no fun. The real had no spark or rhythm. This was not his reality; he had not created his surroundings, nor had he chosen what his circumstances would be. Yet, Peter eventually grew, and with his growth, the ribcage tightened. The breath in his lungs accustomed to shallower intakes and sharper exhales. He became very aware of his limitations, and the stories dwindling. Living in reality was no longer a choice but an expectation.
At the age of thirteen, Peter began working on his neighbor's small and ill-maintained exotic animal farm. The species trapped for entertainment ranged from ostriches to tigers, most of which were emaciated or near death. Peter didn't want to work on the farm- in truth, it wasn't a farm at all, so much as it was a zoo, and some if not all of the animals there were ill and suffering. But the zoo would hire him, and most other places, given his age, would not. Peter did like the tigers, but he didn't like how skinny they were. They were gentle, at the time, especially the young ones. As they grew, they too recognized how small their cages were, and their earned rage tripled in size.
Peter made little money at the zoo; certainly not enough to live on, not to mention enough to support his parents. Most days, Peter had just enough to get groceries every once in a while, or treat himself to a day at the community pool- a ten dollar fee (although the pool had once been free; the fee had been added after too many people were caught having sex in the pool after hours.)
As Peter's youth was traded in for his teenaged years, he knew little of that. Occasionally he would hear loud neighbors going at it in the back of their RV. He'd watch it rock and sway, and though he desired that connection, he knew he had no time for it. And he had no one of interest. At least, not at the moment.
Work took up most of his time. He had no real life, and neither did his parents. For a woman who often complained about Peter's detachment to reality, Mary Parker had found her solace in quick blasts of euphoria delivered via crushed opiates over the years. Her work as a care facility assistant at the local nursing home gave her challenging yet relatively easy access to them. Peter wanted her to quit, but he had little power to change her. What eighteen year old could harness that kind of control over their parent?
Richard, on the other hand, was hardly present. Like Peter, his work took up much of his time, and unlike his son, so too did his secretaries and female co-workers.
Peter was mostly alone in his later teenage years. He was friends with the tigers and the bullet ants that stung his lower legs every day. He was friendly with the pool manager. He often shared a smile with the checkout clerk at the polish refrigerated goods store. His only other friend was a strange boy who lived in a small dilapidated house three blocks down hill from Peter's.
Randy Park was a scrawny boy with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose. He was strangely beautiful, but in all the same ways curious, like an elegant ferret. Peter and Randy had met as young teenagers on their bikes, zipping forward in opposite directions. They had shown each other their best tricks. Peter had offered Randy a barbecue potato chip or two from his small pack of snacks and water. Randy, like Peter, was then and still remained too skinny for his height, concave in places he ought not to be. This was no fault of their own; they were not provided enough food to be visions of hypermasculine musculature. Peter knew Randy only in passing, really, although he often wanted a deeper friendship with the boy, or pondered the future existence of such.
The rarity of their meeting made a hot Tuesday in July of his nineteenth year all the more strange. It was the third, to be exact. Each small and poorly maintained house in the neighborhood was covered in gaudy Independence Day decorations. The streets smelled of barbecue and smoke, and every few hours, the intermittent and impatient popping of stray fireworks interrupted the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.
Peter was walking home from the farm. It was a ten minute walk most days, but the for the eighth time that year, the state of Texas set a record high heat: now a hundred and five degrees. Peter wiped sweat from his cheeks and brow, and noticed that the tread on his tennis shoes was beginning to melt, if only slightly, to the cracked asphalt below. Ten minutes meandered into fifteen. The day was sluggish and nauseating. Peter had stopped for a moment to drink his water when he heard the rhythmic creaking of rusty wheels quicken not far behind him. He turned. A glint of light speared off of Randy's bike and into Peter's eyes.
"Grow some balls, Peter. Are you really that sensitive?"
Peter laughed and rubbed his eyes.
"You blinded me."
"I did not blind you."
"Temporarily," pointed Peter, squinting at Randy in the harsh sunlight. "Temporarily blinded."
Randy pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, resting his elbows on the handlebars of his bike.
"'The hell are you doing walking home? Where's your bike?"
"Chain's broke. Can't afford a new one."
Randy nodded. "So you chose to die of a heat stroke instead."
"Lest you forget temporary vision loss."
"Thank you very much for the reminder, smart ass. You want to get on?"
Peter's brows furrowed, and he smiled curiously. "What?"
"On the front of the bike, unless you want to sit couple style and feel me up."
Peter laughed and turned his head to hide his involuntary blushing. "Right."
Peter luxuriated in the breeze. He liked the way it felt to be so free and effortless, leaning against the handlebars of Randy's bike. To only be kissed by the sun but freely caressed by the passing wind as the small bike plowed forward. He liked the way Randy's laughed bobbled behind him. Peter didn't like many things. He was never truly given the chance to. He was so caught up in the fleeting but exhilarating joy of that moment that before too long, Peter had forgotten where he was headed off to, and he did not even notice when they passed his house. The realization came a moment later, in the form of passing unfamiliarity.
"Randy, hey," Peter patted on one of the handlebars. "Where's are we going?"
"You'll see."
"That's not an answer, Randy."
But Peter took it as one.
The sun was beginning to set just as they rounded the last corner, somewhere far back in the cul-de-sac Peter had never explored to before. Their destination soon came in to view: a small lake, likely man made. There were no gates or fences excluding them from visiting the location, so Peter felt little unease about meandering to the lake with Randy. The questioned remained, however, why exactly Randy had chosen to take him here.
Randy pulled to a stop where asphalt ran out and blended in to progressively wetter clay.
The lake smelled sour yet somehow also acidic, and deeper underneath the musky undertones of musky clay. It was a foul smell, though all at the same time addictive.
"I can't believe I'd never seen it before. I feel like there had to be fences here before."
Randy combed his long and slender fingers through his unbrushed, dark curls.
"Come on, there's more."
Randy excitedly snuck through the clay and toward the lake. Peter followed, and saw as they approached the water what Randy had intended to show him. Just beyond, the Lake water glowed an iridescent blue.
"Holy shit."
Peter started toward the water but hesitated.
"Right?"
"It's really… pretty." Peter confessed.
"Yeah, and it feels really fucking weird."
Randy started to remove his shoes, then socks, and began to undress. Peter watched him and suddenly became very aware that he was watching him.
"You've swam in it?"
Randy pulled off his t-shirt and unbuttoned his shorts.
Peter made a conscious effort to only look Randy in the eye.
"Yeah, and you are too."
"I am?"
"You have to."
"I have to?"
Randy tossed his clothes to the side, standing in his boxers. He started toward the lake.
"Well, no. You don't have to. But you're missing out if you don't."
Randy first dipped his toes in to the water, then the rest of his leg up to his middle. When the water his his crotch he shivered a bit, and laughed. Peter decided it would be better if he was covered halfway in cold water right now, and began to undress as he walked. Stripped to his breifs, Peter quickly stepped into the water until he was waist deep as well, then deeper.
"Oh," he offered, the strange feeling affecting him as well. A pleasant stinging sensation sent a ripple down his skin.
"It's weird, right?" Asked Randy, swimming out deeper.
"Good weird," added Peter. The glowing blue illuminated Randy's cheekbones and goofy smile. There was something refreshing about the water, and about Randy. Something new. Peter felt his heart quicken, and he swallowed, treading the water and causing the glow to to disperse and re-form around him.
"How did you find this?" He asked, running his wet hands a
Over his hair. The cold refreshment sent a chill down his spine.
"I explore a lot. I don't have a lot to do."
"Must be nice," Peter laughed, then realizing, shook his head. "No, I mean-"
"No, it's fine. I know how busy you are. We used to see eachother a lot more a few years ago."
Peter thought for a moment, then shook his head again. "We didn't though. I cant remember ever hanging out like this."
Randy, who was letting his body sink and chin rest atop the water, smiled softly. His curls bobbed up around him in the glowing water. "I like that we are though."
Peter noticed they were a bit closer in distance than they were before. He could smell Randy's sweat, a surprisingly sweet scent, and the sweet iced tea on his breath. "Me too," said Peter, okay with the gap of distance closing in between them. He felt Randy's lower leg brush against his own and his breath quickened a bit. Randy seemed to notice because he did it again, but slower and more. Peter felt himself smiling, a warmth spreading up his belly and down his legs. He wanted to say "again." He wanted to bridge the distance. And something about the look on Randy's face betrayed his intentions, the same as Peter's. He was looking at Peter's lips, now. Then back up to his eyes. The other leg, now. Randy's knee against Peter's thigh.
"Peter?"
"Yeah?" He was hushed and breathless.
"You have a big ass spider on your neck."