Work Text:
James has his Regulus now.
That still shocks Peter—how fast it happened, how effortless it looked once they stopped hating each other. James, golden and loud and loved, tugging Regulus into their orbit like it was nothing. Like gravity always obeys him.
And maybe it does.
Remus has Sirius.
Obviously.
That was always going to happen, wasn’t it? Even when they were pretending it wouldn’t.
Even when Sirius was reckless and Remus was tired and their friendship cracked at the edges.
They found their way back. They always do.
They have late-night whispers and hand-holding under the table and stupid arguments that end with “I love you” and kisses like war declarations.
Peter has no one.
He had them, once.
But that was before he started noticing how their eyes skim past him in conversation.
Before he realized that no one ever asks how he’s doing.
Before he understood he’s only invited out of habit.
He plays his part.
The funny one.
The sidekick.
The filler.
He learns the exact timing to deliver a joke. He learns how to make them laugh.
He learns that if they’re laughing, they’re not looking too closely.
Because if they did, they might notice the sleeves.
They might notice the drawer full of bandages.
The way he walks faster when it’s cold, like movement will distract him from the sting.
The way his hands tremble sometimes—not from nerves, but from withdrawal.
Because once you start hurting yourself to feel something, it’s hard to stop.
And no one knows.
Of course they don’t.
Because Peter’s good at hiding.
He’s had to be.
He jokes about his scars like they’re old Quidditch injuries.
He calls himself clumsy.
He pretends he isn’t careful with his jumper sleeves.
He tells himself it’s better this way.
That if they did find out, they’d just feel guilty.
And they’d still leave.
Because no one stays for Peter Pettigrew.
They stay for each other.
For the real ones. The brave ones. The brilliant ones.
Not for the boy who hates his reflection.
Not for the boy who scratches himself raw at 2 a.m. just to feel.
Not for the joke.
He thinks about asking for help.
Sometimes.
He almost says it, once, when Remus is sitting next to him with tired eyes and Sirius is off arguing with James about something.
But he doesn’t.
Because what if Remus laughs?
Or worse—what if he doesn’t?
What if he just gives Peter that pitying look and says “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
And Peter can’t answer.
Because the truth is:
He’s been screaming it the whole time.
Just not in words.
He wants to be chosen.
He wants someone to see him and say, you. I pick you.
Not because they feel bad. Not because there’s no one else.
But because they want him.
But he’s tired of wanting.
Tired of feeling too much and not enough at the same time.
Tired of being a secret, even to his friends.
So he sharpens the silence.
He carves the ache into his skin.
He becomes the one thing he knows how to be:
Forgettable.
Replaceable.
A ghost with a heartbeat.
Because at least when it hurts,
he remembers he’s still alive.