Chapter Text
Peter, in general, doesn’t consider himself an unlucky person. He certainly isn’t lucky, don’t get him wrong. But abnormally bad things don’t tend to happen to him. Or so he thinks until he steps through the threshold of his college housing and is met with the sound of shouting coming from what must be his new roommates.
“Prongs, catch!”
“Hey, asshole, that was my head!”
“How am I the asshole? I tried to tell you to catch, man. Besides, you're so dramatic, it’s just a pillow–”
“Oh just a pillow, is it, Pads?” A dull thump sounds out, followed by a curse and three sets of near-maniacal laughter. Peter wonders if it’s too late to change his mind and commute instead of living on campus.
As he turns the corner into the sitting room, the three previously noisy boys go silent, frozen, staring. Peter gets the sense that they all know each other already, and that he’s intruding on a very particular dynamic. It makes him a bit nauseous.
Finally, the tension breaks when one of the boys smiles, his white teeth and hazel eyes nearly blinding with how dazzling they are. He has dark hair that sits like a bird's nest atop his head and tan skin and–Peter tries his best not to notice, but he’s only human–he’s ridiculously hot.
“Hey,” he says. “Are you our fourth roommate?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Peter answers, perhaps with a bit more bite than is necessary. To his credit, the other boys are clearly a whirlwind–the exact kind of kids Peter was hoping he wouldn’t be roomed with.
“Right,” glasses laughs stiffly. “Well, I’m James. This is Remus and Sirius.”
Remus is the quietest of them all, based on the two minutes Peter’s been here. His demeanor screams ‘awkward,’ albeit in a very different way than Peter’s does. He reckons Remus must be over six feet tall, but the way he curls in on himself, as if to hide himself, makes him look no taller than James. He’s skinny, too, like he hasn’t eaten a good meal in about a decade and the bags under his eyes are heavy. He looks kind, though, with green eyes and tawny curls and a crooked nose.
Sirius looks to be Remus’s antithesis. He’s tall, too–he has at least an inch on James–but unlike Remus, he wears it with confidence. No, not confidence. Cockiness. Everything about him, from his perfectly styled shoulder length curls to his arrogant smile, from his tight jeans to the single tattoo visible past the loose collar of his tank, Sirius reeks of conceited, rich kid who’s spent his whole life getting whatever he wants. In the time Peter’s known him (approximately three minutes), he’s already proven himself to be loud and brash. In short, he’s beyond gorgeous, and yet Peter has never been more prepared to hate anyone in his entire life.
“Pleasure,” Peter finally answers. “Which room is mine?”
“Oh,” James has the audacity to look shocked that Peter doesn’t want to spend time with three rowdy boys who all know each other, but not him. “Upstairs, second door on the right. And, uh, we’ll be down here all day. Feel free to join us whenever.”
He smiles, and for a second Peter thinks, alright, maybe these other boys don’t suck. And then Sirius scoffs, and any hopes he had are squashed. Some people, according to his mother, become lifelong friends with the people they room with in college. Clearly, Peter isn’t one of them.
Peter’s eyes trail over to Sirius, who proceeds to sneer at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t count on it,” he says to James before turning on his heels in the direction of the stairs.
He’s about halfway up when he hears the boys start talking again. “At least try to get along with him, Pads,” Remus says. Pads–that’s what James said earlier. Pads must be Sirius. Ugh, Sirius.
“I wouldn’t think it’d be that hard for you,” James says, a teasing lilt in his tone that brings Peter to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs. “He’s just your type.”
For a moment, there’s only silence, and Peter thinks he can hear the thumping of his own heart. He’s not used to being called anyone’s ‘type’ and he honestly can’t tell if James is serious or if he’s being a dick. Either way, no amount of attractiveness is worth putting up with someone like Sirius.
It’s only been a few seconds when Sirius scoffs, but the silence had been deafening. “Please,” he huffs. “He’s probably a homophobe.”
Peter rolls his eyes and resumes the walk to his new room. Oh, how he’s looking forward to seeing the look on Sirius’s face when he squashes that allegation.
The bedroom is small, but that’s fine. His room at home hadn’t been anything fancy, either. All he needs is a place to sleep and store his clothes, though the desk in the corner of the room is nice, too. Especially after having met his roommates. Doing assignments in a dingy bedroom sounds better than at the dining room table with the three stooges.
It’s only mid-afternoon, but Peter wants to be settled in sooner rather than later, so he gets started unpacking all of his clothes, and the few other items he brought with him–all of his electronics and chargers, a few photos, and a small stack of books that’s meant to last him until Christmas. Something tells him he’ll need a few extra. He imagines he’ll be spending a lot of time alone in his bedroom.
He makes the bed with the sheets he brought from home, folding the trashy university set and hiding them on the top shelf of his dinky little closet, before collapsing onto the mattress. This, at least, must be only a few years old at most. It’s almost entirely white, he’d noted when he changed the sheets, and there were no spots where old springs poke him. That’s a win in Peter’s book.
Once he’s unpacked, he pulls out his phone to call home.
His mom picks up on the third ring. “Pumpkin eater!” she greets enthusiastically, and Peter rolls his eyes fondly at the old nickname. “How are you? Did you get settled in, okay? Oh–dad’s here, too!”
Despite having only seen them this morning, Peter’s eyes well up at his mom’s fussing. She had been so insistent on helping him move in, and Peter hadn’t wanted to be embarrassed in front of his new roommates. Now, he wishes he hadn’t bothered. He doesn’t want his parents to know that, though, so he clears his voice and says, “Yeah, everything’s great. I’ve just finished setting up my room.”
“And your roommates?” his dad asks.
“They’re, er…they’re interesting, to say the least,” he answers. It’s the most honest thing he can say without making his parents worry about him. He almost mentions that they were clearly friends in high school, but that, like the truth, may trigger his parents’ anxiety. “I haven’t talked to them much yet, though.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time in the next few months, right?” his dad asks.
Peter’s about to answer when there’s a knock at his door. “Oh, hold on a sec–” He moves the phone to his shoulder and gets up to open the door, only to find James on the other side.
“Hey, we ordered pizza if you want some,” James grins. Peter can’t tell if his never ending happiness is a facade or not, and it’s starting to irritate him already. “But I’ll leave you to your call. Come down whenever.”
The door clicks shut quietly behind James, and for a moment, Peter considers saying ‘fuck it’ and skipping dinner just for the sake of not seeing Sirius. But he’s hungry, and skipping a meal is only going to make him hangry. Plus, he does love pizza.
“Hey, one of my roommates ordered food, I’m gonna go eat,” he ends up telling his parents.
He feels good about his decision when, as his mother speaks again, he can practically hear the smile in her voice. “Oh, don’t let us keep you, sweetheart. Call us soon, okay?”
“Yeah, I will,” Peter promises. “Love you guys.”
“We love you, too,” they say simultaneously, like parents straight from a cheesy teen film.
He hangs up the phone and takes a deep breath in an attempt to build up his bravery. He makes it all the way to the dining room door before he regrets his choice, but by then James has seen him and waves him over. Unfortunately, so has everyone else at the table which is, not only his three roommates, but four girls he doesn’t know. He stifles a groan and squeezes himself into the last available chair between Remus and one of the girls, directly across from none other than Sirius.
Ignoring the stares, and especially ignoring Sirius’s eyes drilling into his skull, Peter loads a paper plate with two slices of pizza and begins to eat.
“So…” James starts. “Why don’t we all go around and introduce ourselves? Since there’s two new faces in our group.” Sirius grumbles under his breath, and then swears, flinging a pepperoni at James’s face. Peter figures James kicked him under the table. “Anyway, I’m James.” He pops the piece of pepperoni into his mouth and grins with a child-like glee as the redheaded girl next to him wipes the grease off of his cheek. “I’m an Aries. My pronouns are he/him. I am happily taken–”
“This isn’t a dating show, you goose,” Remus laughs, ignoring the way James flicks him off.
“As I was saying,” he continues. “Taken, by this lovely lady to my left–the love of my life, the light of my eye! The woman of my dreams–”
The girl in question shoves a pizza crust into his mouth. “That’s enough of that.” She turns to look at Peter. “I’m Lily. If he annoys you, just let me know. I’ll sort him out.”
“And she’s an Aquarius!” James exclaims, past the bite of food in his mouth. Lily may be dumb enough to date a guy like James, but at least she has the decency to look disgusted by his gross food habits. “Next!”
“Oh, um,” the girl next to Lily stutters a bit, her cheeks going red. Her hair is done in box braids, and she grabs the end of one of them to twirl between her fingers. She’s very pretty, and already seems far less annoying than everyone else at the table. “I’m Emmeline. I’m new here, too,” she tells Peter, which makes him feel a bit better. “I’m a Sagittarius, since that’s apparently important to James.”
Next is “Marlene, Taurus, they/them,” who has a blond wolf cut, a septum piercing, and a lesbian flag patch on their denim jacket.
Peter’s next, and he begrudgingly introduces himself as “Peter, Pisces,” and then to his left, Remus introduces himself as “Remus, Pisces.” The other boy puts up his fist and, in a moment of weakness, Peter fistbumps him.
After Remus is “Mary, Cancer,” who is undeniably gorgeous with her afro and dark red lipstick, but who seems to be making the poor choice of flirting with Sirius, if her proximity and light touches are anything to go by. James’s earlier comment rings in his head–He’s just your type, and Peter bites back a snicker at the thought that Sirius is probably not as interested as she is.
Finally, Sirius, with a dramatic eye roll, says, “I’m Sirius, I’m a Scorpio. And in case it isn’t clear, our group is very queer. So if anyone–” His eyes snap towards Peter, who nearly laughs at the audacity, “–has a problem with that, then they can fuck right off.”
Peter presses his lips into a firm line in an attempt to school his features, and when his face is completely neutral, he looks Sirius dead in the eyes. “I’m bisexual.”
The self-righteous look falls from Sirius’s face faster than it appeared, his pale face turning bright pink, revealing the embarrassment that he quickly tries to cover up. “Well–fine. You could still be a transphobe, though, for all we know.”
“I’m not,” Peter says blandly. He really doesn’t have the energy for this. He just wanted some pizza and to not disappoint his mom.
“Prove it.”
“I–what?” Peter asks incredulously. Next to him, Remus groans. “How do you propose I do that?”
“Could we not?” Remus grumbles, peeling ham off the pizza he’s barely even touched.
“Agreed,” James nods, nudging Sirius with his elbow. “Just leave it, Pads. I’m sure Peter’s a great guy–” Sirius cuts him off with a scoff, and Peter has officially had enough.
“You know what–no,” he stands abruptly, jaw tightening as he tries to ignore that there’s seven sets of eyes on him. “I’m not doing this. Thanks, James, but I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Peter–” James calls, but he’s already out of the dining room and headed up the stairs.
He just hears Remus say, “You’re such an ass sometimes, Pads,” before he storms into his room, slamming the door behind him.
This is going to be a long year.
“”
When Peter wakes up in the morning, he resolves to spend as little time in the apartment with his new roommates as physically possible until classes begin in three days. So, he showers quickly–the others might be assholes but he isn’t planning to take up all the hot water–and dresses before packing a few things into his bag and heading to the front door.
“Oh, hey!” a voice shouts as he passes the kitchen, and Peter turns his head to see James come bounding out into the hallway.
“What do you want, James?” he asks with a sigh, too tired to deal with him right now.
“I just brewed a pot of coffee if you want some,” James smiles. Peter raises an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you really asking me to have coffee? James’s face falls, and he purses his lips. “Right. I just wanted to apologize for Sirius–”
“The only person who should be apologizing for Sirius is Sirius,” Peter lectures, pushing past James, only for the other boy to grab his arm before he can walk away.
“I know, I get that–”
“Do you?” Peter asks accusatorily. “Do you want to know what I think?” He doesn’t give James a chance to answer. “I think you–and Remus–have been making excuses for Sirius for a long, long time, and he never learned how to take responsibility for the way he treats people. And you two are too scared to stand up to him properly.”
“It’s not–”
“I don’t need you to apologize to me for him,” Peter continues, ignoring James’s interruption. “Look, you and Remus seem nice. But please don’t defend Sirius to me. It doesn’t help me, and it doesn’t help him.”
“Right,” James says, his jaw tightening as he forces a smile onto his face that Peter assumes is meant to look friendly, but really just makes him look constipated. “I’ll let you be on your way, then.”
As Peter walks through the door, he wonders if he just burned a bridge that he perhaps shouldn’t have.
Peter spends the morning finding all of his classes and walking around campus. The weather is nice. The summer heat had been unbearable for months, but today, the sun is shining behind a veil of white clouds, and there’s a light breeze keeping him from overheating. It’s a perfect day to spend outside walking.
He does everything he can to avoid going back to the apartment. He wanders around the music building for a while, stopping at the practice rooms to sign himself up for a time slot later in the week, knowing he’ll need it to get back in the swing of practicing before his lessons begin.
Once he’s sure he’s discovered every nook and cranny in the building, he walks across campus to a cafe, where he orders a coffee and a sandwich. He eats outside, on a bench overlooking the quad to participate in his fourth favorite hobby: people watching. He sits there for far longer than it takes him to eat his lunch, making up stories in his head of the people walking past.
When that finally gets old, he reads a few chapters of his book, and then, with his back aching from the time he’s spent sitting on this hard bench, he finally gives up in his mission of avoidance and goes back to his apartment by the time his stomach starts grumbling in hunger again.
The other three boys are in the dining room eating dinner when he returns. Their heads all raise at the sound of the door opening, James and Remus with welcoming smiles, and Sirius with a sneer.
“We have plenty if you’re hungry,” Remus says politely, nodding to the spaghetti on the table.
Peter almost says no, before his stomach growls again, reminding him that all he’s eaten today is a single sandwich. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees, sitting once again in the chair next to Remus and, unfortunately, across from Sirius. Despite being in the vicinity of the other boy’s cold exterior, Peter can’t help but feel warm when he realizes there’s a clean plate in his spot on the table for him. “As long as Sirius doesn’t get too close,” he says instead of ‘thank you.’ “He might spit in it.”
Sirius scoffs, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t even fucking know me.”
“You don’t know me either,” Peter responds calmly. “Didn’t stop you from being a dick, though. Thought it was only fair that I return the favor.”
“Fuck this,” Sirius spits, pushing his plate away from him like a baby who didn’t get his way. He stands abruptly and looks down, back and forth between James and Remus. “Well? Are you two coming with me? Or are you staying here? With him?”
James stutters, looking over at Peter and then back up at Sirius. There’s a sternness to the way Sirius glares at James, and a short moment later, he relents. He sighs, looking back at Peter regretfully, as if to say, ‘Sorry,’ before slowly pushing himself to standing.
“Remus?” Sirius asks.
“You’re fucking ridiculous, Pads,” Remus says, but he stands, too. Peter tries not to be too disappointed about that. He doesn’t think he’s very successful. “Another time,” Remus tells Peter. “And, er…we’ll clean up. Don’t worry about it.”
When the three boys walk out of the dining room without a glance backwards, Peter feels the loneliest he’s felt all day.
“”
Peter finds a lot of ways to occupy himself in an attempt to avoid his roommates in the two days between what Peter is calling The Spaghetti Dinner Incident and the first day of classes. Mostly, he spends it holed up in his room, long hours spent reading and playing Stardew Valley on his PC. He even breaks out his bassoon a few times, even though he knows the sound is probably annoying the other three boys. During the day, when it sounds like James, Remus, and Sirius aren’t home, Peter goes down to the kitchen to cook himself some food, and at night, either Remus or James stops by with a plate of food and an apologetic smile that makes Peter want to scream.
It’s a shame Remus and James are friends with Sirius. They seem nice, besides the unfortunate fact of their loyalty to such a douchebag.
Needless to say, by the time Monday morning rolls around, Peter is beyond ready to get out of his room and breathe some fresh air. His first class of the day is band, which he’s looking forward to. He has some spare time, though, once he’s dressed and ready to go, so he leaves early in the hopes of stopping for a cup of coffee from the cafe near the music building.
With the last bit of his time, Peter finds himself on the bench in front of the rehearsal hall, the combination of iced coffee and people watching working together to ease some of the tension that’s worked its way into his shoulders over the weekend. But despite all his best efforts to stop thinking about the infuriating pricks he has the misfortune of calling his roommates, Peter’s mind simply can’t let it go.
The moment he’d walked into the dorm, he knew the three boys knew each other, that they were rowdy and rambunctious and annoying–but he can live with that. He can put up with big personalities and too much energy, especially from people who seem as kind and welcoming as Remus and James seem.
Really, Peter thinks he could’ve even made acquaintances with the other two boys by now if it weren’t for Sirius. What the fuck is even his problem? He has an air of pretentiousness that could’ve only come from being a rich kid, handed everything on a silver platter. And his friends were no help to his entitled nature, letting him treat Peter like one would treat a rat in the walls.
Even more infuriating is his ego, and not because he hasn’t earned it–but because he has. Sirius Black is the hottest goddamned person Peter has ever seen in his life. With shiny black ringlets that contrast perfectly with his doll-like pale skin and shining gray eyes, his upturned nose and sharp bone structure that makes him look equal parts masculine and feminine, his lithe figure, long legs, delicate fingers. He’s something straight out of one of Peter’s wet dreams and it makes Peter want to scream.
Assholes aren’t supposed to be hot. That’s just a rule.
Peter is snapped out of his thoughts as a handful of students with instrument cases walk past him and into the rehearsal hall, reminding him it’s nearly time to get to class. He takes one last chug of his nearly empty coffee and tosses the cup into the trash before following the next herd of students into the building.
It’s easy to tell the first year students from the returning students. At the back of the room where Peter enters, there’s a group huddled together, looking around curiously while the majority finds their seats and unpacks their instruments. Rather than just stand there and watch, which Peter thinks seems quite stupid, he looks around the room until he finds another boy with a bassoon and makes his way over to him.
“Look at that, a Freshie with no fear,” the boy grins maniacally as Peter approaches. He does his best to smile back, his hand gripping tighter to the handle of his bassoon case. It occurs to him that he should probably say something–maybe greet the other boy or introduce himself–but he beats him to it. “I’m Frank.”
Frank holds his hand out to Peter, and Peter shakes it, feeling slightly less nervous. “Peter,” he says.
“Well, Peter, it is fantastic to meet you,” Frank tells him, and it sounds like he means it. “We’ll have seating auditions later this week, but for now it’s by seniority, so you can take second chair.” He gestures to the seat next to him and Peter nods and starts to unpack, just for something to do with his hands.
“Right, thanks,” he says, plucking his reed out of his case and placing it under his tongue.
Frank just has time to smile that ridiculous smile at him again before a booming voice sounds from the back of the room; “What are you all just standing there for? Go find your spots! Go, go!” To his left, Frank snorts, holding up his fist to Peter for a fist bump, as if congratulating him on not being part of the group that got yelled at by the director on the first day. Peter rolls his eyes, but it’s something more playful than annoyed, and he finds himself giving in and fist bumping him, if only to appease the sense of camaraderie building in his chest.
A second later, a boy sits to his right, hurriedly pulling out and putting together a bass clarinet. Peter watches him move, immediately captivated by him. He’s ridiculously cute with tanned skin, dark, short hair, and deep brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Not gorgeous–not like Sirius–but adorable. And hot, he can’t help but notice as he places his reed between his full, pink lips. Oh, holy fuck.
“Hi,” the boy says around the reed, his eyes smiling where his lips can’t.
Looking away to hide the familiar flush of humiliation, Peter finally pulls his own reed out of his mouth and affixes it to his instrument. “Hi,” he says back, unable to stop himself from smiling, even through the embarrassment at having been caught staring. When he looks back, the boy’s reed is in his mouthpiece and he’s looking down again, tightening the ligature. “Um–I’m Peter.”
He nearly cringes at himself–too forward, he thinks, even though all he said was his name–but the cute boy looks back up at him and smiles, this time with his mouth, revealing dimples in his cheeks. “I’m Benjy.”
“Benjy,” Peter repeats, just to feel it in his mouth, on his tongue, on his lips. He’s about to say something profoundly stupid, like ‘Bass clarinet is cool,’ but is saved by the sound of a baton tapping and the subsequent silence that takes over the room as the director introduces herself as Professor Marchbanks and cues them to raise their instruments to tune.
That night, as to be expected after one’s first day of college, Peter finds himself on the phone with his parents. His classes seem hard, but interesting, he tells them, and all of his professors so far seem nice enough. He’ll be successful here, he thinks, more so than he was in high school. Sure, he won’t be getting straight A’s, but he’ll do well enough.
He manages to divert the conversation for a whole half an hour before his mom asks the dreaded question–
“Have you made any friends?”
He understands why she’s asking, why she’s so worried about it. Making friends has never been easy for Peter, and that has always been a point of anxiety for his parents. They’d signed him up for an insane amount of extracurriculars when he was younger in an attempt to get him to connect with kids his own age. He’d played soccer and baseball, he swam, he did a kid’s book club at his local library, they’d gotten him involved in music. That last one was the only one to ever truly stick, but it hadn’t brought the wealthy social life his parents had been after for him.
“Well, it’s still early,” he says hesitantly, not wanting to lie but not wanting to disappoint her either.
“What about your roommates?” his dad asks. “Have you spent any more time with them?”
Peter should tell the truth. He should tell them about Sirius’s assholery and James and Remus’s enabling and how they’re friends and there’s no room for Peter in their little group. He’s never been one to lie to his parents. He’d certainly never lied about his friends (or lack thereof) before. But this feels different. Being away from home, by himself. He knows they’re far more worried than they were when he lived with them. And he’d be just fine. He didn’t want them to feel bad, not when they couldn’t do anything to make the situation better.
He thinks briefly back to the way Sirius had looked at him when he walked through the door after classes this afternoon, the contempt on his face, the hatred for a boy he didn’t even know. He’d been having tea with James and Remus. There was no extra cup, and, despite apologetic glances from the other two, no one made a move to get him one. He remembers the snide way Sirius had spoken to him, ‘Go on, then, shoo. Back to your little hidey-hole.’ The cruel laughter that had followed it.
No, there’s no way Peter can tell his parents how awful they are. How awful he is. It would only break their hearts.
“Yeah,” he says finally, his guilt only sated by the sounds of their sighs of relief. “Yeah, they’re cool.”
“Good!” his mom exclaims, trying and failing to rein in her excitement. “That’s fantastic, pumpkin eater. You’ll be friends in no time, just you wait.”
It’s a sentiment he’s heard from her dozens of times in his life. It makes her feel better to say it, like she’s speaking it into existence, and who the hell is Peter to tell her that that’s not how it works?
“Yeah, ‘course we will,” Peter says, even though he knows she couldn’t possibly be more wrong.
“Well, we’ll let you get some rest, kiddo,” his dad says. Between kiddo and pumpkin eater, Peter can’t help but roll his eyes, despite the warmth in his chest. “It sounds like you’ve had a long day.”
“Very long,” he agrees. He’d love to just relax now, to lay back in bed with a book and turn his brain off long enough to fall asleep.
“Goodnight dear,” his mom says. “And–oh–text your cousin, would you? She won’t say it but I think she misses you.”
Peter laughs, knowing full well that Paisley would rather die than admit that she missed him, and the sentiment was returned. Though, no matter what either of them tell his parents, they’re practically brother and sister, and they certainly do miss each other.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll bug her later,” he promises. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? I love you.”
“We love you, too!” his mom croons. His dad repeats her, and then Peter hangs up the phone.
He takes a quick moment to shoot Paisley a text message–Heard you miss me. Hope for your sake that’s not true. How embarrassing. She responds back with a middle finger emoji that he takes as confirmation, and then sends back a vomit emoji that he knows she’ll interpret in the exact way he means it–I miss you, too.
After putting his phone on Do Not Disturb and plugging in the charger, he crawls under the covers and reaches for his book, ignoring the sounds down the hallway in an attempt to convince himself that he’s perfectly content with spending his night this way.
And yet, at the sound of Sirius’s bubbly laughter, he can’t help but think he feels more alone than ever.
“”
The last weeks of August drag on, the sweltering heat wave encompassing the little college town making time move slower and bad emotions sour.
Peter’s enjoying his classes, his ensemble in particular, where Frank’s clever quips and Benjy’s sweet smiles keep him distracted from his predicament. Specifically, the one where it’s been nearly a month and he still doesn’t have any friends and his roommates still suck and every night feels dark and cold.
As it always has, his loneliness triggers his anxiety, but, as opposed to when he lived at home, talking to his parents only seems to make the anxiety worse. Maybe because he’s lying to them. Hell, almost definitely because he’s lying to them.
Texting Paisley helps a little bit, although with her in her senior year, she has much more important things to do than drag Peter out of the hell hole that is his spiraling mind. And even if she didn’t, he feels a little bit pathetic relying on his cousin–practically his little sister–to socialize with him enough that he doesn’t go insane.
His first panic attack comes twenty-four days after moving into his campus housing.
It’s a Saturday, which means the other three boys are home, and so Peter considers, as he stares down at his bassoon case, walking across campus to the music building so that he could practice for his lessons in a practice room. Except, it’s a Saturday, and Peter had forgotten to book a room in advance. He figures he has about as much likelihood of finding an empty practice room as he does of winning the lottery.
He considers just not practicing at all, but, despite having only known her for three weeks, he can already imagine the look of disappointment on his teacher’s face when he walks into his lesson and it’s clear he hasn’t rehearsed. Sighing, he decides it’s best to just practice here, and fuck whatever the other three boys have to say about it. He’s a wonderful bassoonist, and they should consider themselves lucky to listen to him.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself to fuel his bravery as he unpacks and puts together his instrument.
He starts, as always, with a few breathing exercises, and then a few scales, even though he loathes them, because Professor Sinistra, his bassoon teacher, told him to, and as he already mentioned, he would hate to disappoint her. She’s a sweet woman, but with very stern features that Peter assumes would make for a scary scowl.
Once he feels nice and warmed up, he pulls out the solo she’d assigned him and begins playing, focusing on his breath support, just as he’d been instructed to do.
He’s only about a third of the way through the piece when his bedroom door barges open. Peter, shocked, stops playing, the music dying with a squeak of his reed as he looks up to find Sirius standing in the doorway looking supremely annoyed.
“Do you fucking mind?” he asks, although Peter assumes that he doesn’t really mean it as a question. “What the fuck are you even doing?”
Peter doesn’t answer for a moment, looking up at Sirius, hoping his bafflement shows on his face, and then down at his instrument. “I’m…playing my bassoon.” He looks back up at Sirius just in time to see him sneer. God, he’s so fucking awful.
“Why?”
“Why?” Peter repeats, and Sirius looks at him expectantly. “Because…it’s my homework.”
“It’s your homework?” Sirius’s tone is somewhere between disbelief and condescending, leaning heavy on the condescending side. “What the fuck are you even studying?”
“Are you fucking stupid?” Peter asks before he can stop himself. “I’m studying music.” He gestures to his bassoon with a look on his face that he hopes is patronizing. He thinks he must succeed, because Sirius starts to seethe.
“Okay, well can you fucking stop? It’s really fucking annoying, and frankly, it sounds like shit. I bet Mozart’s rolling in his fucking grave right now, the way you’re butchering that.”
“Oh, for fu–” Peter freezes as Sirius’s words sink in. “How’d you know it was Mozart?”
Sirius’s jaw tightens and his eyebrows furrow in a showcase of anger, as if that’ll hide the alarming shade of red that appears on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Peter thinks he’d probably find it adorable, or perhaps hot as hell, if he didn’t hate Sirius’s guts so much.
“Lucky guess,” he shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yeah right,” Peter scoffs. “You listen to classical music. You’re a nerd.”
“I don’t,” Sirius denies, and then, when Peter gives him a pointed look over the top of his music stand, “I don’t. God, just shut the fuck up, some of us are trying to do real homework. You know, for our real degrees that’ll actually get us somewhere in life.”
“You can go to the library if you’re that bothered,” Peter says, trying as hard as he can to sound nonchalant, even though all he wants to do is scream.
Sirius grunts in frustration, biting out a quick “Fine!” before storming out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
It’s only once he’s gone that Peter realizes how fast his heart is pounding. He groans inwardly, putting his bassoon on the stand, noticing as he does the way that his hands are shaking.
Fuck, this is so stupid. He doesn’t even know why he’s so anxious. For all intents and purposes, Peter had won that stupid little argument with Sirius, but the longer he’s alone in his room, the harder it becomes to shake the sense of dread that had settled in his chest the minute the door opened.
Moving to the bed, Peter attempts to take a deep breath, only to find it near impossible. Coldness washes over him as he sits, his hands gripping the comforter below him, his vision narrowing to the small hole in his wall that must’ve once held a nail. And he tries to breathe.
He isn’t sure how long the panic attack lasts–he never is–but by the time his mind resurfaces, he’s practically drenched in sweat, his knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding the blanket in his hands. It takes him a moment to realize that his face is wet with tears and, just like he has been for weeks, he’s all alone.
He’s so fucking tired of being alone.
“”
The next morning, Sirius and James leave the apartment early, dragging their feet and moaning about their 8 a.m. classes, leaving Peter alone with the one person he feels somewhat comfortable talking to.
Hoping to at the very least make acquaintances with his least annoying roommate, Peter patters down the stairs not long after he hears the front door close to find Remus sitting at the dining room table in front of his laptop, his finger mindlessly tracing the rim of the cup of steaming coffee.
“Mind if I join you?” Peter asks, holding up the laptop in his own hands, and, to his surprise, Remus smiles.
“Go right ahead,” he gestures to the seat across from him, and Peter gladly takes it. They sit in silence while Peter opens his laptop and signs into the university website to check his email, and a moment later, Remus speaks again. “Sirius is an ass.”
Peter snorts. He doesn’t take his eyes off the computer screen when he responds, “Understandment of the year.”
Once again surprising Peter, Remus laughs. The sound draws Peter’s eyes up, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “I just–I want you to know that we know. James and I know he’s an ass, and we’re trying to get him to be civil, at least. But he’s…prickly. If he sees us being nice to you, it’ll just make him meaner.”
“And you couldn’t have said so sooner?” Peter asks, unable to stop the accusatory edge to his words. Explained that way, Peter can almost understand, although why Sirius is so intent on being a dick in the first place is still a mystery.
“I should’ve,” Remus agrees, and he at least has the decency to look guilty. “Honestly, though, James and I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. We thought once classes started and you had the chance to make other friends, it’d be fine.”
A part of him wants to spill his guts, to tell Remus that he hasn’t made friends and he probably won’t because he doesn’t know how. He wants to swear at Remus for it, wants to make him feel guilty for his presumption, but he doesn’t. Not out of consideration for the other boy’s feelings, but to protect his own fragile heart, to keep it close to his chest. He couldn’t stand to bear that part of himself, not to someone he doesn’t trust yet.
“Friends or no, it still sucks shit to be treated like an outsider in my own home,” Peter points out, and it deepens the frown lines on Remus’s face.
“You’re right,” he says. It doesn’t feel as victorious as he’d expected it would. “I’m sorry. We’re working on it, though, I swear.”
“What’s his deal, anyway?” Peter grumbles, going back to his emails, but not really paying attention. He scrolls through them mindlessly, deleting junk mail and skipping over anything that might be important.
“It’s not really my business to say,” Remus answers apologetically. “But I can say, even if it feels like it is, it’s not personal. He would’ve been like this to anyone who ended up as our roommate. You just got unlucky.”
“So being unfairly accused of transphobia and being told my playing is shit–”
“Is just par for the course, honestly,” Remus finishes for him. He looks nearly as exhausted by Sirius’s bullshit as Peter feels, which is, in itself, a sort of relief. “For the record, I thought you sounded great, although to be honest, I have no idea what the hell instrument you were even playing.”
Peter laughs, his first real laugh in this hellhole of an apartment. “Bassoon.”
“That’s the really long one, right?” Remus asks, moving his hands as if to imitate playing the bassoon.
“That’s the one,” Peter confirms. Before he realizes he’s decided to say anything, he asks, “Does Sirius play an instrument?” Remus raises an eyebrow, and Peter, much to his humiliation, feels his cheeks heat up. “I just mean–he recognized that I was playing Mozart. Not many non-instrumentalists listen to classical music, in my experience.”
“Piano,” Remus answers after a beat, “He’s played practically since he could stand. Though, don’t tell him I told you. He plays beautifully, but he has a…a love/hate relationship with it.”
Peter hums softly. He can imagine it, Sirius Black, with all the elegance and poise Peter imagines must exist behind his handsome, brash exterior, sitting at the piano, fingers dancing along the keys as intimately and easily as breathing. He has the hands for it–not that Peter has looked. Long, thin fingers, bony and pale and delicate.
“So you’re a music major, then?” Remus asks when Peter doesn’t say anything. Peter nods, half of his mind still occupied by how right Sirius must look playing piano. “Cool. I’m English Education.”
“Really?” Peter asks, perking up instantly. “You read a lot, then?”
“Yeah, that’s basically all I do,” Remus laughs. “Figured I might as well make it into a career.”
“Reading is my third favorite hobby,” Peter proudly informs Remus, who snorts at him.
“You have a ranking? What are your first two, then?”
“Chess and bassoon–in that order.”
“Oh, I’m rubbish at chess,” Remus sighs, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Can’t see ahead, imagine the possible moves. I lose every time–well, except to my Da. He was even worse than me.”
“Oh,” Peter swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Remus asked, as if he hadn’t just implied that his father is dead.
“You said–well, you said ‘was.’ I just assumed–”
“Oh! Oh, no,” Remus’s cheeks go a bit pink, leaving Peter more confused than before. “He’s alive, just a bastard. I mean, we’ve always had it a bit rough, he and I, but it just got worse when I came out, you know?”
“Not really,” Peter admitted. “I haven’t come out to my parents. I don’t think they’d have a problem with it, but we have a good relationship, and it doesn’t feel worth the risk when I could still end up with a woman.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Remus nods. “I’d have done the same, but, well–can’t really hide hormone therapy, can you?”
“Oh,” Peter said stupidly, swallowing thickly at the slight challenge in Remus’s eyes. He knows he has to react well after his insistence that he’s not a transphobe–which he’s not. He’s just surprised, which he feels is allowed. “No, I suppose you can’t.”
Remus’s face relaxes, and Peter knows he’s said the right thing. Or, at the very least, he hadn’t made an ass out of himself. “You know, you’re pretty cool, Pettigrew.”
“Yeah, pass along the message, would you?” Peter groans. It makes Remus laugh, and for a moment, Peter finally understands what it means to have a friend.
“”
That evening, there’s a knock on his bedroom door while he’s reading. When he opens it, sending prayers to the heavens that it isn’t Sirius here to torment him, he’s surprised to find James on the other side.
Without invitation, he lets himself in and sits primly on the edge of Peter’s bed. “Sure, come on in,” Peter mumbles, closing the door behind him. Rather than sit next to him on the bed, he pulls out his desk chair, turning it to face James, and settles into it. “Can I help you?”
“We’re going out–Friday. You should come.”
Peter nearly scoffs at the suggestion. “And why would I do that?”
“Because Remus says you’re cool,” James answers, flashing that blinding grin that makes Peter grate his teeth. “And I think you’re pretty cool, too, and Sirius is much nicer when he’s drunk. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I don’t drink,” Peter argues, and James rolls his eyes.
“Then don’t drink,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Look, one of the other guys on the rugby team is in a fraternity, and they’re having a party on Friday. Most people will be drunk, but not everyone–look, it’ll be fun. And like I said, Sirius will be nicer. Just–just come, okay? We’re leaving the apartment at seven.”
With that, he gets up and walks out of the room, leaving Peter behind to wonder what the hell just happened.
“”
The week goes by quickly in a dizzying flash of classes, practicing, and assignments. It’s one of those weeks that leaves Peter running on fumes and caffeine.
It doesn’t help matters that he can’t seem to get James’s offer out of his head. Even by the time Friday afternoon arrives, Peter isn’t sure whether he actually wants to go to this stupid party or not. Sirius is much nicer when he’s drunk rings through his mind on repeat, followed by Remus’s He’s an ass. We’re working on it though, I swear.
And he tries, he really does try his absolute best, to turn these thoughts off before he, inevitably, remembers James’s comment from the first day Peter met them–He’s just your type.
Because the unfortunate truth of it all is that, despite the fact that he hates Sirius Black, his heart skips a beat when he remembers those words. Sirius is an ass, but Peter wants so badly, against all his better judgement, to know him. And he has no idea what to do about it.
He can’t help but feel, even as he walks in through the front door of the fraternity house that night, that coming to this party is a terrible, awful idea. It’s the worst idea he’s had in months, probably, and he definitely shouldn’t do it. This could only turn out poorly, he’s absolutely sure of it.
There’s the obvious reasons, of course, that he shouldn’t be doing this: Sirius is an ass, James and Remus won’t talk to him with Sirius around, and Peter is terrible at talking to strangers. In short, he’ll end up spending the whole night alone, tucked away in a corner, eating too much food and wanting to go home but being too afraid of what his roommates will say if he leaves early.
But as he walks into the house, another reason that this is a bad idea rises to the forefront of his mind: he fucking hates parties. This is news to him, seeing as he’s never been to a party before this one, but it’s loud, and crowded, and people are somehow already drunk out of their minds.
He almost considers turning on his heel and going straight back home, back to his quiet, peaceful, lonely room, but before he gets the chance to even think about it, a hand lands on his shoulder, and Peter turns around to find–
“Frank?”
“Well, if it isn’t Fearless Freshie,” the older boy grins. It’s a little crooked, and his head is a little wobbly, and Peter quickly comes to the conclusion that Frank is already tipsy, at the very least. There’s a girl standing next to him, a very pretty girl with silky black hair cut in a choppy pixie style that Peter recognizes from band. “Have you met my girl Alice yet?” He throws his arm around her slim shoulders, leaning his weight heavily against her. She elbows him playfully in the side, but doesn’t push him off.
“No, not yet,” Peter answers politely, turning to smile at her. “Clarinet, right?”
“Observant one, you are,” she grins back.
“Cute too,” Frank adds, laughing lightly as he reaches out to poke Peter right in his dimple. Alice bats his hand away, gracefully ignoring the bright red hue of Peter’s cheeks, but Frank just keeps on giggling, turning to ask her, “Isn’t he?”
“Adorable,” Alice says, sounding more like she’s trying to appease Frank than actually agreeing with him. Not that Peter blames her.
“You know, I’m surprised you’re here, Double F–that’s for Fearless Freshie, by the way,” Frank explains. Peter silently hopes for him to forget the nickname when he’s sober. “You’re quiet. Didn’t expect you to be the party type.”
Peter snorts indelicately, and it seems to amuse Frank and Alice. “I’m not. My roommate James invited me. Not really sure why I came, to be honest.”
“James Potter?” Frank asks excitedly, his posture straightening, finally relieving Alice of his weight, though his arm stays wrapped tightly around her. “Great guy–we play rugby together.”
“You’re James’s rugby friend?” Peter asks. Band kids aren’t supposed to be good at sports, especially not so good that they play in college, but in retrospect, it isn’t very hard to believe. Frank is in great shape, strong and tall and–well, hot, if muscly gym bros are your type. They aren’t Peter’s, which is perhaps how he missed the fact that his classmate is really quite good looking.
“Hey, band nerds can play sports, too!” Frank defends with a laugh. It makes Peter laugh too, if for no other reason than the fact that the other boy knew exactly what he had been thinking.
“If you say so,” he concedes.
“Alright, Frankie, stop bothering the poor boy,” Alice interrupts before Frank can respond. “Let’s let him find his friends.” Peter almost responds that he doesn’t have any friends, but before he can embarrass himself in front of them, she continues, “It was nice to see you, Peter.”
Frank holds up his fist, and Peter fist bumps him, and the two walk away, leaving Peter alone once more.
He wanders into the kitchen next, hoping to find something to drink that isn’t alcoholic. Lucky for him, there’s cold sodas in the fridge, so he grabs a Dr. Pepper and makes his way back into the main area, dodging drunk college kids like it’s an Olympic sport.
He isn’t quite sure whether he’s looking for James, Remus, and Sirius or if he’s planning to just walk around people watching, but before he can decide, the choice is out of his hands. Across the room, he and Sirius lock eyes. Peter’s stomach turns–nerves, he tells himself–and despite every cell in his body telling him to leave, to lose Sirius in the crowd, he stays frozen in his spot as the other boy approaches, his two best friends on his tail.
“What are you doing here?” he spits once they’re face-to-face, seemingly unaware of the grin James had been wearing the entire walk over.
“I invited him,” James answers before Peter can, which he’s beyond grateful for. He doesn’t envy James, though, when Sirius turns sharply to glare at him, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. “Fuck off, Sirius, it’s a party. I can invite people to a party. Just thought he’d have fun, is all.”
That was, objectively, not true. Sirius is much nicer when he’s drunk, James had said. He’d intended to get Sirius drunk and make them play nice with each other, to make them be friendly with each other. It was a nice plan, but either Sirius isn’t drunk enough for it yet, or there is no drunk enough for Sirius to go along with it, because he turns his death glare back around to Peter and seethes, “Fine. But you better leave us the fuck alone.”
When he turns around and storms off, James frowns, but follows him. Peter hopes Remus will follow too, just so that he won’t see the humiliation burning in his eyes, but instead, he stays behind.
“He’s only on his first drink, he’ll come around soon.” It all but confirms Peter’s assumption that James is scheming to get him and Sirius to be, at the very least, civil with each other. He wants to be annoyed, but actually, he thinks it’s almost sweet, in a weird way.
“If you say so,” Peter mumbles. He hates the way Remus smiles at him, like he pities him. He doesn’t need to be pitied. It doesn’t do anything for him, and it just makes him feel fucking pathetic.
“I’m sorry, but I should–”
“Yeah, go, whatever.” Remus looks almost regretful, but it doesn’t stop him from turning around and following in the direction of his two friends, leaving Peter with the same pit of loneliness that’s been carving its way into his chest for weeks.
On a whim, he leaves his soda, still mostly full, sitting on a table a few feet away, and returns to the kitchen, this time pouring himself a solo cup full of spiked punch that tastes like strawberries and burns going down, that settles in his stomach like battery acid and does little to fill the void that threatens to consume him.
He should leave, he thinks, but instead, he slumps to the side of the large room, leaning against an empty patch of wall, peeking over the edge of his cup between sips to watch the partygoers in their natural party habitat.
He feels wrong here, like an invasive species. Like mold, or a tumor, something no one wants that’s tearing down the vibes of the whole place–yet not so easy to get rid of.
It’s not like he wants to stay. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s still here. Maybe it’s the booze, already making him feel more at ease, helping to drown out the overwhelming bass of the music and the number of people near him. Or maybe it’s them, his could’ve–been–friends, if Sirius didn’t suck so bad.
It’s not because of Sirius.
It’s not.
And he’s fully capable of watching people who aren’t Sirius. Like right now, he’s watching the way James’s face is lighting up when he sees Lily walking through the door. And now, he’s watching Marlene jump on James’s back, watching Emmeline walk in shyly, her glossy lips spread in a soft smile.
Mary walks in last in a tiny skirt and heels that make Peter’s feet hurt just looking at them. She ignores James and Remus and walks straight to Sirius, runs her fingers down his arm, circling them around his wrist, dragging him to the makeshift dance floor–
There’s a burning in Peter’s chest as he watches them dance. He washes it down with a hefty chug of punch that leaves him feeling slightly off kilter. Or maybe it’s from the way Sirius loops his arms around Mary’s waist, the way he pulls her close–
God, he’s fucking awful. It’s so obvious that she likes him, and he’s gay. He doesn’t even have the decency to reject her, because he’s too big of a douchebag. He feels bad for Mary, really. She’s nice. Too nice for Sirius, even if he were interested in girls.
“Is Sirius still being a dick to you?” a voice sounds from Peter’s left. He turns to see Emmeline leaning against the wall with him, raising an eyebrow as if to say, This shit is ridiculous. Peter is inclined to agree.
She looks pretty tonight, although based on his last interaction with her, Peter thinks she’s always pretty. Her braids are longer than he realized that first night at dinner, going all the way down her back. She’s wearing a royal blue dress that makes her look like a princess and, even in flats, she’s tall enough that Peter has to crane his neck to see her face. (Not that that’s unusual for Peter, given his own shortness.)
“Something like that,” he sighs, swallowing down the last of his drink. “How is it with the girls?”
Her lips pull up into a grin, her dazzling teeth on display. It helps Peter feel a little bit less miserable. “They’re great. I mean, not to rub it in your face or anything, but they’ve been so welcoming and lovely.”
“That’s great,” Peter says, and, despite the slight bitterness he tastes on his tongue, he does genuinely mean it. He’s happy for her.
“Maybe you should come hang out ‘round ours sometime,” she suggests. Peter’s heart pounds. Is she…offering friendship? It’s acquaintanceship at the very least, isn’t it? Camaraderie, perhaps. “We could study together or something.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Peter nods, hoping he doesn’t look too enthusiastic, or worse, surprised. Excitement could at least be chalked up to his alcohol consumption and the fact that he’s already feeling a little wobbly. Shock, not so much.
Emmeline opens her mouth to say something, but before she can get a word out, Marlene comes bounding towards them, looking more like a golden retriever than a person. When they come to a stop in front of them, they aren’t even out of breath.
“Don’t look now,” they whisper-yell, making Peter have to strain his ears to hear them over the ruckus, “but Emmy, hot stuff at ten o’clock has been staring at you since we walked in the fucking door.”
Peter chances a glance out of the corner of his eye, and next to him, Emmeline straightens a little bit, her cheeks darkening. It doesn’t take him long to find the guy Marlene is referring to–a buff ginger with a jawline that looks hand sculpted by God.
“Shit, he is hot,” Peter says, and Emmeline turns to look.
“What part of ‘don’t look’ do you two not understand?” Marlene asks, but Emmeline isn’t listening anymore. Instead, she’s twirling a braid around her finger, perfect teeth biting her lower lip flirtatiously.
“I’m gonna go talk to him,” she declares, wiping the exasperated look off of Marlene’s face.
“Yes! Fucking get ‘im, babe!”
Emmeline, far more confident than Peter could ever hope to be, moves on without so much as a glance back, walking towards the man with a little more sway in her hips than necessary–but damn, she does look good.
“Why are the prettiest girls always straight?” Marlene sighs wistfully, watching Emmeline walk away before turning their attention back to Peter. “You’re so lucky you’re bi. Doubles the dating pool.”
“Yeah, because people are lining up to date me,” Peter scoffs, then internally scolds himself. The spiked punch has left him looser lipped than he’s comfortable with.
“I’m sure you have more admirers than you think you do, Petey boy,” they grin, wiggling their eyebrows playfully.
“I think you’re under the impression that I have far more game than I actually do.”
“Game? Oh, no, you’re awkward as a duckling.” Peter isn’t sure if he should feel offended or not, but before he can decide, Marlene swings their arm around his shoulder and barrels on. “But there’s a certain appeal to that whole sweet and innocent thing, ya know? Plus, I mean, everyone is someone’s type, right?”
He’s just your type.
Fucking hell, what he wouldn’t give to forget he overheard that.
“Are you telling me or yourself?” he ends up asking, hoping it doesn’t come across as rude as it sounds in his head.
Fortunately, they laugh. “A little bit of both, I guess.” Peter doesn’t miss the way their eyes trail over to Mary, where she’s still dancing with Sirius. God, this group of friends is a fucking mess.
“You know,” they say after a beat of silence, “Remus was right. You’re cool, Peter…wait, what’s your middle name?”
“I wouldn’t tell you that even under the threat of death,” Peter laughs.
“Oh come on,” they plead, drawing out the last word in a whiny sort of way that makes Peter roll his eyes. “You’re no fun. You need another drink, dude. Come on.”
He considers turning them down on their offer, but this almost feels like they’re becoming friends, and Peter doesn’t have it in him to reject their friendly advances. So, he follows them into the kitchen and scoops himself more punch while Marlene whips up what they call a ‘cocktail’ and what Peter calls ‘just a fuck ton of liquor all mixed together.’
He watches in horrified amusement as they bring the cup to their mouth and take a large swig, face contorting in what must’ve been either pain or disgust–or perhaps both. “God, that’s awful,” they mumble, before downing another chug, making Peter and Marlene both burst into wild laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
Fuck.
It’s ridiculous, really, the way Peter and Marlene both froze, as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t be. Sirius shouldn’t hold that much fucking power over them, yet just him standing in the doorway, watching them laugh, makes Peter feel guilty.
“You had to be there,” Marlene answers after a thick, awkward moment of silence. They turn to wink at Peter, and, despite the tension in the room, he smiles. “Come on boys, the dance floor is calling our names.”
God bless Marlene McKinnon. They start towards the door, but Sirius doesn’t move.
“I’m not dancing with him,” he sneers.
“Fucking get over yourself, Sirius–”
“No!” All he has to do now is stamp his foot and he would fill the part of petulant child perfectly. He turns to look at Peter, eyes alight with something that Peter can’t quite place. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want you talking to my friends, and I don’t want to fucking dance with you.”
“It’s not your fucking party, asshole, I can be here if I want,” Peter snaps back, eyes heating up and face red with embarrassment. “And your friends can talk to whoever they want. It’s a goddamn miracle they want to talk to you with the way you behave. A fucking miracle you were able to make friends in the first place.”
Sirius has the audacity to look stricken, like he’s the fucking victim here. Peter’s skin prickles with rage; at Sirius for being a dick, at James and Remus for letting him, at Marlene for their silence, at himself for giving a shit what these people think of him.
Before Sirius speaks again, Peter pushes past him and out the door, murmuring, “Fuck you,” with as much vitriol as he can manage at the moment without his tears falling.
He walks past the crowds of people, past James and Lily, who try to grab his attention. He flicks them off and continues on his path until he reaches the stairs, going up, up, up until he’s on the top floor and his lungs burn with the effort and the alcohol and the burning in his eyes.
He opens the first door he reaches and finds himself in a small, dark bedroom with two twin beds, two dressers, two desks, and the only light in the room coming from the moonlight filtering through the parted curtains. It’s surprisingly clean, considering that two frat boys live here, but Peter can’t be bothered to pay it any mind, not when his vision is clouding and his heart is pounding. There’s a dull ache forming behind his forehead that he knows will probably be a migraine in the morning.
Finally alone, Peter lets the tears fall freely. He leans against the empty patch of wall next to him and slides down to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, and he cries. He cries hard, tears rolling down his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose, a gasping-between-sobs kind of cry that he hasn’t had since he was little.
He isn’t sure how long he spends like that, on the floor, curled up in a ball and crying like a child. But eventually, the tears dry, leaving him hiccuping and sniffling and wishing desperately that he was home. Not in the dorm, but home home, where his mom would push his hair out of his eyes and whisper comforting words, and his dad would make his world famous hot chocolate and bring him a snack, and Paisley would sit with him until he felt well enough to talk about it. He wants to go home.
He’s about to take his phone out of his pocket to call Paisley–his parents wouldn’t be up this late at night–when the door creaks open slowly, and a head full of black curls peaks in.
“Go away,” Peter mumbles, turning his head away from the door, looking out the window instead.
Rather than leaving, though, Sirius opens the door further and steps inside, closing the door behind him. For a moment, he just stands there, but still, Peter refuses to look at him. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been crying. He knows the evidence of it is written all over his face, plain as day, even in the dimly lit room, and he won’t give Sirius the satisfaction of knowing he’d cried.
When Sirius finally moves, it’s slow, tentative, in Peter’s direction. He leans against the wall next to where Peter is sitting and slides down to the floor, just the same as Peter had.
The silence between them is thick with tension, and so fucking palpable that Peter has to shift as if he could shuffle away from the discomfort it leaves in his chest and throat.
It must be a full three minutes that pass before Sirius finally speaks. When he does, it isn’t at all what Peter’s expecting.
“I’ve always been what you’d call a ‘bad kid.’” He pauses, and Peter finally looks at him, only to find the other boy staring straight ahead. Now that he’s looking, Peter can’t quite tear his eyes away. “I mean, I was always in trouble at school. My manners were terrible, I couldn’t sit still, I was…impulsive, reckless, loud. I rebelled against my parents just for the sake of rebelling. And it never, never felt like something I could control. But every time I’d get in trouble, and I’d try to explain that I couldn’t help it, I just–” He inhales sharply, like it’s causing him physical pain to talk about. Peter thinks that it probably is.
“When I was six,” Sirius continues, “I was diagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder. According to my mother, that just meant that I was a bad kid, through and through. There was no fixing me, but fuck, she tried.” Peter watches, captivated, as Sirius wraps one of his hands around the other, rubbing at one of his palms with the thumb of his other hand.
“She hurt you?” Peter asks, the whispered words escaping him before he can think about them. He half expects Sirius to blow up, but instead, the other boy just looks at him and smiles sadly.
“She’s a very bad person,” Sirius answers plainly. There’s a slight tremor in his voice that makes Peter’s chest ache. “And my father always turned a blind eye. The one time my brother tried to stand up for me, she beat him, too.”
Peter wants to apologize, but it feels so shallow, even before he says the words. He keeps the sentiment to himself.
“Anyway, I figured, if I was gonna get in trouble anyway, I might as well do what I want, right? So, I started acting out on purpose. I stopped trying to hold myself back. It was small stuff at first, you know. Making noise when I shouldn’t, standing on the desks at school, teaching the other kids swear words.
“As I got older I started doing worse stuff. I was a dick to everyone, to start. I threw chairs and broke shit and–in fifth grade, I beat up this kid who really, really didn’t deserve it. I mean, I’ve beat up a lot of kids in my time, but most of them deserved it.”
Peter laughs at that, surprising both of them. It eases a bit of the tension between them, which is–weird, but nice.
“When I went to middle school, I met James and Remus.” He smiles fondly, softly, and fuck, Peter wants Sirius to smile at him like that, even though he knows, in the back of his mind, that he really shouldn’t be wishing for Sirius’s attentions. “I would’ve been down a very different path if it weren’t for them. I mean, I’d probably be an abusive asshole with a drug habit and a string of baby mamas that I can’t afford to care for.”
“Oddly specific.”
“It came to me in a dream once.” Sirius smiles crookedly–nothing like the fond smile he’d had a moment ago, but it makes Peter feel warm all the same. “A nightmare, rather. Anyway, James and Remus fixed me up, you know? Their disappointment when I fucked shit up was far more effective than my mother’s punishments. And, don’t get me wrong, I was still a trouble maker, just–less destructive, I guess.
“I started spending all my time at James’s house. And his parents…when I acted out, they were so patient. They would talk to me about like, empathy and right versus wrong and all that other shit. And they taught me about love. I don’t think anyone ever really loved me before the Potters.”
Peter’s heart clenches, his mind summoning an image of little Sirius, unloved and hurt, finally finding a family. Fuck, why the fuck does he have such a sad backstory? It makes hating him a lot harder, that’s for sure.
“They taught me a lot about acceptance, too,” Sirius continues, as if he hadn’t just said something so depressing that it had shaken Peter to his core. “And I realized what bigots my parents were. I think if I hadn’t had them…realizing I was gay was hard enough, you know?”
He doesn’t say it, but Peter fills in the sentence on his own. If I hadn’t had them, I wouldn’t be here.
“My parents disowned me when I was sixteen, and Effie and Monty started the process to adopt me the next day. I’d never felt so loved in my life. Not long after, they put me in therapy. It’s helped a lot, of course, but…this summer really sucked, because according to my therapist, I don’t have ODD, I have ADHD. Which is great, because now I’m on meds, you know, and I get accommodations from the school, and the therapy helps me manage my symptoms, but at the same time…”
“Your parents were wrong about you,” Peter finishes for him, watching sadly as tears well up in Sirius’s eyes. “They treated you terribly, hurt you, made you feel unloved, and all that time, they were wrong.”
“Yeah,” Sirius whispers. His eyes drop to his hands, where he twists his rings, blinking fast to push down the tears.
“If you cry, I won’t judge you.”
Sirius wipes his cheek, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he keeps telling his story. “James and Remus and the girls…they are my family. They’re the only family I have. I’m…overly protective of that. And the idea of them being…friends with you–it’s so fucking stupid. It just feels…”
Suddenly, everything about Sirius makes sense. And everything James and Remus have said about him clicks into place. “They’re not gonna love you any less just because they’re friends with me. You know that, don’t you?” Sirius shrugs, reaching up to wipe his cheek again, still looking away. “Sirius, your friends are so fucking nice, but they’ve been assholes to me for you. They love you so fucking much. You’re their family, too. You ought to give them the chance to show you that.”
Finally, Sirius looks up. His eyes are rimmed red, but he smiles softly. “Yeah, I know. I mean–logically, I know, it’s just…”
“It’s hard.”
“It’s hard.” He sighs and shifts his weight, leaning just a little bit closer to Peter. They’re pressed together shoulder to elbow, and Peter can’t tell if it was on purpose or not. “I’m sorry I’ve been a dick. I’ll…be less of a dick. Or, I’ll try to. And, I–I hope you won’t hold it against James and Remus. They really were trying their best, you know.”
“Is that why you’re up here apologizing now?”
Sirius laughs. “No, actually. Marlene fucking tore me a new one after you left. Lasted over a half an hour. We had an audience. But…it’s alright. She was right, you know? I’ve been terrible.”
“You really were,” Peter agrees. “But I think I forgive you.”
“Oh,” Sirius whispers, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I–really?”
“Yeah, really,” Peter laughs. “I don’t want us to hate each other, Sirius. I…you know, I was really excited that I had to live with three boys I didn’t know.”
“Really?” Sirius asks, his nose scrunched in disgust.
“Yeah. I had sort of…the opposite upbringing as you. My parents really wanted a child. They tried for years–multiple rounds of IVF, they even tried surrogacy, considered adoption. Eventually, like, ten years in, they finally gave up. And then one morning, years later, my mom gets sick–turns out she was pregnant. With me.”
“If this is just gonna be you rubbing your good childhood in my face–”
“It’s not, I promise,” Peter smiles, and Sirius smiles back, and Peter feels like he’s flying. “Just wait, I’ll get to it. Anyway, her doctor told her she should terminate because she was like, forty-two or something, and apparently there were a lot of risks. But she wanted a baby, so she kept me.
“She didn’t have any complications. An easy birth. I was an easy baby–not even colic. It was like a miracle. I was their miracle baby. And they are wonderful parents. I love them a lot, and they love me even more.”
“Is this payback for being such a dick–”
“Would you just listen? Christ above–” To his surprise, Sirius starts to laugh, his head thrown back and his cheeks plump. He’s beautiful when he laughs like this. It feels like a privilege to get to see it.
“Anyway,” he continues, if for no other reason than to distract himself from the thought of Sirius’s stupid pretty face. “I have a great family, but…I’ve never had a friend.”
The smile falls from Sirius’s face abruptly, eyes slightly wide. “Never?”
Peter shrugs and looks away, suddenly embarrassed. “I was always quiet and shy, and a bit of a goody two shoes, which annoyed the other kids. When my parents realized I wasn’t making friends in school, they tried putting me in extracurriculars. I did soccer for like, four years, and some other sports, even though I hated being outside. Every year when it came time to sign up for a team again, I’d say ‘yes, I want to do soccer again, or swim, or baseball,’ because I hoped there’d be a new kid on the team who wanted to be my friend.
“I quit when I got to middle school, but I joined a band class, because I’d heard band kids were nerds and I thought if anyone would want to be my friend, it was them.” He finally looks back at Sirius to find him staring at Peter with glassy eyes. “Didn’t exactly work out, but I did end up loving music enough to stick with it, at least.”
“I lied, you know,” Sirius says quietly, his face turning pink at the admission. “About your bassoon playing. You sounded really nice.”
“Thanks,” Peter smiles. Sirius shifts a little closer again, and this time, Peter is almost entirely sure it’s on purpose. “Anyway,” Peter says, his voice low and gentle, like if he speaks any louder, he’ll spook Sirius away. “I was excited to live with three other boys, because I thought…I thought the proximity would ensure we became friends. I was…I was excited to have friends.”
Sirius lets out a shocked, choked sound, and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes go flowing down his cheeks. “Fucking hell, Peter.” He wipes his face furiously. “Fuck, I’m such an asshole. I’m your friend now, okay? We’re friends. I swear it.”
Peter bristles slightly. “I don’t want you to be my friend just because you feel bad for me.”
“I’m not,” Sirius assures him. Peter doesn’t believe him. “I want to be your friend, okay? You’re nice and funny, and James and everyone else all say you’re like, really cool. I want to be friends with you, I swear.”
Peter still isn’t quite sure if he believes him, but Sirius sounds sincere enough, and really, Peter can’t exactly afford to be picky about who he’s friends with. He wants a friend so badly, that he wonders if it’s worth caring if the other person is friends with him for the right reason.
“Yeah, alright,” he finally agrees. “But I’m not gonna walk on eggshells around you like your other friends do. If you’re being a douche, I’m gonna tell you you’re being a douche.”
“Deal,” Sirius smiles brightly, holding his hand out for Peter to shake.
He almost puts his hand in Sirius’s, before remembering the way he’d wiped his face only moments before. “Yeah, I’m not shaking your snot hand.”
Sirius looks down at his own hand and grimaces. “Yeah, fair enough.”
Peter laughs. “Come on, let’s get you back down to the party before you start fucking crying again.”
“Hey!” he shouts, cackling as they push themselves off of the floor. “You know, I cried at your sad story, it’s kind of bullshit that you didn’t cry at mine.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you’re significantly drunker than I am.” As if to emphasize Peter’s point, Sirius wobbles.
“Whatever,” he grumbles. Peter laughs, even as Sirius grabs him by the elbow and drags him out the door.