Author's Note: The following is a compilation of deleted scenes from the previous chapter reordered to make a sort of second chapter. Because people asked for it, and I'm far too eager to please. Just keep in mind that there's a reason they didn't make it to the final cut…

The windows of Felix's car were fogged as usual. But, this time, it wasn't from smoke.

Startled, Felix had broken the kiss apart when Peter snuck a second finger through and began to separate them, pressing against his insides.

Felix's teeth gritted together, trying to break his jaw. "Slow down."

Peter glared, but delayed the steeple in his fingers. Virgins typically took an extra dose of patience Peter didn't have, but Felix's reactions came without delay, so it almost evened out.

He suckled onto the lips below him, and with horrible sluggishness, intending to tease him and make Felix regret his request, pressed a blunted fingernail against the straining muscle.

A whimper died in Felix's throat, along with murmurs and expletives and the unholiness ridden in a two syllable name as he reared his head back to hit the grooves in the seat underneath his hair.

Peter cocked a brow and tongued his own bottom lip. "Oh you'll have to take more than that."

Felix's eyes sparked, heated and heavy - even the shine in his eyes was begging and demanding to be swept up and away, rocked and pounded. "I know."

"Then let's get on with it, shall we?"

It was hard to say, in the quaking car parked in some insignificant city in New Hampshire, when the preparation bled into foreplay, and when the foreplay bled even further.

Peter scraped his teeth down the thin neck in front of him, sucking blotchy purple bruises all over Felix's chest, collar, neck. As he did so, he coiled his free hand around a sweaty and trembling thigh, lifting it up onto his shoulder, bending the boy in half. A low rattling gasp rose from the forced flexibility, but doubled over with reasonable ease.

Peter felt Felix heels bump against the bottom of his shoulder blades as he shifted in order to lift his lower half, removing hands and positioning himself with an oddly considerate additional dabbing of gel.

He raised a brow to the boy in front of him, who was shaking with heavy breath, with eyes that never shut up, darting up and down his body, nervous and curious and adoring and one of the closest things to perfect submission Peter had seen in a long time.

"Ready?"

Felix nodded.

Peter was lit up, smirking as he asked, "Now, do you mean?"

With an aggravated sigh, Felix tightened his leg, compressing Peter between calf and thigh, pressing his hips upwards, leaking cock hitting Peter's stomach. There was a yelp, and Peter adjusted his hips, breaking through the surface with a sigh and jolt.

Peter had one white-knuckled hand wrapped around Felix's wrist, pressing it against the door above their heads. The other poked and prodded into the dips and imprints from Felix's bones, laughing at the stillness he displayed.

"Now, now, Felix," Peter muttered into the thick air, still moving and pressing Felix further into the seats. "Don't just - oh god - lie back and think of England."

There was a beat of pulsing, delayed breath. "Oh?"

Peter hummed, laughed, and allowed a ragged chirr to rise in his stomach as he pressed on. "You're giving me ideas I'm not convinced you're up for."

"I am," Felix had to close his eyes and pause to allot for a sharp whine. "If you are."

"Patience is a virtue." Peter teased, pressing their hands harder into the door and slamming his hips with added vehemence.

Peter was buried to the hilt, revelling in the way Felix tensed and shook, wrestling around under him. His eyes flashed and he memorized how the boy reacted to every motion, every slip of his hands, charging into it but then collapsing down and unsure what to do.

Felix was a garbling mess, liquefying and melting in the heat compressed on top and inside him. He felt higher than he'd ever been before, every touch felt as though it left a burning, searing mark. He was somewhat embarrassed with himself for his lack of experience and the way he found himself petrified to the spot, allowing Peter alone to utilize agility. But then he found his brain incomprehensive to coherent embarrassment in favor of soaking in euphoria as Peter found the right bundle of nerves.

Peter nipped at whatever skin was closest, which happened to be Felix's mouth. Only by proximity, he moaned guttural into the surprised and nervous whimpers and trills, overpowering them, vibrating through the metal atmosphere around them.

The hands pressed against the door shifted together, melding and intertwining, fingers gone white, falling over the edge of the seat and hanging by their own accord, trembling with the movement of the attached bodies.

Felix's legs scraped down from Peter's shoulders, skimming the inside of his thighs down his arms and settling in between his ribs, squeezing together to shatter the bone. He removed his mouth from the hovering boy to suck on his ear, biting when Peter's hips started shifting erratically, losing rhythm and gaining force.

Graphic profanities hit against the windows, hanging in the air as more came streaming from gritted teeth and gasping lips.

"Peter - can I?"

"Me first."

"Hurry up."

And so he lost all semblance of pattern or organisation, falling victim to impulse and magnetic pulls. He hitched and he pounded and the car rattled along with him as he pressed violent and harsh

kisses and bruises wherever he could reach.

He climaxed with his teeth embedded into Felix's jaw, unintentionally biting down and tasting iron. Peter allowed his head to fall back, the sensation between his legs prickling and releasing the tension and pressure that had dictated his movements.

And then, once it was over, he directed all his attention to the blond boy with his legs wrapped intently around his middle, open and patient for Peter to finish all while begging and whimpering for more.

It was all quite elating. Peter smiled and started up where he left off, a bit gentler from fatigue.

Felix woke up the next morning just as the streetlamps were going out in respect of the sunrise, the sky dusty pink and speckled in grey. The often overlooked time between night and day, when the world stopped and everything was beautiful.

He laid still for a beat, sticky from sweating against leather, feeling Peter's stomach rise and fall against his, the soft cheek resting limply by his collar, small wisps of air puffing onto his skin in accordance to the buoying diaphragm on top of him.

He couldn't help but stare at the funny little way Peter furrowed his brows, as though he were concentrating on something, limp jawed and a tiny gap between his lips.

It was almost frightening how different Peter looked when he was asleep.

He looked peaceful and almost passive. His limp, sleeping form was a world away from the one who'd rocked the entire car on its wheels only a few hours before.

The air was cold in the vehicle, smoke and heating had long since faded, but it was warm underneath body and fleece blanket. Thankful for the warmth, he carefully pulled in the blanket a bit higher and pressed the body in a little tighter, eliciting a sleepy groan and opening eyes.

Peter twitched, his hair tickling Felix's breastbone, rolling his neck lazily. He seemed content to take his time waking up. Felix didn't mind; it wasn't so bad being a mattress. Even if the leather seats of his car had a very good chance of ripping his skin off when he'd eventually try to sit up. It was worth it.

Felix had one arm under his neck, fingers massaging the bumps on his spine, and the other hand draped over Peter's shoulders sometime in the night, keeping him balanced on his stomach without falling from the narrow seats.

Peter then lifted his face, chin digging into Felix's skin. He was full to the brim with a sleepy sort of calm, and Felix absorbed it.

"Well that was fun." Peter blinked his way into fuller consciousness..

The corners of Peter's lips twisted upwards with a small hum, brows lifting. His hand slipped up from where it had been hanging off the seat, sliding over sore, stained skin, rubbing his fingers into a particularly splotchy bruise he'd sucked onto Felix's collarbone.

"It's four hours to Storybrooke. We should get going." Peter spoke after a beat, pressing down on Felix's chest in order to return to an upright position. "Should probably get dressed before the carpools start to arrive." He looked out the window. "Well, we're late for a few of 'em...but we haven't been arrested for dogging quite yet, so I'd say that's a good sign."

He crawled off Felix, pushing a little too hard into the boy's stomach, before fishing around for clothes on the floor. Felix simply reclined and watched him, the slight line of muscle on his stomach, the oily sheen of dried sweat, flaking come, and greasy residue from various fluids that'd been so vital a few hours before. His hair had been pulled and teased and stuck up, slicked against the grain. He was a mess, and Felix couldn't imagine how torn up he must have looked then.

"Those are mine." Felix found himself talking as he thought, gesturing to the plaid shorts Peter was working up his thighs.

Peter gave a funny little laugh. "If you recall I came in mine last night. I'm not going to wear stained pants."

"And I'm supposed to?"

"Yes." Peter grinned broadly, all teeth and glowing eyes. He wadded up the material in question from the floor and threw it across the seat. To his surprise, Felix caught it. "You'll get off on it more than I will."

Felix frowned, but couldn't help but admit skimming his fingers over the stale bits of fabric set his stomach humming. He shifted on the seat for a beat, settling elastic under his hip bones without sitting up, trying to put off the inevitable.

Peter lifted up the wrinkled remains of Felix's t-shirt, holding it far enough away so Felix couldn't reach it from his reclined position. With a glare, Felix resolved Peter was doing this on purpose, but pulled himself up to set about getting dressed, and nearly doubled over in the same movement, jolting pressure away from his hips as best he could.

Peter tongued the inside of his cheek, his voice corrosive but soft, like velvet. "Sore?"

Felix tried to glare at him, he really did, but found it evaporated instantly into the opposite. Every inch of skin and every strand of muscle begged and pleaded with him, screaming bloody murder, but in all the best ways.

Peter slid in closer to him, pulling his t-shirt back over his head, waiting for Felix to get around to pulling his arms through. "Well I did warn you, didn't I?"

Felix sighed silently as Peter's head poked through the top of his polo, collar sticking up in the back. Felix reached over to smooth it, and found himself pressing a thousand kisses onto Peter's lips.

Peter was the first to break away, and he did it with a grin, while sliding into the passenger's seat in the row in front of them.

"Come on, then." He teased. "We're burning daylight."

Felix had to spend a whole minute adjusting how he was sitting in the driver's seat, trying to find a method that would cause the least pain and throbbing in the four hour journey back to Maine. Once he found a semi-comfortable position, somewhat contorted onto his left hip, he noticed the boy beside him.

Peter was leaning onto his knuckles, amusement pouring from his eyes and his lips pulled back and a cigarette between his teeth.

This time, Felix found it very easy to glare. He spoke, but the words fell flat. "Do you have to look at me like that?"

"Yes." Peter smirked. "I'm enjoying this far too much."

They backed out of the parking lot around the same time a few lonely Subarus came trickling in for the carpool, it was silent for a beat, but Peter wouldn't have that.

"It's normal, if you're wondering." He said with a shrug, falling back and reclining the seat a small bit with his feet on the dashboard. "The soreness."

"Didn't know it was this bad," Felix muttered, adjusting the mirrors to complement his new position as he flipped the turn signal to head down a road.

"Guess I'm just talented," Peter laughed. And then he shrugged, fishing in the glove compartment for a lighter. "You'll get used to it."

"I will?"

"'Course." Peter lit the end of the cigarette. "I'll make a slut of you yet. You're already halfway there."

Felix felt his ears get hot. "Am I?"

"Please. You were whorish." Peter arched his back in order to realign his spine. "You owe half your pain to yourself and your begging."

"Don't think I was begging," Felix offered weakly.

"Give it a bit and you will be," Peter said in a crossbreed between a threat and a promise, prompting a small laugh that rattled in Felix's ribcage.

The radio flipped on, and they drove in silence.

It must have looked like a scene, Felix couldn't help but think when they stopped at the drive thru for breakfast. They looked a mess, hair still tangled, oily from sweat, grimy from sex. He imagined his car must have smelled strongly enough the poor prepubescent cashier might've gotten a secondhand high from the levered window. It must have been rather affronting: the smoke and drugs and sweat.

He'd have to clean out the carriage of the car, he knew. Shampoo the whole interior, spend half his paycheck in cleaning the leather. It couldn't be harder than getting smoke stains out, though. It wouldn't be too much of a chore.

He tried to keep his mind and attention on the road, but it was a bit difficult with the constant flashing back. He could still feel the ridges of Peter's ribcage on the insides of his thighs. If he focused, he could still feel the hunk of metal rocking under the brute force that pounded above him. He could remember the magnet tugging at his pulse, the wet lips leaving behind splotches and bruises that would take a week to go away.

Removing a hand from the steering wheel, Felix opened his palm towards Peter. The smaller boy raised a brow at him over his breakfast. "What?"

"I need a smoke."

Peter thumbed a cigarette up to the driver with a smirk. "I think I've made you an addict."

Felix couldn't bring himself to do anything but smile.

It was the second time Peter had been on this particular motorway, headed towards Storybrooke. The first had been a sulky journey from the airport to Storybrooke itself about a month prior.

His brother had come to the airport to pick him up. No fuss made, just stiff greetings in the terminal, an overpriced airport breakfast for the road, and Neal's little yellow car.

Through the majority of the ride, Neal looked straight forward, Peter stared out the window, watching the familiarity of busy streets and crowded walkways and skyscrapers whizz by.

The city streets turned into motorway, and the motorway turned into a lonely country road until they broke through a dense patch of forest. Oak and maple trees towered overhead, creating a permanent dusky appearance as mist rolled by like tumbleweeds in the midmorning chill.

And then, all too soon but long overdue, he saw the white sign on metal posts. It broke through weeds and ivy, the black lettering causing stark contrast against the green foliage but seeming to mesh oddly well with the grey mist surrounding them.

The butter yellow bug drove down Main Street just a touch above the speed limit. Peter viewed the shops with a critical eye. It looked much like various villages he'd visited when he went on holiday to the Continent. The quaint shops shared walls, all painted pretty colors before a spotlessly swept footways and parking metres that almost shone in the sunlight. People in bright peacoats shuffled by with their heads ducked to their feet, shuffling to their destinations.

If Peter looked to his left he could see Granny's Diner, to the right there were the docks, and just up the road a bit was Gold's pawn shop. And so on and so forth.

After a little while, Neal spoke. "Hopefully Belle'll be off work. We'll need someone to let us in."

"You don't have a key?"

Neal grimaced. "Yeah, but I'm not gonna sit in the receiving room twiddling my thumbs until Dad comes home."

"I don't need to be watched," Peter sat forward in the seat. "You can just drop me off."

To his surprise, Neal shot him a look of doubt.

"Not likely, man."

"What do you think I'm gonna do?" Peter asked, arching a brow. "Set the place on fire?"

Neal glanced into the rearview mirror with the same expression the men in white lab coats had shared while prepping Peter for MRIs.

Peter gnawed on the inside of his cheek. So it appeared Daddy-dearest had sewn doubt into his behaviors even before he'd landed in Maine. Not exactly fair, now was it?

He thought about how to play it. Perhaps offended would be the best route, he considered. Something to jog sympathy or empathy or whichever was preferable. So, he sighed.

"My diagnosis is high-functioning." Peter leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. "It's a personality disorder, not damnation."

"Look, Peter," Neal said after a moment, resting a finger on his temple. He waited a bit, swallowing, and then added, "This is new. To everyone. And I'm not sure what to do about it."

"I'm not different," Peter said, trying to break through Neal's skull. "I'm the same as I've always been. It's just got a label now." He gave a halfhearted little chuckle to seal the deal. "I've never much liked labels."

Neal looked at his brother through big doe's eyes. Peter had to conceal a smirk behind a faux heavy-handedness that best fit the situation.

It appeared as though Peter had an ally, if he'd just continue to play his cards right.

Neal, on the other hand, wasn't sure how to take it. Reality had sunken in and it was apparent they were strangers.

Neal had been twelve when Peter was born, and already living in the States away from the family. He'd gotten the call that his stepmother went into labor in biology, and he'd still been so sour over his falling out with his father that he hadn't even known she was pregnant.

He didn't want to be strangers with his own brother, and so he made more of an effort to take holidays to see his family on the other end of the Atlantic. The only tangible results from his effort, however, was half an album of old polaroids showing himself holding up an impish baby, walking with a surly toddler, and trying to understand the complex and ever changing rules of all the games the five-year-old wanted to play.

Eventually, they lost touch. He tried to reach out to Peter when their father did It again and left his son behind half a world away in favor of coming to Maine, but by then Neal had a baby of his own and legal issues to deal with, and his intentions had not matched his actions.

But Peter was his brother, no matter what else he was, and their family was already fucked up enough. Perhaps they could try to be friends. Was Peter capable of having friends? He didn't know, and if he was going to be entirely honest, the fact his own blood was a diagnosed sociopath was slightly frightening.

Neal and Peter were never close, but he couldn't imagine his little brother cutting up animals for the hell of it or any of the other trademarks of antisocial personality disorders. Their father definitely had sociopathic tendencies, but Peter seemed to possess a certain degree of understanding.

It wasn't long before they exited the business end of town. Neal turned right and drove onwards in a lonely lane. Soon enough, they reached a fork in the road entering the residential end, stopping abruptly by the curb nearest a tall house that seemed to loom over all others - the ugly coral one with green trim.

Neal pressed on the gear shift, and they dispersed from the vehicle. Peter's feet prickled as they woke up after the hours of sitting, but he covered his hobbling as they made their way up the porch steps.

Before they could ring a doorbell, the stain-glass door opened to the happy face of a pretty woman in a plaid skirt. She smiled and offered a friendly embrace to Neal before turning to Peter and sticking her hand out, introducing herself as Belle.

He looked her up and down briefly. He hadn't expected his father's fiancee to be fit in any sense of the word. Nice surprise. She had to be closer to his age than to his father's. Good for him, Peter thought after short evaluation, stepping through the door and into the house.

Neal made himself scarce, murmuring something about picking up Henry from school and turning back into his butter-yellow car.

As though this was normal, Belle simply smiled and led Peter through the house, giving the Grand Tour. He hardly paid attention as she indicated the den, living room, office spaces, dining room, kitchen, et cetera. He knew he could figure it out on his own; it was a house, not a bloody maze.

Belle stopped at the foot of a carpeted staircase. "You'll be up there in the attic."

Out of sight, out of mind. Peter lowered a brow and looked up the dark staircase, swallowing his thoughts and headed up the stairs under the guise of settling in, clunking his trunk against the carpet as he went.

At the top of the stairs there was a small foyer, a door leading to a small porch alcove was on his right, and a plain wooden door with an aluminium handle. It pushed open without Peter having to twist the knob. He frowned, making a mental note to fix it.

The room itself was small, with sloped ceilings and slanted walls. An empty four-poster with splintered posts crammed against the plaster, little to no headspace on the side furthest away from him. There was an antique bedside table that Peter doubted had any real value with a shaded lamp beside it. On the opposite wall, a paper thin telly and empty picture frame.

Fully unpacked, he tossed his trunk against the footboard and took a seat, sinking into the memory foam beneath him. With a sigh, he reclined flat on his back, noticing how the mattress swallowed his sides. It seemed oddly fitting and suffocating.

He flicked on the telly and stared blankly at the intertwined sex lives of an incredibly attractive crop of hospital staff. His eyes glossed over and he ignored it, he was never one for telly. It was too passive, too boring. He could never figure out the entertainment in sitting around watching other people (and usually fictional people) have adventures or play games. Peter didn't like sitting on the sidelines.

As the atrociously written dialogue meandered on, Peter allowed his mind to wander. Thus far, Storybrooke had met all expectations. The question, then, laid in what he could do with it. Ideally, he'd be able to get the entire town under his thumb and therefore do whatever the hell he wanted; he'd gotten close enough to it at school before his expulsion.

He knew his father had rather substantial influence in town, and therefore he already had some transitively. The question was the extent of it.

He'd have to test the waters, learn exactly how the tide swelled around Storybrooke before he did anything.

A few lengthy soap operas passed before Peter's legs started to itch. He hated sitting around and suddenly fancied taking a little walk. It'd be better than sitting around waiting for the shit to hit the fan once Mr. Gold came home.

And so he tied on his muffler, headed out the door, and the rest was history - cumulating in thick smog and an exchange of mobile numbers that had previously been denied.

The second time on the motorway, and the second entrance into the little pathetic town, was a significant improvement as far as Peter was concerned.

Returning to the present, he shifted his feet on the dash of Felix's car, snagging a peek at the boy from his peripheral. He knew Felix had an odd attachment to the vehicle. Peter could only venture to guess why, but he figured it had something to do with the fact he let him get away from his family and it was one of the only things Felix could really call his.

So, it made sense to figure that there was something personal and invasive in putting his feet on the dash.

Felix noticed, but didn't comment. Peter gave a little smirk, victory hidden in that tiny gesture. He rather liked being invasive.

New Hampshire faded away with the morning and before they knew it, Felix was pulling up by the curb nearest the ugly coral and green house.

The driveway was empty, but Felix didn't even attempt to turn in, not even after Peter told him to put it in park and follow him in.

Felix hadn't been in the Gold's house for a few weeks. Not since Peter turned eighteen. He didn't know if he expected it to look different, if he thought all scenery would change along with the rather considerable shift in his own life. However, the house was exactly the same, only the furniture was polished a bit differently, but everything else was in its designated spot, as though it would never move.

That is, until Peter walked by an antique clock and rotated the minute and hour hands along its face. Probably just for the hell of it, but he wasn't entirely sure.

He followed Peter on his heels, as he tended to do, and found himself caught up in the memory of that last time he'd entered the house.

He'd pushed through the fancy stained-glass doors himself, with Peter's breath on his neck. The kid had been particularly bossy the night, but since it was his birthday, Felix couldn't count it against him. He couldn't deny, however, that there was something annoying with receiving a text a three in the morning only to find out his friend was at the Rabbit Hole, without him, grinding up against some guy who met the twenty-one and older benchmark to buy him drinks in celebration of the fact he could legally get through the doors.

Since when did legalities matter to him anyway?

Either way, Felix had skulked off to his car within thirty seconds of receiving the text, picked the boy up, and found himself walking through the front door of the Gold's house as though it were normal.

The second they were through the door, Peter had thrown an arm around Felix's reasonably higher shoulders, bringing him to a lower hunch than usual. He leaned into Felix and stumbled with an idiotic look on his face, acting far more intoxicated than he actually was.

Felix might've asked why, but after taking a few more steps into the cluttered house, he saw for himself.

Mr. Gold sat in a velveteen armchair, a needle and thread in hand. He'd looked up when the boys burst through the door, irritation settled into his sharp face.

Felix found himself stiff when he made eye contact with the older man. He hadn't exactly met him in friendly circumstances, and wondered vaguely if Gold remembered the Great Rent Assault of 2004. Probably did; Felix didn't wager any of the Gold men to be the type to forget that sort of thing.

Thankfully, Gold didn't seem to care, or even take notice. He frowned at Peter, simply muttering, "Why am I not surprised?"

"Hi, Dad." Peter slurred dumbly.

Gold shook his head, grabbing his cane and coming to an upright position. "Just get some sleep, Peter."

Peter shrugged and turned his head to the side, pretending to find something very interesting in the freckle on Felix's cheek, pawing at it with the pads of his fingertips. Felix tried not to blush as Peter smiled and mumbled, "C'mon, tuck me in."

Without thinking, Felix's eyes shifted over to Gold for a second, hesitant. The older man simply waved his hand with an indifferent expression.

The second they shuffled to the staircase, Peter dropped the drunkenness facade, all but leaping up the stairs, three steps at the time. He turned around as he reached the top step, noting Felix's confused look.

"What?"

"What was that about?" Felix stopped a step down from Peter, having to look up at him was strange. "With...with your dad."

"Oh that." Peter sighed, as though bored. He turned on his heels, prompting Felix to follow with a hand motion that reminded him a bit of his father's (not that Felix would dare say anything). "Got to keep him angry enough to lemme do what I want. There's a-what might you call it-a fine line between us."

"Fair enough."

Felix hadn't been in Peter's more than twice before Peter's birthday, but it hadn't changed between visits. The scent vaguely hinted reefer and tobacco, but the maid cleaned it enough that it mostly carried the scent of night air and cut wood. It was all color-coordinated in greens and browns (since apparently color coordination was what the wealthy did), lit by warm lamps that gave the impression of firelight.

More interesting, however, was the fact that it was very obviously simply a place to fall asleep. Peter was the type who needed stimulation, something to do, some sort of action, at all TV on the dresser and the laptop on the bedspread hardly sufficed for someone like Peter.

Felix fell down on the mattress at the other boy's go-ahead, surprised in the lack of buoyancy as he fell through the foam.

"Find a movie or something," Peter prompted, waving at his laptop before turning around to fish through his wardrobe. "Don't want to go to bed yet."

Felix obliged, moving the computer to his stomach. It might have burnt him had he not been wearing a rather thick sweatshirt. He swished his fingers on the track pad, and then paused, a strange look on his face. Without looking up from the screen, he spoke. "You got a message from Wendy 'bout five hours ago."

"Did I?" Peter sounded as though he didn't really care.

Felix looked up to elaborate, but found any words die in his throat as Peter shucked off his jeans and crawled in next to him on the mattress.

He coughed. "Yeah. Just a happy birthday thing."

"Typical of her." Peter rolled his eyes, and flopped an arm over the side of the bed, reaching for a box of cigarettes.

Felix risked another glance over to his friend, careful to only look him above the shoulders. "You sound upset." He waited a beat, watching Peter's brows draw up on his forehead. "Over….her?"

"As though she'd ever be that important."

Snapping the computer shut, Felix slid it from his stomach and laid it down between them on the mattress. "Then what's wrong?"

Peter pursed his lips. "You act as though I allow external things to affect my mood."

"You're human."

"Barely."

Felix wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but he accepted it with a graceful shrug and a silent breath, thumbing a stick from the box in Peter's hand.

"But what about you?" Peter asked with a smirk, lighting the cigarette for the boy beside him while shifting to his knees so that he was hovering above Felix's head.

"I think I'm more than barely human."

"Observant, but," Peter laughed, shaking his head. "Not my point. My point is that you let external things affect your mood."

"Isn't that normal?"

"Normal? Yes. But who wants normal?"

Felix exhaled a long stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth, causing a tiny cloud to hang in the air between them for a beat before dispersing and distributing evenly through the room.

"Which brings in the question," Peter tossed his head. "Why does Felix let things get to him?"

Felix really didn't want to discuss it. But, this was his comeuppance for pissing Peter off with his inquiries, so it was probably best just to sit still and let him talk.

"It's kind of funny, really." Peter said. "You just bottle everything up and try to deal with it as calmly and reserved as possible. But then you just explode. It's fun to watch, actually."

Felix smoked silently for a beat, before finding the stick snatched from his fingers and between Peter's teeth. He took a long drag and exhaled with his trademark disinterest in averting the smoke from Felix's face.

"Do you know why? I do." Peter gave the cigarette back to his friend.

"Dr. Hopper's made several suggestions on that," Felix muttered under his breath.

"What the hell does he know?" Peter shrugged. "I think I know you better than he does."

Felix paused. "You do."

"There. You see?" He fell back down on the mattress without shaking it, burrowing his shoulder blades through the downy duvet. "So, all that's left is the question of your utterly capital composure."

Felix twisted his head on a pillow to face Peter, trying to stay in the moment and not let his imagination run away with him.

"And do you know what I noticed?" Peter lifted a brow, mouth crooked. "Your face."

This was not what Felix expected, and he therefore accidentally took the smoke in and out in the same breath, coughing and spluttering from the harshness in his throat. "What?"

Peter used his finger to draw a line along the side of his own nose. "Your scar. It's a hieroglyph."

"What do you mean?" Felix was completely lost.

Peter's eyes flashed. "A little bird told me you got it when your father was having a temper tantrum. Same little bird told me he used to have tantrums a lot before he got locked away in a padded cell. Makes sense, then, that you'd want to avoid them- temper tantrums, I mean. Instead of replicating the behaviour modeled for you, you want to do the opposite. But you can't all the time." He smirked. "You're just one big mess of daddy issues aren't you?"

Felix's face skewed, a strange mirth hidden in the colloquialism of his eyes. "And what about you?"

Peter frowned. "I don't have daddy issues."

"Looks like it." Felix's eyes shifted to the door.

"But I don't." Peter sighed, as though suddenly bored with the conversation. "He's got son issues."

Felix nodded, as though prompting him to go on. There was another sigh, a curse to whoever thought up exposition in the first place.

Peter didn't really want to explain, but for some reason found the story slipping out.

When he was little, he'd been reasonably close to his father-likely one of the repercussions of being chubby cheeked and bright eyed or of having a mother walk out on a newborn. But, as Peter gained autonomy the two were at odds more and more. They were alike in the worst ways, in the ways the other couldn't stand, and different in ways that couldn't be admired.

But Peter had quickly learnt the art of manipulation, and mostly from his father, but soon surpassed his ability.

He was only ten when he first ran away, leaving behind a scratchy note with everything Mr. Gold feared and hated about himself brought to his attention. Reminding him of how he left Neal behind in the States when he was too afraid to stay or even try for citizenship. How two wives walked out on him already.

Peter had been as smart about it as he could at his age. He went to a city, spent a night or two in the dumpster before using an obvious passcode to extract a decent amount of money from the LINK machine. He'd lost almost all of it learning how to gamble from filthy tramps before the police were able to track him down.

The Gold boys weren't able to recover after that, because Peter got older and his "problematic attitude" was apparently mirroring his father's too much and too little for the man's liking.

When Mr. Gold announced they'd be moving back to the States, Peter cut the final cord with one syllable. "No."

It had been eleven years in the breakdown for Peter and his father, so it really wasn't surprising that neither of them were entirely ready to let go of the grudge.

Of course, the real issue was that Mr. Gold wanted family and love, but was always self-directed to a fault. It was the desire for family and love that made him miserable, but it was also that desire that gave Peter leverage. So, the past was really quite favorable to him, no matter what issues might be seen to the unacquainted eye.

Felix paused as the exposition unfolded. And when it was through, he asked, "Do you always psychoanalyse everyone?"

"Yes." Peter smirked. "It makes things...bearable."

"Peter, it's your birthday. Take a break." Felix mused with a shake of the head.

Peter didn't see what his birthday had to do with it, but managed to come up with some smart-ass retort in order to have the last word, before opening up his computer to scroll through Netflix himself.

He'd stayed over, leaving for work before breakfast, and hadn't been through the doors again until they returned from New Hampshire. But, of course, the two situations weren't entirely comparable.

Felix wasn't exactly sure how he ended up pressed against the glass door of a shower, ripping denim from Peter's hips. He thought that, maybe, Peter had mentioned something about washing up, but he couldn't be certain.

Peter, on the other hand, knew precisely what he was doing, holding onto either side of Felix's face, bedding his fingers into the other boy's cheeks, shifting them about so he could slide the door open and they could shinny through.

Felix flinched as the water turned on, hot pinpricks drumming against his skin. Peter laughed, adjusting to the heat with more grace. They scrubbed away sweat and grime from themselves and from each other, with soap that was probably too expensive to be so generous with.

It was sensory overload, the thousand streams of water hitting hard- sharp little daggers, the steam that heated their lungs and aided a familiar air to the natural high, the musky smell of pretentious soaps, the twist of sopping, slippery hands on skin, pressing forward and digging nails under the pretense of hygiene.

Then Peter found himself pressed against a ceramic wall, a soapy hand pressing up his abdomen, rising up like steam to his neck and stopped threaded through his hair. The water pressure was almost directly on him, pounding his cheek and running down his jaw.

Digging his nails into Felix's shoulders, Peter pressed the boy in closer, rubbing against him, biting down as Felix's tongue slipped into the concave of his front teeth.

Breaking away, Peter lifted onto his toes, his teeth hitting the folds of skin around the blond's ear. "So tell me," Peter skimmed his fingers into the dip in Felix's back. "Heads or tails?"

Felix's eyes widened for a beat, pupils blackening through the jetstreams pounding onto them. He did nothing to hide the way his eyes fell down Peter's body, landing for an increased amount of time on his upright cock.

He then, through his straight teeth, smiled. "Heads."

And his knees hit the ground along with the pounding from the showerhead.

Peter felt his stomach quiver, raking a hand up Felix's face, thumb playing at his scar, damn near cooing, "Good boy."

Felix wrapped his fingers around Peter, slowly, flicking water around in the glass and ceramic cell they'd locked themselves in, retracting excess skin further, eliciting a warbling sound mixing in with the pounding water. With a held breath, he ran his lips in a quick circle, tongue tentatively skirting over sopping skin, eyes glued to Peter in attempt to monitor the reactions.

He gaped his mouth and attempted to fit his lips over Peter's head, but the hand in his hair shoved him back.

"Watch the teeth."

Felix's cheeks tinted red through the water, "I don't know what I'm doing."

Peter rolled his eyes, giving impatient instructions that came off more like orders - flatten tongue, hollow cheeks, open wider, -not that Felix minded. On the contrary, he memorized every word; hell or high water, he'd learn.

The water pressure seemed to increase, poking holes through their skin. Peter settled his shoulders against the wall, water catching on his eyelashes and dripping off his nose, pressing his hips forward, fronts of his legs against hot shoulders and the waterfalls that fell off the slope.

"Go on," He raked his hands through the hair darkened by water. "Don't you want to?"

He watched as the breath shot out of Felix, trembling in the collar, shaking on his knees.

And then lips wrapped around him again, careful and perhaps providing too much of a buffer. His tongue started in, dragging along, trying to mimic what Peter had done the night previous. Peter prompted him along, pouring soap onto the mop of blond hair and skimming his hands through it, the pads of his fingers and edge of his nails scraping into Felix's scalp.

Felix proved to be a fast learner, if not still a bit tentative and sloppy. But one couldn't exactly critique skill with a tongue drawing little circles against skin, with the air hot and humid. The water hundreds of little hands punching his skin while that tongue slipped along, absorbing precome with a low heady vibrato.

Peter felt lips move in over him, slowly, centimetre by centimetre. He against the wall, pushing hips forward, rubbing soap out of Felix's hair.

There was a tiny pull on him, caught up in the walls of a mouth closing over him, an uncomfortable and unintentional pinch of teeth, and Peter buckled over. His chest curved over the head as it twisted and tossed about, his hips canting forward at the tongue's increased audacity.

He stayed down, bent over Felix's head, breathing heavy in his ear as the streams of water hit his back. He issued a command every now and then, an increase in tongue or suction, waiting only a split second for Felix to eagerly oblige.

It took a while, but Peter hit the back of Felix's throat, mostly by his own design, with a jerk to the hip. The boy spluttered, trying not to choke, withdrawing. Peter might have been able to sigh aggravatedly, had Felix not been moving his tongue over and under and around, cutting into the tip.

Electrocuted and upright, Peter's head slammed into the wall when he came. He hit hard and, for a few seconds, saw stars in addition to the trembling and prickling rushing through his veins. The steam blurred but the streaks in the glass door were textile and clear, the pricks of light dotting in and out as he blinked.

He turned back as Felix rose to his feet again, watching the boy's throat bob up and down as he swallowed audibly through the harsh percussion of the shower. Peter didn't mean to, but he practically beamed as his chest heaved, crushing his lips back to Felix's, feeling their swell and tasting salt.

"Told you." Still feathery from orgasm, Peter laughed into Felix's teeth. "Slut."

Felix pressed him against the wall again, pecking over both Peter's lips before favoring and biting on the bottom. He smiled, teasing in his own way. "Halfway, at least."

Trivia:

I had to rewrite the entire shower scene. It was originally a masturbation fantasy and since they already hooked up (and I didn't want another fucking flashback) didn't think it really made sense. Plus since Felix is inexperienced, he wouldn't be the king of deepthroat as fantasy!Felix was so...yeah. Entirely re-written.

The idea of sticking Peter into the Gold family as Mr. Gold's son was one I piggybacked off paintingoncobwebs. Felt like I needed to credit her...