Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1082836.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Henry_Mills_/_Peter_Pan, Very_Background_Felix_/_Wendy
  Character:
      Henry_Mills_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Wendy
      Darling_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Felix_(Once_Upon_a_Time)
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Fairytale_AU, Peter_POV, The_Lost_Boys_Are_A_Gang, Oral_Sex, Shower
      Sex, Ambiguously_Underage
  Series:
      Part 4 of Miles_And_Miles
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-14 Words: 2392
****** Early Morning Sun ******
by rory_the_dragon
Summary
     Peter...Peter should not be freaking out right now. By every law in
     every universe, Henry should be the one whose bones are flooding with
     panic, who can’t decide whether to run or to hide, who physically
     cannot say good morning to the boy in his bed, not Peter. Peter’s had
     plenty of morning-afters; snuck out of a few, kicked a few out, let
     some just happen because he was too tired to do anything else. Peter
     knows morning-afters.
     This is Henry’s first.
     (Or: the morning after the night before.)
Notes
     This work is set in the Miles and Miles universe an all human, no
     fairytale universe which still takes place in Storybrooke. The Lost
     Boys are a gang. Peter and Henry are in an established relationship.
     Background Felix/Wendy mentioned at the end.
     Set after Take Me Home and Where To Go, before Seek You Out.
     Henry is 17 and Peter is 21.
 
Peter is still shaking.
Henry sleeps on, oblivious, tucked under Peter’s arm and curled into his side
like a dormouse, steady, sleepy breaths fanning out across Peter’s chest, and
Peter can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the slow up, down of his fingertips as
they trace lightly across Henry’s exposed arm, can’t stop the rapid tapping of
his other hand against his headboard.
His breath is tight in his chest, heavy, as if something’s sitting on him,
crushing him, and very few things in Peter’s life scare him, but lying in dirty
sheets with a naked Henry Mills pressed tight against him in the early hours of
morning terrifies him beyond words.
He feels it when Henry wakes up, the tiny shift in his breathing, the sudden
tenseness in all of his muscles when he realises exactly where he is. Peter
freezes, honestly doesn’t know what to expect, never knows what to expect with
Henry.
He blinks when Henry just exhales softly, head rolling backwards so he can find
Peter’s face, and smiles sleepily up at him. “Hey.”
Peter...Peter should not be freaking out right now. By every law in every
universe, Henry should be the one whose bones are flooding with panic, who
can’t decide whether to run or to hide, who physically cannot say good morning
to the boy in his bed, not Peter. Peter’s had plenty of morning-afters; snuck
out of a few, kicked a few out, let some just happen because he was too tired
to do anything else. Peter knows morning-afters. This is Henry’s first.
Fuck, this is Henry’s first.
Peter is going to hell.
“Peter?” Henry’s voice is quiet, a small crease starting to form between his
eyebrows, and Peter can see it the second he's fucked up because Henry's face
drains. "Did...Did I do something wrong?"
And that...that is just perfect, honestly. Henry is the most precocious kid
Peter's met, and in a matter of seconds Peter's found his insecurity and
twisted a knife into it. This is why Peter needs to be kept away from important
things like Henry, because he reaches out and he breaks them and Henry should
never be broken.
"No," He says, and it comes out fierce, the hand tracing idle patterns on
Henry's shoulder clamping down hard. "Don't be ridiculous."
No, this is all Peter.
The dread in Henry's face lifts, only to be replaced by an angry flush high in
his cheeks. "I'm not being ridiculous." He sits up, looking down at Peter, and
Peter hasn't been young for years, robbed of it, but in this moment he feels
like a child. He can't move. "This was the best morning of my life and I got to
enjoy three seconds of it before you started freaking out!" Because of course
Henry can read him like a book. Peter hasn't known how to hide anything from
Henry for a while now.
Henry pushes away, making to get up, but somewhere along the way his anger
dissipates and he stops, perched on the edge of Peter's bed, still, rests his
head in his hands. The bow of his spine is taut and all Peter wants to do is
run his fingertips up the ridges, follow it with his mouth.
He's been an idiot. Best morning of my life rings in his ears, and it's true,
so undeniably true. Peter might have spent it a nervous breath's edge away from
a panic attack, but waking up to Henry in his bed, feeling the soft beat of his
heart through his ribs, pressed against Peter's skin...Peter can't remember
ever being happy the way that made him happy.
Such an idiot.
He slides across the bed, silent, presses up against Henry's back and holds
himself back to just a soft kiss to the join of Henry's shoulder, noses at his
hair. He doesn't say sorry but Henry hears it anyway, lifts his head up and
leans back into Peter.
"You don't regret it?" Peter asks, breathes, hooking his chin over Henry's
shoulder. His hands settle on the warm bare skin of Henry’s stomach.
Henry exhales, knocks his head against Peter’s. “Should I?”
Peter doesn’t say I hope not, can’t say anything because the only way he knows
how to use his words is to hurt, to seduce, to twist them into weapons and
target the softest part of a person, and he hasn’t done that with Henry, not
when it matters, so he just presses more kisses against Henry’s skin, harder
and frantic as he climbs the curve of Henry’s neck, the delicate skin behind
his ear, until Henry makes a noise in the back of his throat and angles his
head around to catch Peter’s mouth.
Henry’s mouth tastes rough, early morning grit, and Peter knows his doesn’t
taste much better, but neither of them are complaining as Henry turns his body
around to accommodate the position, all but crawls into Peter’s lap and...it’s
very different, kissing Henry unclothed. More to touch, to run his hands over,
harder to hold back from ducking his head, kissing his way down Henry’s chest.
Maybe Henry should regret it, should regret letting Peter into his life with
such an open heart and smile that Peter still doesn’t understand how Henry
hasn’t gotten hurt yet, how no one’s taken advantage of it. Maybe Henry should
regret Peter, and maybe one day he will. But it’s not today, not yet, Henry’s
in his arms right now, kissing him like there’s no where else he’d rather be,
so Peter’ll take what he can.
“Shower,” Henry gasps out after Peter’s reclaimed his mouth again, biting down
on his bottom lip, reddening it, and Peter takes a moment to be thoroughly
confused before Henry continues, “I’ve got school.”
School. Of course Henry’s got school. Because Peter’s life is just that
ridiculous.
Peter groans, rests his head against Henry’s collarbone. “Skip.”
“I’ve got a test,” And, no, Henry’s moving, swinging off of Peter’s lap,
standing and stretching in the cold of Peter’s bedroom, and none of this is
convincing Peter why Henry shouldn’t stay. Then, “Coming?" Henry pads away out
of his bedroom and Peter can be incredibly stupid sometimes, more so when it
comes to Henry, but he can spot an invitation when he’s handed one.
It’s a bad idea, it’s such a bad idea, because Henry’s got school and Peter has
things to do as well, and everyone everywhere knows that when two people shower
together, it saves neither time nor water, and Henry knows this, Peter can see
it in the grin he levels up at him when Peter crowds him under the hot water,
because Henry’s naked in the daylight, all the long lines of him, and he’s got
Peter’s marks on his neck, his hips, his wrists, and does anyone really expect
Peter to be able to resist that?
Henry hisses when Peter presses him against the cold tiles, bites down on his
ear in retaliation, and there isn’t really enough room in Peter’s tiny shower
cubicle, but Peter goes to his knees. Henry’s been hard since the bedroom, but
Peter ignores him in favour of pressing sloppy kisses to his hips, the crease
of his thighs, nosing around but not quite giving Henry what he wants. Fuck,
he's going to make this so good for him.
“I’m going to be so late,” is all Henry says, laughs, and Peter wants to catch
the sound in his mouth, settles instead for parting his lips around the head,
sucking half the length into his mouth without warning, hears Henry cry out. He
doesn’t grin, only because it’s difficult to bob his head with a smile.
He’d say this is one of his favourite things to do in bed, if the memory of
Henry sprawled out beneath him, legs hooked up and neck arching wasn’t still
fresh in his mind, seared into his brain.
"I'm- ah - going to slip."
Peter pulls off with a wethot snap. "So hold onto something, Mills."
And Henry does, hands flying out, frantic, scrabbling at the tiles when Peter
licks a wet stripe along the underside of his cock, hanging off the door as
Peter opens his throat, takes the warm and heavy weight of him further, further
in, until he finally comes to rest and steadies himself by burying his hands in
Peter's hair. Peter holds a hand against the curve of Henry's calf, just in
case, and is glad he had the foresight to because just then Henry's hands twist
around his hair and he can't stop the moan that shudders out of him, around
Henry.
Henry's thigh spasms and Peter knows he's close, flicks his tongue and that's
it folks, show’s over, Henry's shouts echoing back to them off the cubicle
walls as Peter swallows around him.
He drags his mouth off, slow, as Henry leans against the tiles, expression
wiped out, and Peter grins, smug, reaches down between his legs to finish
himself off and when he comes it's enough to knock him sideways, rest his head
against Henry's thigh and breathe.
Henry's hands are still in Peter's hair, lightly carding through, almost
unconscious, and Peter has to disentangle himself before he can stand, tip his
head back into the shower head and slick his hair out of his eyes. Henry's
still coming out of it so he presses a quick kiss to his temple and reaches for
the shampoo, squeezing a dollop out of his hands and running it through Henry's
hair.
That pulls him out of it. "I can do my own hair," he grumbles, though some of
the effect is lost as he stands still under Peter's hands, closes his eyes.
"I know," and Peter ducks in and kisses him, gentle until Henry responds with
enthusiasm, and Peter's just about to say fuck everything and keep Henry here
in his shower til the water runs cold when Henry draws back, nose scrunched and
eyes dancing. "You taste awful."
It shocks a laugh out of Peter, deep from his chest, and Henry's face lights up
at the sound. "Fucking teenagers, I swear to god," Peter starts, and Henry
laughs, kisses him.
They finish up - start - washing and only get distracted twice more, moving
around each other as if they’ve been doing the familiar dance for years and it
makes Peter’s chest do something funny, like he’s being carved out, carving
himself out and giving it to Henry, and he’s known for a long time that Henry’s
going to kill him one day, he just didn’t think it’d be this slow, this
welcome.
Henry rushes about after showering, yanking on yesterday’s jeans and stealing a
top of Peter’s without even asking, popping his head through the neck and
daring Peter to say anything. As if Peter’s going to have anything to say about
the way his shirt looks on Henry’s body, neck too large and gaping, showing the
dark bruises Peter left on his collarbone last night, the ones that are still
just blossoming from this morning. Everything about Henry says thoroughly
fucked out and Peter really shouldn’t be letting him out the door like this,
let alone to his school of all places, but it also says property of Peter and
he can’t not like that.
“Got everything?”
Henry’s backpack - and Peter tries very hard to ignore the fact that he’s
dating someone who still uses a backpack for chrissakes - had been abandoned by
the front door as soon as he’d arrived, and he grabs it, slings it over his
shoulder and nods. He looks utterly indecent, and Peter has to put all of his
effort into opening the door and getting out before he decides to lock them
both in for the foreseeable future.
Peter’s hair’s still wet when they get outside, pretty sure his shirt’s inside
out too, but Henry’s really not giving him much of an option to do much about
it, all but pushing him to the car, muttering, “I am so late. It’s not funny,
Peter.”
It is. A little. And Henry’s laughing by the time they pull up outside Henry’s
school gates, so Peter figures he’ll be let off.
“See you later, yeah?” Henry asks, breathless, when they’re both standing
outside the car, letting the swell of students hurrying in part around them,
and Henry really should be gone by now, but he’s looking up at Peter like he’s
x-raying him, trying to find any of the terror that Peter started the morning
off with.
It’s always going to be there. There will never be anything in Peter’s life
more terrifying than Henry Mills, but he kisses him until he’s soothed, slides
his hands into his backpockets and squeezes until Henry’s yelping, swatting at
him, and every frown line is smoothed away.
“See you later,” Peter agrees, and Henry runs off in the final dregs of
students, turns back at the doors. Peter raises a hand in goodbye, and he’s
gone.
Peter is so fucked.
This is it. Henry’s it.
Peter’s fucked.
He drives in a daze, doesn’t realise he’s at Wendy’s crappy apartment block
until the door’s opening and she’s standing in front of him, in ragged pajamas
and bedhead, eyebrow raised and unimpressed.
“Peter, it’s not even fucking nine am, what could possib…” Her voice trails
away when she takes him in, his wet hair, his shirt, the shoes he’s certain
don’t match. She opens the door wider, lets him in.
Peter is the leader of The Lost Boys, but Wendy has never seen him as anything
other than himself. He can go to pieces in front of her.
Felix is lounging in the doorway to Wendy’s bedroom, arms crossed across his
bare chest as he looks at Peter in concern, but he says nothing. Felix has been
his brother since they were five, knows when to push and when to shut up, and
Peter is so monumentally grateful right now as Wendy sits beside him on her
couch, and Felix takes the armchair, still silent.
“I’m fucked,” He says, rests his head in the cradle of his hands.
And Wendy, for all that she can be a raging bitch when she wants to be, and she
so often does, when she speaks, is soft. “You slept with him.”
Peter nods.
He’s still shaking.
 
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