Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1095262.
  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
  Character:
      Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Henry_Mills_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Felix_(Once
      Upon_a_Time), Mentioned_Wendy_Darling_(Once_Upon_A_Time)
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Fairytale_AU, Peter_POV, The_Lost_Boys_Are_A_Gang, Christmas_fic,
      Semi-Public_Sex, Bathroom_Sex, Ambiguously_Underage
  Series:
      Part 6 of Miles_And_Miles
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-22 Words: 2083
****** Heavy In My Soul ******
by rory_the_dragon
Summary
     Peter's got Henry pressed up against the sink in Wendy’s tiny
     bathroom, uncovered light flickering and swinging above them, and the
     sounds of the party outside leaking through the cracks around the
     door, which means the soft moans Peter's coaxing out of Henry can
     almost definitely be heard, but Henry is alcoholwarm under his hands,
     lips rubbed red with the spiked punch from the kitchen and there’s
     frosting smeared in the left corner of his mouth so Peter thinks he
     can be forgiven for his lack of restraint.
     (Or: the one with The Lost Boys' Christmas party.)
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.
     Wendy/Felix is also an established background relationship.
     Set after Take Me Home, Where To Go, Early Morning Sun, and Seek You
     Out. I think. I'm going to have to sort out the timeline at some
     point.
     Henry is 17 and Peter is 21.
 
Peter's got Henry pressed up against the sink in Wendy’s tiny bathroom,
uncovered light flickering and swinging above them, and the sounds of the party
outside leaking through the cracks around the door, which means the soft moans
Peter's coaxing out of Henry can almost definitely be heard, but Henry is
alcoholwarm under his hands, lips rubbed red with the spiked punch from the
kitchen and there’s frosting smeared in the left corner of his mouth so Peter
thinks he can be forgiven for his lack of restraint.
Henry’s laughing into his mouth, mouth open, wet, hands warm and slightly damp
at Peter’s cheeks like he can’t not be holding onto him, and Peter would
happily drown in him, chasing his mouth through his drunken giggles, licking
into the taste of his mouth until Henry’s fucking humming against him, eyes
half-shut and lazy. He tastes like goddamn cinnamon.
Henry’s nails scrape at the nape of his neck, desperate, the only point of
contact between them that isn’t soft as they trade sloppy kisses, punchdrunk
and warm.
Peter’s still marginally sober, but Henry’s been giddy for a while now,
courtesy of Wendy and her deadly as sin punch she concocts every year. Better
men than Henry have fallen to it. They've all had years to build up some
semblance of immunity to it, or at the very least learnt to say no when Wendy,
gleeful, offers you a third mug. But this is Henry's first time, first
Christmas with them.
It's their first Christmas together.
Peter had watched from Wendy's crappy couch as Henry's gestures had gotten
larger and wilder, his cheeks flushing brighter, his laugh growing louder, more
infectious, completely distracted from whatever conversation he was having with
Felix until he'd eventually found himself with a lapful of his drunken
boyfriend, wrapped up in the most hideous sweater Peter’s ever seen and looking
like dessert with wide eyes and a wider smile just for Peter.
It hadn't taken long for Henry to get handsy, less time for Peter to grow hard
in his jeans from the attention Henry was giving his neck, sloppy kisses and
scraping teeth, even less for Felix's smirk to grow beyond bearing and for
Peter to hitch Henry up around his hips and take him out.
"More trouble that you're worth," He gets out, bites down on Henry's bottom
lip, sucks on it until Henry's keening, ridiculously sensitive right now, and
Peter swallows the sound, chases it until he’s got a hand threaded through
Henry’s hair, can feel Henry pulling him in closer, closer, heels digging into
the small of his back.
“Liar,” Henry draws back to say, face breaking into a grin so wide that it
dimples his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. Peter’s ninety per cent certain that
Henry’s just looking at a Peter-shaped blur, but something in his eyes is still
sharp, focused, even as he sways happily back in to Peter’s mouth, and Peter
catches him, tips his head, drinking him in.
His other hand works its way under Henry’s hideous jumper, slipping beneath the
shirt beneath and pressing against the curve of Henry’s spine. Henry’s skin is
damp, too warm, slick against Peter’s hand.
“Watch where you’re putting your hands,” Henry admonishes, pulling away far
enough to frown at him, face breaking out in a ridiculous smile before he can
even fully manage it. Fuck, Henry’s an adorable drunk, Peter’s going to have to
get Wendy a better present.
He grins. “I am,” and moves his hand to rest against Henry’s belt buckle.
fingertips pushing at the small gap of flesh between his jeans and his jumper.
Henry groans, and Peter takes the opportunity of his exposed neck to mouth at
the not-quite-neck, not-quite-shoulder crease, scrape his teeth across the
skin.
“There’s…” Henry starts, cuts himself off with a choked sound Peter would kill
several men to hear replicated. “There’s a party going on about six feet away.”
He finishes but it doesn’t really hold much weight when he’s helping Peter lift
the monstrosity of a jumper - who on earth dressed him this morning? - up and
over his head, throwing it into the corner of the tiny bathroom.
“You could try being quiet for once?” Peter suggests, laughs when Henry’s
already red cheeks darken and he slaps at his chest. “Or not. Doesn’t matter to
me. But if I don’t get my hand around your cock in the next thirty seconds then
I’m going to scream.”
It’s only fair to give him warning, Peter feels.
Most, if not all, of his Lost Boys are in the next room, the music’s not loud
enough to cover anything, and Peter’s pretty sure that Wendy’s going to figure
out where they’ve gone in about three minutes and come banging on the door, but
he couldn’t give less of a fuck right now when Henry makes a deep noise of
approval and widens his legs, leans back to give Peter access as his fingers
make quick work of Henry’s buckle, button, zip, until he’s pulling them down,
boxers and all, to Henry’s thighs and fuck if Peter’s ever seen anything hotter
than Henry Mills spread across Wendy’s sink, lips absolutely destroyed and eyes
trained on Peter like a challenge. He looks fucking debauched, and Peter’s
hardly done anything yet.
That doesn’t last long. As soon as Peter’s fingers tighten around his cock,
Henry’s arching, hands shooting out to scrabble at Peter’s shoulders, his back,
and Peter could get drunk off of this, of the way Henry goes pliant in his arms
like he trusts him, the way he stretches his neck up to muffle his moans
against Peter’s mouth and Peter swallows every one, twists his hand up until
Henry makes a too-loud noise, bucks up into Peter’s hand.
Henry’s warm and solid in his hand, and Peter breaks away from Henry’s mouth to
duck his head, watch as Henry’s cock disappear over and over and over again
between his fingers, the pale skin of his abdomen and thighs flooding with a
fresh tinge of burning pink, muscles spasming as his hips cant. Peter slips his
other hand around Henry’s waist, holds him steady, grounds him, always always
so shocked when Henry calms to his touch, and rests his forehead against
Henry’s open collar, pushes his skin into the sweat collecting there.
“Fuck, Henry,” is all he can manage.
Henry’s panting, hot, wet gasps of breath against Peter’s ear, and his
fingertips are leaving bruises in the flesh of Peter’s shoulders. His hips are
rocking into Peter’s grip and when Peter finally lifts his head up, his eyes
are dilated, smudged with need and Peter’s going to come, untouched, just at
the sight of him if he doesn’t get his act together right now.
He releases Henry, tries to ignore the utterly wrecked sound of protest Henry
makes and fails, scrabbling blindly for the snap on his own jeans as he presses
off-angle kisses to Henry’s mouth. He’s been hard since Henry started fooling
around on the couch, and he hisses as he frees himself from his boxers, takes
both of them in hand. His hand isn’t really wide enough, but the friction of
sliding against Henry, messy and without rhythm, is unbeatable.
It’d be embarrassing how little time it takes for Peter to shudder, bite down
on Henry’s neck and come like it’s painful, like he’s dying, if he didn’t make
sure Henry got there first, drawing Henry’s orgasm out of him until Henry
shouts, loud, too loud, and slants into Peter, drunk and wrung out.
That...got out of hand, very quickly.
Wendy is going to kill them.
Peter mutters this into Henry’s sweat-slick hair, feels Henry laugh weakly
against him. They don’t move for a good thirty seconds, breathing heavily
against each other until the sweat on the back of Peter’s neck cools in the
air. His shirt is absolutely ruined, Henry’s too, they really should have
thought this through better.
He unbuttons Henry’s shirt, taking it off of Henry’s shoulders without
assistance because Henry’s still in the dazed post-orgasm stage and Peter’s not
about to ruin that, and strips off his own shirt. He crumples them together
into a ball and throws them into the laundry bin, not moving from his position
of propping Henry up until Henry’s able to get his legs under him, slide down
to the floor. They button themselves up in silence, as if being quiet now can
make up for the fact that everyone in the party outside has definitely heard
them, but Henry catches Peter’s eye and grins, sheepish, and Peter’s laughing
before he can stop himself.
Peter’s never felt so deliriously happy before Henry, and it still catches him
somewhere around the middle every time he realises just what Henry does to him.
Henry jumper is salvageable, recovered from where they abandoned it, and Henry
slips it on, looks up at Peter and says, “Well?” as if he doesn’t very well
know that he looks like a trainwreck of sex and alcohol, hair mussed beyond
saving and lips bruised red, Peter’s teeth marks at his neck. He’s not swaying
as much as before, sobering up, Peter hopes, because a hangover courtesy of
Wendy’s punch is a fate he wishes on no one.
Just for a second Peter wishes they were anywhere else but here, wishes he
could stretch Henry out across his bed for rounds two and three, keep him there
til morning and wake up with him Christmas day, wishes he didn't have to give
him back.
Maybe Henry senses the change in mood, because he pulls Peter back in by his
belt loops, and the kid's getting taller, Peter doesn't have to duck his head
as much as he used to at the beginning. The kiss is soft, chaste, and it
lingers on Peter's lips even after Henry pulls away, rubs his nose against
Peter's, and Peter’s hand darts up to clasp at the back of Henry’s neck, hold
him there so Peter can breathe.
“Go on,” He whispers after a while, after his breathing and Henry’s have synced
up. “I need to find a shirt. Felix should have one around here somewhere.”
“So you’re throwing me to the wolves?” Henry jokes, just as soft, and Peter’s
lips quirk.
“Just a bit.”
“Traitor.”
“Lost Boy,” He corrects, lets Henry go with one last brush of their lips.
He waits twenty seconds, until he can hear the wolf-whistles and cat-calls that
mean Henry’s re-entered the main room, smiles when he imagines the blush that
will be scorching across his boy’s cheeks, and slips out of the bathroom,
heading further back into the apartment until he finds Wendy’s room.
It’s dark, quiet, and smells of Wendy’s washing powder, and it’s so
ridiculously comforting that his knees give out under him and he sinks down
onto the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look up until a shadow falls across his
face, the dim light of the door blocked out, and he looks up to see Felix
propped against the doorframe, silent.
It’s remarkable how much Peter can breathe in the presence of Felix.
The shirt of Felix’s he’s found hangs between his hands, and he holds it up.
“Do you mind?”
Felix waves a hand.
“Thanks.”
“Boss?” Peter looks up. Felix is watching him carefully, like he’s about to
explode any second, shudder and tremble his way off the edge. “Happy
Christmas.”
Peter can’t stop the quiet huff of laughter he exhales, hangs his head for a
second before lifting it again, and Felix is smiling, slight in the darkness,
but it's there. Because there's never been a time that Felix couldn't look at
Peter and see what was wrong. From the Boys' Home to the streets to now, Felix
just knows Peter. Knows when to hold him back and when to turn him loose, when
to speak and when to be silent. And right now, 'Happy Christmas' is all Peter
needs to hear to quell the rising ocean in his chest, soothe the edges Henry
alwaysalways exposes, turn the tide of panic into a simple buzzing of simple,
absolutely normal, pre-present nerves.
Peter nods, stands. "Alright." He claps a hand to Felix's shoulder, holds it
there, and Felix rests his hand on the back of Peter's neck, steadying him.
There is a key wrapped in ribbon in Peter’s back pocket, and a boy in the other
room who’s waiting for it.
Peter can do this.
 
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