Trying Hard Not To Fall

He’s having a heart attack. No he’s not, August has the most open expression and smile and Peter is a huge sucker. For a moment he’d wished he’d say no so he doesn’t have to live this giant fucking reach of an excuse to see him more, but it’s worth it. Hopefully. “Really?” Time to find an ASL class. “I – thanks. Um. I’ll text you?”

Immediately he frowns, even he’s definitely joking around, he didn’t like the deprecation. “You know, you’re incredible.” And too far. Way, way too far. What’s worse is he has no idea what he’d stopped him for, so if he wants to avoid becoming one with the Starbucks Holiday Cups he has to think of something. It probably shouldn’t have been the first thing to come to mind. “I um, I’m taking an ASL class next semester,” oh no, “and I was wondering if you could tutor me? If you have time.”

He’s run out of reasons to keep him there. They’ve cycled through cookies, Christmas specials, Die Hard, and the sun had set long ago. It’s not as if he’s dissatisfied in the slightest; there’s nothing more he can ask for spending a quiet Christmas at home with his brother and dog and August, leaving thing with a slight flush of happiness (despite the weather taking away the possibility of it being cold). Still, he’s leaving, and while he doesn’t jump up from his spot he does run a high risk of tripping when he gets up while he’s almost completely into the hallway. “Hey, um, can I ask you a favor?” 

“Thank you.” After a moment he lets out a snort, suddenly. “I hope you don’t mind cheesy and cliche, because…” Shaking his head, he focuses on August’s shy smile, then pointedly doesn’t and goes to decorate his other cookies. “Alright. I’m done putting you to work, I swear.”

He’s fucked up a couple times, forgetting to face him and now this. It’s like the feeling in his chest tightens right along with August’s smile, but Peter’s quick to recover. “Fuck you,” he says, this apparently being his recovery, “would you make prints?” His words direct him to the ‘less complicated designs,’ zooming in on one or two and admiring the clarity and fine detail, finding the direction of the piece and letting his eyes follow. People’s choice of their own pieces as well as the piece itself said a lot about who they were, even if it wasn’t something private. He’s trying to understand him, now. “I’m serious. It’s beautiful.” 

He remembers last time, August saving little things in his phone and him taking a picture of his cookie design almost lets him slip out a thanks. Vaguely, he wonders if he still had whatever he’d said saved – - probably not, if he’s being realistic. Peter takes the phone, tapping on the image so he can look at the details as well as the whole picture, taking in defined lines and intricate patterns that he knows must’ve taken a lot of focus yet come off effortless and clean. Purposeful. “Oh. Fuck. This is – - ” He stops, remembering to face him, pushing aside temporary embarrassment as he realizes he’d forgotten himself looking into the work. Try not to gape, Pete. “Were these your designs?”

The coo brings back some of his pride – - he’d gone for something cute, and the response keeps him happy, sliding the cookie over to August as an offer. He punches him in the arm companionably, a playful glare sent his way. “Oh, please. That looks fantastic and we both know it,” he scolds, emphasis on ‘both.’ “You should show me some of the tattoos you’ve done, if you have those around.”

He’s probably cheating, calling on muscle memory as he draws Daisy, tongue lolled out and looking happily up at him in icing form. The holiday theme falls on a Santa hat and a green dotted background, and Peter spends too much time trying to get the right shade of gray for her fur. “I like it,” he says with a shrug, happy smile on his face. “How’s yours?” He cuts himself off, then, while his eyes slide over to August’s cookie. “Okay. I believe you now, this is ridiculous.”

The blush and grin combo makes him feel like he’s won something, tucking the look into the back of his mind as the other turns to making the frosting. For now, he scoffs at the jibe, feeling like he’s gonna buzz out of his skin. “Don’t you worry about me.” As soon as the frosting’s done, he probably brushes his fingers against August’s a little too often, swiping his finger through it and tasting it with mischief in mind. Still, he’s focused on his mixing, still trying to impress the other in some way.

At that he only hums, looking doubtful. “Sure, you just make permanent art on peoples’ skin that they wear forever. Not gonna bring up the whole ‘human canvas’ thing, but hey. Not that impressive.” He’ll be damned if he lets it go completely, and he wants to lay it on thick, but his paranoia’s got him wondering where is ‘too far.’ Honestly, if he presses, he probably will. August and art is too strong of a combination. “Holiday themed, of course.” He divides the cookies between them, a competitive glint in his eye. “Gotta fit in with the atmosphere.”

He’s shaking his head, regretfully. “I’ve got a good memory for that kind of thing – - ” and, whoops, because that basically confesses that yes, Peter remembers everything from the last time they spoke, “and tattoo artist? Definitely would’ve remembered that.” He smirks a moment, beginning to mix for the frosting. “I’ll take a nicely iced cookie as repayment for not telling me until now.”

Eyes lighting up with a few thoughts in mind, he breathes out a laugh and hears his heart in his ears. “I didn’t know that.” He knows. He definitely would’ve remembered. “And now you’re gonna have to impress me, Mr. Tattoo Artist.” The hip check catches him by surprise, and he response with nudging him with his shoulder. “I’m trying to inspire creativity.”

“Pfft, obviously not,” he interjects, popping the last of the cookie in his mouth and nodding to Daisy. “Spoiling Daisy too.” It’s the one thing he has, but he does have food coloring, more for art than cooking but nonetheless. He pulls it down from the cabinet, grinning at August as he sets it out. “I’m gonna get completely carried away with the icing. I’m warning you now, for your own sanity. That being said, if I do end up taking way too long you can, I don’t know. Something.”

Cute, Peter thinks, as he pats at his lap to get Daisy to him, up and away from the hot oven. She isn’t used to it as it’s barely used, and he scratches at her ears again, silently thanking her for being a wingman. Standing, he eventually joins August and takes a bite from one, closing his eyes and nodding. “That’s good. I’m keeping you to bake.” 

August smiles again and he shouldn’t feel like preening, and yet there he is, grinning like the lamest person on the face of the Earth. He isn’t surprised, really. He did find him incredibly badass though, even though he’s pulling off a mixture of hipster-nerd right now with his sweater and glasses. Peter wonders how they slot together in life, in the long run. He really hopes there’s a long run. “Very true. Which is especially why I’m not denying you of it.” He smiles at the two, happy-drunk on the fact that August seemed to adore her practically as much as Peter did. “She’s gonna get so spoiled around you.” 

“Very true,” Peter says, nodding sagely. “I’m already overwhelmed.” This is starting, or rather started awhile ago, to venture into flirting, and he doesn’t know where to stop. It was just how they talked to each other, because that edging towards oh-shit in his gut is a familiar feeling. “You say that now, but you’ll get a face full of puppy slobber and I’ll probably laugh. Can’t argue with extra Daisy-loving, though.” 

“Nice of them.” It’s nice, seeing him talk about his family. Just as before he seems so incredibly fond of them, it’s pretty adorable. “Still, I could see you being all badass with your lizards and snakes and motorcycle.” August, he thinks, has a beautiful smile. It’s not the first time he’s thought it, and thankfully won’t be the last. He clears his throat, looking back to Daisy who he has to convince himself that she isn’t judging him. “Warning though, she’s a jumper when she gets really excited. She can knock you down mid-step.”