#fairy!peter

I don’t think you understand. I could write books on this. Thank you so much.

-

“I need to piss,” Tony states to a dozen drunken cheers. The party has devolved by now, though the fire still roars with upcoming college graduates pulling all manner of flammables from the woods around them and tossing it into the flames. Empty bottles crack in the heat, cast away by drunken hands, and Tony is no less drunk than any of them. 

He stumbles away from the crowd around the fire and disappears into the treeline, shivering once away from the blaze of the fire that has cooked him. It’s a testament to his intoxication that he must only plan to step far enough away from the party to urinate in peace, but suddenly he finds himself falling in love with everything he sees: trees with arms full of hopeful buds, reaching out to each other overhead, a stream that wets his boots when he walks through it, the stones round and smooth and perfect for skipping. When he comes across the clearing, lit only in moonlight, he realizes he can’t hear the sound of the party at all anymore. 

Curled up in the grass is a boy, maybe a man, though a young one certainly. He’s pale, silvery in the moon, curls dark and riotous, a crown fit for a prince. His hands are long-fingered and placed palm-to-palm, cushioning his head where he rests in the soft grass above the circle of foxglove plants. Tony creeps closer and stands, listening to the silence of spring just born, a season not yet prime for the chirp of crickets or call of cicadas. The boy’s mouth is soft and parted, his lashes long and dark.

From this distance, Tony can’t tell if the boy is breathing. He must be one of theirs, a friend of a friend that Tony doesn’t know, come out into the woods to piss just like Tony has only maybe too drunk to find his way back. Tony steps into the circle and kneels in the soft grass, putting a hand just in front of the boy’s face and sighing in relief when he feels warm puffs of breath. 

“Hey,” Tony murmurs, putting a hand on the kid’s bare shoulder. The skin is soft but cold, too cold. He shakes gently. “Hey, are you okay?” 

Bleary eyes open and grow wide. The boy sits up, Tony’s height but no taller, thin and willowy all over. “Oh,” the kid says. “What are you doing here?” 

“That’s my line,” Tony replies. 

“I’m right where I’m meant to be,” the kid replies. He sits up, and the grass beneath him isn’t rumpled at all in the shape where he lay. Tony blinks, trying to sober himself. A smile creeps across the boy’s face, and the moonlight plays tricks on Tony’s eyes and makes him think those teeth are just a hair too long and sharp. “Oh, you’re very handsome, do you know?” 

“I do know,” Tony says. “But thanks for saying it anyway. Should we go back to the party?” 

“The party is here,” the boy says dreamily. “Why not stay?” 

Tony hums. He sits cross-legged, feeling no urgency to return to his friends. “Maybe you’re right. You know, you’re very handsome too.” 

“Am I?” he asks, delighted.

“Yes. A little underdressed, I think. Aren’t you cold?”

“Oh, cold all over,” the boy says. “Inside and outside.” 

Frowning, Tony kneels up to peel the hoodie from his body. The boy watches with thoughtful, wary eyes. When Tony hands it to him, he takes it with the utmost caution, lifting it to his face and inhaling deeply. He glances up at Tony, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What is this?” he asks. 

“A jacket for you. It’s too cold to not have a shirt on.” 

The kid’s face softens into something tender, though the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones are loathe to display it. With movements graceful but slow and maybe a touch unsure, he shrugs his willowy arms into the sweatshirt. It dwarfs him, especially when he pulls up the hood over his curls, hiding his fingers in the sleeves and asks, “How do I look?” 

“Warm,” Tony says, smiling. 

Reaching out, soft fingers touch Tony’s cheek. “You should go back to the party,” the boy says, soft and sad and sweet. 

“Should I?” Tony asks, feeling a little like he’s in a dream. The boy reaches out and coaxes Tony to walk backwards on his knees where he still kneels, walks him back and back until he’s outside of the circle. For a moment, Tony aches to step back in, to curl up in that soft grass and sleep among the dirt, curled around this handsome, strange boy. But the moment passes. He really should get back to his friends. Standing, Tony says,” Alright. See you there. I want that hoodie back, by the way. Promise you won’t steal it?”

The kid’s lips part, a long breath slipping from beneath them. At last, he nods. “Alright. Promise. Go on then. Go straight back.” 

-

Peter watches the human disappear through the treeline, makes sure that the path in front of him doesn’t twist and turn and mislead, before he lays back down among the soft grass and breathes in the scent of the clothing he’s donned: earthy smoke, human sweat. Fingering the soft fabric, he frowns, knowing that this isn’t the last he’s seen of the human boy. 

Death wasn't as frightening as everyone seemed to think it was. As a fairy it was almost impossible for you to die (Immortal beings tended to be hard to kill) but there were always ways and whilst most fairies feared the fact that they could die, Tony felt almost accepting of it. It seemed fitting that Tony would die in the cold considering people always called him cold hearted, whispering behind closed doors about how his new blue heart was just representing who he was on the outside - a cold, mechanical fairy. If he truly wanted to, Tony was sure he could come up with a way out this - he wasn't a tinker for nothing after all - but as the frost sank in, Tony's mind felt more numb. His wings lay folded against the snow and Tony closed his eyes and waited for the warm embrace from death. Instead, he was greeted by a yelp as someone tripped over him.

Tony sat up in shock, his hand flying to hold his ribs where the fairy (Who had been walking, may he add) had tripped over him when he had been ready for death. Any sarcastic comment died on his lips when he saw the winter fairy sit up, a pile of snow on chocolate curls, rose pink lips twitching as if he was fighting off a smile and his wings fluttering in obvious delight. He was beautiful. Tony had to have him.

Tony's fingers gripped tighter into the snow as his beautiful boys smile died when he saw the state Tony was in.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here!”

Tony was then scooped up like a child as the fairy started to fly quickly to the border. When he reached the border he flew across, placing Tony gently on the grass, only stopping for a moment the run a hand through it with a look of amazement on his face before he zoomed back to the border and stopped.

“Don't you think you should call someone?”, he asked Tony, biting his lip.

“Nah, I should be fine now that I'm back in pixie hollow.”

The boy sighed, hopefully in relief.

“Good...good.”

The boy turned away to go but Tony couldn't just leave it like that.

“I'm Tony, well Antony, but everyone calls me Tony-”

“I'm Peter.”

The boy, Peter, helpfully cut in before Tony could make a bigger fool of himself.

“Meet me here tomorrow?”

Peter blushed prettily and stuttered, “Sure.”

I love this omg 😭😭😭