Peter gets home late that evening. It' s Friday, and Liz had kept them late at practice to prepare for regionals, which are next weekend. Skip and the girls have family therapy on Fridays, so Peter takes the train home, expecting to find an empty apartment when he arrives. He ' s looking forward to having the television to himself—there's only so much Peppa Pig a guy can stand — but when he steps through the front door, he's surprised to find Skip on the couch, watching ESPN on mute with a sleeping girl tucked to each side.
Skip makes a shushing sign before Peter can slam the door. Peter catches it; he slips his shoes off before he steps onto the hardwood, then tiptoes closer. Standing over the couch, he can see tear tracks on each of the girls' faces.
" Tough session, " Skip whispers. "We had to cut it short, we've been watching Disney movies all night to get them to calm down. They just fell asleep in the middle of Moana. Can you help me get them to bed?" Peter scoops Emma into his arms, careful not to jostle, while Skip props Lily up on his shoulder. Together they carry them down the hall and place them, fully clothed, in their respective beds. Emma's face scrunches up as Peter sets her down, but she doesn't wake; just rolls over and starts to suck her thumb in her sleep.
He looks up when he senses Skip watching him. Skip nods toward the kitchen. "Are they gonna be okay?" Peter asks, taking a seat at the dining table while Skip rummages in the fridge. He emerges with a beer, takes a long sip before sitting across from Peter and sighing.
" They ' ll be fine, " he says. "Sometimes therapy is like drawing poison out of a wound; it's painful, but necessary. But damn if I don't hate seeing those girls cry." He takes another swig. "Thanks for your help, Peter. I thought I was going to lose feeling in both my arms before you showed up."
"Oh yeah. I'm just glad they're okay."
"They will be. But how are you? You look a little stressed yourself."
Peter shrugs. " It' s just the meet coming up. Even Mr. Harrington is freaking out, because I guess Midtown always qualifies for state, so it's like, upholding a legacy. A lot of pressure, I dunno."
Peter expects Skip to give him the usual spiel about how smart he is, how lucky the decathlon team is to have him—a familiar refrain, by now —but instead, Skip considers Peter for a drawn-out moment, and then slides the beer across the table toward him.
Peter laughs, thinking it must be a corny dad joke, but the laughter fades quickly when he sees the look on Skip ' s face: serious, measured. Watching Peter like he ' s studying him.
"Try it," he says. "It tastes better than it smells."
Peter's heart starts to beat harder, though he cannot, at first, say why.
"Um, you aren't serious, are you? Is this—is this some kind of test?"
Now Skip laughs, but there ' s no humor in it.
All at once, the ghoul reappears. Its hackles are raised.
" No test, Pete. First beer is a big milestone in a young man's life, and I think you've proven you're mature enough to handle it. I'd like to be the one to give you your first taste. Go ahead."
Peter doesn't want to, but something in the edge of Skip's voice, in the way he's continued to look at Peter's face while they've been talking, makes him take the bottle and take a quick, tiny mouthful.
It's much, much worse than it smells. Peter almost chokes on it — he manages to swallow, but comes up sputtering, coughing and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Skip, laughing for real now, takes the beer out of his hand before Peter can spill it. "Okay, okay," he says, "maybe not quite yet. You really are still a little kid in some ways, aren't you?"
Peter, whose eyes are already watering, tries not to show how much that stings. Skip has never spoken to him like this before. He doesn ' t understand what's going on.
(No, you don't understand, do you, because you never listen to me you never—) Peter gets abruptly to his feet. " I have to brush my teeth," he says.
Skip leans back in his chair, taking another sip of the beer.
"Of course," he says. "You sleep well, Peter."
Peter almost trips over himself as he heads to his room, heart pounding, the little voice shrieking in his ear. Just like the night of the hug, it takes Peter a long time to fall asleep.
Just like the night of the hug, he is woken by a high-pitched sound. But this time it is not Lily screaming, woken by a nightmare. It is the sound of his door, hinges creaking as it opens.
Peter sits up, but doesn't get out of bed. Someone is standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light shining in from the hallway. For just a second, Peter thinks he must be having a nightmare, because this figure seems too large to be a man, and it is swaying slightly, like it ' s having trouble keeping his feet.
Then Skip staggers out of the glare and into Peter's bedroom.
But this isn't Skip as Peter has ever seen him. Even in the darkness Peter can see that his eyes are out of focus, can smell the tidal wave of grain alcohol that is his breath. Skip is not just tipsy this time—he is stone-cold drunk.
Before Peter can say anything, Skip crosses the rest of the distance between them and sits on the edge of his bed.
Peter flinches away. There is a siren in his head, and it is wailing (too close, too close, too close), but he is paralyzed. He doesn't even think to stand up. "Skip?" he whispers. "Is everything okay?"
Skip lists from side to side slightly, trying to catch Peter in the cross-hairs of his vision. When he does, he smirks.
"Look at you," Skip slurs. "Always so concerned about everyone else. Always so nice. When you c—when you came to me I thought you would be… so different. More like the other boys. They always fought me, you know. Them I had to teach. But you. Not you. You're different. You're better."
"Skip," says Peter, his voice growing louder even as he struggles to maintain his whisper, "I think you should go back to bed, I think you had too much—"
And then Skip is on top of him.
It happens so fast Peter doesn't even have time to think about running, or trying to push him off—not that he could if he tried. One second he is sitting up; the next he is sinking into the mattress under the full weight of Skip ' s body while the older man wraps his arms around him, holds him there. Skip has at least eighty pounds on Peter—he is completely pinned.
Peter's mind goes blank with panic. He can ' t comprehend what ' s happening, can ' t even begin to fathom it— all he knows is that he needs to get away, needs to get this weight off of him so he can take a breath (too close too close TOO CLOSE) so he says, "Get off, Skip, please get off me, please, get—"
Skip puts a hand over his mouth.
"Shut up," he whispers. "Don't pretend you don't want this. You've always been… such a nice boy…"
On top of him, Skip starts to move his hips. Finally, Peter understands.
(Are you happy, Peter?)
(Are you happy?)
(Are you—)
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