××× 1988
Your mom always says that you're a 'shy kid.'
That you're fragile– You get hurt very easily. Because, maybe, you know how easy it is to hurt you– How much there is to use against you. Your entire life can be a weapon for other cruel eight-year-olds.
So, you're not exactly popular.
You've overheard your mom before– Promising teachers that you will eventually 'open up', when both of you know that you won't– And you can't fully understand what you've done wrong, where your mom has to clean up after you, apologizing for you and excusing herself for you– Should you feel bad? When the other kids are the ones that hurt you?
The sun is warm, yet light and almost cool against your skin– Like a warm September day in childhood. Your knees, covered by dusty, scraped-up jeans, pressed to your chest, and your notebook laid across your lap. Huddled close to you, you can see your drawing in much more precise detail; A flower, with many, many petals and plenty of leaves. You use a neon pink gel-pen to doodle along, mindlessly adding more petals, you're only hope being that every other kid is too invested in their recess games to notice you– Because, well, it's better for you this way. You're not sure why.
As you add one last petal, something falls onto your notebook with a quick, startling scrape against the paper, and then rolls off and into your lap– leaving behind what looked like small bits of ash along your drawing. You panickedly go to blow off the ash, before even beginning to think about what just fell into your lap. You wipe it away with your sleeve, and when you look back at the drawing– You find yourself frowning at the sight of a small smear of ash along your drawing. You look down.
A cigarette butt.
When you finally notice it, and go to pick it up, scattered laughter starts from a few feet away. Looking up– Mark and Jay, two boys in your class, are laughing so hard their stomachs must be hurting. Their laughter pierces your ears, as if their malicious intent somehow makes their sound physically painful– Like it's jabbing at your eardrums. You toss the cigarette away quickly, wiping your hand along the side of your leg and scrambling your knees closer to you. Mark laughs, "I'm surprised you didn't start salivating."
"S.. salivating?" You ask, cautiously. You're not even sure what that word means. "Why.. Why would I be doing that? I–"
"Because. Your mom fed you cigs when you were a baby." Jay states, as if it's fact– With a confidence and sureness that stings your chest. You can't help but wonder– How many people believe that? Who said that, even? "You probably still do, fuckin' trailer-trash."
"I'm not– What?" You anxiously stumble over your words, beginning to subconsciously move to hide behind your forearms and notebook. "I don't– I don't eat those."
With your answer, your notebook is suddenly pulled away from you, pulling a small initial gasp from you. You look up, Mark and Jay are practically jumping at the notebook like hungry dogs– Desperate to find something they can get their hands on to destroy. Why are boys so mean?
You slowly stand to your feet. "That's mine." But the protest comes as only a whisper, watching with wide, scared eyes as they recklessly push through the pages, crinkling paper as they do. Tears, which are hot against your waterlines and– Frankly– beyond embarrassing, start to form harder with every crinkle of your poor notebook. Once they are done looking through it, Mark pulls it from Jay's grasp and– Suddenly– tears the first page.
You gasp out softly, the gasp forming into a choked cry as you choke out a sob and watch the next page be torn. This feels cruel. You can't understand what you did wrong– What you did to them. What's wrong with you? Why are you like this? Why is this always your fault. Your drawings now just look like scraps on the concrete slab beneath you. The teachers have given up on you. Right now– It feels like everyone has.
"Hey, cut that out."
The three of you turn to the source of that voice; It's a boy. You recognize him, you've seen his face very few times before, walking into school. In class, you mostly just see the back of his head. He looks, in a way, more mature than the rest of the kids– More lived. He glances at you, with not much emotion or recognition, even, before turning back to the two boys. "Pick 'er drawings up and put 'em back in the book." His voice is quiet, yet kind of mean, almost like a bully's. He's got a light, budding southern drawl, like you. It makes you feel a little better about your own. When the boys stare at him as if he's crazy, he gestures to the drawings. "Go on."
Jay scoffs, "Fuck off, twig."
Then– a muffled, small crack is heard when his fist collides with Jay's face. A small gasp escapes you, the sudden action causing you to stutter backwards slightly. Jay stumbles back, catching his now‐bloodied nose in his hand, before looking up at the boy wide-eyed.
"Y'all both better pick up her papers, now. That girl ain't do nothing to you." Instead of complying, though, Mark jumps forward, throwing a weak punch Peter's way. Clearly, this boy gets into more fights. He pushes Mark back, watching as he loses balance and falls over. One of his feet catches onto one of your drawings and scrapes it over, almost ripping it, but the boy quickly scoops it up before anything can happen to it. Instead of giving it back to you, though– He balls it together and stuffs the ball into the pocket of his thin flannel.
"Boys!" The teacher yells from across the playground, before beginning to run over, to diffuse the situation. You back away, hoping that she will not associate you with them– But unfortunately, she sends you a knowing look. "[Name], you too. You were apart of this." She sighs, not paying you much mind besides that when you were the original victim. The teacher starts scolding the boys, as she helps Mark to his feet and ushers him along. Jay, with his bloodied face and busted nose, follows along after the teacher, letting out pathetic, blotchy sobs. That sound doesn't make you feel any better about yourself– But what does is the small smile the boy sends your way. It's reassuring, and it's nice to see him smile. He looks so sad all the time.
"Peter, [Name]! Come on! Inside, now!"
He ignores her, kneeling down behind you and beginning to pick up the mess of your drawings on the ground. You glance behind your shoulder, before quickly moving down and beginning to clean your own mess hurriedly, face warm with the mix of anxiety and embarrassment brewing through you.
"You're good." He mutters, taking a look at one of your drawings. Your eyes follow his– It's the flower you drew earlier, though now it looks much more messy and crumpled. He seems to take notice to its worsened condition aswell. "I'm sorry about that. You are a good drawer."
".. I think.." You hesitate your reply, hoping it doesn't come across as rude, but childishly wanting to correct him. "I think it's artist. Not drawer."
He shrugs, standing up, holding your notebook, now with all the torn pages stacked, neatly, within it. "Either way."
He offers a hand down to you, even if it had gotten weirdly comfortable on the pavement. You look up at him, giving his hand a cautious glance, your gaze then moving to his face. You use the moment as an opportunity to finally get a good look of his face; He looks tired, but he's smiling. And he's cute.
You take his hand and let him lift you up. His hand lingers on your upper arm for a moment, as he pulls you forward and onto your feet, before he quickly, nervously, retracts his hand back to the notebook. He practically pushes the notebook to your chest, which you almost drop, scrambling to catch it against your chest, so it won't fall once more. He glances behind him for a moment, before turning back to you.
"Shit. Sorry." He, almost awkwardly, whispers, helping you regain your composure, before backing up slightly. You nod, quickly, before pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You huddle the notebook close to you, wallowing in the security of your art.
"Well.. Thank you. You didn't have to do that for me."
"Boys can be dumb." Peter shrugs, with a small scoff, stuffing his hand into one of his pockets. "They saw a pretty girl mindin' her business and decided to tear up her notebook. I hate that stuff."
You nearly choke. Pretty? You're a pretty girl? Nobody had ever called you that before. It makes your face almost physically feel pink. You huddle your notebook closer. "Pretty?"
"Well, sure." He offers a hand out. "Peter."
Hesitantly, you take his hand.
".. [Name.]"
As you shake hands, he nods to the door. Where the teacher, with Mark and Jay hiding behind each of her legs, looking almost like dogs with tails between their legs, is waiting for the two of you. Her brows are furrowed, and the look on her face almost screams unimpressed.
"We should go in. She seems awful mad."
You quickly scramble to take your hand back and tuck it under your notebook. Of course he was just being nice. Of course.
"Oh– Right."
×××
You've never really had friends.
Who knows, you're just a girl that people avoid. And sometimes it feels safer to be alone.
So– When Peter Quill comes into your life– All blue eyes and brunette hair, all boyish anger with something much more pleasant hiding beneath– And he wants to be your friend, wants to talk to you in the morning, wants to sit with you at lunch, wants to just be around you, even– You're not sure how to feel.
He wasn't just being nice.. And something about that does feel nice to you, that a boy actually wants to be your friend. Atleast– he keeps bullies away from you.
The teachers frown when they see him. You can tell Peter doesn't like that. He doesn't like teachers– Or authority much, for that matter. When you catch him sitting infront of the principals, that familiar boyish anger in his eyes and his leg trembling anxiously, stiff with anger, you frown as you approach him. You've come to expect this behavior out of him. You know there's something sweet within him. You wish you could dig through him like a tooth with a cavity; Diving in and removing the darkness, healing. It's a childish wish, maybe, to heal a person.
"Hey." Your tone comes as barely even a whisper, as you approach the boy. He looks up at you. The way he looks at you– Initially, it's a look of annoyance, then recognition– Finally, his eyes warm abit at the sight of you.
"Hi." He mutters, gazing up at you, for a moment, before looking back down at his lap. You glance at the shut door to the principals office. Above it, in almost intimidating letters, reads 'Principal's Office.'
"What are you doing here?" You ask, taking a hesitant seat beside him, ignoring the look from a passing, older student– One of the two students roaming a mostly empty hallway. You just wanted to use the bathroom. The thought makes you crumble the pass the teacher gave you within your palm.
".. Got myself into a fight." He answers, quietly. As if he's embarrassed to tell you. He knows it's inevitable, though– Peter finds that he would feel terrible about himself if he lied to you. Your head tilts slightly, your hair falling down your shoulder. Peter looks up at you, and your eyes meet, just for a split second– Though it feels a long time. A whole school year, maybe. ".. This boy.. was talking about you." He whispers. "Just– said something nasty about you."
"Why?"
"Why?" He repeats, confused.
"Why are you fightin' people for me?"
He finally looks away. ".. Because I like you."
Your cheeks suddenly feel warm– Hot, even, though, thankfully, no blush comes across your face. Your lips part for a moment, as you try to find something to say, and you glance back down at your lap for a quick moment. Something about this almost feels embarrassing, for the both of you.
".. You like me? Why?" Because, sadly, apart of you could never imagine why Peter would ever like you. You can't imagine what qualities of you that Peter could ever see in you– You're a quiet, sad, shy little girl– And you're cavity is almost as big as his.
His reply comes quiet, a taste of the sweeter version of him hiding beneath that rotted surface.
"Why wouldn't I?"
×××
Something you didn't know until now– It feels really nice to hold a boys hand in yours. It's warm, warmer than yours. His hand is rough, rougher than yours. But it's nice– It gives you butterflies, holding his hand over your bike handle, testing the waters of this relationship– If you can even call it that, being two eight-year-olds.
The two of you walk your bike down the side of the road. With the absence of a sidewalk, you're trying to huddle close to the grass and the driveways. Your right foot keeps dragging into the grass beside you, but Peter won't let you walk in the road– And while it's slightly annoying, it's mostly just.. nice. He's nice to you, nicer than any boy's ever been, and his hand is warm– Warmer than a boy's hand has ever been.
"My grandpa can give you a ride later." He says, finally breaking the silence. You look over at him, and you nod.
You swallow, before asking. "Is your mom in bed?"
He looks at you, his eyes aren't as mean as they usually are, especially when he looks at you– But his eyes are sad, at your question. He shrugs his shoulders small. "Probably. I'll tell her you're with me. She likes you."
"I hope so." You reply, slowly, gently caressing his bruised, rosy knuckles with your own dainty fingers. You hesitant with your next move, at first, but eventually you gather the small amount of courage needed and you wrap two fingers around his index finger and turn his hand over, exposing his palm. He turns his attention to you, his pace slowing to a stop. The front wheel of your bike creaks, as it stops between the two of you. You trace a finger over the lines in his palm, before bracing your palm over his and taking his hand in yours. It's a gentle touch, one that Peter's hand melts into.
".. You're the prettiest girl I've ever met."
A deep blush comes across your face at the statement. You look up at him, face almost the bright red of a strawberry. He smiles, small, when you look at him.
".. I.." You attempt a response, the two of you looking at one another for a quiet moment, before he leans forward.
Being young– Your body freezes, instinctively, as his lips press against yours. Your eyes are open a moment too long– you force your eyes shut and you physically lean forward, your hold on his hand tightening ever-so-slightly.
The kiss is only fleeting moments– It feels so much longer. Your lips are tingling when you're the first to pull away from the kiss. Your bike has fallen from your grasps and tipped over to lean against your legs. You reach one hand to your lips, pressing two fingertips to them. They feel kind of wet, but besides that– They feel normal. Peter reaches his fingers to his lips, copying your movements. You smile at this.
".. Your lips are wet." You finally whisper, and Peter smiles.
××× THE PRESENT
Peter, at some point, was gone.
Your parents never told you anything about him– Not that you'd ever tell your parents that you had a boyfriend, or a kiss, at eight years old, but they never mentioned him leaving. It was just one day he was there, and the next, he was gone. Over the years, each of the missing posters his poor grandfather had to put up around town had eventually fallen away. Besides two. You only know this because one of them was stuffed in a box in the very corner of your closet, and the other is sitting on an electrical pole near the bakery in town– Where your store is.
While Peter was gone and eventually forgotten by everybody else– He lingered in your thoughts. Mostly in nostalgia and wonder– Wondering where had that boy gone? Was it his mother passing away? You never knew the details of that, anyway. You had only met his mom once, the day before she was leaving for the hospital. That smile– That sweet, motherly smile, still so sad and weakened by her cancer– lingers in your mind.
Where did he go?
But, like everything besides breathing, you don't think about that everyday. Most days– You actually spend working in your record store. Well, pop culture and music. Records, CD's, comics, VHS tapes. Your building, tucked beside an out-of-place, sketchy-looking phone repair store, is basically a relic of your childhood; The 80's. 90's, too. But you like to advertise the 80's stuff more, a vintage Star Wars poster hung neatly on one of the front windows, beside a crinkled Jurassic Park poster. When you bought the place, it was an abandoned old movie-rental place, basically. The shelves throughout the store were originally found sitting against a wall behind the store. You added music, comics, knick-knacks at the front desk.
You did it all, by yourself– No thanks to anybody else. And this place, this place here? Is your biggest achievement. It feels amazing to have something of your own. Something built with your own hands. Something thats yours– Your triumph. And it helps that business is actually pretty decent, because this town is full of people who never left the time of VHS tapes and record players and cheesy Star Wars bobbleheads– And, in some ways, you are just like those people.
But there's just something about you.
A CD, marked in smudged black sharpie as 'My music', whirls in the player, which is tucked hidden on a shelf beneath the front desk. The headphones are over your ears, two pigtails rested beneath the headphones, your attentions focused on a stack of newly-shipped comics infront of you, where you're using a blue sharpie to mark the price-labels. It gives you something to do, rather than sit around all day. You can barely hear your own muttered singing over the song, Love Her Madly, by The Doors.
A car pulls infront of the store. You can only tell because your eyes flicker up at the moment a soft rumbling emits from outside. A smile comes across your face; This is a regulars car. Jason Quill; A sweet man. Peter's grandfather, you believe. You never had the guts to ask him about Peter– plus, you never wanted to hurt him. It had been so long now that it seems like everyone had forgotten– And Jason Quill, according to himself the last time you saw him, just wants peace.
Speaking of seeing him– It had been an awful long time since he last showed, which makes you even happier. Your soft smile grows abit at the thought. You wonder what the movie will be this time; Probably another 50's western or romance. Jason's a sap for those, honestly. You still remember the first time he bought one of those old, cheesy romances; He placed a finger to his lips and joked, "What happens in this video store, stays in the video store."
You watch, with your smile, as the driver's door opens. Instead of Jason, though– A younger man pops out the driver's side. Childishly, your immediate thought is that you've gone back in time. You become very friendly with your regulars, or any customer in general, finding that people appreciate a humble amount of charisma. This man looks somewhat similar to the photo of his younger self that Jason had shown you. Blue eyes, curly brunette hair, tall. Unlike Jason, though, this man's built– Large and almost intimidating.
.. Then he smacks his elbow off the car door as he closes it, and he doesn't seem so intimidating. You glance down at your comics as he approaches the door, trying not to make it seem like you've been watching him.
You can't hear the bell jingles or the creaking of the hinges as the door opens and closes, and you can't hear the man's footsteps as he initially wanders the VHS section– But you can see it all, watching him. When he glances over at you, you send a small smile his way, and take a headphone off one ear.
"You need any help?" You ask, voice coming out soft. He smiles at you, not immediately responding, instead taking his time to gaze at you, take in your features. He originally has a charming grin with slightly furrowed brows, and then his grin softens to a smile, and he walks up to the counter.
"Hey," He says, and immediately you can tell the whole charming act he's put on. You giggle at this, taking the comics and stacking them before setting them aside, giving the two of you some more room so you can settle your elbows down onto the desk. "So? You need help?"
"Oh," He chuckles, almost embarrassed at his delay to answer– And the fact that his very obvious flirting tactic had only earned a laugh from you. "Oh, uhm, sure. Actually– where's.. what's it called, Kitty Foyle? I was told it's a war movie–"
"But you're buying for Jason Quill, right? Because Kitty Foyle's a romance." You chuckle, rounding the counter and joining him on the other side, now much closer to him than before. His eyes follow your movements, before adjusting so you have room to stand beside him. "And he's a sucker for romance. Don't tell him I told ya' that, that's supposed to stay between me and him." You giggle.
His brows raise slightly. "Oh? I'm sooo teasin' him when I get back." He chuckles, turning to the shelves. Your eyes wander along his back, it's flexed and muscular– Also just.. large. The man standing before you is very large in stature. You follow after him, stealing a sneaky caress along his defined shoulder as you walk by him, and you glance over your own shoulder at him. You mouth Follow me, and nod your head at him, which– Almost embarrassingly for him, but mostly cute to you– sends the man stumbling after you. Underneath all those muscles, you can tell he's just a softie. You find that you like that about him.
You lead him to the romance section of VHS tapes, swiping your finger along the titles, along the years of films, until you eventually find the 40's titles. You stop at the films from 1940, and you find the VHS for Kitty Foyle. You take it from the shelf, and you hand it to the man, who takes it, though his eyes are completely fixated on you.
".. [Name.] By the way." You suddenly remember to introduce yourself, as you hand the tape over to him. He stares at you for a minute, then his mouth gapes for a moment, like he's trying to figure out how to respond.
".. Holy shit, really? You look– Wow. You look– Uhm–" He stumbles over his words, with your initial confusement to how he seems to remember you. You were never popular in school, so it couldn't have been that. You would have remembered him from high school.. Then, it all comes back to you–
".. Peter?"
"Yeah." He sighs and his smile widens, now a large, dopey grin. His eyes are much, much warmer with the recognition now. He remembers you– And he missed you, clearly, by the hug he gives you, which takes you by complete surprise.
You're the one stumbling over your words now. You're pressed close against this attractive man– Your first love, to be exact.
You can't even find the strength to hug him back fully, instead resting against him, and letting yourself bury your nose in his shoulder and smell him; He smells much older, now. He smells of something homely and warm and also something incredibly different– A remarkable, almost cosmic type scent. Cold and sharp and manly like cologne. You finally wrap your arms around him and find the strength to pull him down lower, letting his hands fall down to the small of your back.
".. You smell amazing." You breath into his shoulder, before realizing how weird that probably sounds, and you back away from the hug. ".. I mean– God– Peter– Where did you– Where have you.. What– You just.. You smell so amazing and you're so grown-up now and we're not kids anymore and you went missing and– And– Jesus Christ, Peter, Where have you been?"
".. So have you. You're.. You're.." He sighs. "You're still the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
You aren't sure what to say– You're not sure if there is anything to say. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, but with some sort of wonder and familiarity and shock and– Maybe, possibly– kind of a lust. You laugh, finally. A shocked laugh.
"Where.. Where were you? Where did you go? You just.. you just left–"
"I know, [Name], I know. I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry for leaving you. I– I kind of had to. I don't know who I'd be now if I didn't."
That's his answer, and right now, it's good enough. You just faintly smile at him, reaching forward and placing one of your hands on his shoulder, caressing along the built muscles and ridges around it.
".. God, you're huge." You breath out. "Seriously– I mean.. What are you, now?" You absent-mindedly lay the other hand on his chest, feeling along his built chest, down to his stomach, where you could finally feel some softness there. Maybe a dad-bod? You're really trying not to picture what your childhood boyfriend looked like under his clothes. "A bodybuilder or something? I mean you're.. Wow. You were so skinny as a kid!"
You pull your hands away, finally gaining some self-awareness and realizing how insane you might look, but it honestly seems like you're just boosting Peter's ego, whose staring at you with an amused, almost wicked grin on his face.
"I– Uhm– Sorry. I don't even know if you're with somebody. I just– I mean.. You were a real skinny boy. This is– This is–"
He doesn't reply to you, his grin faltering abit to something softer as he looks over your features, gaze starting from your face down your body, to your feet, covered in thick boots. You keep your eyes focused on his, as he takes you in, and then he smiles.
".. You really are a pretty girl, [Name]. I mean.. I, uhm– Jesus Christ, you're making me nervous." He chuckles, having to avert his gaze for a moment, wiping one of his knuckles along under his nose as he sniffles before turning back to you.
He takes you in one last time. This time, some of your charm finally returns to you, and you manage to twirl around. He breathes, a heavy breath. "Wow."
".. Good or bad?" You breathe out.
He chuckles, abit sheepish now. The quiet little boy, awkward and embarrassed about kissing you with his wet lips and holding you with his clammy hands is starting to return. His cavities have been mostly healed– So have yours. But that's the beauty of growing up, isn't it? All those things that made you so dark-rooted in childhood suddenly seem so far away.
"More than good."
"So.." You smile, "Great?"
".. Perfect, actually."
You giggle, your own childish shyness returning to you now. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"I– I hope this ain't too forward of me, Peter, but.." You hesitate your next words. You finally realize what you are even suggesting. How crazy this is– You meet your supposedly missing childhood love, and now you're asking him out. Not smart. But– It just feels right.
".. Are you free? At seven? When I get off work?" You suggest, your tone growing weaker and weaker as you continue speaking, but the way he smiles at this give you some semblance of confidence, or the ability to even ask him to do anything.
He suddenly nods, so enthusiastically it makes a startled, sheepish giggle escape you. This man is nothing like the boy you once knew, but you're not much like the girl he once knew either– And you have no idea how hard he has just fallen for you, all over again. That love all the same.
As if you were still those two kids.