Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter and Simon enjoyed going to masquerade balls for very different reasons.

Simon enjoyed the mystique of it; he relished the hours of anonymity, the liberation that came from dancing and mingling without the weight of judgment or prying eyes. He delighted in the sensation of namelessness that the ornate masks provided, losing himself in the whirl of waltzes and twirls. The atmosphere enveloped him like a cocoon, allowing him to dance as if the world had faded away, and where only the rhythm of the music and the gentle caress of his partner mattered.

In that same world of masquerade, faces were hidden. True intentions were concealed. Trust was a precious commodity, and Peter thrived. To him, the masquerade was an elaborate theater of personas waiting to be inhabited, each mask an opportunity to craft a new identity. Peter's true mask was not the physical one he donned, no, but the façade of charm and charisma that he meticulously tailored. It was a psychological dance, and he was a master puppeteer, deftly pulling the strings to make his victims step in time to his tune.

Thus, it took little convincing on Simon's part when some masquerade ball invitations went out to get Peter to be his plus one.

However, he hadn’t seen this eventuality coming.

“Peter,” Simon whined. “Just one dance. Please.”

“Simon, I’m not about to go over there and make a total fool of myself.”

Distant strands of music hung around the two.

“I’m sure you won’t make a fool of yourself.”

“I will. And I’ll be the laughingstock of this ball.”

Simon sighed. “Even in the impossible outcome that you fall flat on your face and break your arm, no one will know it’s you. The beauty of such a guise, no?” He booped Peter’s nose, right below where his mask ended. Despite his protests and an inclination to a certain face of gold, Peter had eventually caved to Simon’s choice of cover for him — a columbina, inky with aureate accents, and a few black feathers asymmetrically styled to the left.

Peter flinched slightly at the action but gave no verbal complaint regarding it.

“Fine,” he murmured. “You owe me after this.”

“Of course I do,” Simon chuckled, before grabbing Peter’s hand and dragging him away from his glass of wine.

Under the shimmering lights of the grand ballroom, the pair found themselves amidst a sea of elegantly dressed guests. The soft strains of a waltz drifted through the air, beckoning couples to the dance floor. Simon led Peter to the center of the room, his own mask hiding a mischievous grin.

As the music swelled, Simon's hand extended toward Peter. With a deep breath and a mixture of caution and annoyance, Peter placed his hand in Simon's, allowing himself to be drawn onto the dance floor. He stumbled a bit at first, his feet unsure of the rhythm, but Simon's reassuring grip kept him steady.

Simon's voice was gentle and encouraging, guiding Peter's steps with a touch of playfulness. "Just follow my lead, Peter. Let the music guide you."

Simon’s mask obscured his features but failed to hide the genuine joy that radiated from him. His movements were fluid and graceful. With every step, he seemed to surrender himself to the rhythm, his body a vessel through which the music found its expression.

Peter, in contrast, allowed himself to become Simon’s shadow — mirroring him and following his lead to the best of his ability. And, surprisingly, the steps started to come more naturally to him. He felt his worries melt away as he focused on the music and the connection between him and Simon. The two moved in harmony, Simon’s soft laughter blending with the lilting melody. Simon twirled Peter, and the air swept over his face, the feathers that adorned him trailing gracefully.

The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in the spotlight of their own private dance. The initial awkwardness gave way to joy, and soon Peter was even leading a few steps himself, much to Simon's delight.

"I must say, you have an uncanny ability to capture the essence of the masquerade. Your joy is infectious," Peter murmured.

Simon's cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and humility. "It's simply hard not to feel alive in a place like this."

Peter moved to lead in full. His gloved hand wrapped around Simon's waist, his touch causing Simon to shiver ever-so-slightly. He led with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, yet Simon found himself entranced by his companion’s movements nonetheless. It was as if Peter possessed an innate ability to draw people into his web — and Simon, in his trusting nature, was caught in its intricate threads.

As the waltz came to an end, Peter and Simon shared a triumphant grin, both of them flushed with the excitement of the moment. Simon leaned in, his voice a hushed murmur only Peter could hear. "See, I told you that you could do it."

With a mix of pride and surprise, Peter nodded, his heart racing with a newfound sense of accomplishment.

“Maybe having you as a companion isn't so bad after all,” he mused to himself.

“What did you say, Peter?”

“Nothing.”

Peter's gaze forcefully latched onto the all-too-familiar blue in Simon's eyes.

‘You reminded me of a boy named Simon Chastellain.’

The resurfacing memories of bygone days clawed at his soul. Within him, a bitter retort screamed.

‘I was nothing more than a broken mirror of him for you.’

“Want to go get a drink?”

Peter managed a weak smile, his voice tinged with unspoken emotions. “Sure, a drink sounds good right now.”

He walked to the back of the ballroom, following the man he could never be.

Chapter Text

Sitting outdoors, Peter savored a cup of tea, its bitterness untouched by any hint of sugar. He cherished these solitary moments. However, the tranquility was soon interrupted as Simon frolicked over, clutching a journal wrapped in weathered leather.

"Peter." His name tugged him from his reverie.

"Yes?"

"Could you help me with something? Please."

Curiosity piqued, Peter raised an eyebrow. "With what?"

“I’m going to say a word, and then I want you to say the first one that comes to mind.”

“...alright?”

Simon cleared his throat, a faint nervousness in his voice. "Reflection."

Peter took a sip of his drink, letting the word bounce around his mind. "Echo."

Simon's eyebrows lifted. "Echo?"

"Yes, well, echoes are like reflections of sound," Peter explained with a shrug. "It's not that deep."

Simon nodded. "Makes sense."

Peter took another sip. "Give me another word."

Simon tapped his chin, thinking. "Whisper."

"Secret," Peter replied promptly.

Simon chuckled softly. "Ah, so we're going in that direction, are we?"

"Seems like it."

They continued the word exchange, their conversation taking on a nice rhythm as the two bounced words back and forth.

"Dreams," Simon offered.

"Odysseus," Peter responded, a strange glint momentarily touching his eyes.

Simon's expression grew more serious as he chose his next word carefully. "Fear."

"Betrayal."

"Freedom," Simon suggested.

"Flight," Peter muttered.

Simon smiled gently, and his next word seemed to carry more weight. "Trust."

"Vulnerability," Peter replied, finally looking up into the deep blue of Simon’s eyes.

Simon took a deep breath, his voice gentle yet full of intent. "Forever."

Peter looked into the liquid of his cup, now once more avoiding Simon’s gaze. "Temporary."

Simon paused for a moment, noticing the shift in Peter's demeanor. Gathering his thoughts, he continued with a touch of hesitancy.
"Moments," Simon uttered, his voice softer than before.

"Fleeting.”

Simon's eyes softened. He nodded slowly, his lips curving into a grateful smile. "Thank you, Peter."

"You're welcome."

With that exchange, Simon stood up, clutching the book even closer to his chest. "I’ll see you later.”

Peter waved.

Simon bobbed his head in appreciation, his excitement mingling with a touch of anxiety. He took a step back, still holding Peter's gaze for a moment longer before turning and scampering away.

Left alone once again, Peter found himself lost in his thoughts. The conversation with Simon had stirred something within him, a strange mixture of anticipation and introspection. Why did Simon need those words? As the sun continued its slow descent, casting warm hues across the landscape, he found solace in his surroundings. The rustling leaves and the gentle breeze seemed to calm something within.

The rest of the day passed without note. It wasn’t until Peter’s curiosity got the better of him that something more came. He made his way back over to his friend’s temporary residence, and strolled over to Simon’s quarters. He knocked on the door.

No response.

He knocked again.

No response.

He tried the doorknob; it was unlocked. He slowly entered and was met with Simon fallen asleep at his desk, lengths of ginger hair spread out against the mahogany surface. Beside him, his journal lay open. A goose-feather quill sat in a small well of ink. Peter cautiously approached, careful to not make any movement too loud; as if one misstep would ruin the moment. Or, perhaps, his espionage.

He glanced down at Simon as he got closer. His chest rose and fell gently with each steady breath, his features softened in the tranquil embrace of slumber. The soft ambient light cast delicate shadows across his relaxed visage, highlighting the hint of a smile that played at the corners of his lips. He could see faint traces of ink smudges on Simon's fingers. He delicately brushed a strand of hair behind his friend’s ear. Then, his gaze turned to the open page in the book. He hardly thought for a moment about the potential of it being private before reading.

Peter read over the words once more.

He closed the book, ran another hand through Simon’s hair, and left the room.

Chapter Text

He was running.

The rain lashed against his face like a thousand tiny whips.

It didn't matter.

Peter's heart thundered in his chest, the relentless downpour soaking him to the bone as he sprinted through a maze of narrow alleyways. Each turn seemed to lead him deeper into the labyrinth, the glistening cobblestones reflecting the eerie glow of distant oil lamps. Their elongated shadows twisted and stretched, morphing into grotesque shapes that clawed at his legs, threatening to pull him into the abyss from which he surely must have come.

His boots were heavy with mud, each footfall a dull, echoing thud that sounded through the desolate streets of London. Despite his desperate pace, the sound of pursuing footsteps grew louder, more insistent. Panic surged within him, his breaths coming in ragged, gasping bursts.

As he turned a corner, the familiar front of Blackthorn’s shop loomed before him. But something was… off. A clutter of shattered glass and herbs lay in ruin, the warm glow of candlelight from within its walls now a sinister, flickering menace. At the center of the chaos stood Master Benedict, his face a mask of grief and tears.

Without warning, the scene twisted, pulling him elsewhere. He was outside, the rain now a distant memory as he found himself standing over a boy sprawled on the ground. The child’s leg was grotesquely twisted, his face contorted in agony.

Peter's boot was pressed against the boy's knee.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder from behind, rooting him in place. The touch was cold, and he dared not turn around to meet its face.

"I trusted you, Peter," came Benedict's voice, a whisper filled with sorrow and betrayal. “Let you into my home. our home.”

A pause.

"And this is how you repay me."

Peter's limbs felt like lead, an unbearable weight pinning him to the ground. He strained to move, to speak, to do anything, but his body refused to obey. He could only stand there, paralyzed, forced to witness the scene before him.

The air around him buzzed with whispers, ghostly accusations that hummed and pulsed, growing louder with each passing second. They seeped into his mind, their insidious words wrapping around his thoughts like suffocating vines.

His vision blurred, the boy's anguished face merging with shadows that danced around him. The whispers grew into a cacophony, a symphony of blame and accusation that ran through his very soul.

Peter tried to scream, but no sound escaped his lips.

“...Peter...”

A different voice pierced through the calamity.

"Peter."

It came from a distant nowhere, growing louder and more insistent, like a lifeline trying to pull him from the depths.

"Peter!"

The voice was accompanied by a sensation — a firm, urgent shaking that jolted him back to the waking world. His eyelids fluttered open, the harsh reality clashing with the remnants of his night terror. He was met with the concerned gaze of Simon, whose sapphire eyes were wide with worry.

"Peter," Simon repeated, his voice trembling slightly. "You were mumbling, turning restlessly." Simon's hand brushed over the damp sheets. "Sweating."

Peter's heart still raced, his body trembling as if the dream had physically dragged him from the bed and back again. The transition to reality was slow, each breath a laborious effort as he tried to shed the lingering fog over his mind. Simon's grip on Peter's shoulder remained firm, an anchor trying to ground him in the present.

"You're safe now," Simon reassured him. "It was just a dream.”

He searched Peter’s face, trying to read any glimpse of emotion, but his search came back empty; with dull, restless eyes that betrayed nothing from within. He gently guided Peter to sit up, sheets clinging to the latter’s skin. "Breathe, Peter," Simon instructed softly, his own breaths slow and deliberate, a model for Peter to follow.

Peter mimicked him, drawing in deep, shaky breaths. Each inhale brought a bit more clarity, a bit more distance from the nightmare's hold. This was a rare moment, one dangerously close to one of the few things Peter still feared — losing his composure in front of another.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Simon asked gently after a few minutes, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the fragile peace that he thought had settled over them.

Peter hesitated, words caught in his throat.

Simon seemed to sense his hesitation and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "It's alright if you don't want to. Just know that I'm here. You're not alone."

The sincerity in Simon's voice made Peter cringe internally.

“Whatever it was, we'll… we’ll face it together, okay?"

The most Peter could manage was a weak nod as he tried to push down the growing nausea within him.

Chapter Text

The night sky stretched above like an endless canvas, adorned with a myriad of stars. The summer air was cool. Peter and Simon stood side by side on a watchtower. A comfortable silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional twang of bowstrings.

"I never thought this could be so peaceful," Simon mumbled, his words barely more than a whisper. He then smiled, his gaze lingering on the stars for a moment before returning to the dark of the forest. "It's like the entire universe is telling stories up there. Each twinkle.”
Peter could smell the wine on Simon’s breath.

Fwoosh.

He fired another arrow into the abyss.

"Do you believe in fate, Peter?”

Silence. Peter’s eyes flitted to Simon.

“Peter?”

Peter sighed. Simon wobbled slightly as he pulled the string back again.

Words rang in the back of Peter’s mind that he wished he could snuff out — some books he was told to read, some advice, answers he hadn’t possessed. He repeated what he’d been taught nonetheless.

“I once read that the universe is like a clock. That everything proceeds according to a grand design.”

Simon's expression shifted, his eyes searching Peter's face. "Do you—” he hiccuped— “believe that, though?"

Peter’s gaze went to the stars. "I used to."

‘I used to believe most things he told me.’

"What changed?"

’If fate was real, it wouldn’t let consequences go unheard.’

Peter let out a long breath as Simon lowered the bow altogether. "The more I experience, the more I question whether it's all predetermined. It feels like there are moments, choices, that break free from the supposed grand design."

"So, you believe in… free will?"

Peter shrugged and lowered his bow as well. "There can’t both be free will and a grand design. A gear doesn’t turn because it wants to. It's just…” he trailed off.

"Sometimes, it feels like some things are supposed to happen?" Simon slurredly suggested, his tone a gentle prodding. His hand, now free of the bow, slowly entwined with Peter’s.

“...perhaps.”

Simon traced patterns on Peter's hand with his fingertips, his voice a soft melody, before letting go. "Maybe there are certain things meant to be, like the stars in the sky. But our choices, our actions, they're the constellations we create. We connect the dots, draw the lines, and shape our own narrative."

More hush. Peter was a little shocked Simon came up with something so coherent in such an intoxicated position.

Such a… vulnerable position.

His eyes drifted down to the ground below.

‘That height, it could probably…’

One of Peter’s hands drifted to Simon’s shoulder.

’Just one…’

’Little…’

Simon's drunken giggling stopped him mid-thought.

“Your eyes… they look like the sky…”

“What?”

“The blue, reflecting the stars… hehe, so pretty…”

’He’s drunk, he's spewing nonsense.’

Peter’s hand hesitated, but ended up pulling Simon further away from the edge.

“Come on. Let’s go down. It’s getting chilly.”

As they started to walk, Simon leaning heavily on Peter, a shooting star streaked across the murk. Simon's eyes widened in awe.

"Quick, make a wish!" Simon exclaimed.

Peter paused for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts. Then, with a subtle smirk, he closed his eyes and made a wish. Simon followed suit, closing his own and sending his hopes into the night.

"What did you wish for?" Peter breathed, breaking the quiet once more, resuming his steps.

Simon's eyes met Peter's, his voice soft. "For moments like these to last forever."

Peter’s hands weren’t clean, and maybe they never would be — but they were still able to hold Simon. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the quiet countryside. Simon sat beside Peter under the shade of an old oak tree, his viola da braccio cradled in his arms. The piece he performed was melodious, the notes butterflies fluttering through the air.

Peter quietly watched as Simon played, silently analyzing the young man’s movements; how he pulled such a noise from a wooden box strung with guts and silver.

Simon turned and quirked an eyebrow when he noticed Peter so intently watching, slowing and concluding his miniature concert at the sight.

"What do you think?"

Peter hesitated for a moment, considering his response. "It's... interesting.”

Simon chuckled softly, setting aside his instrument and shifting to face Peter fully. "Interesting in a good way, I hope.”

Peter shrugged. "I suppose."

Simon shook his head a bit. “Endearingly noncommittal as always. You can say you hate it, you know — music is subjective, after all," he poked.

“The concept itself doesn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s devoid of substance or purpose. Music, that is. A hypothetical pattern created for the sole intent of bringing it to resolution. Interest without meaning. Solutions without problems.”

Simon blinked.

"I hear you.”

“Do you, now?”

Simon rolled his eyes as he thought of his response.

“Well, if it’s nothing, why does it sound so good?”

“That’s beside the point.”

Simon smirked. “Is it? If it makes someone feel, even if it is ‘fleeting,’ as you said, then it has purpose.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.

”Something as silly as emotions do not dictate whether or n—”

“—here, here, Peter. Maybe I can help you appreciate music a little more, regardless of the substance you claim it lacks."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

Simon's smile widened more genuinely, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "By teaching you how to play," he replied simply, his tone brimming with enthusiasm.

"Me? Play the viola?" he asked incredulously.

Simon nodded eagerly. "Why not? You have a knack for it, I can tell," he pushed. "And who knows, you might discover a new passion."

"I'm not so sure about that," Peter muttered, casting a doubtful glance at the viola lying beside Simon.

Simon leaned closer, his eyes earnest as he reached out to touch Peter's arm. "Come on, Peter. Give it a try," he urged.

“...fine,” he sighed in resignation.

Simon grinned and gingerly handed Peter his viola. It felt foreign in his hands, awkward and unfamiliar.

“...where do I begin?”

Simon adjusted Peter's grip on the viola. Peter reached for the bow, and Simon gently batted his hand away from it.

“Not yet. We’re starting with pizzicato, alright?”

"Pizzicato?" he repeated.

"It's a technique where you pluck the strings with your fingers instead of using the bow," he explained, reaching out to demonstrate. He plucked one of the strings and it rang out. Peter moved to do the same, and it didn’t ring; rather, it cut off abruptly.

“No, here, you have to make sure nothing else is in the way. Otherwise, it won’t vibrate properly.” Simon moved some of Peter’s fingers and adjusted his position once more.

Peter nodded, masking his immediate frustration, trying once more to pluck the strings. This time, he felt a faint vibration beneath his fingertips, the sound slightly more crisp than before.

"That's it," Simon encouraged. "Just keep practicing, and you'll get the hang of it."

And so, he begrudgingly continued to pizz, each note becoming more clear than the last.

"See, you're getting the hang of it," Simon praised after a while. “Told you that you had talent.”

“I have been plucking one note for ten minutes. That is not talent.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, it takes a while to figure it all out. Feel free to move onto the other strings whenever you feel comfortable.”

Peter grumbled dismissively and finally shifted to another string, the new note hesitantly breaking through the air. Simon leaned closer, his fingers lightly guiding Peter’s on the viola's fingerboard.

"Don’t be afraid of it," Simon advised. "You have to trust that your fingers know what to do, even if your mind isn’t sure yet."

Peter frowned but adjusted his grip, this time plucking with a bit more confidence. He managed to successfully pluck all the strings in succession, not one cut off or blunt. For a moment, something in Peter’s expression shifted — a glimmer of satisfaction, quickly masked by his usual stoicism.

Simon caught it, though. "See? That’s progress," he said gently, his voice full of warmth.

Peter paused, staring down at the instrument in his hands. "I don't understand why you bother with something so imprecise."

Simon tilted his head, considering Peter’s words. "Music might seem imprecise because it isn’t about hitting exact targets, as you might in… other activities you’re used to,” he mimicked drawing back a bow and arrow. “It's more about expressing something that can’t quite be put into words. The notes themselves aren’t as important as, ah, what they convey."

Peter scoffed lightly. "Emotions again. You speak of them as if they’re some kind of universal truth, rather than fleeting things of distraction."

Simon tilted his head and smirked. "You see them as distractions? Maybe that’s because you’re afraid of them."

Peter's grip on the viola tightened slightly, his knuckles whitening. He opened his mouth to respond, but Simon spoke first.

"Here, try something else," he offered, interrupting the brewing tension. He reached over and turned Peter's hand so that his fingers rested on a different string. "Let’s play a simple pattern, a small song. I’ll help you."

Peter followed Simon, plucking the strings in the pattern Simon set out for him as Simon held down his own to change the pitch of the notes. It was slow and halting at first, but as they grew more accustomed to the other’s rhythm, the sequence began to flow. The notes formed a delicate, almost melancholic melody, and as they continued, the music began to resonate with the atmosphere of the approaching dusk.

"Not bad," Simon murmured after a while. He leaned back slightly and let go of the instrument, giving Peter some space. "You’re doing well, Peter. The melody isn’t perfect, but that’s okay. It’s not about perfection, it’s about…” he trailed off “...connection."

"Connection?"

"Sure, connection," Simon repeated. "With the instrument, with the music, and maybe even with yourself. Or, like we just did? Connecting with each other!"

Peter was silent, his fingers hovering over the strings as if as frozen and stubborn as his mind.

Simon’s smile was soft. "But hey, don’t sweat it all, what you’ve got here is a start."

The golden light overhead slowly faded into the deep purples and blues of twilight.

Simon’s hand gently rested on Peter’s shoulder, a simple gesture of encouragement. “Why don’t we try using the bow now? You’ve got the basics of pizzicato down, and I think you’re ready to bring out the deeper, more resonant tones the viola can offer.”

Peter glanced at Simon before giving a quick nod in affirmation. Simon carefully, almost hesitantly, placed the bow in Peter’s hand, guiding him through the first few strokes. He worked for a few minutes to get Peter’s grip just right. The sound the latter produced was rough, the bow dragging awkwardly across the strings, not able to settle on just one. But with Simon’s steady guidance, the roughness began to smooth out, the notes becoming fuller and more defined despite the cross-overs.

Finally, Simon spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "There’s more to you than you allow yourself to see, Peter, I’m sure of it. Maybe music can help you discover it. That’s what it did for me, anyways."

Peter didn’t respond right away, but his grip on the bow tightened slightly, as if holding onto something fragile, precious. His notes slowed to a stop. Incomplete silence.

His expression softened slightly as he paused, a thought forming in his mind, though he kept it to himself. In the dim light, with Simon’s words lingering in the air, Peter allowed himself a moment to consider. Perhaps within the notes and melodies, there was more than just fleeting distraction. Maybe, in the end, it wasn’t the music he feared — but instead the consuming silence that would never fail to follow.