"You said you know how bad he is. I don't know how you could possibly know that and still be smiling, with him knowing you have this power. He'd cut you to pieces for it. He'd make himself your slave and then bend you into his. He would do literally anything, he'll devote every ounce of his mind and soul to it, and I'm not as smart as he is. I don't know what he'd do. But I'm still scared."

He steps over to Edmund to pull him into a hug. "I'm not that scared because I know I will win."

Shouldermuffled noises of skeptical distress.

He reaches a hand up to pet Edmund and kisses him behind the ear. "I can't die. ...it is remotely possible that I could die under some very extreme circumstances that I am almost entirely certain cannot obtain merely by trying to face Tom Riddle and in all of them I would be glad I did—because it achieved an insane number of my other goals, not because I was otherwise in such deep distress that I'd rather die. I am categorically immune to permanent trauma and all forms of mind reading, control, illusion, alteration, or interference that I do not personally authorize."

"That makes no sense," Edmund complains. "And I know it's magic but - it doesn't."

"A big part of how the magic operates here is also at the level of—narrative management. If something would be too much for me, it will not happen. If someone would be able to overpower me as I am, I will not meet them. This isn't true in full generality about everything ever, in particular I am explicitly not guaranteed to be a match for someone in an actual physical altercation, but when it comes to—that kind of thing—it will just work. My best guess for why I ended up here, with Tom Riddle specifically around me and taking an interest in me, is in fact because of a power that is metanarratively guiding me towards him to, ah." He can't help but smile a little bit. "Fix Him."

"Well," Edmund starts. Then he pauses. "I was going to say good fucking luck but it kind of sounds like that's out of the equation."

He leans his head against the wall tiles. "Now the question becomes do I believe you - and I really have no reason not to - and if so, what do I do with the fifteen pounds of dread coiling in my gut."

It takes all of his self-control not to say "I can pound them out of you." This is definitely not the time for his horny punmachine to turn back on.

"...we could see if killing six billion demons helps with them?" is what he says instead.

"...you know what, I think you might be right. No thinking about the horrible things Riddle could do to you, or the implications of your powers, or anything like that. Just watching a good show."

"...and I still want to kiss you wearing my old face, that's a conundrum. Also where are we watching this show, I don't want to give the game away to Tintin so not your room probably?"

"...could stay in the library. There's hardly anyone here, and as long as we go before they lock up..."

Edmund makes no comment on the library's suitability for kissing.

The library is the perfect place to kiss a nerd. "Lead the way, handsome."

Edmund leads him out of the men's room with a subdued spring in his step, then over to a reading room.

He pulls his laptop out of the messenger bag he's definitely had this entire time, loads up Crunchyroll, and navigates to Kill Six Billion Demons.

And while Edmund is doing that, between two moments, Pete's old face is back.

Not just his face, though, of course. His uniform changes to keep perfectly fitting his body, but the shape and muscle distribution are all different. His shoulders are broader and his arms are bigger and his pectorals pull his shirt further open. He's taller. His neck is thicker. American football boy indeed.

Ed startles. "Oh! It's, um, you!"

"It indeed is. I think I have a promise to keep."

"-oh!"

Ed blushes and... holds still, how about.

So Pete closes the (short) distance between them, places one hand on Edmund's lower back and one under his chin, tilts his face up, and kisses him.

Oh.

It's really nice.

He shouldn't really be surprised by that. But it's in some ways nicer than the earlier romp was, because that was very fast and hot and intense but this is just - contact. It's a single point of contact between two people, at the most sensitive part of their bodies. (He's pretty sure the lips are more sensitive than the genitalia? He's trying to picture a sensory homunculus with a cock now and he should stop that because it doesn't really fit the mood.)

He opens his mouth, belatedly. He did say that the kiss with Nigel didn't count because their mouths were closed the whole time, and it would be somewhat embarrassing if his actual first kiss also technically didn't count. And, oh. That makes it better. Okay.

It does make it better, and Pete likes playing with the kiss, nibbling lips and exploring with his tongue. They'll inevitably clink teeth because Pete has in fact not discovered the art of never doing that ever but that's part of the appeal, of the humanity of it. He did specifically not take the perk that makes everything related to this perfect and magical and special and it's because he thinks giggling about clinking teeth is in fact perfect and magical and special.

And while Edmund may say that it's not the mood actually kissing for long enough does get Pete's motor going. They don't necessarily need to do anything about that, Pete himself isn't particularly taking any actions there, but their bodies are pressed together and Edmund might notice it.

Edmund would have to be trying fairly hard not to notice that kind of pressure. His own motor isn't immune to this, either, but...

He pulls away. "You taste the way you smell. I... could get carried away, here. But I do actually want to watch this show with you."

"...right, I have a special and unique scent, don't I. That was a thing. What's it like? —beyond the point. We would have time for both if we wanted, I'm pretty sure, but I'm just stating this as a general thing, I'm not particularly looking to get carried away right this second either."

"Your taste and smell are unique, as in incomparable, as in I literally cannot describe them except by wildly inadequate comparisons... I do have an inkling of how I might get you a sample. We'll see. Right now we're watching some damned anime."

Over a carefully unspecified length of time, during which Edmund very carefully does not check the time, they watch approximately four hours of television (and engage in a constant stream of mildly flirtatious banter which this margin is sadly too narrow to contain). At the end of season 1, Edmund rolls his neck and shoulders, eliciting some truly gruesome crackling sounds, and yawns three times in a row.

"God. Um. I don't know if I'm not going to have an absolutely miserable morning from that even if I do get eight hours of sleep, but I do think it's worth it overall."

Pete joins Edmund in the land of truly gruesome crackling sounds. He wonders if his other body would also make those or if they were kept to this body only for legacy compatibility reasons.

"What time is it?" Pete asks, uselessly, as he grabs his phone and finally looks at the time. "Well, you will in fact have your eight hours. And I'm... feeling the kind of tired of a busy day? Not the kind of tired of spending several hours watching anime well into the night." He stretches again, this time the crackling sounds coming from his back and elbows, and yawns hugely, only covering his mouth somewhat belatedly. "Which is an interesting way for this to work. Not seven seasons, yes one."

Edmund stands to stretch. He's experiencing several consequences of sitting in one place for four hours, one of which is tenting out the front of his trousers. "I certainly don't want to stretch it through an additional twenty hours, no. I think I'd be hearing colors."