(A/N) Disclaimer: This is heavily based on my own experiences, and will in no way shape, or form show what life is like for every single autistic person. Peter's experience with his mother is entirely based on my own and what I think Claire would act like. This is just the beginning of the story and there is always room for character development. Content warnings for ableism (internalized and external) and implied/referenced sensory overload.

~*~*~

Peter dragged his feet, along with his suitcase, up the steps of St. Cecelia's Prepatory Catholic Boarding School.

He could beg and scream and cry, but there was no point. He had already tried all of that. None of it had worked.

Obviously.

Looking up at the towering prison, Peter was convinced that Hell wasn't covered in fire and demons. No, instead it had an obnoxiously large bell that was definitely going to hurt his ears every time it rang, and way too many steps to be considered humane.

He sent his mother one last pleading look, only to be met with a stubborn wall with phrases like, "You're being dramatic!", and, "I'm only doing what's best for you" graffitied all over it.

"Mother, please-"

"Peter, we have had this discussion before, and we are not going to have it again. I've already signed the papers and you've already packed your bags, and there's nothing that could be done now even if I wanted to, so stop being such a drama queen. Pick up the pace; you're walking like your feet are broken."

Peter moped as he begrudgingly walked faster to his prison cell.

"This is for your own good. St. Cecelia's is a good school."

Peter refused to meet her eye when she stopped and looked at him,

"Peter, you need to listen to me. Your father and I know you best, and we are just doing what's best for you. You'll be able to get better and fit in. Don't you want to fit in?"

Peter resisted the urge to pout his lips. He was never going to 'fit in'; he had realized that a while ago, thank you very much.

"Mom...I don't need to be fixed."

Peter's mother gave him a pity-filled look that only angered him,

"Peter, nobody's saying that you need to be fixed. You're not broken. Just...a bit misguided is all."

Peter swallowed the words that were rising in his throat like vomit, and instead just smiled and nodded.

Smile and nod. That's all he has to do...

He really should be ecstatic; his parents could finally agree on something. Unfortunately, that 'something' was that their son was a broken toy, and this stupid school is the only thing that could help the poor, unfortunate soul he was.

Stupid.

They reached the top of the steps and entered the building.

Peter immediately stopped on reflex, squeezing his eyes shut and covering them with his hands. It seemed that St. Cecelia's had at least one thing in common with his old school: whoever was controlling the lights must have had some sort of eye problem, as that was the only possible explanation for them to be bright as fuck. Too bright. Way too bright.

Another thing he noticed right away was that they were also loud. He might as well have been standing next to a rocket launch. Making a mental note that he would have to get used to these, he scrambled in his pockets for his earbuds. He shoved them in his ears with his eyes still closed, trying to not take note of his mother's sigh of what was probably disapproval and disappointment.

He slowly opened his eyes so he could properly walk up to the counter without bumping into anything or anyone, keeping them down the entire time. Having to take in his mother's expressions that he barely even understood half the time would have been worse than getting blinded by the bleach white floors. He tried not to look at his reflection too hard.

He could feel someone staring.

"Hello ma'am, I'm here to drop my son off for this school year?"

"Oh, is that so? I hope he likes it here."

He vaguely felt his Mother tap his wrist, probably to tell him to look at the woman, but he stood stubborn as ever, boring holes into the ground with his eyes and now chewing on his hoodie string.

"I'm sorry, he has issues with communicating with people. Please forgive him."

There was a deafening silence.

"Um...his name is Peter Simmonds."

Peter could hear the receptionist click-clacking at her keyboard with more aggression than he really thought was necessary. It stopped and after a few clicks of her mouse, she made what sounded to be a small 'ahh' of recognition. She probably saw his diagnosis.

"Oh, I understand,"

said the receptionist woman that definitely did not understand. She definitely saw his diagnosis.

"Well, he should be placed in room a24. Does he need someone to walk him?"

"Oh yes, that would be grea-"

"No."

Both women snapped their head's toward him as if they were surprised that he was human and therefore had opinions. Wouldn't be the first time...

"Excuse me?"

Peter could hear the threat in his mother's voice but chose to pretend like he didn't. One of the very few plus sides to people thinking you're stupid.

"Sorry that I didn't speak up. I said no, I don't need someone to walk me. I just need my room key."

The woman slid him his key and he kept his eyes trained on the rink of the key, not wanting to see the expression on the woman's face. It was the same judgy look he'd seen a million times before, there was no need to make himself feel worse.

"Bye, mom."

Peter grabbed went to grab his suitcase and duffel bag.

"At least say goodbye to me,"

Peter's mom went in for a hug, and Peter subconsciously dodged it, quietly muttering,

"Mom, I told you. I don't like people touching me."

Ms. Simmonds took a deep breath in then let it out,

"Come over here."

Mrs. Simmonds used her tone that told Peter he was in trouble but couldn't get scolded in public. He bit his tongue and nodded his head as he followed her down the hallway to a small corner.

He got distracted by a big metal wall, showing his reflection, mentally wincing at the image.

His hair was all messed up, probably from his little nap on the car ride here, along with chapped lips that definitely weren't being helped with all the chewing. He quickly pulled out his chapstick--cherry flavored--and applied it. He popped his lips and gave himself a soft smile.

His bland "salmon" colored hoodie had one string that was soaking wet from all the chewing and much longer than the other. He took a moment to even it out. His high waisted skinny jeans weren't his parents' favorites (they always said it made him look like a girl, one a bit more gentle in that sentiment than the other), but they were definitely his favorite. They kept him nice and snug and tucked into the fabric. Safe and secure. He tried to straighten up his hair; first impressions weren't exactly his forte, and he needed all the help he could get. Especially with the person he would basically be living with for the next ten months.

"Peter!"

Peter flinched and pulled his eyes away from his reflection, hurriedly scurrying towards his mother.

"Mom, I told you, the sounds are louder to me than to you-"

"I don't care. Don't embarrass me like that again, and don't talk back to me."

Peter felt his heart rate pick up and the light pounding in his head return, so he began to wring his hands.

"Hey,"

Claire snapped her fingers in Peter's face, causing him to flinch,

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Peter sheepishly shook his head. Claire scoffed and grabbed Peter's cheeks between her index finger and thumb, ignoring the small yelp that escaped him, and forced his face up to look her in the eye. She kept a firm grip even as he squirmed around,

"In my opinion, all of this 'autism' stuff, is nonsense. So you need to quit it."

She let go of him and straightened her posture,

"I know you don't like it, but I'm only doing what's best for you Peter. And the least you can do is try to get better, after all I've done for you. All I've sacrificed."

When Peter didn't say anything, she sighed,

"You'll thank me later. Now, say goodbye Peter. And stop slouching."

She grabbed him by the shoulders and forced them up so he was standing straight. Peter dejectedly mumbled,

"Goodbye."

He went to pick up his luggage and leave before his mom hugged him from behind, ignoring the way he flinched even through the fabric,

"Don't get smart with me. Goodbye now."

She kissed him on the cheek then frisked away, the click-clacking of her slight heel echoing through the vacant hallway.

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding before slumping his shoulders over and starting off towards room a24.

The bland, bare hallways echoed with his footsteps, and Peter couldn't help but feel everything. His breathing in his ears. The buzz of electricity in the ligthbulbs. The blow and hum of the air conditioner. The rub of the fabric of his hoodie. The tight grip of his jeans. The seam in his sock.

When he finally reached room a24, he took a moment to sigh of relief despite not really being sure what he was relieved of. He hesitantly reached his hand out to jiggle the handle a few times to see if it was locked.

It wasn't.

Looked like he wouldn't be needing his key.

He pushed it open and watched as the dust flitted around the room.

Peter's room. Peter's room, now.

Sunlight shone into the room through a window near the top, and Peter squinted his eyes to take a good look at it all.

It was rather simple; two twin-sized beds that looked to have a dresser built into the bottom of it about four feet apart, with a nightstand on the outer edge for both of them and a small bay window built into the wall in between. A small lamp on each nightstand, and following the cord he noticed there was also an outlet right next to the nightstand. He made a mental note to plug his phone in to charge. He would probably need music to calm himself down later, so he needed to be prepared.

Too bad there wasn't a closet here. He might be needing that thing...

No, no, he wouldn't. Because he wasn't gay. He was just a bit misguided. Timothy was just a good friend. That was all.

Pushing that issue aside for a later date, he took a step to the left and opened it up to a bathroom; a sink straight forward and then a toilet to the right of it. Wow, this school must be fancy to have a bathroom in each room...

He went to pick the bed to the left, thinking of his actual bed at home. Well, the one at his mom's house anyway. At his dad's house, he just slept on the pull-out couch. That was only when he actually went to his father's house anyway.

Pushing that down as well, Peter knelt down to where his bed-dresser-combination-thing was and began to unpack his clothes.

He pulled out a hoodie and felt himself clench his jaw, gripping the thick fabric and bringing it close. He decided to pull his hoodie off and replace it with that one, hugging himself close and tight, trying to convince himself that the feeling of his arms around Peter was more than just a memory. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deep, disconnecting himself from the rest of the world so he could float on his castle on a cloud for just a brief moment.

"Hey, Peter. It's gonna be alright, ya hear me? Just breathe."

Peter turns around to Timothy, wiping at the tears streaking down his face with a handkerchief.

Timothy laughs,

"'Known ya so long and I still can't believe you carry around a handkerchief."

"Stop laughing at me!"

"You can't stop laughing yourself!"

Timothy threaded his hair through Peter's,

"Dontcha worry about it. You have my phone number."

"You don't have to be talking to me every single night obviously, but-... but promise you won't forget me?"

"I could never."

"...that helps..."

"Look, Peter, there's something I gotta sa-"

Knock knock.

"C-coming!"

He pulled his--not his, his--hoodie off and replaced it with the one he was wearing before, quickly pulling the earbuds out and stuffed them in his pocket as he rushed across the 5 feet it took to get from the bed to the door, mentally cursing himself for not thinking to change into less...feminine clothing.

Peter could feel the scrutiny of who was probably his new roommate's gaze at his pink hoodie.

"H-hey. I'm P-peter."

Ah, shoot. His stutter decides now to be a good time to show up.

"Uh, hi I guess. I'm Matthew, but can just call me Matt."

The boy seemed like one of those people who did every single academic extracurricular available and spent all of his time indoors studying. Like those boys that used to make fun of him for not being mean and creepy towards girls they "like-liked".

"H-hey Matt. If you belo-long in room uh-a24, th-then this is your room! Here!"

Matt gave him a funny look before shaking his head,

"Nope, I'm room a26."

Peter sighed in relief, but then realized that was probably rude, so he tried to cover it up with a cough, but then Matt just looked at him even weirder, so he abandoned that plan, but then realized just a second too late that abruptly stopping only made it weirder and even more obvious that he was faking it. He gave a weak smile that was probably too toothy for a first encounter. Peter mentally slapped himself,

"Oh, well, r-room a26 is r-right across from here."

"Oh, um, okay. Thanks."

Peter nodded and closed the door before he could register how bad of a move that probably was.

He leaned his back against the door and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before slamming his head against the door once. He slid down into a sitting position with his legs spread out and his shoulders slumped over, leaning his now pounding head against the door.

"Um, are you okay? It sounded like you fell or something..."

"Y-yeah. I'm fine."

He remembered what his mother had said many many times over,

"Thank you for your concern though."

Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope. That's all clunky and...unnatural. Ugh.

"O-okay then. See ya later then, I guess."

Peter covered his face in his hands, head buzzing from being caught without a script.

He made his way towards his suitcase and opened up one of the pockets, looking around on instinct despite nobody being in the room except him.

He pulled out his phone and plugged it into his charge and setting it on the nightstand, then pulling out his toys.

A fidget spinner, a fidget cube, a small container of putty, a tangle, three chewie necklaces, and a few homemade ones. A piece of braided cloth, a keyring with three beads on it, and a pen with an empty ink barrel.

He dumped them all out on the ground and grabbed the biggest chewie he could find along with the empty pen and started chewing and clicking, chewing and clicking, chewing and clicking.

He was facing away from the door, so he was very startled when he heard the creak of the door behind him. He jumped as his muscles tensed as if he had been caught red-handed with something.

Well, he kinda was.

He panicked and scooped up all of his stim toys and dumped them in the drawer in the nightstand and hurried to pretend he had been putting his clothes away.

"Hey."

Peter looked up and cursed himself once again for forgetting to change again, realizing that the key this boy was holding said a24 on it, so he was definitely his roommate.

"H-hey. I'm P-peter."

He smiled the best he could without seeming too awkward, even though it was probably just a bit late for that.

The boy smiled,

"Hello, Peter. I'm Jason. Nice to meet you."

Jason walked towards him--a bit too close--and stuck his hand out for a handshake. Peter's mouth pressed into a firm line, and he shook his head in refusal. The boy--Jason--pulled his hand back and awkwardly fumbled with the room key that was sitting in his pocket--that had the label sticking it so Peter could see it--out and briefly glanced at it, not really looking at all,

"Seeing as this is a24, and you're here, I think you're my roommate."

Peter looked at him, wondering why the boy bothered to look at the key and said in a confused tone,

"Obviously."

Jason pulled back slightly, and Peter figured that was probably one of those times he said what he meant and it was actually rude even though he didn't think so. But then again, when has anything he ever thought been correct.

Jason ran his hand that was holding the key through his hair and he looked as if he was biting his tongue inside his mouth. He looked at Peter's outfit, and Peter subconsciously wrapped his arms around himself.

Jason was wearing darker colored jean shorts and a shirt that looked like the ones school teams would get at the end of a season. They weren't tight or baggy, just in the middle; a contrast to Peter's skin-tight jeans and hoodie that was practically swallowing him whole. Jason's skin was covered in scrapes and bruises like he had spent a lot of time outside, and Peter was suddenly very glad he had worn such a conservative outfit, feeling very self-conscious about his lack of exposure to the sun. Or the elements. Or the outdoors in general, really.

"So um...I think I'm going to go unpack."

"Uh, yeah. Sounds like a good idea."

Yes, no stutter!

"Okay."

Jason crossed to his side of the room, and Peter silently took a deep breath once he sunk to the floor. He neatly folded and tucked his hoodie into the other drawer in the nightstand, hoping in hindsight that the one that he put all his stim toys, including his chewies, in was clean and sanitized.

He unplugged his iPhone SE and put the headphones in the appropriate jack, turning on his favorite playlist, affectionately named "c a l m". The song from UP started playing and he bopped his head to it as he put away the rest of his clothes.

***

Peter sat curled up in the bay window, looking out at the forestry outside with his head leaning against the pane, allowing the tears that welled up to fall as the raindrops dulled his nerves.

God, please, listen. Just...just let me be okay. That's all I want. To be okay...I trust you to decide what exactly that means for me...

He hurriedly wiped them away when he heard the door creak, announcing the return of his roommate from dinner.

"You-...you sure you're not hungry...? There's still some time left for dinner..."

"I'm good. Thanks, though."

Peter got up and crossed the room to his bed, laying down and making sure to be facing away from Jason.

"You've gotten ready for bed already?"

Peter nodded but wasn't sure if Jason noticed.

"Okay then...I'll leave you alone now."

Peter didn't bother to acknowledge Jason, too busy trying to not make any noises as the tears streamed down his face.

Please let me be okay...