Fingers trace your every outline, paint a picture with my hands

[spideyguy]

Sunlight streams in through the window, diffused by a light, wispy white curtain. It gives the room a quiet glow, which makes for a very peaceful way to wake up. The clock on the bedside table reads 10:36, blinking over to 10:37 silently. Even the noise of the city seems quieter up here - and it would, considering it's floor 35 out of 37 (Peter's absolutely the one who insisted they not live in a penthouse, are you kidding?) The walls - it's hard to tell what color they are, considering they're completely plastered with pictures. Harry's paintings and Peter's photography, pinned up in an amalgamation of memories. Only one of them is framed, one of Harry's paintings, sitting center above their bed. Peter's got a gradient type of thing going on, different levels of saturation in his pictures. The outside is black and white, leading up to full color where they surround Harry's paintings. Look a little closer and - well, half the pictures are of Harry, laughing, smiling, scowling. Harry, sprawled out asleep on the couch, standing at the stove, bent over an easel concentrating on his detailing. Closeups of his lips, his hair, the crinkle of his eyelids. There's one by the doorjamb of Harry, clearly frustrated at Peter for taking so many damn pictures, reaching out in an obvious attempt to grab the other boy.

Something shifts under the covers, a little fluff of hair sticking out from the white, downy sheets. That would be Peter, in nothing but his boxers, pressing his legs against Harry's and looping an arm loosely over his chest. His ring is warm, warmed by the sleepy heat of Peter's body, but still an obvious presence against Harry's skin - if he's not too distracted by everything else to notice.