It's kind of a two-way street. Harry calls Peter out on his bullshit, and Peter calls Harry out when he's being ridiculous. That's how their friendship works. 'Cause... to be honest, they're both pretty extra in their own ways.
Maybe that's what makes this little world of Harry's all the more enticing: that somewhere - deep down - he knows that Peter could probably never be this happy. Not when Peter has such a powerful responsibility to the city. Not when he knows what haunts Peter everyday. There's really no being truly carefree again after that much heartache, after putting your body on the line night after night. And Harry-- Well, he has an entire corrupt company he's trying to straighten out and keep afloat, and that alone puts plenty of targets on his back.
The future seems so bleak when Harry really stops and thinks about it. When he realizes there's no going back to being normal and free and joyful anymore. Not like this.
...Not that Harry ever really had a shot with Peter. (Or at least... that's what he tells himself whenever he lays awake at night, Peter's name pulled up on his phone, his contact picture - a rare glimpse these days of Peter genuinely smiling - staring back at him. He tries to get the courage to tell him sometimes, and... he always talks himself out of it.)
Here, though... Here, those are faraway concerns.
Right now, Harry's only concern is the dusting of flour and a myriad of bowls decorating their kitchen, and trying to figure out how the hell he's going to make breakfast without knowing where a damn thing is. He half-covers his mouth with a hand, but he's mostly just grinning and chuckling to himself. The way Peter described it, Harry thought he was gonna come down here and the cupboard doors would be hanging off by their hinges or something. He notices the handprint though, and the smattering of details he'd gotten about the night before bring back a little tinge of red to his face. Clearing his throat, he settles his eyes on Peter instead. (As if drinking in the sight of his half-naked husband again isn't just going to turn him even more red all over again.)
"And you call me a drama queen? It's not that bad, c'mon." He circles around to one side of the breakfast bar, low-key trying to soak up the details of their living room without being too obvious. There's definitely some ugly decorations, which means they're definitely Peter's, and-- honestly, it just makes that warmth bloom in his chest again. Maybe he'll get a chance to snoop around properly later. Really get a look at everything. But for now-- Harry pushes a pile of flour from the counter to the floor with a laugh, watching it kick up a tiny cloud when it hits.
"Also, it takes two people to have a flour war, buddy. And I'm pretty sure you attacked me. I was just innocently trying to bake cookies." It's about a 50/50 chance of being right as to who actually started it. They're both a couple of ridiculous idiots. "Which means I think you should have to clean up the mess while I cook."
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Maybe that's what makes this little world of Harry's all the more enticing: that somewhere - deep down - he knows that Peter could probably never be this happy. Not when Peter has such a powerful responsibility to the city. Not when he knows what haunts Peter everyday. There's really no being truly carefree again after that much heartache, after putting your body on the line night after night. And Harry-- Well, he has an entire corrupt company he's trying to straighten out and keep afloat, and that alone puts plenty of targets on his back.
The future seems so bleak when Harry really stops and thinks about it. When he realizes there's no going back to being normal and free and joyful anymore. Not like this.
...Not that Harry ever really had a shot with Peter. (Or at least... that's what he tells himself whenever he lays awake at night, Peter's name pulled up on his phone, his contact picture - a rare glimpse these days of Peter genuinely smiling - staring back at him. He tries to get the courage to tell him sometimes, and... he always talks himself out of it.)
Here, though... Here, those are faraway concerns.
Right now, Harry's only concern is the dusting of flour and a myriad of bowls decorating their kitchen, and trying to figure out how the hell he's going to make breakfast without knowing where a damn thing is. He half-covers his mouth with a hand, but he's mostly just grinning and chuckling to himself. The way Peter described it, Harry thought he was gonna come down here and the cupboard doors would be hanging off by their hinges or something. He notices the handprint though, and the smattering of details he'd gotten about the night before bring back a little tinge of red to his face. Clearing his throat, he settles his eyes on Peter instead. (As if drinking in the sight of his half-naked husband again isn't just going to turn him even more red all over again.)
"And you call me a drama queen? It's not that bad, c'mon." He circles around to one side of the breakfast bar, low-key trying to soak up the details of their living room without being too obvious. There's definitely some ugly decorations, which means they're definitely Peter's, and-- honestly, it just makes that warmth bloom in his chest again. Maybe he'll get a chance to snoop around properly later. Really get a look at everything. But for now-- Harry pushes a pile of flour from the counter to the floor with a laugh, watching it kick up a tiny cloud when it hits.
"Also, it takes two people to have a flour war, buddy. And I'm pretty sure you attacked me. I was just innocently trying to bake cookies." It's about a 50/50 chance of being right as to who actually started it. They're both a couple of ridiculous idiots. "Which means I think you should have to clean up the mess while I cook."