The days pass (or do they? Can Harry remember them passing? If he thinks about it hard enough, is there anything there?) and life moves on (how did you fake your way through the week, Harry, through work, through soft kisses at night with your husband?). Suddenly, it's the weekend, and they're up in Syracuse, at the coziest little ski lodge you ever did see (do you remember the drive, Harry? The flashes of memory - Peter holding your hand tightly as you drive out of the city, because even now he still gets anxious when tall buildings give way to dense forests - are they real, or just fabrication?)
It's like something out of a dream, the way Peter laughs and drags Harry through the lodge, up to their room, where they kiss on practically every surface (every time it edges towards more, Peter tactfully dances away, or relents, just enough to keep Harry in his comfort zone, almost like he knows it would be too much to go too far...). He does, however, end up straddling Harry's hips when he pins his husband down on the bed and sucks a hickey into his collarbone, whispering just how much he loves Harry in between kisses to the bared skin of his neck.
It's a miracle they make it down to dinner, but they do, Peter's hand entwined with Harry's. They fit together, and it feels as natural as breathing (and shouldn't that be the first clue, really, that Peter is somewhat unnaturally smooth at this, as if dating him wouldn't be one giant, adorably awkward disaster). Peter plays with Harry's fingers idly, pokes fun at the stodgy old people who are also visiting the lodge this time of year, and more than a few jokes about getting down and dirty on the bearskin rug by the fireplace (because come on, Harry, you really think he wouldn't?)
"I have a surprise for you," Peter says with a sly smile, his foot hooked around Harry's ankle, under the table. The waiter comes back over with a tray, setting down the Shark Attack drinks in front of them. "Most people would drink wine to celebrate, but I figured you'd appreciate this more."
"Our first date, remember?" Peter picks up his little shark with the hand not currently wrapped around Harry's, ready to flip it and dump in the grenadine when Harry is. "I got these from the same bar. Can you really believe it's been five years, Har?"
no subject
It's like something out of a dream, the way Peter laughs and drags Harry through the lodge, up to their room, where they kiss on practically every surface (every time it edges towards more, Peter tactfully dances away, or relents, just enough to keep Harry in his comfort zone, almost like he knows it would be too much to go too far...). He does, however, end up straddling Harry's hips when he pins his husband down on the bed and sucks a hickey into his collarbone, whispering just how much he loves Harry in between kisses to the bared skin of his neck.
It's a miracle they make it down to dinner, but they do, Peter's hand entwined with Harry's. They fit together, and it feels as natural as breathing (and shouldn't that be the first clue, really, that Peter is somewhat unnaturally smooth at this, as if dating him wouldn't be one giant, adorably awkward disaster). Peter plays with Harry's fingers idly, pokes fun at the stodgy old people who are also visiting the lodge this time of year, and more than a few jokes about getting down and dirty on the bearskin rug by the fireplace (because come on, Harry, you really think he wouldn't?)
"I have a surprise for you," Peter says with a sly smile, his foot hooked around Harry's ankle, under the table. The waiter comes back over with a tray, setting down the Shark Attack drinks in front of them. "Most people would drink wine to celebrate, but I figured you'd appreciate this more."
"Our first date, remember?" Peter picks up his little shark with the hand not currently wrapped around Harry's, ready to flip it and dump in the grenadine when Harry is. "I got these from the same bar. Can you really believe it's been five years, Har?"