There's just enough there to make up for what isn't as far as Harry's memory of the week goes. It's only idle curiosity that causes his mind to wander at first... Because he is insatiably curious about this world of theirs, from the biggest details to the tiniest. And the big details are there, of course. The little ones? Not so much. Harry had wanted to see his home office, the lab where Peter worked (because Peter only ever stepped foot in Oscorp if a dire situation called for it, but here, they share the space and it's... nice that it's not marred by death and corruption)... He'd wondered about their work, the million photo albums he's sure they had. And he does remember all those things... but only in the vaguest sense. He finds himself briefly prodding the memories, scratching for details, because that's all he has time for before Peter's winding his fingers around his tie and reeling him in for a warm, inviting kiss.
Any time Harry's mind starts to curiously wander back to those little details, Peter seems to immediately draw him back. Breathless kisses, wandering hands, hushed teasing whispered into his ear... After a while, Harry stopped caring about the details. It doesn't matter all that much, does it? Not when Peter presses so closely against him, looking at him with those big Bambi eyes of his-- brimming with love and adoration.
Certainly not when Peter's pushing him down on their bed, plucking open the buttons of his shirt to expose his collarbone and sucking his mark into his skin. Harry's already swept away in dizzying bliss, all tousled hair and goosebumps. And then... Peter whispers to him, his hushed words brushing against his neck, and a wild flutter swells in Harry's chest once he comprehends the words. They'd been physically affectionate, and they'd exchanged lighthearted love-yous, but this is... different. This is Peter, kissing him senseless, pouring his heart out, telling Harry absolutely everything he's ever wanted to hear.
Peter's lips against his skin, whispering his love, soothes the deep-seated ache in Harry's chest he so fervently tries to ignore. (That ache: born of all Harry's insecurities and longing and self-deprecation. It's the one that drones to him that he could have never been enough, that Peter could never ever want him the way Harry wished he would. It's an ache that feels like bramble growing through his lungs, digging the thorns deeper and deeper into his ribs the more he tries to claw them back out.) And it feels even better to whisper it back freely, to take Peter's face in his hands and kiss him just as warmly.
By the time they're finally downstairs, Harry's all but forgotten whatever inconsistencies lay in his memories. All that exists to him is Peter, this place, their anniversary. Home-- this feeling is home. That's all he needs, all he wants. And it's real. Right? He's been waking up next to Peter every day - as his husband - for the past week, and it's all stayed the same. (Hasn't it? It has to be real.) He's blissfully holding Peter's hand, laughing at his jokes, getting adorably flustered over Peter's eyebrow waggling over the bearskin rug (if there's anything he's sure of about Peter Parker, it's how shameless he is).
"Really? Good, 'cause I've been liking all your surprises so far," Harry remarks, soaking up every little bit of proximity Peter gives him. But when he sees the surprise, he lets out a loud, delighted laugh. "Well, we've established we're not 'most people'." And obviously, Harry has zero memory of their first date, but it seems pretty par for the course. They're nothing if not a couple of overgrown dorks, and of course Harry would love the hell out of this. He could do the refined rich person thing just fine, but this? Oh-- this had their special brand of goofiness written all over it, and that makes it way better than any anniversary wine.
"Pete--" He laughs again, warm and so joyful, picking up his own little shark. "This is perfect." His laughter tapers off into something softer, into a fondness that completely fills his eyes. "Five years..." What an amazing thought. "Five years and you still look at me like that." That is to say: adoring, wanting, loving; the same way Harry looks at Peter. "Well, here's to many more years of that. Right?" He lifts the shark, tipping it towards Peter's as if to say 'cheers' before dumping it in.
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Any time Harry's mind starts to curiously wander back to those little details, Peter seems to immediately draw him back. Breathless kisses, wandering hands, hushed teasing whispered into his ear... After a while, Harry stopped caring about the details. It doesn't matter all that much, does it? Not when Peter presses so closely against him, looking at him with those big Bambi eyes of his-- brimming with love and adoration.
Certainly not when Peter's pushing him down on their bed, plucking open the buttons of his shirt to expose his collarbone and sucking his mark into his skin. Harry's already swept away in dizzying bliss, all tousled hair and goosebumps. And then... Peter whispers to him, his hushed words brushing against his neck, and a wild flutter swells in Harry's chest once he comprehends the words. They'd been physically affectionate, and they'd exchanged lighthearted love-yous, but this is... different. This is Peter, kissing him senseless, pouring his heart out, telling Harry absolutely everything he's ever wanted to hear.
Peter's lips against his skin, whispering his love, soothes the deep-seated ache in Harry's chest he so fervently tries to ignore. (That ache: born of all Harry's insecurities and longing and self-deprecation. It's the one that drones to him that he could have never been enough, that Peter could never ever want him the way Harry wished he would. It's an ache that feels like bramble growing through his lungs, digging the thorns deeper and deeper into his ribs the more he tries to claw them back out.) And it feels even better to whisper it back freely, to take Peter's face in his hands and kiss him just as warmly.
By the time they're finally downstairs, Harry's all but forgotten whatever inconsistencies lay in his memories. All that exists to him is Peter, this place, their anniversary. Home-- this feeling is home. That's all he needs, all he wants. And it's real. Right? He's been waking up next to Peter every day - as his husband - for the past week, and it's all stayed the same. (Hasn't it? It has to be real.) He's blissfully holding Peter's hand, laughing at his jokes, getting adorably flustered over Peter's eyebrow waggling over the bearskin rug (if there's anything he's sure of about Peter Parker, it's how shameless he is).
"Really? Good, 'cause I've been liking all your surprises so far," Harry remarks, soaking up every little bit of proximity Peter gives him. But when he sees the surprise, he lets out a loud, delighted laugh. "Well, we've established we're not 'most people'." And obviously, Harry has zero memory of their first date, but it seems pretty par for the course. They're nothing if not a couple of overgrown dorks, and of course Harry would love the hell out of this. He could do the refined rich person thing just fine, but this? Oh-- this had their special brand of goofiness written all over it, and that makes it way better than any anniversary wine.
"Pete--" He laughs again, warm and so joyful, picking up his own little shark. "This is perfect." His laughter tapers off into something softer, into a fondness that completely fills his eyes. "Five years..." What an amazing thought. "Five years and you still look at me like that." That is to say: adoring, wanting, loving; the same way Harry looks at Peter. "Well, here's to many more years of that. Right?" He lifts the shark, tipping it towards Peter's as if to say 'cheers' before dumping it in.