It's so perfect that it should raise red flags in every direction, but Harry's so desperate for this reality that he's willing to sink into those ever-so-detailed kisses. Deep down, he knows something is off, but he can't find room to care when Peter's body is pressed against his. Warm, loving, and so happy. It's sad, perhaps, that he doesn't fight it.
Not because he doesn't love that Peter - broken and suffering as he might be - because that Peter has always been enough. His friendship has always been enough. It doesn't stop Harry from wanting him dearly, but it's enough. Rather... he doesn't fight because there's no supervillains, no broken bones or blood, no dreary stressful days here. Because he doesn't have to hide how he feels anymore. Because it's easier to accept this reality than one where there's no peace, one where he has to smother such a significant part of himself.
So, he sinks. Further and further into Peter's arms, into his lips, his sweet laughter. And when they're at the table, celebrating their anniversary, Harry seems so delighted to even just be holding Peter's hand. He's gone-- lost in this wonderful fairy tale of theirs.
"Eternity," he echoes, full of bliss.
He mirrors Peter, taking a sip of his own, and comfortably meets his husband's lips.
--There's been fuzziness and fog before, pervading the edges of his thoughts, his vision. Part of him willfully ignored it, but another part of him itched, wondered, and worried. It's a little harder to ignore this time, when Peter's syrupy sweet lips press against his and a hard buzz vibrates through his head. It's not the feel-good dizzy feeling he's been experiencing with every other kiss before now. More like someone stuck a hornet's nest between his ears--
But then - just like that - it's gone.
"Harry." Suddenly, he hears his name, hears Peter's voice, but... it's everywhere and nowhere all at once. His head buzzes again... faintly. He doesn't get the chance to waffle between ignoring it or investigating further, because Peter's voice calls his name again, only it... sounds like it's a few feet away from him this time.
But Peter's right here-- he's kissing him. Isn't he? Isn't he?
Something cold - like a pool of dread - washes over Harry, his chest clenching so tight he can barely find the space to breathe. It seems so silly, and yet he's terrified to open his eyes. He does anyway. Quick, startled, and--
And it's still Peter. Thank God.
"Did you--?" Harry reflexively glances to his side, to where he heard the voice, and it almost doesn't register. He sees the disheveled hair, the Bambi eyes, the raggedy clothing, and it takes a solid few seconds for his brain to catch up with what he's seeing.
Because the figure standing there-- that's Peter, too.
And once it catches up, it does it all at once, like a ten ton sack of bricks crashing down on his head. Harry lurches backwards with a strangled gasp, toppling over his chair in his frantic attempt to scramble to his feet. He glances wildly between the two Peter's as if he's waiting for one to disappear, to be someone else... Or worse: as if he's waiting to wake up in a psych ward. Poked, prodded, asked a million questions--judged and thrown away for turning out to be crazy just like his father.
Of course that's his first assumption, his worst fear: that he finally snapped and lost his grip on reality.
"Wh--" His mouth refuses to work, to form even a single word. He stares uselessly instead-- those huge brown eyes of his begging for answers well enough on their own. All the while, he tries to make sloppy steps backwards, to backpedal away from the table, but his hand is still in Peter's-- his Peter's. Or... Or is it his Peter? Panic visibly crawls through his chest, clamoring around in his lungs and up his throat.
...It doesn't strike him just yet - in all of his frantic looking about - that the tables around them are suddenly devoid of people. Much too preoccupied with his husband and his doppelganger.
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Not because he doesn't love that Peter - broken and suffering as he might be - because that Peter has always been enough. His friendship has always been enough. It doesn't stop Harry from wanting him dearly, but it's enough. Rather... he doesn't fight because there's no supervillains, no broken bones or blood, no dreary stressful days here. Because he doesn't have to hide how he feels anymore. Because it's easier to accept this reality than one where there's no peace, one where he has to smother such a significant part of himself.
So, he sinks. Further and further into Peter's arms, into his lips, his sweet laughter. And when they're at the table, celebrating their anniversary, Harry seems so delighted to even just be holding Peter's hand. He's gone-- lost in this wonderful fairy tale of theirs.
"Eternity," he echoes, full of bliss.
He mirrors Peter, taking a sip of his own, and comfortably meets his husband's lips.
--There's been fuzziness and fog before, pervading the edges of his thoughts, his vision. Part of him willfully ignored it, but another part of him itched, wondered, and worried. It's a little harder to ignore this time, when Peter's syrupy sweet lips press against his and a hard buzz vibrates through his head. It's not the feel-good dizzy feeling he's been experiencing with every other kiss before now. More like someone stuck a hornet's nest between his ears--
But then - just like that - it's gone.
"Harry." Suddenly, he hears his name, hears Peter's voice, but... it's everywhere and nowhere all at once. His head buzzes again... faintly. He doesn't get the chance to waffle between ignoring it or investigating further, because Peter's voice calls his name again, only it... sounds like it's a few feet away from him this time.
But Peter's right here-- he's kissing him. Isn't he? Isn't he?
Something cold - like a pool of dread - washes over Harry, his chest clenching so tight he can barely find the space to breathe. It seems so silly, and yet he's terrified to open his eyes. He does anyway. Quick, startled, and--
And it's still Peter. Thank God.
"Did you--?" Harry reflexively glances to his side, to where he heard the voice, and it almost doesn't register. He sees the disheveled hair, the Bambi eyes, the raggedy clothing, and it takes a solid few seconds for his brain to catch up with what he's seeing.
Because the figure standing there-- that's Peter, too.
And once it catches up, it does it all at once, like a ten ton sack of bricks crashing down on his head. Harry lurches backwards with a strangled gasp, toppling over his chair in his frantic attempt to scramble to his feet. He glances wildly between the two Peter's as if he's waiting for one to disappear, to be someone else... Or worse: as if he's waiting to wake up in a psych ward. Poked, prodded, asked a million questions--judged and thrown away for turning out to be crazy just like his father.
Of course that's his first assumption, his worst fear: that he finally snapped and lost his grip on reality.
"Wh--" His mouth refuses to work, to form even a single word. He stares uselessly instead-- those huge brown eyes of his begging for answers well enough on their own. All the while, he tries to make sloppy steps backwards, to backpedal away from the table, but his hand is still in Peter's-- his Peter's. Or... Or is it his Peter? Panic visibly crawls through his chest, clamoring around in his lungs and up his throat.
...It doesn't strike him just yet - in all of his frantic looking about - that the tables around them are suddenly devoid of people. Much too preoccupied with his husband and his doppelganger.
After all, it is his husband. ...Right?
A harsh buzz rattles Harry's head again.