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.
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newyorknative2016-08-14 05:49 pm
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If you keep Harry at this level of blushing, Peter, he might eventually pass out, you know. "God-- will you stop?" he insists with a laugh, tilting his chin to the side and away from their touching foreheads. Since hiding his face in his hands is no longer an option, he just kind of ends up resting his forehead against Peter's shoulder instead. That's where he intends to keep it until his face feels significantly less like an oven. "Well, someone has to. Spares the rest of the city from having to put up with you."
"I can, but I guess I won't." Peter nestling closer to him, encouraging the hands on his face-- every bit warm and loving. For the hundredth time, Harry feels like putty in Peter's arms. He hasn't really had the privilege of being this close to Peter before, where their noses are nearly touching and their breath starts to mingle. He can see all the color in Peter's eyes, clear as day. For the hundredth time, his curiosity beckons him before his brain can give permission, and he's studying Peter all over again with his fingers. This time, he's tracing his fingertips over his cheekbones, then down and over the corners of his lips. Perfectly in awe of him. Enough that he barely reacts when Peter teases him. He just chuckles quietly. "Yeah, well. You were always good at making the impossible possible. Don't doubt it, pal."
When you're as important to Harry as Peter is, he has a way of doing that. He's not sure what this is, but after ages of repressing his feelings, there's going to be some plentiful hesitation at letting go of his inhibitions. He does tip his chin into the touch, though, closing his eyes for a moment with a smile. "--No. I'm crazy about you, Pete. Always will be." He only opens his eyes to squint at Peter with a lopsided grin. "I haven't blocked anything out of my memory! I'm just saying, I think you're embellishing."
"And by consequences, do you mean... earning the ire of all the rich and powerful people in New York by associating with you? Cause the only social interaction I've seen you make is pissing them off." A tiny shiver travels up Harry's spine once Peter's lips touch his neck, and he can't help but tilt his head back a bit for him, a delighted little sigh of his own escaping past his lips. Encouraged, he keeps lightly trailing his fingers along the back of Peter's neck, periodically wandering down his back a bit to weave over the bumps of his spine. "Oh, geez. Would I have to wear the helmet and cape and everything?"
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There's something about the way Harry's touching him that registers as odd in the back of Peter's brain, but only vaguely. He tilts gently into the wandering fingers, eyes searching Harry's face for a long moment. Whatever he finds doesn't seem to alarm him, at least. "Tell that to my vaccination assistants, for the love of God."
Peter grants that admission with a full, on-the-mouth kiss. Okay, maybe he said no to the morning breath but there's only so long Peter can be expected to hold back when Harry is saying sweet things like that to him. Seriously, what's gotten into his husband? He pulls back with a light swipe of his tongue against Harry's bottom lip, thumb resting on Harry's chin. Peter chuckles softly, shaking his head at Harry's futile protests. "You're a total dork, you know that?"
"Hey! How many years have you been dragging me to this crap? I've learned a thing or two. Besides, more people dislike you than me. All I have to do is tell them it'll spite you." Peter teases, shivering pleasantly at the fingers running down his spine. "Absolutely. What do you think this is, second-rate Thor?"
"Come on," Peter tugs at Harry's hand, pulling back just enough to nod to the door. "Let's survey the damage so I can claim my sandwich. I really do have errands to run, especially if we're leaving Monday."
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There's almost a falter when it registers that Peter's studying him in turn. Crap. Is he being too overt? He doesn't mean to, but it's hard not to get swept up in all the little things he's tried not to indulge in mulling over. Should he say something? Or maybe--
But just as Harry starts to scramble for an excuse, Peter catches him completely off guard with a kiss. Not just the gentle, adoring pecks that have been dotted along his neck and shoulders throughout the morning. No-- Peter's lips are suddenly against his, every bit warm and sincere. For a moment, Harry's so sure his heart's leaped high enough to burst from his chest. On Harry's list of things he specifically tried not to think about for the sake of his sanity, kissing Peter was high on the list. Why humor something he can't have? But now, here they are, and Harry surprises himself by how easily, how eagerly he reciprocates it. Suffice it to say, morning breath is the last thing on Harry's mind. Absentmindedly, he even chases after Peter's lips and the tease of his tongue some when the other man pulls back before he catches himself. Whatever sarcastic reply he might have articulated for that comment is long gone, and all Peter gets in response is the dizziest and most delighted of smiles.
You can call him a dork all you want if you keep kissing him like that, Peter.
"Whoa, hey, no need to get personal," Harry insists. It's clear Peter's only teasing him, but it's probably true. If the guy really wanted to, he could just about see Peter swinging it. "But the helmet looks so dorky!" A cape could look dashing if you wore it the right way, but a big helmet with wings on it? Ew. Harry's fashion sense is tingling.
"Hm?" Leaving? What were they leaving for? Making note to try and dig around for it in a calendar or a planner or something later, Harry tries not to look too confused about it. He's probably already toeing the line on acting suspicious. As it is, he's reluctant to let Peter wander too far from him now; he was just getting used to being so close with him. "--You sure? Can I take back what I said? 'Cause I could kinda go for some more cuddling." It'd be more of a joke if he weren't so serious.
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Peter laughs happily at Harry's smile, unable to resist leaning in just one more time for one last peck (lord, the number of times he's said that to himself and ended up twenty minutes late to something important dear God) before he legitimately does pull away, patting Harry's cheek fondly with the hand holding his chin. The fact that it's so normal for them and Harry's staring at him like he gave him the sun is just plain adorable. Doesn't look like that spark is going anywhere anytime soon.
"Hey, people think we're cute. Just making sure you don't forget it." Peter scolds teasingly, mirth shining in his eyes. "Sounds like it would suit you perfectly, then."
"I've got a lab schedule to set for the week and our bills are due next Wednesday so I've got to get them paid today." Peter levels Harry with a mildly annoyed eyebrow raise (like he's not still going to give in anyway, come on). "The whole trip was your idea, you know. I was fine just doing dinner but noooo, someone decided a week in Upstate New York was a better idea. It's not even like we hit a big number you doofus."
"...but I guess five minutes wouldn't hurt." Peter's already tugging Harry back towards the bed, though, knees hitting the comforter as he let himself fall back onto it. "It is pretty romantic, I'll give you that, but it only makes me worry for how you're going to top yourself. Because I know you'll try."
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That dopey star-struck look is going to be glued to Harry's face all day at this rate and that Peter seems endeared by it is ever encouraging. Harry could probably stand to be less openly awed, but then, he's always been the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. That's not to say he can't be annoyingly good at hiding things, but it usually takes a lot more effort and a solid reason. He's lacking both right at the moment, especially when Peter leans in to steal another kiss. It certainly feels real. Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, he knows there's something odd about that. About how very convincing all of this is, right down to the sensation of Peter's lips against his. It ends up buried under his preoccupation with everything else.
"They do?" It's a little silly to be delighted by the idea that the public finds them charming, but for a couple of guys who never really fit in, it's pretty nice. With the way Harry longs for positive attention, it can't be helped. "I mean-- of course they do. Cutest couple in New York, right?" A faux-offended scoff escapes him just then. "Hey! Who are you calling dorky looking?"
Maybe Harry would be more sympathetic if the idea of him and Peter sharing a life together didn't still have him completely over the moon. It's completely ridiculous, really-- even the smallest of things - their bills and that look he's getting from Peter right now - have him smiling. And then Peter starts talking about the trip in detail, and it doesn't take all that long for it to click. An anniversary trip? That's gotta be it. How long has it been for them? He can't help but wonder, but he reels his mind in from wandering enough to remark back, "Well, if I don't make you take a vacation, who will?"
And he's not even the least bit apologetic when Peter indulges him in his request. Flustered, however? Oh, yes. He ends up tumbling forward with Peter when he falls back against the bed, a tangle of limbs as his cheeks heat up and his ears burn all over again. He tries not to linger much, suddenly very aware of how little clothing there actually is between them. Eventually, however, he nestles into a comfortable spot at Peter's side, where he rests his cheek against Peter's chest.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry teases. It's always been a thing of his to go overboard for his loved ones. Ramp that up by ten when he's in love, and there's a recipe for completely absurd and over-the-top gifts. "--But if I did, I would say that I'm never in any shortage of great ideas."
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He's such a goof. If Peter notices anything, he doesn't mention it, moving to scoop his glasses off the bedside table and affix them to his face with a couple of blinks as he readjusts to the prescription. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Peter chuckles, lacing his fingers with Harry's and shaking his head fondly. "I know you're convinced deep down he really cares, but the only reason Jameson printed that headline is because he's obnoxious."
"Doesn't take away from the fact that we are the cutest couple," Peter allows, however, teasing grin breaking through onto his lips. "No one important."
"Why would I possibly need a vacation?" Peter rearranges them comfortably, not at all hesitating to curl close to Harry. He tangles their legs together, other arm draped across Harry's back, one hand lazily tracing a line down the side of Harry's neck onto his shoulder. Peter presses another kiss into Harry's wild hair, settling comfortably into the pillow. "Uh huh. Sure. You think you're so subtle, too."
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It's nice.
"What?" Harry laughs, squeezing Peter's hand as he pulls it close. They've been holding hands off and on throughout the morning, but he still finds himself entranced by it. By all the simple things-- like mapping out how their hands fit together and trailing his fingers along Peter's. It's a bit funny, perhaps, how marveling and exploring is all he's been able to do once he finally began to relax. He's so taken by his simple but very sincere curiosity. "Why would someone print that to be obnoxious? That guy's brand of obnoxious is like... straight-up slander and suffocating the entire Bugle building with cigar smoke. I've never heard him call anyone cute, even as a joke." He tilts his head up to properly meet Peter's eyes with a smug little grin tugging at his lips.
"Much of a sleazeball as that guy can be, I think even he has to appreciate a Grade A shithead that's simultaneously the hardest working nerd on the planet. You've done a lot for the Bugle." --Probably? Unless Peter never worked for him here. What a headache.
"Why--? I repeat, hardest working nerd on the planet." Apart from the fact that Harry apparently can't keep his hands off his husband long enough for said husband to get any real work done. It's not incredibly difficult to see why when they're wrapped up in each other like this. You hear, "I could stay like this forever," from couples in love stories, and you kind of roll your eyes at how corny it sounds until you're swept up in the arms of someone you love. For all that Harry pretends not to be a sap, he's nothing but and it shows in the way he's reduced into a contented glorified blanket against Peter.
All Peter's last comment gets in a lazy rumble in response. Harry's far too wrapped up in all the little things again, savoring the closeness between them and the warmth of Peter's palms roving lazily against his shoulder and back. Doesn't dare close his eyes for fear of finding it all gone when he opens them again. No-- he merely watches the soft rise and fall of Peter's chest, letting his fingers idly wander with it.
"You can just skip the agenda for today, right, pal?" he half-mumbles, smiling to himself because he's too comfortable to manage even the few inches it would require to tilt his head back and smile at Peter instead. "'Cause I'm... really okay with staying like this all day."
And all tomorrow. And... probably the day after that, too.
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It certainly is a change of pace from the usual, pleasantly so.
Peter chuckles and squeezes Harry's hand back, thumb brushing over his knuckles idly as Harry plays with his fingers. He doesn't seem to find it odd, at least, but rather endearing. "Slander? Gosh, Harry, you know he practically took it all back after we announced our engagement. That headline was as close to an apology as you're ever going to get." Peter smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "He just likes to rile you up."
He then rolled his eyes at Harry, leaning down to peck a kiss to Harry's forehead. "I took a couple of lousy pictures in high school to help pay the bills. It was nothing major."
"Yeah, but I like what I do. Taking a break from work feels like work." It's a totally Peter thing to fucking say, that he's happiest in a lab surrounded by - surprise! - science. He snorts, glancing down at his husband again. "But I guess getting you all to myself is well worth the trade off."
"Nuh uh mister, I seriously have to get at least...three things done today." Peter tilted his head down to brush his lips against the shell of Harry's ear, a light, gentle grazing. "You'll have your turn, promise." His hand makes another loop around, stroking down Harry's neck and shoulder.
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The stark reminder of how awful things have gotten for them both just beckons Harry to retreat further into... whatever this is. With some fretful determination, he buries his face further against Peter's neck as if to drown out that reality. It feels real enough to convince him for the time being. Or rather, real enough for Harry to convince himself. This - curled up in bed with a Peter Parker that's his husband, that's happy - is an easier reality to swallow than the maelstrom of stress and heartache he's been living, after all.
It doesn't occur to him how desperately he's been clutching Peter's hand for the past couple of moments until it's probably too late to pass it off as nothing, but he tries anyway. Tries to will himself to relax and relish in this bizarre slice of bliss he's been offered.
Opting to focus on their conversation instead, Harry grumbles, "He does he pretty good job of it." Dream or not, there's no reality where he can imagine that Jameson has ever been nice to him. Or anybody, really. Guy's a jerk to his own wife, for crying out loud. He only wishes he could have seen and heard that closest-approximation-to-an-apology himself. "Whatever, Pete-- your pictures were anything but lousy." And there's certainly no reality where Peter doesn't have a good eye for photography. Hell, their room is a monument of it. About the time he peers up from the pillow he's made out of Peter to let his eyes rove over the pictures one more time, he's greeted with a kiss to the forehead.
Even better.
Just like that, there's a dopey grin spreading across his face again, and his dreary thoughts about reality seem to drift away. A dopey grin that only turns fondly exasperated once Peter continues on to declare his love for science. "God, you are such a nerd, you know that?" He snorts back at Peter, his grin going crooked. "Gee, I'm up there with science now? What an honor. Didn't think you loved anything more than science.
"Ah, well. Can't blame me for trying," Harry remarks with a laugh, which tapers off into nothing more than a weak little breath once Peter presses his lips against his ear. At Peter's reassurance, Harry pauses, his curiosity wandering back to this trip of theirs. He carefully shifts until he can look at Peter more fully without moving either of them around too much. "So--" Where are we going? he wants to ask, until he remembers that he apparently planned the trip. That wouldn't fly. Searching for a way to broach the subject as inconspicuously as possible, Harry ends up loosening his hand from Peter's to idly trace lines along his chest while he grasps for words.
"Uh-- there's gotta be something you're looking forward to, right? Y'know, places you wanna take pictures of or whatever, being the shutterbug you are."
At this point, Harry knows himself well enough to know that he probably went out of his way to find a place he could convince Peter to enjoy in a concerted effort to get him to grumble less about having to leave home.
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Who can blame Harry for caving to the fantasy? If his version of Peter were here...well, he'd thought about caving for far less.
"Agree to disagree." Peter wouldn't be Peter if he accepted a single goddamn compliment, ever, in his life. And if Peter has any worries about Harry clutching at him so tightly, he doesn't voice them. Instead, Harry gets tucked in against his chest a little tighter, and Peter rests his cheek in the hollow of Harry's neck. "Hm, not like I work for a biomed company where the prerequisite is ultimate nerdiness or anything..." Peter laughs, nose scrunching in thought. "Damn right it's an honor. Right up there with being knighted."
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a landscape artist." Peter snorted, using his newly freed hand to run his fingers through Harry's hair. "I'm looking forward to spending time with you. What we do is completely irrelevant."
"Though," Peter paused thoughtfully, gazing up towards their ceiling. "I'm holding out hope that this time, I won't have a panic attack. That'd be nice, you know, change it up a bit."
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Suffice to say, that wasn't in the cards. Their lives went down a crapshoot instead, and Harry never got to know any of those things. All he's come to know is how much suffering Peter deals with on a daily basis. All he's come to know is how much corruption is tangled with Oscorp. All he's come to know is heartbreak.
And yes-- it gets easier and easier and easier to fall into this pleasant little slice of life. Because he finally gets an idealistic answer to those curious daydreams. Because Peter is finally happy. Because Harry finally gets to be happy, too.
Harry gives him a playful long-suffering sigh; he can't actually muster up any frustration. Peter's never been able to take a damn compliment. Nothing new there. He is - however - relieved that Peter says nothing over his slight desperation. If anything, he just ends up pulled closer, and Harry's less shy about sinking into the embrace this time. "Yeah, but even for a nerd, you're a nerd," he counters, returning Peter's warm laugh with one of his own. "Wow, what a prestigious prize. Better than the Nobel."
"Well, I know, but--" Something about the way Peter says that - 'I'm looking forward to spending time with you. What we do is completely irrelevant.' - while he's running his fingers through his hair, resting his cheek against his neck so tenderly... it melts Harry's heart. Part of him is eager to see what the rest of their apartment looks like, what the rest of their life looks like, but it's the things like that that keep him wanting to stay glued here. They're tangled together so closely that he can almost feel Peter's heartbeat against his skin, and-- he honestly can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be... "Oh, good, 'cause the Headless Horseman wanted to know if we'd swing by Sleepy Hollow for dinner," he teases lazily, deciding to indulge in a kiss to the top of Peter's head.
Oh, Peter... It's such a weird intricate detail, but it only makes this whole thing feel even more real. Because Peter liked being surrounded by New York's towering buildings; they've been a constant throughout Peter's life. First time he ever stepped food in a wide-open space, he freaked. Harry felt so bad for him; he figured it was a sensory overload thing. So... Peter gets a sympathetic smile, and Harry's fingers move up from their idle tracing to brush across Peter's cheek. "So... no to rafting, then." It's a gentle tease, aiming only to make Peter smile. "Well, if all else fails, there's at least always a nice, cushy, safe bed to hide in."
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But reality isn't quite as nice to them, is it? Certainly not as comfortable as where they are right now, nothing to taint this infinite moment of cuddling and love.
"You get what you pay for," Peter teases, pressing a light kiss to Harry's throat.
"Have you ever thought to yourself, 'hm, maybe I can stop being a shit for five minutes'?" Peter snorts, tangling their legs together. He's not afraid to get close, and there's nothing platonic about it when Peter hums contentedly at the kiss Harry presses to the top of his head. "Just because I believe in ghosts - I never should have told you, honestly - "
Maybe it says something how thoroughly Harry's mind understands Peter, that it can conjure up such a convincing version of his best friend.Peter turns his face up towards Harry with a grin, tilting his cheek into Harry's light touch. The smile he gives him is a little guilty - because it is a shame, to go all that way and for Peter to feel like maybe he's wasting Harry's vacation - but a smile nonetheless. He leans in to kiss Harry again, just a gentle, short brush of lips. "I can think of way better things to do in bed than hide. It's not so bad, when I've got you...distracting me."
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Harry opens his mouth, about to fire off some snarky comeback of his own, but the words get muddied and ooze right out of his brain the minute Peter's lips press against his throat. All that comes out is a delighted hum to match the goosebumps trickling up his arms and back.
"That's like the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? Considering you're King of the Shitheads and all," Harry counters with a snicker. It speaks a lot for how used to this Harry's getting that he welcomes Peter tangling them a little closer together without any fuss or fluster. If anything, it just encourages his free hand to wander... It starts at Peter's side, down the dip of his waist, then over his hip until Harry's curiously running his fingertips along his thigh as it drapes over one of his legs. They're certainly intimately close-- dizzyingly so, for Harry.
And then Peter's lifting his chin up to look at him, and the whole thing just... takes Harry's breath away again. It hasn't completely sunk in, and maybe it's okay if it doesn't. Harry feels like he's floating on a cloud-- Peter brushes their lips together again. It makes Harry's eyelids heavy, his heart skip a beat, and his body inch a little closer. Peter feels a little bad about the panic attacks, Harry can see it in his eyes. But he can't imagine having a lot to complain about if it means laying together like this more often.
A tinge of warm pink still spreads through Harry's face and ears over the implication, but he doesn't hide this time. He just smiles easily at Peter, who's smiling easily right back, and gently bumps their foreheads together.
"It's not a waste, then, huh?"
Whatever inhibitions Harry was trying to respectfully keep in check are... swiftly disappearing the more he thinks about how much he's suddenly looking forward to this vacation of theirs.
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And how would that identity reveal have gone? Would Harry walk in on him changing out of the suit? Passed out on the floor? Maybe, in a world where Norman hadn't gone off the deep end and they'd gotten the apartment, the reveal would have been a little more comedic.
"Does that make you the Queen?" Peter certainly doesn't seem to mind the intimate touch, hitching his leg a little higher when Harry's warm hand wanders over his thigh. Clad in nothing but his boxers, there's plenty of exposed skin for Harry to explore, soft until it gives way to lean muscle.
"Guess not. We better pack plenty of supplies." Peter's smile widens at the blush dusting Harry's cheeks, and he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Harry's hair when his husband leans down like that. For all his good-natured ribbing, it was obvious in Peter's expression that he was looking forward to the time as well. But if Harry thought he was bad now, he'd just have to wait and see how utterly incorrigible Peter became when there was no reason to hold back.
"Now unless you plan on an anniversary preview, we really do need to get up." Peter tilts his head to bury his face in Harry's neck for a moment, lips moving to kiss a gentle line down his throat. "Come on, treat a girl right with some of that amazing Osborn french toast. Please."
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One could hope. With less lies, less pain tangled into the mix, Harry would probably spend a good few minutes freaking out before inevitably settling into 'No way, my best friend is Spider-Man!' Poor Peter would be excitedly bombarded with about a hundred questions, including the most important one of all: 'Wait, is that how you've been getting the cobwebs down from our ceiling?!'
Harry snorts, flashing Peter a grin. "Oh, have I moved up from consort now?"
It's... tempting to say the least-- that anniversary preview. Especially when Peter's obligingly sliding his leg up into Harry's touches, Peter's thigh brushing against his. A quiet little shiver rolls up his back, rendering him weak. "You're the one that keeps kissing me-- s'your fault we're still here," Harry mumbles distractedly, his chin tipped back to give Peter better access to his throat. Not like Harry was the one who'd insisted on cuddling or anything, and it's certainly not like he's egging Peter on either. His fingers roam a little higher, a little braver, a little more curious-- teasing just underneath the fabric of Peter's boxers. Part of him just really wants to stay here, slowly exploring Peter's skin, melting into his warm lips dotting a trail along his neck and shoulders.
But there'll be time later, right? And... frankly, Harry still can't even kiss Peter without turning into a red-faced mess. All of this is wonderfully new for him, and he wouldn't even know what to do if they upped the ante. (Spoiler: he'd turn into a giant awkward heap of idiot.)
Harry heaves a sigh and relents, "Okay, okay-- if there's anything left of the kitchen, you mean?"
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Peter would just try to lie terribly, one foot out of the suit, the other stuck as he tried to hop his way to freedom. Whaaaat? No. No I’m not. Totally a cosplay! As if Harry hadn’t just seen him crawling on the ceiling. But of course he’d answer all of Harry’s questions and let him have a look at the webshooters. Life afterwards would be fun though, when Harry came home to Peter doing a handstand on two fingers in the living room.
“Mm, not quite but I’ll consider the promotion.”
“How can I be expected to stop when you’re just,” Peter punctuates his words with a kiss, rolling them over so he can straddle Harry’s hips comfortably. He leans down to trail his kisses from the right side of Harry’s neck to the left. “so damn kissable?”
The teasing fingers get a soft hum out of Peter that morphs into a groan, and he nips at Harry’s shoulder. “Oh, baby, don’t start what you can’t finish, you’ll kill me.” Luckily, the decision is made for Harry, because Peter is clearly serious about having to get a jump start on the day.
He slips off of Harry with ease, heading for the other door that presumably leads out to the rest of the apartment. Yeah, he’s not bothering getting dressed yet. “I’m sure there’s enough left in the wreckage of World War III, yeah.”
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As if Peter hasn't already done an excellent job of rendering Harry useless. Suddenly, Harry's on his back, Peter's on top of him, and Harry's heart clamors so loudly against his chest that he's sure everyone in the building can hear it. It's not like he hasn't been admiring Peter all morning, but it's a little different when Peter's straddling him with that look on his face. What else can he do but stare up at Peter in wonder? Peter's mouth presses against his neck again, remarking about how kissable he is, and Harry is all but lost in a fog of bliss. His free hand - simply wanting to touch Peter in any capacity - ends up hovering hopelessly until eventually it comes to rest on Peter's back, wandering the dip between his shoulder blades.
But it's Peter's groan, sighing out warm breath against his shoulder, that has Harry trembling and biting his lip.
Oh boy, is Harry in trouble. Getting a taste of what it's like to be loved by Peter Parker is terribly intoxicating, no doubt about it.
--And then Peter's sliding off the bed and heading towards the door, and oh-- Harry... needs a moment. His skin is still tingling in every spot Peter's lips have touched. His heart's still fluttering in excitement. His head is still spinning and--
...Harry really doesn't want this to end, he realizes. Whatever this is-- it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Because Peter stares at him like he's the moon on a brilliant night and kisses him with every ounce of love he's ever craved. He's madly in love with Peter Parker, and Peter Parker is madly in love with him, and for the first time in a long time, life is beautiful again. It's good and warm and he's so over-the-moon happy. Everything just feels right in a way it hasn't in what feels like years. Absently, his thumb brushes over the smooth metal of his wedding ring, and he grins, bright and full.
What more could he possibly want?
Soon enough, he's rolling off the bed, chasing after Peter eagerly. He wants to see the rest of their life together. Not unlike an overexcited puppy, he steals a kiss against Peter's temple - just because he can - before rushing past him - "Race ya." - and out the door. Forget that he has zero idea where he's going-- Harry's too vibrantly happy to think about it as he barrels through the hall and down the stairs, skidding clumsily into a corner with a laugh.
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except wasn't that kind of Harry's job? To call Peter out on his horseshit?This Peter doesn't have any of the hesitation or cluelessness that the one Harry knows possesses. If he finds Harry's awestruck expression unusual, he doesn't comment on it - and maybe he doesn't. Find it unusual, that is. Maybe Harry will always look at him that way, maybe he'll always feel so unbelievably lucky, will always look at Peter like he's a man seeing the sun for the first time. Harry's touch is welcome; Peter's back arches into his fingertips, a light shiver rippling up his spine.
Peter has always been all or nothing, and Harry has always had his friendship, his love, but this, his whole heart? To know, or even think that Peter could be capable of this...
And could he? After everything that had happened? Or...is this what he would have been like Before?
The feeling persists, fills the room and the energy between them, and Peter's smiling, suddenly, like maybe he can feel it too
and maybe he can.... Everything's perfect, because of course it is. Why wouldn't it be? If Peter smirks to himself, the kind of expression that really has no business being on Peter Parker's face, well. Harry's already too excited and rushing past him to see it."That's cheating!" Peter laughs and stumbles after him, sliding into the wall as he gives chase. The hall opens up into a wide kitchen and living room, only separated by the breakfast bar. Which is currently covered in used bowls and a thin layer of flour. Peter may have been exaggerating the damage for comedic effect, but there's no doubt that they definitely left it in a state.
Especially considering the handprint, on the fridge. Like...somebody may have been pressed up against the counter, before they hastily made their way towards the bedroom.
The place looks homey, though. There's a few paintings on the walls, in the living room, a collection of knick-knacks that seem like exactly the type of thing Peter would bring home - from May, or Goodwill. Like the Snoopy cookie jar, or the kitchsy conch shell, over on the mantle. Papers pile messily on coffee table - clearly Peter's, because there's an office just off the main room that belongs to Harry.
"See? What did I tell you?" Peter pretends to give a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms over his bare chest as he leans against the wall. "Disaster, Mr. Osborn! What do you have to say for yourself?"
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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."
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This dream Peter - has he ever been bloody and broken? Has Harry ever had to reset his shoulderblade, while Peter bites down on an expensive leather belt and tries not to scream? Has this Peter ever had to dig a bullet out of his own leg, while Harry tried not to vomit, preparing the needle and thread with shaking fingers?
(Maybe there is no going back, but at least they have each other. At least, amidst all the mess, they had each other to cling on to, and maybe that was the new 'normal'. And, if that were the case...couldn't things be worse?)
(...
then again, the whole point is for Harry to question if maybe things might be a little easier, just to stay here...)He has a shot here though. Has more than a shot, really, has everything he could ever want. Peter, looking at him with adoration, offering him love and affection in spades. Peter, wearing Harry's ring on his finger, waltzing around the apartment in his underwear not because he's oblivious to Harry's gaze, but because he invites it.
Peter, who loves Harry in all the ways Harry wants him to, so very deeply.
This Peter is just as toned as Harry's, even with the distinct lack of crime-fighting and radioactive spider powers. He raises an eyebrow, almost looking smug, like he knows exactly where Harry's blush is coming from, and he gives Harry an obvious once-over, a look that tells him he'd probably be easy enough to coax into a re-enactment, if Harry wanted it badly enough.
"First of all, you are a drama queen, and secondly, this was totally unnecessary!" Peter throws his hands up, looking adorably infuriated, though it's obvious he's only bickering because that's their schtick. He points at the papers on the coffee table accusingly. "I had all of those organized, but no, we couldn't make out on the couch like normal people."
"Uh uh, no way you can't turn this around on me. Self-defense!" Peter snorts and rolls his eyes, heading back into the kitchen to open the fridge. He pulls out the orange juice, moving to the left to open one of the cabinets and pull out two glasses. "There is nothing innocent about you, Osborn."
"I will clean up, but only because I like your french toast so much." He pours the glasses and passes one to Harry, downing half of his in one go. "Damn your cooking."
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Harry'd be lying if he said he didn't wish they never had to deal with any of it. He's so proud of Peter for being a hero to the city, make no mistake. But... he also longs for the days when Peter was just Peter. Not bleeding and bruised all the time, not stopping psychopaths, not prowling the city... Harry misses having a peaceful life with his best friend.
But Harry keeps going because Peter needs that support. Peter's already made his decision: he has to be Spider-Man. It's his responsibility. He's been doing it alone all this time, and he would again if he had to. But he doesn't have to, and Harry refuses to do that to him. Peter spends all his time selflessly extending kindness to others; the least Harry could do is extend that selfless kindness back.
And yet-- it's liberating to have a world where Harry doesn't have to make that decision to give Peter a safe place to bleed, cry, and scream everyday. It's terribly selfish, and he'd feel more guilty for having that thought if he weren't so wrapped up in something where everything is okay and always has been.
Harry catches Peter's eye, and it's out of habit that he jerks his gaze away. It's gonna take some time to get used to being able to stare freely-- that it's encouraged, even. He tries - to possibly stupid lengths, perhaps - not to linger on Peter. The odds of Peter catching on at this point is terribly small, given how obtuse he is in contrast to how much of an open book Harry has always been. (It's pretty bad when your assistant can tell you've got it bad for your best friend that she's never even properly met. Felicia had the tact to mostly keep her comments to herself, at least.) But it's a... respect thing, he guesses.
But eventually his gaze wanders back when he realizes there's nothing to be ashamed of, a crooked smile slanting his mouth once Peter greets his staring with a smug invitation. Harry's not quite that bold yet. He's still terribly, adorably weak from all those loving kisses he received upstairs. But the bite of his lip and the warm crinkle of a smile in his eyes says that he's definitely filed the offer away for later, assuming he can ever gather the nerve. Just... having the option is nice, even if he's inevitably too shy to take Peter up on it.
...Especially when just the mention of them messing up the coffee table causes Harry to sputter. "I don't think we've ever been normal people, Pete," he counters, rubbing the side of his face as if it'll ebb away some of that ever-present heat. "Besides. Your idea of being organized is... well. Let's just say I'm pretty sure they would have ended up looking like that anyway."
Harry's more or less trying to take note of which cupboard Peter's pulling the glasses out of, but at some point, his eyes end up wandering up Peter's back and-- well. Really, Harry should know better than to attempt to pay any kind of attention to anything when there's a half-naked Peter Parker around. (Or just... when there's Peter Parker around in general, let's be real.) He misses about half of what Peter says, hearing the tail end of something about him not being innocent-- so he teasingly bats his eyes and gives his best stupid grin in response. "You sure?"
Small victories! ...Maybe. If Harry can manage to inconspicuously rummage through the cupboards while Peter's cleaning, that is. "Maybe I need to use the 'french toast' card more often." He laughs, taking the glass, electing only to take a few drinks. (He's pretty sure he'll just end up choking on it at the rate Peter's flustering him if he's not careful.) "Any special requests?" He didn't really get a good look in the fridge to see what kind of fruit they had, so... he's gonna assume that he has whatever Peter likes on his french toast on hand.
And, uh. He's just gonna hope Peter's not too suspicious while Harry starts poking around for a bowl and a frying pan. He figures that looks a little less suspicious than just... standing there and not starting breakfast.
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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?"
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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.
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And Peter is there, every time, with honey on his tongue and a smile against Harry's mouth. This, at least, is in HD - every detail, beautifully crafted; the way Peter's mouth molds against Harry's, the way his lips part on a laugh as he licks his way into Harry's mouth. There is no shortage of intricacies to be found there.
He's different than the Peter Harry knows, but maybe...maybe that's better. How often has Harry thought of that sad, broken Peter Parker, anyway? When he has this one - wide-eyed and loving, showering him in affection, no bags under his eyes from sleepless nights. No guilt and shame, no tears, no death anniversary looming to ruin a random, innocuous day every year (or multiple days, as is Peter's curse). Is that Peter even real? How can he be, when he's so far removed from this one - and this one feels incredibly real when he's on top of you, doesn't he?
Harry whispers back to him, and Peter sighs happily, like that's all he's ever wanted to hear, too. His lips find Harry's over and over again, like it's a promise, and his hands slide down Harry's back, inviting him closer and closer, into his embrace (but never too close...)
Peter's hand is in Harry's, his wedding band warm from their skin, and Peter doesn't let go. In fact, he's curling their fingers together, his own thumb rubbing a gentle circle into the back of Harry's hand, and he doesn't have plans to stop anytime soon. Peter grins as Harry flushes, eyebrows rising, and expression Harry's seen a million times on his face, and why wouldn't it appear now? They're the same idiots they were before they're just - in love. Idiots in love. It's kind of perfect. (
Not kind of, it is perfect.)"Mm, you always do," Peter chuckles, mostly to himself, and his smile widens at Harry's laugh. Why wouldn't their first date involve plastic sharks filled with pomegranate juice? That's just the way their life works. Besides, while Harry can do the refined rich person thing, Peter can't; so they wind up meeting in the strangest of middles, most of the time (but the most wonderful, too). "It is, isn't it?"
Peter lights up in response to the awe in Harry's eyes, shining with triumph. He lifts the shark, squeezing Harry's hand. "To an eternity, Harry. Our perfect eternity."
They dump the sharks, and Peter takes a sip before leaning in to kiss Harry again, lips sticky-sweet with the syrup. He hums, and things are a little fuzzy, for a second - it's perfect isn't it perfect, Harry -
"Harry."
That's Peter's voice, but Peter's mouth is still on Harry's.
"Harry."
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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.
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