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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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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Peter had, of course, flown into a frenzy to track down whoever had taken his friend, and shockingly, it didn't take that long. Less than fourteen hours after he'd discovered the scene at Harry's mansion found Peter bursting into the hideout and kicking the crap out of everyone he found there. He webbed them all up tight and rushed to Harry's side - Harry, who seemed...fine. He wasn't even restrained, laying on this strange gurney-esque table. He was...asleep? Unconscious?
But there's no sign of injury, and try as he might, Peter can't wake him.
It's been three days since then, and Peter's starting to spiral into a panic. He just doesn't know what to do anymore, he's tried everything. What if Harry...never woke up?
"You have to help me," Peter pleaded, bloody gash still sluggishly healing on his cheek, hair in wild disarray. Harry dangles limp from his arms, head tucked against Peter's chest. He looks peaceful like this, even when Peter feels anything but. He's smiled, once or twice, but other than that, he hasn't even moved.
Dr. Strange regarded him stonily for a moment. "What makes you think it's magical?"
"Magical or not, you're a doctor." Peter insists, and after another tense moment, Strange admits him into the Sanctum.
Two hours of weird humming and the sizzle of Strange's magic through the air (and one scalding cup of Wong's tea) later finds Peter and Strange standing over Harry. "Spit it out, Doc."
"He's in the Sleep." Strange informs him, as if that makes any sense whatsoever. Peter stares, and Strange sighs, a little of the magical-mister-doctor act slipping. "This was an attack of magical nature. They've put him in a dream world."
"What does that mean? Is he okay?" Peter demands, and Strange holds up a hand peaceably to stop him. Peter is practically vibrating with the need to do something, the need to fix this. The need to see Harry, smiling at him again.
"He's fine. But he won't wake up on his own, and I can't undo what's been done." Strange regards him again for a minute, and Peter can't help but feel like he's being sized up. "It's much harder to reverse an enchantment than it is to break it according to its own rules."
"Well how do we do that? Break it, I mean?" Peter's gaze flickers down to Harry's sleeping face - he thinks he sees the curl of a smile at the edge of his mouth, but he could be imagining it. God, please wake up. "Why would someone put him to sleep anyway?"
"Not to sleep. The Sleep." Strange corrects, swirling golden patterns in the air. "To feed off his life energy. And perhaps they thought, even if you found him, you wouldn't have any way of waking him without another magic user to help you."
"You still haven't told me what the hell is going on." Peter points out, and Strange sighs, sounding put-upon.
"They put him in The Sleep, which creates a dream world - but it's his dream world. The greatest, most delightful fantasy his mind can imagine, a place where he's happy. Truly happy. To wake him, you have to convince him that it isn't real - but even then, why would he want to leave? He has to believe the real world is worth coming back to. He has to do it - we can't just pull him out of it."
"Okay." Peter says slowly, processing this. Super fucking weird, but this is his life, he's seen weirder. He can't help but wonder what Harry's dream world looks like, though. His greatest fantasy? "Okay, I can do that."
Strange gives him a look that tells him it's probably going to be harder than it sounds, but this is Harry. His best friend - what other choice does he have? Of course he's going to try and help him. "You get one shot. That's it. If he rejects you, his mind is closed to us forever."
"You couldn't have mentioned that part upfront? Jesus Christ." Peter runs a hand manically through his hair. "I have to help him, Doc. Please. I have to get him back I - help me do that."
***
Peter stares.
When Dr. Strange first started his mumbo jumbo, it had felt like his brain was being covered in a thick, woolen blanket, pushing him down, down down. He let it, allowed it to push him there, until he felt - well, he didn't quite know how to describe it, but he knew immediately that it was Harry. It wasn't easy, as Strange had warned him, cutting through the Sleep to allow himself in; but Peter's willpower combined with Strange's magic was like a spear, pointed and true.
And now, here he was, the world of Harry's fantasy swirling around him, suddenly. His presence disrupted it, made parts of it skip - all the other patrons of this...restaurant? they were in, they disappeared, the background noise dropping down to the low crackle of a fire in the corner. Peter's surprised, though - it definitely feels real, even if it doesn't sound it.
Peter zeroes in on Harry. He's here - but he's also there. Kissing his best friend. "Harry."
Peter stares.
Harry jumps up out of his seat, chair landing with a muted thud (too muted for the hardwood floor they're standing on, more proof to Peter's enhanced senses that this isn't real, isn't real, but Harry is - ), clearly shocked.
Well, that makes two of them. His greatest fantasy. Look, Peter can be dense, but walking in on the two of them lip-locked was pretty obvious.
"Harry." Peter says again, mouth feeling dry, and he wavers as he takes a step forward. He doesn't want to freak him out, especially since Harry probably believes the Peter next to him is real. "Harry it - it's me. It's Peter. I know this is - I know this is a lot, right now, but I need you to listen to me. This is - "
"Harry," The other Peter pipes up, tugging on Harry's hand, which he still has encased in his own grip. Peter knows he shouldn't be mad, that this is just Harry's brain fighting against him (like Strange said it would), but a flare of irritation rises through him. "Are you okay? What's wrong, baby?"
"I'm not a hallucination." Peter cuts in again, taking a few quick, panicked steps forward. He couldn't let the other Peter convince Harry he was just imagining Peter, or he might be pushed out. "I'm not, I'm not I swear. Please, listen to me. Harry?"
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So here he is: staring between two Peter Parkers, warring between what's real and what isn't. And he hasn't forgotten his "old life", of course, but... the more time he's spent here - with a Peter that's his husband, that loves him as a husband, that kisses him so sweetly - the more that old life has felt like a bad dream. But one way or another, he had to have dreamed up one of those lives, one of them had to be a figment of his imagination... He's just not sure which one. And he's afraid. Terrified. Because... is this it? Has he finally fallen too deep into his father's impossibly long shadow? ...Is he crazy?
What's wrong, baby? His husband(?)'s voice drifts through the fog of petrified fear, gently giving his hand a tug, trying to bring him back to earth. I'm not a hallucination, the other(?) Peter promises, pleading, desperate.
Harry's eyes are so wide, brimming with tears-- it's impossible not to see how scared he is. How desperately he doesn't want to be hallucinating. He's trying his damnedest to think, to scratch through the shock and find some semblance of truth. Something keeps trying to pull him back to the Peter-that's-his-husband, though... Not just the tugs at his hand, but something else. He wants so dearly to squeeze his hand back and sit down and enjoy this dinner that was so carefully planned out and yet--
...And yet the "other" Peter looks and sounds almost as panicked as Harry feels. Something about that feels too organic, too raw for him to ignore. For the moment, he resists obliging the tugs on his hand (and very, very deliberately ignoring the fact that his "husband" apparently can't see his doppelganger, because that makes his head and chest hurt too much).
"I-- I don't understand. If I'm not hallucinating, then--"
--then what the ever-loving fuck is going on?