Fingers trace your every outline, paint a picture with my hands

[spideyguy]

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.

Comments

[goblinjr]

It's a gradual, foggy sense of awareness when Harry eventually stirs. The kind that lingers somewhere between sleeping and awake. 'My alarm didn't go off,' is his first bleary thought when he squints his eyes open, straining to read the clock. He'd be more worried if he weren't the boss. As it is, there's no meeting today and he can afford just a few more minutes, right? Oscorp can function without him for a little while longer.

So, Harry plops his head back down on the pillow, content to settle back in, barely giving it a second thought as he nestles against the warm embrace. It's comfortable, peaceful, and he nearly dozes off again without questioning it. And then--

There's no lazy blinking when Harry's eyes open this time. He's distinctly, acutely aware of an arm around his chest, legs tangled against his... There is definitely someone else in bed with him, and he's sure he didn't take anyone home with him the night before. That would require a better social life than he's currently got. It's then that he realizes this isn't his manor. Not his bed, or his bedside table, or--

Harry's propping himself up with a jolt, and he means to discover who he's sidled up next to until the volume of pictures catch his eye first. And why wouldn't they? Paintings and photographs practically envelop every inch of the walls. Perhaps that wouldn't be so unusual if he didn't see his face among them, or if he didn't spy his subtle signature on a painting he never remembered working on above the bed. Then - finally - he turns over to peer at the body next to him, his mind whirling with confusion, curiosity, and shock. He's already guessing when he spots the untamed fluff of hair poking out from under the sheets, but pulling back what hasn't already been tossed around by Harry's startled jolt confirms it. A face he's memorized a hundred times over, a body that he doesn't know as well but privately wishes he could be.

"Peter?"

There's an all too consuming part of him that's too preoccupied with staring in wonder and awe to know if that was even audible, or to be bothered with doing the respectful thing and giving Peter space. He doesn't yet see the rings on their fingers, too lost in thoughts that are scrambling to make sense of this. He's in a place he doesn't recognize that still somehow feels like home, lying next to his best friend the same way lovers would. "I must be dreaming," he muses, lost, trying to reel himself back in. That has to be it. A dream: humoring his wishful thinking, his repressed longing.

And yet it feels so real, it strikes him when his hand brushes absentmindedly over Peter's, still half-draped on his chest. Guiltily, that's what grounds him and he realizes he's been lingering too long. Regardless of where they are (and it hurts his head too much to think about it, so he simply doesn't), Harry knows one thing: he and Peter are not an item. After all his fussing, it's sure to wake Peter up if it hasn't already and the last thing he wants is to make things awkward by greeting him with a look akin to a lovesick puppy.

If all else fails, he'll apologize profusely as he's wiggling to the other side of the bed.