Chapter Text
They were mid-conversation—something about Flash and a girl at a party—when Harry caught sight of Peter stumbling through the library doors.
It was almost immediately that the corners of those hazel eyes crinkled as they fell on Harry, slightly rising up in his seat.
Cooes and low snickered teasing erupted from their group's little study corner. It barely registered in his mind. Background noise. Harry was too distracted at the way Peter waved by curling his fingers up and down, and then by the molten unwinding frustration trapped inside his chest. None of the chatter was directed at him anyway.
Flash, red in the face, pulled at the collar of his sweater. Mumbled about how they should get off his case. He gave Harry a shifty look—something pleading. The whites of his eyes were begging for help, but Harry's thoughts were still a little more preoccupied with the long list of unread texts he had sent still being left on delivered.
The receiver of said texts ambled his way over. In a bit of a lop-sided manner actually. Harry titled his head to match the way Peter awkwardly walked. As he got closer Harry managed to pick up several more puzzling details. Such as the rumpled state of his flannel, dirt smeared all over his clothes, and scrapes dotted over his skin. He looked like a big kid tottering over after playing too hard, and he was all sunshine and smiles as he approached their table.
At least until Flash spoke up. "Jeez man where'd you crawl out from, the gutter?" He pinched his nose, and feigned a grimace to hide the smile flickering over his face.
Peter's response was immediate and deadpan, "Aren't you always a pleasure to be around, Eugene."
This is what their dynamic had evolved to after Flash defanged himself. Arguments that didn't really mean anything at all. Harry impatiently rolled his fingertips across the back of his textbook.
High-school Harry never would have thought he'd be pondering over how much more Flash was more consistent than Peter. The jock attended these little study sessions on the regular, was never late, never stood up Harry, and had been introducing him around to the more popular side of their campus's social network. This was all more than he could say about Peter, who hadn't even been introduced to his friends yet.
Peter acknowledged them now, with a friendly wave and a much lighter tone that he'd used with Flash, "Hi. Hope you all don't mind me joining." His hand stroked down Harry's spine. From the base of his neck to the small of his back, where it lingered for a half-second as he cozied down into an empty seat beside him.
A motion so quick and subtle that no one would notice. Except Harry. This was intended. Purposeful. Harry sent him a short glare, chewed on his lip, and introduced Peter with a broad sweep of his arm. "This is my ever so elusive roommate, Pete. Pete, the gang. The gang, Pete. You guys all get it."
Across from them Gwen straightened up. She leaned forward, grinning, and offered a hand. "Ah! It's so nice to meet you finally. Harry talks about you a lot. I'm Gwen."
The rest of his friends had similar reactions. Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. Some of them weren't that good at hiding quick little side-eyes. Peter had flaked on meeting them before, too many times to count at this point.
Flash scoffed, "Talks about him too much in my opinion—hey!" He broke off at the kick Harry gave him under the table.
A hand then settled over Harry's knee. He turned to catch Peter, amusement curling at his lips, giving him a soft-edged look. Peter looked away, but his thumb continued to rub circles and the palm stayed over his leg. Warm, soothing, and reminding Harry to reign it back in.
He shook Gwen's hand with his free one. "It's nice to meet you too, Gwen."
She gave him a curt nod in response. Gwen was all formal like that. Sometimes too uptight despite all her perkiness. Harry really couldn't blame her, with her dad being a police captain.
His dad was the mayor as of last November. He had spent most of Fall dodging rallies and pamphlets passed all over campus on whether Norman was a good candidate or not. Suffice to say that he did not fill his ballot in with the Osborn name, but he also didn't appreciate seeing x's striked through his father's eyes on picket-post signs.
The hand on Harry's leg shifted. All it did was move a half-inch or so up, but Harry shivered all the same. He sneaked a glance at Peter, who was now busy in conversation with everyone at the table. It seemed to be going well. Everyone was nodding at each other. Chiming in at the right time, and laughing when appropriate.
Harry could feel the frustration being squeezed and drained out his chest. Like a sponge. Like two hands grabbed at his heart and twisted in opposite directions. He could feel the burn ease as he pushed closer into Peter's warmth. Their elbows were touching, just barely, and the hand was heavy over his leg.
He watched at Peter spoke. Harry didn't think the guy really ever noticed it, but Peter was a very expressive person. Thick brows moved up and down all on their own. Eyes widened and squinted. Occasionally his chin would wrinkle, or his forehead, and sometimes he'd swipe through his hair.
Oh, I missed you, Harry thought, treacherously. Why do I let you do this to me?
Maybe Harry was being too needy. Too clingy. People needed their space every once in a while. And it wasn't like Peter was his boyfriend-boyfriend. He was more of a friendly stray. One who liked to visit and love and sleep with him at night, and then go on to disappear for days without a word. It would be cruel to take his freedom—especially with someone who used to be so withdrawn and reserved—but sometimes all Harry wanted to do was give him a bell-collar and a chip.
It got harder to ignore the hand on his leg as it started to move more. Peter's touch wandered higher up his thigh. Sometimes light. Sometimes his fingers would knead into his muscle.
Harry tried not to squirm. He tried to pay attention. Really pay attention. Things were back on topic. Back to studying. Their original purpose to meet up here. He tried to hone in on the words being said. To not take note of Peter's pinky now playing with the zipper of his fly.
Harry shuddered. Heat pooled in his stomach. All his nerves itched for the attention, rejoiced and sung for the attention, but Harry set the back of his hand against his mouth while fighting against the fluttering of his eyes.
Mouths were moving. Opening and shutting. He couldn't hear any of it. That was until his name fell from Peter's lips, "Harry, you feeling alright?"
Harry jerked in his seat. The hand stayed, followed the movement even. Fingertips dipped in and out of his waistband, just playing with the material. Peter's teeth were sharp, dangerously peeking out of his slanted grin.
But Gwen, Flash, and everyone else started looking at him too. Under the spot light Harry tensed. His tongue felt swollen and his throat tightened. Everyone was waiting for him to say something, and… Peter batted his long pretty lashes. Bastard. The hand withdrew, back over Peter's own lap, and no one would notice a difference under the table. Bastard.
"Um. Yeah. I'm uh. I'm feeling…" He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. But before he could get caught any deeper into a spiral Harry started to shove everything into his backpack. "I'm just tired. Probably time to head back to my dorm. You coming, Pete?"
The question was posed innocently. Practically tacked on the end, as if it were an afterthought and not everything his body wanted to cling to. Offered plain, politely, and impersonal. Just like he knew Peter preferred to handle things in public.
"Yeah. Just came out here to find you anyway," he responded, tone also casual. Harry couldn't look at him, or anyone else for that matter. He just let the words roll over him. Came out here to find you.
Harry bit into his lip, uselessly sorted through his things in his backpack one last time, and held the bag by the top handle so it would be conveniently covering his front when he stood up.
Peter stood up too. "It was nice to finally meet you all."
—
By the time they made it back to their dorm room, Harry had almost forgotten about the texts. But before he could even get a peep out, Peter was in his space cupping both sides of his jaw, and subsequently kissing Harry like he was starving.
Their teeth clashed together with that first stumble forward towards the wall. Peter gently nibbled on his lip in apology, but continued to push, push, push at Harry with such convincing fervor. His hand caught onto the back of Peter's shirt, twisted through the material, and held onto dear life as he got shoved against their door.
Peter only got like this occasionally. Frantic. A little rough. Usually after those disappearing stints he did. Harry whimpered and bucked against him. Pulling Peter closer. Always closer. Stay. The sentiment bled into every kiss he gave back. Stay right here, with me. Stay. Stay. Stay.
Peter groaned into him as Harry curled his tongue against his. The sound vibrated between them, and Harry could probably trill if he wanted to. So noisy, always so noisy. For as much as the guy wanted to keep Harry a secret, he could never be quiet when they fooled around. He repeated to motion, pulling more sounds from him. Sighs. Grunts. Moans.
And then suddenly Peter ripped himself away to peck frantic little kisses all over Harry's face. For a moment he was bewildered at the loss, and the sudden access to air. Then he was scowling, and Peter was laughing as he kissed the wrinkle between his furrowed brows. Peter's thumbs rubbed over his cheeks, tracing a connection of freckles he had been obsessed with for years at this point.
"That was mean," Harry eventually managed to gasp—flustered, out of breath, and unsure of whether he was condemning the ghosting or that stupid stunt at the library.
"Really?" Peter asked in a drawl.
His hands left the sides of Harry's face to drop into his red curls. Fingers gently carded through and played with his hair. Harry's lashes fluttered. It felt good. Right behind his skull. Soft and loose in his stomach. And Peter's spit was still slick over his lips. His taste still fresh over his tongue. It was good. All good. So good. Harry was struggling not to drown in it.
He butted his forehead against Peter's "Yes, really. You're always torturing me."
This earned him a snort, "Sure I do, Har." Peter's pupils were so blown it was drowning out the hazel. Harry swallowed.
And then they were kissing again. A little gentler this time. Peter kept up a slow, gliding pace. Maybe he actually felt bad. Harry didn't know. His brain was turning to goo. He could feel himself getting dumber by the minute. Peter hummed into him. Brushed down his sides so sweetly.
"I missed you," he whispered between them.
And Harry wanted to believe it. He did. He did. He did. Between kisses that swallowed him up. Wanted as he panted in the same hot air as Peter in the moments they parted to breathe. When he was light-headed, cradled up against the wall, and had their tongues slotted aside each other, he could entertain the thought of believing Peter.
I missed you.
Words so sweet and simple. Harry nearly believed it all as he was swept off his feet, strong arms wrapped around his waist, and was carried off to bed.
—
Harry's idly traced circles over his own chest. He could hear the knob of their shower dropping, water droplets rushing to a stop. Peter was done showering. The fact registered in his mind slowly.
He was still lost in that haze. Too lazy to leave bed. Too sore if he was being honest about it. It felt nice. Fulfilling. Something scratched at that desperately needed to be scratched at.
The ceiling above him was white. Slightly textured. Pop-corned. Harry pulled out outlines of faces between the ridges, tracing them over his own skin. He sighed. Flopped his head in the direction of their bathroom.
As much as he usually got stingy about getting first dibs on the shower, Peter really had needed it. Hopefully he had remembered to shampoo and condition. His hair was greasier than usual.
At least he had been gentlemen enough to clean Harry first. He swiped at the side of his nose. Some moisture lingered from the wash cloth Peter had thoroughly dabbed him with all over.
The bathroom door clicked open. Peter emerged, his lower half covered with one of Harry's clean white towels, and was accompanied with a noticeable lack of steam. Which meant that he had showered cold. Because their dorm's water heating was stupid and didn't run hot for long periods of time. Which meant that Peter had saved it for Harry's turn. He flipped his head away, nibbled on his lip. For some reason that made him want to cry.
"Hey. Still feeling good?" Peter asked, voice velvet-smooth. He hobbled over to their closet, one leg dragging after the other.
Harry made an affirmative noise from his throat. Didn't quite feel like speaking yet.
He watched from the corner of his eye as Peter unwrapped the towel to dry the rest of his body and tousle his hair. Bruises and scratches were dotted all over his abdomen. Some were from Harry, but the others… He wasn't really so sure. Peter was always banged up. He didn't like it. Didn't think it was from someone else, but he didn't think he was as clumsy as he always said he was either.
The towel dropped to the ground. Peter grabbed out a few of Harry's clothes from the closet. Some he sat folded on their shared desk, while he tugged over one of Harry's slightly oversized hoodies. A sleepy, satisfied, smile came to him at the sight.
When Peter started filling out his muscles more, which whoa, he had started buying a size or two up of his own clothes to keep Peter from stretching them out.
That smile fell when he finally took note of the way Peter dragged himself over to Harry's bedside.
"You know I saw MJ at the cafe right before the library. She told me she's got this thing Saturday, an event for her journalism class. It sounds totally cool. I was thinking the three of us could go if you were up to it—"
"Are you limping?" Harry blurted. It stopped Peter right in his tracks, frozen in place. He wasn't wearing any pants. Just the hoodie. Harry wondered if it was because it hurt too much to bend over.
Peter blinked, owlishly. "Um. No?" He tried lifting up his bad leg to demonstrate, but then immediately crumpled into a grimace. "A little. I guess. It's fine Harry."
He was waving him off—literally. Peter flapped a hand around, hunched over, and leaned to one side while bobbing his knee. It was very clear that he was hurt.
Shame bubbled up inside Harry, mixing and churning his worry along. He snapped upwards, leg tucked underneath himself so he could get up if needed. "Is that from—"
Peter's cheeks bloomed pink. "Oh! No! No, no I had it before. Strained my hamstring on my assignment from Jameson."
Harry settled back against the headboard and pillows. He looked Peter up and down. A little teary-eyed and shaking where he stood, but still flushed all the way down to his neck now. Harry looked for the lie.
Assignments from Jameson were always his go-to excuse. If the job really was as dangerous to cause as much harm to Peter as he claimed, the smart thing to do was quit. Harry sighed, pinched the ridge of his nose. Peter was never going to do that, whether he was being honest or not.
Harry huffed, "So we just made it worse then, huh?" He pulled his knees up to his chest. Rested his chin over them. God, he always felt like such a child when they talked like this. Small. Petulant.
Peter dropped to sit beside him on the mattress. He rubbed the back of Harry's shoulder, and tried to murmur all light and confident, "Harry it's okay. You didn't do anything to hurt me."
Those hazel eyes were back to normal, no longer dilated and buggy, but they still looked at him warmly.
Harry shrugged off the touch. He thought about the texts. The pile of unspoken lies and half-truths sitting between them. Even their relationship was a lie. Something hidden because Peter was a coward. He wasn't the one the press would drag through the mud—had been dragging through the mud through his father's candidacy.
Peter reached to grab up his hand. He intertwined it with his, and pulled it to rest Harry's knuckles against his cheek. If gesture chipped away at his frustration, the puppy dog eyes he was given shattered the rest.
"You should have told me," Harry mumbled.
Peter started kissing his knuckles. Then the side of his hand. Then his wrist, and down his arm."Yeah, yeah. Guess I should've. Next time, I will. Okay?"
Harry knew he wouldn't. He leaned into the touch anyway.