Chapter Text
"Maybe happiness is this: not feeling like you should be elsewhere, doing something else, being someone else.
- Isaac Asimov"
“Harry.”
“I know.”
“You’ve got a—“
“I know.”
“Is it actually a—“
“Pete. It’s just a beard, grow up, for fuck’s sake.”
You loosened your hold on the suitcase handle, a finger grazing the little facial hair on your chin that you’d managed to grow in the past couple of days.
It’s just a beard. A short circle beard (as originally intended), or the fragments of one. Last you checked in the mirror, there’s an outline of a moustache above your lips, and the trimmed goatee at your chin.
He was laughing, cheeks pink, “I can’t believe you did it—“
You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, “I was going for a darker look, okay. Didn’t want anyone to recognize me in public.” You’d stepped into the doorway, Peter retreating into the room. (You were gone for a few days, and you’d called him up to meet when you got off the plane. Little did you expect he would take the news as well as he did.)
(The news. Because this was big. This was never-before-seen. As in, a whole Harry Osborn makeover.)
“Paps were following me to Wimbledon,” you continued, threw yourself down on the first couch you saw in the living room, “Annoying as fuck.”
You glanced over at Peter, who’d sat down next to you on the couch, his eyes glued to you, lips still curled up in a delighted grin (the way he was as a child when he’d caught you in a hide-and-seek game, which he always won). You tilted your head in his direction, shrugged, “Why couldn’t I watch my tennis game in peace?”
He wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, pressed his lips on the top of your head, “You could’ve,” he muttered, “If you’d stayed here with me.”
You wiggled free of his grip, hand pushing his chest away, “Yea, like you’d understand, Pete.” You fumbled around in your jacket pocket, and fished out a signed tennis ball, “Rafael Nadal was a beast.”
And you’d meant it.
A live tennis game? Seriously.
Love love.
(far from the ‘zero’ technical meaning of the term)
He snatched the ball from you (“Hey!” you’d blurted out.) and was tossing it in his hand, “Fine, I don’t. I haven’t a clue,” he chuckled, “You had fun though, and that’s good enough with me.”
You snuggled up close to him, body almost falling into his lap, “Even with the beard?” Trick question. He’d laughed so much at the sight of you that you were (slightly, slightly) going to take some more thoughts before deciding on your next look, (if there was a next look to be decided on.)
His finger traced your moustache, an edge of your lips to your nose. “I like it,” he replied, voice calm, settled, and you knew he was telling the truth, “Keepin’ it classy.”
And he’d mussed up your hair with his free hand, chunks falling over your forehead, the once-combed fallow hair in disarray. (Seemed to be his favorite hobby at the moment—messing you up. As if he wasn’t breaking you down every time he came over. Lips that unraveled the threads of your mind, wherever they came in contact with you. Hands that set fire to your skin at a mere brush. Voice that sent ripples through your heart when he spoke. Broken down. Scattered head, scattered mind. Circling around nothing but him.
Dangerous.
But you’d already fallen into his trap.)
You pouted, caught his eye, “You’re messing it up again, how classy.”
He dropped the tennis ball on the floor. Hands cupped your cheeks. “You’re cuter when you’re not as put together.”
(Whatever he was trying to say, you didn’t try to understand.)
A snort. “Held my hairdryer that one time,” fingers drawing aimless patterns on his arm, “And now you’re saying you like me dishevelled.”
Pressed his lips to the skin just above your lips—on your moustache.
“I like you, period,” he whispered, nose nuzzling yours, “I like you.”
Flooding warmth in your stomach, and it was only half past noon.
(Damn it, Pete.)
“Is that a confession I’m hearing, Parker?” you slipped into your interrogative tone, even roped in his last name. Your lips swept over his, fleeting. A deliberate tease on your part.
His tongue darted out. Moistened his lips, and yours went dry.
“You keeping a record, Officer?” he’d asked back, eyes bright, “Because if you are, I’m going to have to explain why.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Go ahead.”
“I like you,” he started, lips on your neck (Mhm. Good.), “When you’ve just woken up in the morning.
I like you, when your hair’s a scruffy bedhead.
I like you, when you’d rub your eyes and ask me why I’ve gotten here so early, and your voice’s still hoarse from all the shouting you’d done the night before at the company, your eyes so drowsy they keep falling shut.
I like you, when you’d stretch out your arms and ask me to help you up from bed. Muttering nonsense about why I shouldn’t have caught you at this hour.
I like you, when you’d trip over your foot and fall into my arms. Maybe on purpose, I don’t know. It’s you—so I can’t (he broke off into a short laugh here) fully say it’s an accident.
I like you, dressed down. Simple. A little lost, but still here.
I like you, as yourself, I like you.”
Jesus Christ.
You blinked.
Said words again when you’d found your voice, “Looks like I’m arresting you either way, sorry.”
(And they came out shaky, shivering. Not at all complacent like you’d wanted. Stupid, stupid mind.)
He grinned, hands crept onto your waist, “And punish me? Are you going to have to do that as well?”
You let him draw you into his arms, “I like you, Peter Parker,” you murmured, “You big sappy nerd, I like you.”
He nodded, fingers tangled in your hair.
“I know,” he squeezed your hand, “I know.”