Work Text:
“Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us.”
― Sappho
Remember this? he’d pulled out from his backpack a hardcover textbook, around a thousand pages thick, the front covered with dust, pages torn and wrinkled.
You coughed, brushing the dust off the cover, and noticed that it was your old sixth grade Ancient History textbook.
A chuckle.
You still keep this sort of thing around, Pete? you asked, placing the book down on the floor of your room and flipped the cover open.
Because who else still clung to this sort of (frankly) cheesy, old-school sentiment, keeping textbooks around like some sort of childhood memorabilia. Who else wouldn’t be able to bring himself to throw something like this away, when it’s nothing but an additional clutter to his room. Who else would have thought sixth grade Ancient History needed keeping, when years had passed and both of you were more into genetics and complicated calculus equations now than the founding of ancient Rome.
(You’d taken him for a science guy, since you were six. Turned out to be right. Neither of you were much of an arts person.)
There are reasons, he replied, corner smile at his lips, and ran his index finger down the first page, the one stating the book’s title, the publisher, and the edition. Stopped at a sketch of a speech cloud, drawn in black ink.
Inside were the written words:
Pete & Harry
BFF 4ever.
March 15 2005.
Followed by your respective signatures. Peter’s was simply his name, written in a somewhat more, though barely noticeable, cursive fashion. Yours was a swirly H and some dashes and dots you thought looked enigmatic and messy enough, based on all the signatures on letters on Norman’s desk that you’d glanced at.
Your jaw dropped, mouth agape, hands on either side of the book at the floor feeling light. He was crouched down, just beside you on the floor, nose nuzzling your cheek.
This was too much.
This was really too much.
Flashbacks to old days, and your written declaration into this friendship on paper, the one he’d kept, all these years.
And decided to show you, on your birthday.
(There was the unsuccessful surprise trick he’d planned when you walked through the door. Jumped out and yelled “Happy birthday!” aloud to you, when you’d known it was him hiding behind the closet next to the door of your room. There were cakes and candles—I’m twenty-one, Pete, not twelve, you’d told him—and, at his insistence, one round of the overused Happy Birthday song.
Just you, you ended up saying, as you kissed him thank you, Just you. ‘s enough for me.
He shook his head, lips curled up, like he was one step ahead of you, like he was in on something you’d been kept out of the loop of, until now.
Not enough, he said, Let me show you something.
And that was when he’d pulled out the textbook from his backpack.)
You gathered yourself, seconds after, the book still open on the floor, and turned to face him, accusing finger jabbing at his heart.
You give the strangest gifts, you complained, A trip down the memory lane? Seriously?
He laughed, and you threw him a soft punch at his arm.
That’s not it, he continued, chest rippling from his laughs, That’s not what I meant.
You had your arms crossed at your chest now, eyebrows scrunched up, What did you mean, then?
Menken being difficult, that was a daily torture slash headache you could handle. Peter being difficult, other than creating for you a whole new ballgame, was pushing your buttons to the limits, your nerves fraying at the ends. Inhibition would soon lose its grasp on you, if he’d carry on his little act.
(No telling what you’d do to him if that happened. Punish him, maybe. In a way that you’d both enjoy. Birthday present right there.)
He took your left hand in his, finger raising your chin so you were looking directly into his eyes.
Those delicious chocolate browns.
D’you think we’re still best friends? his voice was warm, genuine, the way he was when he’d hugged you close and asked if you were okay when Norman passed away (Of course you were. Good riddance. Except it wasn’t. Much. Talk about the kind of inheritance unwritten in the will. Fucking Norman.), his question innocent enough to have you drop your stance, arms at your sides.
‘Course we are, you answered, fingers rubbing across his. Blinked at him, and found he hadn’t torn his eyes away.
Was this something serious?
Why? you couldn’t help it. He was being funny, bringing up history (the literal and the nostalgic), and now this kind of impromptu session of questions.
Couldn’t figure out, for the life of you, why he was acting this way.
He smiled, bent his head and pressed his lips to the back of your palm, D’you think we’re something more?
The second question had you taken aback. Something more? Hell, a lot more than something more. Sleepovers. Late night phone calls that were back in sessions, soon as you were in the City again, and you’d gotten hold of his cell and his home phone numbers. Occasional lunches at restaurants and fast food places (his picks). Ristrettos at the Bean those early mornings you had to wake up for work, him for university. Dates out to dinners and the Park and the dessert bar at midnight o’clock. Him blow drying your hair one morning, when he’d dropped in to surprise you (for no specific reason, he’d said. Fucking liar.). Falling asleep with your head resting on his shoulder, hand entwined in his.
You pursed your lips, And if I say we are—
He gave a small nod, eyes bright, the chocolate browns dancing, And if you say we are—
You tilted your head, Is this what I think it is, Peter Benjamin Parker?
He chuckled, pink blooming at his cheeks. Licked his lips before he answered, It is exactly what you think it is, Harold Theopolis Osborn.
Full names, you muttered, heart fallen into an erratic beating mode now, head pulsing with rushing thoughts.
You couldn’t feel your hand in his. It was extraneous, somehow, nerves paralyzed and senses malfunctioning.
He placed his other hand on top of your palm.
D’you think we could be, I don’t know, boyfriends?
And the world stopped spinning. Fireworks happened and dissolved. The room was at its brightest and darkest at the same time. Clocks ceased ticking and suddenly every second was sounding in your ears.
You’d let go of his hand, and thrown your arms around his neck.
I thought we already are boyfriends, fucking jerk, you murmured, lips capturing his, I thought we already are.
He’d hummed, mouth open, tongue twisting into yours. His hands drifted down to your waist, holding on tight, and you’d crawled into his lap, legs on either side on him.
Happy Birthday, he sang when you broke apart for air, voice throaty and low, Happy Birthday, boyfriend.
I think the words in the speech cloud needed changing, you were whispering, when he’d slipped his hand under your shirt, and you gasped.
Later, he breathed, lips mapping the skin at your neck, Later. Let me give you your real gift first.