Work Text:
a cappuccino to his side, a plate of pancakes below him, and the only boy he’ll ever love in front of him.
really - is there any better way to spend your first-last early morning?
it’s five a.m, the sun still sleeping behind the horizon, and peter had specifically asked to get up this early, just to watch the moon fall and the sun rise one last time.
harley looks tired, but his eyes are wide and he’s gently rubbing peter’s hand in a circular motion, calming and soothing. he’s not who it’s more beneficial to, but he lets him continue, anyway: this is as hard for the both of them.
he stabs a fork into one of the cut off pieces of pancake, eyes still glued on the balcony door to his right. it’s difficult to tear his eyes away; he needs as many images as possible burned into his mind, because he’ll never, ever get the chance to see the sun rise again and he needs to savour every glimpse of the perfect orange glimmer before he-
peter swallows the pancake and forces his eyes away, back to harley’s face.
it’s a difficult thing to process, death. and not just for the loved ones, but for the person dying, too. peter’s read the books, watched the movies, seen how they all accept their death for the sake of their loved ones. peter isn’t ashamed to admit the amount of times he’s grown violent or upset, not just to harley, but to anything and anyone, because it’s a really fucking difficult thing to accept, death.
because it’s not just death. it’s everything he’s gonna miss after today. he’ll never watch that movie that’s coming out in a couple weeks, the one he and harley were desperate to see. he’s never going to wake up and watch his lover’s eyelashes grace his cheekbones under the pale sunlight of a late morning sleep. he’s never going to see harley grow, get that promotion at work he’s always dreamed of, get married like they’ve always dreamed of, have a child-
and suddenly peter’s crying into his chocolate pancakes, like he has done every weekend for the past six weeks, because this is it. this is the end. and do you know how fucking hard that is to accept?
harley doesn’t speak, because he’s crying himself, eyes fixated on the door like it’ll stop the stream of salty tears leaving his eyes. his lip’s wobbling, nostrils dilating, and he’s squeezing peter’s hand like it’s the only thing grounding him. (which, let’s be honest, it is.)
the tears don’t even bother him now. he’d cried until his heart had broken and his lungs had dried out, but it still hadn’t changed anything. there’s not a thing on this damn earth that could change his fate, and the fact gives him a sense of peace, in this sickening circle of anxiety. he knows it’s out of his hands, and the thought kinda makes him feel a bit better, because this isn’t his fault.
this isn’t his fault.
it’s not his fault harley’s going to have to live alone for as long as it takes for him to accept peter’s death. it’s not his fault that harley’s gonna have no one to celebrate that job promotion he’s so destined to get with. it’s not his fault he’s never going to be a dad, or a husband, or spider-man again-
peter chokes and looks up at harley, who’s looking back at him with tear stained cheeks and a creased eyebrow.
“pete? what’s-”
“please.” he says, gripping harley’s hand as tight as he is his own. “i need to go back out. now.”
he’s expecting some kind of argument. some bullshit that his body’s too weak to withstand the force of the webs slinging out of him. he’s expecting some kind of resistance, that harley’ll threaten to keep his ass inside all day until he can be sure he won’t leave.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he grins, and pulls peter out of his chair, pancakes forgotten about on the kitchen table, and into their bedroom. the bed’s how they left it, messy and full of so many amazing memories that peter has to brace himself against the wooden frame of the doorway.
“i thought you’d never say it!” harley says, triumphant as he throws open their cupboard and takes out the little box situated in the top right hand corner. it’s dusty, having been put away six weeks ago and barely ever taken out since. if there’s one thing peter regrets on his last day of living, it’s succumbing to the depression and not going out as spider-man more. he’ll never be able to live that guilt down.
“i’ll head up to the roof now,” harley rambles, opening the box and laying out the suit while peter just stands there, blinking. “we have like forty five minutes ‘til the sun rises, so you can swing around for a bit and meet me back on the roof. what?”
he looks up, making eye contact with where peter’s staring at him. he looks dumbfounded, fingertips still holding onto to peter’s spider-man mask, and peter feels tears pricking at his eyes for the second time this morning.
he steps into harley’s space without another word, their lips finding each other’s purely out of muscle memory. they move together slowly, hands trailing over each other in a soft symphony of pure love.
peter wants to cry, but for another reason this time. he feels like his heart is breaking, out of the sheer love he feels for harley keener, who’s put up with so much, who knew he had a death date, and still kept the damn suit.
his body feels like it physically aches under the weight of love he feels for this boy standing in front of him. it’s too much, too pure and heavy and so, so good. he’s too fucking good that it’s agony to process that he won’t get another chance to take him on a date, or to wake up tangled in the bed sheets with him on lazy sunday mornings.
he pulls back, resting his forehead on harley’s, and breathes slowly, in time with him. the room’s slightly dark, the lights dim under the strain of the early light grazing the earth. in this moment, quiet and kind, they’re one with their heartbeats, and nothing can change that. it’s like they’re the only two people in the world, and it’s more than peter could ever ask for.
“come with me,” he whispers, words too harsh to ruin such a sacred moment. he’s breathing lightly through his nose, watching as harley’s forehead creases and his eyes squeeze shut. “come with me.”
“peter, you can’t...”
he trails off, but peter knows what he means to say. he’s too weak, too ill, it’ll end with them both splattered on the floor. peter smiles gently and presses his palms against harley’s chest.
“i can.” he says, confident and definite. “please. i need you to see what i do.”
harley looks conflicted, his eyes tight and searching when they flick between peter’s own. the dimple above the right corner of his mouth is slightly prominent, because he’s frowning in a way that can only mean he’s trying to work something out.
he’s silent for a long time before he nods, hands gently caressing peter’s waist as they stand in an embrace that will never not be comfortable.
“okay.” he pulls back and presses a kiss to the top of peter’s head. “c’mon then, spider-man.”
-
the suit fits just as it did when he used to wear it daily. it’s moulded to his body, chasing after every curve and and line of his shape to caress the skin underneath.
“still look as good, babe.”
he says it with a cheeky wink, slapping peter’s ass gently, and the smaller boy laughs with a swat to the back of his boyfriend’s head.
“tone it down.” he says, but he’s fond of the way harley’s taking this. he’s not treating him like glass, like a china mug that’ll break if he touches it the wrong way. he’s making his last day on earth impeccably normal and extraordinarily special all in one.
the window’s open, revealing the dark early morning on queens like it does every other morning. to the world, this isn’t peter parker’s last day on earth. to the world, the sun will still rise, and it’ll fall. every morning, like always. it won’t even know he’s gone.
peter’s okay with that.
he takes harley’s hand in his own, having already practiced holding him from the ceiling of their bedroom. the taller boy’s wearing simple black jeans, but he’s gracing that one science pun t-shirt that peter adores. he’d brought it only for peter’s benefit, but makes it no secret that he loves it.
“ready?” peter says, and for the first time in a long time, he’s grinning with all of his teeth showing, dimples prominent and eyes happy.
it’s a sight harley’s longed to see for an amount time that stretched and stretched the longer they waited for his diagnosis. he hasn’t seen that smile in five months at the least, and he returns it with a soft kiss on the smaller boy’s forehead.
“ready as i’ll ever be.”
of course, no amount of preparation could have saved him the anxiety of swinging from rooftop to rooftop, the sky stretching out in front of them and then pulling away from their grasp just as quickly.
peter’s laughing along happily, one hand holding harley’s waist while his taller, older, sturdier boyfriend clings to him like a sloth, all arms and legs and screams.
“this is...oh my god!” he screams as they fly up into the air and peter lets go of his waist to hold him just by the t-shirt. for a quick second, harley’s sure peter’s never going to be able to catch him, but before he can even blink, there’s a strong arm around his torso again, holding him up while they both laugh giddily.
“that was...” peter laughs, setting them both down on the top of a roof harley’s vaguely sure is the sandwich shop near midtown peter always loved. “something.”
harley just blinks, giddy and breathless and unable to speak as peter pulls his mask off and his fluffy curls bounce atop his head.
he’s gorgeous. so impeccably gorgeous that harley has to blink away tears because his boyfriend’s so fucking happy and it’s not fair that it’s being taken away from him and it’s not fair that peter’s being taken away from him and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair-
“hey,” peter’s voice interrupts, gentle as he runs a hand over his hair. “look.”
he’s pointing towards the sunset, rising from its grave between two tall buildings and the water of the lake in central park. it glitters on his face, a warm glow on his pale skin, and harley stops breathing because, wow , his boyfriend is an angel.
soon to be.
its a horrific thought, but it can’t be helped, so harley shuts his own thoughts down and takes to snapping as many pictures as he can of his gorgeous, ethereal boyfriend in all his gorgeous, ethereal glory.
peter smiles for every picture, genuinely happy, a gleaming, glowing happy that fills the city more than any sunrise or any sunset ever will.
of course, there’s a small, stabbing pain aching in the depths of each other’s hearts, because peter’s smiling away and he’s beaming, but he’s still sick and this is the last sunrise he’ll ever see and-
peter cuts off the thought and leans closer into harley, letting the older boy gently kiss him atop the head, soft and feather light like the first snowfall of december.
“i can’t live without you.” harley says, a confession that peter knew was coming but had tried so achingly hard to push away. because, as much as he can hope and pray and wish he’d only done good, his boyfriend was impulsive, in love and an idiot at best. he’d follow him without a second thought into the afterlife and be stuck in a listless circle for as long as he could imagine.
“you can.” peter replies, watching the sunrise while harley kisses his head. “you just don’t want to.”
there’s a harsh cry from above him, but it doesn’t startle peter in the slightest. the tone of voice when harley had spoken, the breaks in words, the harsh, purposeful kisses on his head - he’s been trying to hold in tears for so long that he can’t bear for them to clog up his insides any longer.
and so he cries, and he cries, and he doesn’t stop until the sun’s just peeking above the horizon, glimmering and gorgeous as it rains down its orange haze onto all of queens, and he finally pulls back and looks at peter with the most agony filled expression that it almost hurts for him to return the gaze.
“i don’t want to live without you.” he continues, hands clasping peter’s tightly. “please don’t leave me.”
he doesn’t say it often, because he knows damn well the cancer would have to drag peter’s body away kicking and screaming, but it doesn’t stop him wishing his boyfriend was in control, for once.
“i know. i’m trying.”
and harley pulls him in close, closer than he’d ever thought possible, and they cling to each other harder than ever, because, fuck, he really is trying, trying so hard he’s hung on for longer than the doctors had ever dreamed of being possible.
the tears aren’t shameful, and they come like a steady waterfall, tears of pain and hurt and grief and loss, but there’s tears of happiness in there, of the blurred beauty of the sunrise ahead of them, of the image of each other, burned into their minds for as long as they’ll last.
so harley takes one more picture, of a completely natural peter, crying and messy haired, but smiling, smiling, smiling, with the glow of the sunrise on his face, and his beautiful spider-man suit that harley’ll treasure for as long as he lives, and then some.
“it’s beautiful.” peter comments, and neither of them say anything else.
it is beautiful. truly.
his mask to his left, the dim, glowing orange sunset in front of him, and the only boy he’ll ever love, in this world and every other version of it beyond, to his side.
and really? is there any better way to spend your first-last sunrise?