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the apartment looks the same as it did two years ago.
there’s still a little chip in the doorframe when peter fell into it after a drunken night that went on a little too long. the number on the little brass seven slightly hangs to the right like it always does. nothing’s changed.
except for the fact that there’s not a spare key under the welcome mat anymore, or that the smell of pine cones and cookie spice doesn’t float through the air vents and into the hallway. it looks like life itself has just...ceased to exist.
harley takes a deep breath and braces his hand against the door, willing himself just to knock; he’s been staring at the same piece of wood for the past six minutes trying to gather up the courage to see his boyfriend face to face. he can’t believe it.
his suitcase is propped on the wall to his left, and a neighbour he doesn’t recognise has already passed him in the hall. she’d looked at him oddly, of course she had, because he hasn’t seen the walls of his apartment in two years and perhaps his spirit doesn’t even linger here anymore.
besides, he must look a mess. he’s been crying on the bus ever since it entered new york, fingertips clenching the candy ring he wants to throw at peter and hide in the shadows like a scared puppy to wait out his reaction.
he’s a twenty something businessman, ready to earn more than triple his starting salary, and he’d been crying on a bus full of runaway teenagers and lost dementia patients. yeah. he’s a mess.
but none of that comes close to how he feels when his hands ball into fists and he knocks on the door. a simple, three beat knock that totally doesn’t set his nerves as alight and makes him want to keel over and throw up.
there hadn’t been any shuffling in the time he’s been standing here, and there wasn’t any now. if he looked closely enough, he’s sure he’d see dust rising from the materialistic objects right through the door, waiting for someone to claim them again.
he waits a second, and then another, and another, until he’s scratching at the inside of his wrist where a small ‘p’ is etched forever, and he’s about ready to turn around and stop this stupid surprise because maybe peter doesn’t even want to see him, maybe peter’s moved out, maybe maybe maybe.
he could just stop up in a motel for a couple nights, facetime peter and assure him he’s on his way, and then wait out the relative time in hiding like the coward he is.
it’s a good idea.
he’s been preparing himself for this moment for so long that when peter actually does open the door, it’s like a bubble has deflated inside his lungs and left an empty void of nothingness weighing inside his chest.
he doesn’t recognise a lot about peter.
just that he’s smaller.
and sadder.
he almost looks like a china doll, cracked in the face and chipped at the edges, hiding under a swamp of clothes that harley could have sworn fit him the last time they’d seen each other. there’s a cigarette in between his two fingers that’s almost burnt down to the filter, and his hair is curled in a way that harley thinks must be matting.
“harley?”
he says it with such shock that harley feels it like a slap to the face. peter’s own looks incredibly numb and swarming with emotion all at once, all sad and shocked and happy and angry but so, so empty that it’s almost painful to watch him.
“surprise!”
peter doesn’t smile like harley had hoped he would. he stands there, cigarette burning his fingers, staring in that weird, unblinking way of his that makes everything stop dead. something’s wrong.
the apartment looks messy, he can see from here; the curtains are half pulled back over the open window leading out to the fire escape, the floor of which is covered in empty glass bottles and a bowl full of cigarette butts. the living room itself is strewn into nothingness, and clothes lay across the crooked sofa like peter has been using it as a bedroom since their double bed went cold.
“can i...” he trails off, suddenly wary and filled with a deep ache he can’t explain. somethings wrong. “can i come in?”
“it’s still your house.” peter mumbles and flicks the cigarette onto the floor, opening the door slightly wider to accept harley in. he’s still looking at the floor like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him home.
harley looks at the dusty ‘home sweet home’ mat on the inside of the doorway and bites his lip. he hadn’t missed the way peter called it his ‘house’.
he doesn’t know what he’d been expecting. a hug, maybe. a kiss? maybe at least a smile. but peter has barely even looked him in the eyes yet and there’s something about his posture and his demeanour that makes harley think something’s wrong.
“peter?” he says, but it comes out barely louder than a whisper.
peter hums in response and flicks the cigarette to the floor, but he’s still just staring staring staring like his brain isn’t working.
he used to do this a lot. he’s dissociate so often that harley just got used to sitting with him in the dark while he tried to pull himself back together. they’d hold hands and the comforting pressure would help coax him back to reality. it worked.
harley reaches out, his fingertips pining for peter’s own. his hand goes to clasp down on it before peter pulls his own away like he’s burnt it on a smothered candle. the look on his face is a catastrophe, all flushed and scared and on the spot.
“pete?” harley says, and it’s tentatively, softly. there’s little tears welling in peter eyes and it’s breaking every inch of his heart a million times over.
“i didn’t know you were coming back.” he chokes, dazed and emotional. he clutches at his wrist, the same wrist holding his small h tattoo, and tries to breathe a little deeper.
it’s at that point that harley tears his eyes away from the etherealness that is peter parker and focuses his mind onto what the apartment really looks like. the paintings in the wall are cracks and holes. the food on the table is cold and untouched. the clothes on the living room floor aren’t just peter’s.
“peter? who’s there?”
and just like that.
nothing.
it’s like his brain’s short-wired. there’s a ringing in his ears and his vision’s going black and the tip of his nose is tingling and peter’s still just stood there but there’s marks on his wrists and a small bruise on his left eye and his collarbones are sticking out through his skin like it’s a light coating never meant for protection. harley should’ve been there.
the man standing in the doorway is slightly older than both peter and harley, face holding a beard that’s too unmaintained to be clean and eyes narrowed into a cat like slither. he’s got tattoos up and down his arms, blood dusting his knuckles in a way that makes harley’s stomach sink.
“who’s this?” he asks because it’s still his house, peter’s still his fiancée, and he’s come home to a man without a shirt walking barefoot through his house.
“this is steven. he’s...staying here for a little bit.” peter stutters out, chewing on his fingernails down to the skin underneath. they’re bitten to the core, and the skin around it is peeled and starting to bleed.
“no need for formalities, pete. you can call me skip.” he smiles slightly and throws an arm around peter. harley watches him closely. “pete here’s just holin’ me up for a bit till i sort myself out.”
he flicks open a packet of cigarettes and pulls two out, handing one to peter and lighting the other.
“you smoke?”
“no.” harley says, feet still glued to the floor. “neither does he.”
peter takes one anyway, a small frown on his face like it’s permanently etched into his porcelain skin. the smoke that travels through his lungs and out of his mouth is like fragments of his personality fading away right in front of harley’s eyes.
“they don’t need me back for a long time.” harley licks his lips, forcing the dry words to form from his lips. “i was hoping we could...”
he stops. he doesn’t know what to say. had he been taking advantage of the fact that they were almost married and just assuming peter would welcome him back?
in his hazy, dissociating daydreams, there wasn’t another man, half naked and looking sex drunk, in his apartment.
“you could have called.” peter flicks ash from the end of the cigarette, voice barely above a murmur. he looks scared, hands shaking violently. harley’s never seen him like this.
“i would’ve...” he says again, sticking that damn cigarette in his mouth again. “would’ve cleaned up.”
harley just nods, eyes flicking between steven and peter. peter’s fully dressed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt he can swear is his own, but steven’s not wearing a shirt and he’s glistening slightly under the dim light of the living room. not jumping to conclusions isn’t something harley’s always been good at, and it’s hard to reel back anger when there’s so much of it bubbled up.
“so what’s going on here?” he raises an eyebrow, pointing between the two of them. “you two a thing now or?”
“what? no!”
“because last i heard,” he exclaims, voice rising higher as peter drops the cigarette to the floor and snuffs it out. “we were still getting fucking married!”
peter gasps, a hand covering his mouth while his eyes well up. steven looks jolted, and he stands back slightly, out of the way of the clear path between harley and peter; a coward move.
“so if someone can explain why it’s okay that i come back from business after two years and find a half naked man in my house that’d be great.”
“i told you, he’s just staying here till he gets back on his feet. he’s got nowhere else to go.” peter pleads, running over to harley with tiny little socked thumps that make his heart jump. he looks soft and angelic, as perfect as he’d been when harley left.
but he looks closer still, eyes trailing over the little dirt freckles on his cheek, the unkempt waves of his curly hair, the chapped, bitten lips that harley hasn’t kissed in so long, and he steps back a little because the shock of peter’s change is so hard, so great, that he doesn’t know what to do.
peter’s not the same. he looks nothing the same, but his demeanour isn’t the same and he looks sick, tired and ill like he hasn’t had anyone to take care of him for the past year.
harley swallows harshly and watches as fresh tears roll down peter’s cheeks.
“nothing happened,” he sobs, fingertips clutching at harley’s shirt. “i promise, i promise, i missed you, so much.”
he’s not sure whether it’s shock or the natural instinct that has drawn him with an urge to protect peter parker at all costs since the day they met that has him frantically clasping back at him, arms engulfing peter’s small frame like he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart again.
“peter.” he murmurs into the dirty locks of peter’s hair, letting the younger boy stain the shoulder of his t-shirt with wet tears.
peter nods back, wrapping his arms tightly around the back of harley’s neck. he’s still crying violently, choking on his own tears and coughing so much harley pulls back to make sure he’s okay.
“i missed you so much.” he cries, hiccuping around the words. “i couldn’t do it. it hurt to breathe without you.”
all harley can do is to pull peter in tighter because he’s crying himself, soft, silent sobs because he had no idea peter was in so much pain.
he runs his fingertips up and down the sides of his torso, feeling the prominent ribs underneath them, kisses the jawline that seems so much more prominent now. peter’s been in more pain than he could have imagined, and he’s only now finding out.
”i’m not leaving you alone again.” he whispers, looking over peter’s shoulder to see that steven’s left, humming along to himself as he walks to the bathroom. “ever.”
“you promise?” peter sniffles and harley’s heart breaks.
peter had been the one to persuade him to take the job in the first place. selfishness isn’t a trait peter’s body is aware of, so the lack of motivation to go back is scarily unfamiliar.
but peter isn’t. he’s still got this slight smell of sweat and strawberries that won’t ever leave. he’s still wearing his wedding ring, and it’s still positioned next to his little heart tattoo on his left ring finger. he’s still peter, in every way of himself.
“yeah, pete.” he presses a kiss to the side of peter’s temple and holds him a little tighter. “i promise.”