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Peter rolls over, blearily blinking his eyes open and wincing when he sees the bathroom light spilling into their bedroom.
“Harley?” he calls out, coughing into his elbow until tears spring up in his eyes. He takes a sip from the waterbottle left on the nightstand and rubs at his aching eyes. “Babe?”
A moment later, Harley appears in the doorway, eyes red and body shivering. He looks just as miserable as Peter feels.
“You okay?” Harley asks, swallowing visibly. He winces and shuts off the light like he has some telepathic way to feel Peter’s headache.
Peter lifts one of his arms on the bed with a miserable pout. “If you promise not to throw up on me, I could really use some snuggles.”
The older boy’s still too pale face softens gently, grabbing another box of tissues as he stumbles back over to the bed.
“I hate this,” he groans when he falls into their bed, immediately tugging Peter into his arms. “Hate this.”
Peter hides his face against Harley’s old hoodie, ignoring the sort of gross smell. “Me too.”
Yeah, Harley caught the flu after taking the subway home from school one day. He tried to convince Peter to stay away from him until he was better, but Peter couldn’t resist helping Harley and Peter caught the flu too.
So now they’re both absolutely, miserably sick with no healthy person to take care of them.
“We deserve a vacation after this,” Peter says, wincing at the heat radiating off Harley that seems to worsen his own fever. “Like a few weeks somewhere tropical. A beach somewhere.”
“We’ve already skipped two days of classes, probably another two or three at this rate,” Harley says, pulling away from Peter enough to cough into his elbow off the edge of the bed. “We can’t take another few weeks off.”
Peter tries to laugh, but ends up falling into another coughing fit, twisting his torso away from Harley as much as he can. It’s a little late to worry about passing germs, but he still tries his best.
“We needa change the sheets,” Harley says, tugging at the one pulled over them.
Between the germs and the amount of sweating they’ve been doing with their nasty fevers, plus the blanket Peter threw up on is just kind of awkwardly shoved to the corner of their room, too tired to deal with this.
“Kinda wanna call Mister Stark,” Peter huffs, settling down against Harley’s chest again, sniffling.
Harley snorts. “Yeah, someone without the flu would be kinda nice.”
Just as he says that, their door flies open and the little figure dives onto their legs on the bed.
Their puppy, a baby corgi, named Freddie, after Freddie Mercury, nudges his nose against Peter’s hand, getting slobber on his fingers.
“Hey, baby,” Peter murmurs, voice hoarse. He tries to blink away the dizzy spell that washes over him suddenly, but it just makes his stomach flip again. “Fuck-”
Harley gets the garbage can under his head in record time.
Freddie gets scared by Peter throwing up and he jumps off the bed, whining.
“I know, Freddie, I know, I’ll be there in a second.” But even Harley can’t sound okay.
Eventually, Peter relaxes, letting Harley pull the garbage can away and setting it down on the floor again, but he still feels awful. And he knows Harley feels awful as well.
“Karen?” he says, coughing again. He grabs Harley’s forearm, keeping himself steady as he grabs his watch off the nightstand. His head throbs at the movements and the dizzy spell won’t go, making him feel faint.
“Yes, Peter?” she says quietly.
Tony made sure Karen was programmed into almost every device. Just in case.
“Call Mister Stark.”
Harley groans from where he’s still lying down, one arm around his stomach and the other gripping the hem of Peter’s shirt.
“Hey, Pete? You doing okay?” Tony says, voice a little too loud through the watch. It makes Peter’s head spin a little worse and he thinks he might die.
With his high metabolism and neither of them having the energy to get out of bed other than stumbling to the bathroom, he can’t really remember the last time he ate. Probably at least a day and a half ago. No wonder he’s not feeling well.
“Can you come help?” Harley says for him. His voice is thick with phlegm and he sounds absolutely desolate.
“Are you boys sick?” Tony guesses easily.
Harley coughs hard in response, rubbing at his chest to soothe the unseen ache.
Tony sighs audibly. “I’ll be there in a few hours. Take care of each other. Love you.”
The face of the watch shuts off as Tony hangs up.
Harley pushes himself into a sitting position, eyes filled with worry as he somehow manages to push his own miseries away, focused on Peter. He reaches up to touch Peter’s cheeks, getting the younger boy to look at him.
“Peter? Darling, you okay?” Harley asks. “C’mon, love, talk to me.”
Peter leans against Harley, breathing heavily. “Not- Not feeling so hot.”
Harley’s arms are quick to catch Peter, holding him up against Harley’s chest. “Love, I can’t guess what’s up.”
Breaths coming in too-warm pants that fan out against Harley’s already too-warm neck, Peter struggles to get himself focused enough to give a solid answer.
“Tired,” Peter responds quietly, coughing and sniffling. He grabs his stomach with the hand that isn’t gripping Harley’s arm. “Hurts.”
“What hurts, baby? What’s wrong?” Harley tries again, desperately trying to figure out what to do in his own sick-hazed mind. “I don’t know what to do.”
Peter makes a small whimpering noise against Harley’s collarbone, weak clumsy hands touching his stomach again.
Harley’s eyes widen in understanding, fumbling to pull Peter to his feet off the bed. They’re both much to sick to be trying to make it all the way across their apartment to the kitchen, but Harley had been so focused on their sicknesses, he kind of forgot about Peter’s metabolism.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Harley says, keeping his arms around Peter’s waist as they trip and stumble their ways into the hallway.
Freddie barks and whines, following along behind them with a scared expression.
They make it to the kitchen and Peter sinks to the floor as soon as Harley lets him go.
“Soup, soup, soup, where the fuck is our soup,” Harley mutters searching the pantry. He sees the box and is quick to get it onto the stove.
Harley sneezes and coughs and his stomach twists at the salty smell the cheap boxed chicken noodle soup gives off, but he stays strong through it and cooks the soup.
As soon as it’s done, he dumps it in a big bowl and grabs two spoons before sinking to the floor beside his boyfriend.
Peter looks awfully pale with red blotches under his eyes and over his nose from the fever, shivers wracking his shoulders, eyes misty.
But he obediently takes the spoon offered to him.
Freddie hurries over and sits across from them, whining again.
“Hey, baby,” Harley murmurs, leaning against Peter’s shoulder, holding each other up. “C’mere.”
Freddie happily hurries over to get under Harley’s lifted arm, leaning his head against Harley’s chest.
“Good boy,” Harley says, pressing a kiss to Freddie’s head and petting his side. “My good boy.”
They manage to finish off the soup, despite both of them being awfully nauseous. And they stay on the kitchen floor after that, too tired to try to make it back to bed.
Sipping on gatorade, they stay mostly silent other than the occasional sneezes or coughing fits or yawns, pulling warmth from each other’s fevers as they shiver. Freddie stays dutifully at their sides, eventually curling up in Harley’s lap with his head resting on Peter’s leg.
And a little while later, they both fall asleep on the uncomfortable kitchen floor, empty soup bowl forgotten across from them and Freddie as a blanket.
*
Harley wakes to Peter’s voice.
“’m sorry. ‘m- ‘m sorry. I- I-”
When he manages to push his eyes open, he’s alone in the kitchen. Even Freddie’s gone.
He’s shivering and he certainly doesn’t feel well but his stomach seems to have accepted the soup and the gatorade, and it helps make him feel stronger.
“’m sorry,” Peter says again from another room.
“It’s okay, bud, just breathe, alright?” Tony’s voice floats through.
Harley groans quietly, shoving himself up to his feet to find Peter who sounds like he’s crying. If anything, Harley knows he needs to get to Peter if his boyfriend is upset.
“I didn’t- I didn’t-”
Tony lets out an audible breath. “I know you didn’t, kiddo, I just need you to breathe, alright? I don’t mind.”
Harley makes it to the bathroom where they’re talking, latching onto the doorframe as soon as he can.
Peter’s hoodie and pants are missing, only in a t-shirt and boxers. He’s crying, hanging onto the edge of the toilet like a lifeline. He looks even worse than he had before, pale and shaking and so painfully obviously sick.
Tony, on the other hand, is barefoot, his jacket and sweater in a pile on the floor beside him. He’s sitting against the bathtub, eyes shining in worry and sympathy. He looks up as soon as Harley reaches them.
“Sorry,” Tony says. “I was going to try to coax you up and into bed when I got here, but Peter needed some help. How’re you feeling?”
Harley shrugs, not really caring about himself when Peter looks halfway to dead. “Is he okay? What happened?”
“He threw up,” Tony murmurs, wincing in sympathy. “Not doing too great right now.”
Sighing and steeling his own stomach, Harley crosses to Peter, sitting down on the uncomfortable bathroom tiles beside him. He takes Peter’s hand and gently turns his face to look at him.
“Love, it’s not your fault,” Harley says quietly. “You’re really sick and nobody’s mad at you, okay? It was an accident, that’s all.”
Peter nods slowly, leaning against Harley’s side. “’m sorry for scarin’ you.”
Harley presses a quick kiss to Peter’s temple. “Not your fault. Sorry I got you sick.”
“Not your fault.”
Turning to Tony with a frown, Harley asks, “Where’s Freddie?”
“Morgan took him out for a walk. You know how she is with vomit,” Tony says. She’s already a twelve years old and they live in a relatively safe place, so it’s not worrying that she went for a walk on her own.
Especially since Freddie would for sure keep her safe.
“You done?” Harley asks gently nudging Peter. “You wanna lay down somewhere comfy?”
Peter hums in agreement but doesn’t make any move to get off the bathroom floor.
“Alright, alright, I’ve got you,” the older boy says, pulling Peter to his feet. Tony’s immediately there, sliding between them to hold both of them up sturdier.
“Pep went ahead and cleaned your sheets, so your room’s all prepared for you and some much needed rest,” Tony says.
And true enough, when they get there, not only are the sheets changed and cleaned, the garbage is empty and the windows are open letting in a gentle breeze.
Harley all but falls into bed, opening his arms for Peter to slide in beside him, tugging his boyfriend close to his chest.
“Mm, thanks for coming,” Peter slurs, already half-asleep against Harley.
Tony rolls his eyes and tugs the blankets over his kids. “Thanks for calling me. I’m never too busy to take care of you both.”
Pepper arrives and puts two cans of ginger ale on the nightstand along with two little cups of pills with their names on them.
“For when you wake up. I brought some of Peter’s enhanced stuff, but only after your stomach’s are settled,” she says.
She leans down and presses kisses to their foreheads. “Goodnight, you two. Get some rest.”
Tony does the same and gently murmurs, “I love you.”
When they duck out of the room a moment later, Harley presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead as well.
“Love you, darlin’. No matter how sick you are,” Harley murmurs, making sure Peter’s comfy and secure against him.
“Mm, love you too.”
*
When morning rolls around a few hours later, Freddie barrels into their room once again, followed by a quietly laughing Morgan and an eye-rolling Tony.
“Sorry,” Tony whispers, wincing when he sees Harley’s already awake and Peter’s stirring in his arms. “But in good news, now that we’re here to take care of you both, you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
Peter’s eyes blink open slowly, the first time in a while they’ve actually woken up side by side, not waking up to the other throwing up in the bathroom.
“Morning, love,” Harley murmurs, not feeling half bad for the first time in a few days. He presses a kiss to Peter’s flushed nose and offers him a smile. “Ginger ale and medicine time.”
Peter, for his effort, rolls closer to Harley, almost on top of him, hiding his face against Harley’s chest. “Too comfy.”
Nudging him, Harley lets out a hoarse laugh. “Too bad, darling. Wakey wakey or else I’ll cuddle with Freddie for the rest of the day.”
Peter jolts up glaringly. “You would never.”
He’s pouting like a little kid, all flushed cheeks and fever-misty eyes and sniffles. Harley’s quick to press kisses to his cheeks and nose and forehead.
“You’re right. I love you too much for that. But have some ginger ale… for me?”
Peter caves easily, taking the can from Harley and sipping tentatively. After a moment, he shrugs and starts genuinely drinking it. Making it a big show for Harley to know he’s trying.
Morgan sits in their bean bag chair, tucking her legs up and opening her phone. Tony sits on the edge of their bed, smiling over at them fondly. And Freddie dives onto the bed, finding his spot curled up the boys’ laps. Freddie licks at Peter’s hand when it gets close enough and tries to get a taste of the ginger ale before recoiling in disgust at the bubbles in the drink.
Despite being awfully sick, Harley’s happy. His boyfriend, their dog, and the Starks. That’s all he needs. What a life he ended up with.
“I love you,” Peter murmurs, leaning heavily against Harley’s side.
“Love you too, angel.”