Work Text:
Peter meets a country singer at a concert and spends twenty four hours falling in love. They say goodbye, Peter goes home, and....
Well, strangely enough, life moves on.
It’s just weird to think about it. Peter goes back to classes and labs, studies at the house and goes to MJ’s organized study groups. He has dinner with his family, hangs out with his friends, and just...goes on about life as if he hasn’t been totally and completely altered by his time with Harley Keener.
Twenty-four hours in a hotel room, spending time learning so many new definitions of intimacy and becoming incredibly connected to one person. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to casually go back about meeting new people and listening to his usual music when he closes his eyes and he’s back in that bed, eating pizza rolls at two in the morning.
It’s bizarre.
He can remember every goddamn detail.
Harley’s taste of beer and smoke.
The smell of leather his guitar strap imprinted on his shoulder.
The way the other man practically died at how Peter consumes pizza rolls.
What Harley looks like twisted in sheets and falling apart under Peter’s hands.
What he sounds like when he cries, or when he laughs, or when he comes.
“Parker!”
Peter drops the stencil he’s holding. Thankfully, it hits his notebook and doesn’t shatter. It does, however, mean that E. Coli is now in his notes. He looks up, embarrassed, to see his professor taking a deep breath. “If you’re not going to bother with proper etiquette in the lab for safety or listening to your instructor, you may leave for the day with an incomplete. Properly clean up your station and jot down to get notes from your lab partner.”
Peter looks over at Harry. “Will you?”
“Get me a date with Thompson, and maybe I will," Harry challenges.
"I can't make him go on a date with you, dumbass," Peter reminds him. When Harry cocks an eyebrow, Peter huffs. "Whatever. I'll put in a good word. Again."
Knowing Harry has his back, Peter goes through the proper protocol of cleaning up his station and disposing of his notebook. He catches Ned laughing at him from across the lab and knows he’s never going to hear the end of it. He’s gotten caught up in thoughts about Harley Keener many times over the past few weeks and it’s always just a little disruptive.
When Peter makes it back to the apartment, MJ has already set up camp at the table for the weekend. “Researching how to take over the world?”
“Actually, yes,” MJ says dryly. “I mostly have the internship that will be begin the process. I just need to get this final paper started.”
“MJ, its February.”
“No need to remind me of how behind I am, Parker. If I follow my schedule, World Domination can proceed at the moment of graduation.”
“Excellent,” Peter chuckles. “I’ll make the banners.”
“I’m on PR,” Betty says as they enter the common area with a large binder. “MJ, please tell me you’ll put that down in time for the party tonight.”
“No thank you, I would rather die,” MJ deadpans. “Take Peter, he’s into country music now.”
Peter feels his face heat up. “No, I’m not.”
“False.”
“I’m into a single country artist.”
“Still country.”
“Bet?”
“Sorry, friendo,” Betty sighs dramatically. “But you are indeed beginning the decline into country music. Just yesterday I saw you bobbing your head to Willie Nelson.”
Peter stutters out a defense. “He’s a brilliant lyricist!”
“JARVIS,” Betty smirks. “Play ‘Alone Together’ by Harley Keener throughout all apartment speakers.”
MJ actually laughs, while Betty settles into their seat and flips open their work binder. Peter groans and turns on his heels to leave. His friends hate him, obviously. Since that stupid concert and that stupid guy and that stupid night, Peter cannot help but be drawn into Harley’s music. Even the ones that weren’t played at the concert that night ring through his ears and keep him up at night.
And of course 'Alone Together' is one of his favorites by Harley, which Betty now has playing throughout the house. Peter wanted to just collapse on his bed and daydream about the country singer, but now feels obligated to prove to his friends that he isn't hopelessly in love with a guy he doesn't know. Instead, he's going to...clean his room until he has to leave for work. Right. He'll be perfectly productive.
Peter starts mumbling the lyrics under his breath. It's even possible that his movements begin to match the beat of the song, his steps in time and his hips rocking just so. He's not...dancing, exactly, he's just...rhythmically organizing his hopelessly disastrous desk. That's all.
By the end of the chorus, Peter's fallen into the song and remembering the way it felt to watch Harley perform this song. The heavy look in the singer’s eyes as his body and hands moved so naturally...well, Harley could work a crowd and Peter thinks he’s still under that spell. After all, he can’t stand country music--why else would he dancing around his desk, singing along to a man with cheesy lyrics and twang to his voice? The only reasonable explanation is that Peter is hopelessly and obliviously enraptured by a man he barely knows.
Oh well.
Peter closes his eyes, and resigns himself to his fate.
)-(
“Harley! Harley wake up, dummy.”
Blinking into the sunlight, Harley is disappointed again by the lack of Peter in his bed. Since being offered to tour with Luke Bryan (Luke-Fucking-Bryan!!!), Harley hasn’t had the chance to get back to New York and hunt down the boy. Instead, his mind has taken to assaulting him with memories of their blissful twenty-four hours together.
“Harley,” Maggie groans. “I know that you had a late show, but you really gotta wake up for this.”
“Magnolia Rose Keener, Absolute Pain in My Ass, why do you hate me?”
Harley’s little sister grins, cocking a hip out. “You’re gonna love me when you see what I’m wakin’ ya up for.”
“I doubt that,” Harley grumbles, but sits up anyways. Maggie plops down on his bed next to him, pulling up her phone and raising an eyebrow. Harley huffs. “Fine, show me.”
Harley is rewarded when Maggie turns her phone around and presents Instagram. She’s under Harley’s “tagged in” section, which is always filled with pictures from friends and fans. The username he sees, however, is “bb_leeds.” In the video, someone is dancing to one of Harley’s songs with his back to the camera, and the caption reads Hey, @real_harleykeener, what do you think of my friend’s dance moves?
Leeds. BB Leeds.
“Oh my god,” Harley says, taking the phone. He watches as Peter awkwardly shimmies and sings, cleaning up his desk to the sound of Harley’s music. There’s something odd aching in his chest at the sight of the other man. He misses Peter, his laugh and his gentle tone and how he curled into Harley’s side like he was content to stay there forever.
Peter does a particularly interesting dip of his hips that makes Betty snort off camera. This makes Peter jump and turn, then pale visibly at the phone. “Betty, no.”
“Say hi to Harley, Peter! This is going on the internet.”
“Oh my god, I am so going to kill you--”
Peter lunges at the camera, and the screen goes black to the sound of Betty’s cackles. Harley sits there for a long moment, phone in his hands and ache in his chest, wishing Peter was with him.
“You don’t have to be in Charleston until Tuesday,” Maggie says softly. “We can always hop on a plane and spend a couple days in the city.”
Maggie isn’t wrong. Luke’s tour has built in chunks of time so he can fly back and see his family, and Harley wasn’t planning to do much besides whatever last-minute gigs Phil could find him around South Carolina for a little low-key publicity. Nothing is locked in--he could always go.
“I wanna go,” Harley says quietly. “But we haven’t talked since. Do you think…?”
“You should have seen you two, Harls,” Maggie answers. “Just apologize for not reachin’ out, I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Let’s go see ‘im.”
Harley glances over to where his suitcase sits by the dresser, standing up with the handle ready to grab. He perks up, looking back at his sister. “You already bought the tickets, didn’t you?”
Maggie grins. “Flight leaves in two hours and our bags are packed. Up and at ‘em, brother.”
“Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”
“Not often enough.”
)-(
“I have a surprise for you.”
“That sounds ominous and I don’t think I like it,” Peter replies. “Did you put a glitter bomb in my bedroom again?”
MJ scoffs. “It was pride week. I put glitter in everybody’s bedroom.”
“So keep my doors locked in June? Noted.”
“As if a locked door could keep me out.”
Peter has to admit that MJ’s brilliance knows no bounds, and a locked door definitely isn’t going to keep her out. If he wants to avoid cleaning glitter from the divets in his floor, he’s going to have to get creative. “Challenge accepted.”
“You’ve already lost, Parker,” MJ sighs. “Anyways, when are you going to be home? I don’t want to leave your surprise alone, but I’ve gotta get to work.”
“I’m right outside the gate and even more worried than before,” Peter sighs. “See you inside.”
“Trust me.”
Peter hangs up and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. MJ’s surprises are always either absolutely perfect, or a terrible prank that scars you for months. He’s remembering a particular surprise gone south when he walks into the apartment and finds Harley Keener leaning against his kitchen counter, gorgeous as ever in a pair of Levis, a black flannel over a grey t-shirt, and boots.
“Harley,” he says weakly. “I-you’re-hey.”
“Told you,” MJ snickers, pushing away from the counter. “Going to work. Adios, dweebs.”
Peter, not looking away from Harley--how does he look this good?--waves weakly at her passing figure.
When he hears the door slam, he slides his bag to the floor. “Um. I don’t even know what to say right now.”
“I’m sorry,” Harley says. His hands are in his pockets and he hasn’t moved from the counter. “I had plans to call you, and then things got crazy. I was going to find you, and then I just got caught up in everything the past couple weeks. I was supposed to be totally free, but Luke Bryan’s bass player was at the show and they suggested me to join him in touring, so I’ve been opening for him and it was all last minute, and it’s just been crazy.”
“Right,” Peter says, trying not to be too eager. “Of course you’re forgiven, its not like I gave you my number or anything. How were you supposed to find me?”
A beat.
“Actually, how did you find me?”
“Maggie saw that video Betty posted,” he chuckles. “She showed it to me, and I just...well, we hopped on a plane and spent the whole time messaging MJ and Betty and Ned to see if you’d even want to see me. MJ invited me here.”
There’s an odd, anticipatory silence as Peter walks toward Harley. “I, um, I do want to see you, Harley. I’ve kind of been thinking about you.”
“Yeah?” Harley takes a tentative step forward. “I’ve been thinking about literally nothing else.”
Peter chuckles, and he takes another step. "So, what now?"
"I don't know," Harley admits. He reaches for Peter's belt loops and tugs them together so that Peter's eyes drop closed at the feeling of Harley pressing along his entire front. "Honestly, I'll do whatever you want, sweetheart."
"How long are you staying?" Peter whispers.
"Four days."
"We'll figure the rest out tomorrow."
Peter tips his chin up to meet Harley in a soft kiss. It's sweet, with Harley gingerly holding his hips and Peter's hands sliding up the other man's back. It's a little weird to be kissing a Harley that doesn't taste like alcohol and cigarettes, but still good. He still responds with a little whine in the back of his throat, still runs his tongue along Peter's bottom lip and waits for entry before deepening the kiss.
Peter feels goosebumps rise along his skin and smiles into the kiss. For now, this is good enough.
)-(
Harley opens his eyes to an empty bed.
For a moment, disappointment crashes over him like a sick, cruel wave, and he thinks he’s going to hurl. Has he honestly imagined that he showed up in New York and Peter welcomed him with open arms? Was he hallucinating and he didn’t have a spectacular, relaxing evening bingeing Queer Eye and eating pizza in bed?
Then, Harley blinks into a little more awareness. He’s sitting in a king sized bed, in a room with hardwood floors and exposed brick. The exposed brick is what captures his attention, making him look to the large windows and see Manhattan. Peter may not be in the bed, but it definitely belongs to him.
Harley falls back onto the pillows with a sigh of relief.
When he’s processed the fact that Peter let him stay, he climbs out of bed and finds his boxers. Instead of going to find Peter, he decides to look around the man’s room. He knows that Peter has lived in this house since he and his friends enrolled in Columbia. He confessed the night before that his father had gifted it to them as a present upon graduation.
“It’s become more than a place to live, though,” Peter says, letting Harley graze his fingers ever every inch of skin. “It’s home in so many ways. It’s where Michelle recovered after top surgery, where she got away from her parents. Where Ned and Betty fell in love and didn’t move away after getting married. Where we’ve had dinners and breakdowns and boyfriends and girlfriends...and, I don’t know. This apartment is where all the important things happen in our lives. It’s kind of like our little commune, to be honest.”
“I think that’s great,” Harley tells him. “I’ve never had a place like that, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the commune.”
That feeling of home is written into the walls of Peter’s room. He’s got photos strung everywhere of various moments in his life, his best friends and his family littered throughout them. Harley sees photos of recognizable faces--Peter’s dad and pops, MJ, Ned, Betty--but there are also plenty of people he doesn’t know. Seeing the photos filled with love and memories reminds Harley that he doesn’t know Peter as well as he feels like he does. Despite that one night growing close, talking, making love, and just absorbing each other’s presence, there’s still so much he doesn’t know.
Brushing the thought off, he continues his tour around the room.
Peter’s desk-slash-workbench is mostly organized. The shelves around the desk have textbooks, novels, and sketchbooks. Harley brushes his fingers over the spines of the books that are more used than others, noting Peter’s favorites: The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, Red White and Royal Blue, Anne of Green Gables, Thrawn (of course he reads Star Wars novels), and Stark Living: An Autobiography of Tony Stark. He has a fascinating collection of fantasy, history, sci-fy--all of it. Peter seems to read anything he can get his hands on.
On the actual desk is a half-completed lego version of the Empire State Building. Harley has noticed a few models of lego sculptures around the apartment, and briefly recalls Peter telling him its a way to fight anxiety. When he gets worked up and can’t focus, he builds something with no expectations and it gets him in the right mindset for work.
Work takes up the rest of the space. Harley carefully picks up a couple note sheets and finds sketches and formulas for biodegradable, multi-functioning plastic. Harley never pursued school, but he remembers enough to vaguely follow and realize that Peter is kind of a genius. It’s a little bit intimidating, to be honest.
“Hey there.”
Harley turns to find Peter leaning in the doorway. He’s wearing loose pajama pants and holding two cups of coffee. His curls are a complete disaster and his cheeks are slightly pink, but he’s breathlessly gorgeous. Harley’s chest tightens at the sight. How is he already so desperately fond of Peter? “Hey.”
“Coffee?” Peter asks softly. Harley nods wordlessly, and Peter steps farther into the room. It’s quiet and easy, how Peter hands him the coffee with a chaste kiss and moves toward his closet. “So, I’ve decided to take you around New York today. Starting with breakfast.”
Harley glances at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s seven am.”
“Exactly,” Peter grins. “We’re already late for the best breakfast at the best diner.”
Harley wrinkles his brow. The only reason he’s out of bed is because Peter is. His plan was to drag the other man back in bed and snuggle until twelve o’clock. Peter, however, is pulling clothes out and throwing back coffee like its a lifeline.
“You sure you don’t wanna stay in bed?” Harley asks tentatively.
Peter turns, a hint of embarrassment across his features in how he looks down and twists his hands together. “You’re only here for a couple days. I thought we could get an early start?”
That twist in his chest tightens and he smiles. “Of course. This breakfast better be worth it.”
“Oh whatever,” Peter smiles, brilliant and bright. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a pork roll.”
“I am intrigued.”
Despite Peter wanting to start early, they get ready leisurely. Peter steals Harley’s flannel to wear over a painfully dorky t-shirt. Harley, still not used to the cold, wears a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater. Peter playfully tugs a beanie onto his head, teasing about making sure Harley doesn’t catch a cold.
“You think you’re cute,” Harley tugs the hat away, shaking his hair free. Peter bites his lips and leans in for a kiss. “Okay, so maybe you’re definitely cute.”
“Thought so,” Peter murmurs into the kiss. “Now, come on. I’m hungry.”
Harley thinks about the night before, filled with pizza and chips and cake and more pizza, and asks, “When are you not?”
“I’ll let you know if a time ever comes.”
)-(
Harley sees a lot of New York that day. There are gardens that somehow still bloom in the frigid February weather, where Peter drags Harley through and tells him all about the different plants and their scientific names. The city-boy has an obsession with flowers and isn’t ashamed of it. He also showcases his nerdiness with tours through museums where they don’t need a guide; he knows all of the information already, stored in his massive brain and able to recollect at a moments notice.
Peter is so smart.
He remembers things about Harley too, though, and takes him to musically significant spots that Harley lets himself freak out over. It’s insane to stand in Louis Armstrong’s house, look at where he used to have his morning coffee and entertain other legends.
Through all of their adventures, they learn more about each other. Harley’s second day in New York, walking through the Museum of Mathematics, Peter explains that a lot of his memory skills come from his father pushing him with encouragement. He never felt like he had to live up to Tony Stark’s standard, but any resource Peter wanted was always at his fingertips. He’s always loved learning, and it’s always been heavily supported.
When having lunch from a hot dog stand, Harley explains that he hasn’t been able to eat hot dogs since his father left their family. It was the last meal the man cooked for them, before heading to the gas station for lotto tickets and never coming back. Somehow, its easy to set the memory aside and eat the best hot dog he’s ever had with Peter, on the steps of the Met and freezing his ass off.
They go to the coffee shop that Betty owns and have incredible espresso and croissants that make Harley offer to run away with Betty. They just laugh and remind Harley of their marriage before heading back behind the counter. Harley and Peter then tuck into the comfortable couches and talk about their favorite movies and tv shows until its dark and Ned calls with news that he’s cooking dinner. Peter invites Maggie, and it becomes...a Thing.
And this is an experience Harley has certainly never had. Ned’s made Reubens and homemade french fries. They all sit around the circular dining room table, eating and drinking with loud conversation and good fucking food. At some point, Harley has to sit back and watch everything happen because its kind of surreal. Maggie has always been his best friend, purely because they were the only two people they could trust for the longest time. He’s never actually had friends that make him feel warm, that he would love to sit with like this, passing time and cracking jokes.
The entire meal, Peter sits closer than necessary. Their thighs press alongside each other’s and more than once Harley finds his hands dancing across Peter’s shoulders or linking their fingers together. Despite being out for so many years, he’s not used to the casual touch of another man. So kind and willing and reciprocating...and even more, nobody wants to use it as a PR move. Nobody is uncomfortable with it.
The thought sends something simultaneously painful and relieving sparking in his mind, and he leans in to press a kiss to Peter’s temple. The brunette grins at him and turns for an actual kiss, chaste and affectionate.
Fuck, Harley realizes desperately. I think I’m in love.
)-(
The night before Harley’s gotta hop back on a plane, he and Peter stay up watching horror movies. Harley has a ridiculous fascination with the cheesy classics. He waves his hands around dramatically while proclaiming that quality cinema doesn’t need good effects or true terror. It needs surprise, a good plot, and devoted actors.
“Which is why Psycho will always be the best horror movie,” he sighs when the credits roll. “I mean, you can’t argue with the genius that is Hitchcock.”
“I don’t know,” Peter says. “I still say a complex story or bone-chilling terror is good. Even things that are more suspense, like Criminal Minds, or Prodigal Son--those shows are about the mentality of murder and the morality of humans. That’s what makes things scary, you know? Getting into the nitty gritty bits of it.”
“Or,” Harley presses. “You need jump scares.”
Harley’s hands shoot out and take hold of Peter’s wrists. It startles a laugh from him, as Harley pins him down with confidence and raises an eyebrow in a challenge.
“Besides,” he says, a teasing lilt to his tone. “I don’t think I can trust your opinions anyway.”
“Pizza rolls?”
“Pizza rolls.”
When Harley kisses him, its slow and sweet. There’s a comfort there Peter hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s loathe to interrupt the ease they have with his question, but he knows he’s going to. After having an amazing night with Harley, only to have him wait weeks to show up again, he needs to know.
“Harley?” he asks, attempting to keep his voice light. “Last time, when you left...I thought I was gonna see you again. And then--”
Harley opens his mouth the interrupt, but Peter shakes his head. The other man bites his lip and waits.
“I don’t want to expect something you don’t want to give,” Peter continues. “But I want you to know where I stand, and that’s with you. Well, hopefully. I like you, so much, and I don’t want weeks inbetween talking, even if your tour prevents us from actually seeing each other. Is that something you might want?”
“Absolutely,” Harley rushes out. He looks embarrassed, but lets Peter’s hands go so they can ease into a sitting position. “I know we don’t know each other as well as some would like--”
“Namely your publicist.”
“--but I’m gonna be upfront and say I want a relationship with you. An exclusive one.”
“Harley Keener,” Peter mutters, leaning forward. He wants to tease, but he’s too excited at the prospect of this actually happening. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
Harley laughs at him, but leans in for a kiss. “Yeah, you dork. I do.”
Peter doesn’t think about how Harley has to leave in the morning and how it might break his heart a little--for now, he’s pretty fucking content.