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The first time Harley Keener steps foot into Parker’s Pastries, it’s because of the rain.
It comes out of no where, the storm that rolls in from the east, a fairly normal day starting out a bit overcast suddenly going dark with the clouds, buckets and buckets of rain pouring down with no warning whatsoever. A lot of people get caught in it, hastily pulling out umbrellas and rushing to reach their destinations or wave down a taxi to escape.
Harley is strolling down the sidewalk when it starts to pelt the pavement, and his reaction, with no umbrella, a light jacket, and his wallet not on his person, making a taxi out of the question, is to duck into the closest door.
As soon as he steps inside, he’s enveloped in warm air that’s filled with the smell of something sweet and fresh from the oven. Without even realizing it, tension that he didn’t know he was carrying bleeds from his shoulders, letting them sag in some sort of relief, his damp hair sticking to his forehead as he turns around, tugging his jacket tighter around himself, a shiver running down his spine, and what greets him is a small yet cozy little bakery, with shelves lined with little trinkets and counters loaded with sweets. It’s a simplistic yet rustic little establishment, feeling homey and lived in and comfortable, and the bell above the door behind the register jingles as it gets pushed open and a warm brown eyes belonging to a kind faced woman meet his own calculating and careful blue ones.
“Oh, honey, you look like you’re freezing,” the woman says, clicking her tongue as she sets a plate of fresh cinnamon rolls down on the countertop, her eyes wide with sympathy and worry as she rounds the register and beckons him over. “Come here, sweetie, let’s get you warmed up. C’mon, come sit, don’t worry.”
There’s something so genuinely kind and caring about the way the woman speaks, paired with how her hair is frizzy and falling out of the loose bun she’s got pulled to the top of her head, round glasses perched on her nose and a flour covered apron tied round her waist, and Harley does not know her, no, but he hugs himself tighter and steps forward and doesn’t complain in the slightest when she guides him to a seat.
“Peter, honey,” the woman calls out, over her shoulder, as she frets over how soaked through Harley’s jacket is, her lips set in a worried frown. “Can you come out here for a second?”
A moment later, the door swings open again, and the person standing in it is a boy that looks to be about Harley’s age, an apron on that’s got various colored stains on it, the black shirt he’s wearing beneath the apron covered with speckles and hand prints of white. His hair is just long enough to be tucked behind his ears in wisps of curls that fall loose when he cocks his head to the side and lets out a little hum. “Yeah, May?”
“Can you bring out a towel, please?” The woman—May, apparently—scans over Harley for a long moment, then adds, “And one of Ben’s old sweatshirts, too. There should be one in the office that I left in there last night.”
“No,” Harley tries to say. “I’m fine, really—”
The boy, Peter, frowns at Harley with a furrowed brow. “Your lips are turning blue.”
Harley shakes his head. It sends droplets of water flying to the floor and onto the table that May had him sit at. “Really, I don’t need—”
May clicks her tongue again. “We insist.”
“But...” Harley trails off, wanting to be stubborn, always ready to fight tooth and nail because he doesn’t like sympathy, hates being seen as any type of weak, burdening people with something as simple as borrowing warm clothes from complete strangers, but there’s something different about these strangers, something inviting about the way they talk, the way they look at him like they really care despite not knowing him at all. He nods, without meaning to nod, and doesn’t put up the fight that he intended to. “Alright,” he says. “Thank you.”
May shows him to the employee restroom when Peter brings them a towel in one hand and a sweatshirt in the other, giving Harley a wink as she tells him that it’s got more space for him to change, then leaves him to his business, assuring him to take his time and that it’s no problem to them when he tries to once again insist that he doesn’t need their help. When he emerges a few minutes later, his hair a bit fluffier and not as sopping wet thanks to the tower, his soaked through shirt and jacket in hand, replaced by the dark red hoodie that they gave him, he’s greeted by a pink cheeked Peter holding out a plastic bag to put his clothes into before them handing him a steaming mug. “Hot chocolate,” he says.
“Oh.” Harley takes the bag, ties it off when his clothes are shoved inside and sets it down before gingerly accepting the hot cocoa. “Um. Thanks.”
“Yeah, ‘course,” Peter says, soft smile on his face. “You look like you need it.”
Harley shuffles his feet, takes a sip from the mug in his hands and gives himself a minute to look around. “I’ve never seen this place before,”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Peter muses, wiping down the counter before taking the place of cinnamon rolls to put them on display. “We’re a small place, not very well known, to be honest. Only reason we stay on our feet is because we have our loyal customers that always come in and keep us running.” He takes a smaller plate and sets a cinnamon roll on it. “You want one? On the house.”
“I’m good,” Harley tells him, shaking his head. “You already gave me cocoa.”
Peter chuckles, tearing off a piece of the cinnamon roll and popping it in his mouth. “If you say so,” he says. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.”
“Harley. Harley Keener.”
With a little smile, Peter holds the plate out. “You sure you don’t want any?”
There’s something playful in Peter’s eyes that makes Harley smile, too.
The second time Harley goes into Parker’s Pastries is exactly a week later, and this time, there’s no rain, rather a steady stream of sunlight warming his skin as he pushes open the door and makes his way inside.
“Harley,” May greets warmly, putting a tray of cookies on display. She finishes what she’s doing and wipes her hands before rounding the counter to approach him, her smile wide and warm. “I was wondering if we’d see you again.”
It’s almost overwhelming, the fact that she means it so much, causing a dust of a blush to rise on his cheeks. “I just came to give this back,” he says, holding out the dark red hoodie towards her awkwardly, a sheepish smile on his face. “And, um—I told my—I told, uh —this guy I know, Tony, I told him about you guys, and he told me to pick him up something for him while I was here, so...”
May hums, eyes sparkling as she takes the hoodie. “Does he like cookies?”
Harley thinks, then nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Peanut butter?”
“Sometimes eats it out of the jar with a spoon,” Harley says.
May nods knowingly. “I’ve got just the thing, then. Peter!”
From behind the door, there’s a yelp, a clatter, and then an array of colorful swearing that goes on for a solid thirty seconds before coming to a sudden stop. A moment later, there’s shuffling footsteps, and then the door creaks open, revealing a very rumpled looking Peter standing on the other side.
“Honey,” May says, “I think you’ve got some—”
Peter huffs, blows his hair out of his face and glowers when it falls back in front of his eyes, clumped together with the frosting that he, somehow, got all over himself. “Yeah,” he says, “I think I got it, thanks. Where’s the—oh my god, Harley, hi, you’re—wow, okay, you’re back, and I look like—cool. Cool, cool, cool.”
Harley lifts his hand in a half-assed wave. “Hi, Peter.”
“Hi,” Peter breathes, goes to run his hand through his hair and then grimaces when he just gets the frosting all over his fingers. Without meaning to, Harley lets out a little laugh at the way that Peter crinkles his nose, and Peter looks away at the sound, cheeks tinted red. “What, uh—what’s up, May?”
May looks thoroughly amused by the situation at hand, one brow quirking a bit as her lips tug into a smile. “Are the peanut butter cookies done yet?”
Tilting his hand back and forth in a so-so manner, Peter answers, “Almost? They’re out of the oven, but they’re still cooling off. I was working on icing those cupcakes while they cooled, but then you scared the fuck out of me, and—”
“Language, young man,” May tuts.
“I’m twenty years old, Aunt May,” Peter whines. “I can say the fuck word.”
“You can also lose your job, too,” May threatens, though her smile curves in a way that shows how much she doesn’t mean it, all loving and teasing.
Peter rolls his eyes. “Please, like you could handle this place without me. You can’t make toast without burning it to shit, Aunt May. Ben would be rolling in his grave if you ever tried to bring his recipes to life without my help.”
“I resent that,” May says. “You’re right, but I still resent it. How long until the cookies are cooled off enough to pack up for Harley to take with him?”
Eyes flickering to the door leading to the back, Peter makes a high pitched humming noise, tilting his head back and forth as he thinks, before offering a little shrug and saying, “I dunno, maybe, like, ten minutes or so? If I tried to move them any sooner, they’ll probably still be too hot and just fall apart.”
Harley glances at the clock and smiles, just a bit. “Can I have another cocoa while I wait?”
“Harley,” Peter greets, the bell above the door chiming lightly. “You’re back.”
“And you still have frosting in your hair,” Harley replies.
Peter’s hand flies up to his hair instantly, only to let out a huff when he finds nothing there. “Rude,” he says. “What did your friend think about the peanut butter cookies?”
Harley hums, hands stuffed in his pockets as he rocks back and forth on his feet lightly, shoulders bunching up in a little shrug. “He loved them, but I dunno. Peanut butter isn’t my favorite, so…”
The way that Peter cocks his head to the side is nothing short of adorable. “What is your favorite, then?”
“Got any chocolate chip?” Harley asks, smiling. “Maybe something with butterscotch?”
“Lucky for you,” Peter says, “there’s a fresh batch of both in the oven. You mind waiting?”
Harley shrugs again, smile growing. “Can I have some company while I wait?”
“I dunno, I kind of have a job to do,” Peter replies, plucking a napkin off the counter and fiddling with it. Harley doesn’t respond, just tilts his head slightly to the side and widens his eyes in the signature puppy eyed look that Tony and Pepper have told him could end the world. Peter sinks his teeth into his lower lip and gnaws on it, looking away, looking back, and then laughing lightly. “Fine. Fine. I’ll sit with you. But if May finds out and tries to kick my ass for slacking on her day off, I’m blaming you for it, Keener.”
Harley beams. “I will gladly take that blame.”
There’s no such thing as discreet when you’re walking into a small bakery in Queens with Tony Stark.
Harley knows this—he knows it rather well, learned the same thing when he was adopted eight years ago and tried walking into a frickin’ Starbucks with the guy and they ended up getting mobbed by reporters trying to get the scoop on Stark’s new kid that he was keeping hidden from the world. So, he’s not surprised by the looks they get when they go strolling down the sidewalk together, and he doesn’t flinch at the flash of a camera going off, but he does jump a bit in surprise when they walk into Parker’s Pastries and there’s instantly glass shattering against the floor and someone exclaiming, “Holy shit!”
“Language,” May warns, handing over the change to someone that appears to be buying a cake, sending a half hearted glare Peter’s way before offering the customer a sweet smile. “There you go, Genie,” she says, with a sense of familiarity to her tone. “Tell Jesse happy birthday for us, okay? And try not to miss dinner this Sunday, sweetie. We miss you, even if Peter won’t admit it.”
“May,” Peter hisses from where he’s standing over the remains of a plate of cupcakes, which he clearly must have dropped. He’s got wide eyes that are flickering between Tony and Harley in blatant shock.
Apparently, this is just amusing, as May only chuckles. “Have a good day, dear.”
“Thank you, Aunt May,” the customer—Genie?—replies, all toothy smiles and sharp eyes as he spins around and shuffles out the door, not even sparing Tony or Harley a glance on his way out.
Turning her attention to the two men, May offerings a wide smile and chirpily greets, “Harley, honey, it’s wonderful to see you again. And you brought a friend!”
Harley chuckles lightly, shaking his head. “Actually, this is my dad, Tony. Dad, this is May, and that’s Peter. They run the bakery.”
Tony grins, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into the pocket of his suit jacket, scanning over the store with warm brown eyes, approval bright and clear on his face. “Adorable,” he says, turning in his spot to examine it further. “Gosh, this place is just adorable. No wonder you love it so much, Harls.” He spins back around until he’s facing forward, flashes his grin towards May and Peter. “And this is where you got those cookies? Miss Parker, I’m absolutely in love with your recipe. How do you do it?”
“Actually, the recipe was my husbands,” May responds, bemused. “He was a stress baker, always made sweets and treats after a long day at work. After he passed away, we decided to scrounge up all the money we could and start this place in his memory. Everything we make is based on how he made it.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tony offers.
May hums. “It was a long time ago, Stark, but thank you.”
“Peter does most of the baking,” Harley cuts in, mostly because Peter has been staring at them with wide, bugged out eyes ever since they walked in and he’s hoping it’ll snap him out of it.
It seems to do that trick, has Peter blinking owlishly and spluttering out a weak, “No, I—I don’t—”
With a chuckle, May cuts in, saying, “No, it’s true. I have bad luck with burning things. Peter’s the one that’s able to bring this all to perfection. He made the batch of cookies that Harley took home with him.”
Tony brightens at that, faces Peter fully and takes two quick strides to close the space between them. He stops a bit short, in order to avoid the smashed plate and cupcakes on the ground, but his grin doesn’t falter, only seems to grow as he says, “Kid, those cookies were the best I’ve ever had. Seriously, it’s a problem. Pepper thinks I’m going to get addicted to them if I buy more, but I decided it’s worth the addiction and begged Harley to bring me here anyway. Can I get a couple dozen? Like, six or seven?”
“Um—” Peter flounders for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Oh my god,” he breathes after a moment. “Tony Stark. Holy shit. I, uh—yes, you can—I’ll make more cookies. Wow.”
“Maybe you should—” Tony gestures to the floor, at the broken glass and smooshed cupcakes.
Peter flinches. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m gonna—”
May waves her hand. “You go start the cookies,” she tells him. “I’ll clean up the mess.”
“Are you sure?” Peter questions, properly breaking out of his daze just enough to frown her way, looking guilty at the idea of leaving her to clean up after him. “I can pick it up real quick, May, it’s fine.”
“You have seven dozen cookies to make for Tony Stark,” May reminds him. “You should get started.”
Peter gnaws on his lower lip, glances around the room, at May, at Tony, at Harley, and back again, before jutting his chin up and down in a stiff sort of nod and saying, “Yeah, okay, I’ll just—”
And he heads to the back without another word.
Tony looks after him for a moment, then turns to Harley with a smile. “He’s an angel. I approve.”
“Dad,” Harley warns, glaring at Tony before glancing over to make sure May didn’t hear. “Don’t embarrass me or I’m telling Dum-E to set your lab on fire when we get home.”
“It’s cute that you think you can threaten me,” Tony teases. Harley glares harder, but all it does is make Tony laugh before reaching over to ruffle his hair while May acts like she isn’t listening, hiding her smile.
The next time Harley comes in, it’s by himself, no Tony in sight.
“So,” Peter says. “You’re actually Harley Stark.”
Harley clicks his tongue. “Technically, I never changed my name. I still go by Keener most of the time.”
Peter’s lips quirk, just slightly. “I’m not giving you free food now that I know that you’re rich.”
“I’m gonna start leaving ridiculously large tips now that you know that I’m rich.”
“I don’t know why I expected anything different.”
(Before Harley leaves, Peter slides him a cup of hot chocolate, free of charge. Harley, in retaliation, leaves a two hundred dollar tip in the jar. And a sticky note with a heart drawn on it, just because.)
It’s around the thirteenth time that Harley comes to the bakery that, for the first time, Peter isn’t there.
May is still chirpy when she greets him, all smiles and a friendly tone, but when Harley scuffs the toe of his shoe against the ground and gently asks, “Is Peter in the back?” May shakes her head.
“He’s sick,” she tells him. “Came down with the flu, somehow. He wouldn’t let me close the bakery for the day to take care of him, either, and he’s the worst as taking care of himself.”
Harley gnaws on the inside of his cheek and timidly offers, “I mean, I could—I could check on him.”
There’s a knowing glint in May’s eyes as she tips her head forward and says, “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Harley assures quickly. “I don’t—not even a little bit, do I mind. None at all.”
A smile pulls at May’s lips, small and genuine. “You’ll need the spare key to get in, then.”
When finding a place for their bakery to go, Peter and May had been lucky enough to come across a cheap space for sale that also had two apartments above it—perfect, because, while Peter had only been fifteen at the time and wasn’t planning to move out for a while, he’s now reached twenty and wants his own space. The top apartment is May’s, where her and Peter stayed for a few years, and the bottom apartment is Peter’s, which he moved into on his own when he turned eighteen. May gives Harley her key to Peter’s apartment and tells him how to push the door open, as it apparently likes to stick and can be a bit difficult at times, and Harley tries to pretend like his heart isn’t lodged in his throat as he makes his way upstairs. He tries knocking first, lightly to start, a bit louder after that, but isn’t surprised when there’s no response, May having already told him that Peter tends to sleep through the day when he’s sick. Even knowing this, though, it feels weird using the key to make his way inside, feeling like he needs express permission from Peter himself to even step foot through the door.
Still, he goes in, tiptoes quietly as if that will somehow make it better, and recalls May’s instructions on how to get to Peter’s bedroom from the front door, turns left down the hall and makes his way to the second door on the right, which he hesitates outside of before knocking again.
There’s a muffled groan, followed by a groggy, “May, seriously, I’m fine.”
“Um—” Harley’s voice cracks, just a bit. He clears his throat. “It’s not—I’m not May.”
A pause, before a quiet little, “Harley?”
Harley hesitates, unsure, before pushing the bedroom door open and peaking inside, finding Peter blinking towards him with squinted eyes that seem slightly dazed with exhaustion. “Yeah,” he murmurs, keeping his voice quiet for Peter’s sake. “It’s me. May said that you’re sick, so I’m… I dunno. I’m checking on you, I guess. Making sure you’re alright, drinking water and all that fun stuff.”
“Wow,” Peter breathes, his hair a mess on his head, grin lopsided. “Harley. Okay. Hi. Wow.”
Harley chuckles. “What’s the wow for?”
Peter’s grin grows. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” Peter says. “You. You’re wow. Like, wow, I can’t—I can’t believe you’re checking on me.”
“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Harley questions, confused, making his way further into Peter’s room and trying to resist the urge to look around, not wanting to invade his privacy any more than he has.
Peter shrugs, the action sloppy as he head flops back against his pillow. “Dunno. You’re just—really good. And I’m, just, like—I’m just Peter. You’re Harley. You know?”
Slowly, Harley says, “I don’t think I’m following, Pete.”
“Like—” Peter waves a hand through the air, squinting at the ceiling. “Like, you’re amazing. And nice. And, like, really funny, and cool, and, just all these great things, and I—I didn’t even go to college, ‘cause I decided I wanted to help run the bakery instead, which is—which is cool, and all, and I don’t regret it, but you’re the son of a genius and a billionaire and I’m just—you know? I’m just. And you’re not just. So, like, you wanting to check on me, and you caring about me, that’s—that’s very much wow.”
“Of course I care about you,” Harley murmurs, blushing, maybe, a little bit. “I care… I care a lot, actually. Like… I don’t know. Maybe more than a normal person should care. If that makes sense.”
Peter makes a soft noise, something that sounds like a grunt, but also a sigh. “Don’t say that.”
Harley frowns. “Why not?”
“’Cause you say that and it sounds like you mean that you like me,” Peter says, “but that would mean that I’m dreaming ‘cause only in my dreams would you like me back and I don’t wanna be dreaming, okay?”
“You’re not dreaming,” Harley says, slowly. “You like me?”
“A lot,” Peter sighs. “Like, a lot, a lot. It’s dumb. I’m definitely dreaming right now.”
Harley falters, chews on his lower lip thoughtfully and lets out a long, slow breath, before saying, “I think we should talk about this, when you’re not sick anymore, but… I’m just gonna get you some water, okay? And maybe make you some toast, and hopefully you’ll start to feel better, okay?”
Peter hums. “Alright.”
He falls asleep after sipping at a glass of water, with half a piece of toast hanging from his mouth. Harley thinks it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever seen and leaves a note with his number, the words call me? scribbled out, and another little heart, just because he wants to, just because he can.
Peter doesn’t call him the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that.
He doesn’t call Harley at all.
When Harley goes in, there are a few other customers being served, so he tugs his beanie down and ducks his head and waits at the end of the line, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor and keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets to hide how they’re slightly shaking with nerves. He can hear Peter’s voice as he gets cookies and drinks and boxes up a birthday cake and lets out a chiming laugh when one of the customers makes a joke that Harley can’t hear, and by the time that it’s Harley’s turn, there’s a slight ache in his chest that tells him he’s crushing a bit harder than he thought he was.
“What can I get for you?” Peter says, not looking up from where he’s wiping off the counter, smile in his voice and a pep in his step and his hair bouncing around when he moves.
Harley clears his throat. “Can I have a hot chocolate, please?”
Peter whips his head up at the sound of Harley’s voice, eyes going wide and smile falling into a dropped jaw look of shock. “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh my god. Harley. Oh my god. Hi.”
“Hey,” Harley murmurs, smile a bit tense. “My dad, uh—he wants some more cookies, too, if that’s—”
“Oh, god, I never called,” Peter cuts in, eyes going even wider. “Oh my god, I can’t believe—I meant to call you, I swear to god, or at least—at least send a text, but—the things I said, when you came over—”
Harley shakes his head. “You didn’t mean them. It’s fine. No biggie.”
There’s a strangled sort of noise that tears its way from Peter’s throat. “No! I meant them! I absolutely meant them! But I just—Harley, you have to understand, I don’t—I’m not—I’m just me, okay? And you’re you, and I’m not—you can’t like me. You can’t do that to yourself, y’know?”
For a long moment, Harley just stares at Peter, a furrow to his brow and a frown pulling at his lips, and then he just snorts, loud and unfiltered, and says, “Peter, you are just you. That’s why I like you.”
“But—”
“Parker, I swear to god—”
Peter makes another noise, this one more frustrated, and leans over the counter suddenly, pulling Harley in with his hands on either side of his face, pressing a bruising kiss to his lips, maybe a little too harshly, as their teeth click together a few times before they’re able to melt into it, moving in sync, breathing each other in, and it doesn’t matter that the edge of the counter the separates them is digging into their hips, likely forming bruises—nothing matters in this moment other than them.
When they part ways a few moments later, breathing a little bit heavily, they don’t go far, foreheads pressing together, noses bumping as they heave to catch their breaths. “Wow,” Peter says.
“Yeah,” Harley agrees, giggling lightly. “Wow.”
Peter clears his throat and starts to lean away. “So, a hot chocolate and some peanut butter cookies—”
Harley rolls his eyes, reaches forward, and pulls Peter back in to kiss him again, and again, and again.