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Peter hates himself for not noticing the shaking hands before they’re pointed out to him.
“Shit,” and he’s got this wild, this frantic look on his face, “Why didn’t you – when were you gonna tell me this, Har? When were you gonna tell me about all of this?”
Harry’s lips are purple and he can’t see for the lights behind his eyes but his numb face can still feel fingertips trailing, almost grazing along his skin, and he wants to lean into the touch but he can’t trust himself not to take the fingers into his mouth anymore.
“I wasn’t.”
_
Peter walks into the office one day and Harry’s fucking a girl right there on his desk, and Peter almost laughs because of the tragic banality of it all, and the other boy doesn’t see him as he closes the door as quietly as he can and slinks back into the thriving company life. He’s happy, Peter’s telling himself, Harry is doing whatever the fuck he wants because there’s nothing to stop him, not the almighty prospect of crippling guilt that comes with old age or the burden of wanting to leave an impression, because God knows he’s already left one, and Peter is happy for him. Peter is happy that Harry can have sex with his marketing manager without having any second thoughts about what happened just a few nights ago, when he could’ve sworn that he heard Harry whispering his name in his sleep while their bodies were cramped together in Peter’s single bed.
He’s happy. He’s happy he’s happy he’s happy he’s happy.
_
He gets a call at 3am that night, or the next day, or anything inbetween because time became irrelevant when all Peter could think about when he palmed himself through his jeans was the sound of Harry not quite being able to contain his moans against the skin of the girl’s neck.
“....Pete...” He’s wrecked, and Peter can hear that and he closes his eyes while he lets his head fall back because he knows that Harry needs him, Harry needs him to be there with him and help him stand up and stagger his way to bed, but Peter just feels sick as he leans his head against the wall and he bites down on his tongue because all he wants to say is “Well why don’t you get that girl from marketing to help you out?????”
Harry’s voice comes out in a quiet whimper (he’s got nothing left to give) “Are you there?”
He’s scared, Peter realises, he’s so scared and he doesn’t want to die at all, and there are already tears in Peter’s eyes because there are so many ways to die, so many ways to be lead into the depths of unconsciousness, but the worst way is when you're dragged towards it kicking and screaming, and fighting against the invisible force that’s going to swallow you up anyway.
“It’s okay,” Peter murmurs (he’s lying) “You’re okay. I’m here. I’m... I’m coming over now.”
He’s about to put the phone down when he hears the quietest “Thank you.” on the other side of the line.
_
Harry’s lying strewn across his couch, and the kid can’t even keep his head up but he still stirs when he notices Peter above him, rumpled hair and eyes as tired as he’s ever seen them, and what he wouldn’t give to touch that face if his fingers would stop fucking twitching for two seconds.
Harry knows that Peter’s seeing all of him right now, with white powder flickered across his nose and lips and blood trickling down his chin and eyes so red that they look like they’ve been branded with his own death sentence and he’s ashamed enough to allow the tears that he’s been holding back for days, or weeks, he can’t remember, to free-fall from his eyes.
“What’ve you done to yourself, man?” Peter mumbles as he brushes off the excess powder with the back of his hand, cleaning the other boy’s face of the drugs that he just can’t quit. “You’ve gone and... you’ve gone and done it again. Right after you said you wouldn’t.”
“I know,” Harry groans, and he can’t stop himself from tilting his face into Peter’s resting hand just so he can feel something, and his lips part when the fingertips trail down his face to get a hold of his arm, pulling him away from the couch where he seems to be spending all his time when he’s not pacing about the inescapable manor where he’s hid himself or trying to flirt with bartenders in clubs far too big for a kid so small.
He’s leaning fully on Peter as he’s inching towards the bedroom that he hates so much, and his head is buried in Peter’s neck and he can’t stop breathing in every part of him, and he’s knotted their fingers together and it’s not even to help him stay upright anymore, it’s because they always end up here, with Peter guiding Harry to bed when he’s gotten himself too high to walk and then leaving him empty, and it’s never enough. It’s never enough.
His entire body is trembling as Peter eases him down, trailing his thumb from the top of his lips to his chin to get the blood off, but all this does is make Harry shudder and his hands reach up to lock around Peter’s wrist, and he know that he shouldn’t but he can’t stop himself from whispering (begging) “Please just... stay with me. Please.”
And Peter feels his gut twist because God he wants to, but he knows that it’s pure irrationality that’s speaking to him, and none of this will matter tomorrow, and it won’t even be a hazed memory, it will be empty and pointless, and it will be nothing and everything at the same time for all the wrong reasons. He tells himself all of this but he completely ignores it as he slips into the bed besides Harry, and he sits there watching him for a few minutes, knowing that he hasn’t fallen asleep because he’s still shaking beyond belief, and before he can stop himself Peter’s reached out and brushed Harry’s hair away from his face. He leaves his hand lingering there for a few seconds, gently combing through Harry’s hair once, twice, and the next thing he realises is that his touch has changed to that of a caress, and the back of his hand idly drifts along the other boy’s face, down past his cheekbones and lightly trailing off at his chin.
He doesn’t let himself lie down until the shaking’s subsided to a dull quiver, and he turns away from Harry and he tries to forget where he is and why he’s here, but he can feel fingertips drawing along the back of his neck and up into his hair, and he turns over to find lips grazing over his own, breath that tastes like blood and old scotch overpowering him, and Harry’s right there and he’s still got his hand tracing the back of Peter’s neck, and everything inside him aches.
“You’ll stay with me,” Harry breathes, “until the morning. You’ll still be here, right?”
Peter’s hand reaches up to touch Harry’s face, and he’s scared to look at him when he’s this close, when he can feel his lips against his own when he talks and when his eyes are boring into him like he knows every answer in the world, when in fact he doesn’t even have a single one, and he doesn’t know how to answer the question, doesn’t even know how to kiss Harry, doesn’t know how to make any of this better without destroying himself.
And he holds the dying boy’s face and runs his thumb across his trembling jaw, and Harry’s lips brush his own and Peter kisses him like he’s always wanted to but never deserved, and it feels like there’s so much space between them and they can’t get close enough, and it’s rushed and it’s horrible but it’s everything that they’ve both wanted for God knows how long.
Peter hopes that Harry understands this is his way of saying no.