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It’s nights like these when Peter realizes that he is incredibly lucky.
Harry is standing with a group of men across the hall, immersed in conversation - one hand is in his pocket and the other hovering to cover his mouth as he laughs at something Peter doesn’t quite pick up. Everything is a little yellow in the light of the crystal chandeliers above them, and the shirt under Harry’s expensive satin jacket looks off white like his smile.
Peter swirls his glass idly before taking a sip. The earthy wine is crisp and sweet down his throat. The air smells of lavender and cologne, and people are scattered comfortably around the floor, some slow dancing, others occupied by emphatic chatter.
Oscorp functions have never truly been his scene, but when Harry insists on having him attend, Peter can never find it in himself to say no.
He looks across the hall one more time, and this time, he is met by cerulean eyes and a softening expression. The corners of Peter’s mouth tug into a small smile.
He leaves his glass by the table and heads for him .
As Peter nears, he can see the strands of his hair that have broken free from the gel, resting against Harry’s forehead. He likes the way it looks and doesn’t say anything, knowing Harry will protest and run to the bathroom to fix it otherwise. In response, Harry reaches to fix Peter’s bow tie that had become crooked sometime during the span of the party, and dust off his shoulders with a soft smile.
As Harry’s slender hands tinker to make Peter seem more presentable, his eyebrows furrow in a concentrated knit atop his forehead. Peter thinks it’s unfair how Harry can look so handsome while doing nothing more than breathe.
“You look stunning.” is the first thing that slips past Peter’s lips, pithy and unfiltered. He says it because these are the words that have been filling his head ceaselessly, like a mantra, all evening.
And when he takes Harry’s working hand and pulls him close, Harry’s expression is fond and dewy - like he’s caught in the summer rain. He says something back to Peter, but Peter isn’t paying enough attention to do anything but smile and enjoy having Harry in his arms.
The piano that’s been playing slows and he slides one hand to the side of Harry’s waist and uses the other to interlace their fingers. Harry lifts his free hand to place it on Peter’s shoulder.
“I said,” Hary leans in like he’s trying to get Peter’s attention, ”you too.”
There is a gummy smile like sunshine on his face as the words escape Harry’s lips, and though it is night time, Peter thinks he’s gotten sunburn.
He relaxes, Harry does too, and they let the sweet melody consume them little by little. His eyes are closed and his head is leaning slightly to the side like he’s being lulled to sleep by the gentle chime.
He takes Harry’s palm to his cheek; Harry doesn’t stir. Peter feels so, very lucky.
He loves this - loves him - and on nights like these, he really knows it for sure.
And as he’s dancing with Peter, Harry looks gold in the evening light.