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The sob is nearly nonexistent - a sort of low wrenching pull of the gut type of cry that Peter shouldn't be able to physically hear. Yet as he closes the door to the bathroom, returning to the hall in which he had only walked into minutes before - he recognizes the sound for what it is, and inwardly curses to himself.
And against what is presumably better judgement, he steers his steps forward - his spider senses too acutely aware of someone in need to entirely ignore the possibly of someone actually being hurt.
Leaving the bathroom altogether, Peter crosses into the darker ends of the corridor - where a lone door rests in the right hand corner - tucked away from the rest of the rooms.
He knocks - once, twice - knuckles braced though loosely gentle, the choice in doing so stemming from a place of wanting to be as courteous and polite as possible.
"Its me, Pepper-" comes the broken reply - voice straining to maintain a stability that Peter can tell isn't remotely even there. "S-sorry, I-"
"I'm not," Peter begins - halting on account of the door that swings inwards, revealing the blond that he had noticed some time earlier that evening.
Said other hadn't spoken much - had kept mainly to himself in truth, with the occasional whisper granted to Morgan or Happy Hogan.
Peter, rightfully, had mulled over his presence - yet, with the funeral being as it had been, it hadn't mattered to actually voice his inquiries aloud. Less he'd draw unnecessary attention to what others, outside of him, had probably been privy to since the beginning.
"Pepper," Peter finishes. Attention quickly drawn to the dark cerulean eyes that are careening close to a reddish hue.
"Oh-uh-" the other says, wrist aggressively seeking to strike across his face-, "s-sorry-"
"No," he says, "I'm - I interrupted you. So..."
The blond nods, but does little else to continue whatever it is that Peter had sought from this confrontation. His body hovering, and second wrist quick to follow the first attempts at dabbing his eyes. Though such an action only blotches his skin into an irritated aggression, further ruining his attempts to retain his appearance
"Hey," Peter then tries again, a curt clear of his throat given, "are you - are you okay?"
It's a stupid question - Peter knows. Especially as someone whom others had come to ask that very same question to - days, even weeks, leading up to the funeral. Sure, they had all meant well - which blatantly, Peter had likewise - and yet, how could someone ever be okay when dealing with the loss of a loved one? Preparation or not.
For the second time, the blond had nodded - though it had been a much faster motion than the last - and he had teetered to an absurd degree, causing loose strands of hair to brush across his forehead.
"Y-yeah," the other then says gently, though his voice cracks, and a fresh dampness seems to collect at his lashes - threatening to spill over as he starts to carefully pick at his words, "I...Tony- he-"
Peter visibly flinches at the direct address of Mr. Starks name - an occurrence that is nearly becoming common and in accordance to every time spoken since Thanos.
And whatever the blond had meant to say is backtracked - a wretched sob overtaking, and stifling. Seeking Peter's immediate attention as that which had startled him in the first place.
"S-shit," he then curses, another attempt to cease his tears given - this time with the back end of his palm, "I'm sorry-" Though he's much less aggressive this time about - in consequence, even less successful than the last.
"Its okay," Peter then assures lamely, and he does what hopes might be easiest for the other - and gently nudges the blond in, and swaying the door to a close behind them. It's one thing for the guy to lose a grip of himself in front of him - and entirely another for a handful of strangers to wander in. And with Peter being who he was, he couldn't necessarily feel right with leaving the other to wallow in self destruction either.
So- "hey-hey," he begins again, trying for a calm tone that May had always managed to hand to him, "its okay-"
Though it's not. It isn't at all close to being okay. And his own trying resurgence of tears is truth to that.
"Hey-hey-"
Whatever expectations may be - or whichever rules proper etiquette may stand to - are uncertain, though they're quite possibly shoved aside between them. For the blond is suddenly much closer to Peter than before - and his arms are quick in snaking about him too. His voice completely lost in unintelligible fits. Which raises in volume and distaste before he's deciding to bury his face into Peter's shoulder.
And its awkward, in physicality - with the other being a few inches taller than him. Though Peter is responsive enough - and takes to the motion as if the blond is an acquaintance rather than the harsh truth of it all. If anything, being Spiderman, has taught Peter that certain people may need a stranger for comfort from time to time. Some, in unfortunate measures of the truth, hadn't the privilege nor the choice in accepting anything more than that.
"I'm sorry - I'm sorry," the other repeats as he pulls him in closer, "p-please-"
"Its okay," Peter assures, same as before - his own hand readily petting against his back, "really-"
And he feels his own gatheredness complete itself, his tears now taking weight and cascading down his own face.
He hadn't cried during the wake - nor at the release of the wreath that Pepper had made in honor of Mr. Stark. Yet right here - and now - he had felt inclined to do so. Perhaps, in truth, to comfort the other for failing to maintain his own inadequacies. Or even, to justify himself - and assure the world that he too was feeling just as lost, and raw. With no traces of perpetual hope to be found.
"I m-miss him," the blond whispers, and again - if not for his special hearing, Peter might have missed it entirely.
"I do too," he then laments in honesty - nose now buried in loose curls that smell of faint vanilla and birch wood. And its pleasing, to say the least. The thought crossing but treading to tip toe a line of moral decency - one that wasn't at all creepy, or weird, to entirely think it.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye."
It's there that Peter truly reels in, lips nearly pressing into the same pleasant smelling curls - arms ever broadening to claim and secure this other person. This other boy who might have also lost a father like mentor in Tony Stark.
He, at the very least, had been there to see the man off. Though perhaps it would have been easier not to have seen the life diminish on his face - and yet, all the same, Peter wouldn't have wanted him to not be there at all.
He hadn't been there to apologize for Ben - not till it had already been too late. His face already removed, and body simply just that - a body, crumpled on the pavement and looking less like his uncle and more of an unfamiliar vessel with an uncanny resemblance. For Tony, he had tried to make him see - to understand what he had come to mean to Peter. To assure him of what he had done - what he had won - and what Peter had yet to be. Had failed to become...
"When-?" Peter tries, mouth going dry as his thoughts began to whirl about him, "the last time-?"
"Before," the blond says, cries loosely subsiding as he forced himself to answer, "he...he called me to tell me about his engagement-"
"So you-?"
He nodded," when I came back. He was already gone."
They hold onto one another for a handful of minutes, Peter adjusting and becoming familiar with the body besides his own.
Its strong, and lean - with signs of light physicality that may suggest hard labor. He briefly wonders again as to what this boy means to Tony. What he predominantly does, and where he comes from. By way of a loose tilt to his voice, Peter suspects from out of state - or newly arrived - the country air and tone too still engraved in him to be an established New Yorker just yet.
The other must have started to speculate his own foolishness - his senses dialing back in enough to stir him up from Peter's shoulder.
"That-" he begins, finally uprooting himself and looking into Peter's face. Though upon meeting, he had frozen again - this time while taking in his features. The same blue eyes from before had thusly mapped about his face then - from his nose to his cheeks, and fleetingly to his lips.
"S-shit - you're cute-"
It takes a moment further for the blond to readjust to that slip up - with Peter, all the while, feeling the same as his heart nearly lurched at the compliment.
It isn't everyday that a guy cries on you, only to then hit on you without meaning to after all-
"Uh - I shouldn't have," he starts for a third time - eyes still trying to focus in on something - nose, eyes, cheeks, lips again - back to cheeks -
"Its okay-" Peter finally tries himself - though the other has already stirred again, his hands still braced about his torso as he does the unthinkable and steals in for a press of his lips against the corner edge of his mouth. And its terribly sweet and devastating - fleeting and yet too-
"Shit," the blond voices again, truly drawing back from his actions this time about, and leaving Peter standing by his lonesome - still up and against the closed door.
"T-that was stupid - sorry - I-"
"Its okay," Peter repeats. And he's blushing, he can feel it - even as he makes to smile - his hand moving to bury itself into his hairline as he offers a hollow laugh.
"My names H-Harley-" the other - Harley - then blurts, his needing to do so most likely stemming from the part of him that is terribly mortified at falling into complete silence. Especially in the wake of his shameful boldness.
"Peter," Peter then greets in turn, hand awkwardly seeking to touch.
And Harley permits their hands to collide, both flushing from the contact - and both just as struck by this change in formality when only seconds before they had been coiled and slotted together.
With his free hand, Harley attempts to scrutinize his face again - though Peter forces him to halt, taking his hand - and offering a pack of tissues that had been left in his jacket pocket instead.
"Thanks," Harley says.
And Peter nods, his body still radiating in warmth as he watches the other collect himself. He's a wreck - though Peter, by now, has no room to judge. And in all actuality, the blond is still rather handsome in spite of the abrasive nature of his grief. Not that Peter had noticed before - or that he was actively observing to see it now. It simply came as an afterthought - much like the fact that Harley had smelt of vanilla and earth.
Still, he's mortified to a fault - his eyes forcing themselves to tear away in search of something else to focus on.
Then- "you're real kind," Harley chuckles, openly bright and nervously inclined, "I...just - thanks. None of my family knew him...and, plane tickets are-"
"You came alone," Peter surmises, nodding curtly once he had returned to him, "that... That must be hard... I couldn't have been here without May-"
"She's awfully sweet too," came the reply - followed by a sweep of his eyes as he made to adjust his hair back, "your aunt, she reached for my hand earlier-" he paused, a slight hiccup coming to his voice as he took an intake of breath, "guess she saw me trembling- I...it was hard to leg go of the rose-"
Right, Peter had nodded again.
They had left stems to float about the lake - once the wreath had been left to by the waters edge. But how he had missed the altercation in question was anyone's guess. Perhaps, however, Peter had simply been too involved with his own thoughts to have noticed.
"Yeah," Peter smiled, "she's real great like that."
Harley nodded this time around, his face now looking a bit more decent than before - still obvious with guilt, and a known pity that came from the shadows of a good cry - but collected, and fine enough to make an appearance again.
"We should-"
"Yeah," Peter agrees. His turning about done quickly, the door opening in succession - with his arm hovering between the open frame and Harley's person. "You can," he continues, chancing a look back to the other, "I mean, me and May hardly know the others that well - so..."
"Okay," Harley says, smiling as he takes Peter's offered hand, and follows the other out.
And if Peter curls his fingers, lacing their hands together as a unified front - then... well, there isn't really a rational reason to do such a thing now, is there?
Instead, he simply decides not to question it - and let's it be. His heart adamant and continuous, though full and empty with a longing that may not leave him for quite some time. Though it helps, in a sense, to have a broken other to cling to - to have half of someone else when you yourself are missing your own. In a way, they complete and balance each others pain - nearly making it bearable. If only as a reminder that they're not completely alone in this. That maybe - quite possibly - the other can understand the depths of this particular pain.