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Quiet, it was all too quiet. The city streets at this time usually cried and bellowed with car alarms, bustling bars and the ringing from the street lamps. Yet it was quiet. This fact unnerved Peter, as for the fact that the past few weeks Peter hasn’t been himself.
Nothing worked quite right in Peter’s body. His eyes went back to the usual blindness he’d experienced before the whole ‘Spider-man’ thing, his body stopped producing the webs he needed to even be “Spider-Man’, he felt weak.
Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was the dread he felt every waking second of the day prior two weeks ago when he lost himself. Maybe it was the realization that he was an awful friend. Not only to M.J, but Harry. He was barely employed, if the small amount of money he made from time to time from the Daily Bugle could even be counted as some kind of employment. He was weeks behind rent and Mr. Dikovitch was almost at his breaking point.
Peter trudged through the streets, his feet barely lifting from the ground as he walked. He stared straight down at the dirty, disgusting ground he dragged on. He noticed the wall at his right, he picks his head up to stare at the wall as he walks. M.J’s face plastered over and over and over again on the wall. It brought Peter some kind of shame. He felt… awful. He places his fingers against the papered wall, then starts walking, dragging his fingers against the wall. They slide across M.J’s face. Once the wall ends his hands fall to his side. He stood there for a moment, at the corner of the street.
He takes a deep breath, hold.. 2.. 3.., exhale.
Closing his eyes, Peter took another breath. He curled up his fingers, slamming his fists against the blank side of the wall.
“Ow-ow-owwww” He exhaled. Peter had forgotten. He shook his hand, it stung more then it should’ve and burnt his flesh with a sizzling pain. The wood was hard, way too hard for Peter’s now frail knuckles.
Peter held his hand in his non-injured hand. He took a sharp breath, then started walking back to his apartment, his feet still dragging on the concrete sidewalk.
Peter pushed past the broken and almost off-the-hinge door into his dingy and ruined apartment room. The floorboards squeaked and shouted with every step Peter took. It was destroyed. He had destroyed it, completely tearing the place apart. Cans that were once on ledges and shelves sat rolling on their side, bottles and cans clashed and swirl on the ground, clothes dressing not his body but pieces of furniture around his room.
Peter stood in the door frame, taking deep long breaths. The room still dark, only lit by the light in the hallway. After his fourth breath, he walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. He stands there as he did in the door frame, for a bit longer.
The dark consumes Peter, it was cold and brittle. Freezing and on its final two legs. Peter let out a sigh before flicking the light on. The bulb flickers, then buzzes, engraving the sound into Peter’s brain. He wipes his fingers along the dusty brown dresser by the door. Pinching the dust, then flicking it off. Kicking the cans and bottles on the floor, they clinked and clanged against each other, rolling around on the hardwood. He pulled his shirt off as he walked towards the body mirror, it snags and catches at his arms and on his jaw before finally popping off. The shirt, a blue t-shirt with scribbled writing, and an awfully drawn Spider-Man, (Yes, Peter does indulge in owning his own merchandise) Peter was convinced if he wore something Spider-Man he would feel like Spider-man again.
He sighed, staring at his body in the mirror. His arms were weak and he started growing in pounds. Small chunks of fat roll over his pants. He’s pale and frail, weak and stringy. He raised his shoulders, he tried to cock his chest out, but in the end, it curved back in, and his shoulders drooped. He slouched, observing himself more in the mirror. His glasses, broken from being unused for some time, are barely stuck together with tape, pieces destroyed and rugged from the wear and tear of Peter’s stress (in which he often grabs the glasses and plays with their flimsy sides causing the tape to become increasingly loose.)
Peter was barely a shell of the person he formerly was. He was barren, empty, desolate. For Peter, was nothing. He’d barely been seen beyond the shadows that loomed over New York City, and during the day he barely left. Only leaving to buy canned foods or attempt to make cash out of the leftover less-high quality pictures of Spider-Man he had spare. In fact, he was so non-existent, not even Harry had seen him for a while. Usually, he’d stop by Harry’s place to just sit around. Half the time they’d talk or Harry would leave and let Peter rest in his home.
Harry, compared to Peter had been doing a little better. Of course he lived between truly living and simply existing. Often he felt down, but he covered it with his signature oscorp smile. Presenting himself cleaner than he actually was. Every night, Harry sat down on the couch, a whisky glass lodged between his hands. He didn’t think about much during this time. He thought of this as a time to completely erase his mind. His thoughts often rushed and buzzed through his brain like a thousand worker bees, but at least sitting with a glass of whisky helped everything quiet down. The silence still stung like those worker bees, no thoughts even swirled in his brain. The whisky burned his throat and sloshed down like a waterfall. Burning his insides like fire.
And Harry didn’t mind it so much anymore.
Peter sat on his bed, the cold wind pushed itself through the wired screens latched on the windows Peter left open. It flew and scattered around his single-room apartment. The cool wind swirled and breezed past Peter’s barren skin. Peter sat there, his thoughts rumbling in his head like a small volcano about to erupt. Though, he could never quite find the right words to piece everything together. Peter laid himself down on the bed, the sheets embracing him, giving him just a bit of that comfort that he so often longed for. He looked over, a picture frame sitting on the bedside table. Peter reached out for it, grabbing it and holding it up above his head. He stared at the picture. Harry, Peter, and M.J sit in the picture frame. They stood together in the middle of NYC. This picture Peter had taken himself a few months ago, he loved it so much it was encased in a frame with gold swirls and embellished flowers. He stared at the picture. His eyes lingered on M.J for a second, before his eyes move past her and onto Harry. Harry was warm, Peter could feel it through the picture, his smile shined through the glass cage. Peter smiled, looking at this image of Harry made him feel something, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Peter thought, then a thought hit him.
He rushed, crawling out of bed, dragging his feet against the wood floor, kicking past the cans and bottles. He pulled out a clean white button-down shirt and strapped it onto his body. He struggled with the buttons, each one sticking to his fingers. He brushed off the lint on his pants, grabbing his coat that hung on the raggedy coat hanger that missed arms and legs and encasing his body in it.
Quietly, he sneaked down the stairs, giving it his best attempt to make Mr. Dikovitch not notice his sound. For every time he saw Peter he’d complain about something new. He exits the apartment into the dirty streets, At this time, it was a little less quiet. Helicopters now swirled around in the night sky, their motors and rotor blade buzzing in the sky. This almost distracted Peter from the sound of the street lamps, but he heard them anyway.
He trudged through the city streets, passing by that same wall that was laced with those pictures of Mary Jane. This time, Peter did not notice them. He walked and walked til’ eventually he made it to the front door of Harry’s home. He entered the building to be welcomed by an empty lobby. Potted plants and empty cushioned chairs inhabited the lobby at this time. Peter took a few deep breaths. The walk really wore him out. He shuffled over to the door buzzer. His finger’s traced around the buttons before finding the one to Harry’s loft. He presses it and it buzzes for a few seconds before a voice rings out of it.
“Hello?” An older mans voice spoke out of the machine.
“Bernard? It’s me, Pete. Do you mind if I come in?” Peter spoke.
“Oh Mr, Parker! Of course, you can. I’ll get something to eat readily.” Bernard said, the buzzing ending.
Peter smiles, he trails his way to the elevator. Pressing the cold button to take him up. The elevator jingles and shakes on its way up. Peter’s feet are concreted down on the floor. Every tremor the elevator gives freaks him out a little, something he was never scared of before.
The elevator dings then Peter steps forward into the empty hallway. He stands there for a second at the end of the hallway.
“Hello?” Peter speaks his voice echoing through the dull hallway. Bernard shuffles through one of the doors into the hallway, a tray stuck on his palm.
“Hello Mr. Parker, come I’ll take you to Harry.” Bernard states, as he starts walking down the hallway, the tray still tightly fitted in his hands. Peter drags himself behind Bernard. He couldn’t wait to see Harry. Peter knew he hasn’t been the greatest of friends, especially these past few weeks where he hasn’t been all here. He missed Harry though, and that missing feeling lingered within Peter.
“Here he is, go on,” Bernard says, looking at Peter. Peter nods then walks into the open space. Peter didn’t see Harry at first until he noticed the empty whisky glass on the table. It lay on its side, the ice cube almost spilling out of the glass.
“Harry?” Peter spoke, stepping closer to the couch Harry rested on. His arms draped off the side. His fingertips touched the carpet that lay under the couch. As Peter approached he noticed Harry’s hair. Usually, it was styled up in wafts that made Harry look even more handsome than he already did… but looking at him now his hair dropped above his eyes.
Harry slowly pushed himself up. He sits on the couch, his head still down. Bernard placed the tray on the table and grabs the empty cup before walking away.
Peter sits down next to Harry, sitting up straight in contrast to Harry’s slouched posture.
“Pete, you came,” Harry says, he looks up at Peter his hair now falling off his face, exposing his tired and husk-like expression.
“You look awful Harry.” Peter blurts out, staring at Harry’s face. Harry looks down, slouching his body even more.
“Figured.” This time Harry let his body fall back onto the couch. He sighs, “Everything is a bit awful right now.”
“Yeah, it really is.”
“Did you and M.J….?” Harry knew that they never really got together, but he knew how much Peter cared about her. He knew Peter loved her more than anything in the world. Knowing that fact made Harry know something was off, why would Peter come to visit him and not M.J? Did they fight?
“No.” Peter said, rubbing his temple with the tips of his fingers. “I haven’t spoken to her in weeks.”
“That sucks.” Harry says, curling his legs up to his chest. Dang.
“It’s not all that bad.” Peter says, looking over at Harry. “I get to spend time with you.”
Harry’s head pops up. He looks over at Peter who stared straight down at the floor after his last words. Peter was flustered. He wasn’t quite sure why he said what he did. His face was starting to heat up, the broken glasses on his face started to slide down his nose.
“Pete?” Harry calls. Peter looks up at Harry, his face still red with embarrassment and almost a bit of shame of the thing he said.
Harry reached his hand out, pushing back Peter’s glasses with the tips of his fingers. Peter and Harrys gaze met. Peter took a moment to exam Harry. Bags laid beneath his eyes with a thousand ripples of purples and blues and his eyes glistened like burnt umber under the dimly lit luminescent lamps that lined the walls of the open space.
Harry could see Peter’s eyes under his damaged and poorly stapled glasses. Peter’s eyes on the other hand were crystal clear, they glowed in blues like the sky and his glasses barely managed to cover those large bags of his own. Peter’s eyes shaked, almost like he didn’t quite know where to look on Harry’s face, but in the end they always landed on the same place.
His lips.
Harry’s lips are dried, the whisky ripped at his skin, but they still shine that gentle pink shade Peter had seen many times before. Peter never thought of Harry like this before until now. Maybe it was the weeks of nothing that made him long for his best friend, maybe it was the environment. Or maybe it was the smell of alcohol that lingered in Harry’s breath.
Harry’s finger still laid inbetween Peters eyes on the bridge of his glasses. The two men sat there in silence, staring at each other before Harry decided to take the first step. His finger trailed down the middle of Peter’s face til it met his own lips.
Peter’s lips were soft to a touch. Even through the weeks of emptiness Peter’s lips remained soft and delicate. Harry left his finger on Peter’s lips.
Peter’s face grew even warmer, he was completely and underly ashamed. Well- not ashamed just… flustered. He couldn’t believe the things happening right now.
And in a moment, their lips met. Peter could taste whisky that still laid on Harry’s lips. Peter grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling down to release that single finger keeping their lips from fully touching. He needed Harry, and craved more.
Harry’s arm slid down, before reaching out for Peter. He grabbed Peter by the collar on his clean white button-down shirt. Using both his hands in an attempt to pull Peter closer. Peter threw his arms around Harry’s neck.
They sit like this for a while until Harry backs off first. They both breathe for awhile. Harry still has his tight grip on Peter’s shirt. He slowly let go, resting his palms on Peter’s chest.
“Do you mind?” Harry asks through his short breaths.
“Wh-wha” Before Peter could properly respond with his question Harry had already pushed Peter backward. Peter falls backward onto the couch cushions. His eyes lay wide as he stares at Harry who’s now straddling himself ontop of Peter. Harry leans his body over Peter, his face barely hovering above the others.
“Harry-” Peter is barely able to speak his words before Harry presses his lips against Peter’s once more. This time fully dedicating themselves to each other.
Their bodies melted and intertwined with one another, Harry’s thoughts were no longer empty. That ringing that constantly rang in his mind did not ring, and the burning feeling on his lips was cooled by Peter’s own. Harry could feel the nervousness dripping off of Peter, his hands still jittered even though they rested around Harry’s waist.
But Harry’s mind was now clouded, busy and swarming with thoughts, the first genuine good thoughts he thought in awhile. This was an escape, a new start. Being here with Peter gave Harry a ground in reality, and the reality that here he was. Here he was sitting on his best friend, their faces pressed together.
Peter was dissolving into Harry. Not in a million years did Peter think this is where he was gonna end up tonight. Harry’s mouth and lips still tasted of whisky, but slowly that flavor begun to disappear with each pullback and kiss they share.
Harry pulled back first, keeping his posture crouched, he hovered over Peter’s face.
“Pete, I love you.” Harry says, looking straight down at Peter who kept his eyes shut.
Peter’s body still shook with nerves. He didn’t know what to expect to happen next, he didn’t know how admitting to his feelings would change his relationship with Harry. He was scared of the future that was ahead of them. Like always, the thoughts in his mind swarmed around in its echoing cave. There was no silence for Peter, and there never was or will be.
Reaching out, Harry grabbed the glasses that rested on Peter’s face. The side that was warped and mishapened almost fell right off.
“These are really messed up,” Harry says, placing them on his own face. Peter’s eyes slowly open, his pupils dilate and re-shape as he stares at Harry. Peter’s glasses barely frame Harry’s face, the ducktape used to stick the sides together slowly peeling off.
Peter’s arms (which are still tightly wrapped around Harry’s waist), slowly crawl up Harry’s back and around on his chest. His palms slide up the side of Harry’s face and onto the sides of his glasses.
“Yeah, but they look good on you.” Peter says, fumbling with the sides of the glasses. Harry smiles, Peter’s palms warm Harry’s face. They burn at his skin, but unlike that of the whisky, its a loving burn.
“Are you gonna say it back?” Harry asks, his smile still lining his face. Peter blinks blankly at Harry for a moment,
“What? Oh- I-”
Harry goes and kisses Peter once more. Harry didn’t have to hear it, because he knew. He knew Peter loved him back. He was just glad to know it, he was glad to feel it, and Harry loved it. Harry backed off from Peter,
“Love.. you.” Peter says, still entranced by the kiss. Harry slowly slides, dropping his body ontop of Peter’s. His head rests ontop of Peter’s chest. Closing his eyes, Harry just listened to Peter’s beating heart. It raced and that sound, let Harry lay in peace. It was comforting. For once, he felt comforted without the stinging of the alchohol in his throat, without the burning sensation that cursed his body. Peter’s kept Harry feeling safe.
Peter’s thoughts slowed down. For once, it was quiet in Peter’s mind. His arms wrap around Harry, keeping him closer than ever. Those bees in his mind all fell asleep when Harry was there, lodged between his arms and on his body. He felt light and clean. Harry’s company, even in silence was all Peter needed.
“Harry?” Peter noticed the silence was louder than usual though, looking down he saw Harry fully asleep on his chest. The glasses smashed against his chest, and the side of it completely popping off from the pressure. Peter entangles his fingers within Harry’s hair, weaving himself in between each clump of hair. Harry’s hair is soft but still contained clumps of dried gel from earlier that day.
With his fingers still in Harry’s hair, Peter slowly drifted off to sleep. Their bodies keep each other warm through the night.
The next morning Peter slowly wakes up, the noon light shining through the curtains. He wiggles his fingers, attempting to feel if Harry was still there and to his surprise, he wasn’t. In a panic, Peter jolts straight up. He looks around for a moment before noticing the coffee table that sits in front of the couch. A glasses case lays there, a new, shiny pair of glasses lay within the case. Peter grabs the case, looking down at the new glasses.
No shitty duct-tape job, no broken sides. They’re clean and smooth. He pops open the case, placing the glasses on his face. Then he notices the note that was previously below the case.
Picking it up it reads,
See you after work Pete
Harry ♡
Peter smiles, Harry’s handwriting is curved and soft. The ink of the pen pooled in some places where he held it down too long and the heart has several other scribbled attempts next to it.
The paper falls off Peter’s hand as he leaves it on the table, standing up and taking a stretch. Peter pulls the glasses off his face, taking a moment to look at them once more, this time with guilt.
Peter didn’t deserve the glasses, he knows they’re expensive to replace. He knows that these kind of things don’t come cheap, and to have Harry pay for them made him feel bad. He couldn’t accept these, he couldn’t take them, even if he needed them. He left the glasses on the table, grabbing his coat and leaving Harry’s home.
—
Peter lays in his bed a notebook held in his hands. He scribbles and rips at the paper. The form he’s creating one familiar to him. The lines are shaky and bold, his mind unable to properly quiet down once more. He can barely see due to the lack of his glasses, he’s pretty sure Harry took them and tossed them out in the morning.
The lines on the paper slowly took its form. He blinks, looking down at the picture he managed to draw. It’s Harry. With his pinky, Peter took to the face. He drags his pinky on the side of drawn-Harry’s face. The graphite smudges and blends into the paper. Peter smiles, placing the wad of paper between his legs.
He wipes his finger on the bedside table, the led putting his fingerprint mark on the wood. Peter’s hand then climbs up the table, grabbing onto the same picture frame he’d look at the night before. His eyes completely skip past M.J, staring directly into Harry’s picture perfect glassy eyes.
Maybe this was embarrassing, maybe it was awkward, but Peter had an urge, an untenable, uncontrollable urge. His lips quiver as he awkwardly kisses the picture frame, his lips hitting the cold glass. He holds it there for a second, his eyes tightly shut.
This is so fucking weird.
It was almost like god was on the enemies side, like fate was not in Peter’s fortune. When ‘knocking’ (more like banging) hits Peter’s door. In a panic Peter drops the frame to his side, quickly crawling out of bed.
“I’m coming!” Peter shouts, hopping as he attempts to slide on a pair of shorts. He hops towards the door, patting down his shirt to make sure it’s clean. Twisting the knob, he fights with the door in it’s attempt to open it. The banging continuing the entire time.
“Jesus christ, you can stop banging I’m opening the stupid door.” Peter pulls and tugs at the door before it snaps opens. Standing behind the door Harry stands straight up, the glasses stuck in his palm.
“Harry- you’re here.” Peter says, a smile growing on his face.
“Yeah, I came to give you these.” Harry reaching his hand out, showing Peter the pair of glasses.
“You know I can’t take those.” Peter rejects, pushing Harry’s hand away. He turns away, stepping back into his apartment as Harry follows in. “Listen Harry, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings it’s just, you know I can’t take gifts that are that expensive.”
But Harry’s feelings were hurt. He really thought Peter would appreciate them. He woke up extra early to run to the shops, barely able to figure out what kind of prescription Peter even had. He even paid extra to get them in a few hours. He was so sure that Peter would appreciate them he completely forgot about the fact, that Peter doesn’t like free things he didn’t have to work for.
“They really weren’t that expensive.” Harry lies, they really were super-expensive.
“For you, Harry. They weren’t that expensive for you. Do you wanna know what else I would be buying if I had money like you did?” Peter says, sitting down on the bed, the picture frame bouncing off the bed and onto the ground. It lands on its face, the glass completely shattering as it hits the floor.
Pieces of glass scatter on the ground, hiding behind the cans and blending into the ground. Freaking out, Peter jumps off the bed, running towards the glass shards. He picks up an empty grocery bag and a handheld dustpan and starts scooping shards into the bag. Harry places the glasses on the bed, walking around to Peter. He’s not interested in Peter’s struggle though, instead he reaches straight for the photograph. It takes him a moment to really realize what the photo was. Him, Peter, and M.J all standing together in the middle of New York City taken months prior.
“Pete, why was this photo even on your bed in the first place?” Harry says, looking down at Peter who continued to struggle with the glass pieces.
“That’s none of your business,” Peter says. “Can you just help me already?”
“Oh- right.” Harry kicks a few cans over, making way for him to properly step to help. He gently picks up piece of the glass with his fingers, placing it into the bag. After a few minutes most to all shards are taken off the ground.
Peter groans, getting up with the plastic bag in his hand. “Thanks.” he goes and places the bag on the dusty brown dresser. Harry on the other hand goes to sit back on Peter’s bed, pulling the photo out of his pocket. He stares at it for a few seconds before looking beside him. Peter’s sketchbook lays face down.
Harry knew it was bad to snoop while Peter was busy, but he couldn’t stop himself. Flipping the notebook over he realizes the drawing is literally of him.
“Pete…?”
“Yeah?” As Peter turns around, he stands in horror. Harry is looking directly at the photo he drew of him, the smudged lines clearly indicating Peter’s care and love towards the piece.
“I knew it! You do totally love me!” Harry shouts, pointing his finger at Peter, almost like it was an accusation.
“Are you accusing me of loving you right now!?” Peter shouts back. Peter really didn’t know if he wanted to punch or kiss Harry right now. This was all too overwhelming.
“I’m not accusing you of anything! I just– I dunno!”
“Didn’t I literally tell you I loved you yesterday!?”
“Yeah but-”
“Yeah but what? You didn’t believe me!?”
Harry groaned, standing up from the bed and walking towards Peter. Leaving the photograph and the drawing on the bed.
“What? What are you doing?” Peter asks, resting his body against the dresser. His heart started to race, almost like he knew what was coming next.
But instead of the kiss he was expecting, Harry pulls the old glasses out of his pocket. The one’s with broken sides and dirty lenses, the ones Peter had owned since he was twelve. He places them on Harry’s face, and pushes them back with his pointer finger. Peter’s face grows red, this was somehow more unexpected then anything else that happened today, and the day before, and the day before.
Harry’s body presses against Peters, and he leans in, getting increasingly closer to Peter’s face.
“Do you mind?” Harry whispers into Peter’s ear. Peter’s heart skipped a beat, he shakes his head in response. And so Harry places his lips against Peter’s.
This time, Harry’s lips didn’t taste of whisky or wiped with blood from its cracking. They were softer and tasted like the vanilla chapstick hiding in Harry’s pocket. Peter’s hands rest on the back of Harry’s head, he wanted to taste every bit of this new flavor. Harry’s head was full of thoughts, and Peter’s was empty.
As the day turned into night, the two men sat on the bed together, flipping through books and memories.
Harry lays, his back stretched against Peter’s bed horizontally, his hand resting on his stomach.
“Pete, I’m starving... And no offense but all you have is canned beans and cup noodles.” Harry says, his stomach rumbling at even the mention of Peter’s strange food cabinet.
Peter scoffs, “Well I’m sorry I don’t have a butler bringing me whatever you even eat.” he continues to flip through the Midtown High yearbook.
“I want burgers.” Harry closes his eyes, imagining the best hamburger that was sold down the street from Peter’s apartment.
“Well– do you wanna go get some? There’s that place–”
“Down the street? Yeah, let’s go then!” Harry says, quickly rolling himself off the bed. He was way to excited to leave. Harry fumbles for his wallet in his pocket before he finds the new pair of glasses from earlier. “Oh yeah- maybe we can go to return these too.”
“Return?” Peter says, getting out of bed and tying his shoes.
“I mean, what else am I gonna do with it? You have like the worst prescription ever.” Harry says, nudging Peter in a teasing matter. Peter rolls his eyes.
Harry goes for the doorknob, as he turns it, the door gets stuck once more. He pushes and lifts the door a few times before it finally pops open.
“Wow, your landlord really needs to fix that door for you.” Harry says, stepping out of the apartment and into the empty area. Peter shushes Harry as he exits the apartment, pointing to Mr. Dikovitches door. Harry rolls his eyes.
Exiting the apartment, they walk down the street together. Harrys arms are stuffed into his coat’s pocket. Peter looks over at Harry, then entangles his arm through his, stuffing his own hand into his pocket. Harry looks over at Peter, then down at their now crossed arms, and laughs.
“Are we in middle school?”
“Shut up.”
This time, the city street isn’t quiet. It’s filled with their laughter and words, the sound of their steps. The people walk past them making sounds of their own, the helicopters fly over the city streets and Peter could barely hear the buzzing from the street lamps.
Somehow, Peter felt more alive than he did yesterday, and even though his glasses were falling apart, and his shoes still dragged on the ground, Harry being here made everything a little bit better.