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It’s the third day in something like a week that Peter has left his and Harry’s apartment at nine in the evening with expectations to be out until dawn breaks. He texted Harry when he left and his boyfriend wasn't home from work yet that he would be out late again and he got a thumbs-up in response. This also likely means that it’s the third night this week that a certain Harold Theopolis Osborn has nested himself up at the top of his tall tower and fought away sleep in order to get as much work done as he can before his lover inevitably comes to find him and drag his ass home.
The dim lights still on in the suite at the top of the Oscorp Headquarters tells Peter that he’s right as he swings by to check on another 911 call across town. Disappointed isn't the right word, it’s definitely something more like exasperated, but whatever it is, it’s not great and it makes Peter roll his eyes behind the lenses of his mask as he swings past the windows of uptown New York as a blur in the night.
The situation was easily resolved with the vigilante there, which had Spider-Man swinging back towards the tall towers that make up the skyline by four in the morning. He’s ready to head home and fall in bed and lay dead to the world for a few hours before having to get up for whatever event Jameson has him scheduled for that afternoon. But then that light up in the Oscorp tower is still on—just thinking about being cooped up there for so long makes Peter even more tired than he already is—so he decides he needs to swing by to check on his love.
After so many years of being Spider-Man, Peter has significantly reduced the amount of times he lets himself be seen in the suit while crawling around the tower with so much familiarity. Villains have connected the dots one too many times for Peter’s comfort. This late at night however there’s nobody in the tower to unlock the front doors for him except for the security team down in the basement. Why would Peter wait on them and take the long elevator ride up when he can just stick to the glass and slip through the skylights?
He slips in and quickly disables the silent alarms that Harry has fixed to recognize Peter Parker and Spider-Man as two seperate people in the database. The lights click ‘on’ down the hall as he travels, and he pulls his mask off of his face upon entering the office suite, the door closing with a soft click behind him. (Harry and Peter have argued a lot over having cameras on this floor. Harry insists he doesn't need them and he wants it to be a place where Peter can come in and not have to worry, however again, way too many villains have made the connection between Spider-Man and the CEO. Their compromise is cameras down the halls and one watching the windows but none within the walls of the suite itself.)
Harry is sitting down on top of his desk, looking out across the skyline with a ‘I HEART HEROS’ mug that Peter gave him. He doesn't look away from the skyline but tilts his head more towards his guest, “Peter?”
“Worse.” Harry looks over his shoulder with an amused look.
Dramatically, he touches his hand over his heart. “God forbid, my nemesis, Spider-Man!” He puts the cup down and sweeps across the room. “What are you doing on this side of town so late at night, Pete?”
“I could ask you the same thing, funny enough.” Peter looks across Harry’s face–the silky skin that has grown over his burns, the apples of his cheeks, soft pink lips contrasted by the deep dark circles under his eyes. Peter cups Harry’s face in his hands and plants a gentle kiss on his lover’s scar tissue. “You look like shit, by the way.”
He feels how the muscles under Harry’s skin move as his face contours into a smirk and he says “you should see the other guy.”
Peter nods his head back over to Harry’s desk. “Is he that stack of paper?” Harry’s gaze follows Peter’s and then lets out a long, melodramatic sigh and nods his head into Peter’s chest. “Do I need to beat it up? Drop it out of the window?”
“Please.” He says in a sad little dejected voice. Harry places his hand over Peter’s chest and pushes him a little distance away so that he can slip out from between his boyfriend and the chaise behind him.
Peter follows after him across the room, “nobody is keeping you here, you know that, right?” ‘The only person keeping you here is yourself’ is thought, but not said aloud. Harry picks up his mug again and finishes it off with one last sip and then sits it down next to two other dirty mugs. Harry keeps walking over to his liquor cabinet and pulls out two crystal glasses. Peter then puts himself between Harry and the counter, “don’t you think it’s a little late—early for that?”
“Actually, it’ll put me to sleep,” Harry corrects, and gently moves Peter back out of the way. “I haven't had a drink since noon or something; whenever you texted me that you would be out late.”
“You should be glad I love you so, so much with the amount of bullshit like this you pull.”
“Okay, very bold coming from you but I'll hear this out.”
“Have you consumed anything else since then? Besides coffee, which is going to dehydrate you.”
Harry has to think about that, which already tells Peter everything he needs to know. “Someone dropped off some biscotti for me earlier, so I had that with my coffee.”
Peter lets out a more frustrated sigh than he meant to while running a hand through his hair. He takes this moment now to study Harry further, this time noting the tired lines etched into his features and the disheveled appearance of his typically starched collars and pressed suit jackets. "Harry, as your boyfriend, it's my job to be concerned," his tone is soft and earnest and he stares straight into Harry’s eyes as he says, "and right now, I'd definitely say I am."
Harry doesn't look very impressed with this statement, so Peter pushes his point further. “This is the third night this week.”
He stays quiet for a moment, not breaking eye-contact but instead making his gaze narrower, sharper. “This is the third night that you've been out late, too,” Harry mutters back like a challenge.
Peter frowns, “yes, however my job allows me to go in to work practically whenever. You still get here by nine every morning, Hare.”
Determined now to make Harry step down, Peter steps forward. He lessens the space between them and begins with, "So here's what we're going to do," leaving no room for argument.
"We’ll put this stuff away and tidy up the office so that you're not worrying about it all night. Then we’ll get out of here and go anywhere you want to go, and we’ll get the greasiest pizza you can imagine,” Peter says, making hand motions with each point. “We can even eat it on the fire escape like we used to! Wouldn't that be fun? And then you sir, will call out of work tomorrow and I'll dote on you all day.”
Harry blinks slowly, once, twice. “Peter…” he starts with obvious anxiety that makes Peter wonder if he should have been that up-front. “I need to get ahead of my work now so that I can use the time off later.” His words hang in the air like they could shield him against Peter's impending counterargument.
“What you need to do is let yourself relax more,” Peter counters, frustration edging back into his tone. “If you run yourself into the ground, then you're going to be out for the count a lot longer. I swear Harry, one of these days I will turn around and when I look back, you’ll have gone fully gray or something. Mark my words.”
“Two corrections there,” Harry interjects. “Red hair actually turns white, and technically I already have—but that's because I'm ginger,” he adds with a hint of humor in his tone, trying to lighten the mood or turn the situation’s focus away from himself. Peter raises an incredulous brow and doesn't let that happen however.
Harry sees that his attempt is not working on Peter, damn him for knowing him so well. He adds on, “seriously, it just happens that way. I think I got my first white hair in middle school,” like it will help his point in the slightest.
“Okay, so do you not see the problem with that?” Peter presses, his concern evident and even more well founded.
Harry throws his hands up in an exasperated motion, “I just told you why it doesn't! It's genetics, Pete!”
Peter rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in front of him. “‘Genetics’ my ass, Osborn.” He’s really picked the wrong person to try and win an argument over biology with and although Harry knows this intrinsically, he’s also very stubborn and would prefer to lie in a bed he made incorrectly than admit to being wrong. A side effect of his father.
Another side effect of his father is Harry’s tendency to become a (barely) functioning alcoholic under stress and emotional turmoil. Peter watches as his gaze flicks over a clock that displays the time, and then as he starts to busy his hands with the crystal glasses still sitting on the counter. He’s knowingly not looking at Peter when casting one off to the shelf while keeping another one in front of him.
Even if he didn't feel Peter staring a hole into the back of his head, he’s known the other man for long enough to expect it. “What? I assume you don't want any,” Harry says with a nonchalant air while pouring fine whiskey from a decanter. He makes sure his actions are deliberate under Peter's watchful eye.
“I'm worried about you.”
Harry doesn't immediately respond. No, with his back still turned to Peter he carefully and silently puts the stopper back on top of the glass vessel, like the noise of the seal is a point in itself. Then, and only then, does Harry choose to verbally acknowledge Peter’s concern. “I was starting to think that you might be.”
“Don't get smart with me,” Peter sighs. “This is unhealthy and yeah, yeah, I know that I'm one to talk. But you have a lot of pressure on your shoulders.” He sees the look Harry gives him saying ‘yeah, you do too’ and tastes the trace amounts of bitterness that still lingers around with that.
Peter wants to reach out but after knowing him for so long, he knows better. He knows Harry; he knows his every thought and his every move and his every atom. Peter gives him a sad look instead, while Harry swirls the amber liquid in his crystal glass. Peter watches him take a sip and does nothing.
“You know, you're getting a lot better,” Peter says into the open air. Harry keeps a sour expression pursed on his lips that Peter knows is not from the alcohol. “I probably sound like a broken record to you though.”
“You do, yeah.”
Peter continues like he didn't hear that. “And I know Oscorp is the most valuable thing in your life—” and he’s abruptly cut off as Harry sets his glass down with a loud, pointed thump. He spins to meet Peter’s gaze head-on with his mouth ever so slightly agape and the look in his eyes is clear as day and easy to read; a mix of surprise and genuine confusion.
“Wait, hold up,” he raises his hand up in a halting motion. “Do you really think that? That I'd pick this,” Harry motions around the room, “over you?”
Peter hesitates and he tightens his arms across his chest as he hears the audible hurt in Harry’s tone. “I do sometimes, yeah,” he reluctantly admits. His acknowledgement puts immediate and noticeable weight and space between them. Harry uncomfortably shifts in his button-up. Peter starts backpedaling. “But I don’t blame you for that! I recognize that this is really important to you—”
“I would give all of this up if you asked me to,” Harry interrupts, his voice is an octave higher than it was a moment ago; like he’s speaking with stolen air. “Say the word, Peter, and I’ll uproot everything.”
The sincerity in his words hits Peter like a ton of bricks and Harry actually laughs a little, like it’s absurd that Peter hasn't realized this before. When it gets late like this and he loses the filters which he has built up into his walls of defense, Harry starts to sound more like his father. It still sends chills up Peter’s spine.
“I don't even care where we would go. The north of France or Bumfuck, Iowa, it wouldn't matter to me!” Harry keeps raising his voice with every word and he marches forward until he’s toe to toe with Peter, who never backs down; never even flinches.
Harry goes to shove an accusing finger at the spider on Peter’s chest but millimeters before his nail collides with the nylon fabric, he stops short. They stare at each other for what could be an eternity while waiting for one to stop the other. And then Harry takes a deep breath, lowers his hand, and quenches the emerald blaze spitting fire behind his eyes. Peter watches it go out and he lets a breath escape from his lungs.
“Peter, I need you to tell me what to do with myself.”
They stand there before each in silence and Peter then gets it; it all clicks. In this time, Harry becomes painfully self-conscious as he practically witnesses the connections being made in Peter’s mind; the synapses and neurons sparking to life. He doesn't understand why he’s so horrified by the idea of being understood.
Peter reaches out, careful and slow, and lays his hand on the side of Harry’s shoulder and rubs his arm. Speaking softly, he says, “I don’t want to be like your father either, Harry.” He only looks at Peter’s hand now, not his face. “You should make your own decisions, I want you to. You deserve that much.”
He can see now, how Harry is straining against emotions which want to come up and out with his words now that his bright green spark of burning fuel is gone. “You don't understand I—” he loses his momentum and is stuck in place with the expression of a lost puppy and he is sounding more exhausted than he had at the start of their talk already. Harry has always gotten emotionally worn out before anything else. “I don’t know what I want right now, Peter. I just don't know.”
Peter closes the space between them. “It’s okay to not know,” he reassures. “It’s okay; it’ll be alright. I’m not asking you to know right now. I’m just asking you to go to bed. I’m asking you to rest and let me rest with you.”
Harry stares into Peter’s eyes for a long time, like he’s looking for dishonesty or anger or spite. When he’s decided that he’s searched enough and found nothing, he squeezes Peter’s hands which hold his own and Peter squeezes back. Peter gives him a minuscule nod and then he leans forward into Peter’s arms until Peter is holding up most of his weight. Harry curls his head over Peter’s shoulder and sets his chin down there. Peter takes this as his cue to hug back.
He holds his love in his arms and squeezes him and clings on like he could disappear into thin air. Even if Harry wanted to try that, he doesn't think it would work with how Peter has grabbed on tight to the fabric on the back of his shirt and bunched it into a handhold.
Peter, raised by emotionally intelligent people, always knows something Harry doesn't. He’s able to lean in to Harry’s ear and sweetly mumbles, “it’s okay, you know, if you want to cry. I’m here for you.” And Harry really believes him.
All he has left in him is the strength and courage to shake his head in response. He’s too afraid that if he tries to open his mouth, it might actually happen. He instead takes to staring a hole through the nice carpet below them and flexing every emotional muscle in his body to decidedly not let himself get bleary-eyed. But of course Peter has to come out swinging with his entire heart on his sleeve. “I’m really proud of you. I know I saw that a lot, but I really mean it. Every single time. You’re incredible, Harry.”
Some days (not as many days, Harry can truthfully claim now. he is getting better) Harry hates how easily Peter can find those words to say to him after it has proven too hard for everyone else in his life. He hates how it sounds like Peter could burst into tears for Harry; how he can find it in himself to care so much for everyone. Though that’s probably why Peter is Spider-Man and notably, Harry is not.
He nods until he tumbles back out of his thoughts. He reciprocates his partner’s squeeze and hopes it's enough to say what he can’t find the energy to. Gloriously, they stay like that for a long moment, and Harry lets himself breathe for what must be the first time that day. He lets his lungs take in as much air as they can hold—it’s like he can feel the cool meeting the untouched corners—and then lets it all escape out through a heavy exhale.
He readjusts his head gently and Peter pulls back away from him. He looks into Harry’s eyes with so much awe and love that it disgusts him, that it makes him feel sick. How can he do it? Look at him as if Harry hung the moon and stars up just for Peter. As if him and the biting voice of his father he still carries with him and the fucked-up half of his face holds up Peter’s entire world.
That’s another thing he can hate about Peter some days. Harry does not believe that he deserves to be looked at with that much reverence. How could he, after everything he’s done; everyone he’s wronged? Learning to accept himself is letting the heat in his chest choke out the heavy and poisonous lead that was planted in him before he was even born. It’s unnatural and yet for Peter, he thinks he could do it.
“I love you,” Harry says.
Peter smiles. “I love you too; more than you’ll ever know.” When Peter is out at night and Harry is stuck in their apartment, he thinks about those words and worries that they might be right. He can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever be as open as Peter is, ever be able to love so easily. But then he’s looking at those shocking blue eyes and contrary to their cold tones they are unbelievably warm.
Harry pecks his lips to Peter’s jaw. “You better stop looking at me like you’re the one who's gonna cry, Pete. We both know if you start then I'll start—and my head already hurts.”
Peter chuckles softly and the sound carries a through the room like a comforting embrace. He reaches out to gently brush Harry's hair away from his forehead, his touch tender and reassuring.
"I can't help it," he admits with a handsome smile. Harry leans into Peter's touch and he slowly blinks his tired eyes closed. When he opens his eyes again Peter is looking at him, still with love, but also with the face of someone who’s about to say something stupid. “But I bet if you actually drank anything other than coffee, you wouldn't have a headache.”
Harry has to burst out laughing as Peter quickly plants a kiss on his forehead and then pulls away, taking Harry across the room with him. “No,” Harry tries to insist, very seriously. “I woke up with this headache!”
Peter shrugs, “then you probably didn't drink enough water yesterday either.” Harry grumbles in a non-response and Peter shoots him a ‘I know I'm right and you know I'm right too’ kind of shit-eating smile. “C’mon, let’s go fix your headache.”
His partner opens the door and holds it open, adding on an overly dramatic bow in for good measure.
Harry rolls his eyes. “I don't think greasy pizza is really going to help.”
“Well I mean, you can get a drink too.”
Harry gives Peter a deadpanned look and Peter tries to return one, but he can’t help but laugh. He slips out the door to the office behind Harry and pulls it closed behind them before catching up.
“I despise you, did you know that?” Harry asks as his expression cracks too, shaking his head.
Peter strokes at a nonexistent beard on his chin like he’s deep in contemplation. “Hmm… that seems to juxtapose some data I recently acquired—”
“Oh, just shut up,” Harry rolls his eyes and shoves Peter to the side with an obvious grin on his face. “Get your change of clothes. You’re paying.”
“Nuh-uh! You know I don’t keep my wallet on me when I’m in my suit, Mr. Osborn,” Peter retorts, making sure to emphasize Harry’s prominent last name that’s practically slapped onto the side of the massive building in bright fluorescent lights that they’re currently inhabiting.
Harry crosses his arms, “well if you want me to take all of these days off Pete, you’re going to have to start pulling your weight.”
“Okay so I actually can pull fifty to one hundred times my weight, and also that’s pretty bold coming from someone who can't do a push-up.”
“I can!” Harry exclaims. “You asked me that after I got out of the hospital, dude! I can do push-ups!”
Peter pulls his bag out from where it’s hidden away in the tidy room and starts slipping a pair of sweatpants over his suit. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
They stand there and Peter motions to the cold marble floor. “What? No. I’m not going to do push-ups in these shoes, on this floor—”
“Excuses, excuses, excuses. That’s all I’m hearing right now,” Peter makes a tsks sound and then pulls on a sweater. “Whatever, loverboy. It’s fine. I’m not judging you that hard.”
“Loverboy?” Harry sputters back, perking up an eyebrow.
Peter shrugs, “you’re the one who quoted Queen, dude.”
He narrows his eyes, “no I don’t really think I did.”
“You said ‘say the word’ with the cadence from Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy!”
“No,” Harry argues back, “I just said the phrase ‘say the word’ which is a saying that has existed like, way before that song.”
Peter shakes his head and simply says, “no.”
Harry scoffs and they continue bickering the entire way down the elevator and then further, out onto the street and only putters off they exit through the large glass doors out front and onto the street.
The Oscorp tower locks behind them, satisfying Harry’s paranoia with a click. Peter smiles and offers his arm out like a gentleman and with faux-reluctance, Harry wraps their arms together and takes pride in intertwining their fingers. In that moment, walking with the city lights twinkling in the distance and the gentle rustle of leaves drowned out by the subway under their feet rattling grates, there is one concern that Harry doesn’t have to think about. He knows neither of them would rather be anywhere else than here.