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The penthouse is too quiet.
Harry notices it the moment he steps inside. Not the peaceful kind of quiet either, not the sort that settles after a long day and asks you to rest. This is the hollow quiet. The kind that echoes. The kind that presses against your ears until you’re aware of your own breathing, your own thoughts, your own grief pacing in circles with nowhere to go.
Norman’s things are still everywhere.
That’s the worst part.
The place smells like expensive cologne and cold glass and something metallic that Harry refuses to name. His father’s jacket still hangs where it always did. The chessboard on the table is frozen mid-game, black pieces poised like they’re waiting for a move that will never come.
Harry drops his keys onto the counter and they clatter too loudly. He flinches.
“Okay,” he mutters to no one. “Okay.”
He doesn’t remember texting Peter, but Peter is here anyway.
That’s how it’s been lately. Harry spirals, and Peter shows up like gravity remembers him. He’s sitting on the couch now, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, mask tucked into his backpack by the door. Not Spider-Man. Just Peter. Soft-eyed and exhausted and trying very hard not to hover.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” Peter says gently. “So I figured… I mean, I was in the neighborhood.”
Harry laughs, sharp and humorless. “Of course you were.”
Peter winces. “Yeah. Bad phrasing.”
Harry drops onto the armchair across from him. The leather creaks under his weight, familiar and suddenly unbearable. He presses his palms into his knees and stares at the floor.
“He’s dead,” he says. Saying it out loud feels like daring the universe to correct him. “My dad is dead.”
Peter nods. He doesn’t rush in with platitudes or statistics or heroic optimism. He’s learned better. “I know.”
Harry continues. His voice sounds detached, like it belongs to someone else. “An accident. Like that makes it easier. Like accidents don’t still kill people.”
Peter’s jaw tightens. Harry catches it. Files it away. Everyone’s carrying something.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Peter offers.
Harry looks up then, something raw flashing across his face. “If I don’t talk about it, I think I might disappear.”
Peter doesn’t hesitate. He shifts closer, resting his elbows on his knees, hands open. Available.
“I’m here,” he says. Simple.
Harry swallows.
“He was… complicated,” Harry says. “I know that. I know he wasn’t exactly Father of the Year. But he was still my dad. And now he’s just… gone. And everyone keeps asking me how I’m holding up, and I don’t know what to say, because I don’t even know where to put all of this.”
His chest tightens. He presses his fist against it, like he can physically hold the pain in place.
Peter watches him with an intensity that borders on reverence. He’s seen loss up close. He recognizes it like an old scar.
“When my uncle died,” Peter says quietly, “everyone kept telling me it would make sense eventually. That there would be a lesson. Closure. Something neat and digestible.”
Harry snorts weakly. “Let me guess. They were wrong.”
“Spectacularly,” Peter says. “It never made sense. I just… learned how to carry it.”
Harry studies him. Really studies him. The slump of his shoulders, the faint bruise at his temple he definitely didn’t have yesterday, the weight behind his eyes.
“You never talk about him,” Harry says.
Peter shrugs. “Didn’t want to burden you.”
“That’s stupid,” Harry says immediately, then softens. “I mean. You’re my best friend. If I can’t be burdened by you, what’s the point?”
Peter’s mouth quirks. “You’re not wrong.”
Silence stretches between them again, but it’s different now. Less empty. More… shared.
Harry exhales slowly. “I keep thinking about the last thing I said to him,” he admits. “And it wasn’t kind. It wasn’t even honest. It was just… defensive. Like I was still trying to win an argument I don’t even remember.”
Peter nods. “Yeah.”
“You get that,” Harry says. It’s not a question.
Peter’s voice is barely audible. “Every day.”
Something shifts then. Not dramatically. Not like a lightning strike. More like two tectonic plates finally acknowledging the pressure between them.
Harry stands abruptly. He paces. Runs a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “I don’t know how to grieve him and be angry at him and miss him all at the same time.”
Peter stands too, instinctively. “You don’t have to pick one.”
Harry stops pacing. Looks at him. “You’re saying that because you mean it.”
Peter meets his gaze. “I am.”
The distance between them feels charged now. Dangerous. Intimate.
Harry laughs again, but this time it breaks instead of cutting.
“God. You’re unfair.”
Peter blinks. “What?”
“You’re just… good,” Harry says. “Even after everything. Even with everything you carry. You’re still here. You still show up.”
Peter swallows. “You show up for me too.”
Harry shakes his head. “Not like you.”
Peter takes a step closer. Then another. Carefully, like he’s approaching something fragile.
“Harry,” he says, “you let me in. You let me be Peter when it would be easier to push me away. That matters.”
Harry’s throat tightens. He doesn’t trust his voice anymore.
Peter reaches out. Hesitates. Then gently cups Harry’s wrist, grounding him.
The contact is electric.
Harry freezes, breath catching. Peter’s thumb presses lightly into his pulse point, warm and steady.
“You’re not alone in this,” Peter says. “I promise.”
Harry looks down at their hands. Then back up at Peter’s face. He sees the fear there. The hope. The restraint.
“You know,” Harry says slowly, “I think I’ve been leaning on you for a while without realizing it.”
Peter gives a soft, rueful smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
The moment stretches. Breathless. Uncertain.
Harry makes the decision before he can talk himself out of it. He steps forward and pulls Peter into a hug.
Peter stiffens for half a second, startled, then melts into it like he’s been waiting. His arms wrap around Harry’s back, firm and careful, like he’s holding something precious.
Harry presses his face into Peter’s shoulder. He exhales, shaky.
“This hurts,” he murmurs.
“I know,” Peter says, voice thick.
They stay like that for a long time. Long enough for Harry’s breathing to even out. Long enough for the quiet to stop feeling so hostile.
When they finally pull apart, they don’t move far.
Peter’s hands linger at Harry’s sides. Harry’s fingers curl into the fabric of Peter’s hoodie.
“This is new,” Harry says, barely above a whisper.
Peter nods. “We don’t have to define it.”
Harry huffs a small laugh. “You always say that.”
“And you always pretend you don’t like it.”
Harry looks at him. “I like it.”
Peter’s breath stutters.
“Peter,” Harry says. “Can I…?”
Peter nods before he even finishes. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Harry leans in slowly, giving Peter every chance to pull away. He doesn’t.
The kiss is soft. Careful. More comfort than heat. It tastes like trust and grief and something fragile but hopeful.
When they part, foreheads resting together, Peter smiles through unshed tears.
“Guess we’re doing this now,” he says.
Harry smiles back, small but real.
“Guess we are.”
Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, the quiet finally feels survivable.