Archive of Our Own

Peter is so exhausted, he’s pretty sure that he can fall down on the sidewalk and go to sleep, no problem. He loves his kids, he really does, but chasing twenty hyperactive 9-year-olds all over the Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space museum was enough to tire anyone out. Plus, he had gone back to the school to finish up some paperwork that he didn’t want to leave pending, and then his coworkers invited him out for a drink which he begrudgingly said yes to. He always turned them down when they asked, coming up with some lame excuse as to why, so he decided to give in just this once.

He was unbelievably glad that it was Friday and the school year was coming to a close. He could use a break, and the teachers around him noticed. They always told him he looked 25 going on 60.

He leans heavily against the metal bar lining the elevator that is currently taking him up to the penthouse he shared with Harry. Once they decided to live together, they both agreed that the mansion where Harry grew up in was out of the question. They wanted someplace to call their own, and Harry didn’t like the mansion much anyhow. “Too many bad memories in that poor excuse for home” is what he would always say.

When Peter walks in, he notices that the moonlight streaming through the window is the only source of light illuminating the darkened apartment. He doesn’t think much of it. Harry was always out late at night on most days, doing god knows what. He strides over to the kitchen to get himself a bottle of water, not even bothering to really pick his feet up to avoid the extra effort, and he pops open a few buttons on his shirt and untucks it. He’s so fucking tired.

He’s about to slam the refrigerator door closed, when he notices the light coming from underneath their bedroom door. It would seem Harry was home, most likely passed out on the bed in one of his many expensive suits that he always wore to the office. So, as not to disturb him, Peter quietly seals the door shut, and tiptoes his way over to the room.

He cracks open the bedroom door, and he drops his water bottle on the hardwood floor. Luckily, it was closed. “What the fuck is this?!” Peter yells, standing there with wide eyes and gripping onto the handle to keep him steady.

“Peter!” Harry squeaks, dropping to the side of the bed to hastily gather up his clothes. “I can explain!”

He can explain? Peter just caught him fucking some random dude in their bed, and he could explain? No explanation in the world could make this situation even slightly okay. No explanation in the world would make Peter’s chest hurt any less, or get rid of the image that is now seared into his retinas.

Harry’s bed pal hurriedly retrieves his clothes and makes himself scarce, fleeing past Peter with panicked eyes and slamming the front door shut behind him. He almost wanted to punch the guy, but Harry’s the one he’s furious at here. Might as well focus his anger towards the person at fault.

He peers up to look at Harry who is now dressed in a pair of rumpled boxers and an inside out t-shirt. His face and palms are sweaty, his pupils are dilated, and he keeps pulling at his clothes with shaky hands, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s going to rip his skin off. He’s fucking high again. Of course he is. If the erratic behavior didn’t give it away, the white powder that he’s frantically wiping off his nose would.

“I thought you were out with your co-workers?” Harry mumbles, tugging at his hair.

“Oh yeah. Sorry I got home earlier than you thought, and I didn’t let you finish. My bad,” Peter laughs sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“I can explain,” Harry says again, stepping towards Peter but he flinches away. Harry stops in his tracks.

“Trust me,” Peter spits, burning a hole in the floor with his gaze because he can’t stand to look at him right now, “you can’t.”

“I fucked up, okay?” Harry says by way of explanation. “I’m so sorry! And it will never, ever happen again.”

Peter wishes he could believe him. He wishes he could believe that this is the first time Harry has screwed someone behind his back, but he has a good feeling it’s not. It’s just the first time he’s gotten caught, and the thought of it makes Peter sick. He sways on his feet a bit.

Harry starts to walk towards him again, but Peter shoves him away before he can get his hands on him. He charges into the closet and yanks down his suitcase from the top shelf. Then, he goes over to the dresser that is his alone, since Harry is way too high-maintenance to share, and he starts stuffing in socks and underwear. There’s no rhyme or reason to his packing method. He’s just bundling everything in his fists and cramming it in the bag, and he’s sure he’ll need some actual clothes in here, but he’s so angry he can’t even see straight, let alone think properly.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks in a high-pitched voice, plucking at his hair and wrists. Peter knows this behavior well. The excessive energy, the skittishness, the feeling like his clothes are too constricting, and the wide-eyed, vacant gaze that makes him look like he just got jolted with an electrical charge. It’s how he always acts when he’s just snorted another line, and Peter is so done with it. He’s done with all of it.

“What the fuck do you think?” Peter snaps, shoving another rolled-up pair of socks into his bag. “I’m packing my shit so I can get the hell out of here.”

“No! No, Peter, you can’t leave!”

Peter doesn’t even bother dignifying that ridiculous claim with a response. He just scoots along the rug, burning his knees in the process, regardless of the fact that he’s wearing fairly thick pants, and moves towards another drawer to start stuffing in t-shirts.

“No, no, stop!” Harry exclaims, trying to extract Peter’s hands away from his clothes, but he bats his fingers away. Peter starts to dig around in another drawer, and his heart stops when his hand lands on the shape of a small box. He almost wants to start crying right then and there.

“You can keep this!” Peter yells, chucking the ring box across the room where it bursts open with the impact on the wall. “Pawn it off, or give it to your fuck-buddy for all I care.”

Peter had bought the ring a few months ago. He was walking along the streets of Manhattan one day, when a thick, silver band with three shiny stones embedded across it caught his eye. He had walked into the shop, listened to the salesman prattle on about the cut and the clarity and the country the gems had come from, and Peter had walked out with the small, velvet box stuffed in his pocket. He dropped three months worth of his salary on that ring, and he was just waiting for the right time to pop the question.

He was certain he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Harry. They had been together since they were 17-years-old and best friends since they were five. They had their ups and downs of course, hectic schedules to navigate, and Harry’s addiction to wade through, but he seemed to be making significant progress in the months before Peter made the decision to buy the ring. Harry had never wanted to go to rehab, and he lashed out at Peter anytime he suggested it, but he seemed to be doing better on his own. Turns out all that was complete bullshit, and he had just gotten better at hiding it. Peter feels like such an idiot.

“Peter,” Harry whispers, and his voice is beginning to waver. “You got this for me?”

“Yeah,” Peter snorts, rubbing a hand roughly down his face. “How stupid am I?” Peter slams his suitcase closed and zips it shut. That’s enough packing. He still has some clothes that he left at Aunt May’s that he hasn’t worn in years, but he’ll make do. He just needs to get the hell out of here. He can’t be in this room anymore, in this apartment. It’s suffocating.

Peter hurries to fling open the bedroom door, and Harry quickly scrambles up from the place he had slid down to on the floor. “Please! Please, don’t go!” Harry pleads, gripping the fabric of Peter’s shirt between his fingers and holding on tight. He looks up at Peter with red-rimmed, watery eyes, and he looks so pathetic, Peter thinks. He looks so fucking pathetic.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Peter yells, roughly shoving Harry’s hands away and pushing him against the doorframe. He whines when his back hits the wood, but Peter doesn’t care. He stomps out into the living room, grabs his satchel from the floor, swinging it across his shoulders, and he strides towards the front door. It’s calling out to him like a beacon. Harry follows him around during his rage-induced tirade, continuing to try and gets his hands on Peter, but he fends him off every time.

Harry slams his back against the front door before Peter can get it open, and he’s shaking his head so hard it looks like he’s going to give himself whiplash. Tears are streaming down his face, and he’s biting his trembling lip. “Please, Peter. I know I fucked up, and I’m so, so sorry. But, please don’t leave me. I need you,” Harry begs, keeping his hands balled up at his sides to avoid having Peter shove him away again. His skinny chest is heaving up and down, and it looks like he’s about to explode.

Peter scoffs and rolls his eyes, because seriously? He needs him? There’s only one thing Harry Osborn really needs, and it’s a powdery, white substance that managed to fuck them up beyond all repair. He needs him. That’s not true. “I love you,” Harry says with conviction, and Peter doesn’t think that’s true either.

Peter wrenches the door open, the force of it pushing Harry aside, and he runs towards the elevator, but Harry is hot on his heels. He’s trying to obstruct Peter’s exit any way he can, placing his body in front of the buttons and the doors once they open up. He keeps telling Peter how much he loves him, how sorry he is, and to please not leave, but Peter’s not hearing it anymore. It doesn’t mean anything.

He manages to get the elevator door closed, and he hears Harry’s palm slam against the stainless steel just as Peter leans his forehead against it.

----------

Peter shows up at Aunt May’s close to 10 o’clock, and he’s clenching both the suitcase in his hand and his jaw. He sees her take in his appearance slowly once she opens the door. Sloppy clothing, a suitcase held by a white-knuckled hand, unkempt hair due to the incessant attack from his fingers, and a glazed look in his eyes since he hasn’t allowed himself to cry.

“What happened between the two of you this time?” she asks, placing her thin arm around his shoulders and ushering him inside. This wasn’t the first time he’s shown up at her doorstep.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles, stooping down to wrap her up in a tight hug. She runs her hand gently through his hair and he starts to shake in her arms. She’s shushing him and telling him everything will be alright, just like she would do for him when he was a child and he had woken up screaming from a bad dream. He wishes this whole thing was a nightmare he could wake up from. If only it were that easy.

He shuffles up the rickety staircase, making a mental note to patch up a crack along the wall, and then he pushes open the door to his old bedroom. He hadn’t changed it much since he was sixteen. His medals and trophies line the bookcase Uncle Ben had made for him. There are pictures of Einstein and C3PO smattered across his walls, and action figures that he couldn’t bear to part with line his desk. He straightens one up that has fallen over.

He closes the door softly, wheeling his suitcase to the corner of his room by the closet, and he pulls out a pair of ratty pajamas that he had half a mind to pack. He undresses slowly and puts on his clean clothes carefully, for no other reason besides the fact that he feels like he’s in a daze. First, he was running on adrenaline, then he was moving on autopilot, and now it feels like everything has slowed down. Narrowed in to this one moment in time where the reality of his world is starting to crash down around him. He just broke up with the person he loves most in the world after being betrayed in the worst possible way.

He stumbles over to his window and hurriedly yanks the pane upward. He breathes in the musky, night air, trying to fill his lungs. His room began to feel too small for him and the air too stale. He inhales a few more times and then flops down onto his bed, fidgeting with his shirt collar so he can breathe even easier.

He feels the first tear leak from the corner of his eye and roll down onto his hairline, and he mentally curses himself for it. He feels weak somehow, like he shouldn’t be crying over this. Harry Osborn didn’t deserve his tears. Peter should have left him so many times, he certainly thought about it enough, but he never did. At first, he would give into Harry’s pleas whenever he would swear that he was done with drugs. “That was the last time, Peter. I swear.” Then, when he realized that Harry was just making empty promises, Peter started lying to himself so it made it easier to stay. He couldn’t leave him, and Peter thought he was pathetic for wanting to stay, but he loved him so much.

But, this? This was one lie too many. One betrayal he’ll never be able to get over. He doesn’t even want to close his eyes for fear of seeing the image of that dude’s toned body hovered over Harry as he clutched at his back. Peter dry heaves a few times, and he blindly reaches for the water bottle he keeps in his satchel. He takes small sips and wills himself to calm down.

God, how could Harry do this to him? How could he screw someone in the bed they’ve shared together almost every night since they were nineteen? How could he fuck someone that wasn’t Peter? He knows Harry was high out of his mind, even though he appeared to be sobering up once he got caught, but he still had to be aware of what he was doing. He doesn’t take a complete leave of his senses when he snorts that shit up. He was so sure Harry loved him as much as he did, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

He turns onto his side and deposits the water bottle onto the nightstand with a shaky hand. He places both hands over his mouth, trying to suppress the incoming sobs, but it’s no use. His chest starts to hitch, and his throat hurts from how badly he’s trying to bottle everything up. Shove it all down until it becomes less real. Until he doesn’t feel the desire to cry. He drifts off to sleep with the image of the ring box slamming against their bedroom wall.

----------

When he makes his way down to the kitchen, rubbing his bleary eyes and smacking his lips together in an attempt to moisten his dry mouth, he finds a note on the kitchen table with Aunt May’s scrawl: Peter, I had to go to work at the diner, but I left some pancakes for you in the oven to heat up. I’ll see you for dinner. We’ll talk soon. Love, Aunt May.

He pops the plate into the microwave, slamming the small door shut and pressing the worn-out buttons. He reaches for a clean glass in the cupboard, and shuffles over to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of milk. He almost wants to go up to Uncle Ben’s liquor cabinet and forgo the glass of milk for a bottle of whiskey, but he shakes his head at the thought. He’ll get through this without alcohol. The smell alone makes him think about someone he rather not think about right now.

He hears the doorbell ring and he squints at the clock on the wall. Geez, who the hell was coming over to visit at 9 a.m.? Peter’s body was accustomed to waking up early since he had to do it every day for school, but the rest of the world should indulge in being able to sleep in. He scratches at his abdomen, bunching up the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and he pads over to the door, yawning the entire time.

He almost doesn’t answer it once he sees who it is, but he finds himself opening the door anyway. Maybe Harry needed to hear him clearly say that it was over between them to get him to go away.

“What the fuck do you want?” Peter seethes, dragging a hand roughly down the back of his head and suddenly feeling a lot more awake. And angry. Awake and angry.

“Can I come in?” Harry asks, peering up at Peter through his eyelashes and shoving a shaky hand into his pocket.

“No,” Peter states simply, edging the door closed until Harry jets out his palm to stop it.

“Please,” he begs, biting at his lip and ripping some of the skin off. Peter gets a good look at him, and what he sees almost makes him feel sorry for the guy. His always perfectly styled hair is now greasy and sticking up every which way. His clothes are mismatched and wrinkled. His skin looks so pale, almost taking on a gray, sickly color, and his eyes are bloodshot and puffy. He looks terrible. “Can I please come in?” Harry asks again, and Peter relents, but he keeps his guard up.

Peter steps aside, gesturing towards the living room so Harry could come inside. He can feel Harry’s body heat when he passes by him slowly, and Peter backs up more. He doesn’t want to be too close to him. Peter closes the door behind him and lets out a long sigh. This was going to be fun.

Harry sits down on the couch and he looks uncomfortable and nervous. He starts playing with a loose thread on the cushion just so he can have something to do. Something to distract him from the awkwardness and tension that is threatening to eat them both alive.

“What?” Peter snaps. He doesn’t want to draw this out any longer than absolutely necessary.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Harry mumbles, looking up at Peter with sullen eyes that are covered with unshed tears. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he cries, smacking his fist onto his thigh. “It was the stupidest and worst thing I’ve ever done, and I’m so fucking sorry for it.”

“I’ve heard your apologies a thousand times, Harry. I’m done hearing them,” Peter says, and he sees Harry flinch at his cold tone. Tough. “I can’t fucking do this anymore,” he finishes, waving his finger back and forth between the two of them.

Harry furiously wipes at the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hands, and he heaves himself off the couch on wobbly legs. He starts to reach out for Peter, so he moves back even further. God, not this shit again. He’s basically blending into the wall at this point.

“Don’t touch me,” Peter says, throwing his arms out like he’s warding off a vampire. “Please.”

Harry nods, but it looks like it’s physically paining him to do it. His eyes flick rapidly over Peter’s face, and then he hangs his head, chin hitting his chest. “I made a decision,” Harry whispers to the ground, before looking up at Peter. His eyelashes are clumped together. “I’m going to check myself into a rehab facility.”

“You’re what?!” Peter shouts, this time out of surprise rather than anger. “You always yelled at me whenever I suggested you go.”

“I know,” Harry replies ashamed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and kicking his feet together. “I know,” he repeats softer, looking up at Peter with those sad eyes again. It’s his default setting right now. “But, everything’s changed.”

“What’s changed?” Peter asks, crossing his arms in front of him.

“Peter,” Harry sighs, running a trembling hand through his greasy locks. “I hate myself so much right now. It kills me to know how much I’ve hurt you. Not just because of what happened last night, but all the shit I’ve put you through over the years. I’m so fucking sorry. And, I know I can say that to you a billion times, a trillion times, and it won’t matter, but I want you to know that I’m gonna try.”

Peter feels like he’s just fallen into an alternate universe. Harry Osborn is voluntarily checking himself into rehab? Harry Osborn is admitting he has a problem? He thought he would never see the day. “I’m gonna get clean for you,” he hears Harry say, and Peter runs a hand across his face.

“Is that all you wanted to say?”

“No,” Harry admits, trying and failing to smooth down his wrinkled shirt. “Pete, I know I’ve hurt you, and I know you want nothing to do with me, and I don’t blame you for it. I would do the exact same thing if I was in your shoes. But, I really need you with me through this,” he says, reaching out for Peter again, but he shoots him a look and he moves away.

Peter is torn. On one hand, he is so furious with this kid, and he feels like a part of him always will be, but on the other hand, he knows that addicts need to have some sort of support system in place if they ever want to truly recover. Harry didn’t have much in the way of support. Harry didn’t have any real friends. The drug-dealers didn’t count. And, he didn’t have any family—not like his family was ever much of one. All he really had was Peter, and it was probably unhealthy, but that’s how it was for him.

“Please,” Harry begs, and he’s no longer biting his lip to keep it from trembling. Each choked out sob hits Peter’s eardrums like an air horn.

“I don’t know,” Peter murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Please,” Harry pleads again, and he risks stepping a few inches closer. “I can’t do this without you,” he cries, clasping his hands on either side of Peter’s face to bring their foreheads together, and Peter lets him. Harry practically crumples in his arms, gripping weak hands on Peter’s neck in an attempt to keep himself upright.

Peter indulges him for a few moments, but then he moves away, making sure to steady Harry on his feet before removing his hands from his upperarms. “Okay,” Peter whispers, and he desperately hopes that he won’t regret saying it. Harry reaches out to wrap Peter into another hug, but Peter shoots out his arms. That’s enough touching for today.

Harry decides not to push his luck anymore than he already has, so he swipes at his eyes a few more times and heads towards the front door. When they get out onto the porch, Harry pauses. He probably thinks he should say something else, maybe not leave it like this between them, but he chokes on air.

“I just want you to know,” Peter starts, clearing his throat and wringing his hands together, “I don’t forgive you for what you did. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you. And, I sure as hell don’t trust you anymore.” Harry nods like that’s what he was expecting to hear all along, but he flinches just the same. “But,” Peter sighs, scratching at his chin, “I’ll help you through this.”

“Thank you,” Harry says with a sincerity Peter’s never heard from him before. “I know I don’t deserve it, so thank you.” Peter gives a curt nod in response, and Harry walks away.

He plops down on the couch face first, forgetting all about the pancakes he was actually looking forward to eating. It’s been a while since he’s eaten Aunt May’s cooking. Maybe he was being an idiot, and maybe he was giving in to another one of Harry’s lies, but this is the first time he’s actually talked about getting clean. Before, it was always “there’s nothing wrong with me”, “I can stop whenever I want”, “rehab is for addicts and I’m not one”, and “I don’t have a problem.” And for all the shit he’s been through with Harry, and for all that he’s still fuming inside, he still cares about him. He loves him with everything he has, and he wants to help him. He’s just hoping Harry doesn’t make fools out of them both.

----------

He feels like a zombie, plain and simple. He’s just going through the motions. He gets up early in the morning, gets dressed, eats breakfast, brushes his teeth, and hops on the subway to take him into Manhattan. He’s still living at Aunt May’s house which means a bitch of a commute, but he’s not ready to go back to the penthouse he and Harry shared yet. He’s almost positive he’ll set the bed on fire as soon as he sees it.

He goes into his classroom, greets the kids, teaches half-assed lessons, and grades papers during his planning period. He even eats lunch in his classroom, and avoids the teachers’ lounge at all costs. He feels bad for his students, he really does. Even a 9-year-old can tell he’s not the same Mr. Parker that he was a few weeks ago, so they try their best to cheer him up, and they succeed somewhat.

One morning, one of his students, Alicia, with long, dark hair and the sweetest smile he’s ever seen, hands him a card she made him at home. It’s a folded-up piece of construction paper with a drawing that is supposed to be Peter with a sun and flowers all around his head. It says: You’re the greatest teacher! Love, Alicia, and it’s punctuated with a smiley face. He excuses himself to the bathroom to avoid the embarrassment of twenty fourth-graders seeing him tear up over a homemade card that’s ripped a little on the side. He carefully places it in one of the folders he always carries around in his satchel, and he pulls it out from time to time when he’s feeling particularly shitty.

He actually looks forward to going to school every day because it provides him with a distraction. He can’t really think about other things when he’s teaching kids about the ecosystem. But, once he’s alone, all the things in his head that he tries to avoid come rearing their ugly head and pushing themselves to the surface.

He worries about Harry of course. He’s been in rehab for almost two weeks now, and he’s gone through the detoxification process. Peter’s read up on it, and from his understanding, the detox off of cocaine doesn’t cause many physical side-effects, but plenty of emotional and psychological ones. That’s why they say it’s best to go through detox with trained professionals, rather than alone because it’s so taxing. Right now, Harry would be going through individual and group counseling.

He wonders how Harry is doing. He wonders how he got through the detox, and how badly it hurt. He wonders if Harry made it to the toilet on time to puke his guts out, or if he did it all over his bed sheets and himself. He wonders if the nurses like Harry, or if he’s being a prick about everything and sending everyone that comes within his field of vision a nasty sneer. He wonders if Harry is filling out the worksheets they give patients, or if he spends the time doodling on the margins to avoid ripping it to shreds. He wonders if Harry is opening up during his therapy sessions, or if he believes it’s all beneath him.

One of the workers from the rehab clinic calls Peter one day, but the call goes to voicemail since he was in the middle of class. He calls the number back during his planning period, and he swallows the dryness in his throat because he’s expecting the worst. An overly-cheery assistant picks up, and informs him that they wanted to invite him to partake in a family counseling session that they offer since “Mr. Osborn has told us several times that you will be the one taking care of him when he’s released, and we wanted to prepare you with as much information as we possibly can.” He reluctantly agrees and hangs up the phone without saying goodbye.

So, he makes his way over to the rehab facility bright and early on a Saturday morning, and he immediately situates himself against an inconspicuous corner in the main lobby. He starts cracking his fingers together in an attempt to calm the shaking. He looks around the area, avoiding the gaze of anyone in uniform, and bites his lip, gnawing on the skin until it hurts. He sees a few patients being wheeled around, he hears the shuffling of papers from the main desk and the phone constantly ringing, he smells the greasy food from the downstairs cafeteria, and it all passes in a flurry of people hugging their loved ones tight as they walk off to have their scheduled visitation.

He doesn’t know why this place is giving him the creeps, and he rubs his hands up and down his arms because they have broken out in goosebumps. It’s so bright in here, with fluorescent lighting overhead and white walls. There are potted plants littering the floor and flowers on tables. Each wall is covered in paintings of streams or beaches or shining fields, which he assumes is supposed to be calming. He supposes the vibe they’re trying to give off is one of hope and a fresh beginning on life, but he doesn’t feel any of that.

The air he’s breathing into his lungs tastes stale and the room seems too small. He can hear the hacking of a patient upstairs and he smells the sharp sting of antiseptic—almost overpowering in its amount. Everything looks cold and hollow, like if he snapped his fingers the truth about this place would be revealed.

He doesn’t know why he’s being this way. He was the one who was always championing rehab, but the thought of Harry here makes his stomach roll, and makes him feel like he’s about to retch into the nearest fern. He’s sure the staff is perfectly competent, professional, and caring, and that there are many success stories from people who have been treated here, but he’s being confronted with the reality of the situation for the first time and it’s tripping him up.

Before he can sink even further into himself, a lovely Indian woman with a kind smile and brightly, polished nails asks him if he’s a Mr. Peter Parker. He nods his head and pushes himself off the wall, following her into a large room with windows all around. He eyes the chairs set up in a circle and the table laid out with cookies and water, and he steels himself for what’s to come. About six people are already sitting down, and some of them look just as nervous as he is, while some look like they’ve been here plenty of times and know the staff on a first name basis.

The woman introduces herself as Dr. Leah Gupta, but instructs everyone to call her Leah. The session doesn’t include the patient, but rather four sets of families are brought together to create an open forum where they could talk about their feelings or issues. Peter feels the beads of sweat already forming on his forehead and he wipes them away with the back of his hand. He came to this because he wanted to learn how to help Harry, he’s just hoping he doesn’t have to say anything. He’s pretty sure they can’t force him to.

Once the floor is open, a woman gets up and introduces herself as Jane. Apparently, this is her daughter’s third time in rehab. She talks about the anxiety she deals with everyday, and the hopelessness she felt after the second time it didn’t work out. She talks about divorcing from her husband when he refused to support their good for nothing junkie of a daughter. She talks about the anger she feels at herself for not being able to stop the cycle, and how she feels like a failure as a parent. But, she also talks about the hope she feels, and how sure she is that this time it’ll work for her daughter.

Another woman stands up next, introducing herself as Mindy, and points to an elderly couple beside her who she introduces as Ben and Susan. Her husband just entered rehab for the first time to battle his alcohol addiction, and she brought his parents along for the session. She talks about her fears and nervousness that her husband will fall off the wagon as soon as he exits the facility. She talks about their six-year-old daughter, and cries when she talks about having to explain to her where her daddy is. His parents talk about how hard it is to see their son in this position, but they believe in his strength and that’s why they’re here.

A family of four gets up next, and they say much of the same. Once they sit down, all eyes turn to Peter, but he just shakes his head to indicate that he doesn’t feel like sharing. Leah nods her head in understanding and so does Jane, and then Dr. Gupta gets up and starts talking to them about what they could do to take care of themselves. “This meeting today isn’t so much about the addict in your life as it is about you,” she says. “This is about what you can do for yourself. Your behavior affects them just as much as their behavior affects you.”

Once the session is over, Peter dashes out of the facility and leans against the brick wall of the building. He starts gasping in the humid air and yanking at his collar. He calms himself down, ignoring the stares of pedestrians on the street, and starts walking towards the park. There’s no way he can stand getting on a crowded subway right now.

He knew this was going to be difficult, but he didn’t know it was going to be this hard. Listening to those stories today should have helped him, but all he can think about is being there for a third time just like Jane and hoping more than anything that he wouldn’t have to be back for a fourth. He’s always believed Harry was a strong person, but cocaine is one demon he’s never been able to exorcise. He thinks he needs it too much. He needs it more than he needs anything else, or anyone else.

Peter also knew that he wouldn’t be seeing Harry today. He was still too early in his treatment for that. The minimum recommendation was 90-days, so he would be seeing him, just not right now. But, knowing that Harry was only a few floors above him made Peter’s heart seize in his chest, and the stupid part of him that continued to stay with Harry wanted to run up to his room, wrap him up tightly in his arms, and never let go.

----------

On the last day of school, Peter enlists the help of his students to take down the posters from the walls, which they all eagerly accept, he gives his typical end of the year speech, and he waves them goodbye for the summer. A few of them give him hugs, resting their little heads on his navel since that’s where they came up to, and then they ran out of the building as fast as their skinny legs could carry them. He spends the rest of the day attacking his desk and the walls with Clorox, and then he lugs his huge box of stuff to the subway station.

Once he’s on the train, he dozes off in his seat, with one of Regina Spektor’s albums playing in his earphones, and he hopes that no one on here will want to steal a laminated diagram of the solar system. He tows the box into the house, takes a quick shower, and passes out on his bed for the night.

When he finally wakes up the clock on the wall reads 10:30 a.m., and he makes his way down to the kitchen. Aunt May is at the diner again, but she leaves him french toast to heat up this time rather than pancakes. He closes his eyes for a bit while his food warms up, but his relaxation is interrupted by the annoying chirp of the doorbell.

He feels like he’s experiencing déjà vu, because Harry is on his doorstep again on a Saturday morning, albeit looking considerably better than last time. Although, his hands still look shaky. Peter stumbles back a step because he’s pretty sure Harry should still be in rehab right now, not standing on his porch with a small smile on his face. It’s only been three weeks.

“What are you doing here?” Peter squeaks out as Harry waltzes into the living room, unbuttoning his coat. It’s New York City in June, but Harry does seem to be cold. Unless Peter’s eyes are playing tricks on him, the tips of Harry’s fingernails look purple.

“I checked myself out,” Harry replies, looking up at Peter like he’s afraid of his reaction.

“Why would you do that?”

“I mean it is voluntary,” Harry shoots out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I got through the detox okay, and I attended a few counseling sessions. I can do the rest on my own.”

“Harry,” Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you were only there for three weeks. There’s a reason the recommendation is a minimum of 90-days.”

“I know,” Harry whispers, wiping a hand across his mouth. “But, there’s a lot of people there who are worse off than me.” Peter has no idea what that has to do with anything. So, there’s people there struggling more, so what? He was better equipped to deal with recovery than they were? He was more qualified to handle his own recovery than the trained staff? And who was he anyway to judge who was more of an addict than him? Because in Peter’s opinion he was pretty bad.

“Plus,” Harry adds, “I couldn’t be in there anymore. It was always fucking freezing and it smelled like death.”

“And they just let you go?”

“Well, they tried to talk me out of it first,” he sighs, rubbing at his face with both hands. “But, I made a pretty convincing case for my release. Plus, you know, I’m me.” Peter rolls his eyes. Of course Harry would use his name to get what he wanted.

“I thought you were serious about getting clean?”

“I am, Pete,” Harry says with wide eyes and a nervous lilt to his voice. “Why do you think I stayed in that place for three weeks? I can do the rest as an outpatient, I promise.” His promises didn’t mean much anymore. You’d have to trust a person for that.

“So, what do you wanna do now?” Peter asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the archway.

“Well,” Harry replies, licking his lips and straightening his back. “I wanted to know if you would come back to our apartment, for one.”

Peter sighs and looks down at the ground. He knew Harry would ask this. If it weren’t today, it would be tomorrow, but Peter didn’t know if he could go back. He just pictures walking into their place, and all the horrible memories of that night assaulting him. As it is, he still sees the image of Harry and that guy in his mind every night, and just the thought of it makes his jaw clench.

“Do you need me there with you?” he asks, still refusing to lift his gaze. If Harry says he needs him, he’s going to give in. He knows himself too well, and it frustrates the hell out of him.

“Yes,” Harry says without hesitation. “You know I need you.”

Peter nods and grips the back of his neck with both hands. He rolls his shoulders a few times, and then finally looks up. Harry looks scared, and the bags under his eyes are as noticeable as ever. Peter wonders how much he’s slept in the past few weeks.

“Okay,” Peter mumbles, and he adds that into the pile of things he hopes he doesn’t regret saying.

Harry rushes towards him and throws his arms around his shoulders. He can feel Harry breathe him in, and Harry moves one of his hands into his hair, tangling his fingers in the strands. Peter returns the embrace, but barely. He loosely wraps his arms around Harry’s back, and he just stands there, keeping his chin above Harry’s head.

When Harry steps back, Peter turns on his heel to head up the stairs. Time to stuff his clothes back into his suitcase. When he’s halfway up the stairs, he turns back to look at Harry, who’s gnawing on his fingernail. “Hey, Harry,” Peter says, and Harry looks up at him with a wide smile, like he’s so glad that Peter is the one initiating conversation. “That bed better be gone by the time I get back.”

Peter quickly turns around and finishes jogging up to his bedroom. He hears the front door slam.

----------

The bed’s different, thank god. It’s a dark cherry wood, sleigh bed, instead of a gray, cast-iron frame, and the sheets are a royal blue instead of a deep burgundy. Peter doesn’t know how Harry managed to change the bed so quickly in the five hours it took Peter to get to their apartment, but he’s glad he did. When you’re Harry Osborn, people will bend over backwards to get you what you demand.

“All new,” Harry says, gesturing to the bed in front of them and Peter shoots him an unamused look. If he hadn’t been fucking someone else on their mattress, he wouldn’t have had to replace it.

Peter sets his suitcase down by his dresser and begins to unpack. He hears Harry shuffle out to the living room, leaving him in peace. He’s being purposefully meticulous as he folds each item to avoid having to go out and face Harry. Once he’s finished with his clothes, he wanders into the bathroom and starts searching. He scrambles around the dozens of colognes and creams they have under the sink, rifles through the bottles in the medicine cabinet, making sure they’re all prescription, shakes out all the towels in the linen closet and folds them back up, and even goes so far as to poke his head behind the toilet tank to make sure nothing is taped to the back of it.

“I threw it all out,” Harry whispers, leaning on the doorframe. Peter knows Harry knows what he was just doing, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel guilty for it. “I came to see what was taking you so long.”

“Yeah,” Peter responds, dragging a hand through his hair. “I had to check, you know.”

“I know,” he whispers, smoothing down his shirt. “I understand.” They stare at each other, but neither knows what the other is thinking. That’s a first.

“I, uh, ordered Chinese from the place you love down on 9th,” Harry says, walking away from the bathroom and hoping Peter will follow. “Do you want some?”

“Okay,” Peter says, flicking off the light and snatching up his cell phone from the nightstand.

They eat in silence, watching a nature show on the Discovery channel that he can quickly tell neither of them are paying attention to. He wonders if this is how it was going to be from now on. If they were going to talk to each other only as much as they absolutely needed to, and then avoid each other the rest of the time. He knows a lot of the awkwardness and tension can be attributed to him, because if he uttered more than a few words right now, Harry would probably take the opportunity to talk his ear off.

Once they finish eating, Peter takes their plates to the kitchen, and washes the dishes while Harry plays a game on his iPad. He cleans the dishes just as slowly as he unpacked his suitcase, which is a challenge since there’s barely anything in the sink to wash.

They watch more TV in silence until 11 p.m., and then Harry lets out a long yawn. He stretches his body like a cat and smacks his lips together. “I think it’s time for bed,” he murmurs, rolling his head on the back of the couch to look at Peter.

“Okay,” Peter replies, gathering up his own tired limbs and heaving himself up off the couch. “Let me just go get a blanket and pillow from the closet, and the room’s all yours.”

“Wait, what?” Harry asks confused, gripping the fabric of the sofa between his fingers.

“I’m gonna sleep on the couch,” Peter responds, gesturing to the one Harry is sitting on. He didn’t mind sleeping on the sofa. It was actually pretty fucking comfortable, since when they were shopping for furniture, Harry had begged Peter to let him get the expensive ones.

“But,” Harry whispers, looking between the bedroom and Peter’s face, “I replaced the bed.”

“I know,” he says, hanging his head and rubbing a heavy hand across his face. “It’s just-”

“What, Peter?” Harry spits, standing up from the couch and stepping so close to Peter that he could feel the heat from his breath.

“Don’t fight me on this, alright?” Peter snaps back. “I’ll take the couch and you take the bed.” He’s not leaving any room for discussion.

“Okay,” Harry says, physically deflating in front of him and scratching at his chin.

Peter quickly strides to the closet to retrieve his favorite blanket and a pillow that doesn’t seem too hard, and he throws them down on the couch. Then, he goes into the bathroom to change into his pajamas, and he finds Harry nervously hovering between the living room and the bedroom. Peter just swoops right by him, and turns on the small lamp on the end table so he could turn off the main light.

“Goodnight,” Harry mumbles defeated, walking backwards into the bedroom.

“Night,” Peter says as he rubs his eyes. He drops onto the couch without even bending his knees first.

He couldn’t sleep in the bed with Harry, regardless if it was a new one like he had asked for. He couldn’t be so close to him, and pretend that everything was alright when it most definitely wasn’t. Even though they had a king-size bed, Peter always woke up spooned around Harry’s body, having unconsciously rolled to him in the middle of the night, and Peter didn’t want that to happen again. Not right now. Maybe not ever. He was still so angry with him.

The next morning, Felicia comes over and spends almost three hours sitting at the kitchen table with Harry, as she updates him on the happenings of the company as well as how their PR department is handling the press when it comes to his stint in rehab. Peter had gotten a taste of that. Reporters were constantly calling Aunt May’s house to get a quote from Peter, and the ambitious ones wanted a full-length interview, but he ignored them all, muttering a “no comment” to the particularly aggressive hounds.

She tells Harry that they need to draft a statement now that he’s out, and Peter can see that Harry isn’t being much help. Usually the PR team would be in charge of writing something like this, but they didn’t want the statement to sound generic. Felicia rolls her eyes at him a few times, and sighs a lot, but she’s used to his behavior. She ends up writing the thing herself, and smacks Harry on the hand when he gives her a quote made up primarily of cuss words. Peter walks her to the door, and she gives him a quick hug before she leaves. He’s always liked her. She’s one of the few people, aside from himself, that can put up with Harry’s shit.

Harry decides not to go to work for the next few weeks since he is still in the early stages of recovery, and he doesn’t need to deal with all that stress right now. Peter’s actually glad that he decided to do that, until he remembers that he’s off for the summer, after opting out of teaching summer school, meaning they were going to be spending a lot of time together. Great.

----------

Peter feels like a mute. He truly does. He’s taken to calling Aunt May every other day, and talks until he’s winded and out of breath just so he can make sure his vocal chords don’t stop working. Both Harry and Peter have gotten by with only the bare minimum of words exchanged. Peter does it because he doesn’t know what to say to him, and Harry does it because he doesn’t want to push Peter.

He takes care of Harry though, despite the tension. He makes sure he eats all three meals, and he incorporates lots of fruits and vegetables. He lets him drink water or juice, but nothing else. His second day back, he had taken all the bottles of alcohol in the apartment and emptied them out into the sink when Harry was napping. He thought Harry was going to punch him in the face once he woke up and saw the glass containers in the trash.

This isn’t easy for Harry, Peter knows that. He can see how jittery he is, always scratching at his face or his wrists, picking at his nails, or yanking on his clothes. Peter goes out to the bookstore one day when Harry is showering, and he comes home with twenty different word search books. Harry loves working on those, but he didn’t get them so much for that as he did to give Harry something to hold in his hands.

Harry had been getting particularly painful headaches every few days, and Peter had to monitor his medicine intake, making sure he popped only as many pills as he needed to.

Peter had almost let out an audible gasp one day when he caught Harry stretching, and his shirt rode up revealing how skinny he had actually gotten. Peter couldn’t believe he didn’t notice it before. Maybe he wasn’t really looking. But, Harry’s stomach almost seemed to concave inwards, and his hipbones and ribs were protruding. When he caught Peter staring, he hurriedly draped a blanket around his body and tried to make himself as small as possible on the couch. Maybe that’s why he was always cold, Peter thought. The guy was just skin and bones.

Peter wakes up one day, and he’s had enough. He needs to get out. The apartment feels stuffy and suffocating, regardless of how many windows he cracks open. He doesn’t really like leaving Harry alone, but he’s been back for three weeks now, and he thinks some time apart won’t hurt them. Plus, Harry’s asleep anyway.

He rides the elevator down to the lobby, and the doorman greets him with a cheerful “good morning.” Peter asks the man if he would like anything from the corner café he was going to, but he declines politely.

He orders a large, black coffee, and sits down at one of the many wooden tables. He snatches a book from the decorative bookshelf in the corner and starts to read. He loves this café. It has such a homey, comfortable vibe. It reminds him of Aunt May’s house.

After about twenty minutes of scanning the pages, he hears someone calling his name. “Hey, Peter,” the voice says, and he sees a tall man walking towards him with a big smile on his face.

“Hi, Liam,” Peter replies as the man sits down and grabs a coaster from the side of the table. Liam was a teacher at Peter’s school who was just a couple of years older than him. He taught the third-grade, which meant their classrooms were pretty close to each other, and he was one of the few teachers at the school that Peter could actually stand. He didn’t mind that Liam had decided to sit with him. He was starved for company and human interaction.

“What are you reading?” Liam asks, and Peter lifts the book so he can read the title.

“I’m not really reading it though,” Peter says, scratching the back of his neck and chuckling slightly. “I’m kind of just reading every few lines or so.” Liam laughs and takes a sip of his latté.

“So, are you enjoying your summer?” Liam says, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and clunking it down on the table.

“I guess,” Peter sighs, lifting up his shoulders in the process.

“Hmm.” Liam considers him for a moment, and opens his mouth a few times like he’s trying to figure out what to say. “Something’s wrong, man. It’s obvious now, and it was obvious in the last few weeks of school. I know we’re just work friends, but if you want to talk about it, I don’t mind listening.”

Peter thinks about it for a few moments. He hasn’t really been able to talk to anyone about what’s going on with him. When he showed up on Aunt May’s doorstep that night, he told her that he and Harry had a fight, and that’s it. He knows that she knows Harry was in rehab. She does read the paper, but it’s something they’ve never talked about. She probably figures he’ll come to her when he’s ready. And it’s true that they’re only really “work friends,” but Peter likes the guy, and he needs to vent. He’s kept it all bottled up for so long, his body is threatening to explode on him.

“You’ve heard me mention Harry right?” Peter starts, trying to navigate himself into a conversation that he wasn’t expecting to have this morning.

“Yeah,” Liam says, nodding his head and rolling his coffee cup between his hands. “The guy you live with right?”

“Yeah,” Peter replies, scratching the back of his neck again. “Well, the Harry I’m always talking about is Harry Osborn.”

Liam looks confused for a second, probably trying to figure out why that’s important, until his eyes widen with realization. He’s heard the news. Everyone has. “Oh,” Liam says, trying to sound sympathetic. “I get it now.”

“Yeah,” Peter says again, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’ve been looking after him since he got out, and I guess you can say it’s pretty tiring.”

“It must be tough.”

“It is,” Peter replies, taking a sip from his coffee that he needs right now more than ever. “He always gets these headaches, and he’s always freezing. He barely has any energy to move around. I can tell how much pain he’s in.”

“No, I meant for you,” Liam whispers, ducking his head to catch Peter’s gaze. “I mean, no offense man, but why do you stay? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he quickly adds when he takes in Peter’s wounded expression, probably wondering if he overstepped his bounds.

“I care about him,” Peter mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. He vaguely wonders if he looks like a wreck. “We’ve been best friends since we were kids, and we were together for eight years.” They both take notice of that “were.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” Peter assures, smiling a bit. “It’s not like I talk about my personal life at school, and I’ve only mentioned Harry a few times.”

They drop the topic after that, and move on to lighter conversation. They talk for about twenty minutes, and Liam tells a story about his nephew filling his sprinkler toy with green paint because he wanted to look like The Hulk, that has Peter throwing his head back in laughter. It feels good to laugh. It’s been such a long time.

“What the fuck is this?” an angry voice asks, and Peter whips his head up to see a snarl painted across Harry’s face. “Who the hell is this guy?” he asks, jutting out his thumb and directing it in Liam’s direction.

“Oh god, Harry, relax,” Peter seethes, getting up from his chair. What the hell was he even doing here? “He’s a guy from work.”

“Yeah man, chill,” Liam shoots out, and it’s the completely wrong thing to say. Harry plants his hands on the table and leans right into Liam’s face with a menacing look in his eyes.

“How about you mind your own fucking business,” Harry spits, making Liam lean backwards in his chair. “And stay the fuck away from my boyfriend.”

“I don’t think he’s your boyfriend anymore, dude,” Liam replies, cocking his eyebrow up, and Harry punches him square in the jaw, sending him sailing down to the hardwood floor. Harry gets in another punch before Peter winds his arm around his waist and drags him off Liam.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Peter says, shoving Harry behind him and extending a hand out to help Liam to his feet. He tentatively accepts it and wobbles to a standing position. Peter has to shoot a hand across Harry’s chest and hold him back when it looks like he’s going to go after Liam again.

Everybody’s looking on in fear or confusion, until the manager comes over to them, looks Harry and Peter right in the eyes, and informs them both that they are to never show their faces in the café again or they’ll call the cops. Peter manhandles Harry through the tables and chairs, people hurriedly scooting away so they could pass, and he throws him out the door.

They walk the few short blocks to their apartment building in silence, and Peter can feel Harry vibrating with anger beside him, but he follows. He cannot believe they got banned from a fucking coffee shop. How embarrassing. The doorman waves at them when they come up to the lobby, but his smiling face turns to one of concern when he sees the state they’re both in. They ride up in the elevator, and they keep as much distance between themselves as they can.

Peter throws his keys on the entry table, the jagged metal echoing loudly, and Harry follows suit. Harry tugs his coat off and jostles it onto the hook. He strides up to the liquor cabinet, but when he realizes that it’s empty, he slams his hand against the wall, and then shakes it out with a whine. Peter rolls his eyes. What a fucking idiot.

“What the hell was that?” Peter asks in a low, cool tone. It almost sounds threatening.

“When I saw you weren’t here when I woke up, I asked the doorman if he knew where you went. He told me you were at the café around the corner, so I went there thinking that maybe we could share a cup of coffee together. I wasn’t expecting to find you flirting with some asshole, looking like you were a second away from fucking him on the table!” Harry yells, balling up his hands into fists by his sides so hard that his knuckles are ghostly white. He still hasn’t stopped shaking.

God, Harry has to know how ridiculous he sounds. Peter wasn’t flirting with anyone, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to screw anyone. Harry was seeing things that weren’t even there. “You sound like a fucking idiot,” Peter spits, pacing the floor in the living room. “And, you don’t have any legs to stand on when it comes to the whole fucking other people thing.” He doesn’t even feel bad for that jab because it’s true. Does Harry not remember what got them here in the first place? “How many people did you fuck behind my back anyway?”

“Three, okay!” he yells, illustrating the number on his fingers. “Were you having sex with other people when I was in rehab?” Harry growls like he didn’t just drop a massive fucking bomb on him, looking at Peter with a murderous gaze. Peter vaguely wonders if he unknowingly slept on some stranger’s dried cum on their sheets. He feels ill.

“Oh my god!” Peter exclaims, throwing his head back in frustration, and he seriously feels like throwing up all over the floor. “I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation with you. No, I didn’t sleep with anyone when you were in rehab, and I’m not sleeping with anyone now. But, it wouldn’t be any of your business if I was.”

“Of course, it’s my business! Are you insane?”

“No, it’s not! We’re not together anymore!”

Harry looks like Peter just punched him in the stomach. His eyes go from angry to confused in a second flat. “What do you mean we’re not together anymore?” he asks in a trembling voice, clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. He looks like he’s going to be sick, but that might not be a recent development. He always looks like that nowadays.

“We’re not together,” Peter says simply. He doesn’t know how else to say it.

“But I-, I thought that-, I thought you said you were with me on this?” Harry stutters out, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I am,” Peter mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m gonna help you recover, but as a friend, I guess. We’re not together anymore, and honestly, I don’t think we ever can be again.”

“Peter,” Harry sobs, crumpling onto the couch and holding himself up on trembling arms. “I love you, and I said I was sorry.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Peter says, crossing his arms in front of him. He’s heard it a million times before.

“Then, why can’t you give me another chance?” he asks, wiping at the tears that have fallen.

“Hah,” Peter snorts. “I’ve lost track of how many chances I’ve given you.”

“So, that’s it then, huh?” Harry says suddenly angry again, getting up from his sitting position and wiping his nose with his hand. “You’re just gonna keep sleeping on the couch and cooking my food for me until your satisfied I’m all better, and then you’re just gonna leave? Huh? Is that the plan?”

“I guess,” Peter replies, cocking up his eyebrow. He really hasn’t thought that far ahead, but he doesn’t see any reason to stay once Harry has his life on track. They could technically still live together just as roommates, but that’ll be too hard for them both. It’ll never work.

“Well, get the fuck out then!” Harry yells, shoving Peter’s chest with enough force that he stumbles backwards. “Don’t stay because you feel sorry for me. I can take care of myself. Now, leave!” He keeps shoving Peter until he’s near the front door and Peter wants to slap him.

“Fine!” he screams, throwing Harry’s hands off him, and he slams the door shut.

----------

Peter doesn’t know where to go. Once he stumbles out of the building, he realizes that he’s having a lot of trouble breathing because he’s so angry. He’s livid actually, and it’s not healthy for him to be this mad all the time. It’s exhausting, frankly.

He doesn’t have his keys or his wallet. When he went to the café, he had only wadded up enough cash for his coffee since he wasn’t planning on going anywhere else, and he doesn’t have his metro card, so his options are kind of limited.

Once he calms himself down as much as he can, he heads towards the park like he always does when he needs time to think. He walks along the trails, hands in his pockets and gaze directed at the ground. He bumps into a few people since he’s not really paying attention to anything around him, and he mumbles out a quick “sorry” before walking off again.

He wanders to one of the many small bridges they have all around the place, and he stands there with his forearms on the concrete railing, overlooking the tiny pond filled with happy couples and families rowing boats and laughing. He stands there for hours, staring out onto the water as if it held all the answers to his problems. He wishes it did.

Once his legs threaten to give out on him, he walks over to sit on a bench in the same area, and he watches the ducks swim by. It’s already dark outside, but Peter doesn’t want to move. Something about this place is peaceful to him, regardless of all the noisy tourists roaming around.

He can’t even begin to fathom what Harry was thinking when he strolled into the coffee shop and punched Liam in the face, after making a very misguided and wrong assumption. He wasn’t aware when talking with a co-worker over coffee became flirting, and according to Harry, a second away from fucking.

Maybe he was just paranoid. Peter remembers reading something about that when he couldn’t sleep at night, so he gathered his laptop off his desk and started researching what cocaine addicts go through. He certainly had seemed to be jumpy lately. Aside from the constant scratching, Harry was always looking over his shoulder, even when it was only the two of them in the apartment. It’s like he thought someone was going to swoop in and take him or something.

Then, Peter starts to think about how angry Harry was when he practically shoved him through the door. He had a crazed look in his eye that made Peter’s stomach twist into knots. He just hopes Harry doesn’t do anything stupid, and then Peter shakes himself out of his reverie. Maybe leaving Harry alone for this long wasn’t the best idea, especially after the fight they had. All he needed was for Harry to use what happened this morning as an excuse to start using again.

Peter hightails it back to their apartment, and he pushes the up arrow on the elevator frantically as though that would make it arrive any faster. When he walks up to their front door, he notices that it’s unlocked, and he mentally curses Harry for being so stupid. Anyone could break in here, or maybe they already had.

He slams his weight into the door with unnecessary force, considering it was already unlocked and slightly open, and he slams it shut behind him. The apartment is dark again, and an eerie feeling settles in Peter’s gut. He pushes the door open to the bedroom, and he sees that the bathroom light is on and the door is ajar. Shit.

Sure enough, Harry is lying down on the cool tiles, jabbing his fingers in the air, and it looks like he’s poking at imaginary bubbles above him. When Peter crunches a shard of glass with his shoe, courtesy of the now broken bathroom mirror, Harry rolls his head to the side and looks at Peter with bloodshot eyes.

It looks like he’s coming down from his high, they didn’t last too long anymore thanks to the amount Harry has ingested over the years, but it also looks like he’s snorted more than a few lines. “Are you surprised?” Harry slurs, dancing his fingertips across the floor, and Peter notices that his knuckles are bloody. He couldn’t catch a fucking break with this guy.

Peter doesn’t answer him. He disappears into the kitchen to retrieve the broom and dustpan, and goes back to the bathroom to sweep up the glass littering the ceramic tile. Harry’s trying to move himself into a sitting position, but his body isn’t listening, so he rolls onto his side instead. Peter deposits the jagged pieces into the trashcan, and he sees that Harry is shivering.

He bends down and winds one arm under Harry’s knees, the other around his shoulders, and lifts him up off the ground. It isn’t even difficult given how much weight he’s lost. He places Harry onto the bed, but before he can stand back up, he feels him tangle his fingers into his shirt, trying to drag Peter down into the bed with him. His grip is weak though, and he has about zero strength left, so Peter moves his hands away easily.

He goes back into the kitchen to put away the broom and the dustpan, and then he gets out a large cup from the dishwasher and fills it up with water. Maybe if he gives Harry enough water to drink, that’ll help flush all the shit he inhaled tonight out of his system.

“You’re gonna drink more water right now than you have in your entire life,” Peter says, breaking the silence and placing the cup down onto the nightstand. “I don’t care if it makes you piss like a racehorse. That’s what I’m going for here.”

He situates the cup between Harry’s hands, but his grip on it is so lax. Peter rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated huff. He moves one of his hands behind Harry’s head and the other helps guide the cup to Harry’s lips. Harry chugs down almost half of the water without taking a breath, so Peter takes it away and puts it back on the nightstand. He sees Harry’s hands reaching forward to clutch onto his shoulders, but he moves off the bed before they can connect.

He goes to the bathroom to collect the first aid kit and he wets a washcloth with cold water to put on Harry’s forehead. Despite Harry’s shivering, his skin feels clammy and feverish. He moves Harry down into a laying position, propping him up only slightly against the pillows, and he places the damp cloth across his forehead, pushing his sweaty bangs out of the way.

Just as he suspected, Harry has small pieces of glass embedded in his knuckles and between his fingers. Peter sits on the bed, hiking up one of his legs so he can sit more comfortably, and starts taking out supplies from the first aid kit. He grabs Harry’s left hand in his, moving them to his lap, and the tweezers in his right hand, and he starts plucking away. All he’s thinking about is removing the glass, nothing else. He attacks the task meticulously, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth, which he always does when he’s in deep concentration. He can feel Harry’s stare on him, a gaze so intense he could probably burn holes through his head if that were possible, but he ignores it. He starts collecting the shards onto the nightstand, and he hopes that he doesn’t drop any on the carpet. All he needs is for a piece of stray glass to cram itself up his foot.

Once he’s done with Harry’s left hand, he moves to his right, and then he soaks a cotton ball in alcohol to start cleaning the dried blood. Harry hisses as soon as Peter begins to dab at his knuckles, but he’s being as gentle as he can, a direct contrast to how he’s actually feeling. Peter just continues his ministrations and doesn’t look up. When he’s through, he places the soiled cotton balls next to the dislodged shards, and he sees that Harry’s knuckles are glistening with the alcohol. So, Peter grabs both of his hands in his, and blows on his fingers lightly to lessen the sting. He feels Harry shiver beneath him and hears him let out a surprised gasp. Peter probably should have thought this part through, but he was going on instinct. He shakes his head a bit, and then he wraps Harry’s knuckles in some gauze to make sure it doesn’t get infected, ripping off a piece of tape with his teeth to hold each one down.

When he’s finished doing that, he lets go of Harry’s hands and wipes his palms against his jeans. He hasn’t touched Harry that much in a long time, and it was making his skin itchy. “Why did you do it?” Peter asks after a few moments, tapping on Harry’s taped up knuckles softly.

“I couldn’t stand looking at myself anymore,” he replies in a self-deprecating laugh, and Peter sighs.

“Where did you get the coke?” Peter says, dragging himself off the bed and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I thought you said you got rid of everything?”

“I did,” Harry whispers, adjusting the washcloth on his forehead. “I got rid of the drugs I had, but I didn’t get rid of the dealers. I still know where to get it.”

“Right,” Peter says in a harsh chuckle. He wants to ask him why he started using again and what he plans on doing now, but he thinks that can wait until tomorrow. They’ll go nowhere if they get into this tonight. They both need to rest. The fatigue from today’s series of events is starting to set in.

Peter moves quickly around the room, throwing away the glass and the cotton balls, putting everything back in the first aid kit, replacing the towel across Harry’s forehead with a cool, fresh one, and adding two more cups of water on the nightstand.

When he makes his way towards the bedroom door and out to the living room, where he’ll spend another night on the couch, he feels Harry’s eyes on him the entire time, but he doesn’t say anything.

----------

Pete rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and then he rests his forearm against them. He wishes the couch would swallow him up, so he could avoid having to deal with Harry today. He knew he needed to though. He heaves himself up into a sitting position, rolling his neck against his shoulders, and listening to the rain hitting the windowpane. He finds it relaxing.

He pokes his head into the bedroom to check if Harry’s awake, and he is. He’s curled up into the fetal position on his right side and groaning. Peter moves the armchair in the corner of the room to the side of the bed and scans his eyes over Harry’s body. He looks terrible. His skin is pale with a greenish tinge, his eyes are swollen and ringed with purple circles, and his teeth are chattering as he tries to wrap the comforter around himself tighter. Peter also notices that the bathroom door is open, which Harry hates. He always likes all the doors closed when he’s sleeping, so Peter guesses he kept it open so he could rush in there any time he had to puke or piss.

“Is there anything you need?” Peter asks in a flat tone, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping back into the chair. It’s as comfortable as the couches.

“Go fuck yourself,” Harry mumbles into the pillow he has his face smashed into. His words lack any real fire behind them though.

“I can’t really do that,” Peter sighs, looking completely unimpressed. “Anything else?”

“Go the fuck away.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that either. You’re 0 for 2 in your requests so far. Wanna try again?”

“I’m-,” Harry whispers, moving his arm to clutch his waist. “I’m just in so much pain right now.”

Peter shakes his head at him, but he gets up to retrieve the heating pads they keep in the closet. He walks over to the bed, hooks his arms under Harry’s armpits, and sits him up, ignoring his fervent protests along the way. He wraps one heating pad around Harry’s waist, places a smaller one between his neck and shoulders, and then lies him down again.

“That should help,” Peter murmurs, picking up the three stacked cups on the nightstand and taking them over to the kitchen sink. He makes Harry a plate of dry toast and chopped up apples, and fills another cup with water.

As soon as Harry sees the plate he starts shaking his head back and forth, but Peter cuts off his whining. “Harry, you need to eat something. You’re stomach is empty as hell right now, and I picked this stuff so it wouldn’t upset it.” Too much, Peter thinks but doesn’t say. He moves the small trashcan from the bathroom to the side of the bed just in case.

Harry nibbles on his toast and Peter sits on the chair to watch him. “You might as well ask,” Harry mumbles, shooting Peter a sideways glance and picking up a piece of fruit.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Honestly,” Harry sighs, setting his plate down beside him. “I had been thinking about doing it again for a couple of weeks now. I couldn’t get rid of the craving no matter what I did, I just didn’t tell you about it. So, when you left yesterday-”

“When you kicked me out, you mean.”

“When you left yesterday,” Harry continues as though Peter hadn’t interrupted, “I thought fuck it. I snorted a few lines, and I ended up passed out on the bathroom floor where you found me.” He wipes a shaky hand down his face and burrows himself deeper into the pillows. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it though.”

“Thinking about what?” Peter spits, narrowing his gaze on Harry’s chest where he swears he can hear his lungs rattling.

“What your face would look like when you found me.”

They don’t say anything after that, both too wrapped up in their own heads. Harry finishes half of what Peter gave him, and Peter doesn’t fight with him about it. He doesn’t have the energy to. He just takes the plate and drops it in the sink, shuffling back to his place on the chair. “So, now what?” Peter asks, tapping his thumbs together. “Are you going back to rehab?”

“No,” Harry says quickly, terror clouding his eyes. “No, I can’t go back there.”

“You relapsed, man,” Peter replies, looking at Harry like he’s grown a second head. “That’s kind of a big deal, in case you didn’t know.”

“I know,” Harry says frantically, yanking at the comforter around him as if it had suddenly become suffocating. “I know, but I know what I did wrong, okay? When I felt like using I should have told you, and when the craving got so bad, I should have avoided the places I knew I could get it. But, I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

Peter tips his head back onto the headrest and he shakes his head. It was the same shit on a different day. He just didn’t believe Harry anymore. His words felt so empty. It felt horrible. Harry used to be the person he trusted most in the world, and now he can’t believe a single thing he says.

“Harry,” Peter sighs, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I just don’t think I’m enough for you right now. I can’t help you the way you need.”

“Peter, you are enough,” Harry states, sounding more certain about that than anything else in his life. “You are, alright? I probably would have relapsed weeks ago if it wasn’t for you. Hell, I wouldn’t have even gone to rehab if it wasn’t for you. Don’t ever think you aren’t enough for me,” he finishes with a shaky voice.

Peter falls silent again. A part of him wants to drag Harry back to rehab even if he goes kicking and screaming, but that wouldn’t help anyone. If he takes Harry there by force, which he really can’t do, he’ll find a way to leave again, and he might even get worse. And, another part of him thinks that maybe he can put in a bit more effort to help Harry recover. In the past few weeks he’s been making sure he eats and giving him medication for the pain, but that’s about it. He hasn’t helped Harry relax, or helped him keep his mind off things, and he’s closed himself off so much that Harry won’t even think about talking to him when he needs someone to listen. Peter’s still so angry with him, and he might always be, but if he’s going to commit to helping Harry through this, then he has to actually do it, not just say he is.

“Fine,” Peter finally says, running a hand across his chin. “But, if I don’t see you really trying to get better, and if I find that shit in this apartment again, I’m done. Do you understand?”

Harry nods his head up and down rapidly and too many times, as if that would make him seem more genuine somehow. “I promise you, Pete. I’ll do better.”

“So will I,” Peter mumbles into his lap, lifting up his legs so he can rest his mouth on his knees. He sees the small smile Harry sends him from the corner of his eye.

----------

Harry gets physically better in fits and starts. Some days he stays in bed from morning ‘til night, curling himself up into a ball and groaning in agony. But, some days he’ll stroll out onto the balcony, gulping in the fresh air, and tipping his head back so the sun could shine on his face.

He thinks about using again, of course he does, and Peter is there to listen when he tells him. They both agreed that Harry shouldn’t go back to work yet, the acting CEO will just have to keep manning the ropes for awhile, so thankfully that stress was out of his life for a bit longer, but Peter still has to relax him when he craves it so much he can practically taste the blow.

Sometimes he’ll try reading to Harry to calm him down. He tries his best to use a soothing voice, while Harry nestles his head close to Peter’s thigh. Other times, he’ll take board games out of the hall closet, and he almost started laughing the other day when he found Candyland in there. He doesn’t even know why they have this game, but he takes it out anyway because he thinks it’ll make Harry smile.

But, sometimes nothing works, and Harry will beat Peter’s chest with shaky fists, screaming his throat raw because “I need it, Peter!” He’s able to restrain him though, and Harry crumples onto him, all the fight draining from his body, while Peter ends up crouched against the front door with Harry lying at his feet looking like a sobbing pile of bones. Peter suggests that Harry attend a cocaine anonymous or narconon meeting or attend a counseling session at the rehab center like he’s supposed to be doing, but he vehemently refuses, and Peter reluctantly backs off.

Some days, Peter wants to punch a hole in the wall, and some days, he wants to punch himself in the face, because every morning when Harry wakes up, and sometimes randomly throughout the day, he tells Peter that he loves him, but Peter never says it back. He can’t.

He tries calming teas, buys more word search books, and sits on the kitchen counter while Harry cooks for the two of them. Peter had been doing all the cooking since Harry’s been out of rehab, but Harry needs to start doing things for himself again. Peter’s just there to make sure he’s doing it.

He even relents one night when Harry asks him if he wouldn’t mind sleeping in their bed with him. “I’ll stick to my side,” Harry had said timidly, wringing his hands together and gnawing on his lip. “I just haven’t been sleeping so well lately, and I think it’ll help if you’re there with me. Only if you want to though.” Peter considered him for a moment. He knew Harry wasn’t getting the amount of rest he was supposed to. He could hear him pacing up and down the room whenever he would wake up during the middle of the night, so Peter hesitantly accepted, and when he lied down, he hugged the side of the mattress tightly to avoid rolling over towards Harry. In the morning, he woke up with his hand gripping Harry’s waist, while he snored softly into his pillow. Peter ran his hand over Harry’s side a few times, and then he got up to eat breakfast.

The air between the two of them is less tense, which Peter is immensely grateful for. He can feel the knots in his stomach and his neck loosening with each passing day. He’s on the couch reading one evening when he hears the bedroom door creak open. He immediately scoots towards the side to make room for Harry to sit. Harry reaches for the blanket on the back of the couch, wraps it around himself, and then plops himself down cross-legged on the couch. He rolls his head to the side, and then he just stares. He stares at Peter for about ten minutes in complete silence.

“Am I doing anything particularly interesting?” Peter quips, lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.

“No,” Harry laughs, plucking at a loose thread on his pajama pants. “I’m just looking.”

“At what?”

“You,” he says simply, leveling Peter with an intense gaze.

“Well, I’m sure there’s plenty of better looking things around here for you to stare at,” he mumbles, licking his thumb and turning the page.

“Nope,” Harry disagrees, popping the ‘p’ at the end. “And, even if there were, I want to look at you.”

“I guess,” Peter replies, shrugging his shoulders and trying and failing to ignore the way his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest.

One minute, Peter is adjusting the book in his hands, and in the next minute, the book goes sailing through the air, and Harry Osborn is looking right at him and straddling his lap. Alarm bells start going off in Peter’s head, and he clenches the fabric of the couch in his hands.

“Harry, what the hell are you doing?” Peter stutters out, and he feels like he’s been frozen in place, or stunned with an incapacitating gun.

Harry doesn’t answer him though. He just slants his mouth over Peter’s and tangles his fingers in his hair, gripping almost painfully, as he lifts his hips up and grinds them back down. He’s kissing Peter so desperately, and he barely breaks for air before he’s diving back in again. Peter isn’t kissing back though, and he vaguely wonders how this could be any good for Harry when he’s kissing someone who is so unresponsive. He’s not even touching him.

Peter tilts his head forward to cut the kiss off, and Harry’s staring down at him with half-lidded eyes. “Harry,” Peter sighs, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He can’t stand to be this close to Harry and have his taste on his mouth. “Stop it.”

“Come on, Pete,” Harry mewls, ducking his head down to Peter’s neck and starting to undo the buttons on Peter’s henley. “What’s the matter?” he asks, dropping open-mouthed kisses onto Peter’s skin. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

That’s it. “Harry, get the fuck off me!” Peter yells, throwing Harry off his lap and shooting up from the couch so he could pace. He wipes the spit off his neck with his hand and absentmindedly rubs the saliva on his jeans.

“What’s the problem?” Harry snaps, wrapping his arms around himself as if he’s ashamed of what he’s just done.

“Uh, right now, you are!” Peter exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air, and then pinching the bridge of his nose so he could calm himself down. Breath in and out, he tells himself as he closes his eyes.

“Harry,” he says, trying not to scream anymore. “What part of ‘we aren’t together anymore’ do you not get? The ‘we’ part or the ‘not together’ part?”

“Peter,” Harry whispers, voice starting to crack. He swallows a few times before he continues. “I mean, I don’t get it. Did you just suddenly wake up one day and decide that you don’t like me anymore? That you don’t love me anymore?”

If only that were true, Peter thinks, but he just shakes his head at the hunched over figure on the couch. “It’s just the way it has to be.”

“Says who?” Harry spits, raising himself to his feet on wobbly legs. He wipes away the tears that have fallen on his cheeks.

“Me,” Peter replies in a flat tone, cocking his eyebrow up. “I say.”

“I just-,” Harry starts, throwing his head back in frustration and raising it back up slowly. “I can’t imagine myself ever deciding that I don’t want to be with you.”

“Really?” Peter snorts, jamming his hands in his back pockets. “Nothing I could ever do would make you want to break up with me?”

“No,” Harry responds quickly, his gaze and his stance are unwavering.

“Alright,” Peter says dismissively, rocking his hips from side to side. “So, if I cheated on you, you would still stay with me?”

“Yes.”

“If I got addicted to drugs, you would still stay with me?”

“Yes.”

“If I started lying to you, you would still stay with me?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?” Peter says with an unimpressed tone and bunched up eyebrows.

“Peter, what part of ‘I love you’ don’t you get? The ‘love’ part or the ‘you’ part?” Harry’s making it sound so simple, but it’s not. It’s anything but. Peter lets out an exasperated sigh and bites his lip. Harry doesn’t get it. He couldn’t possibly.

“Harry, it’s easy for you to say that because these are just hypothetical situations for you, and they’re also either/or situations for you,” he says, kicking his feet together and watching the pain in Harry’s eyes increase by the second. “But, for me, it’s very real. You cheated on me, not once, not twice, but three times, and you’re an addict, and I don’t even know for how long you’ve been lying to me. How can you honestly believe that I would still want to be with you after all that? A person can only take so much.”

“Peter,” Harry cries, collapsing onto Peter’s chest and gripping his back with bony fingers. Peter doesn’t hug him back. He knows he’s hurting Harry, and he sure as hell doesn’t enjoy doing it. It hurts him just knowing how much pain he’s in, but he can’t pretend. Not about this.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, clutching onto Peter’s shirt even tighter. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He chants the words out like a prayer, repeating each line as if it would absolve him of every horrible thing he’s ever done and magically make everything better. But, it won’t. Nothing will. “I love you,” he whispers, tears dampening Peter’s shirt, warm breath hitting his chest with each exhale. “I love you,” he whispers again, the one thing he holds onto above all else.

“I hear you, Harry,” Peter mumbles, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. “I just don’t believe it anymore.”

Harry loses the little control he has, and he slides himself down Peter’s body, grasping onto Peter’s ankles with weak hands. Peter has never tried harder not to cry in his life. His throat hurts from how badly he’s trying to hold it in, and he blinks rapidly to rid himself of his watery eyes. He doesn’t want to see Harry begging or pleading or groveling at his feet. He kneels down next to Harry’s shaking form, and he clenches his hands by his sides to resist the temptation to reach out to him. He knows what he needs to say to make Harry stop, but he can’t say it, not even if he tries.

He doesn’t leave like he wants to. He doesn’t want Harry to relapse again. So, he moves to situate himself in the corner of the nearest wall, chin resting against his knees, as he waits for Harry to calm down. It takes him hours to do so. The sobs begin to taper off, the hitching of his chest gradually slows down, and then finally everything is quiet. The only sounds in the apartment are the gentle whirring of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock. Harry’s asleep.

Peter picks him up off the floor and carries him to bed. His skin burns with each step he takes. He waits about forty-five minutes to make sure Harry is really asleep, and then he grabs his phone off the coffee table to check the time. The glowing display tells him it’s 12:35 a.m.

He quietly tiptoes out the front door, locking it softly behind him, and he walks to the nearest subway station. He’s heading to Queens. He feels bad that he’s going to wake Aunt May up, from what he hopes is a peaceful sleep, but he’s finally ready to talk, talk about everything, and he needs her to be the one that listens.

----------

Aunt May is waiting at the kitchen table with two steaming mugs of coffee on either side of her. Peter had called her right before he entered the subway station. He didn’t think someone banging on her front door in the middle of the night would have been very well-received, and he didn’t want to scare her.

He sits down on the wooden chair with shaky legs and crumples onto her shoulder, finally releasing the tears that were threatening to choke him. She runs her cool hand through his hair and shushes him, telling him everything will be alright, just like she does every time he’s in this type of state. It never fails to calm him. He wraps his arms around her shoulders.

Once he settles down, he extracts himself from her embrace and chugs some of the now warm coffee. She’s looking at him with glistening eyes. It’s the expression someone gets when they see someone they love in pain. He knows what it looks like all too well. She runs a hand down his arm and squeezes his fingers, waiting until he’s ready to talk.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Peter mumbles, running his palm roughly down his face and resting his chin in his hand so he can look at her. “I have no idea.”

“How’s Harry doing?” she asks, grasping his free hand in both of hers.

“I don’t know. He’s trying, I guess. It’s just hard to be around him sometimes,” he sighs, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. A nervous habit he’s been employing really often lately. “Well, most of the time.”

“What are you trying to decide, sweetheart?” She knows him too well. The fact that he’s even here, sitting with her in the dimly-lit kitchen at two something in the morning, means a lot. Peter always tries to handle everything himself, take it all onto his shoulders, until he can’t anymore. Until he’s about to collapse from the weight of it.

“I’m trying to figure out what I’m staying for,” he whispers, hanging his head, chin hitting his chest. That’s really what it all boils down to. Why does he stay?

He spills everything to her. He tells her about all the times he asked Harry to get himself clean, although she knew about some of those instances already. He tells her about all the lies Harry’s told him. He tells her about catching Harry in bed with someone else, and apparently it wasn’t the first time. He tells her about Harry’s unsuccessful stint in rehab, and finding him passed out on their bathroom floor when he relapsed. He tells her about tonight, and how Harry had tried to desperately cling onto the people they once were, the happiness they once shared, all the while not realizing that it was impossible because both those things were gone.

She listens intently the entire time, never loosening her hold on his hand, and Peter lets out a huge sigh of relief when he’s done. Maybe he should have tried talking to her sooner. “Boy,” she huffs, her bangs ruffling in the process, “that’s a lot.” She downs the rest of her forgotten coffee. She looks tired, and suddenly Peter feels bad for waking her, but she would probably smack him upside the head if she knew he was thinking that.

“Yeah,” Peter says in a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s my life.”

“Hmm,” she hums, tapping a slender finger on her chin. “Speaking of your life, have you thought about what it would be like without Harry in it?”

The first thing that pops into Peter’s head is less stressful, followed quickly by a lot less tiring. The truth is, Peter hasn’t really thought about what his life would be like if he left Harry for good. What it would be like if he completely cut ties with the guy, taking any hope of friendship off the table altogether. Harry had been connected to him in some capacity for as long as he could remember. He’s present for the majority of Peter’s conscience memory. Leaving him would undoubtedly be the hardest thing Peter’s had to do in his life. Never seeing his face again would kill him, but maybe it’s what he has to do. Maybe. He’s doesn’t know. He’s so fucking confused.

He’s about to grip at his hair in frustration, but Aunt May puts her hand over his before it can tangle into his locks, placing their conjoined palms down on the table while she pats Peter’s other hand. “You haven’t thought about it have you?” she asks softly, ducking her head to meet Peter’s gaze.

“No,” he admits, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I never thought I would have to.” She nods in understanding.

“Peter, I can’t tell you what to do, and I wouldn’t want to. I also can’t go off of my many years of experience on this planet because I’ve never dealt with anything like what you’re going through, but I want you to really think about everything before you definitely decide. I don’t want you to regret anything, alright?” she finishes, glancing down at the table for a moment before catching Peter’s gaze once more. Now she looks like she’s speaking from experience.

“I’m not condoning Harry’s behavior or what he’s done to you. I sure as hell am not,” she says with a hint of fire in her eyes. “It seems like he’s put you through a lot. But, it seems like he’s been through a lot too. And now, he’s trying to get clean in a way he never has before. In a way he’s never even attempted before, and maybe that should count for something.”

She reaches up to grip the back of his neck with her hand, bringing their heads a bit closer together like she would always do when he was a child, and she acted like she had a secret to tell him that only the two of them would ever know. “Sweetheart, we’re human. For better or worse we’re all human. And, we’re gonna be unsuccessful, we’re gonna mess up, we’re gonna complicate things and overcomplicate things beyond belief, and yes, sometimes we’re even gonna hurt the people we love, but we’re also going to try. That’s all we can do. After all that failure, we’re gonna try to do better, to be better, and hope that it’s enough.”

God, she’s amazing, he thinks, and this is why he needed her. He hugs her tightly again, and she smiles into his shoulder. He helps her clean up the kitchen, and then they both head upstairs to their respective rooms. “It’s not like I don’t enjoy talking to you, Peter, but I need my sleep,” she jokes, trying to lighten the somber mood. He tells her that he loves her, and he tells her goodnight, slipping into his bedroom and shutting the door gently behind him.

----------

He can’t sleep, and he’s not surprised. He wasn’t expecting to be able to. He rolls his neck along his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the ever-present knots. He needs to decide what to do. He can’t keep putting it off, because it’s not fair to either him or Harry for him to stay when he doesn’t really want to—when he doesn’t see the point.

Should he stay or should he go? One simple question with a not so simple answer.

He starts pacing around his room and takes in the state of it. He tidies up papers that don’t need fixing, arranges books that don’t need organizing, and dusts off trinkets that don’t need cleaning. He needs something to do with his hands before he rips his own hair out. Peter opens his closet door to see if there’s anything he can fuss with in there, and he’s greeted with the sight of an old photograph taped to the back of it. It’s a bit worn-out around the edges now, but the memory of that day is still vibrant in his mind.

The picture is of him and Harry when they were 11-years-old. He’s in most of the Parker photo collection. They had been hanging out at a skate park down in Brooklyn that day. Peter had just completed his first kickflip on his skateboard, which he was immensely proud of, and Harry had let out a triumphant “woop” from his place by the railing. He then proceeded to ruffle Peter’s hair, while Peter muttered a “get off” which made Harry laugh. Harry had been taller than him then. Peter had wanted something to commemorate the occasion, so he retrieved the camera he had gotten for his birthday from his backpack and asked one of the older kids to take a picture of the two of them. They’re both grinning from ear to ear, arms swung tightly over the other’s shoulders, and much too red in the face. It had been scorching that day, Peter remembers that. After the photo was taken they both ran to the nearest vendor and purchased two popsicles each.

He removes the picture from the back of the door, being careful not to rip the photograph that has deteriorated with age. He runs his index finger gently across their youthful faces. These kids had no idea what life had in store for them. He hasn’t seen Harry smile like that in a while, and for that matter, neither has he. They did it to each other.

This is why he contemplates leaving. If they’re making each other miserable, then what’s the point of being together? So, they could spend the rest of their lives being unhappy? Sometimes wanting to be with each other isn’t enough. Sometimes loving each other isn’t enough. Peter thinks about what their lives will be like five years from now, hell, ten years from now, if Harry keeps on this destructive path he’s on, and it makes him shutter. It’s not a pretty picture he sees. It’s lonely, cold, and bitter, splashed with hues of black and gray.

But, Harry’s trying. He knows that. He also knows that it isn’t easy for him. Nothing has ever been easy for Harry. For all the privilege Harry has, it doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. He never got the approval or love he so desperately sought after from his father. Peter tried to compensate for that as much as he could, but he’ll never be able to heal that particular wound. He knows that all too well. While they’re situations may be different, he knows what it feels like to be abandoned by your parents. It carves a hole in you that nothing and nobody can fill.

Can he live his life without Harry in it? What would it even look like? Aunt May had asked him that down in the kitchen, and he didn’t have an answer for her then. He doesn’t have an answer now.

So, he looks into the future again—five years from now, ten years from now. He pictures himself going to graduate school and earning a master’s degree in nanotechnology engineering. He sees himself getting a job at the research firm he’s been eyeing, and being able to help the young boy in his class who had shown up the first day of school fresh out of remission, but who’s mother came up to Peter at the end of the school year with tears in her eyes and telling him that the cancer came back. He imagines himself having a kid, or maybe a few, and getting up for midnight feedings, or helping them build a volcano for the science fair, or teaching them how to drive a car, or taking a picture of them right before prom, all the while ignoring their embarrassed groans, or dropping them off at college in a dorm room that hasn’t been updated since the 70’s.

He can see all that clearly, but who will be beside him through it all? Who’s gonna be there to encourage him through all those late nights when he wants to quit school because the workload has become unmanageable? Who’s gonna fix his tie and kiss him at the door before his first day at his dream job? Who’s gonna stay up with him when the baby won’t stop crying? Who’s gonna help him clean up the baking soda and vinegar dripping down the kitchen table when the volcano prematurely erupts? Who’s gonna hold his hand while they both pretend to be brave as they wave goodbye to their child?

He can’t see it though. The image is fuzzy and full of static like when the cable goes out. It’s like his brain is rejecting the very idea of someone else being with him through all that, besides the person he’s considering never seeing again.

Suddenly, he’s not imagining the future, but looking back at the past. He sees himself at 5-years-old, wiping at the tears on his cheeks as he picks himself up off the grass of the playground, while Harry smacks Flash Thompson upside the head with his designer backpack for pushing Peter down. He’s 8-years-old now, sitting on a park bench and swinging his legs back and forth since his feet couldn’t reach the ground. His parents had just left him, and Harry sat beside him for hours in silence. They didn’t talk at all, they didn’t need to. Peter knew he hadn’t lost everything that day. He’s 13-years-old and he and Harry are giggling like idiots, bumping their shoulders together as they sit on his humongous bed. They had stolen a bottle of whiskey from Norman’s liquor cabinet, and it tasted horrible. They had each only taken a few sips before they couldn’t stomach it anymore, but to them it was the most hilarious thing in the world. Now, he’s 15-years-old, staring at the yellowing ceiling of his hospital room while he recovers from having his appendix removed. Harry strolled in with several comic books in one hand and a stack of Peter’s schoolbooks in the other. “We wouldn’t want you to get behind,” Harry had chuckled, propping his feet up onto the uncomfortable mattress and flipping through the channels. He had stayed for hours, and he had showed up every day that Peter was in there. Here comes 17. He’s lying in his backyard with his hands behind his head, and Harry’s right next to him, tracing the constellations in the sky with his finger in the air. He’s getting them all wrong, but Peter humors him. Then, he’s not talking at all. He leans over Peter, a hand on each side of his hips, moonlight bouncing off his light brown hair, and suddenly he’s kissing him. He pulls back with his eyes closed, eyelids fluttering with nervousness, and he tells Peter that he’s waited so long to do that. Given the way he whispered it, it seemed like he had waited a long time to say that too. 22-years-old, and he’s peering down at the City of Light from the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower. He laughs about how they’re officially clichéd tourists now, and when he gazes down at Harry he’s already staring back at him, stars reflecting in his eyes and looking at Peter like he was the masterpiece here, not the famous landmark they were standing on.

God, Harry was so intertwined with Peter it would take centuries to untangle them. It would take several lifetimes to rid himself of all the memories they’ve made together, all the arguments they’ve had that ended with slammed doors, all the places on Peter’s body that Harry has laid his fingers and mouth on, all the nights where one of them has slept on the couch fuming with anger, all the laughter that’s passed between them, all the tears that they’ve shed, all the places they’ve seen and experienced together, all the experiences that they wish they never had to go through together, all the kisses they’ve shared, all the hurtful words they’ve screamed, and all the “I love you’s” they’ve said in a thousand different ways, a thousand different times, in a thousand different places.

They’re chaotic and complicated and weird and brilliant, and there is no way in hell that Peter can leave him. Harry is his person, his complete mess of a person, but his person nonetheless, and they can get through this, just like they’ve gotten through everything else in their lives thus far, as long as they do it together.

Peter starts laughing through his tears—a free, delirious, and undoubtedly happy laugh. He might be the weakest person ever for deciding to stay after all he’s been through, or he might be the strongest. He might be an idiot or a genius. He might be blind to everything around him, or maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to see things clearly for the first time in a long time.

He looks up at the clock on the wall and it’s nearing 4 a.m. He settles down into his blankets to hopefully get a few hours of sleep, but he sets his alarm to wake him bright and early. He’s hoping to make it back to the apartment before Harry wakes up.

He’s made his decision and all the knots have loosened.

----------

He wakes up at 6:30 in the morning and takes a quick shower. He brushes his teeth, fixes his hair, and changes into a shirt that he left the last time he was here. There are dark circles under his eyes, but there’s not much he can do about that. He races down the stairs and pops a waffle in the toaster because his stomach is growling. Food wasn’t a priority yesterday.

He’s leaning against the counter and munching on his breakfast when Aunt May enters the kitchen, yawning and twisting her hair into a bun. She gives him a pointed look, and Peter smiles around the waffle that is dangling from his mouth. She knows what that means.

She doesn’t look particularly thrilled, but she doesn’t look angry either. She looks a bit nervous, which is a natural reaction given everything she’s heard, but she also looks somewhat happy, mostly because Peter finally seems to be.

He gives her a tight hug and a peck on the cheek before he leaves, and then he’s bounding off the porch, running towards the nearest subway station. He anxiously bounces his knee the entire ride back to Manhattan, and the tired looking man beside him rolls his eyes before crossing his arms and leaning his head against the window.

He bulldozes through the revolving door of their apartment building, waves a “good morning” to the doorman, and frantically presses the button to call the elevator down. He can hear the doorman laughing at him as he takes in his slightly frazzled appearance.

He jams his key into the lock, and then he softly closes the front door behind him. He makes his way over to the large curtains leading towards the balcony, and he slides them open to reveal the morning sun. They could use some natural light in here, and some fresh air.

He takes out his phone from his pocket to see the time once more. It’s 8:30 in the morning. He wonders if Harry is already awake. He can’t hear any sound coming from the bedroom. He pokes his head in and sees that Harry isn’t in the bed, and he whips his head towards the hallway. His keys are still on the hook by the entrance. He’s still here. Then, he looks at the bathroom door. It’s ajar, just like last time, and Peter’s stomach sinks down into his feet.

Harry’s lying on the floor, tracing indistinct patterns onto the tile and shivering. Peter crouches down in front of his face, and he shoots his arms out to steady himself. He doesn’t seem to be high anymore, but his eyes are bloodshot and puffy. “Peter,” Harry croaks, lifting his head a mere fraction of an inch. Even that appears to take too much effort, and it would almost be imperceptible if Peter couldn’t see the muscles straining in his neck.

“Yeah,” he whispers, mind already thinking about what he has to do next. He cradles Harry in his arms and places him onto the mattress. He wets the washcloth, gets the cups of water, and puts the trashcan on the side of the bed. His eyes scan over Harry’s pale body to check for scrapes or bruises, but he doesn’t see anything. He scoots the armchair over and takes his place. This all feels like a routine—a routine he shouldn’t know.

Ugh, this was fucking unbelievable! He practically raced over here to tell Harry what he decided, laughter bubbling up in his chest, and here they were again. Another day, another relapse. It was a tug of war, and he was losing.

He rummages around in the nightstand to see if he can find any tissues since Harry’s nose has started to run, and his hand bumps against a familiar box. Peter pulls out the black, velvet box from the drawer, and he swears his heart stops. He flips the lid open, and he looks up at Harry with his mouth slightly agape. “You kept this?” Peter whispers, looking down at the ring like it was foreign to him when he was the one that bought it. He thought maybe Harry would have thrown it away, just like Peter threw it against the wall.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, looking at Peter with watery eyes. “I thought maybe one day you would want to give it to me. I guess I just wanted to hang onto that hope.” Peter closes the box and puts it away.

Harry’s gripping the comforter with shaky fingers, arranging it higher on his chest, and he’s looking at Peter with eyes full of fear. Peter knows what he’s waiting for. He’s waiting for a scolding, for Peter to yell at him and tell him enough’s enough, but he’s not gonna do that. Is he angry? Of course he is, but he decided that they were going to get through this together. Together being the important part.

“I thought you left,” Harry mumbles, bottom lip trembling between his teeth. “For good this time.” He looks horrible, and positively miserable.

“I couldn’t,” Peter replies, staring down at his lap and twining his fingers together. “I won’t.” He hears Harry take a sharp intake of breath, lungs rattling in his chest, and Peter glances up. Harry looks shell-shocked and like he’s a second away from crying.

“Pete?” he questions, scooting towards the edge of the bed so he can be closer to him.

“I said I would be with you through this,” Peter says, placing his forearms on his thighs and leaning forward, “and I’m going to keep that promise. You and me, we’re going to get you through this, together.”

“Oh,” Harry murmurs dejectedly, his expression and his body language closing off. “So, this is gonna be just like before?”

“No,” Peter sighs, clasping his hands in front of him and bouncing his leg up and down. “I mean together together.”

“Oh,” Harry says again, but it sounds completely different. “You mean it?” he asks, looking up at Peter with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Peter nods and gives him a small smile. It earns him a wide grin in return. “You need to get some rest,” Peter says, scooting back in his chair and moving to turn off the small lamp on the nightstand.

“Okay,” Harry relents, moving a jittery hand under his chin. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms securely around them.

Harry’s breathing evens out after about ten minutes, and Peter watches him. He watches the rise and fall of his chest, the way the hair that’s fallen into his face flutters with each breath, and how Harry’s body keeps fidgeting. It’s as though he couldn’t find peace, even in sleep. After a while, Peter dozes off too, swinging his legs over the armrest, and nestling back into the cushion.

A few hours later, Peter feels a light tapping on his wrist from where it’s dangling off the side of the chair, and he jerks awake. Harry snatches his hand away as if he had just gotten burned, and he tucks it into his chest. “Sorry,” Harry whispers, looking ashamed.

“No,” Peter replies quickly, shaking his head and moving into a sitting position. “It’s okay. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I was really out of it, that’s all.” Harry nods, but he keeps himself curled up tightly.

“So,” Peter says, drawing out the word and dragging a hand down his face. “What are you gonna do now?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, scooting himself up and propping the pillows against the headboard so he can lean back on them.

“Second relapse, Harry,” Peter states bluntly. “You need to do something.”

Harry stays silent, fiddling his thumbs together and boring holes into the blanket. “I’ll go back to rehab,” he sighs painfully. “I said I would get clean for you.”

“No,” Peter says in a short, clipped tone.

“Pete, I-”

“No,” Peter repeats, slumping down onto the carpet and sitting cross-legged on the floor. He folds his arms on the bed, and he places his chin on top of his hands, peering up at Harry through his eyelashes. Harry looks so confused, probably because of what Peter’s saying and because Peter voluntarily got this close to him. “You need to do this for you. You need to want to get clean for yourself, and you need to want to stay clean for yourself too. I can’t be responsible for that anymore.” He sighs and puts his mouth on his hands, shaking his head back and forth a few times. “I think that’s why it didn’t work out the first time. You weren’t doing it for you. If you want it to work this time, that needs to change.”

“I get it,” Harry whispers, tipping his head back on the headboard, and he closes his eyes. They sit in more silence, but Peter can tell Harry’s thinking. He always gets a crease on his forehead when he does.

“Okay,” he finally says, licking his lips and straightening himself up. “I’ll go back to rehab. For me this time,” he adds, picking at a loose thread on the bed. “I don’t want this shit controlling my life anymore. It’s messed up too many things already. God, I almost lost you because of it, I practically did for a while there, and fuck,” he chokes out, running a hand down his face, “I can’t go through that again.”

“Har-”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Harry interrupts, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead, “but I promise you I’m doing this for me. It’s just, well, you’re a big motivator for me, kid. Get used to it,” he finishes giving him a small smile. Peter returns the gesture.

They spend the afternoon and most of the evening researching various facilities, trying to decide which one would be the best fit. Harry had wanted it to be outside the city. Two days later, Peter helps Harry pack a suitcase, and they drive to a rehab center in upstate New York.

It’s actually kind of beautiful. There’s lush, green grass growing in the courtyard, extending out into a sea of emerald. There’s giant oak trees surrounding the place, and waxy leaves are constantly blowing in the wind. The building itself looks almost Victorian in style, with red and beige brick lining five-stories and mahogany roofs, each adorned with a chimney. Even the inside looks homey, with its decorative rugs and plush couches, cherry wood tables lined along the walls.

Harry had been nervous the entire drive here, and admittedly, so had Peter, but the look of the place and the friendliness of the staff puts them both at ease—mostly. They check Harry in and they both get asked a few questions. They briefly go into Harry’s history, and they talk about the length of his stay. When they had phoned yesterday, Harry had told them that he wanted to start at a 90-day stay. They tell them that once the 90-days are up, the doctors will assess Harry’s progress, and then they will recommend that he either extend his stay or they would move him to outpatient status.

Once all the introductory stuff is complete, it’s time for Peter to say goodbye. Harry needs to settle himself into his room and start the detoxification process, again. Peter thinks of Jane, and he hopes that this is the last time he has to leave Harry at a place like this. One of the workers, a tall man with more than a few wrinkles and gentle eyes, grabs Harry’s suitcase and motions for him to follow.

“Wait,” Peter says, grasping Harry’s wrist and pulling him off to the side, close enough so the man can still see them, but far enough away that he won’t be able to hear them. “I, uh, just wanted to say good luck,” Peter mumbles, scratching the back of his head and kicking his feet together. “I know it’s gonna be difficult the first few weeks, but you can do it, alright? I know you can.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Harry smiles, shoving his free hand in his pocket. He’s about to turn around to leave, but Peter tightens the grip he has on his wrist. Harry flicks his gaze from his wrist to Peter’s eyes with a confused expression.

“Hey, um,” Peter murmurs, swinging Harry’s wrist between them, and he feels like this is the first time he’s going to say these words, when it’s not, it’s just been a while. “I love you.”

Harry’s smile is blinding, and Peter swears that the sun shines through the window a bit brighter, but he could be imagining things. He drops his forehead onto Peter’s collarbone and he chokes out a laugh. “I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing lightly against Peter’s neck, and the words go straight to his heart.

----------

Peter needs to fill his days with something since he doesn’t go back to school for another month. He’s driving himself crazy sitting in their apartment by himself. So, he starts consulting with the nanotechnology firm he had been eyeing for a few hours a week. He may not have a degree in this field yet, but Peter’s a genius. He can be helpful.

The researchers he works with are impressed by what he knows already, and they start suggesting graduate programs and tell him that they would be happy to give him a recommendation when the time came for him to apply. He can already picture the argument he and Harry are going to have when he finds out Peter is consulting with this firm when he’s always vehemently refused to do the same for Oscorp, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. He still has his teaching job to worry about anyway, so when the school year starts up again, he’ll only be consulting when he can.

He goes to Aunt May’s house every Saturday for dinner, and he can tell she thinks he’s doing this for her, but it’s actually the opposite. He needs her more than she needs him right now. She always asks how he’s doing and he tells her the truth. He’s antsy and nervous, and he’s counting down the days until the three week mark where he’s half-expecting Harry to show up on their doorstep again.

But the three weeks pass, and Harry is still in rehab. The weekend before school starts, Peter drives up to visit Harry for an hour. He can immediately tell how different he seems. Harry is determined in a way that Peter hasn’t seen in such a long time, and the color is returning to his cheeks. It makes something within him feel lighter.

The school year commences, and Peter has his hands full with the twenty-two students in his class, all with different temperaments and problems, but they start to warm up to him as the weeks pass and Peter returns the affection. This may not be his dream job, but he loves it. He had almost forgotten how much.

Peter goes to visit Harry two more times before the 90-days are up. The first visit consists of them attending a conjoined therapy session together, where the counselor talks with them about some of the issues they’ve been having and what to expect once Harry gets released. The topic of trust gets brought up a lot in the discussion, mostly by Peter, and he knows it’s going to take a while to rebuild that particular bridge between them, but he believes it can happen, eventually.

The second visit is a much lighter affair. Peter is allotted two hours for visitation this time around, so he and Harry walk along the short trails around the facility since it’s situated out on the countryside, and they make their way to a small pond. They sit by the water’s edge, and Harry tells Peter about the progress he’s made, the people he’s met and some of their stories, and the conversations he’s had with his counselor. Peter listens intently while Harry fidgets beside him, as if he’s trying to prove to Peter how badly he’s trying, but he knows he is. Harry wouldn’t still be here if he wasn’t. Once they dust the blades of grass off their pants to start walking back, Peter grabs Harry’s hand in his, giving him a small smile before looking ahead. They walk at a much slower pace than before, and Peter holds onto his hand the entire time.

Peter has to start wearing a light jacket when he heads to the subway station in the morning, and jack-o-lanterns and skeletons are littering storefront windows. It’s officially October, fall is just around the corner, and Harry’s 90-days are up. The doctors have deemed him fit for outpatient status, so Peter takes the day off work to go pick him up. They brief them both on what Harry is expected to do now that he’s out of the facility. He’s to attend individual and group counseling sessions on a weekly basis with one of their affiliate centers in the city, and then the sessions would wean down to bi-weekly and finally monthly status.

The old man with the wrinkles and gentle eyes that had first greeted them when Harry had gotten here three months ago, is the same one that sees them off. He hands Harry his things, tells him good luck with a bright smile on his face, and then Peter and Harry drive off and back to their lives. Harry holds Peter’s hand from his place in the passenger’s seat the whole drive home.

Harry has to go back to work. There’s no way around that anymore. He’s basically been off for six months, since the month he spent at the company before his first stint in rehab was wholly unproductive. He eases back into his CEO duties gradually, and hires a few new people to help him with the daily operations. He also hires another assistant to assist Felicia, lightening her workload, which she is immensely grateful for. He still comes home agitated and frustrated, but he resorts to other methods of relaxation aside from drugs. Harry’s taken up drawing, which he’s actually pretty good at, because it puts his mind at ease and helps him concentrate on something else besides the incessant craving when things get very bad. He’s exercising a lot more, a habit he picked up in rehab, and Peter joins him on his morning runs sometimes. Also, their library, of both actual books and word search books, is expanding every day.

Peter would be lying if he said everything was magically better. It wasn’t. He got nervous whenever Harry would show up a little late, wondering if he was going to wake up and find him face down in a ditch somewhere. They still got into arguments, both pointless and necessary, but neither of them ever walked out. His trust and faith in Harry were coming back slowly, after being completely obliterated months ago, and they both considered that to be progress.

It’s been six months since Harry’s officially been sober, and they go out to celebrate. Peter dresses in an all black Dolce & Gabbana suit that Harry had hassled him into getting, and Peter put up a fuss the entire time, but he has to admit, it doesn’t look half-bad, and by the way Harry’s eyes scan up and down his body, he thinks so too. Harry looks great of course, and he’s actually filling out his suits again now that he’s gained back some of the weight he lost. His eyes also look less dim which makes Peter smile. They have dinner at The View restaurant in midtown, and they toast with flutes filled with sparkling water. When they finish, they bundle up in their coats, get into the awaiting car, and Harry rests his head on Peter’s shoulder, emitting a content sigh.

When they get back to the penthouse, Peter puts on the heater and gathers up their crumpled up coats, hanging them on the coat rack at the entrance. He walks into the bedroom and starts loosening his tie, and Harry’s sitting on the edge of the bed, biting his lip and wringing his hands together. He looks awfully nervous.

Peter knows what they would have done after a night like this before everything went to hell, but they haven’t had sex in eight months. When Harry was released in October, neither of them knew how far to push when it came to the physical part of their relationship. It started off slowly, with a peck on the forehead here, a kiss on the cheek there. Then, it progressed into Peter curling up behind Harry while they slept like he had always done before, placing kisses all over the back of his neck and shoulders, before resting their heads together on the same pillow. It finally moved to kisses on the mouth, but the farthest they’ve gotten is ten minutes of vigorous making out one night. He doesn’t know how to go about this.

“Hey,” Peter mumbles, slipping the tie from around his neck and letting the silk fabric pool on the dresser. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry responds, peering up at Peter through his eyelashes. “I had fun tonight.”

“Me too,” Peter smiles softly, settling himself on his knees between the-v of Harry’s legs and placing his forearms on either side of his thighs. “I’m really proud of you, you know?”

“I know,” he laughs, eyes bright and impossibly blue. He dances his fingertips down the side of Peter’s face and across his neck. Peter closes his eyes and sighs. They’re silent for a few minutes, Harry barely touching him, until Harry puts his hands on the sides of Peter’s face and tilts his head up. “Peter,” Harry says, voice a bit breathless, “I want-”

“I know,” Peter whispers, licking his lips in anticipation. Harry doesn’t need to finish his sentence. He knows. “I do too.”

“Really?” Harry smiles, rubbing Peter’ earlobe between the pads of his fingers.

Peter nods and surges up to kiss him. He gets up off the floor and scoots Harry back onto the bed, mouths connected the entire time, and he straddles Harry’s waist. Peter starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, but Harry bats his hands away. Harry undoes the first button, but then Peter assumes the buttons weren’t popping off fast enough for his liking, because he tears the thing in two, sending buttons flying everywhere. Well, there goes that shirt, Peter thinks, which is a shame. He actually liked it. Peter can’t help but to laugh loudly though, and he lays Harry down on the propped up pillows by the head of the bed. He ducks down to place open-mouthed kisses along Harry’s neck, and he feels Harry tangle one of his hands into his hair while the nails of his other hand drag along Peter’s back. Harry’s biting his lip hard, and the breathy moans he’s letting out have Peter grinding his hips down, which makes Harry moan louder. Thank god they don’t have to worry about paper-thin walls.

Harry yanks Peter’s head up, and he wastes no time in delving his tongue inside his mouth. Harry is kissing him desperately, and he’s shamelessly bucking his hips off the bed to rub against Peter’s now obvious erection. Peter pulls away long enough to strip his muscle shirt over his head, and he drags Harry up by the wrists to take off his clothes. One of them was way over-dressed here, and Peter has the decency not to rip anything.

He pushes Harry back onto the bed with a mischievous smirk, and then he leans down to kiss him again. He wraps an arm around Harry’s waist, bringing their bodies flush together, and then he feels Harry reach between them, undoing Peter’s belt and the button of his pants, and then he slips his hand inside. Peter’s whole body jerks and he lets out a hiss as Harry’s cold fingers wrap around his cock and begin to stroke.

“Wait, wait,” Peter grunts, gripping Harry’s wrist and removing it from his pants. Harry must think he’s done something wrong because his expression begins to fall, but Peter remedies that quickly. “No,” Peter mumbles, rubbing a hand down his face. “It was good. It’s just, I kind of wanted to do something else, but if you kept going like that I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.” It would almost be embarrassing to admit how hard he was after so little, but it had been a long, long time. They were both frustrated.

Harry looks up at him with a challenging smirk, and Peter flips him over onto his stomach, which has Harry letting out a yelp of surprise. Peter reaches under Harry to undo his belt, button and zipper, and then he slowly slides off his slacks and boxers, dropping them off the side of the bed. He admires the view in front of him for a few seconds, and leans forward to place open-mouthed kisses along the notches of Harry’s spine. He notices goosebumps instantly rise on Harry’s skin and it makes him smile. He stops when he gets to his waist, and then he extends a hand towards the nightstand, fumbling around the drawer to retrieve the lube and a condom.

He digs his fingers into Harry’s hair, yanking his head up so he can give him a light peck on the mouth, and he kisses down his back once more. He pops open the cap of the bottle, squirts some of the substance onto his fingers, and slowly, ever so slowly, places one finger inside Harry. Harry’s body jerks and he lets out a strangled moan, but Peter shushes him and rubs a soothing hand down his spine. He knows he has to be careful, and prep Harry as much as he can to avoid causing any damage. It’s been a while.

So, he takes his time. He has one finger driving in and out of Harry’s body, while he kisses the back of his neck and tangles their fingers together with his free hand. “Another?” Peter asks and Harry nods against the pillow. He puts in another, just as slowly as the first, and waits a few moments for Harry to adjust. Once he’s satisfied, he starts pumping them in, stretching them on the outstroke, while he slips his tongue inside Harry’s mouth and swallows his moans. Peter slips a third finger inside, and he can tell Harry is rock hard against the bed. He isn’t going to last much longer. As if on cue, Harry pants, “I’m ready,” rubbing his nose against Peter’s cheek.

Peter rolls the condom on, applying a generous amount of lube to his cock, and lines himself up. When he enters inside him, they both moan in unison, and it feels amazing. Peter had almost forgotten how good Harry felt. It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done this, it all feels new. He grabs Harry’s hips and starts to go in further until they’re flush together. Then, he pulls out and drives back in agonizingly slow. Peter can feel the sweat glide down his spine and pool at the small of his back. “Faster, Pete,” Harry mumbles, gripping the sheets so hard that his knuckles are white.

So, Peter does. He picks up the pace, and he yanks Harry’s head up again so he can kiss him, dragging out his bottom lip with his teeth any time he needs to breathe. It’s pretty sloppy as far as kisses go, and he isn’t even sure if this could be considered kissing because it feels more like just panting into each other’s mouths, but it’s good. It’s great. He reaches underneath Harry to wrap his hand around his cock, and he starts stroking it in time with his thrusts in a perfect rhythm. Harry is practically trembling beneath him. It only takes one, two, three more strokes before Harry is coming hard all over his hand. Peter follows two minutes later, and he slumps onto Harry’s back. Harry reaches a hand and drags it through Peter’s sweaty hair, sighing the whole time. Peter slips off to the side, and Harry lets out a petulant sound at the loss of him, but Peter doesn’t want his dead weight resting on top of Harry for long. He still considers him to be fragile somehow. He’s working on it.

“Fuck, I missed that,” Harry murmurs, sliding his hand along Peter’s glistening back.

“Just give me a few minutes and we can go again,” Peter whispers, eyes drifting closed.

“Hah,” Harry snorts, propping himself up onto his forearm and staring down at Peter. “Are you serious?”

“Definitely,” Peter replies, licking his lips and putting a smirk onto his face. Oh, they weren’t going to do this just once. They had a lot of time to make up for.

They both rest for about twenty minutes, and then they are ready. This time Harry takes control. He drags Peter to the middle of the bed, straddles his waist, and pins him to the mattress by his shoulders. He bends down to kiss him, and that’s all they do for a while, until Harry pulls away, bottom lip lingering for a moment before disconnecting completely. He arranges his hands in a v-shape on Peter’s collarbone, and then proceeds to place open-mouthed kisses down his chest, smirking the whole time. He kisses down his waist, his thigh, and then he puts his mouth where Peter really wants it. He’s doing positively sinful things with his tongue that has Peter writhing on the bed and letting out a string of cuss words, but right before he can take Peter to the edge, he lets him go with an obscene pop. Peter whines, he can’t help it. He was so fucking close.

Harry kisses the same path up his body with an even more devilish smirk in place, and he latches his lips onto Peter’s earlobe. “God,” Harry chuckles, “you want this so bad don’t you?” He bites down on Peter’s earlobe and drags it out with his teeth. Harry sounds so damn cocky, but Peter’s making it pretty obvious how much he wants this, right the fuck now. “Tell me,” Harry whispers, licking a stripe up Peter’s neck.

“I want you so fucking bad,” Peter says, yanking on Harry’s head and giving him a filthy kiss. He bucks his hips up, and Harry groans into his mouth. Peter’s not the only one that wants this so fucking bad, and he chuckles as Harry leans back.

He reaches into the nightstand to get another condom and rolls it along Peter’s cock, stroking lube onto it and Peter bits his lip, drawing blood. Harry lines them up and slides down onto him. Peter’s toes curl. He grips onto Harry’s hips tightly, maybe a bit too tightly because he can’t seem to loosen his fingers, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, in fact it kind of spurs him on. Harry clenches his thigh muscles and Peter groans, slamming his head back on the pillow. Peter changes the angle just slightly, and when Harry sinks back down, Peter can see his eyes roll back into his head. He’s hitting that spot in Harry now that won’t make them last much longer.

So, Peter grabs onto the back of Harry’s head and pulls him down, burying his face into his neck, where every hot breath Harry lets out sends a shiver down Peter’s spine. Harry kisses along his neck, stopping every so often to pant onto his chin, and then Peter drags his head up so he can kiss him. It’s all teeth and tongue, and it’s messy and perfect. Harry leans forward to break the kiss, resting his forehead on Peter’s, and Peter forces himself to keep his eyes open so he can see Harry’s orgasm overtake him. It’s a beautiful sight that makes Peter follow a few seconds later.

They’re both spent, and Harry rolls off of Peter’s body, whining the entire time. Peter doesn’t let him get far though. He drags him onto his chest, wraps his arms securely around his back, and pulls the comforter up to cover them both. He’s aware that he should probably get up soon to get a washcloth and clean them off to avoid the disaster dried cum always creates, but he’s too tired to care. He places a long kiss on Harry’s forehead, cards his fingers through his hair, and drifts off to sleep.

In the morning, they both jump into the shower to clean themselves off, but it ends up turning into a rousing session of shower sex, which ended up being a lot more difficult than Peter remembered it being. Maybe they were just out of practice. They would have to remedy that. They were both game to try.

They dry off and put on comfortable pajamas, since neither of them have anywhere to go today, and they pad towards the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Peter leans against the counter and watches as Harry gets down different spices from the cupboards. He’s about to reach for the refrigerator, but Peter stops him with an arm around his waist. He drags him into his chest and Harry starts laughing. It’s a good sound to hear.

“I’m hungry, Parker,” Harry huffs, smiling through his false indignation. “You gave my stamina quite the workout in case you don’t remember.”

“I remember,” Peter mumbles, placing his hands behind Harry’s neck and tilting his face up to kiss him. They make out for a few minutes until Harry pushes against him claiming he really does want food.

“Oh,” Harry says in a surprised tone, jamming his finger in the air and halting his movements. “I almost forgot to tell you. I love you,” he smiles, placing a soft kiss on Peter’s neck.

He still says it every morning, just like he did when Peter was still so angry with him he felt like he was going to explode with it. But, things are different now. They’re different now. It took them a long time to get to different—to better—but they got there—together. And, they still have a ways to go. He thinks about the ring box that’s tucked away into their nightstand, and he thinks someday. Not right now, but someday. That someday is looking a lot closer than before.

“I love you too.”