Work Text:
Peter is lounging on Harry's couch, feet dangling over one side, reading an article about Spider-Man on his phone. He's found himself at Harry's apartment a lot lately, but Harry doesn't seem to mind. In fact, if Peter doesn't show himself for several consecutive days, Harry will inevitably text him and ask him if he wants to come over.
Sometimes, they don't even talk all that much: Harry is usually busy running Oscorp, and Peter has a lot of assignments to do for college. But it's a lot more fun reading books and writing papers when Harry's close by, answering emails or talking to Felicia on the phone. Peter never seems to be able to concentrate as well when he's in his room at home, without Harry.
Today, he doesn't have any work to do, though, and he's just browsing articles about himself. He still hasn't told Harry... When is it ever a good time to say: Hey, you know that hero everyone's talking about? Yeah, that's me. Peter feels like he's missed his moment at some point and now it's too late, too weird that he didn't mention it earlier. It's not like Harry's stupid. At the rate that Peter keeps running off with flimsy excuses, he has probably figured out that there's something Peter's not telling him.
"Hey Parker," Harry says from across the room. "You wanna come with me to a party tonight? Jacques's in town, he just told me about this party at some guy's mansion."
Peter turns to him, eyebrows raised.
"What, was the yacht not available?"
Harry grins.
"Ask him yourself if you like. You coming or not?"
"Sure, I'll come to your fancy party. Do I have to wear a suit or is this like a casual event?"
Harry actually checks his phone to find the answer, even though Peter meant it as a joke. It's weirdly endearing.
"Doesn't say," Harry frowns. "So probably casual."
"Alright. Who's Jacques?"
"Oh, one of my models," Harry says airily.
Ever since Peter's seen the photos of Harry with those models, he's been dying to meet one of them. For one thing, they're European male models and Peter won't deny that he's had one or two rather interesting dreams about some of them, but more importantly, Harry spent a lot of time with these people, and Peter wants to get to know Harry's friends. He doesn't tell Harry any of this, though.
"Can you send me the address?"
Harry laughs.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you'll never get in there without me. We're taking my limo."
Peter rolls his eyes affectionately.
"What, like I'm your working class date? Wanna show me off to your rich friends?"
There's an odd look on Harry's face, but it only lasts a few moments before Harry smiles. Peter can't quite make heads or tails of it.
"Sure, Cinderella. Don't forget your glass slippers."
"Oh, those? But Harry, I lost one of them in that castle a while back..."
They're both laughing, then.
"If the prince hasn't returned it by 7 pm, I'm suing him. You can put that in writing."
There's a strangely fuzzy feeling inside Peter's chest, which Peter doesn't examine further. It feels good to be with Harry, and he doesn't want to make it complicated.
**
Harry's wearing a white shirt, a dark vest and a matching suit jacket with dark jeans, because of course he is, he's Harry Osborn. Peter tries not to look at him too often: Harry has all his clothing tailored to fit him exactly, and he does look damn good in this ensemble. His hair is perfect as always, and the sunglasses are unnecessary, but undeniably very Harry. Peter himself is wearing his best jacket, although he suspects that won't matter to anyone at this event, since even his best jacket is a far way away from any expensive brand.
It doesn't matter, Peter tells himself. He's going to a party with Harry Osborn, and if somebody doesn't like his clothes, that's their problem.
The mansion really is impressive, and even before entering, Peter regrets not bringing his camera. There's a shot he could get, Harry in front of the front door, framed by those faux Greek columns, Peter can see it in his mind very clearly.
"Hey, can I take a picture of you?"
It's not going to be the same taking the picture on his phone, but Peter can't resist.
"Sure," Harry says, and lets Peter direct him where he wants him.
This gives Peter a good excuse to look at Harry, and to keep looking, and he really is absolutely gorgeous. Peter bites his lip, hoping Harry won't notice his blush. He can't be into Harry, he just can't, Harry's his best friend and those feelings are really very inappropriate for a friendship.
Besides, Harry's used to being with models, Peter won't stand a chance.
The pictures he takes are terrible, and Peter can name everything that's wrong with them, most importantly the fact that the phone just doesn't have the right lense for the shot Peter originally had in mind. Harry likes them, apparently, asks Peter to send him one so he can upload it to his Instagram.
"Just don't put my name anywhere near that," Peter grumbles. "Or I'll never get another job as a photographer."
"Don't be ridiculous. You're the only person who takes decent pictures of Spider-Man. Your job is safe as long as that guy's around."
Grinning, Harry leads Peter inside. Peter is also smiling, but it's a very fake smile.
He has to tell Harry, but how the fuck is he supposed to do that after all this time not telling him?
Peter decides he will have to figure that out some other time. At this point, one week more or less doesn't really make any difference. It's still several months too late.
There's a security guard inside who checks whether Harry really is on the guest list, while Peter looks around the entrance hall. Half his and May's house would fit in here, and the artworks lining the walls are probably worth more than their whole house, as well. He takes a deep breath. At this point, he should be used to being the odd kid out, he had been that all the way through middle and high school, and now he's Spider-Man and therefore, separated from other people's lives by default. He's even keeping it a secret from his best friend, he hasn't told anyone since Gwen left. And he's not really been talking to Gwen either since they broke up, she is several time zones away and busy getting her degree.
Harry doesn't seem impressed by any of the things surrounding him, but then, he's used to this, grew up with this. The way he interacts with the guard can only be described as cool, maybe erring a little on the side of pretentious, and Peter feels that fuzzy feeling again. Stop it, he tells his heart that's beating just a little too fast, he can't be falling for Harry, he just can't.
He couldn't bear losing Harry again.
Peter doesn't really take notice of much of the rest of the house, he's too preoccupied with his incredibly inconvenient feelings, and with trying to suppress said feelings. The problem is, once he's let the thought form inside his mind, the idea of being into Harry, now there's really no going back. Every time he looks at Harry, he's reminded of the simple fact that he wants to touch him, wants to kiss him, that he lov—Peter firmly suppresses this train of thought. He just finds Harry attractive, that's all. No reason to make it even more complicated.
The party is everything Peter would expect from a filthy rich kid's party. There's a DJ from London who has been flown in for this, apparently, there's food that puzzles Peter because he can't begin to guess what it's supposed to be (even after tasting it), and bottles of champagne that cost more than Peter makes in a month. There are a lot of women who look like they would be right at home in a celebrity gossip magazine, with outfits to match, and most guys are wearing very expensive suits. Peter does his best not to feel intimidated.
Harry introduces him to all sorts of people, it feels like he knows half the guest list and they all seem to know Harry, and Peter's invariably polite but forgets all the names immediately. Finally, there's—
"Pete, this is Jacques. Bonsoir chéri."
Harry smiles easily, greets Jacques with a kiss on each cheek.
"Uh, hi, I'm Peter," Peter says eloquently, and Jacques kisses him as well.
Peter doesn't speak a lot of French, but he's sure that chéri means darling, which puts a bit of a damper on his fuzzy feelings. Which is good, he tells himself, he shouldn't be into Harry in the first place.
"Peter, such a pleasure to meet you, Harry has told me a lot about you."
"Er, uh, really?"
The bad thing about Jacques is that in person, he is even more gorgeous than on photos, with his smooth brown skin and his piercing dark eyes and his very straight nose, and Peter is definitely attracted to him. This whole party was a gigantic mistake.
Fortunately, Peter's question seems to get lost in the surrounding noise of the party.
"So, what're you doing back in New York?" Harry asks Jacques.
"Runways," Jacques shrugs, then lists a bunch of names Peter's never heard of. "And Prada of course, they are a pain in the ass but they pay well, so I'm not complaining."
He laughs (and what the fuck gives him the right to have such an endearing laugh) and Harry grins as well. Peter is busy suppressing two very inconvenient, very unwanted crushes.
"If you ever have the time, you're welcome to visit me, of course," Harry says, and Peter can't believe he's never actually seen Harry flirt. Because if this is what he looks like when he's flirting, Peter is completely and utterly doomed. "I'm in charge of my own hours, so any time is fine by me."
"Oh, how is your company doing, by the way?"
Peter can't take any more of this.
"Be right back," he mumbles, and searches for the bathroom.
**
Peter stands in front of the mirror, alone in the giant bathroom.
You've got to stop this nonsense, he tells his reflection firmly. Go out there and act normal. Please.
He washes his hands, splashes a bit of cool water on his face. It doesn't really help.
Oh, what a mess. Peter's known for a while that he's into guys as well as girls, and he's never had a problem with that, except now suddenly it's his best friend and he sees Harry almost every day and he doesn't want to stop meeting him, but he also knows that it's going to be hell from here on out. Harry is so handsome, so well put-together, every time Peter sees him it will be painful because all he'll want to do is go up to Harry and kiss him, ruffle his perfect hair, hear him moan—stop it, stop it!
Peter's feelings are working very much against his mind on this, and Peter's just a helpless bisexual who doesn't want to lose his best friend. Fuck.
He closes his eyes for a moment. He's not fucking fifteen, he'll get over this stupid crush, and then he'll laugh about it. Peter sighs, dries off his hands and his face, then steps out of the bathroom.
"Hey Pete," Harry says, "everything okay?"
Harry looks like he's actually been worrying about Peter, which is kind of understandable, since Peter just basically ran away in the middle of a conversation.
"I don't know," Peter says, entirely too honestly, because he's not used to keeping things from Harry. Well, except for that one really big thing about him being Spider-Man. "Can we go somewhere quieter?"
"Sure," Harry says, leading him up a staircase. "Let's see if there's a terrace up on the roof. There usually is."
And, in perfect Harry fashion, Harry finds the right path after trying only a few wrong doors. Peter supposes that a lot of these houses follow the same basic design structure.
The deck is beautiful but deserted, there are pots of flowers, a couple of artfully assembled seats and a porch swing. The view is incredible: New York in front of them, the city's lights like a sea of color, never sleeping. Peter loves seeing it like this, sprawling all around them, the city he loves most in the world.
Harry flops down on the swing and Peter leans against the railing, not looking at him.
"So, what's up? You having a culture shock? Too fancy for you?"
Peter laughs, then turns around to look at Harry, which is definitely a big mistake. Harry has put on his sunglasses again, even though it's the middle of the night, and the way he's sitting is an intriguing mixture of prim and careless, which Peter could never hope to achieve, not in a million years.
"Something... Something like that."
Harry looks at him, or rather Peter assumes he does, he can't be completely sure thanks to the sunglasses.
"Don't tell me you've fallen for Jacques."
Peter coughs and blushes and that's already answer enough.
"Oh shit, you have, haven't you?"
Harry laughs then, and by God, Peter adores that laugh.
"Well, he's hot," Peter says in his defense, which makes Harry laugh even harder.
"You want me to give him your number?"
"I can," Peter splutters, "I can give him my number myself, thanks."
Harry raises an eyebrow teasingly.
"You sure about that?"
Peter suddenly realizes something, something that gives him the sort of hope he doesn't need at all, the sort of hope that makes him have stupid fantasies and impossible dreams.
"You wouldn't mind? I mean, I thought you two were..."
Harry sighs like Peter is a child who doesn't understand why one plus one equals two.
"Pete, I'm just fucking him, why would I mind? Like I said, I don't do complicated."
"Oh," Peter replies, and he can't really imagine what that's like, fucking someone he doesn't love. Peter doesn't think he could do it.
"He's very good, by the way," Harry says casually. "Give him your number."
"I don't know, Har. I mean, what have I even got to offer this guy? I don't have my own company, or, or anything."
Harry takes off his sunglasses, looks at Peter seriously.
"You've had sex before, haven't you? With Gwen?"
"Uh, er—"
"And did Gwen, in the middle of that, ask you about your career options? Did she want to take a look at your paycheck? Get some fucking perspective, Peter."
Peter thinks he knows what Harry is getting at, but he's not sure why Harry seems vaguely pissed off about it. It makes Peter agitated as well, because his feelings are a mess and apparently, being angry comes very easy when you've spent an hour trying to suppress other emotions.
"Alright," Peter shoots back, "I'm sorry I'm not as cool and confident as you."
God, even when he's angry at Harry he's still complimenting him.
"You are impossible," Harry mumbles, and Peter is pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear that, but Harry doesn't know about his enhanced senses.
"Look," Harry says louder, "can you do me a favor and just, like, take a look in a mirror one of these days? Jesus."
Now, Peter's truly stumped.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Harry's mouth is a tight line, and he puts his sunglasses back on.
"I'm not doing this," he says quietly, but very clearly, standing up from the swing. "I am not doing this, Pete. Just give Jacques your number."
And with that, he goes back into the house, leaving Peter utterly bewildered.
**
Peter isn't sure what to do with himself. He stays out on the terrace a while, looking at New York, thinking about what Harry said. It just doesn't make any sense. It's clear that Harry is angry at him, or angry at something, but Peter can't figure out what he could have possibly done to upset him. He thinks about swinging down from the deck, then over to the next house, and then the next, until he's at home, but that would be stupid. He's not wearing his Spider-Man suit, and he doesn't want anybody to figure out his identity. Also, it would take at least an hour to get home from here even by web shooter, and Peter's not doing that to himself.
So, instead, he sighs, sits down on the swing and takes out his phone.
hey, i'm sorry for being angry before. i'm having a weird day, and i took it out on you. forgive me?
He sends the text to Harry. It doesn't matter what he did, all that matters is that Harry stops being upset with him. Then, Peter closes his eyes, leans back and lets the swing take him back and forth slowly. It's more calming than he would have thought.
His phone vibrates. Harry's sent him a green heart and a red one hundred with a line beneath it, then another text with two eggplants and a winking face. Peter shakes his head exasperatedly. He might have a crush on Harry, but texting him is absolutely terrible. What the fuck is he supposed to do with this?
Right on cue, the door opens and Jacques steps out into the cool night air, apparently alone. Well, that explains the eggplants and the winking face, at least.
"Harry sent you, didn't he?"
Jacques scoffs.
"I do not work for Harry. He doesn't send me anywhere. He just made a suggestion, and I chose to follow it."
Jacques is effortlessly beautiful when he sits down on one of the artfully arranged seats, a tall glass in his hand, half-full.
"What do you do for your job?" He asks. "Harry never told me."
"Oh, I'm a photographer."
Peter feels a little stupid, not knowing what else to say.
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why?"
Jacques studies him, like he's trying to look right into his soul.
"I mean, that's not a job you take because you need the money... Like, business administration for example. Nobody likes working in business administration, but people do it because it's a job that's safe. Being a photographer, that's not safe. Why do you do it?"
Peter realizes that nobody has ever really asked him before.
"I... You know, there's so many moments, moments in life, that happen once and then they're gone. I mean, every moment is like that, but there are moments you want to keep, right? Or, moments I want to keep, I don't know. So, I'm trying to preserve them."
Peter feels like his explanation is a bit lacking, but Jacques is still studying him, like he's actually interested in what Peter has to say.
"Why do you do modeling?"
Jacques laughs.
"It's simple: I enjoy people looking at me."
Now, Peter laughs as well.
"Come on, that can't be all there is to it."
"It's like this, your moments? You want to preserve them... I want to create them. Every job where people look at other people, modeling, acting, dancing, whatever, you create a fantasy. You want to create a moment that makes people think: I want to keep that with me. That's why I do it."
They look at each other for a moment, then Jacques takes a sip of his drink, smiles.
"You want to make out?"
Peter laughs. Jacques is still looking at him.
"Wait, seriously? Why would you want to make out with me?"
He shrugs.
"Why not?"
When Peter doesn't react, Jacques sighs.
"Oh, Americans, always so prude. Forget I asked."
He stands up, turns to leave.
"No, wait!" Peter jumps up from the swing, a little higher than humans normally do, and thank God Jacques has his back turned. "I want to make out with you."
The first thing Peter notices about kissing Jacques is the sweetness of the drink that's still on his lips. He's never kissed anybody other than Gwen, and this is nothing like kissing Gwen. For one thing, Jacques is taller than him, so Peter's whole body is bent differently. For another, Jacques doesn't smile and giggle, doesn't keep it light and fun. Instead, he very much takes the lead, and Peter feels like he's being pulled along into a strange and vast wonderland. If Gwen was Kansas, then this... isn't Kansas.
Peter doesn't have a lot of time to think. He's mostly preoccupied by the sensations: Jacques's enticing, manly scent, the way his body feels against Peter's, hard and lean, all muscle. His tongue against Peter's own, it all feels really, really good. And yet, this is not Harry.
Peter can't help but think of Harry, his stupid sunglasses, his pretentious grin, his ridiculous hair, the way his ass looks way too good in those tight jeans...
Peter breaks the kiss.
"I... I can't, I'm sorry. I'm in love with someone else and I don't... Maybe I am a prude American."
Peter smiles awkwardly at Jacques, then he realizes what he just said.
In love.
Fuck.
It's true, and it has been true for some time, although Peter always told himself it was just friendship, he was just very good friends with Harry, he just liked being close to him for no reason other than they were friends, he just missed him whenever he wasn't with him and—Peter could slap himself. Ugh, he should never have let this happen.
Jacques smiles easily.
"Don't worry, no pressure. You taste good."
He winks at him, and then he turns to leave, taking his drink with him. Peter watches him walk to the door and can only think of Harry, and how badly he wants to kiss Harry like that.
"By the way, when you've worked things out with your boyfriend, tell him to give me my pants back. They're my best pair."
Peter stares at the slowly closing door, dumbfounded.
**
Peter finds Harry downstairs, holding a conversation with a handful of people who are all listening raptly to what Harry says. Or rather, pretending to be listening raptly. Peter watches them and sees the little signs: the smiles that are a little too fake, the laughter that's a little too loud, how some of them have glassy eyes... Peter decides he hates this party.
He nods towards Harry, who excuses himself and makes his way over to Peter.
"What, back already?"
Harry seems to have been drinking quite a bit, which is saying something considering he was self-medicating with alcohol for months before being cured of his father's disease.
"Har, I want to leave. And we need to talk."
"Peter, the party hasn't even started yet. There's gonna be a giant cake and strippers, or so I hear."
"Since when do you care about strippers? You're not even into women."
Harry chuckles.
"Yeah, but the cake, Pete! And maybe they'll have male strippers this time, who knows."
Peter sighs.
"You can hire as many strippers as you like any time you want. I need to talk to you."
He looks at Harry earnestly, and Harry stares back at him, suddenly completely serious.
"Alright."
Harry makes his way straight to the front door without another word, and Peter follows him, trying to figure out what to even say. It's a lost cause.
Harry's limo is in the driveway, and the driver opens the doors for them. Peter wants to shake his head. These rich people... But this is a discussion for another day. Right now, Peter has more pressing concerns.
"Look, Harry," he says when they're inside the limo, thankful that the driver won't be able to hear their conversation. "About tonight, I—I don't know what I did to upset you, and I'm really sorry. But I don't want you to send people to me just because you think I need to get laid. I can get laid alright without your help."
Harry scoffs.
"Oh yeah? I'd like to see that happening."
"Harry, what's your problem?"
Harry stares at him.
"My problem? My problem? Alright, I'll tell you what's my fucking problem. You know what this is? This is complicated, Pete! This is everything I didn't want. You know, normally, I..."
Harry doesn't finish his sentence.
"Normally, you what?"
Harry sighs.
"Look, I'm going to be honest with you, Peter. I like being fucked by people who know how to fuck. I like having my bed all to myself at night. I like not having these... fucking feelings."
"Are you saying you have feelings for me?"
Harry gestures at him angrily.
"Yes! Obviously! How could you miss that? I'm inviting you over all the time! You're practically living at my house! That's not what friends do."
Peter stares at him.
"You basically told me to fuck somebody else tonight!"
"Uh, yeah, so I could finally get over you. If you'd just go out and live a little, but no, you're always there, right in front of me, and looking at me with those big eyes, and then you're saying stuff like nobody wants you, which is just the dumbest shit I have ever heard, and I have heard a lot of dumb shit in my life, Peter. You are absolutely infuriating."
Peter leans forward and kisses him.
Harry kisses back with fervor, grabs Peter's head like his life depends on it and pulls him closer. It's wet, it's sloppy, it's messy, it's absolutely perfect.
Peter's heart is beating fast, making his pulse race, his skin feels like it's on fire, in the best possible way. He wants to touch every inch of Harry, wants to know everything about him, wants to make him smile, wants to protect him, Peter wants and wants and wants. And maybe, with Harry, he can have those things.
"I have to tell you something," Peter says when they're breaking the kiss. "I'm Spider-Man."
Harry gives him a look.
"Obviously."
"What?"
"Come on, it wasn't hard to figure out. I'm a rich genius, Parker."
Peter bites his lower lip.
"You're not mad?"
"Let me guess: You didn't tell me because you wanted to protect me, or something equally as stupid?"
"It's not stupid," Peter complains. "I don't want to put the people I love in danger."
"No, it's completely stupid. Because if one of your illustrious enemies does figure out who you are, and decides to kidnap your aunt or, you know, me, that leaves us, the kidnappees, at a huge disadvantage. Because in your scenario, we don't know we have to look out for kidnappers, we don't know why we're being kidnapped, and we don't know we could call you for help. Like I said, completely stupid and a big mistake from a tactical point of view."
"Why are we talking about this? I wanted to confess my feelings to you and now we're talking about what? My tactical mistakes?"
Harry rolls his eyes.
"Oh, now you tell me you have feelings for me. After me babbling about mine for ten minutes. You know what? You're a jerk, Parker."
He kisses Peter again, and Peter grins against his lips.
"You don't mind if it's going to be complicated?"
Harry sighs.
"When it's you? Not so much."
"Well, about those other things," Peter says lightly, "you're right, I don't know how to fuck. But I can learn, right? And I don't need to stay the night if you don't want me to."
Harry looks at him.
"No, you're staying."
And that settles that.