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Peter drew his knees close to his chest, knobs of his spine digging uncomfortably into the wall behind him. He stared at his bedspread, at the little color he could make out in almost pitch black. He was tired. So, so tired. He could count on one hand the hours he’d slept the past week.
His shoulders twitched, curling further into himself. His breathing was shallow, joints aching with fiery burns. The bandaged wound on his side wailed for him to take proper care of it. To wash it; to actually attempt to give a shit.
He squeezed his arm harder down over the wound, trying to ignore the discomfort lodged between his ribs. It scratched at his bones, at his skin. He swallowed thickly, opting to ignore it instead.
Distant music poured through his shitty headphones, light strums of guitar and low notes of piano. It twirled his stomach in a swirling rhythm, his heart skipping light beats in tune to the melody.
He huffed a tiny sigh, pulling himself up from his bed. Peter stole a glance at his closet, at the suit hidden beneath a pile of shirts and pants and hoodies. He inhaled sharply, picking up his backpack instead. He shoved his feet into battered Chucks, not bothering with socks.
By the light of his phone and one odd lamp in the kitchen, he scrawled a note to May, informing her that he’d left early. He left it propped on the stove, a little heart next to his inked name.
The air outside was cold, yet welcoming. Dew settled on the grass; he was sure he’d be able to see the stars above, if the city lights weren’t so bright. Without a second thought, Peter switched the song streaming into his headphones, allowing the tinny voice of the artist to float through his head. Then he started walking.
He didn’t look back. He allowed his instinct guide him along a familiar path, buildings recognizable, even to his exhausted eyes. A faint smile ghosted over his lips.
Peter sat on a cement planter he found, the bricks unstable beneath him. He dropped his head in his hands, cursing himself and his stupidity. “Christ,” he whispered. “It’s fucking two in the morning, Parker. Only the insane are awake.” The unhelpful little voice in his head reminded him that he was also awake. He ignored it.
He stood again, shoulders dropping under not the weight of his bag, but the heaviness of his anxiety. He made his way to the giant tower of glass, pushing the door open weakly. He was surprised the tower was even open at the hour. The woman there met his tired gaze, eyebrows furrowing.
“Is-“ his voice strained, choking in his throat. “Is Harry here?” He spat out.
“I suppose you don’t have an appointment, then?” She joked, chuckling a bit.
Peter shrugged helplessly. “You got a special protocol for dealing with a ‘Peter Parker’ here?” He attempted.
“Sorry, but no.” She smiled at him, albeit sadly.
“It’s okay.” He forced a grin.
Thick silence fell between the two. After what felt like hours, the woman finally spoke. “I could phone Mister Osborn to see if he’s awake, if you’d like.” Her eyes melted in sympathy.
Peter nodded silently. He spaced out as she dialed the number into her shitty, office-grade phone; waiting for the call to eventually go through. He zoned through the snippets of conversation he didn’t really care about. He blamed himself over and over, in his head. It was stupid, stupid, so stupid.
He heard the phone click as the woman set it down. “He’s awake.” She sent him a smile, one Peter couldn’t recognize between practiced and genuine.
“Thank you.” He managed to force out, a hint of a grateful grin passing over his features.
Silence was interrupted; the ding of the elevator. Peter assumed it to be an employee working late finally heading home. Instead, one Harry Osborn stepped out, not seeming to look much better than how Peter thought himself to look just then.
“Hey, Pete.” The man gave him an obviously faked smile; it didn’t meet his eyes.
“Hey, Har.”
Peter shuffled closer to the other man, their eyes meeting silently. Harry twisted his fingers with Peter’s, guiding him into the elevator.
“Rough night?” He asked once the doors slid shut.
Peter nodded. “You too?”
Harry shrugged. “Only so far one can get with a crippling disease, a lack of information and thousands of dollars worth of alcohol.” He stole a look at his hand, nose wrinkling at the ugly green creeping up his fingers. “You?” His voice was softer, now; as he looked at Peter.
“Only so much one can do with anxiety and shitty music.” He bit his tongue, knowing he was downplaying the situation. He, unfortunately, didn’t posses the bluntness Harry entered things with.
“What was it about?” Harry rubbed his thumb over the back of Peter’s knuckles.
“Everything, Har. Fucking everything.” A sob threatened to force itself up his throat.
Harry drifted his gaze to the elevator doors as they opened, dragging Peter into his apartment.
They settled on the spacious couch, Peter’s backpack thrown to the floor, shoes beside it. He lay back on Harry, using him as a glorified cushion.
“I’ve barely graduated high school and college is already looming over me. I haven’t even sent anyone a single fucking application yet. God, I-“ He pressed his palms over his eyes. “It’s all about grades, isn’t it?”
Harry hummed, hands settling to clasp one another over Peter’s stomach. “You don’t want to go to college?” He questioned.
“I do, Har, believe me; but not right now. No way in hell could I ever afforded any college, what with my job.” He sputtered. “I’m just focused on taking down the next villain of the week and trying to find virtually any apartment above fifty square feet.” He sighed, sounding years older than he actually was.
“Just move in with me. Then think about college when you feel comfortable enough to.” Harry suggested, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“What?” Peter sputtered. “But-“
“But nothing. I’ve got the space. And then, you don’t have to walk all the way here during late night panic attacks.”
Peter thought that over, eyes drooping. “Harry?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Could we have those conversations in the morning? After at least three hours of sleep? Please?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” Peter whispered. He settled down, shifting all the more closer to Harry. He rested his head in the crook of Harry’s neck, soft breaths puffing against his throat.
“I love you, Pete.” Harry smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Love you too.”
Harry’s grin dropped into something far more gentle, holding the man in his arms just a bit tighter; just a bit closer. He rubbed his fingertips against the design on Peter’s hoodie, tracing the design lazily.
Harry forced his eyes to stay open just a tad longer, enough to ensure that Peter’s breaths had evened out into eventual sleep. With a final peck to the mussed hair in front of him, Harry allowed sleep to claim him, too.