Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter stumbled through the door of the newly re-acquired Avengers tower, his hair absolutely comparable to a bird's nest, and barrelled straight to the elevator without even bothering to check in at the reception desk, though no one tried to stop him—he'd stopped being a fresh face around here a while ago now. He'd been in and out since sophomore year, and he'd just officially been let out of his last day of senior year. Of course, he was being dragged to Flash's house later for the last day of school party, much to his disgruntlement, but he was determined to get in as much lab time as he could before that point, and Tony had said he wanted to introduce Peter to someone important.

With a loud thump, he crashed into the elevator and threw one of his pencils at the button for the 86th floor, where Tony's lab was, not wanting to get up. He was pretty sure he'd accidentally barged some poor, innocent employee out of the way as he entered, and usually he would apologize fervently, but today he was in a rush and a pretty bad mood, though as the elevator climbed, the negativity did a good job of washing away. Today, Peter acknowledged, was the most chaotic day of his life, and he was not enjoying it.

School had just been an absolute nightmare of kids being even rowdier than usual, which was something Peter didn't even know was possible. With it being the very final day, people were doing all sorts. Running through the halls, shouting across the room, and pelting people with paper balls had become the norm for the day (and, as much as Peter hated to admit, their logic was sound. What were they going to do, suspend them?). Then, after he'd torn his way out of that hellhole in favor of heading to the tower, the subway was packed tighter than a can of sardines, which was entirely odd because it was hardly past four p.m., and rush hour wasn't until five. And, just to add insult to injury, the wind had completely messed up his hair in the five minutes it took to walk from the station. In summary, Peter was absolutely prepared to tap out of today, and he was still being forced to go to a party later. At least the actual graduation ceremony wasn't until next week, he supposed.

The soft chime that sounded as the elevator doors opened drew Peter from his lamenting thoughts, and he realized that he had been half-lying on the floor for the entire elevator ride, and he was still lying there now. Embarrassed, he scrambled to his feet faster than natural for any human, craning his head around the elevator doors in an exaggerated manner to make sure that no one had seen him before he stepped out, dirt from the bottom of his sneakers scuffing the floor. Peter wasn't too bothered about it, though, because it certainly wasn't the first time, and the ground was also covered in larger oil scuffs that would never be buffed out of the ground that certainly belonged to Tony.

As he approached the lab, he paused to stare through the glass door when he noticed something very different within the lab—a second person, presumably the one Tony was to introduce Peter to. Tony was sitting in the corner of the room, engrossed in his phone with one thing or another, while the other person, the boy, was tinkering at one of the workbenches, and Peter was now completely prepared to defend the existence of love at first sight, something he had avidly denied in the past, with his life and more, as he was smitten beyond belief.

The blond boy in front of him, clothed in a flannel and muddy jeans from what Peter could see, appeared to be around Peter's age. He was maybe a few inches shorter than Peter, but he was rather muscular, and Peter was drooling like a dog at the sight of his biceps tensing, pulling the fabric of the flannel taut over the skin. Peter was sure his face was just as beautiful as his body, though, admittedly, maybe Peter was getting a bit ahead of himself, as the boy's back was turned to him completely; Peter didn't have a single angle of his face.

Yes, he was getting ahead of himself, wasn't he? He was fantasizing about a boy based on his muscles and a view from behind (though the view from behind really was something). That was creepy. So, taking a deep breath to compose himself, he pushed open the lab door and grinned at Tony. "Hey, Mr. Stark," he greeted him, letting the door swing shut behind him. "Guess who never has to go to high school again."

Tony immediately glanced up, excited beam easily rivaling Peter's. He got up from where he was seated in the corner of the room and moved over to him, clapping him on the shoulder proudly. "I was wondering when you were gonna get here, Pete. Thought you might've died or something."

Peter chuckled, and he noticed that the blond boy had turned to look their way. Peter's assumption was quickly proved correct: this boy was absolutely as beautiful as his body. He had striking blue eyes, face spattered in clusters of light freckles, barely visible to most, but with Peter's enhanced vision they were one of the boy's most recognizable (and most gorgeous) features. And he spotted that the boy was wearing a Star Trek t-shirt beneath his flannel, too. Peter was swooning.

"This," Tony began, gesturing to the boy, "is Harley Keener. He helped me out of a tight spot a while back, and we stayed in contact ever since. He'll be here for the summer, then he'll be down to MIT for college. Since you're going there too, I figured it would be a good idea to introduce you."

Peter stared wordlessly at Harley for a moment, and he stared back just as silently. He was essentially just told that he was going to be in this boy's presence for the next four years, and he was insanely grateful for it. Suddenly, Harley moved forward with a hesitant step that Tony had never seen on him, ears tinged with just the slightest of pinks beneath his strawberry blond locks, and held out his hand. "'S a pleasure to meet ya. Peter, was it? Tony talks about ya a lot."

The southern accent washed over Peter's ears smooth and soothing, and Peter was entirely sure he could listen to Harley drone on about the most boring thing in the world and still end up interested, even if it was just to hear that voice for a moment longer. "Yeah. Uhm, Peter. Peter Parker. Great to meet you too," he replied, trying to wipe the sweat off his palm as he grasped Harley's in a firm shake, and either he failed miserably at removing any of the sweat, or Harley was just as nervous as he was.

Tony glanced between the two, concerned for just a moment before his gaze turned knowing. Both Peter and Harley were usually such chatty people, and seeing them all clammed up like this, words catching in their throat before they could be said, could only mean very few things, and all of them were very amusing for Tony. So, doing exactly what he did best (conniving and sticking his nose into other people's business), he shooed them off to a workbench to tinker and make friends.

***

Peter and Harley had been working for quite a while, even daring to make flustered, stilted conversation at some points, and Tony had mostly been keeping to himself, brainstorming who knew what over in what he had dubbed "the thinking corner." As the name suggested, it was where he liked to think. In that corner, he had come up with some of his best (and worst) ideas to date. And while yes, he had been thinking up some ideas for a new suit, he had mostly been considering how to meddle in the new discovery that the two boys were almost certainly crushing on each other.

"Hey, you two," he announced after a moment, hopping out of the chair nestled in the gap between the two workbenches facing the corner of the room farthest from the door, "I'm going out. I'll be back in… a while. I'll be a while. Probably. Don't burn down my lab while I'm out."

"We wouldn't dare, Mr. Stark." "We wouldn't dare, Tony!" the pair chimed out in unison, and they couldn't help but let out a chorus of bashful laughter as Tony left the room, leaving them to their own devices, and they slowly drifted back into how they had been working just moments before.

Eventually, Peter heard Harley huff in a mix of exertion and annoyance, scuffling slightly. He glanced back, and the sight he found was an amusing one: Harley was doing his absolute best to force one part into another, his chest pressed almost flat to the worktop. He'd braced the parts in his grip against the wall and planted his feet firmly enough to the ground that his feet were pushing against the very back of his shoes and yet the soles wouldn't budge an inch. His determination was almost impressive, though, for Peter, it didn't outweigh how comical it was knowing that the situation could've been solved easily.

With a laugh that was kept firmly under his breath, he approached from behind. Taking a breath, he settled a hand on Harley's shoulder, and he immediately felt the muscles uncoil beneath his hand. Jesus, Harley ran warm. Peter was pretty sure that if he was any warmer, he'd burn Peter's palm at the briefest of touches. Or maybe Peter was running unnaturally cold today. It made sense—his temperature fluctuated faster than he could even get the words out to complain about it. "Mind if I try something?" he asked as Harley turned to him, crystal blue eyes blurred with the slightest sense of bewilderment—it was clear that the boy had been entirely engrossed in his work.

"Oh- Uhm… Yeah, go on then," Harley confirmed, though he didn't release his grip on the parts as Peter attempted to remove them from his grip. Harley's knuckles were white with how tightly he was holding them, though if Peter were to hazard a guess, he would say that Harley was entirely unaware of it.

Making do, Peter leaned down beside Harley to get level with the parts (and, by extension, Harley, too). He placed his hands over Harley's, and, taking them in his grip, he used them to tilt the pieces to get a better look. It was a wonderful time for Peter to take note that Harley's hands might just be, by some god-given miracle, even more callused than his own, and it didn't fail to impress him in the slightest.

Then, he dropped Harley's hand and reached over Harley's shoulder, grabbing a can from the corner of the work surface. Instead of bringing his hand back over, he simply opted to keep it looped there, using the crook of Harley's neck as a balancing brace, for simplicity's sake. He sprayed both parts briefly with whatever was in the can and set it back down. When he moved the parts back together, still puppetting around Harley's hands, they slid together seamlessly, locking into place exactly where they needed to.

Peter grinned slightly. "The miracles of WD-40," he announced in a jokey tone as he turned to look at Harley. That was when he realized just how close the two were. With his arm still slung around Harley's neck, their noses were mere millimeters from bumping into each other. Whatever shade of red Harley had been before from being so close up with Peter, he was ten times redder now, and Peter surely matched.

Harley's eyes were hazy, slightly, not quite staring into Peter's eyes but not quite straight through them either, as if he was lost in them, unsure of their beginning or end, and his breathing was elevated to match. Peter's enhanced hearing allowed him to hear not only his own heartbeat, but Harley's too, and it was hard not to note how their hearts thud in complete sync with each other.

Peter's lips were parted. So were Harley's. They could feel each other's breaths on their faces, hot and erratic, barely any space between them. Peter dared to lean in. He was frozen on the spot, but he still dared. But before he got the chance, he heard the barely audible whirring of a mechanical joint, and then—

"DUM-E!" Peter exclaimed in shock, pulling away from Harley. The pair were absolutely dripping in red paint, as DUM-E had "accidentally" dumped it directly over them. The paint can lay on the ground, barely any paint left inside for it to dribble out.

Harley just let out a defeated grumble, splaying his upper half out over the desk. He was covered practically head-to-toe, and, unfortunately for him, it seemed he had no intention to get up any time soon.

"Jesus. What happened to you two?"

Peter wiped his eyes with a grease-stained rag, and when he looked up, he met eyes with Tony. He shot him a pointed glare. DUM-E wasn't sulking in the corner in shame, which meant that he had meant to do that, and the only reason for that would've been that Tony had told him to.

"I'm getting a shower," Peter huffed, walking out of the room.

As he left, he could hear the fading bickering between Tony and Harley, that sounded to end in something being thrown.

***

Peter stumbled out of the shower an indeterminate amount of time later with remnants of paint still jammed under his nails, but what can you do? He made quick work of changing into the clothes that he had in his backpack, the ones he was going to wear to the party. It wasn't anything special, but it happened to be his nicest pair of t-shirt and jeans, the ones that were baggy in all the right places and tighter in the others—the t-shirt didn't even have a science pun on it.

He dropped down on the couch without a second thought, sprawling across it and taking up as much space as he possibly could with his lean, bordering on lanky body. He could take up a decent amount of length, but it was easy enough to tetris around him, given the fact that he was pretty slim all over. Then, not even five minutes later, he watched as Harley entered too.

Harley, despite the fact that he had no shortage of clothes considering the fact that he was staying here for the summer and had a complete closet full, was merely in jeans and a hoodie that had had its sleeves cut off. Peter was sure it had to be criminal.

There was now a crackling tension between the two boys, easily explainable by the fact that their lips had been moments away from each other barely a quarter of an hour ago. That would've been his first kiss. He was prepared to give his first kiss to a boy he'd only just met; he was going give his first kiss to a boy he'd only just met. And yes, maybe that would've been a very, very bad idea, but it wasn't like Harley was a complete stranger. Tony was a great judge of character, and he'd known Harley for years, apparently, so he probably wouldn't turn out to be s serial killer, though, much to Peter's dismay, he was almost entirely sure it wouldn't have made a difference if he was. That was concerning, of course, that being a murderer wouldn't have made him any less attractive Peter, but he elected to ignore it.

"All of this," Peter grumbled, more to himself than anything, "and I still have to go to a party later."

"Party?" Harley asked from the other end of the couch, curiosity outweighing the lightning crackling between them and keeping them silent.

Peter explained, "Graduation party. Ned is making me go because his girlfriend is going, which means I'm pretty much going to be alone the entire night." He paused just for a moment. "And even if MJ goes, and no one can ever guess if she will or not, there's a 99% chance she won't associate with me for more than five minutes."

"Ned? MJ?"

"My friends. Ned's been my best friend since, like, middle school, and MJ and I have been sort of friends since sophomore year," he clarified.

"Some friends you got there," Harley scoffed, though Peter shook his head.

"They're good friends. Just because I'm the only one who's alone and doesn't like being alone doesn't mean they have to dedicate all their time to me."

Harley shrugged. "Fair, I s'pose."

They fell back into silence again. It was less tense now, lacking the earlier sense of awkwardness that hung in the air earlier, but it was still a silence nonetheless.

Or, at least, it was a silence until Harley offered, "Could go with ya, y'know. If ya want, course. Parties are alright, wouldn't mind keeping ya company." When Peter stared in bewilderment, looking at Peter like he was speaking Mandarin, he added, "Plus, Tony said I need to "get a social life" anyway."

"I… I mean, if you want. Flash throws decent parties… apparently. According to people who like parties," Peter said after a moment of shock, rubbing his arm.

Harley grinned at the success, getting up. "I'd best get into my nice clothes, then, hadn't I? Hold on, what time is the party at?" Peter barely had time to open his mouth before Harley continued. "Ah, doesn't matter. Early bird gets the worm an' all."

And Harley whisked away, leaving Peter confused and startled in his dust.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, when the lower half of the sun was just meeting with the horizon, Tony was ushering Peter and Harley not into the back of Happy's car, but his own. In his words, "I'm allowed to take my mentee to his graduation party." Harley had made a teasing comment including something about Tony acting like Peter's dad in response, and though the man made no move to deny the statement, he did opt to act as if it had never been said at all.

The smooth purr of the engine, unrelenting and steady in its low volume, was probably not audible at all for Harley over Back in Black by AC/DC blasting over radio at Tony's demand, though it was a gentle thrum in the back of Peter's mind, providing a comfort he was steadily losing as they moved closer and closer towards the party, which he could tell was nearing full-swing already. Kids would be stumbling around, half-drunk on beer and hard lemonade by the end of the hour.

Soon, the murmur of the engine drew to silence as the car, impressively unsuspecting for being one of Tony's, pulled to a stop, corners of the wheels resting on the edge of the sidewalk just slightly, and Tony shifted around in the driver's seat, looking back at the two with his signature smirk. "Have fun, boys. Call me if shit goes wrong, alright? And that means anything from someone dying to running out of crappy liquor store beer, okay?" Harley rolled his eyes in response, but Peter just gave a nod of confirmation. "Alright then, you two. Be back before…" He paused, taking a moment to check the date on his phone. July 3rd. "…August."

As Tony pressed a button on the dashboard, the left back door of the car swung open (this was Tony Stark we're talking about, of course he had a multitude of buttons and doodads in every one of his cars; buttons and doodads were his thing.) to let Peter and Harley scramble out. When they shut the door behind him, he rolled down his window and leaned out, putting on those sunglasses that he always wore. "Oh, and don't get anyone pregnant. That includes each other."

And then he sped off before any of the partygoers could see the one and only Tony Stark, leaving Peter and Harley half flustered and half amused. It just so happened that Peter made up 99% of the flustered half and Harley made up 99% of the amused half of them. Peter stood there in shock for quite a few moments before he slowly turned towards Harley, as if he was just noticing something. "…Are you wearing the same thing as earlier?"

Harley gasped over-dramatically, as if the very connotation was an insult to his entire being, and his entire bloodline before and after him to match. "I most certainly am not! This sweater is fluffier on the inside, I'll have ya know."

A grin drew itself across Peter's face without him telling it to at all, as if a string was tugging his cheeks that way, and a mischievous twinkle found its way to Harley's eyes in response. Peter elbowed him in the side, and it wasn't long before the trickle of teens arriving had grown into the raging rapids of a jungle river, sweeping them away (much to Peter's chagrin) inside the house, where the festivities—i.e. beer pong, dancing to tactless pop music, and teenage hormones blending with sweat in the air to create a scent that only the teenagers themselves were immune to the stench of—were taking place.

If it weren't for Harley, Peter was pretty sure he would've gotten lost in the crowd; though Peter was taller than Harley and more visible over the crowd, Harley, with the power of his broadness and the interest of the other kids wanting to take a look (and possibly a bite, in some of the girls' cases) at the boy none of them recognized, created a wide berth for Peter to stick to. He may have had super strength, but in a crowd of teenagers, Peter Parker was not Spider-Man, but a daffodil being trampled beneath the hooves of cows in a herd.

"Hey, Peter, you actually came!" Peter glanced around, his head threatening to do a 360, until his eyes fell onto the speaker. Ned, with his girlfriend Betty tucked happily into his side. "Who's this?"

For a moment, Peter was a bit concerned that he'd lost Harley until Ned mentioned him, and then he realized that Harley was gently gripping onto his forearm. "Oh, Ned. Uhm… This is Harley. Mr. Stark's… other intern/protégé."

Ned waved happily, grin just barely passing for that of a sane man's. "Hey, Harley! I'm Ned, Peter's all-time best friend."

Harley laughed amiably, patting Ned's shoulder with his free hand. "Good to meet ya, Ned."

"Peter, you should come try the beer! It's, like, awesome!" Ned exclaimed, and Peter finally took note of the whiff of alcohol on his breath, not strong but still there. Ned was a lightweight, clearly.

Peter shrugged, quickly finding something very interesting on his shoes to stare at. He wasn't really interested in beer since it wouldn't exactly get him all that drunk—he'd burn off the alcohol before he could even get in a second solo cup of the stuff. "Oh, I dunno. I mean, drinking is pretty addictive, right? Probably shouldn't."

Ned rolled his eyes, though there wasn't any harshness to the action—it was playful, it was natural. "Oh, come on! At least try a sip," Ned pleaded, then, he leaned in to whisper, "And, anyway, it's not like you could end up drunk without meaning to. You're Spider-Man." Ned, Peter had decided many years before, was not a good whisperer, and he completely upheld that opinion. Betty definitely heard it, though she was definitely too drunk to process it, and she wouldn't remember by morning anyway, and Harley probably heard it too, though based on his amused expression, he was probably pinning it on being the ramblings of a tipsy teenage boy.

Still, Peter decided it would be safest to secure that assumption in Harley's mind. He rolled his eyes pack, elbowing Ned slightly. "Dude, you're drunk. I'm not Spider-Man."

Ned narrowed his eyes at him, then nodded with an exaggerated look of realization crossing his face. "Oh, I see, I see… You're totally not Spider-Man, definitely not."

Peter huffed out a laugh. "Fine. I'll try some beer if it'll shut you up."

Ned cheered, grabbing Peter and pulling him off to wherever the beer was. Harley was dragged too since he didn't let go of Peter's arm, but Betty had to stumble behind the group, slightly helpless. Peter just stood there as Ned pushed a red solo cup into his hands, full of what he assumed was probably beer. While Peter tentatively sniffed at it for just a moment, something just barely sweet mixed with the buzzing burn of alcohol, Harley grabbed a cup from the table and took a casual swig of it. Peter watched his face, the way it crinkled just slightly from the bitter alcohol before smoothing out into something clearly much more pleasant, he took a sip from his own cup.

Peter's face didn't crinkle as he took the drink. Compared to a lot of other things he'd tasted (his web fluid, for example, accidentally), it was actually quite mild. The taste at first, dull and yet somehow sharp at the same time, was slightly off-putting, and yet, as it melted into warmth down his throat, he decided that he'd finish his cup. Parties still sucked, of course, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he couldn't hold out all the noises and smells and movements and flashing lights from overwhelming his senses anymore, but beer was, decidedly, alright.

***

Time was blurring into nothing, losing its meaning, but, at some point, Peter and Harley found themselves slumped on a couch surrounded by other people. Harley was on his fifth beer, bordering from tipsy to drunk by now, and Peter was on his ninth, still barely feeling the alcohol in his system. While Harley chatted animatedly, southern accent seemingly getting stronger and stronger with every drink, Peter watched. He observed how every little movement matched up to his words. How his eyes twinkled as he recounted a memory, how he bit the inside of his cheek and grinned when someone said something funny, but not quite funny enough to warrant laughter, how… how… how loud it was. How bright it was. How cramped it was.

Harley seemed to be feeling all warm and fuzzy, like there was a blanket over his head, from what Peter could tell. His pupils reacted to the shifting lights, but he didn't. When there was a loud noise, he didn't flinch. He didn't seem to notice when people going by brushed past him. Peter decided that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to get a bit more drunk. He found himself wandering off without having to think about it, losing himself in the crowd.

"Flash." Peter couldn't remember the last time he willingly initiated a conversation with Flash, but Peter's eyes were set on the few bottles of stronger liquors in front of him and his group, who were definitely the drunkest in the room. "Mind if I have a drink?" Peter was reaching for the bottle of vodka they'd just opened before Flash had even answered, so it didn't matter what he said either way.

Flash's reaction was delayed just slightly, a leerish smirk creeping across his face. "Think you can handle shots, Parker?" His words were slurred, but that wasn't Peter's focus right now, because he had the solution to his overwhelming problem right in his grip.

Peter scoffed without a second thought. "Shots? Shots be damned, I'm having the bottle."

Flash's expression faltered for more than a few moments, trying to figure out whether Peter was joking or not, but when he realized that he was serious, he hollered out to the crowd, "Hey! Who wants to see Penis Parker chug a bottle of vodka?!"

People got interested. They congregated around him, a circle of barely a meter free around him. Peter was pretty sure he could hear people cheering, but he didn't care. He was already downing the entire bottle— hey, when did he start doing that? He didn't remember, but he wasn't stopping now until he drained the entire bottle because he'd be damned if he didn't get fuzzy in the head. And when he did, when he felt the very last drip in the bottle cascade down his throat, he slammed the bottle down on the nearest surface and let the alcohol hold as people huddled around him and dragged him away like a tidal wave.

He was dancing now. Or was he just flailing? Maybe. Maybe it was both. Why? When did he start dancing? Lights flickered over his eyes, but they didn't dare linger long enough for him to take notice of. There were sounds happening around him, he was sure, there was people and music and talking and songs and— none of it mattered anymore as his eyes settled on a face he recognized. He immediately moved forward, raking Harley in his grasp by his waist. He pulled Harley against him and held him there. "Harls!" he exclaimed with a giggle, rubbing against the other boy like an affectionate cat. "Come dance with me!" His words were slurred beyond belief, and Harley took notice of it, that and how Peter's breath smelled like an entire liquor store. There had definitely been some other drinks that he didn't remember since the vodka.

"Peter…" Harley murmured, letting his hands come to rest on Peter's shoulders. The concern for Peter was sobering Harley up a bit because, yes, he had only known Peter for a few hours, but this was almost certainly out of character for him. "Peter, how much have you had to drink?"

"Don't know, don't care!" he laughed, pulling Harley into the crowd of drunk, dancing teenagers. Harley had attempted to hold Peter back, but he'd been entirely swept off his feet, and he wasn't sure how a boy as weightless as Peter could manage it.

Peter danced with him, as confident and energetic and reckless as everyone else in the room, and maybe Harley might've indulged him if he'd been a little more drunk or a little worse of a person, or if he didn't get the feeling that Peter was going to throw up in the very near future, so, by some miracle, he managed to dance them all the way over to the door and bundle Peter out of it just in time for him to vomit everything into the rose bushes.

When Peter was done, they sat on the grass, and Peter tugged at the strings of Harley's jacket, whining indignantly when he called Tony. "Tony," Harley said, mildly exasperated and very, very concerned. "Can ya come pick us up? Peter's plastered."

"Peter's drunk?" Tony asked, genuinely shocked that Peter had the ability to do that, both personality-wise and metabolically-wise. "Peter? Our Peter? Peter Parker Peter?"

"He smells like a liquor store and he can't stand up without bracing on someone," Harley deadpanned.

"Damn… Uhm, okay. I'll be five minutes. And I'll bring water. Lots of water."

The call ended with a beep, and Harley looked down at where Peter had draped himself across his lap.

"Kiss me, Harls."

Harley blinked. It was abrupt, unexpected. It had been a few minutes since either of them had actually said anything. They'd just been staring for quite a while now. Peter, eyes struggling to focus on much of anything not even fifteen seconds ago, was gazing into his with such ferocity and determination that he was almost convinced. "Yer drunk, sweetheart."

"I tried to kiss you earlier, so why does it matter? You know I'd want it sober," Peter protested.

"Cause now is now, not earlier, sweetheart, an' right now, yer lookin' like ya swallowed the entire liquor store in one go."

Peter grabbed Harley by the back of his neck and pulled him down, bracing himself with his free hand to meet him in the middle. Peter's breath smelled like puke now, inched from Harley's mouth, and, if it weren't for the lingering scent of vodka and whiskey and whatever else alcohol he'd shoved down the back of his throat, he would've done it. He would happily kiss Peter whether he tasted like vomit or not, and, yes, maybe that was something you didn't normally say about someone you'd met a few hours ago, that was something you said about people you were in love with, but Harley didn't care. The only thing that could deter him from kissing Peter was if Peter wasn't able to consent to it. And he wasn't right now. So he pushed away just as Tony pulled up on the curb.

How long had they been like that? Or maybe Tony just drove faster than expected. It didn't matter. Harley was helping Peter off the grass and into the car.

Chapter Text

Even weeks later, the memory of the monster hangover that came that night was still fresh as daisies in Peter's mind, and there was definitely a part of him that doubted he'd fully recovered yet, and another part doubted that he'd ever recover at all—Peter still winced at sounds that were just slightly too high-pitched, like the brakes on the subway or the shrill call of a bird passing over every now and then. But, nonetheless, he moved on with life, though vowing to never consume eight bottles of alcohol in one night ever again, an amount he'd only managed to recover from his memory multiple days after the incident, along with all the other memories of the night. As fun as he remembered it being to dance and celebrate without insecurity (and as much as he'd enjoyed being inches from Harley in a drunken daze, seeing the want in the other boy's eyes, even if it had been denied), it was undoubtedly nowhere near worth the week-long hangover.

Through his recovery time, despite the pure discomfort raging through his body, he had insisted on working in the lab with Tony and Harley, and the quality time was nice, very nice indeed. Plus, Peter found that he had insane ideas that were somehow workable when in a state of delirium. But that didn't particularly matter, Peter had decided after a robot he had built started attempting to take apart every piece of technology around it. And now, Peter's and Harley's friendship had gotten to the point of bringing Harley to hang out with Ned and MJ with him. So they were going to the park that evening, where the boys could mess around on play equipment and MJ could sit and sketch in the peace of nature.

It was a warm night as the sun sat over the horizon, warm enough that Peter could wear a t-shirt without shivering, and he, much like spiders, had some serious thermoregulation issues, so going out without a sweater or long sleeves before 11 and past 4 was essentially unheard of for him. He was savoring this opportunity because he was almost entirely sure it would never come again. Ever.

He could feel the breeze against his arms and he didn't shiver—in fact, if wind was a physical thing, he would've grabbed it just to bundle himself up in. He felt so free here, like a kid again, and he was getting incredibly bouncy and hyper. Peter could've sworn there was a stimulant in the air or something with how he was practically buzzing, clambering everywhere he could get with his sticky fingers (so, everywhere, essentially) until he finally settled in the comfiest position he could get, giggling slightly.

MJ was sitting on the swings, drawing who knew what, and Peter was hanging upside down and swinging gently, his legs hooked over the monkey bars, and Harley and Ned were perched at the top of the slide (Harley was balanced precariously on top of the shelter above the slide, while Ned was sitting at the top, just far enough back that he wouldn't slide down), and they were all talking animatedly, MJ even slipping in sarcastic comments even more than usual. Peter was pretty sure he was in a dream because what the fuck, he hadn't felt this excited in years.

MJ's pencil was gliding across the paper, tip of the graphite just barely scratching across the paper, and Peter's ears picked up on the noise along with the rustling of birds in their roosts, and it only helped him grow more peaceful. This place was so safe; there was no one here to hurt them because here they were together and they were alone together.

"Hey, you three!" MJ called out from where she was sitting on the swings after a while. It had taken quite a long time to figure out what MJ was drawing, and it had taken even longer for her to finish, to the point where the skyline had already eaten up most of the sun, but, eventually, he realized that she was drawing them. It was sweet, and it had only made his smile widen. "You wanna go to the store? I'm paying."

The offer shocked Ned and Peter, but they accepted just as happily as Harley. They all scrabbled to get to MJ, Ned going down the slide and Peter gracefully disentangling himself from the monkey bars. Harley, however, who had intended to get off the shelter by going under to take the slide down, managed to slip, and he screeched as he dropped. Peter knew that, in theory, the fall wouldn't have hurt Harley, only giving him a sore ass at best and a bruised tailbone at worst, as the fall was really only two or three meters onto the soft wood-chip ground, but he still hurried forward to catch him.

Peter easily succeeded in catching Harley, of course he did, he was Spider-Man, and once Harley decided to stop his overly dramatic shrieking, he began to laugh. "My knight in shining armor," he said, leaning back in Peter's bridal grip on him, placing his hand on his forehead like a damsel in distress. Peter laughed too, tossing Harley onto the ground and feigning carelessness as he scurried over to Ned and MJ, who had already turned to walk off.

Harley caught up to them. Eventually.

***

As they pushed open the glass door of the small convenience store they had decided to approach, one Peter had shopped at many times in the past, he was hit with the blast of the fluorescent lights set between the ceiling tiles, and though they usually hurt his eyes if he wasn't wearing something like sunglasses, he didn't allow them to bother him right now, and they didn't seem to want to bother him, not when he was having such fun, immediately darting towards the candy aisle.

They were all roughhousing—even MJ, by something far beyond simple luck, had bothered to partake in their "dumb childish stuff," as she had deemed it not even an hour before, when they were sitting in the park. While Ned and Harley were arguing whether Pepsi or Dr Pepper was better (Peter noted that the superior choice was Sprite), he was wrestling MJ for the last box of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Even the owner, manning the cash register, who Peter knew to be very tough, wasn't bothering them, never having seen Peter so truly energetic. This was perfect.

"Pete, back me up here!" Harley pleaded, running over to where Peter and MJ were tangled up and tugged on his arm, pulling him away and making him loose his grip on the package (MJ's shit-eating grin of triumph allowed Peter to happily give her the middle finger) as he brought Peter over to Ned. "C'mon, tell him Dr Pepper is better! Pepsi is gross!"

"I agree, Pepsi is gross," Peter said with a nod, and just as Harley was about to begin to gloat, he continued, "but so is Dr Pepper. Sprite is way better."

Ned gasped in pure offense at the idea that Sprite was better than Pepsi, but Harley just sighed in acceptance. "At least I've proven that Pepsi is objectively terrible."

***

Everyone was laughing as they paid for the bundle of candy and soda in their arms and ran out into the streets, sky now darker, lit up by the bright full moon hanging with the stars, not a cloud in sight. They headed back to the park and crashed under the monkey bars with their stash, beginning to snack and drink, quickly falling into a sugar-high.

They were giggling and chatting and playing like kids, and Peter, much like the rest of them, was having the time of his life. Peter wasn't sure when he switched to hanging upside down again, but he'd done it at some point, and he noted that he always seemed to be happier upside down and always wanted to be upside down when he was happy. It was probably another spider thing, but he was surprised he'd never noticed it before now—he was usually all right at identifying his spider behaviors.

"Bet I can go upside down too!"

Peter, brought back from his thoughts, glanced up to see Harley clambering his way onto the monkey bars. He immediately began to laugh at Harley's fumbling form. "Careful, Harls, don't want to flatten that pretty face of yours," he teased as the other boy hooked his legs over the bar and dropped back, officially upside down and eye-to-eye with Peter.

There was a few inches between them as they both chuckled, having had far too much sugar to be healthy, and Harley reached out to stabilize himself, gripping Peter's shoulders and accidentally pulling himself a little closer. Harley's cheeks were quickly going flush from being hung upside down, though he didn't seem to care, more focused on staring into Peter's eyes. This was nice, so nice. Harley was holding onto him and he was upside down and this was perfect.

"Pretty sure all the blood is rushin' to my head, Pete," Harley said with a dopey grin. "How'd ya do it? Ya've been upside down for, like, ten minutes already."

"Magic," Peter said with a grin just as wide, and as he reached out to grab Harley and do… something, though he didn't exactly know what, the other boy slipped from the bars and dragged Peter with him. At the very least, Peter ended up cushioning Harley's fall. And now they were a pile of limbs on the floor, Harley's nose pressing firmly into Peter's cheek.

Harley looked up, face inches from Peter's for the third time since they'd met, and he was almost convinced that this would be it. This would be the time they got to kiss. But, then, the universe proving that it did not want them to get together at all, Ned announced, "Ew! Don't, like, make out in front of us!"

"Yeah," MJ added in agreement, her tone amused. "I don't want to see you making out with some southern rando you picked up off the side of the highway." She was clearly agreeing with Ned more to make Peter and Harley's lives harder than an actual belief in that statement. She didn't care enough about what they did to be bothered if they kissed in front of her.

"We weren't going to- to make out!" Peter practically shrieked, cheeks going redder than his Spider-Man suit.

Harley, however, had a different complaint. "I ain't no rando! I'll have ya know that I'm Tony Stark's favorite protégé!"

"No way!" Peter denied, tossing them over so he was on top of Harley now, pinning him down by the shoulders. "I'm the favorite!"

"Not a chance!"

The pair began to squabble, and they carried on squabbling. They squabbled, tossed each other around a little, and yet they didn't ever kiss. Not even on the walk home. Not even once they'd dropped Ned and MJ back home already. Not even beneath the warm, orange glow of the street light. Not even when, there, Peter bent down to tie up Harley's shoe lace that had come undone. Not even when he did it just so Harley wouldn't trip over it. Not even when Peter got to his feet and their eyes met, burning. Not even when the first drops of rain began to pour and Peter turned away awkwardly. Not even when Peter wrapped his arm around Harley so he wouldn't get cold, even though the rain was possibly warmer than the air around them.

He still did it just to keep Harley close.

And they didn't even kiss.

Chapter Text

Peter didn't even know why he agreed to this. Oh, wait, yes he did. It was because Harley agreed. Why was he so susceptible to Harley's existence? Peter didn't know. It paid off for Tony (and Pepper, since she was also very involved, but mostly Tony since he was the bigger public figure here), however, because he apparently wanted to make some huge public announcement and he wanted them there. Peter didn't want to be there, he was only there because of Harley, and Harley didn't want to be there either, he was only there because Tony bribed him with "you'll get something cool sometime soon if you do it."

The neck of the dress shirt was entirely too tight around Peter's neck as they sat in the back of the limo, and he had an insistent urge to yank his tie off, but, instead, he opted to gently tug at the collar of his shirt, trying to get just a tad bit of breathing room. He looked to Harley beside him, in a three-piece suit very similar to Peter's, only Peter's was almost entirely deep red with a black shirt and Harley's was almost entirely black with a deep red shirt; down to the perfectly mirrored shades, the pair matched so much that they looked like they jumped out of a box set.

Peter's eyes met Harley's for just a moment before he looked away, gaze settling on his hands settled in his lap—pale and slender, yet marred by calluses from work in the lab. "So… What d'you think Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts' announcement is gonna be?" Peter asked awkwardly, fingers trailing over the black metal of his watch frame and picking at the equally colored leather of the strap, dark red hands ticking over the void-like face. Harley had a watch too. Red leather strap, frame painted red, black hands against a red watch face. The fact that Tony could afford to buy a new watch—customized, no less—with every outfit would never cease to put Peter into an irreparable state of awe.

"Dunno," Harley admitted, looking out of the tinted windows when his eyes had nowhere else to turn. "Imagine if he says somethin' like, I dunno, we're the next CEOs of Stark Industries or somethin'. Would explain why he was so desperate to have us here, y'know?" Harley's laugh made it obvious it was intended to be a joke, and Peter laughed along, but the thought had, in truth, genuinely crossed his mind. Tony had never been so insistent on Peter coming along to a gala with him, even when he was making big announcements. It would've been something they almost certainly needed to be there for, to accept, to be there for the press to snap photos of for the new stories that would be rolling in with scripts written faster than you could say "quick, write a script for that!". Of course, it had only been fleeting. That would never happen.

The limousine drew to a stop outside of an absolutely towering building. Usually, the buildings Tony held galas for, whether it be for charity or an announcement or, like this situation, both, they were entirely modern, with windows running from floor to ceiling and a skyline view of the city from 50 stories up. But this building was limestone, ornate and old, and, as Peter immediately noted, gorgeous—probably one of those hotels only celebrities could afford to go to. It was basking in its own light spilling out of the windows, and Peter loved it.

Happy got out of the car—even he had dressed up nicely tonight, in his own three-piece with his hair neatly combed back, which was a very rare occurrence—and opened Tony's door, guiding him from the passenger side door onto the red carpet. The place was bustling with reporters, pushing at the barriers keeping them from swarming him. They were calling out to him and flashing their cameras, trying to get the best photo of him. It was like they knew something big was happening tonight. And when Happy opened the back door of the limousine, allowing Peter and Harley to step out into the limelight, they only got louder. You would've thought Peter and Harley had been world-renowned celebrities, but no. They were two teenage boys that the world didn't know getting out of the back of Tony Stark's limo, and, really, wasn't that the same thing? They'd be the talk of the town for two days, at the very least, making headlines for another three just for the mystery of them, and, in this fast-paced world, lasting a day essentially meant world fame, right?

The second they began to trail behind Tony, microphones were shoved in their faces and cameras were flashing like wild, but neither of them gave any reaction. Calm, picture-perfect smiles stayed steady on their faces as they walked, shoulders just inches apart. It was harder for Peter not to react to the flashes, but, if he concentrated, he could do it without too much issue. People were shouting questions at them, but they gave no answers, only shooting polite smiles to the cameras and slipping grins to each other, speaking the words they couldn't say right now—that this was literally the best day of their lives.

When they reached the doors a few seconds after Tony, Pepper was already standing there and waiting for them, and once she'd kissed Tony's cheek and rested an assuring hand each on their shoulders, she let go and opened the door, stepping inside. Others, not as famous as Tony but still absolutely notable enough to matter, arrived, though the press wasn't nearly as excited for them as they were at their and Tony's arrival, and Peter almost felt bad. Then he realized that he was included in the people the press was falling over themselves to see, and he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it. Plus, those guys were famous. They'd get over it eventually.

Peter looked over to Harley and was very pleased to see that he was equally as reeling as Peter. This was incredibly stressful, but he'd be damned if he wasn't enjoying it. Peter gripped onto Harley's arm, grinning wildly, and the other boy did the same as they stayed close to Tony's back. When more people entered, they schooled their expressions and let go of each other, but they were always just the tiniest shred from bouncing on the balls of their feet and giggling like little kids.

They barely even noticed it when everyone was inside, both actual guests and the press that had been allowed inside to report in person, and the doors shut, closing out the scrambling outside world and dooming them to watch over live TV reports. They really only realized when Tony put a hand on either of their shoulders, much like Pepper had as they'd entered. "Alright, you two, How are we feeling so far?" Tony asked with a very proud grin.

"I'm, like, 101% sure this is the best day of my life," Peter said vibrantly, "even though I'm really overwhelmed and will probably need a twelve-hour nap after this."

Harley nodded in complete agreement, and Tony laughed. "You can nap all you want when we get back to the tower, Pete. I think it'll end a bit late for me to go returning you to May," he assured him, and then he continued to speak. "We've got about an hour on our hands to socialize before the announcements, okay? Stick by me and do the best socializing you can. Make these people really, really like you. It'll help in the long run, promise."

"Wow, that's a whole lotta pressure, Stark," Harley commented in his usual jokey manner, though there really was the slightest undertone of nerves hidden beneath.

"Don't worry about it. You two are probably the most likeable people I know," Tony assured them. "Just be yourselves and you'll be fine."

Peter didn't hesitate to press his lips into a thin, skeptical line, but before he could say anything at all, someone had come up to them, and Peter returned to having just the politest hint of a smile spreading over his lips. He was in for a very, very long night, it seemed, as was Harley.

***

There were two microphones on the stage-like platform at the head of the room, perched on a table without any chairs—clearly, they weren't going to be sitting down just yet, which was unfortunate for Harley, given that he didn't have the same super strength that Peter did, and his legs would be threatening to give out soon enough. Tony and Pepper were standing at each of the microphones, looking out into the crowd. Everyone else got to sit down, so why didn't they? That was what Peter could tell were Harley's exact thoughts from just briefly looking at him, so it was good that the pair were hanging back, not the center of attention anymore, otherwise everyone else would've been able to tell too.

Surprisingly, Tony hadn't been all too wrong earlier when he told them that being themselves would do them just fine. Over the last hour, they had been made to talk to many of Tony's old friends and high-society connections, and Peter being mostly himself had worked a charm. He did have to play up a hint of dazzling charm, and although it seemed to come more naturally to Harley, who was always so outgoing, Peter tended to do even better than Harley at the charm game when he put his mind to it. It was a skill he didn't know he had, to be quite frank.

"Good evening, everyone!" Both Tony and Pepper greeted simultaneously, though Tony was the one to continue on. "We hope you've enjoyed yourselves so far tonight; I know I have! Remember, all proceeds from the event will be going entirely towards Stark Educational Foundation, funding higher education for people of all backgrounds!"

Then, it was Pepper who began to speak again, "Tonight, we have a very important announcement to make!" Suddenly, Tony turned to usher Peter and Harley forward, and this was now much more terrifying because this meant that they were relevant to the announcement, which could either be very, very good or very, very bad.

"Now," Tony started, "if you've had the pleasure of speaking with me tonight, you've met my two protégés, Peter Parker and Harley Keener. I'd gladly tell anyone at all that they're the smartest kids of their age, full of potential, these two. And that is exactly why Pepper and I are pleased to announce that—"

"Should they choose to accept," Pepper interrupted quickly, putting very heavy emphasis on choose as her gaze flicked to them.

"Yes, should they choose," Tony agreed, "Peter Parker and Harley Keener will be Pepper's successor in running Stark Industries."

It was like time stopped. Peter froze. He didn't even know what he was meant to do with his face, let alone say. He assumed Harley felt the same, but he didn't know how to move his neck to turn and see anymore. Tony and Pepper had just publicly offered to make them both CEO of Stark Industries at some point or another. Running a company by Harley's side? It sounded strangely romantic, to be quite honest. He certainly wouldn't complain.

As he regained control of his muscles moments later, even if it had felt like hours, he first turned to look at Harley, shock etched all over his face. Harley was staring back at him with a similar expression, and it was very comforting to know that Harley's first instinct to look at Peter the same way it had Peter's to look at him. In a nearly synchronized movement, they both turned to look up at Tony, any air in their lungs long gone.

"I…. Jesus. Okay. Yeah. Oh my god. Yeah, alright," Harley choked out, barely able to organize his thoughts, though he couldn't smother the pure delight rolling off him in waves.

"Oh… Holy… Us? Me?" Peter asked, his brain processing a little slower despite how it should've theoretically been a lot faster than Harley, given that every other part of him was enhanced. "Yes. Absolutely yes."

The attendees clapped and cheered, and Peter felt himself and Harley be enveloped in an all-consuming hug from both Tony and Pepper, and they were completely exuding more pride in them than Peter knew was possible.

When everything had calmed down, when the applause had quieted and Peter and Harley had been released, Pepper cleared her throat with a smile. "And, on that good note, it looks like it's time to eat."

***

Peter didn't remember all too much of the dinner other than the fact that the food was amazing and there was lots of talk of "We're so proud of you two, we're so happy you said yes," and how exactly it would all work when, eventually, the pair became the CEOs of the company.

What he did remember, however, was the dancing. He refused not to burn that memory into his brain for the rest of eternity because he was pretty sure he'd die without being able to think about it every second of every day now.

Once dinner had been cleared away, the band began to play, piano and violin and all sorts of beautiful instruments gracing his ears, and people began to move away from the tables and towards the dance floor. Peter stayed where he was for a moment. There were a few people in attendance who were only slightly older than him, though he didn't want to dance with any of them. When he turned to look at Harley, he seemed to be in a similar predicament, a slight grimace on his face as he surveyed the options. So, with a grin, Peter turned to look at him. "May I have this dance?" he looked stupid, he thought, holding his hand out for Harley to take with a stupid, unintentionally charming smirk, but maybe Harley just turned the slightest bit pink as he grabbed Peter's hand.

"Please tell me you actually know how to dance," Harley pleaded, his palms sweaty. He clearly didn't know a thing about it, and he seemed absolutely terrified of making a fool of himself.

Peter grinned, pulling him out towards the dance floor. "Surprisingly, I actually do," he assured him. "I'll teach you, don't worry."

Gently, Peter grabbed Harley's hand and placed it on his shoulder, taking the other and placing his own free hand on Harley's shoulder blade. Peter was quick with it. It was almost habitual for him, and Harley made no protest. Immediately, he began to move, leaning forward to whisper the steps in Harley's ear. Peter felt incredibly at peace in this moment, and he was almost certain that he could live in it forever if the universe let him, here with Harley, dancing slow.

When Harley no longer needed Peter to whisper the steps into his ear any longer, feet having fallen perfectly into the flow, he dared to speak, his tone barely audible, as if anything louder would shatter the perfect bubble surrounding them. "Where'd ya learn to dance?"

Harley tell as a fond smile crossed Peter's face without having to look, feeling the warmth of the reminiscent sigh against his skin. "My uncle Ben taught me when I was a kid. Said that I needed to learn a bit of grace—which was fair. I didn't really have all too much of it."

Harley giggled, the arch of his nose tucking against Peter's shoulder as they swayed together, the beat of the music just as irrelevant as everything else around them in this moment—to the pair, all that mattered was each other. And, when Peter released his grip on Harley's side to spin him around, even as he laughed, the loss of the warm body against him was a feeling of emptiness he hadn't prepared himself for. Knowing what it felt like to be held against the other, so at peace, Harley was sure he'd never be able to let go of Peter again. It was why, as Peter pulled them back together, chest pressed to his own once more, he didn't move his face away from where it was, barely a hair's breadth from Peter's. In fact, he would've leaned in had it not been for the dance continuing, pulling them farther away and back together like the ebb and flow of the tide.

He would've done it.

Had it not been for the dance not stopping for them, he would've done it.

Had it not been for the world not stopping for them, he would've done it.

And yet the world kept spinning as if that sentiment meant nothing.

Maybe it didn't.

After all, he didn't do it, did he?

Chapter Text

It meant something to Harley.

He was sure of that.

It had been a month since that day, and they were sitting in the back of Tony's Audi R8, on their way to MIT, quite literally the doorway to the rest of their lives, and, still that very moment was all that consumed Harley's mind. Even when they were swarmed and swamped by the press any time they went in public for almost a week after the event, as they were both speaking and smiling for pictures, the only thing on Harley's mind was that moment.

Jesus.

He could feel Peter staring at him. Maybe he felt the same way. Maybe he was wondering why he couldn't just jump over and kiss him silly already. That was a nice thought. It probably wouldn't have mattered if it was true or not, though, considering the fact that whatever higher power was out there—because there must be one; this couldn't hold up as coincidence anymore—was hellbent on keeping them from kissing. He wondered why. Maybe they would be some catalyst for the apocalypse or something if they got together. Harley would've kissed him anyway, world be damned. Maybe whatever deity was fucking with them was doing just that: fucking with them. Maybe they were watching them like a rom-com drawing on season after season just to be a money grab. If that were true, Harley would be having a word with that deity in the afterlife, should there be one.

His eyes locked onto windows of buildings passing by, snapping back to focus on another when it passed out of his view. The movement was repeated and steady. It was comforting. The feeling of Peter's eyes boring into the back of his skull was unrelenting and steady. Harley couldn't decide whether the feeling it gave him was good or not. He itched to do something and he itched to do it right this second, and because they were in the car, he couldn't do anything. Though, as he considered turning to meet Peter's gaze, as he considered doing whatever something it was that his mind desired despite the situation, the car jerked to a stop, and Peter's gaze finally diverted from him, towards the driver's seat, where Tony was situated. Harley began to process what he was seeing out of the window, that they had arrived.

They were sitting in the parking lot of Baker House, one of the residency halls of MIT, and Harley stared up at the building with a lump in his throat. He was starting to doubt whether this was the right choice. Could he hold up at a school like this? This school was up to Tony Stark's standards. This school was housing Peter Parker, Harley's best friend slash hopefully future husband (despite being incredibly intelligent and a future CEO, Harley was still an eighteen year old and had the fantasies of an eighteen year old who was hopelessly in love—i.e. a massive wedding, a white picket fence with 2.5 kids and a dog, growing old together and dying pruned up but happy and in love) who was totally a genius. He'd watched Peter do better in the lab hungover and half-asleep than he ever did. Was this really the place for him?

There was a sniffle from the front seat, and Harley snapped out of his thoughts. "Stark, are ya cryin'?" His words were teasing, bordering on judgemental, but, honestly, Harley was touched. Tony Stark crying over him and Peter going to college? He hadn't had a dad since he was four, but that certainly felt like something dads were meant to do. It made him smile just a little.

"Absolutely not," Tony insisted, though he was dabbing at his eyes with a glasses cloth. "Actually, I don't even know why you'd suggest that."

There was a wet laugh, and Harley glanced to Peter, who had tears in his eyes, and it made Harley realize that he did too. God, they were all crying. This was what family felt like. His mom was family, of course, his little sister was family, but it had never felt quite as loving and understanding as this. Back home, in Rose Hill, he loved his mom and sister, but there was a part of him that felt a little like they just didn't get him. But, here, they got each other. Tony got him like a dad should get his son. He got Peter like that, too. Considering that he was in love with Peter, maybe that was a little weird, but Tony was a father figure, not an actual father, and he didn't see Peter like a brother, so he opted to just not think about that any further.

Slowly, he got out of the car, and Peter and Tony followed. The door clicked shut, and he looked up. "Shit…" he murmured, a quiet laugh coming out of him that he immediately deemed pathetic. "This shouldn't be so damn dramatic…"

Peter giggled along too, gentle and weak. "Yeah… Never thought I'd cry coming to college."

Harley hummed, and then a thought crossed his mind. "Hey, Pete. What's your aunt up to? Shouldn't she be here, an' all that, given…"

"She couldn't get the day off. Hospital always gets busy this time of year," he said with a shrug. "She's gonna come up to visit on the weekend."

"'Least she hasn't forgotten about ya," Harley joked, but his tone was sad. His mom hadn't called once since he went up to New York for the summer. His little sister called every Thursday, after his mom went to work, though, which was nice.

Peter frowned, just grabbing Harley's shoulder. It was a nice, firm grip. It was nice.

"Can't believe my boys are going off to college," Tony murmured, looking between the pair. Harley didn't have it in him to tease Tony about calling them 'his boys' as if they were his sons. He was feeling just a bit too emotional.

"We'll miss you, Mr. Stark," Peter said quietly, and Tony nodded, blinking away more tears.

"I'll miss you two too," he said, getting a bit choked up. Looking a bit harder at the boys for a moment, Tony hesitated for a second before pulling the boys into a crushing hug.

Neither Peter nor Harley even considered complaining, holding him back just as tightly.

"Now, you two think you'll manage getting yourself settled in okay?" Tony asked after a second, pulling back and looking at them with the utmost pride.

"Course, we'll manage. We're armed my perfect muscles, after all, ain't we?" Harley boasted dramatically, and Peter burst into a fit of laughter that was absolutely contagious.

After a long while of the trio laughing together, they finally calmed, and fell silent for a moment before Tony clapped them both on the shoulder. "Grab your stuff from the trunk and I'll be off, alright? Call me if you've forgotten anything. I'll bring it."

"We will, dad," Peter said with a teasing grin. Something flickered in Tony's eyes, and he squeezed their shoulders a little tighter before he released them to open the trunk and help their suitcases out.

Harley was pretty sure he saw a full-on tear run down Tony's face when he drove off. He wanted to stay and help, him and Peter knew he did, but, since the announcement at the gala, they were famous enough, and having Tony Stark there too would only make it more stressful—he'd organized for them to come an hour before the dorms opened, too, just to avoid people stopping them from settling in.

They each had about two large collapsible suitcases with them, and, after bumping Peter's shoulder to get his attention, they wheeled them over to the door and knocked, waiting for someone to let them in, since the door was still locked. Surprisingly enough, the door was unlocked and pulled open within seconds by the person manning the front desk, who was clearly, very obviously trying to hide their unbridled awe at the sight of them.

"Mr. Parker, Mr. Keener! Pleasure to meet you!" they exclaimed, scurrying behind the desk to check what room they were in. The boys doubted they were this energetic for anyone else, but they didn't have it in them to care. It was seven in the morning and they were emotional and tired. "Alright, the both of you are in dorm 107!"

They grinned at the information that they'd be sharing a dorm, moving over to get their keys before they pocketed them and began to lug their suitcases up the stairs. "Ya didn't mention ya'd picked to be in a quad dorm," Harley said, getting annoyed at dragging his suitcases up each step.

"Didn't think it was necessary. If I had known you did too, I would've said something," Peter told him with a laugh, adjusting his grip on his own suitcases so he could take one of Harley's. It was a balancing act, and Harley was looking at him in a mix of confusion and awe. He didn't understand how someone as thin as Peter could manage to hold so much weight so effortlessly.

"Y'know," Harley started as they turned off from the stairs, stepping into a hall and moving to dorm 107, "I don't think I'll ever know how ya hold so much. You're 'bout as thin as straw."

Peter laughed, leaving Harley to unlock the door since he had one free hand. They headed inside and admired the room for a second before setting their things down. "Magic."

"Mm. You're taking biological chemical engineering and still try to claim magic? Guess men of science can be wizards after all."

"You've literally met Stephen Strange, and so have I," Peter pointed out, claiming the bed closest to a window. "He's a neurosurgeon who's a wizard. Of course men of science can be wizards."

Harley rolled his eyes, claiming the bed beside Peter's. And they began to unpack, making comfortable conversation with each other throughout, joking and teasing, and it was completely and utterly perfect.

When they finished their unpacking, everything set out in it's proper place, they rested in silence for a good two minutes before Peter spoke up. "You wanna watch a cringey rom-com?"

Harley blinked once, twice, then snorted out a laugh. "Why?"

Peter grinned. His laptop was already in his hands and he tossed himself onto Harley's bed beside him. "Because stupid rom-coms are the highest form of entertainment!"

Harley watched in amusement as Peter viciously typed on his computer, bringing up the movie. He let out the faintest laugh as Peter started it, and he settled back. Peter was, in Harley's completely professional and unbiased opinion, absolutely adorable.

***

Harley didn't know how he'd ended up here, using Peter as a glorified pillow as they watched the movie, legs tangled together like charger cords under the blankets. But they were here now, and Peter was really, really warm right now.

The protagonist and the love interest were standing under an umbrella just barely big enough for the two of them to stand underneath if they pressed against each other. They were staring into each other's eyes in a way Harley once would've called exaggerated and dramatic, but now, here, he realized that he spent a good fraction of his own time looking at Peter in that same way. Maybe this whole situation really was a dumb rom-com.

The rain was pounding down on the characters, covered by their umbrella. Raindrops were rolling down the windows of their dorm—Harley estimated that they'd started a few minutes ago. The characters were holding onto each other. Harley was lying on Peter's chest (same thing, right?). The woman was getting on her tiptoes. Harley found himself looking up to Peter.

Peter was already looking down at him.

Harley's heartbeat was pounding in his ears. They were alone. They were in his bed. There was no one to ruin it this time. There was no one here to interrupt them. They could finally kiss. "Why'd ya really want me to watch this movie, Peter?" Harley asked, his hand moving to rest in the crook of Peter's neck.

Peter's hand moved to Harley's jaw, leaning forward. He didn't have to answer. Harley's eyes fluttered shut. As Peter moved in, their foreheads rested together, the tips of their noses bumped, and he paused. It wasn't hesitation. He was savoring this. He was marking it in his memory. And, just as Peter moved in for the kiss, the door burst open.

"Oh my God. The news was right (for once…). You are gay for each other."

Harley didn't recognize the voice. It must've been one of their other roommates.

"We— We weren't—" Peter spluttered in embarrassment.

"Why are you so normal about meeting famous people, Marce."

Oh. Different voice. Both roommates, then.

"Because I'm not a whore for celebrities, Mr. Gold Digger." Roommate number one, apparently Marce (Marcy? Un-nicknaming people was harder than nicknaming them.) teased roommate number two, who, currently, had no known information.

Harley, biting back the urge to maul whoever it was who interrupted them, turned to introduce himself to the roommates. They had to be friendly, after all, since they'd be living together for a year, at least, even if they were massive cock-blocks.

Chapter Text

The night was still young, moon just barely peeking over the towering buildings of the streets of Cambridge, Massachusets, and Harley was strolling through the streets, headphones firmly in his ears. He needed to relax, to organize his mind, and silence was most certainly not the way to do that. Silence was a way to make him antsy, silence was a way to make him instinctively loud just to fill it. So, to mentally organize, he would insist that, yes, it was necessary to have music blasting loud enough to blow his eardrums into smithereens.

For Harley, it was easy to lose himself in the beat, to match his steps to each strum of the guitar and his heartbeat to the tempo of the drums—it was easy for Harley to become one with the music. Maybe in another life, he was a musician. That was something he thought about a lot. Maybe if he wasn't so intelligent, he would've been a musician in this life. But, as much as he did enjoy entertaining the thought of that life, he'd never give up this one—he'd never give up engineering, he'd never give up Tony Stark, he'd never give up Peter.

Would they have ever met in that far off life? Maybe. Or maybe Harley would spend that life alone, drowning in guitar strings and lyrics and drum beats, tragically alone, because Harley knew that Peter was the only one for him in every universe. His soul was tied to Peter's like a dog on a leash: wherever Peter went, he'd follow or he'd wait for eternity for him to come get him.

Harley didn't understand his own actions, which was an incredibly odd thing for Harley. Usually, he could reason and rationalize anything he did with enough thought and effort, but not this. He was swinging this way and that like a ball on a Newton's cradle, and he had no idea why. For some reason, since the closest him and Peter had come to kissing, since they'd essentially verbally expressed their feelings—

"Why'd ya really want me to watch this movie, Peter?" Harley asked, his hand moving to rest in the crook of Peter's neck.

Peter's hand moved to Harley's jaw, leaning forward. He didn't have to answer.

—like, didn't that essentially translate into "I'm hopelessly in love with you and you're hopelessly in love with me"? But ever since that, Harley had been battling between holding Peter at arm's length and holding onto him like they'd both die if he let go. It seemed he was at a stalemate with his own mind, unable to decide between running from his feelings or towards them. Every time one side seemed to be winning, the other pushed back.

Harley was pretty sure he really was dying right now, to be honest. He was going to crumble into the ground and never come up if he didn't get himself in order, and he was going to crumble into the ground and never come up if he didn't ever get to kiss Peter because Harley was convinced he was his soulmate. So, obviously, Harley should stop wrestling with his feelings and just kiss Peter because he clearly felt the same way, but it wasn't so simple for Harley, the world's most avid over-thinker.

His fingers traced between the lines of the bricked houses on either side of him.

What if he had been reading the situation wrong?

He kicked a pebble and watched it bounce off a car tire.

What if Peter wasn't as insanely in love with Harley as Harley was with him?

Harley circled a street light.

What if Peter didn't want something too serious?

Harley circled it again.

What if Peter was only physically attracted to him, not emotionally?

Harley circled for a third time.

What if Peter really did love him?

Harley started walking in a straight line again.

What if being together changed their dynamic and Peter stopped loving him?

Harley crossed the road without looking.

What if none of it was true and Peter was doing it as a joke?

That was what snapped Harley out of his spiral. Peter would never do that, he was sure of it, not the Peter he knew. But was his Peter the real Peter? Yes, yes, of course he was. Peter shared his entire life with Harley—his friends, his aunt (he'd met her when she came to visit on the weekend, and Harley would forever defend the fact that she was the sweetest woman he ever met). If Peter was tricking him, if his Peter was just a facade, he would've noticed something. And he didn't notice anything because it wasn't. Peter liked Harley and Harley liked Peter and Harley and Peter liked each other more than anyone else had ever liked each other ever.

That was often how Harley lived in his own mind, fighting both sides of a battle that only he could experience and no one else could ever understand. He often felt alone because of it. He didn't feel alone with Peter. He didn't feel alone pressed together in the lab with him, and he didn't feel alone drenched in paint with him. He didn't feel alone at that party with him, and he didn't feel alone with Peter wasted and lying on his lap. He didn't feel alone at the park with him, and he didn't feel alone tangled on the ground with him. He didn't feel alone at the gala with him, and he didn't feel alone dancing with him. He didn't feel alone in the car with him, and he didn't feel alone in his bed with him.

With Peter, Harley never felt alone.

Harley let the beat of the music lead him once again instead of the dichotomy of his two constant trains of thought. They coexisted and simultaneously lived in war, the same way music did. His thoughts spoke over each other and yet never without each other in the same way that all the instruments played over each other and yet never without each other—the guitar, the drums, the bass, the vocals; they all needed each other in the way Harley's thoughts did. They wouldn't be the same without each other. The music was just decidedly more pleasant.

He didn't notice where his feet were taking him. He turned when there was a turn in front of him and he crossed the road when there was a road to cross. Usually, back in his home town of Rose Hill and in his last few weeks in New York, it would've been no issue—he'd learned the streets enough to know where to avoid without thinking about it, and he's learned the streets enough to find his way back with minimal wrong turns.

But here? He'd been at MIT a week. He'd been in this city a week, and he'd only been out a handful of times, most wanting to settle in a bit more and get used to the area before they went truly exploring. He was so unfamiliar with the area that he didn't even notice he was lost until something truly brought him to full consciousness.

Something wrapped around his throat.

A hand.

A large hand.

A hand he didn't recognize.

It dragged him into an alley.

It slammed him against the wall.

The impact knocked one of his earbuds out.

His ears were ringing.

His vision blurred slightly.

A trail of warm blood ran down the back of his neck.

He was panicking.

He didn't show it.

"Harley Keener," the voice drawled, stretching out each sadistic syllable like it would make him more menacing (unfortunately, it did). "Didn't daddy Stark ever teach you not to go alone at night?"

"Didn't daddy ever teach you not to hold a knife to someone's throat?" he quipped, a confident grin crossing his face. Knife? Oh. The man was holding a knife to his throat. His brain didn't process the feel of cool, sharp metal, but his vocal chords clearly had. The man pressed the knife harder, the tip drawing a bubble of blood from his skin, and he stifled a wince.

He could see the man properly now. He was tall, probably unnaturally so, and built like a brick house when it came to muscle mass. He couldn't see his face, covered by a mask, but Harley figured that it didn't matter all too much. You didn't need to see someone's face to know whether they were dangerous or not.

"Don't get cocky with me, boy. Who's the one with the power here?"

There were other people surrounding them. Five. Not as big and burly as Mr. Masked Man over here, but they certainly weren't to be considered weak-looking.

"If I had to hazard a guess?" Harley chirped, furrowing his brows in exaggerated consideration. "I'd say it's me."

He gasped as the knife broke the skin further. "You're stupid for a genius, aren't you?" Mr. Mask snapped. "Now, listen to me. You're gonna come with us, silently, and we're gonna put a hefty ransom on your head for your mentor to pay. And, when he does, you know what we're gonna do? We're gonna kill you anyway."

"Ooh, such a master plan. One issue, though, that I'd like to point out," Harley quipped. "If you think you can outsmart and outfight Iron Man, you're absolutely insane, I don't care how buff you are."

SMACK!

The pam punched Harley at full force, and his head flung to the side, leaving Harley amazed that his jaw didn't pop out of place. However, he could already feel redness gathering beneath his skin, bruise forming already. He let out a groan of pain, resting his temple against the ice cold wall. This was not fun. Harley really needed some self-defense lessons.

"Normally I'm not all that violent, but tonight I might be making some exceptions."

Everyone looked up. Harley, Mr. Mask, his lackeys—even the rat that was scurrying around their feet. On top of the roof on the opposite side of the alley stood a silhouette—lean, just a little taller than Harley, and a voice just a tad too recognizable seeing him like this. That was Peter, but no, that was Spider-Man.

In a moment of realization, Harley's eyes widened. It didn't have to be one or the other: it was both. Peter was Spider-Man. Spider-Man was Peter.

"Ain't you that Spiderboy from New York? Go back to where ya came from, vermin, this ain't yours to meddle with," Mr. Mask sneered, gripping Harley tighter.

"I think you'll find that I don't appreciate people taking what's mine, even less harming him," Peter snapped in response, and he pounced off the roof, tackling Mr. Mask before he could do anything at all. The knife dragged across Harley's skin as the man fell to the ground, but it didn't cut anything vital (meaning his airways), even if the slice was a bit deep.

Spider-Man-but-also-Peter hit Mr. Mask.

He hit him again.

He hit him a third time.

The lackeys tried to bolt, but Mr. Mask yelled, "Grab the kid, get him to the van!" and they froze under his command, turning to Harley.

"Well, fuck," Harley muttered as they darted for him instead, all five of them.

He heard a thud and a crack, and Mr. Mask was out cold, (the crack was, presumably, his skull) Peter-but-Spider-Man by his side in seconds. Beneath the mask, his eyes darted all over, trying to find a way to get enough momentum to swing Harley away from the conflict, but they were swarmed too tight.

As one grabbed Harley's arm, prepared this time, Harley kneed the lackey directly in the family jewels as hard as he could, sending the man clattering to the ground before Peter-but-Spider-Man could react. Impressed at Harley's ability when he was prepared, Peter drifted just slightly to take on some of the others, allowing Harley to have a crack at taking care of them on his own.

Peter-but-Spider-Man didn't notice how or when, but one of the lackeys he was dealing with pulled a knife and slashed him across the chest. He cried out, faltering for a moment, but grabbed the knife by the blade and shoved the handle straight into the lackey's eye, sending him toppling backwards. That would definitely give the man a long-lasting black eye.

Thankfully, it appeared that one was the only one with a knife—in fact, the knife wasn't even his. Peter was slashed by the tip of it only, and he'd grabbed by the dull side when shoving it back at the man, and yet there was still blood along the length, meaning that the lackey had taken it from the unconscious Mr. Mask, and, much to Spider-Man-but-Peter's relief, everyone was out cold or incapacitated, and so he grabbed Harley and swung him away as fast as he could.

Still pumped with adrenaline, Harley wasn't feeling a fraction of the fear he would normally, so, as they swung, he wasn't screaming bloody murder. He gripped onto Peter so he wouldn't fall, but he wasn't going to vomit at the feeling of free-flying through the air.

And when they landed on an isolated roof, stories and stories up, Harley stumbled forward from where Spider-Man-but-Peter had set him towards where the man himself had landed. "Peter…" he whispered, and Peter-but-Spider-Man made no move to stop him when Harley took the mask off, and he wasn't Peter-but-Spider-Man or Spider-Man-but-Peter, just Peter. His Peter. His lovely, lovely Peter with his pretty brown eyes.

"Harls…" Just-Peter whispered, taking Harley by the hips. "God, you gotta be careful, Harls, I coulda sworn I was gonna lose you there for a sec…"

Just-Peter's thumb swiped over Harley's cheek, and then it trailed down his jaw, and then his neck, and then it brushed the trickle of blood running down from the cut on his neck, then from the wound on the back of his head. "You're hurt, Harls," Peter whispered, eyes swimming with concern, and Harley sighed.

"So are you," he replied, his tone deadpan as always, but gentle and hesitant beneath. "Arguably worse." Slowly, Harley dabbed away blood from Peter's wound across his chest with the bottom of his shirt.

"I have a healing factor. It's already healing up," Peter pointed out, and he wasn't exactly wrong. The wound was beginning to stitch itself back together.

Harley hummed, looking back up to Just-Peter. Not Just-Peter, he realized, looking into eyes that were staring right back at him. Peter, Spider-Man, all of Peter, all of Spider-Man—all of his Peter. His Peter was the boy who was just a touch too strong to be normal, his Peter was the boy who could and would and did hang upside down for hours at a time, his Peter was all the parts of Peter, whether he knew them or not. Peter.

"I still don't like seeing you hurt," Harley complained with a smile, and Peter grinned in return.

"And I hate seeing you hurt just as much."

"Kiss it better?" Harley batted his eyelashes over-dramatically at Peter, but he wasn't joking. He could feel Peter's breath against his mouth, and he was going to explode if he didn't get to kiss Peter right this second.

"You'll be the death of me," Peter whispered, leaning in to press his lips to Harley's.

The second their lips touched, it felt like someone had turned up the resolution on Harley's life. He felt like he was feeling everything about ten times stronger. Someone turned up the bass and he could feel his heart thudding in his chest now.

Slowly, he wrapped his arms around the back of Peter's neck and pulled himself as close to Peter as he physically could. Peter responded in kind, one hand gripping Harley's waist as the other buried in his blonde locks, keeping their lips firmly locked together as they moved with each other.

It was stereotypical, but Harley was pretty sure fireworks were going off in his nerves—the best fire he'd ever felt lit up under his skin, spreading like pollen across his body. Every touch sent the most unfamiliar tingles across his body and right down his spine, and Harley was pretty sure he wanted them to consume him for the rest of eternity.

After an indeterminate amount of time that certainly wasn't long enough (though, Harley was pretty sure eternity and then some wouldn't be long enough), Peter pulled away, staring at Harley. "I can't believe it took us this long to do that…"

"Probably because we're two emotionally awkward idiots and the universe hates us."

Peter burst into laughter, letting his head drop against Harley's shoulder. Harley began to laugh, too. It was a slower uptake, but eventually he was giggling just as much. He buried his face in Peter's curls, and they stayed there, holding each other. Laughing with each other. Loving each other.

Harley finally had it.

Peter finally had it.

They both finally had it.

They finally had each other.