Peter and Harry, October 26
Oct. 26th, 2014 11:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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om_mainHarry decides to take Peter out for a fun night of debauchery... and then feels suddenly abound. A lot of feels. A LOT.
Play spot-the-old-school-spidey-fam!
Weekends so rarely found Harry at Xaviers that, frankly, he'd come to miss Peter during them. Last weekend especially had been rough, with the gala and all that... bullshit. Combined with the fact that he owed Pete a fantastic time for helping him out (and not making him feel any more awkward than was absolutely necessary) during his lapse of Osborn Curse before that, Harry had pulled out the stops, this time.
He relaxed back into a plush couch, nodding slightly at the standard club music rocking the floor below the balcony. Harry liked this particular place because not only was the music not so loud you couldn't hear yourself think, but the VIP lounge upstairs was far more chill, almost an observation deck, where people tended to just hang out and talk--even do business. But because he was coming with Pete, and he wanted Pete to be comfortable, Harry had dressed down: a (super-expensive Armani) t-shirt and skinny jeans, along with current favorite pair of Prada boots did the trick. After he deposited his leather jacket at the coat check, anyhow.
He strolled up to the bar and admired the gigantic fucking cocktail menu on display there. "Shit, I don't even know where to start..."
Peter went wide-eyed at the menu, “I didn’t know this many drinks existed.” He absently tugged down on his sleeves, half out of habit and half out of the ever-present subconscious worry that his web-shooters were covered enough. “How about the one with the,” he gestured vaguely at the menu, whatever idea he’d had clearly lost in the overwhelming amount of choices, “stuff?” He finished lamely.
Harry turned a grin on him. "Stuff is my favorite. Hey, excuse me!" he flagged down the bartender--who had obviously recognized him and had been subtly watching for him to get ready. "Can we just get a bottle of Black Bush and a couple of Cokes?" In case Pete needed a chaser.
The bartender nodded and went to work immediately.
Harry shrugged at Peter, still grinning. "I don't do complicated."
“And yet here you are still hanging out with me,” Peter replied, his voice warm with laughter as he joked.
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and edged a little closer, “So, umm, what’s Black Bush?” A man in a suit that he was pretty sure cost more than what Uncle Ben and Aunt May had paid for their house gave him a look.
Harry shot the man a sharp, icy blue-eyed look that would've cut through glass. The suit looked the other way almost immediately--whether from recognition of an Osborn, or just of Harry's intent to fuck him up if he didn't go away. "Just Irish whiskey," he said after a beat of silence. Looking perfectly content, then, Harry returned his gaze to the bartender as two cokes appeared on the bar and the man turned to find them their bottle. "Slightly more delicious than the standard Bushmills, in my not-so-humble opinion. Coke's for a chaser, just in case."
Peter blinked as the man in the suit hurried away, then turned back at Harry as he answered his question. “Oh! Cool!” He reached over and picked the two cokes off the countertop, grinning at Harry as he did so, “I’m gonna have to add my drink education onto the list for reasons to keep you around.” He leaned back against the bar while he waited for the bartender to bring the rest of their order. “This is my first time being in a club too, you know.”
"Oh, Peter." Harry bumped shoulders with him, then reached out to grab the bottle the bartender set up for them. "Thanks man," he told him, grabbing his Coke and gesturing for Pete to get his, too, as he turned towards a little loveseat tucked away in a dark corner. Good for people-watching, Harry's favorite club activity. "I'm glad you told me. As a professional, I can now make your first experience everything you ever dreamed of."
“I’m not sure whether that sounds ominous or not,” Peter replied, his face screwed up in an expression of joking thoughtfulness.
Laughing, Peter dropped down beside Harry, sitting nearly thigh against thigh beside him. He took a sip. The whiskey burned as it went down in a way that had him coughing at first, but then he smiled at Harry and took another sip. “Alright then, Mr. Professional, where do we begin?” He held up his two glasses, looking at Harry expectantly.
"The Coke," Harry said, leaning forward to set his on the low coffee-table before them, "is only for if you really need it. The whiskey is what counts."
He topped it off, arranged the nearly full bottle for easy access for either of them, and flopped back in the little couch. It was one of those loveseats calculated to fit two people, but more like one-and-a-half if they weren't drunk and clingy.
Harry didn't much mind. He knocked back half his glass in one quick gulp, then threw a leg over one of Peter's, just thigh over thigh, in full on "IDGAF" mode already. "We begin, of course, Mr. Parker, by drinking. Personally, I like to people watch while I do it, most of the time, but since you're here I'd also like to talk shit."
Peter followed Harry’s lead, setting the count down on the coffee table, and then took a (much smaller) gulp. It burned going down still, but less than it had the first time. “By all means, good sir,” he said with a wave of his hand, grinning, “talk shit.” He took another sip and then rested his hand on Harry’s knee.
“Thanks for taking me out, man,” Peter said, smiling going softer.
Harry reached out and up to clap Pete's shoulder before leaning back against the cushions again. His Versace-booted foot swung slightly, comfortably, just beneath Peter's hand on his knee.
"Well, I wouldn't talk shit about that," Harry assured Peter with a grin and another, much smaller sip. "Thank you for coming with me. Last few weekends I've been everywhere but with you. It doesn't suit me." He smirked.
“Aww, Harry, you missed me.” Peter teased, making a playful pouty face at his best friend, a hand over his heart.
Peter settled back into the couch, looking out at the club, then at the gathering of people on the balcony, before glancing back Harry’s way. “It looks like you had fun at the gala though. It was all over the news. Aunt May wanted me to tell you that you looked handsome, by the way.”
"I'd totally ask her to marry me, if she wasn't, you know, your aunt," Harry said quite seriously--until a laugh burst through. Seriously though, May Parker was the best, and he would never, ever be so lucky. "I don't know if that kind of thing is ever fun, honestly, Pete, but this one was better than usual, if only because I got to declare my intention to the board publicly."
“I hope you took pictures of their faces after you did. Please, tell me you took pictures,” Peter said, grinning and squeezing Harry’s knee as he leaned in. “You have to have taken pictures, man. It’s such a missed opportunity if you didn’t. You could have framed them and hung them up!”
"Luckily TMZ got a few for me," Harry said with another chuckle and a long drink. Shit, he was gonna need to sit up again soon. Sigh. Hard life, Osborn. "I'd say I should bring you to them all to document my triumphs, but I like you way too much to subject you to those jackals for the sake of my vanity.
"Which should tell you something." He gestured with his glass at Pete and smirked. "Because you know my vanity rules most of my decision-making processes."
“Oh, yeah, big, bad Osborn,” Peter teased with a roll of his eyes, smiling.
He took a drink and then gestured back at Harry with his glass, “At least promise me you won’t rely on TMZ for all your professional photographer needs. I’m not saying they’re bad, buuut they won’t get the Official Harry Osborn Good SideTM.”
"I wasn't aware I had one," Harry said with a chuckle--and yet another drink. "You're hired, Pete. You tell me how to show off this mythical good side, and I'll smile for the camera."
Peter finished the last of his drink and set the empty glass down. Leaning over, he took Harry’s chin in his hand and turned his head a little. “Right. There,” he joked, grinning. “Official Harry Osborn Good SideTM. Lookit that strong chin.” He held up an imaginary camera to his eye and pretended to take a picture. “Click.”
Harry went with this like the world's most pliable supermodel--which was obviously not a thing he did for any photographer ever. "Did you get my Blue Steel? It's my best look."
He leaned forward to grab the bottle and top them both off as he chuckled.
“Until you perfect Magnum, you mean?” Peter asked with a laugh. His face scrunched up with uncertainty, eyes still bright with that laughter. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe we should try again? Can’t miss out on the infamous Blue Steel.” Instead of a fake camera, he held up his phone this time.
Harry picked up the bottle and held it to his cheek, making a sort of Blue Steel-esque pouty-kissy face at Peter's phone. "Blue Steel and Black Bush. A tale of the tragic party habits of one underage Harry Osborn."
Snickering, Peter took a picture. He glanced at the screen after to see how it came out and then showed it to Harry, grinning, “TMZ, eat your heart out.” He turned the phone toward himself to look at it one more time and then pocketed it, picking up his refilled glass after to take a sip.
Harry more than kept up the pace. If anything, the more he drank, the faster he drank. So about 1/3 of the bottle later, he disentangled himself from Peter, set aside their nearly empty (again) glasses, and held out both hands for him expectantly.
Peter laughed and slapped his hands into Harry, letting him help him to his feet. The room tilted and he let out another laugh. So, there was all the whiskey. “Come on, Osborn!” he cheered happily. “Show me your moves!”
Harry slipped an arm around Peter's waist--Mmm warm Pete--and led him down to the hopping dance floor. It was a track Harry actually liked, even, Ellie Goulding, somewhere between the fast bounce dancing he was terrible at and the slow close bits he could get into. Once he found a satisfactory spot, he didn't bother releasing Peter; he just turned towards him, pulled him in, and brushed his cheek against Pete's once. Like a kitten saying hello, come on, let's play. Then he started moving.
Peter was dizzy on whiskey and music and Harry swaying against him as they danced. At first he didn’t know where to put his hands, but eventually one hand settled on the back of Harry’s neck and the other found a place on his waist. He moved with him, relaxed, too drunk to be nervous and, besides, this was Harry and there was no reason to worried about his dancing skills (or lack thereof) with him.
“If I step on your toes, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Peter joked with a grin.
"I don't mind," Harry said blithely, readjusting so he could rest his forehead against Peter's. Well, Peter's was up a bit higher, but it was still there, pretty much. There was a heavy scent of Irish whiskey on their lips that made Harry feel slightly more drunk than he ought to have. Or maybe it was just how warm Pete was, so close like this. "Anyhow, if you can swing through Manhattan on centimeter-thick biocable, I think you can handle a little close-dancing, right?"
Peter laughed. “You’d think what, wouldn’t you?” he asked, amusement putting warmth in his voice and a lopsided slant to his grin.
He glanced down at his feet as if talking about it had made him aware of his own klutziness, because even if he wasn’t nervous, he still didn’t want to step on any toes. Then, wetting his lips, looked back up at his best friend. His hand shifted on his neck, fingertips buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. “There’s a lot spiders can do, but I guess dancing isn’t one of them. Except maybe if it’s the tarantella.” He grinned at Harry.
"I see what you did there," Harry replied, voice low and lazy with the buzz. And possibly also the way it mingled with the sensation of fingers in his hair. His gaze had affixed to Peter's lips when he licked at them, and he was very, very slow to lift it again. To Peter's big brown puppy dog eyes.
Harry chuckled--at Pete, at himself, he had no idea. Someone was most certainly behaving like an idiot, though, and Harry was glad he wasn't sober enough to be sure it was him. He let his hips align a little tighter with Peter's, moving to the music, and tightened the arm around his middle. "We're doing okay with this one though. No need to get fancy, Spiderman."
“Stick with the Foxtrot. Got it.”
Peter felt warm all over. It was normal, probably, like this on a dance floor, under the hot lights and surrounded by dancing bodies. It couldn’t have anything to do with how nice it felt to be pressed flush against Harry like this, or that the warm feeling sprung from every point of contact with him. His hand slid off Harry’s hip and around his back to the opposite side, holding him loosely, closer.
Harry put their foreheads together again; now they were pressed against each other, entire front to front. And moving. It wasn't dirty--really it was about as innocent as you could get when dancing plastered to another person--but Harry was drunk enough to admit to himself that he wanted it to be. He let his eyes shut for a moment and imagined it, let it heat up his blood. He tilted his face. Felt Peter's breath on his lips.
The tiny, not-drunk voice in his head screamed in alarm. Abject terror, in fact. Perversely, that just made Harry want to push it over the edge.
Peter had a sudden, overwhelming impulse to lean the rest of the way in. He always had this niggling urge to lean in when it came to Harry. An urge to get closer in some way, in anyway. He’d never ignored it, just turned a blind eye to what it meant. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Until now.
Drunk on whiskey and being close, Peter had to admit that the niggling urges weren’t entirely platonic. Those first crush feelings had never gone away, maybe that kind of thing never really did, and they had come back in full force when Harry had come into his life again. Nervously wetting his lips, he touched Harry light on his jaw and he leaned in.
Their lips met, and Harry's first reaction was one of happiness. Actual, pure happiness, untouched by wickedness, schadenfreude, drugs, or even desire, really. Harry tilted his head up and into it, eyes shut lightly, trying to sustain the moment.
In spite of the screaming that had already begun in the back of his head and was coming nearer and nearer to the front by the millisecond. Just a moment. Just this one moment, he pretended he could have this...
Warmth had bloomed in Peter’s chest, a chest that felt too tight, like his heart didn’t fit anymore. He wanted more of it. He didn’t want to stop. His hand slid further up into Harry’s hair, fingers curling into it, and he pressed in. His lips parted, catching on Harry’s bottom one. God, he couldn’t possibly be closer to him and he still wanted to lean in more.
(Stop.) Peter's fingers in his hair sent an electric thrill through Harry, and he shifted against his best friend--tall, fit, god no wonder he made that stupid costume look so fine--in a way that was all hips andbad good definite intention. God, he'd wanted it forever--
(You're a trainwreck. You'll hurt him.) Harry closed off the kiss and started another one, mouth open, tongue flicking out to taste him briefly. Just a little more, just another second of pretending--
(You're dying. You'll leave him.) And that was it. Harry closed off a kiss with a sweet little sound and pulled back so he could catch Peter's gaze. Mouth still open. Fire in his cheeks. Guilt in his eyes. He tried to smile but it was crooked and even more guilty. "I--uh. Sorry about that. Hey, but, you're good at it."
Peter’s heart dropped. His hand untangled itself from Harry’s hair and fell onto his shoulder. “Oh. Um, thanks.” His smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes and a blush of embarrassment spread like wildfire across his cheeks and down the back of his neck, erasing any evidence of the hot flush their kissing had left him with. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He nervously wet his lips. They were swollen and tasted like whiskey and Harry.
God, how could he have been so stupid? Thoughts swirled in Peter’s head. Variations of Of course, he doesn’t like you like that, Pete. You’ve seen the people he dates. Come on. and What were you thinking kissing your best friend? Why did he have to make everything so complicated?
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have--” A laugh, awkward and forced and trying to sound like anything but. “Wow, I’m really drunk.”
The kicked puppy look made Harry's generally cold, black heart hurt. He hadn't actually known it could, so that was... good to know. Probably. Way to go, Osborn. Way to fuckin' go. You're supposed to protect him, not fuck him up more.
Harry leaned forward and let his forehead rest against Peter's, his own smile equally forced. "Same. Was me, not you. Sorry." And there was a whole explanation there, and Peter deserved it... but Harry was too drunk and emotionally... something for it. So before he could dive into his best friend's fucking mouth again (man, he had a nice mouth), Harry pulled away, grabbed Peter's hand, and pulled him towards the bar.
Peter started to ask Harry what he meant by that, but then he was tugging him along and he could only follow. They weaved through the crowd, away from the dance floor, moving further and further from whatever had just happened. His gaze was fixed on the back of his best friend’s head and he tried not to think about how his usually neat hair was messy and that it had been his hands that had made it that way.
Moving away from the moment, in every possible way, was precisely what Harry had in mind. That was enough personal awkwardness to last him several years, thanks very much, and since he was too addled in multiple ways to figure out how to overcome it in his usual ways, distance was the only option.
Their bottle was upstairs, but the crowd was more of a maul down here with the plebs, and that was just how Harry wanted it. His hand sweating slightly in Peter's grip--and not about to let him go--he edged their way to the bar and waved for the keeper.
"Harry Osborn?" someone said. "It is you! I saw that gala stunt on TMZ, man, nicely done. Wish I coulda been there!"
Harry didn't recognize the guy at all, but he pulled Pete to his side and threw an arm around him. "Great, wasn't it? So, this is my best friend, Peter Parker. Peter..."
"Ned Leeds," he said, holding out a hand to Pete.
Oh right, the would-be reporter--or whatever. He'd stopped Harry in a restaurant to ask him for an interview when he'd first come back. Harry could not, for the life of him, remember for what paper or mag, or why a kid barely older than them had anything to do with it, but he couldn't have given half a fuck at that precise moment. He waved for drinks, indicating that he didn't care what, to the bartender, as the guy introduced himself.
Peter let himself be pulled and he automatically leaned in against Harry. He realized after that he should probably not do that and move, but it wasn’t like he could make a bigger fool of himself than he already had. Accepting the proffered hand, he shook it, offering a polite smile, “Hey. You work for the Daily Bugle, right?” He’d read a few of the articles he’d written about Spiderman.
"Yeah!" Ned who-the-fuck-ever seemed really happy to have been recognized. "I didn't know people actually checked by-lines. Good to meet you, Peter."
Harry shot Peter a 'what is up with this guy?' look, waiting not so impatiently on those drinks, arm still around Pete. Because... just because.
Peter wished he could say the same. Ned seemed like a decent guy, but the Spiderman articles he’d written had been scathing. “I don’t know if you should use me as an example,” he replied with one of his lopsided, self-deprecating smiles.. “I’m interested in photojournalism.” A small laugh. “And I am, as Harry would probably tell you, weird.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest over his shoulder even as the bartender handed him a couple of drinks--something with cola, and hopefully some manner of whiskey, who knew. He didn't get that far, though, as two extremely pretty--and way too young to be there--girls drew up behind Ned.
One of them, a pretty brunette, took his arm. "Introduce us to your new friend?"
"Hey, are you Harry Osborn?" the other one--a blonde with a little too much pink in her cheeks and a face to die for--asked. "Ned, you didn't say you knew Harry Osborn!"
"Oh, he does now," Harry said cheerfully, handing off Pete's drink to him. "And this is Peter, my best--"
"Peter Parker!" The brunette suddenly burst out. "From Midtown Science! Hey, where'd you disappear to?"
Peter hadn’t expected to see anyone he knew here and it showed, “Betty, Liz. Wow. Hi.” He was equally boggled that they remembered who he was. Betty had always been nice to him, there’d even be a time when he’d had a crush on her, but the only time Liz had seemed to know who he was was when she was picking on him.
“Um, boarding school,” Peter said with a small nod. “I, um, go to boarding school now.”
"I stole him from you," Harry said easily, catching the blonde's eye as she shot him a smile. He downed a gulp of his drink--yep, coke and bourbon, excellent--and put his arm over Pete's shoulders again. "Sorry, but there's only so much Pete to go around."
"Do you always get what you want?" The blonde asked, lips pursed, head cocked, eyes narrowed.
"Who's this one?" Harry asked Peter. "I like her."
Peter felt an uncomfortable and unwelcome twist of jealousy at the flirting, but it was still all too easy to fall into their usual banter. Giving Harry a grin, he bumped against him in a light, playful shove. “She’s way out of your league, Osborn. Harry, this is Liz Allan and Betty Brant. Liz, Betty, this is my best friend, Harry Osborn.”
Harry had no desire to put down his drink or to let go of Peter, so he just raised his glass at the ladies in turn. "Any friend of Peter's, etc. What are you all up to, tonight?" He leaned closer to say privately into Peter's ear, "Apart from underage club-hopping, like us...?"
Peter grinned at Harry. “What Harry said,” he supplied, looking back at the other three with a smile. “So, how, uh, how do you all know each other?”
Play spot-the-old-school-spidey-fam!
Weekends so rarely found Harry at Xaviers that, frankly, he'd come to miss Peter during them. Last weekend especially had been rough, with the gala and all that... bullshit. Combined with the fact that he owed Pete a fantastic time for helping him out (and not making him feel any more awkward than was absolutely necessary) during his lapse of Osborn Curse before that, Harry had pulled out the stops, this time.
He relaxed back into a plush couch, nodding slightly at the standard club music rocking the floor below the balcony. Harry liked this particular place because not only was the music not so loud you couldn't hear yourself think, but the VIP lounge upstairs was far more chill, almost an observation deck, where people tended to just hang out and talk--even do business. But because he was coming with Pete, and he wanted Pete to be comfortable, Harry had dressed down: a (super-expensive Armani) t-shirt and skinny jeans, along with current favorite pair of Prada boots did the trick. After he deposited his leather jacket at the coat check, anyhow.
He strolled up to the bar and admired the gigantic fucking cocktail menu on display there. "Shit, I don't even know where to start..."
Peter went wide-eyed at the menu, “I didn’t know this many drinks existed.” He absently tugged down on his sleeves, half out of habit and half out of the ever-present subconscious worry that his web-shooters were covered enough. “How about the one with the,” he gestured vaguely at the menu, whatever idea he’d had clearly lost in the overwhelming amount of choices, “stuff?” He finished lamely.
Harry turned a grin on him. "Stuff is my favorite. Hey, excuse me!" he flagged down the bartender--who had obviously recognized him and had been subtly watching for him to get ready. "Can we just get a bottle of Black Bush and a couple of Cokes?" In case Pete needed a chaser.
The bartender nodded and went to work immediately.
Harry shrugged at Peter, still grinning. "I don't do complicated."
“And yet here you are still hanging out with me,” Peter replied, his voice warm with laughter as he joked.
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and edged a little closer, “So, umm, what’s Black Bush?” A man in a suit that he was pretty sure cost more than what Uncle Ben and Aunt May had paid for their house gave him a look.
Harry shot the man a sharp, icy blue-eyed look that would've cut through glass. The suit looked the other way almost immediately--whether from recognition of an Osborn, or just of Harry's intent to fuck him up if he didn't go away. "Just Irish whiskey," he said after a beat of silence. Looking perfectly content, then, Harry returned his gaze to the bartender as two cokes appeared on the bar and the man turned to find them their bottle. "Slightly more delicious than the standard Bushmills, in my not-so-humble opinion. Coke's for a chaser, just in case."
Peter blinked as the man in the suit hurried away, then turned back at Harry as he answered his question. “Oh! Cool!” He reached over and picked the two cokes off the countertop, grinning at Harry as he did so, “I’m gonna have to add my drink education onto the list for reasons to keep you around.” He leaned back against the bar while he waited for the bartender to bring the rest of their order. “This is my first time being in a club too, you know.”
"Oh, Peter." Harry bumped shoulders with him, then reached out to grab the bottle the bartender set up for them. "Thanks man," he told him, grabbing his Coke and gesturing for Pete to get his, too, as he turned towards a little loveseat tucked away in a dark corner. Good for people-watching, Harry's favorite club activity. "I'm glad you told me. As a professional, I can now make your first experience everything you ever dreamed of."
“I’m not sure whether that sounds ominous or not,” Peter replied, his face screwed up in an expression of joking thoughtfulness.
Laughing, Peter dropped down beside Harry, sitting nearly thigh against thigh beside him. He took a sip. The whiskey burned as it went down in a way that had him coughing at first, but then he smiled at Harry and took another sip. “Alright then, Mr. Professional, where do we begin?” He held up his two glasses, looking at Harry expectantly.
"The Coke," Harry said, leaning forward to set his on the low coffee-table before them, "is only for if you really need it. The whiskey is what counts."
He topped it off, arranged the nearly full bottle for easy access for either of them, and flopped back in the little couch. It was one of those loveseats calculated to fit two people, but more like one-and-a-half if they weren't drunk and clingy.
Harry didn't much mind. He knocked back half his glass in one quick gulp, then threw a leg over one of Peter's, just thigh over thigh, in full on "IDGAF" mode already. "We begin, of course, Mr. Parker, by drinking. Personally, I like to people watch while I do it, most of the time, but since you're here I'd also like to talk shit."
Peter followed Harry’s lead, setting the count down on the coffee table, and then took a (much smaller) gulp. It burned going down still, but less than it had the first time. “By all means, good sir,” he said with a wave of his hand, grinning, “talk shit.” He took another sip and then rested his hand on Harry’s knee.
“Thanks for taking me out, man,” Peter said, smiling going softer.
Harry reached out and up to clap Pete's shoulder before leaning back against the cushions again. His Versace-booted foot swung slightly, comfortably, just beneath Peter's hand on his knee.
"Well, I wouldn't talk shit about that," Harry assured Peter with a grin and another, much smaller sip. "Thank you for coming with me. Last few weekends I've been everywhere but with you. It doesn't suit me." He smirked.
“Aww, Harry, you missed me.” Peter teased, making a playful pouty face at his best friend, a hand over his heart.
Peter settled back into the couch, looking out at the club, then at the gathering of people on the balcony, before glancing back Harry’s way. “It looks like you had fun at the gala though. It was all over the news. Aunt May wanted me to tell you that you looked handsome, by the way.”
"I'd totally ask her to marry me, if she wasn't, you know, your aunt," Harry said quite seriously--until a laugh burst through. Seriously though, May Parker was the best, and he would never, ever be so lucky. "I don't know if that kind of thing is ever fun, honestly, Pete, but this one was better than usual, if only because I got to declare my intention to the board publicly."
“I hope you took pictures of their faces after you did. Please, tell me you took pictures,” Peter said, grinning and squeezing Harry’s knee as he leaned in. “You have to have taken pictures, man. It’s such a missed opportunity if you didn’t. You could have framed them and hung them up!”
"Luckily TMZ got a few for me," Harry said with another chuckle and a long drink. Shit, he was gonna need to sit up again soon. Sigh. Hard life, Osborn. "I'd say I should bring you to them all to document my triumphs, but I like you way too much to subject you to those jackals for the sake of my vanity.
"Which should tell you something." He gestured with his glass at Pete and smirked. "Because you know my vanity rules most of my decision-making processes."
“Oh, yeah, big, bad Osborn,” Peter teased with a roll of his eyes, smiling.
He took a drink and then gestured back at Harry with his glass, “At least promise me you won’t rely on TMZ for all your professional photographer needs. I’m not saying they’re bad, buuut they won’t get the Official Harry Osborn Good SideTM.”
"I wasn't aware I had one," Harry said with a chuckle--and yet another drink. "You're hired, Pete. You tell me how to show off this mythical good side, and I'll smile for the camera."
Peter finished the last of his drink and set the empty glass down. Leaning over, he took Harry’s chin in his hand and turned his head a little. “Right. There,” he joked, grinning. “Official Harry Osborn Good SideTM. Lookit that strong chin.” He held up an imaginary camera to his eye and pretended to take a picture. “Click.”
Harry went with this like the world's most pliable supermodel--which was obviously not a thing he did for any photographer ever. "Did you get my Blue Steel? It's my best look."
He leaned forward to grab the bottle and top them both off as he chuckled.
“Until you perfect Magnum, you mean?” Peter asked with a laugh. His face scrunched up with uncertainty, eyes still bright with that laughter. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe we should try again? Can’t miss out on the infamous Blue Steel.” Instead of a fake camera, he held up his phone this time.
Harry picked up the bottle and held it to his cheek, making a sort of Blue Steel-esque pouty-kissy face at Peter's phone. "Blue Steel and Black Bush. A tale of the tragic party habits of one underage Harry Osborn."
Snickering, Peter took a picture. He glanced at the screen after to see how it came out and then showed it to Harry, grinning, “TMZ, eat your heart out.” He turned the phone toward himself to look at it one more time and then pocketed it, picking up his refilled glass after to take a sip.
Harry more than kept up the pace. If anything, the more he drank, the faster he drank. So about 1/3 of the bottle later, he disentangled himself from Peter, set aside their nearly empty (again) glasses, and held out both hands for him expectantly.
Peter laughed and slapped his hands into Harry, letting him help him to his feet. The room tilted and he let out another laugh. So, there was all the whiskey. “Come on, Osborn!” he cheered happily. “Show me your moves!”
Harry slipped an arm around Peter's waist--Mmm warm Pete--and led him down to the hopping dance floor. It was a track Harry actually liked, even, Ellie Goulding, somewhere between the fast bounce dancing he was terrible at and the slow close bits he could get into. Once he found a satisfactory spot, he didn't bother releasing Peter; he just turned towards him, pulled him in, and brushed his cheek against Pete's once. Like a kitten saying hello, come on, let's play. Then he started moving.
Peter was dizzy on whiskey and music and Harry swaying against him as they danced. At first he didn’t know where to put his hands, but eventually one hand settled on the back of Harry’s neck and the other found a place on his waist. He moved with him, relaxed, too drunk to be nervous and, besides, this was Harry and there was no reason to worried about his dancing skills (or lack thereof) with him.
“If I step on your toes, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Peter joked with a grin.
"I don't mind," Harry said blithely, readjusting so he could rest his forehead against Peter's. Well, Peter's was up a bit higher, but it was still there, pretty much. There was a heavy scent of Irish whiskey on their lips that made Harry feel slightly more drunk than he ought to have. Or maybe it was just how warm Pete was, so close like this. "Anyhow, if you can swing through Manhattan on centimeter-thick biocable, I think you can handle a little close-dancing, right?"
Peter laughed. “You’d think what, wouldn’t you?” he asked, amusement putting warmth in his voice and a lopsided slant to his grin.
He glanced down at his feet as if talking about it had made him aware of his own klutziness, because even if he wasn’t nervous, he still didn’t want to step on any toes. Then, wetting his lips, looked back up at his best friend. His hand shifted on his neck, fingertips buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. “There’s a lot spiders can do, but I guess dancing isn’t one of them. Except maybe if it’s the tarantella.” He grinned at Harry.
"I see what you did there," Harry replied, voice low and lazy with the buzz. And possibly also the way it mingled with the sensation of fingers in his hair. His gaze had affixed to Peter's lips when he licked at them, and he was very, very slow to lift it again. To Peter's big brown puppy dog eyes.
Harry chuckled--at Pete, at himself, he had no idea. Someone was most certainly behaving like an idiot, though, and Harry was glad he wasn't sober enough to be sure it was him. He let his hips align a little tighter with Peter's, moving to the music, and tightened the arm around his middle. "We're doing okay with this one though. No need to get fancy, Spiderman."
“Stick with the Foxtrot. Got it.”
Peter felt warm all over. It was normal, probably, like this on a dance floor, under the hot lights and surrounded by dancing bodies. It couldn’t have anything to do with how nice it felt to be pressed flush against Harry like this, or that the warm feeling sprung from every point of contact with him. His hand slid off Harry’s hip and around his back to the opposite side, holding him loosely, closer.
Harry put their foreheads together again; now they were pressed against each other, entire front to front. And moving. It wasn't dirty--really it was about as innocent as you could get when dancing plastered to another person--but Harry was drunk enough to admit to himself that he wanted it to be. He let his eyes shut for a moment and imagined it, let it heat up his blood. He tilted his face. Felt Peter's breath on his lips.
The tiny, not-drunk voice in his head screamed in alarm. Abject terror, in fact. Perversely, that just made Harry want to push it over the edge.
Peter had a sudden, overwhelming impulse to lean the rest of the way in. He always had this niggling urge to lean in when it came to Harry. An urge to get closer in some way, in anyway. He’d never ignored it, just turned a blind eye to what it meant. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Until now.
Drunk on whiskey and being close, Peter had to admit that the niggling urges weren’t entirely platonic. Those first crush feelings had never gone away, maybe that kind of thing never really did, and they had come back in full force when Harry had come into his life again. Nervously wetting his lips, he touched Harry light on his jaw and he leaned in.
Their lips met, and Harry's first reaction was one of happiness. Actual, pure happiness, untouched by wickedness, schadenfreude, drugs, or even desire, really. Harry tilted his head up and into it, eyes shut lightly, trying to sustain the moment.
In spite of the screaming that had already begun in the back of his head and was coming nearer and nearer to the front by the millisecond. Just a moment. Just this one moment, he pretended he could have this...
Warmth had bloomed in Peter’s chest, a chest that felt too tight, like his heart didn’t fit anymore. He wanted more of it. He didn’t want to stop. His hand slid further up into Harry’s hair, fingers curling into it, and he pressed in. His lips parted, catching on Harry’s bottom one. God, he couldn’t possibly be closer to him and he still wanted to lean in more.
(Stop.) Peter's fingers in his hair sent an electric thrill through Harry, and he shifted against his best friend--tall, fit, god no wonder he made that stupid costume look so fine--in a way that was all hips and
(You're a trainwreck. You'll hurt him.) Harry closed off the kiss and started another one, mouth open, tongue flicking out to taste him briefly. Just a little more, just another second of pretending--
(You're dying. You'll leave him.) And that was it. Harry closed off a kiss with a sweet little sound and pulled back so he could catch Peter's gaze. Mouth still open. Fire in his cheeks. Guilt in his eyes. He tried to smile but it was crooked and even more guilty. "I--uh. Sorry about that. Hey, but, you're good at it."
Peter’s heart dropped. His hand untangled itself from Harry’s hair and fell onto his shoulder. “Oh. Um, thanks.” His smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes and a blush of embarrassment spread like wildfire across his cheeks and down the back of his neck, erasing any evidence of the hot flush their kissing had left him with. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He nervously wet his lips. They were swollen and tasted like whiskey and Harry.
God, how could he have been so stupid? Thoughts swirled in Peter’s head. Variations of Of course, he doesn’t like you like that, Pete. You’ve seen the people he dates. Come on. and What were you thinking kissing your best friend? Why did he have to make everything so complicated?
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have--” A laugh, awkward and forced and trying to sound like anything but. “Wow, I’m really drunk.”
The kicked puppy look made Harry's generally cold, black heart hurt. He hadn't actually known it could, so that was... good to know. Probably. Way to go, Osborn. Way to fuckin' go. You're supposed to protect him, not fuck him up more.
Harry leaned forward and let his forehead rest against Peter's, his own smile equally forced. "Same. Was me, not you. Sorry." And there was a whole explanation there, and Peter deserved it... but Harry was too drunk and emotionally... something for it. So before he could dive into his best friend's fucking mouth again (man, he had a nice mouth), Harry pulled away, grabbed Peter's hand, and pulled him towards the bar.
Peter started to ask Harry what he meant by that, but then he was tugging him along and he could only follow. They weaved through the crowd, away from the dance floor, moving further and further from whatever had just happened. His gaze was fixed on the back of his best friend’s head and he tried not to think about how his usually neat hair was messy and that it had been his hands that had made it that way.
Moving away from the moment, in every possible way, was precisely what Harry had in mind. That was enough personal awkwardness to last him several years, thanks very much, and since he was too addled in multiple ways to figure out how to overcome it in his usual ways, distance was the only option.
Their bottle was upstairs, but the crowd was more of a maul down here with the plebs, and that was just how Harry wanted it. His hand sweating slightly in Peter's grip--and not about to let him go--he edged their way to the bar and waved for the keeper.
"Harry Osborn?" someone said. "It is you! I saw that gala stunt on TMZ, man, nicely done. Wish I coulda been there!"
Harry didn't recognize the guy at all, but he pulled Pete to his side and threw an arm around him. "Great, wasn't it? So, this is my best friend, Peter Parker. Peter..."
"Ned Leeds," he said, holding out a hand to Pete.
Oh right, the would-be reporter--or whatever. He'd stopped Harry in a restaurant to ask him for an interview when he'd first come back. Harry could not, for the life of him, remember for what paper or mag, or why a kid barely older than them had anything to do with it, but he couldn't have given half a fuck at that precise moment. He waved for drinks, indicating that he didn't care what, to the bartender, as the guy introduced himself.
Peter let himself be pulled and he automatically leaned in against Harry. He realized after that he should probably not do that and move, but it wasn’t like he could make a bigger fool of himself than he already had. Accepting the proffered hand, he shook it, offering a polite smile, “Hey. You work for the Daily Bugle, right?” He’d read a few of the articles he’d written about Spiderman.
"Yeah!" Ned who-the-fuck-ever seemed really happy to have been recognized. "I didn't know people actually checked by-lines. Good to meet you, Peter."
Harry shot Peter a 'what is up with this guy?' look, waiting not so impatiently on those drinks, arm still around Pete. Because... just because.
Peter wished he could say the same. Ned seemed like a decent guy, but the Spiderman articles he’d written had been scathing. “I don’t know if you should use me as an example,” he replied with one of his lopsided, self-deprecating smiles.. “I’m interested in photojournalism.” A small laugh. “And I am, as Harry would probably tell you, weird.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest over his shoulder even as the bartender handed him a couple of drinks--something with cola, and hopefully some manner of whiskey, who knew. He didn't get that far, though, as two extremely pretty--and way too young to be there--girls drew up behind Ned.
One of them, a pretty brunette, took his arm. "Introduce us to your new friend?"
"Hey, are you Harry Osborn?" the other one--a blonde with a little too much pink in her cheeks and a face to die for--asked. "Ned, you didn't say you knew Harry Osborn!"
"Oh, he does now," Harry said cheerfully, handing off Pete's drink to him. "And this is Peter, my best--"
"Peter Parker!" The brunette suddenly burst out. "From Midtown Science! Hey, where'd you disappear to?"
Peter hadn’t expected to see anyone he knew here and it showed, “Betty, Liz. Wow. Hi.” He was equally boggled that they remembered who he was. Betty had always been nice to him, there’d even be a time when he’d had a crush on her, but the only time Liz had seemed to know who he was was when she was picking on him.
“Um, boarding school,” Peter said with a small nod. “I, um, go to boarding school now.”
"I stole him from you," Harry said easily, catching the blonde's eye as she shot him a smile. He downed a gulp of his drink--yep, coke and bourbon, excellent--and put his arm over Pete's shoulders again. "Sorry, but there's only so much Pete to go around."
"Do you always get what you want?" The blonde asked, lips pursed, head cocked, eyes narrowed.
"Who's this one?" Harry asked Peter. "I like her."
Peter felt an uncomfortable and unwelcome twist of jealousy at the flirting, but it was still all too easy to fall into their usual banter. Giving Harry a grin, he bumped against him in a light, playful shove. “She’s way out of your league, Osborn. Harry, this is Liz Allan and Betty Brant. Liz, Betty, this is my best friend, Harry Osborn.”
Harry had no desire to put down his drink or to let go of Peter, so he just raised his glass at the ladies in turn. "Any friend of Peter's, etc. What are you all up to, tonight?" He leaned closer to say privately into Peter's ear, "Apart from underage club-hopping, like us...?"
Peter grinned at Harry. “What Harry said,” he supplied, looking back at the other three with a smile. “So, how, uh, how do you all know each other?”
