Work Text:
The bacon grease popped and sizzled.
Peter hissed as a spot landed on his hand.
He hurried to transfer the meat to a paper towel, muttering curses under his breath the whole way.
“Aren’t you not allowed to have bacon?” Harry asked.
Peter jumped out of his skin, whirling around to face his roommate.
Before his brain caught up with his mouth, Peter held up a hand and shouted, “No!”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you sneaking around the kitchen making it?”
“No,” Peter winced. “I mean, yes I don’t eat bacon, but no to you being here. Go away.” Peter made a shooing motion and checked the oven. The cinnamon rolls were minutes of being done.
“Damn. On my birthday? You’re kicking me out of my kitchen on my birthday?” Harry asked as he pushed off the door frame and walked away.
“For your birthday!” Peter corrected to his retreating back. “Sit on the couch and let me surprise you, asshole!”
Peter worked to assemble Harry’s no-longer breakfast in bed before he got impatient and came back into the kitchen.
He carried a plate of food to the living room, where Harry lounged like an ancient king, the prick.
With a flourish, Peter set the plate down in front of him.
“Ta da!” Peter said. “Store bought cinnamon rolls, over cooked bacon, and some rubbery eggs. Happy birthday.”
Harry had a smile that Peter could see him actively struggling to not allow to grow. His eyes were bright and face just flushed enough Peter could tell. He looked happy.
Harry’s apple green eyes looked up at Peter underneath his ridiculously dark eyelashes.
“I like my bacon crispy.” He assured Peter. His voice was giddy and genuine and the grin that broke out reminded Peter of the two of them smiling in their middle school camp photos.
He totally nailed shitty birthday breakfast.
Peter struck a match and lit the single candle he had stuck in Harry’s cinnamon roll.
He sang Happy Birthday in his best (worst) impression of Yoda, ignoring Harry hiding his face in his hands and his disbelieving “Oh my god”, keeping it up between his and Harry’s strangled laughter.
Harry blew out his candle.
Peter clapped for much longer and much louder than needed. He didn’t stop until Harry had been giving his ‘Are you done?’ look for longer than four seconds.
It was Peter’s sacred duty to make an enormous deal out of Harry’s birthday to an embarrassing degree. No one could stop him.
“What did you wish for?” Peter asked.
Harry leaned back against the couch, bacon strip in hand, and took on a thoughtful look.
After a few moments of pondering and chewing, Harry swallowed.
“Birthday sex.” He answered.
Harry and Peter locked eyes, both keeping a straight face. Peter broke first, bursting into laughter.
Harry flashed a cheeky grin and waggled his eyebrows. “Just let me know where and when, Parker.” Harry said in a low voice.
“You’re so fucking stupid.” Peter chortled. “Happy birthday, jackass.”
Peter was dressed.
He was ready.
All Harry had wanted for his birthday was for Peter to plan, and by god did Peter plan.
He had invited a small group of Harry’s friends, figured out where to have the party, ordered a sheet cake with the shitty frosting Harry liked.
It was a relief to finally be having the party and no longer need to triple check with select guest list that they were coming and assure Harry’s father that none of them were felons.
Well. Felicia wasn’t a convicted felon anyway.
Peter stepped out of the bathroom and went off in search of Harry.
“Are you ready?” Peter called.
Peter continued to poke around, not finding Harry in the living room, his own room, or the office.
“Harry?” Peter called.
Finally, he saw him.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter, brow furrowed, frowning at his phone.
“Hey.” Peter said, waving a hand to get Harry’s attention.
“Why aren’t we going to Pavilion anymore?” Harry asked.
Peter’s brows furrowed. “They said the only tables with the amount of people we have are in the private rooms, and they needed a deposit for a private room and I-”
“I told you I would give you the deposit.” Harry interrupted. He still was staring at his phone. His face was neutral and voice calm, but Peter had the feeling he had fucked up.
“You’re not paying for a deposit on your birthday,” Peter gently argued. “I told you I would figure something out, remember?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah, I remember. My dad is texting what time we’re getting to his place.”
Peter relaxed. “Oh. Just tell him I need to pick up cake and we’ll be there.”
Peter stood and watched Harry. He scrolled and scrolled. Not looking up.
Ice formed in Peter’s stomach.
“Harry, I told you about dinner at your dads, right? I’m not tripping balls?” Peter asked anxiously.
Harry’s relationship with his dad was tumultuous. There was a delicate balance of Harry loving him and seeking his approval, and despising the man and flagrantly waving a middle finger at any expectation or even mild request the man made of him. When Peter brought up his father’s offer of hosting, Harry had hummed in agreement and had offered no commentary.
Just like Harry was now.
“Harry, if you’re having second thoughts, we can change plans.” Peter blurted out.
His mind raced.
Where the hell was he going to get a table for all their friends on such short notice, how quickly could everyone adjust to the change of plans, how was Peter going to explain to Norman what had happened-
Peter sucked in a breath.
It was fine.
He would do it. It was Harry’s birthday.
He has used on-the-fly thinking in life and death situations, he can reconfigure a birthday dinner.
“No.” Harry snapped. Peter looked at him and met his eyes for the first time in the conversation. “No, don’t go through the trouble.” Harry said. “My dad’s just being an asshole, I can deal.”
Peter hesitated.
“It’s not trouble,” Peter assured him. “It’s no big deal, Harry.”
Harry glanced at his phone and grimaced. He finally tucked it away into his pocket. “No, Pete, I’m just being sensitive.” Harry said in a flat tone.
Peter winced.
“What did he say, Har?” Peter asked.
The father and son drama was something Peter was well versed in.
For some bizarre reason, Normal seemed to like Peter, something that baffled him as much as it bothered Harry.
Norman had expectations the height of Everest for Harry, and Harry had never ending resentment for his father. Peter was a struggling photographer who couldn’t manage more than one class a semester in college, but Norman was never anything less than complimentary towards him.
Peter sometimes thought he did it to hurt Harry’s feelings, before he convinced himself that he shouldn’t assume Norman to be so unkind.
Peter had been Harry’s buffer since middle school between him and his dad. He would sing Harry’s praises, go on and on about how well liked and successful Harry was, about the kind and generous things Harry had done for him, about what Peter liked about Harry. Peter, with his nothing background and poor childhood in Queens, felt comfortable enough to stand toe to toe with Norman and insist that Harry wasn’t lazy or slacking. What was Norman going to do, call Aunt May?
Harry, as he stood in the kitchen, remained silent.
“Come on, Harry,” Peter insisted. “Did he say something?”
“No,” Harry insisted. “No, it’s a work thing, I got a work email from him earlier, he hasn’t brought it up. Separation and all that.”
Peter winced. Norman Osborn was big on separation between business and personal. He was the kind of guy who saw nothing wrong with firing you and inviting you to play golf the next day.
“Actually, Peter, do you mind giving me a minute?” Harry asked suddenly. He looked at Peter with a calm but firm gaze. “This work thing is going to bother me all day if I don’t take care of it, I’ll meet you at my dads in a second.”
Peter paused.
“You sure, Har?” Peter asked.
Harry gave him a tight smile. “Yeah. It will get under my skin if I don’t take care of it. I’ll leave in like twenty and should get to my dad’s when you do.”
Peter felt uneasy, but couldn’t find any reason to disagree.
He bid Harry goodbye and failed to shrug off his unease.
Norman took Harry’s slight delay with relative ease.
“I’m glad he’s taking the situation seriously.” Norman cryptically said. Despite Peter’s questioning, the man was firm in leaving it at that.
He smiled easily at Peter. “Today is about family,” he said.
Right.
Peter brushed off whatever weird stuff was happening at Oscorp as a ‘Later’ problem.
Guest started arriving shortly after.
First Liz, Gwen, MJ.
Fifteen minutes later, Donald Menken made his way in.
Five minutes after that was Flash.
Ten minutes later, still no Harry.
Peter had explained to everyone he had stayed back to catch up on a work thing and would be there soon.
They had accepted it easily.
Norman was a good host, bringing out his excellent wine and making conversation with Gwen about her impressive schooling.
MJ, Flash and Liz all chatted, asking Donald about what it was like to work at Oscorp and telling him about their own careers in return.
Peter couldn’t bring himself to join.
He checked his phone, looks at his messages, his anxiety growing with every glance that tells him they’re empty.
Another half hour passed.
It’s dinner time and everyone was sending him questioning looks.
Peter’s discreet texts had all gone ignored.
The pressure blew.
“Peter, why don’t you give Harry a call?” Norman suggested in a casual, steady tone. “See what’s the holdup?”
Of course, this is a job for Peter.
Both men know if Norman were to call, he wouldn’t pick up.
Peter swallowed and made the call.
For the first time in years, Peter got Harry’s voice mail.
His brow furrowed.
Worry churned in his gut.
Harry never doesn’t pick up for Peter.
Was he alright?
Was he sick?
Was he having a flare up?
Was he having an episode?
“Is everything alright, Pete?” MJ asks, face pinched with concern.
Most, if not all, of the guest had slowed the conversation to look at Peter.
Peter pressed the dial button.
Voice mail.
Again.
“He’s not answering.” Peter murmured.
His heart thudded.
He’s supposed to be putting together a birthday for Harry. It was his job to make his birthday something bearable, not like the parties his father hired someone else to plan with no care but to look good.
This was supposed to be small, intimate, with people who know Harry is not half as charming and thoughtful as he lets people think he is, but like him anyway.
Peter was supposed to put this together.
What is he supposed to do?
Leave?
Stay?
He tried to call Harry again.
No luck.
“Maybe try Felicia,” Liz suggested. “She’s not here yet,maybe they’re together.”
Peter all but slumped in relief.
That would make sense.
“Yeah,” Peter says. “Yeah, you’re right, good idea Liz.”
He dialed.
“Helloooo?” came the sultry purr of Felicia Hardy.
Peter thanked his lucky stars.
“Licia! I’m so glad you picked up,” Peter rushed, his body flooded with relief. “You weren’t here yet-”
“Yeah,” Felicia’s voice took on a faint quality. “Well, about that Pete-”
“-Harry isn’t here yet.” Peter finished. “Do you know where he is?”
There was a long pause. Peter listed to the fuzzy nothing on the other line with trepidation.
“What?” Felicia finally gasped in a voice that wouldn’t have fooled Charlie Brown if it held a football. “No way! Where is he?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Felicia,” Peter said hotly, tightening his grip on the phone. “Where is he?”
“That’s so crazy,” Felicia poorly lied. “I have no idea, Peter.”
“Felicia, this is insulting.” Peter said. “You’re not even a bad liar, why are you doing this like fake surprised voice?”
“I am really surprised.” Felicia insisted. “I am shocked. Shocked.”
“You sound like you’re doing a bit!” Peter accused. “Where is Harry?”
“Whos Harry?” Felicia asked in her best impression of an innocent voice.
“Felicia!” Peter hissed. “Please be serious!”
“Oh wow, I suddenly can’t hear-”
“Felicia, I’m worried-”
“Memorrrry, all alone in the mooooon light-” Felicia began to sang.
Peter groaned.
Typical fucking Felicia.
“Don’t do this!” Peter demanded. “Don’t do the memory thing!”
“All alone on the pavemeeeeeent-”
“That’s not how the song goes!” Peter burst. “Where the fuck is Harry!”
“Touuuuuuuuch meeeeee, it’s so eaaaaaasy to leaveeee meeeee-” Felicia belted with absurd talent.
Peter hung up.
Fucking Felicia.
“No luck?” Gwen asked with a raised brow.
“What’s the memory thing?” Liz asked.
“I don’t even want to get into it,” Peter sighed, rubbing his face.
“Did you check his location? He still shares his with you, right?” MJ asked.
Peter lit up.
“MJ, you beautiful genius, I’ll go look.” Peter said.
Peter went on to Harry’s contact info, looked under location, and…..
Nothing.
Peter stared blankly.
He turned it off.
Peter swallowed.
And swallowed again.
And again because the pit of disappointment and hurt hadn’t settled yet.
“Pete?” MJ asked.
Someone put a hand on his shoulder.
Peter turned off his phone.
“Harry texted,” Peter lied. “He isn’t feeling well. He can’t come.”
There were noises of disappointment and comments about how they hoped he was ok.
“Well,” Norman said. “No use in wasting a good meal. Come, I insist. Let’s all eat.”
Norman waved everyone to the perfectly set table.
With hesitation that was won out by hunger, everyone found their seats.
Peter sat down too.
He may as well get a good meal out of being made into a fucking idiot again.
After dinner, there were more drinks served and more talking.
Peter couldn’t participate.
After making himself swallow truly amazing steak with asparagus cooked just right and potatoes that melted in his mouth, his anger started flaring when he realized it all tasted like ash and sat like lumps in his stomach.
Peter just got angrier as time went on.
He barely made passible conversation with Norman and the other guest until he had dutifully made his rounds and went to seethe against the wall.
How dare he?
How dare he?
Unable to take it a second longer, Peter fished his phone out.
This is so disrespectful, Peter typed. You asked me to me to put this together and i did if you wanted to cancel you should have told me before i left
I had to lie to everyone and say you were sick harry
I look so stupid right now
Why are you allergic to communication
i ASKED you before i left if you wanted to do something different or cancled
You fucking LOSER
Peter stared at his messages until something changed.
Read at 8:36
A homicidal but completely unactionable rage filled Peter.
Peter was shaking with rage in a way he hadn’t done outside of a fight in years.
Asshole.
Asshole, asshole, asshole-
Peter jabbed a finger into the type box and sent this: WELL i guess birthday sex is off since you’re NOT HERE. ASSHOLE.
There.
Let him sit with that.
Gwen and MJ were making their way over, smiles bright and giggling over something.
Peter moved to shove his phone back in his pocket.
If Harry was going to ignore him-
His phone began buzzing.
Peter blinked.
He held his phone out and nearly threw it when he saw the caller.
“Is that Harry?” Gwen asked, confused.
Enough was enough.
Peter not only answered, but he put him on speaker. That will show him.
“Hi. Hello. Where the fuck did you go?” Peter demanded.
Gwen’s brows furrowed, and MJ’s face dawned with understanding.
Her brown eyes softened with sympathy. “Oh, Pete-”
“Are you ok?” Gwen asked, suspicion lacing her voice. “Peter was worried sick.”
There was a pause on the phone.
“Why the fuck is Gwen there?” Harry’s totally fine voice asked.
“Why the hell aren’t you here? It’s your birthday.” MJ accused. She crossed her arms and glared at the phone.
In an instant, Peter could see Gwen’s sharp mind pick up on what was happening.
She scoffed in disbelief and also glared at the phone.
“Why the fuck is MJ there?” Harry groused.
“Are you stupid? Are you dumb? Is that what this is?” MJ asked incredulously. “Everyone thinks you’re sick in bed, Harry! What the hell?”
Peter couldn’t stand it. He erupted.
“You told me you’d leave right after me! That you would get there when I get there!” Peter burst. “Get there when I get there Harry! You would be delayed in leaving, but we’d get there at the same time because I was picking up a fucking cake! A cake I PICKED UP FOR YOU!”
Peter’s voice had risen, and he was getting stared at, but he couldn’t make himself calm down.
“EVERYONE is here,” Peter continued hotly. “Your DAD, your FRIENDS, everyone came out for you and you’re fucking around with FELICIA. Or at MINIMUM, told Felicia your plans and not ME! THE IDIOT WHO PLANNED YOUR BIRTHDAY!”
There was a pregnant pause.
Peter huffed and panted and while the relief of letting go of his anger was tangible, the disappointed stare Norman had on his face bogged Peter down.
He knew it wasn’t aimed at him.
He was going to have to fucking defend Harry again before he left.
What an asshole.
The phone remained silent.
“Say something!” Peter demanded.
Another moment went by.
“So we’re not fucking?” Harry asked.
Peter hung up.
Peter went home.
Both Norman and MJ offered a ride but Peter was just fine with the train, thank you.
Gave him plenty of time to mutter ‘Fuck His Birthday’ to himself like a lunatic and try to calm down.
It was good he had a 25 minute train ride to get his anger under control because when Peter finally walked into his living room, who was sitting there in his boxers and an undershirt watching Love Is Blind but fucking Harry.
“Hey,” Harry greeted casually, like there was anything to be casual about. “You missed this dude singing in the booth, it was so stupid.”
Harry took a mouthful of popcorn and continued to watch the screen.
Peter looked around the room.
Grabbed a decorative pillow from an armchair.
Began to beat Harry with it relentlessly.
Harry attempted to dodge but just ended up spilling his bowl of popcorn and rolling out onto his back.
Harry began laughing.
Peter hit him harder.
“I’m chronically ill, you evil bitch,” Harry gasped out in between peels of laughter. “Peter, oh my god!”
Peter whacked Harry with the stupid cushion until he felt better.
He stood over him, panting, tears of frustration in his eyes.
“You’re an evil bitch.” Peter said, jabbing a finger accusingly.
“I know,” Harry soothed. He sat up and put a hand on Peter’s wrist. Peter yanked it away and took two steps back. “I know, Peter, I’m sorry-”
“I hope your birthday SUCKED!” Peter cried. “You SUCK. That SUCKED.”
Harry looked at him with big green eyes, face open and vulnerable, and Peter had to cling to his justified anger.
“I’m sorry baby,” Harry cooed. He climbed closer to the edge of the couch, by the arm, by where Peter stood. “It wasn’t you, it was my dad.”
“You could have said that before I left!” Peter exclaimed.
“But you would have called it off!” Harry said. He put a hand on Peter’s and slowly rubbed his thumb across his hand. “I was going to come, I was, I didn’t want you to do all that for nothing.”
“You were not going to fucking come.” Peter accused.
Harry tilted his head and surveyed Peter.
“You’re right.” He finally agreed. “I wasn’t going to.”
Peter spluttered.
Harry continued to stroke his hand.
No matter how badly he wanted to, Peter couldn’t pull away.
“I looked dumb!” Peter squawked. “I looked really dumb!”
Harry shook his head. With his other hand, he reached over and fixed Peter’s glasses, which began to slip in his rage.
“No one thought you were dumb.” Harry assured him softly.
Peter scoffed. “How would you know?” He mumbled. “You weren’t there.”
Harry drew his thumb down Peter’s cheek before pulling away. “No one could ever think that, Peter.” Harry murmured. “I looked like an asshole, which was the point.”
Peter was doing it.
He was giving in.
A few sad blinks and soft sweet talk from Harry and Peter-the-fucking-moron was a sucker.
Peter wanted to get mad but couldn’t. If Harry didn’t know precisely how to play Peter, their friendship would have never lasted this long, and if anything else, Peter was glad it did.
“Besides,” Harry said in a low voice. “I didn’t really want to spend my birthday with anyone but you, anyway.”
Final nail in the coffin.
The tension in Peter’s shoulders relaxed.
He felt touched.
“Just say that next time.” Peter sighed. “And I won’t go through all the trouble for nothing.”
Harry demurely glanced down before peaking up at Peter through his beautiful lashed. He replaced his loose grip on his hand with a tighter one and pulled Peter a step closer.
“Speaking of,” Harry said, voice like honey, “What was that about birthday sex?”
Peter snatched the pillow back and smacked him.
Harry fell back against the couch and started up again, laughing.
Without another word, Peter stormed off to his room.
“C’mon,” Harry pleaded between laughs, “It’s my birthday, show me your balls!”
“Fuck your birthday!” Peter yelled back from the front of his room.
Right before Peter entered, Harry called back, “That’s what I’ve been trying to say, Peter!”
Peter slammed the door shut, drowning out the sound of Harry’s laughter, and cursing himself for ever giving into him.