Peters head was spinning, the world did not feel real.
He and Harry had been so in love, practically spending every waking hour together. Whether it be riding bikes, swimming in random lakes or random picnics that would end up in them cuddling in a field with rosy cheeks from the sunlight, they were inseparable.
It was no hidden fact that Norman Osborn hadn't been fond of Peter at all, especially considering Peter only made roughly 40 cents per hour working some labour job that he personally did not care for. It could also be because Peter was scruffy. His shoes were too big (May still says he'll grow into them despite being almost 18 now), and his shirts had loose collars with missing buttons, but surely there had to be a different reason on why Norman didn't like him. Who was Peter to care, as long as Harry was safe and happy then he had no complaints.
Harry was always neat. He was perfect to Peter. He always had freshly pressed pants and shoes that were polished and that actually fitted him. Peter couldn't care less about Harry's money, he wasn't really that kind of person, but he'd never miss the opportunity to shove his face into the crook of his boyfriends neck to smell his cologne. The same cologne that practically makes Peters wallet weep whenever he sees it in stores.
Harry was easy to get swept up in and was hard to lose, which was something Peter eventually came to learn.
Love is blind. Every moment casts a dark shadow, every touch lingers awkwardly, every kiss left a bittersweet taste.
Peter had picked up his pen and a loose piece of paper.
"𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺,
He began to write without much of a second thought, blinking with heavy lids as he allowed rears to fall. He made sure the pages didn't get wet.
"𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭
He wiped his eyes against the sleeve of his faded shirt, it was originally Uncle Bens.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴
𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺,
𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳"
Peter doesn't cry anymore at the thought of Harry, but he knew he would never love someone as much as he loved that boy.
"𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺,
It was a familiar sentence to write. It had been about seven months since Harry had left and Peter truly was feeling better then he had been since the others move.
𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘦'𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘬. 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘺. 𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦?
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴,
𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳"
May had died that September, people mumbled about it on the streets as Peter walked past. People believed that it was Mays death that pushed him so hard into finishing the house. Peter let them mumble. He felt as if it were stupid, he clung onto the house, searching for the comfort that Harry had once provided him, at for a temporary time, he had convinced himself that it had worked. Some nights were fine, Peter would make himself some dinner in the silence before sitting on his porch and reading an old book of Bens. Sometimes the pages were turning yellow, with smudged notes in Ben's scruffy handwriting and dog-eared pages. Peter found it endearing. Other nights Peter couldn't find peace, he'd sit at the old piano in his living room, which he remembered Harry playing the first time Peter had ever brought him here. Eventually, Peter would be unable to keep his eyes open, he'd drag himself upstairs and collapse into May's bed, holding one of her jumpers tightly and hoping it would feel like she was there.
Peter had eventually stopped writing to Harry, he wrote for a year straight. Once Peter had eventually come to terms that Harry had moved on and that he couldn't dwell on the past for too long, life seemed to speed up. Peter was now 24, his hair had grown out into a soft mullet just above his shoulders and he had light stubble on his chin. He liked the scratchiness of it.
He had made it into the newspapers, the public had eventually recognised his work on the house and potential buyers of the house flooded in, raising payments higher then Peters asking price. He denied it every time, no amount of money could buy the moments that Peter adored so much.
A car had pulled up in his driveway, which wasn't entirely unusual. Peter hadn't been expecting to see Harry get out of the car. His mouth felt dry all of a sudden, and all over again Peter felt like a teenager with shoes too big for him. Harry seemed awkward, Peter wanted to kiss him.
Harry scratched the back of his neck and adjusted the jumper he was wearing
"I know it's been a while, but I saw your house in the paper and I had to see if you were okay- I wasn't in town or anything but" Harry had cut himself off and sighed "I'm sorry, this was really stupid of me"
Peter had walked down the stairs of the porch so quickly that he didn't even remember doing it. He and Harry were now facing eachother, Peter smiled as he felt himself tear up slightly. He pulled the other into a tight hug, which Harry returned.
"Why didn't you write me?" Harry eventually asked, wiping the tears that had strolled down Peter's cheeks.
Peter furrowed his eyebrows "I wrote you every day for a year" he said shocked "I wrote you for 365 days and waited for a response for everyday with no avail" he confessed as Harry pulled him in for another hug as he whispered his apologies. Peter felt his shoulders relax, he offered for Harry to come inside. And for the first time in seven years, Peter felt comforted.