He waits, and his breath seems loud and annoyingly nasal. He runs a hand through his hair and its like jeopardy – will he? Or wont he?
Pick up the phone, please.

"Hi." The tinny voice through the speakerphone is like a godsend.
"Hi." He echoes back, relieved.
"How are you?"
And that's a question and a half. He draws a breath, unsure what to say in return because there are so many answers and none which he likes.
"Can I come round?" is tumbling out of his mouth before he really considers it and then there is a pause, a heart beat before a reaction on the other end of the line.
"Sure."
And then the phone call ends.

Harry runs up the stairs of Peter's apartment building, desperate to just be in the company of his friend again and Peter's obviously been waiting because he throws open the door before Harry has raised his hand to knock and Harry stand there for a moment, just breathing in a smell that is entirely Peter and wonderfully comforting – nostalgic and mingled with memories that are bitter-sweet.
Harry can almost taste it; their past, their friendship made palpable.

"Hi, I've got pizza," Peter grins at him. "staff discount."
Harry laughs and enters Peter's tiny, neat and horridly spartan apartment – Peter's living in a shoe-box but says nothing about it, just waves the pack of Bud he's brought and Peter's eyes light up like he'd brought the elixir of life.
Perhaps to a collage boy a six-pack is.
Harry has more refined tastes but he's willing to go slumming once in a while.

They eat and drink and taking, making sure to stay within safe conversation – Harry doesn't mention the Bug and Peter doesn't mention MJ.
Both their obsessions are ignored for the evening.
They talk about Harry's father thou, and Harry sees pain in Peter's eyes.
Harry thinks, that Peter thinks, he only comes over when he misses his father. After all Norman had loved Peter and so Peter is a link to his loss, and perhaps on some level that's true but Harry wants to be around Peter more than he wants anything else.

Peter smiles at him, drunken blush on his cheeks and plumped red on his lips. Harry smiles back and leans in, presses their lips together and just feels everything, is alive for a second and Peter kisses him back.

He bites Peter's lower lip and hears the half-moan but then Peter's hands are pressing against his chest, pushing him away and Harry faces the cacophony of emotions passing freely over Peter's face – surprise, lust, fear, anger and disgust all mingling till its just Peter looking sad and afraid and very, very sober.
"I think you'd better go." Peter says and he's pointedly not looking at him now, and Harry leaves.

Peter doesn't pick up the phone anymore, or return his messages, and Harry knows he's fucked up the best thing he ever nearly had.