PARKSBORN noemi i need you to know that this is my first ever parksborn fic and i LOVE the fact that you were the one to request it thank you thank you thank you
warnings: implied/referenced child abuse (i hate norman osborn okay) and some hy-po-THERMIA
The ghost of Norman’s hand is still strewn across the side of Harry’s face, painted against his cheekbone with a palette of blues and purples and greens. The main bit of it is on his cheekbone, but the pads of his fingers had left faint marks against his temple and the spot of skin above his eyebrow. If he’d hit him a smidge harder, Harry’d have a black eye.
He’s always loved painting. The stroke of a brush against a blank canvas, a few hours a day where he’s in control, where he can make anything he’d like and nobody- not even Norman- can stop him. He is in charge. His hand guides the paint.
The end product belongs to him.
But since Peter had thrown himself through the front door of Harry’s apartment after he’d called him in tears and had thrown an angry, cursing Norman from his shoulders before beating his father black and blue, screaming all the time for Harry to call the police…
He hasn’t been able to pick up a brush since.
Harry throws one last look at the ghost in the mirror, wincing at the pathetic look on his face, before splashing a few handfuls of warm water into his eyes and snorting the bit that gets into his nose back into the sink. He’s about to take a shower, already stripping out of his shirt, when he hears it- a loud thump from his and Peter’s shared bedroom.
That only means one thing.
It only ever means one thing, especially with Peter around.
Harry tugs his shirt back over his head, rushing into their room to see- yep- Peter, still in his Spider-Man suit, clutching the edge of the bed. He opens his mouth to make some sort of witty remark- miss me, hon?- when he notices the intense shivers wracking Peter’s body, the difficulty with which he’s trying to pull himself onto their bed, the way he can’t seem to gain enough control of his limbs to hold himself up.
“Peter?” Harry gasps, darting across the room to wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders. He practically has to drag him onto the bed, maneuvering his tremoring legs so that they’re spread out across the covers, before reaching out and tugging the mask from Peter’s head.
HIs lips are white.
“Oh, my God,” Harry says dumbly, placing a shaking hand of his own on the side of Peter’s face and wincing at the way his face draws up as he closes his eyes. They wrinkle at the corners in the way that they only do when he’s about to laugh or about to cry.
“H-Harry,” Peter whispers, teeth chattering. “H-h-hey.”
“Hy-hypo-th-thermia,” Peter stutters. He pulls his arms up to his chest, miming trying to make himself warm again (doesn’t really have to pretend, of course) before leaning into the warmth of Harry’s hand.
His skin is so pale.
“What can I do?” Harry asks frantically, searching Peter’s face with wide, terrified eyes. “Tell me what to do, Peter!”
Peter just shivers again and inches his way closer to Harry’s body, leaning into him like a child to his mother, full-body tremors shaking Harry with their force.
He’s always been told that he’s like a heater.
Harry slowly adjusts his position so that he’s lying on the bed beside Peter before turning into him and pulling him close. He wraps his arms around his chest, one lapping over his stomach, and does the same with his legs before stroking a hand through Peter’s disheveled curls and letting his head rest on Harry’s shoulders.
The shivers slowly abate. Harry hums a tuneless song the whole time, eyes fixed on the still side of Peter’s face.
“I-if you h-h-hadn’t come ov-over,” Peter stutters, pushing his head even further under Harry’s chin, “I w-w-would have been- been s-so much c-c-colder.”
Harry laughs quietly, rests a hand on Peter’s forehead, and smiles as he feels his temperature rising.
“I know, hon.”
If you hadn’t come over, he thinks, so would I.