For nescienx, because I don't think there's a better way to wake up on Christmas morning than this.
Rating: Unconscionable levels of fluff.
Inspired by nescienx's mother.
Also, remember I told you about the scene in Moulin Rouge where Ewan - Christian - first moves to Montmartre? He says, "I kept hearing my father's voice in my head, saying You'll waste your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!
Which is exactly the way, when I read or write fic, I hear your
voice in my head saying, "You like fluff. You've always
liked fluff, and you will always
On Christmas I can get away with it. *is evil*
And because without this
, this fic would never have been written the way it was.
It was meant to be a drabble. I don't know how 1,421 words happened. </center>
And because it's Christmas, I declare that I can begin a fic like this:
</center>let it snow
</center>Falling in love with your best friend has got to be one of the most stupid things you’ve done in your entire life. And no matter how hard you’ve tried, you can’t really take it back, can you? The best you can hope for is that he never finds out. Would it be so bad if he found out?
is a question you’ve never had to ask, because the answer has always been yes. You already think it wrong that you feel this way. The possibility that he might feel the same way has occurred to you, and you’ve dismissed it out of hand as a complete impossibility. There is nothing you can give him that he hasn’t already got.
Even if he never finds out, it won’t be to your credit, because you’ve come too close to discovery so many times. You look at him and you lose your train of thought. You spill your drink when you’re sitting together at the cafeteria. You’ve got to remind yourself to watch the teacher when he’s talking, and not your best friend. You’ve got to remember that Aunt May sees you smiling to yourself and thinks it’s Mary Jane you’re thinking about. You’ve got to be on your guard all the time, because he can make you forget who you are.
Falling in love with Harry is actually a whole lot better than pining after Mary Jane. At least Harry talks
to you. You’re closer to Harry than you ever will be to MJ, and for the first time, you’re beginning to think that this isn’t such a loss.
The first time he called you Pete
, your heart stopped. You felt like such a dork, which is what he calls you, but it’s different
, when it’s Harry. Maybe people don’t ordinarily think much of it when it happens, but you felt – special
. No one in the world calls you Pete but him. Then again, no one in Midtown High talks very much to you but
You wondered if it was that, at first. If the way you felt was simply a result of how lonely you were. But you’ve never been
lonely. Not since Harry.
You’ve taken to doing such
ridiculous things. You come in five minutes late for the chemistry lecture that starts first thing Tuesday, so you can get a seat five rows behind him. So he won’t see you looking at him. Even when Flash trips you up, when no one’s willing to share a seat with you on the school bus, when Midtown High doesn’t realise you exist, you wish the school day would never end, because this is the time you have with him. When you’re talking to him on the telephone, you can’t stop smiling, and hanging up becomes the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. You know this is one of the most stupid things you’ve ever done, but you’ve taken to doing so many ridiculous things that one more won’t hurt.
After all, you’ve worked it out – it isn’t wrong to want something you can’t have. You’re never going to do anything about it, and nothing is ever going to happen between the two of you, so there’s no harm wanting it.
It’s Christmas Eve when Harry realises that he needs the notes you made for all of last term’s Chemistry classes. He tells you he’ll come by to pick them up, and hangs up before you can tell him that the storm warnings on the radio say that it isn’t a very good idea. You call back and he’s already left. All you can do is wait for him and hope that the storm won’t arrive before he does.
The first flakes of snow are falling from a leaden sky as a discreet black car pulls up by your sidewalk. Harry steps out of the car, speaks briefly to the driver, and waves him away.
While you’re sorting out the Chemistry notes (Harry’s realised he needs your notes for the rest of the classes you take together, as well), the storm hits. The snow of moments before becomes driving sleet, and you look out of your window to a world of ice. The wind howls somewhere far away, and the radio tells you that airports are being closed all over the country. There’s no way the snowstorm’s letting Harry get home tonight, so you ask him to stay.
He says yes without thinking. You’re surprised that Harry’s father doesn’t mind his not being at home for Christmas, and you say so.
“Dad’s not in town,” Harry says, and his face is shadowed the way it always is when he talks about his father. You know him well enough not to push the subject, and you run to ask Aunt May if Harry can stay the night.
You wonder if all the Parker household can offer Harry will be good enough for him, but you discover that it’s more than enough when all of this seems new to Harry. You can’t help but hold back laughter when he finds out that cranberry sauce doesn’t just happen, that you actually have to make
it. You help him set the table while Aunt May’s busy in the kitchen. You’ve never seen wonder on his face before, and you’ve never believed in magic (except the kind Wizards of the Coast markets), but somehow, when you look at him, you come the closest you ever have to believing.
Sitting down for dinner, you almost miss Aunt May asking Harry if he’d like to sleep in the living room, but before Harry agrees, you realise you can’t ask a guest to do that. Without thinking, you say, Harry can sleep with me
, and even before you’re done speaking you feel the flush creeping up your face, and you hope that he doesn’t think what you’ve just thought. When you steal a glance at him, one of his brows is arched in a way that makes you think he knows exactly
what you’re thinking, and there’s nothing you want to do more than crawl under the table and hide. But Uncle Ben and Aunt May wouldn’t think much of that, so you don’t. Instead, you reach for the mashed potatoes, and ask Harry, without looking at him, if he’d like more.
Within minutes, Harry contrives a reason to get the both of you away from the table and into the kitchen, reason being his needing a drink. As you reach for a cup, he says, “I promise to wait until we’re married, Peter.” You choke and almost drop the cup, but he catches it because you’ve got your breath to catch.
Later you sit around the Christmas tree, and you take photographs of the way you wish things were. Harry’s surprised when there’s a present waiting for him. Several, in fact – a pullover from Aunt May, a necktie you recognise as Uncle Ben’s newest, and a book you haven’t had time to read yet. Again, you wonder if all you have will be good enough for him, but his eyes tell you he’s genuinely touched. Tucked into the book is a photograph of Harry you took when he wasn’t looking, and it falls out of the book when he picks it up. You look anywhere but at him while he looks at it, but you know there’s a smile on his face when he looks up at you.
The evening is over all too soon. Harry follows you up the stairs when Uncle Ben and Aunt May retire. You discover that he looks startlingly young in your flannel pyjamas, and you fight the urge to ask him if he wants bunny slippers to go with them.
You turn off the light and immediately realise that the bed is far too small for the both of you.
Your heart can’t be in your mouth again
. “Yes, Harry?”
“This bed is far too small.”
You don’t expect what he does next. But his arms wrap around you, and he pulls you close, and you never thought you’d fit together like this, although you’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about it. You’ve always been smaller than him, and so it’s quite easy for him to hold you like this. If you turn around, you’ll be able to look him in the eye. He must be able to tell that your heart’s racing.
And you do.
You’re still surprised when he kisses you, though.