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Harley is working the bar when he walks in.
Several heads turn. Everyone knows Peter Stark—heir to Stark Industries and one of the biggest fortunes in the world—because his face is splashed everywhere. Tabloids, blog posts, news coverage all say whatever they can about the young man. He’s become nearly as famous as his parents, simply for existing. He’s the polar opposite of his father, though. He's sweet, respectful, quiet when talking to anyone he isn’t completely comfortable. He does his best to avoid the spotlight where Tony Stark basks in it. The only thing they really seem to share is their intelligence.
Peter Stark is a good boy.
An attractive good boy.
He’s dressed like a dork in jeans and a science t-shirt, but it doesn’t hide the broad shoulders, strong arms, and chiseled jaw. He’s short and stocky, with gelled back hair and square-framed glasses. When he approaches the bar, he’s twisting his hands together nervously.
“Um, hello,” he says awkwardly. “I’d like to order a drink.”
Harley feels his smirk cross his face. “Most people do, darlin’. Can you specify for me?”
“Uhh,” Stark colors. “Well, I don’t drink much.”
“He hates tequila,” one of his friends, Ned Leeds, offers. They’re all almost as recognizable as Stark because they’re all always together. “But he isn’t afraid of strong flavors.”
“Expensive palate,” Flash Thompson teases. “And don’t drink much means he once blacked out on a couple bottles of tequila in high school and hasn’t been able to touch the stuff since.”
“Wow Flash, let’s offer those facts up to random bartenders who can sell my secrets to the press.”
“Don’t be so damn dramatic,” Flash rolls his eyes.
“What these fools are skipping over,” Michelle Jones cuts in sharply. “Is that we wanna do some experiments. We’ll give you a large tip if you make a drink our boy likes.”
“And if he doesn’t like the first one?” Harley asks, intrigued.
“We’re kind of counting on how slow it is tonight for you to have the time to keep trying,” Michelle says. “If you’re up to the challenge?”
Harley lets his eyes rake over Stark, pleased at the flush to his cheeks. “Special occasion?”
“I just got my second degree.” Stark scratches the back of his neck. “And my friends insisted I do something fun that isn’t organized by my parents.”
“The dude has done nothing but school work since we were twelve,” Betty Brant says. “Even on vacations, winter and summer breaks. He’s letting loose tonight.”
“I am not getting black out drunk.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Point aside,” Stark sighs. “Are you up for it?”
“Might as well have a little fun,” Harley shrugs. “So, what I’ll do is make one of every drink your friends suggest. I’ll put a little in a shot glass for you to try, and you’ll give me some feedback from those. Think you can handle that, sweetheart?”
“Uh, yeah,” Stark swallows.
And so it begins.
Harley begins making requested drinks. Within eight minutes, he’s got a martini, a white Russian, a glass of scotch, and a Cosmo made. He pours the a little of each in shot glasses, lined up in front of Stark. He draws his hand across them in presentation. “Ready, Mr. Stark?”
“Please don’t call me that,” Stark answers immediately. He clears his throat then. “But, um, yeah. Ready.”
“Start with the Cosmo,” he advises. “Just open your throat, tilt it back, and swallow.”
“Stark's specialty,” Thompson grins.
He gets smacked on the side of his head for it by Brant, who glares. “Drink your cosmo, asshat.”
“I don’t even know why I’m friends with you.”
“Because you love me, obviously.”
They fall into a little bickering session, but Harley tunes them out. He’s got no other customers right now, and Peter Stark is more appealing than any of them. He licks his lips nervously, reaching for the shot of cosmo. He does as Harley instructed, tilting it back and letting it slide down his throat. His brow draws together immediately. Harley laughs at how much he looks like a child.
“Too sweet?” he asks.
“Little bit,” Stark coughs.
Harley pours him a cup of water. “Here. Cleanse the palate. Try the scotch, next. Should be more familiar. This is what rich white dudes drink to feel fancy.”
“My father drinks scotch.”
“There you go.”
Stark smiles. It’s a small thing, but the little quirk of his lips and small breath of air makes Harley’s stomach fucking flutter. The other man nods, sips the water, and reaches for the scotch. That goes down smoothly, but he still shrugs a little. “I can never seem to like it.”
“It’s alright,” Harley leans forward, arms a little spread out across the bar in support. “I’ve got all night. We’ll find something you like.”
Harley cringes at himself, but Stark’s lips part. “I-I’ll try the martini.”
Brant raises theirs. “Here, here.”
Stark says it’s the best yet before he reaches for the white Russian. When he takes a sip of that, his eyes widen a little bit and he looks at Harley with a small smile on his face. “Almost.”
“Almost?”
“I like that,” Stark says. “But it’s too creamy.”
Harley nods. “You drink your coffee black?”
“With a little sugar.”
“Figure’s you’d be a coffee drinker,” Harley chuckles, reaching for a new glass. “I know a lot of academics that drink way too much coffee. I’m going to make you a Black Russian. Basically, its what your friend here drinks, but without the cream.”
“That sounds perfect,” Stark says. “Thank you for your patience.”
Harley bites back a comment and goes about making the drink. The bar is a little more crowded than it was twenty minutes ago, so he pours the drink for incredibly cute boy, slides it over to him with a wink, and moves on. The little group stays in his peripheral as he works. He watches them laugh and drink, occasionally leaving the bar to dance. Brant and Thompson laugh a lot, Leeds is talkative and in awe of Brant, and Jones interacts with everyone as if there’s a small barrier between her and the world. It’s a fascinating dynamic.
And Stark? He never leaves the bar. He gets giggly the more he drinks, but he doesn’t accept offers to dance from girls or guys. He doesn’t respond to flirtations. He drinks significantly less than anyone else around him.
Ten o’clock rolls around, and Harley’s a little tipsy himself. He’s had a couple shots, mostly from drinking with a few regulars who are having a bad day. It’s not enough to make him lose his inhibitions, but its enough that he cannot stop looking at Stark. He can’t explain the attraction, because he normally refuses to see the people across the bar as potential lovers. He can normally put a block. Stark, however, has wormed his way under Harley’s skin with a flutter of his brown eyes and shy smile.
When Becca comes in the replace him, he kisses her cheeks and heads out back. He’s about to get on his bike when he notices someone leaning against the wall in the alley. “Hello?”
“Oh, sorry.” Stark steps forward into the low lighting back there. “I just, um, saw some cameras. One of the waitresses helped me slip out back.”
“Makes sense,” Harley says. “They out front?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “My friends, they put my hoodie on a guy MJ met and all went out the front in an attempt to distract them. I’m just hiding out until one of them lets me know they were followed.”
“That sucks.”
Don’t do it, Harley.
Do not.
“Need a ride?”
Stark perks up a little bit. “My security detail sitting outside the club will kill me.”
Shut up, Keener.
“Come on, Stark,” he shrugs. “Live a little.”
)-(
Peter is an idiot.
Like…an idiot in the way that only a genius with two degrees at twenty-one can be. Brilliantly booksmart, but apparently lacking an insane amount of common sense. He can’t even blame the alcohol because he’s been chugging water the past hour and hasn’t even had that much to drink. No, he’s not drunk. He’s just…enraptured by the bartender with wild blonde curls and tattoos.
The same bartender who he’s currently clutching as they ride through the city.
They pull up to a stop light. Peter leans forward a little to ask, “Where are we going?”
“I hadn’t decided,” the man, Harley, answers. “You need to get home?”
“Come on, Stark. Live a little.”
“We’re going out to tonight! It’s your birthday, Peter, and we live in one of the most magical cities in the world.”
“Honey, go out and have fun with your friends.”
Peter swallows. “No. I just, um—what do you do for fun?”
“It depends,” Harley answers. “Sometimes I go dancing with my friends, sometimes we hang out and watch movies, sometimes we find the best cupcakes in the city.”
“Cupcakes?”
Harley chuckles. He does that a lot, chuckling. It’s deep and rumbling, and Peter can feel it where his hands are at Harley’s ribs. “I guess I know where we’re goin’ first. Hold on, sweetheart.”
Peter’s stomach is left at the stoplight as they take off. Harley drives a little bit like a mad scientist: out of control, yet completely aware of every move he makes. Harley leans like he’s practiced. It’s clear that he’s been riding a motorcycle for a long time because he’s comfortable. Its an extension of himself, it feels like. Maybe its because the bike rumbles and its felt in Peter’s grip on Harley, or because the movement is so casual, but Peter almost believes Harley could drive through the city with his eyes closed.
Never having been on a motorcycle doesn’t seem to affect how comfortable Peter is. He tries not to think too much on that. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans his head against Harley’s back.
They stop in front of a diner off of Broadway. Harley sets their helmets on the seats and leaves it, taking Peter’s hand and tugging him inside. Peter follows along helplessly, knowing this is how people get murdered and not finding it in himself to care.
The diner is bustling. The waitress flies next to them with a tray of food and a big smile. “Hey Harls! Take a seat wherever you like! We’ll get to you in a minute.”
“Thanks, Ginge!” Harley answers. He leads Peter to a booth near the back. They sit across from each other in the booth, Harley shrugging out of his battered leather jacket. This allows Peter to look more closely at the tattoo along his arm, which reads ‘no matter how far’ with an abstract sun at the end, near his wrist.
“May I ask…?” Peter motions to it.
Harley looks down at it fondly. “When I moved to New York, my sister and I got them as a promise to stay close, despite the distance. I have a sun, she has a moon, but the script is the same. She saw it on Instagram or something and basically demanded we get it.”
“That’s sweet,” Peter says. “Where is she now?”
“She and her husband live in Nashville,” Harley replies. “She’s only twenty, but they’ve been married for two years. High school sweethearts and all that.”
“You approve?”
“I didn’t at first, because I was sure they wouldn’t survive. It doesn’t matter, though, 'cause it’s not my life. Jack’s a good guy, and they’re madly in love with each other. At the end of the day, I can’t ask for much else for her.”
Peter dips his head in agreement. “Fair enough. Sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister.”
“They’re pretty great,” Harley responds. “Abby and I have always been close. Kinda the result of having a dad who walked out and a mom who works too much to pay attention to her kids.”
Peter must make a face because Harley leans back in his seat, an understanding look on his face. “Sorry. Ginger says I have a habit of oversharing.”
“No, it’s nice,” Peter assures him. “As you can tell, I have a hard time hiding things, so blunt people are great to be around. Flash and MJ have their faults, but they’re completely honest.”
“The other two aren’t?”
“Betty is their own kind of category. Sassy, but kind-hearted. And Ned…he’s like a puppy. The world doesn’t deserve him.”
“Those are the best kind of friends.” Harley looks distracted as the woman from before—Ginger, he thinks—approaches the table. “Hey, hot stuff.”
“Hey baby.” Ginger leans down to kiss Harley’s cheek, and Peter feels his stomach sink. He’d thought… “Why are you bringing famous people into my diner this late?”
“It’s barely eleven,” Harley scoffs. “And he needed to run away from the cameras. Ginger, this is Peter. Peter, this is Ginger, one of my best friends. She has a wonderful personality, but can’t cook worth shit, so Tommy is in the back doing everything.”
“You’re an ass,” Ginger says lovingly. “What do you want?”
“Cupcakes,” Peter answers before he can help it. Ginger raises an eyebrow at him, but pulls out a notepad. “Sorry. Harley said you have the best.”
“Oh, absolutely! Nobody can bake like Tommy. What kind of cupcake do you want?”
“Whatever you recommend as long as it doesn’t have banana.”
“Noted. You like coffee?”
“I bleed coffee.”
She grins. “Espresso icing on vanilla cupcake, then. Harls?”
“Peanut butter, please.”
“You’re a goddamn addict.”
“Peanut. Butter.”
Ginger rolls her eyes and walks away. Peter chuckles at the exchange, leaning onto his palm and looking around the room. The décor is simple: white floors and ceilings, red and black booths that are surprisingly comfortable, and local art hanging on the walls. It smells like coffee and burgers, which shouldn’t be appealing, and yet mixes perfectly. The whole scene is a good backdrop for the various kinds of people sitting at the tables. From the clusters of friends, to the drunk couples, to the men is suits and women in trench coats, Peter feels like he’s blended in pretty well. He feels almost unnoticeable.
“Did you bring me here because I wouldn’t be recognized?” he asks Harley, who he can feel staring at him.
“Partially,” Harley admits. “But Tommy really does make the best cupcakes, in my opinion. You sounded so excited about them, I couldn’t refuse.”
I’ve never met anyone so honest.
“Well,” Peter says, wishing he could control his blush. “Tell me, how do you feel about the new Star Wars movies?”
)-(
“I’m fucked,” Harley says into the phone. “Truly and utterly fucked.”
Tommy cackles. “Amazing. You’ve been single your entire life, and now that you meet some random guy who happens to be famous billionaire, you’re in love.”
“I am not in love,” Harley snaps. “I just…I’m a little helpless, okay? He’s cute, and sweet, and trusting, and his eyes are literally like chocolate.”
“Harley.”
“It’s like my body been’s taken over by some horny idiot who invites strangers to hop on his bike in an alleyway.”
“You did what?! And he followed? I officially don’t trust this guy’s judgement.”
Harley looks over to Peter. He’s sitting at the back of the room in the comedy club, laughing unabashedly with his eyes squinted and his body tilted forward in his seat. When they left the diner, Peter had looked up at him and asked, “Where to next?” Harley didn’t mean to hop on the bike and bring him somewhere else, but it’s midnight and Peter looks delighted to be alive.
“I don’t think he normally does this,” Harley argues. “He was definitely told to loosen up, and he’s still pretty…I don’t know, reserved? Can you be reserved and still wear your heart on your sleeve?”
“You can be bad at hiding your emotions but uncomfortable showing your true colors in front of people you don’t know,” Tommy muses. “So I guess. Is he like that?”
“Sort of? I’m starting to think he just isn’t very excitable.”
“And you like that? Boring guys aren’t your thing.”
“He’s not boring, he’s just not obnoxious.”
“Hmm. Regardless, you do sound fucked. Where is this going?”
“I don’t know! I’m just freaking out and needed to talk real quick.”
“Does he know you’re freaking out?”
“Obviously not.”
“Right.” Tommy is laughing again. “Look, my smoke break is over. I love you, but you need to calm the hell down. You don’t know much about him, right? And he keeps wanting to spend time with you?”
“Yeah.”
“So get to know him. Show him the Harley we love. And if you’re still with him when we close the diner, then we’ll all go dancing. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” Harley breathes. “Sounds good.”
)-(
They leave the comedy club a little after midnight. Peter isn’t remotely tired, and he feels a little exhilarated at the fact that he’s riding around New York City late at night with a guy he barely knows, but really likes. Currently, they’re heading toward the Empire State Building. Peter’s never actually been, and is still reeling from the surprise that the top is opened until two in the morning. Harley insists that it’s a view he has to show Peter.
Peter is thinking about how pretty Harley is under the lights of the city when his phone rings. Since they’re at a stoplight, he takes the opportunity to fish it out and answer.
“Dude,” MJ says. “You cannot ignore my texts after telling us you hopped on the back of a strangers bike in the middle of the night!”
“I’m fine, MJ,” Peter sighs. “And he’s not a stranger. He’s the cute bartender named Harley.”
In front of him, Harley snorts.
“Jesus, Peter, I’m serious,” Betty cuts in. He must be on speaker. “Where are you? I want visual proof you aren’t kidnapped.”
“A phone call isn’t enough?”
“Have you even seen Criminal Minds?” Flash exclaims. “No, it’s not enough.”
“Pete, just tell us where you are,” Ned says. “Please? We’ll come see you, make sure you’re alive, and then leave you alone.”
Peter huffs and leans toward Harley. “You okay if my friends come with us? They’re being paranoid about criminal minds or something.”
“If your friends join us, how am I supposed to sacrifice you to the gods? It’s an intimate ritual.”
A laugh bubbles out of Peter. He notices Harley’s smirk and shakes his head, holding on tighter as the light turns green. “We’re headed to the Empire State Building! See you there!”
After he hangs up, he yells, “Intimate ritual? Really?”
Harley speeds up in response, and Peter wonders if the feeling in his gut is love.
)-(
Standing at the top of the Empire State Building, Peter feels his breath leave his lungs in a single whoosh at the sight of the city. He’s got an incredible view from his family’s penthouse, but this is something else. He feels like he’s on top of the city, looking down at the spread of lights and life while feeling almost detached from it.
“Incredible, right?” Harley says quietly from next to him. The other man is leaning into the bars, forehead resting against the iron. “I used to come up here a lot when I first moved here. Without all the tourists here, it’s quiet. You can’t hear the city, and the air is a little clearer than it is down there. And it’s just breathtaking.”
Peter doesn’t reply; instead, he sneaks his phone between the bars and tilts it to get the perfect picture of Harley looking more gorgeous than any sight Peter’s ever seen.
“You know, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be taking pictures of you and selling them to the press.”
“Pictures of me are a usual, boring thing. Pictures of you are extraordinary.”
Harley jerks back like Peter’s offended him, and Peter realizes that he spoke out loud. “Shit, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I am so sorry—
Harley’s kissing him, then. It’s unexpected but wholly welcome. He sinks into the taller boy, grasping the grey t-shirt to steady himself. Harley’s lips are a little chapped, making the kiss rougher than anticipated but so good as it almost scratches against Peter. He tastes a hint of the peanut butter from the cupcake and shamelessly licks along the line of Harley’s mouth, pleased when his lips part enough to deepen the kiss. Harley groans, grabbing Peter’s hips and tugging him closer.
When they pull apart, Peter slowly blinks his eyes open and looks into blown pupils and flushed cheeks. “Wow.”
“Sorry,” Harley says. “I’ve kind of wanted to do that all night, but we don’t know each other, so it seemed stupid. But then you were being so ridiculously cheesy and I guess it just felt…”
“Right?”
“Definitely right.”
Peter leans up to press another quick kiss to the corner of Harley’s mouth. “I’m not accustomed to frenching people I don’t know on rooftops. I was, um, pretty pleased with it, though.”
“Good,” Harley chuckles, that rumbling in his chest happening again. Peter wants to lean into it all night, feel the easy joy Harley carries in his lungs. “My last name is Keener, by the way. I’m a bartender at night, about to be a student at Columbia during the day, and I moved here for school. I’m twenty-three, I’m allergic to blueberries, and I survive primarily on peanut butter.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harley Keener,” Peter giggles before he can help himself. “I’m Peter Stark, I’m officially a student at Columbia as of yesterday, and I’m working in my father’s company in the labs. I wear funky socks and avoid peppermint at all costs.”
“Good to know,” Harley says. He dips his head to nose along Peter’s chin before nipping at the space behind his ear. “Since I’ve already kissed you, I don’t suppose it would be too forward to ask for your number?”
Peter loves how Harley talks. “No, it wouldn’t be too forward.”
Then they’re kissing again, pressed into the cement wall at the top of the Empire State building. It’s goddamn romantic if Peter says so himself, and he happily melts into Harley’s chest, pulling at the soft blonde hair and trying to get as close as he possibly can. It’s good, this is good, until—
“Jesus, Pete,” Betty calls. “Don’t you know anyone could have cameras up here?”
“Don’t care if I’m honest,” Peter calls back. His friends are rounding the corner, looking entirely too pleased with the turn of events. “I’m alive and well, anyways. You can all leave now.”
“And miss meeting the only boy toy you’ve ever had?” Flash scoffs. “As if.”
“He’s not—ugh.” Peter keeps his hands on Harley’s chest, even as they turn. “Harley, please officially meet Betty, Flash, Ned, and MJ.”
Harley nods respectfully. “Genuine pleasure. My name’s Harley Keener.”
“And I like him,” Peter says. “So be on somewhat good behavior.”
“Always,” MJ smirks. “How late are we staying out?”
Peter looks to Harley, silently asking if its alright that his friends are clearly under the impression that they’ll be joining them for whatever they do next. He’s also kind of wondering if they even are doing something next. Peter knows that he wants to keep Harley around, doesn’t want him to wander off into the massive city that is New York without the promise of getting together again.
Harley keeps his eyes on Peter as he says, “Well, my friends are about to close the diner and head to a jazz club for some dancing. Does that interest anyone?”
Peter can feel the smile that stretches across his face, and he knows he looks like a love-struck fool.
)-(
Harley learns a lot in the next few hours.
Peter’s friends mesh well with his. Tommy and Ginger are drawn to the little group of college students, and the similar humor makes it easier for everyone to click. The genuine joy growing between the group obviously pleases Peter, who spends his time tucked into Harley’s side with giggles and teasing remarks. This in turn makes Harley entirely too happy. He’s subject to anything Peter wants—whether its dancing, driving to Brooklyn and bribing a guard for late night access to the museum, making out under the cherry trees in Central Park, or hopping on an early morning ferry to Staten Island, Harley is there and doing whatever he needs to make it happen.
He also learns that Peter is stubborn and decisive. Even though he appears quiet and ready to do whatever, he makes his mind up and pursues his choices with impressive tenacity. Harley has to admit he’s impressed when he watches Peter speak to the security guard who gets them into the Brooklyn Museum. The Stark heir smiles, pleads, and bribes like its second nature. It’s not easy, but he’s successful.
Even though Peter is scientifically minded, he loves music and art. He can tell Harley just about anything when it comes to the works in the museum. When Harley and Ginger hop on stage at the jazz club to play a few songs, Peter knows enough to request a song by Lou Donaldson.
His mind is filled with useless trivia.
He’s got the biggest sweet tooth.
Blue is his favorite color.
And, it’s his fucking birthday.
Their little group is getting ready to take the Staten Island Ferry across the river for a killer view of the sunset when Ned looks at his watch. “Oh, hey Peter. It’s six am, man. You’re officially twenty-one.”
Harley can feel the color drain from his face as he looks down at the boy is his arms. Peter smiles sheepishly and shrugs.
“I was fooled by your pretty eyes and fuckable lips,” Harley murmurs. “I didn’t even think to ID you because I was so distracted by that.”
“MJ and Betty like to celebrate at midnight, so we always start the day before,” Peter admits. “It’s kind of a ritual, and I’m the last one to turn twenty-one. I was told I had to make a big deal out of it, have the time of my life.”
“Well, did you?” Harley presses. For some reason, the answer seems so incredibly important. “Have the time of your life?”
Peter smiles. “Let’s see. I met a really cute bartender, hopped on his bike, and ran around the city with him. We got dessert, kissed at the top of the Empire State Building, went dancing in the middle of the night, kissed under the cherry trees, and are currently watching the sunrise together.”
“There were other people involved in this night, you know,” Flash mutters, but Peter ignores his friend.
Instead, he keeps staring at Harley with a small smile on his face. Those wide, brown eyes look up hopefully. “I had the greatest night of my life. I can only hope it won’t end here.”
“Of course it won’t end here,” Harley chuckles, leaning in. “I haven’t even gotten your number yet.”
Peter’s chin tucks in and he laughs, openly as if nothing could ever bother him. It makes a weird feeling settle in Harley’s stomach as they meet in a kiss. He’s suddenly struck by the opportunity in front of him; he doesn’t know this boy, not really, but he’s fallen under a sort of spell. He gets to spend his time finally pursuing the career he’s wanted, seeing if this relationship can go anywhere, and it thrills him. This right here is why he moved to New York. This boy, this future, these friends leaning against the railing with them as they all stare at the sun coming up over one of the most magical cities in the world.
Yeah, Harley thinks happily as presses a kiss to Peter’s temple. It definitely won’t end here.
i wonder what it would be like to melt into your sweet arms and stay there for eternity
-christy ann martine