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Peter Parker.
The name was almost foreign to his tongue, rolling off with a slight edge, as if his lips weren’t letting the words go—were struggling to say them aloud, to voice the existence of the young man—for God’s sake, Harry—the friend standing opposite him.
The friend he had tried so hard, for so long, to forget.
This was a loose bolt, a mistake, an outlier, an overlooked detail, one that fell straight into his mind’s machine and stuck, the second he met those warm, amiable brown eyes again.
And it was as if he had never left this place.
Like it was yesterday, an hour, or ten minutes ago…
…when he was at Central Park, caught in a game of hide and seek with Peter (who always, always did manage to find him, no matter where he’d hid)
…when he was back at the Parkers, Peter pretending to snatch his bowl of vanilla ice cream from him and Aunt—what was her name? Come on, now. No. Really. Why would you? But he did. Yes, he did remember—Aunt May chiding them both
…when Peter was laughing at a story he was telling, face lit up, lips stretched into a rare, wide smile. He didn’t want to, but he remembered. He did remember. The laugh, mellow, echoing, the kind that fired right back at him and stayed.
…when a boy with the most bizarre, unruly shock of hair stretched out his arm and offered him his hand, introducing himself as “Peter,” during lunch, when no one else in the elementary school bothered to notice the poshly-dressed kid that was him. (He did show up to school in a limo—first days could have been worse. Days later, he would be telling the driver to stop at a certain townhouse, get off, knock on the door, and wait.)
…and that very same boy, glasses and a gangly figure (of course he was jealous. Damn jealous that Peter had the growth spurt before he did), running after his limo, calling his name. Running, running, and running, and eventually stopping, hands on his knees, looking up. Peter was a dot—his limo was already too far from that street. Peter was already too far from him, from his mind. It was minutes, had been, since he left the mansion and made a small visit to Peter’s, to say goodbye, but anxiety had replaced shock, and anger had jostled its way in.
No warnings, no hints. An alarm clock’s wake-up call and the honking of his limo, that was all he got. Bags were packed and forms were signed, his name entered without his consent or knowledge (what was that about fathers owning their children’s lives again?). He was leaving, he was told, and Peter was crying when he said goodbye, and that was all he understood.
So he bit his lips and let his tears dry. Put on his round eye sunglasses (it’s been a favorite of his, even then) and left New York City behind.
It was him against the world, hollowed halls and noisy cliques, papers, professors, and penalties.
Ah, prep school.
(What did he ever do to deserve such luck?)
He taught himself to forget. To run with time and to befriend strangers. To carry himself about the new surroundings, to speak the language of charm and seduction. To get what he wanted, when he wanted, as he wanted.
Grades and girls, he’d conquered them just about the same.
Then Peter said his name, and it was like a spotlight had shone over him. The marvel in his tone, the surprise note in those two words, pronoucing his first and last name in careful slices, like he’s rediscovering him…Harry, Harry Osborn.
The Harry Osborn.
That Harry Osborn.
His Harry Osborn.
Rediscovering.
(After all those years, huh?
After all those years.)