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“I'm sorry. I don't know when I'll be back. I don't... I don't think father will want me home on Christmas.”
Harry tries to sound like an adult, and Peter hates it. Peter hates excuses. He hates the sudden absence of people. He hates that his best friend didn't even have the courage to tell him that he was leaving town face to face. Maybe... maybe if he could have seen him, he could have willed him into staying. Somehow. It's not what Harry wants. He tells himself, but it still stings.
“Of course he does. He's still your dad.” Peter clutches the phone. The truth is, he doesn't know a thing about what Dads really want or do anymore. He has his uncle, and that's good.
Harry falls silent for a moment, but Peter can hear him breathe down the line.
“I want you home at Christmas.” He tries, having always wanted to have Harry with him in the living room, underneath the Christmas tree and magic fairy lights. But his friend always had to stay home, for the family. The family that suddenly doesn't want him anymore. It's too much for Peter to comprehend.
Harry laughs, but the sound is scratchy where it would normally ring as clear as a bell, so Peter knows that he's actually crying. It hurts him.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don't want to have to say goodbye to you.”
He's still sounding like an adult, like a grown up that's sad but won't allow others to see the tears. “When are you leaving tomorrow?”
“After breakfast. I... I need to pack my things, Pete.”
Peter knows that isn't quite the truth because he can hear adults enter the room and talk to Harry. He doesn't know what they're saying, the sound is too muffled, but they sound angry with him. He worries for his friend, out of a sudden, and wants to take his bike and go see him. It's not that easy with Harry, though, his home is protected by cameras and security guards. “Okay.”
“Bye.”
The sound of this goodbye hurts more than anything else and Peter finds himself numb with a pain he hadn't felt for ages. “Harry, I--” The line is cut off, so Peter is just standing in his kitchen, having to tip-toe to put the phone back where it belongs. That's not enough. He thinks, and doesn't really understand why he's thinking it. But Harry has been his prince on the playground, Peter being the knight, and he feels like he's failing to protect him from a dragon that already has his claws on him.
~*~
Harry can't fall asleep that night. He keeps wanting to go back and find a phone to call Peter again. To tell him that he doesn't want to go. To tell him that he'd rather go and live with him than leave for a school full of rich boys that don't want to be there, either.
How much he'll miss him.
The Osborn heir has cried so much that his face feels hot, eyes burning. It came too soon and sudden for him to understand just why he has to go. He feels like a burden, like he's done something wrong and his mind works over and over the possibilities of what it might have been, but he always comes to one conclusion:
His father probably never loved him.
He's not sure what makes him more sad and when he rolls over, having been curled up on his bed, and looks up at the ceiling where the time of day is projected as a nightlight, he sees that it's 2AM already and he realizes that he has never been up that long.
Clutching his chest, he thinks that this is what growing up feels like. He doesn't want to grow up.
A day ago he has become everything he wanted by simply asking for it, and now his father won't answer the simplest question and he still doesn't understand, he doesn't want to understand, he just knows that he screamed and cried too much and that his dad looked at him like he was something that he never wants to see again and sees for the first time all at once.
He drops off eventually. When he wakes up, the sun is hurting his eyes. Someone opens his curtains, a tall man. Harry sits upright in his bed and hopes he can't see he is crying while he is trying to think of the man's name. Mister... Mister Something. He once made the effort to know every ones name, to be proper and polite in front of strangers when he has to because it always earned him proud smiles, but now he's numb. He finds himself not caring and gets up.
He feels like a robot, like he's working on autopilot and his steps take him places he doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to have breakfast with his father right now.
They are both silent during most of it. Harry has washed his face with cold water earlier so his dad can't see how tired he is and how much he cried. It seems to have worked, at least he's not being reminded of it as he forces his cereal down and can feel it upset his stomach from how tense he still is. He's not very hungry, but he eats.
He doesn't want to put on his new school uniform, but he does and knows what he sees in the mirror afterward is how he is going to see himself for year after year now. He doesn't want to have to remove his mother's picture from the nightstand and take her with him even though he never even knew her, but he does and she smiles at him out of the suitcase. He doesn't want to get into the car, either, but he does and knows that this will be the last time he sees his driveway for a long time. That very moment, he despises it. He doesn't want to.
Until a boy on a bike pulls around the corner, jumps off it and lets it crash hard to the ground as he begins running after the car. Harry can see his face as he turns around and looks out of the back window, eyes blown wide as he realizes it's Peter.
Peter. He didn't want to have to say goodbye to Peter.
But he sees him run as fast as he can and he sees him stumble over his own feet. Peter gets up again, calling out for him and waving wildly. His knight has come to save him. Harry's heart beats wildly in his chest and for the first time this morning he does something that he wants to do.
“Stop, Zachariah.”
His driver doesn't immediately listen to what the boy said, seeing the other one approach in the rear view mirror.
“Stop the car!!” Harry repeats, and finally, Zachariah slows down and before he can think he stumbles out of the car and runs towards Peter.
They pant when they crash into each other, but they're also laughing because they made it and they're happy for the moment, enclosing each other in their arms as if nothing ever happened. As if this wasn't goodbye. Harry still doesn't manage to say the words. He doesn't have to with Peter, though. His smile fades. Peter's does, too, when he sees the expression on his friend's face.
“You don't hafta say it.” Peter says awkwardly, suddenly shifting somewhat uncomfortably. “I'll call you bunches and when Uncle Ben lets me have a cell, I'll text you bunches and it's like you've never even been away.”
Little Harry nods, stiffly so, inhaling through his nose. Darn, he feels like crying again.
“I love you.” Peter mumbles, and Harry flushes. Peter says it to his Aunt and Uncle all the time. They say it every night when he's tugged into bed and every now and then when he leaves for school, so he thinks nothing of it. Harry, on the other hand, didn't hear the phrase before and only knows it from romance schmoop and it makes him embarrassed and happy at the same time.
“I don't wanna go.” Harry presses out, and then the tears are flowing and he has to let his head drop so his fringe hides most of them. This is why he didn't want Peter to say goodbye to him in the first place. It's not so bad to leave the house he was born in. But Peter is much more 'home' than anything else is.
He can feel Peter's hand against his jawline, then, cupping his face and keeping the tears from gathering at his chin. He's lifting his face and presses his lips against Harry's cheek. “It's okay.”
He flushes more and he cries more, because no, it's not okay, and he doesn't get to return the gesture and kiss Peter back before Zachariah angrily gets out of the car and claims that he will tell his father that he made a fuss about leaving because of his little “faggot” friend.
Harry knows that that word means, or at least he has a vague idea of it, and he also knows that it's an insult. He doesn't want Zachariah to insult Peter, so he gives him the angriest look he can muster with a red face full of tears. “He's my friend!” My only friend, he thinks, but doesn't say it or dare to return the kiss now with his driver watching.
He leaves, and when Peter watches the car pull around the corner, he realizes that he doesn't even have Harry's new phone number yet.
~*~
It's Christmas Eve, 2009.
Aunt May is decorating the Christmas tree and insists on Peter helping her, so he runs down the stairs and joins her with a grin. He's not really all that enthusiastic to be helping with the fairy lights, but he his crush from school has thrown him a smile the day before and he's ever since planning on how to ask her out for prom next year without making a complete idiot out of himself.
Elvis is playing in the background and he thinks it's too cheesy to listen to until Uncle Ben walks past him, presses a kiss on May's cheek and tells him about it was that song he listened to when he realized that he was head over heels for his Aunt. It doesn't seem all that cheesy to him after that anymore, because he can imagine just fine how someone 'can't help falling in love with you'.
Peter's smiling. He's happy.
The doorbell rings and he doesn't give it all that much thought, so he simply continues to put up Christmas bulb after bulb, quietly humming along to the song. 'Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be...' He wonders whether she'd think of him when she hears those words, too and smiles to himself, almost embarrassed even though there's hardly anyone who can read his thoughts.
“Peter?”
He doesn't even turn around, having heard Aunt May's voice. “Yeah?”
“There's someone who wants to see you!”
Peter turns around. He needs a moment before it all clicks into place. He'd recognize those eyes anywhere, though. It's Harry. Harry Osborn. The boy that he thought lost any kind of interest in him about two years ago. So why does he turn up at Christmas Eve, smiling like the devil?
“Peter!” And with that he's tugged into a hug. Harry is still smaller than him. But Harry doesn't smell the same. Hell, Harry doesn't even look the same.
He knows he's probably supposed to be joyful at the news, but remembering how much he missed someone that apparently didn't miss him back makes him sour. “Hey. Hey, Harry.” He murmurs and rubs the back of his neck. “And merry Christmas. I- I didn't think to see you here.”
Why is this so awkward? Peter wants to disappear.
“I asked Mrs. Parker if I can stay over the weekend.” He explains with a smile that exposes all of his teeth and that is so bright and faked at the same time that it puts Peter off. “She said yes!”
Harry fulfills somewhat of a little jump of joy and holds both of his hands in his, so Peter nods politely, forcing a smile on his own face. “That's... that's great!” mumbles, but it doesn't sound like it really is. Harry doesn't seem like he notices. He just continues to smile. Peter feels his face grow hot with how uncomfortable it makes him. This boy was his best friend.
But now...? Hell, he's dressed so dapper he should be anywhere but here, in his living room. But of course Aunt May has already wandered off to set the table and calls them both for help like they're fucking family. He can feel Harry's bright eyes linger on him. There's something different about the way he looks at him now, too.
He thinks of how happy his past self would have been, though, and puts on a compliant facade.
They even sit at the dinner table together as if nothing would've ever happened. Except for how different Harry is from how he remembers him to be. It's like everything he says is said for a reason or just to cause a reaction that he has previously calculated. He's like a snob. The dinner is delicious, though, really, he has to cut Aunt May some slack here and at least moan happily around a mouthful of roast once.
The sound he gives makes Harry chuckle. It's a low sound. Peter looks away.
“I'm very happy to be with you.” Harry says, addressing all of them. No, you're not. Peter thinks, but he doesn't comment on it, chewing away on his delicious food before he forgets himself. His Aunts and Uncles smiles are genuine, but that's only because they don't know. They don't know that Harry never even wrote him and wouldn't pick up his phone so often that Peter gave up on calling him at all. They don't know Harry as much as he does – or thought that he did, maybe.
Once dinner is over, Aunt May sends them off to his room to 'talk about the good old times'. Really, Peter doesn't feel like it.
Upstairs, Harry looks around, letting out a low whistling sound, eyes flickering over the walls. “This place hasn't changed at all.” He hums appreciatively and lowers himself on Peter's bed in such a matter of course that it makes Peter's cheeks burn hot with something that he doesn't understand.
“You sure did.” Peter says quietly, letting his true feelings about the matter shine through for the first time.
Harry cocks his head. “Is it a good or a bad change?” he questions, still smiling.
Harry knows how to handle guys. Harry knows how to make them melt at his feet. It took a while for him to figure it out, that he, too, can have power over them. And how easy it is. There's a certain angle from which you have to look at them, from below, and they melt like butter in the sun. Peter can hardly be any different. So why doesn't it seem to work with his childhood friend?
Harry expected so much more from standing at their threshold.
“Take a good guess.”
He can hear the bitterness shine through Peter's words. Ah, a bad change it is. Surprise. He thinks, crossing his legs and leaning back in a relaxed fashion, while really, the way his best childhood friend looks at him is making his guts turn. “What's bad about me? Educate me.”
Now it's Harry who sounds bitter. It seems like everything that once connected them has gone to waste over the years. Maybe it has. Maybe it was just Harry who had spent nights thinking about him. Who had let other boys touch him, thoughts inevitably wandering back to Peter. When a Senior that he needed him to do his maths equations slowly and clumsily coaxed him through his first orgasm and he had suddenly thought of his friend from what felt long ago he'd been embarrassed. Now he's so used to desiring and being desired that getting no response from Peter whatsoever stings. They have nothing to talk about.
Harry gets up and confronts him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. They're strangers now.
“The way you talk, for once!” Peter replies, getting louder for the first time and gesturing sharply. “Your... your clothes like, who do you need to impress? Why do you fake-smile all the time? Why do you think you can just turn up here after returning none of my calls or messages for years and pretend everything's fine? Because it's Christmas? Really, Harry, you don't make me feel very Christmas-y. And what's with the way you look at me?!”
Harry keeps his calm. On the outside, at least. “What way?” He lowers his gaze, just slightly, cocks his head and lets his teeth grace his bottom lip. “That way?” He's teasing him, mostly to see what kind of reaction he gets out of him, smirking when Peter seems as flabbergasted as he wanted him to. It gets him another moment of quiet. Another moment in which he can address something that really hit home in Peter's little speech. “It wasn't me who ignored you.”
“Yeah?” Now it's Peter who crosses his arms, lips twitching like he can barely hold himself back from shouting. “Oh, really, 'cos I called your little boy's club several times and you weren't available. You never even bothered.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I never heard a word from you, Harry! Not one line! No 'I'm okay, don't worry!'! No 'How are you, Peter?'! You...” He turns away, swallowing an insult.
Harry knows that look. Harry knows what he wanted to call him and it makes the hurt collapse and turn into anger. He can't control himself before he's at Peter, nudging his arm hard. “I... what?” He spats, surprised by how easy it is to lay off his mask now that he has begun to let off some steam. “You didn't call my cell. Not once. Don't.” He hits his arm and whatever his fist meets with each word. “Lie. To. Me, Peter!”
“What?” Peter holds still, but he barely holds himself together. Well, merry Christmas. He thinks with a sour laugh, not even bothering to try and block Harry's blows. “How am I supposed to call your cell if you never even bothered to tell me your number??”
“You would have known my number if you would have bothered to read my letters!” Harry replies, his well combed hair falling into his face as he keeps exhausting himself.
“What letters?!”
“The ones I wrote you, you fucking mono-browed bastard!”
The wording 'mono-browed-bastard' somehow amuses Peter, but he's still too confused and a little bitter to laugh about it. “Didn't get them. Not one.”
“...I was never informed you called.”
Suddenly, Harry lets his arms sink and looks up at Peter. Really looks up at him.
“My dad.”
“Your dad.” They say in unison, the thought having occurred at exactly the same time.
Peter looks back at Harry, standing there, cheeks flush and his hair messed up from how he stupidly hit him anywhere he could, his lips still twitched into a pout that is more adorable than threatening, and it's when he can't help it – he laughs. He really laughs, letting his whole body shake forward as he points at Harry.
“You... look hilarious.”
“At least I've got somewhat of a fashion sense.”
The reply came almost automatic and now Harry is simply staring up at Peter. Seeing him smile. Hearing him laugh. It's what he missed so much that his heart beats faster and heavier and something inside of his stomach seems to do a salto.
He's seeing his friend there.
“Come here.” Peter says and pulls him into a hug, and suddenly Harry is clinging onto him with all his might, closing his eyes and taking in his scent, his warmth, taking in what he learned to know as Peter over all the years they spent together. He's soaking himself up with him. He has to let go, though, eventually.
They spend some time just looking at each other.
Peter shows him pictures in year books, and Harry tells him about the various kinds of idiots he's facing every day and time somehow flies. They fall asleep next to each other, having exhausted themselves talking, Harry having put on one of Peter's Christmas sweaters when he froze and Peter noticed. Now they don't even care to get a blanket or get Harry on the sofa that was assigned to him.
There's no present reserved for Harry in the morning, so Aunt May quickly puts something together – old pictures of the both of them, or even the four of them, she could find, neatly put together in a little album. Harry smiles. While being the least monetary valuable, it's still the first self-made Christmas gift he has gotten in years. And it's something he'll really need. He got all of them things they could never afford and now regrets making them uncomfortable, but he can hardly take any of it back anymore. There's a microscope for Peter. Harry doesn't even know if Peter is still into science-y stuff, but the way that his eyes are glowing, he guesses he was right.
And time flies again. When the second day of Christmas is over, it feels as though they had never been separated at all. But it's also the day on which Harry has to leave, and he's dreading that moment. They all go for a walk before the time has come. Even outside in the cold, being with the Parkers feels warmer than any of the times he can remember to have had in his father's house.
He's up in Peter's room, packing, when his driver finally arrives. Aunt May invites him in for tea, so Harry has a moment to completely gather his things. He and Peter are about to take the stairs, when Harry stops him in his steps.
“I still owe you one.” He whispers, and the way his voice sounds makes Peter feel taken aback, embarrassed, and fucking gooey inside. Harry takes his hand and tugs him close. He doesn't know what's happening, but at the same time he anticipates it. He can feel warm breath against his cheek and lips that are way softer than he can remember them.
Time slows down the moment that Harry pulls back and their eyes meet.
They get hung up on each other, and their gazes flicker back towards their lips and meet again. They still stand close. Too close.
Carefully, Harry tip-toes and closes the distance again, this time pecking Peter's lips while their eyes are still locked. It feels unreal. It feels like everything Harry has always imagined, and like nothing Peter ever thought would come. Harry's thumb brushes the back of his hand and he lets go of it. Peter almost falls down the stairs as his body is still magnetized by Harry's, but he has already turned away and takes them.
It's awkward when Peter stands at the door and waves Harry goodbye together with his Aunt and Uncle.
They call each other every now and then. Peter still doesn't get Harry's letters. Slowly, they lose track of each other again. Harry sees the world, begins to hang out with the rich and famous and all Peter worries about is getting through school without major embarrassments. But they keep track of each other. It doesn't matter. Somehow, somewhere, they'll still be Peter and Harry.