Chapter Text
It had been too easy to sweep under the rug.
Breaking News: Norman Osborn attacked by the mysterious Green Goblin. The Oscorp CEO had been rushed to the nearest local hospital under critical condition. With the CEO attacked and the Oscorp board recently murdered, the future of Oscorp remains unknown.
In truth, Norman had been released from the hospital for a while now. He lay in his bed in the austere master bedroom visited only by three people: his doctor, his butler, and his son. Harry sat by his father's bedside every Sunday, praying and dreading the day blue eyes blinked open with lucidity. His world had been thrown into a frenzy. The New York Times and every other major news outlet with half a brain cell were printing out bleak outcomes for the corporation's future, and just yesterday he had to disconnect the landline because of the constant ringing. If Harry wanted to retain his wealthy lifestyle and a modicum of sanity, he needed his father to wake up.
And yet…
He had thought the Green Goblin kidnapped him to get to his father. Harry might've gotten kicked out of every private school on the Eastern seaboard, but even he could read the signs. Green Goblin steals OsTech and kills the Oscorp board? Well, obviously he'd target the Oscorp CEO next, and Harry's the son of the CEO. Therefore…
It had been obvious, dangling thousands of feet in the air with a trolley of screaming children acting as a sick counterbalance. But then he got home and…
"Why did you do it?" asked Harry; now, in the present. He blinked the blood and the glider and the awful sneer from his mind—replaced with the parchment-pale man laid against white sheets. The sharp-edged business suits traded for paper-thin hospital gowns. "Why kidnap me? It's not like you didn't have access to me 24/7." Clarity came like an errant wind brushing away leaves, revealing a cracked and dirty sidewalk underneath. "Or was it just a diversion to take attention away from-?"
"You're wrong."
Harry shivered at the high-pitched voice. He forced himself to meet his father's eyes and his awful sneer. No, not his father.
The Goblin.
"You're wrong, boy. I didn't do it because I wanted to lessen the heat on Norman. I did it because… because…" The Goblin spasmed, shoulders lifting from the sheets, arms flailing from under the duvet he was too weak to push off. Harry should've called for the doctor or tried to comfort him through the episode. That's what a dutiful son would do.
He was not a dutiful son.
And, finally, in the privacy of his own mind, Harry could admit that Norman wasn't the best father either. Looking the beast in the eyes, those uneven half-lidded eyes, Harry wrenched Norman by the chin to focus on him.
"Why did you do it?" He squeezed that chin as hard as he dared; until pale pink lips turned white. "Why kidnap me? What did you get out of it?"
The episode ended in a final lump and a strew of limbs; blue eyes rolling up in their sockets and then closing tight. When they opened again, it was as if staring into an entirely different man. "Harry?" the stranger croaked. "Son, what's going on? Why are you—?"
Harry loosened his grip. He traced the forlorn figure in the bed with his eyes; the sweat on his brow, the lump of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. His father's pulse thrummed under his pinky, loud but steady. He released his father's chin and slid his hand down until it covered his windpipe. The pulse under his palm was too calm. "Tell me the truth."
The haziness faded from blue eyes, and the confused frown grew into a wicked grin. "Finally growing a backbone, eh, son?" The Goblin cackled. Harry drew back, but still, the laughter followed him—as dark and nefarious as when the green gas filled his room that quiet afternoon. The laughter cut off suddenly as Norman slumped back into bed, paler than before, and with a familiar film over his eyes. The medicine was kicking in again.
"I did it because… because…" his arm waved in a lazy circle, his voice slurring, "I needed to draw out Spider-Man."
"And you chose me? Why me? Anyone would've been better. Spider-Man doesn't even know me."
"Heart," the monster wearing his father's skin said. He made a fist and bumped it against his chest. It trembled before he set it back down again. "Heart," he repeated.
It always went like this, ever since he'd been brought back from the hospital. A few minutes of awareness before the medicine or the insanity kicked in, and then his father was nothing more than skin and bone tucked under a too-large duvet. Harry sighed and retook his seat by the bed.
"Top drawer," his father mumbled. He pointed to the left bedside table with a circling finger before it settled into an uneasy twitch. Harry waited. The figure under white sheets made no other gesture and so he left his chair and circled the bed, careful not to get too close, and stepped in front of the stand.
Besides visiting his dad, Harry hadn't felt the need to linger in the old Osborn residence. He touched nothing while here. Not the stacks of paper sitting on his father's desk, or the expensive alcohol in the cellar—even though with each visit, the thought became more and more tempting.
Heck, he hadn't even visited his old room. It sat as empty and untouched as everything else in the house after the revelation. At first, he justified it as being too busy, between school and Oscorp and avoiding the press, to waste time revisiting old memories.
Now, his hands hovering over the ornate brass drawer handle, he realized it wasn't because he was busy. It was because he was afraid. Afraid of what he'd find if he looked too closely at the warning signs he ignored. Afraid of what brilliant childhood memories he had left becoming twisted beyond fixing. If he opened the drawer, would he find a weapon? A trap?
.
.
.
Something worse?
.
.
.
The drawer opened with a tiny squeak; the brass drawer's intricate design digging into his skin with how tight he held it. He blinked as he registered what his father found so important. Instead of the severed human head he half-feared yet half-expected, all the drawer held was a single clunky black camera atop his father's pressed button-downs. A camera? Why was that—
But then it clicked. This wasn't any old camera. This was Pete's camera. Peter's camera that went missing on Thanksgiving. The one Peter scavenged half the apartment for, for weeks.
The camera he used to take Spider-Man's pictures with.
He'd handled the camera before, but that knowledge didn't make his hands shake any less as he retrieved it. It was one of those fancier, new-end digital cameras—or, at least, fancy for Peter, who had trouble paying the bills half the time. No film development needed; every picture available right at your fingertips. He turned it on and opened the photo selection and scrolled through, waiting for an explanation. Maybe Pete had a picture of Spider-Man unmasked, because why else would his father steal the camera in the first place?
… But no, all the pictures of Spider-Man were professional and distant. Perfect. Almost too perfect, as if he'd posed for it instead of being caught in action. The Spider-Man pictures gave way to personal photos. There were a few of Aunt May; birds, landscapes, a lot of MJ…
And a lot of him. There were familiar ones that Peter asked him to pose for: graduation pics, him in front of the steps of ESU, them on the day they first moved into the apartment—he remembered that one fondly. The camera propped up against their rented school books and the timer set so short that Peter had to scurry to make it on time—
But the other photos were only familiar in the sense that he was in them: him at the kitchen table, peering over his glasses as sunlight highlighted his hair and the curve of his shoulder; him at the park from a low angle, laughing at something he couldn't remember; him asleep on the couch with his face half-buried in a pillow and his ankled hooked over the couch's armrest.
He scrolled until he hit the end of the photos and pushed his way back to the beginning. This was Peter's camera. There was no evidence of Spider-Man's secret identity, but there were pictures of the superhero that no person could take until they were buddy-buddy. MJ hinted as much, that Peter knew Spider-Man and Spider-Man saved MJ and that that was the conversation he walked in at the hospital. That was it, nothing else, she assured him as she dumped him, gentle but firm. But if Peter knew Spider-Man, he'd have told his best friend Harry Osborn, wouldn't he?
('Like you told Parker you were dating the love of his life?' A low, gravelly voice that sounded like his fath- the Green Goblin asked in his head.)
Harry closed his eyes. Focus. Pete's camera. Spider-Man. Pete'd be the perfect bait if his dad really wanted to draw Spider-Man out. His father came after him and not Peter for a reason.
And then it clicked, like the shutter of a camera.
"Peter is Spider-Man."
The lump in the bed snorted. His father said nothing, but he didn't have to. The smile alone conveyed everything. "Took you long enough." His father's eyelids fluttered before his face slackened. He was asleep. For now.
The drawer shut without a squeak. Harry left without another word.
.
You would think your dad dressed in a tacky Halloween costume while murdering people would be the hardest thing you'd ever have to process—the people he's killed, the terror he created; kidnapping you and dropping you from a bridge and laughing as he did it—but you would be wrong. Finding out Pete, your dorky, non-athletic, nerdy best friend was an arachnid-themed superhero had to take the cake.
And it made so much sense. That was the worst part. A road map had formed itself in Harry's mind, pinpointing and highlighting the signs in neon; the spider exhibit at the museum, Peter's sudden reflexes when facing Flash, the tardies and sudden disappearances, the photos. He was taking pictures of himself and selling them to one of the most prominent newspapers on the east coast. Harry would've laughed if he weren't on the verge of a mental breakdown.
Did Aunt May know? Did MJ? She did say they talked about Spider-Man in the hospital. Did Peter tell her?
Good on you, Harry. Two steps behind the crowd as always.
"I'm back," called Peter as he entered the apartment. Their apartment. The apartment they shared. He threw his keys on the counter and put his coat on the rack. He sounded normal. Looked normal. He was all smiles until he spotted Harry on the couch, hands in his hair, and then he was sliding next to him, all worried brows and concerned frown and so inherently Parker, it made Harry want to scream.
"Hey, is something wrong? Did-" Peter's voice dipped, and it was still gentle, but steel lurked beneath. No, not steel. Spider-Man. He placed a hand, wide with callouses that had never been during high school (a year ago. They were only high schoolers a year ago) on his shoulder. "Did something go wrong when you visited your dad? He didn't…" He trailed off. "You're okay, right?"
Harry's hands dug further into his scape because, and here was the kicker, Peter knew. Peter knew Norman was the Green Goblin, and that was why he kept offering to come with him on his visits. He knew that his dad was a mass-murdering lunatic and Norman knew Spider-Man was Peter and that's why his father kidnapped him, because Pete would try to save him and it's easier kidnapping your son than your son's ex-girlfriend. Harry suppressed the urge to hiss, to scream:
'You know my dad's insane. I know my dad's insane. Why are we pretending?'
The answer came as swift as the impulse. 'Because I didn't tell you. Because 'Spider-Man' knows but 'Peter Parker' doesn't, and you need to keep your secret ID.' Because Peter couldn't have known that cameras filled every inch of the Osborn manor. That he had seen everything.
He shrugged the hand off his shoulder. "It was fine."
"Don't tell Harry."
"Hey, if you ever need anything, Harry, anything at all. If something goes wrong or… Well, I'm here for you whenever you feel like you're falling."
A beat passed.
"Oh, that came out wrong. I'm so- I didn't mean it like- I mean, you went through a very traumatic experience, and I-"
Harry couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. Peter sputtered to a stop before he began laughing too. Harry doubled over, his sides shaking as it came crashing on him. Peter was Spider-Man. Spider-Man was Peter. His roommate dressed up in red spandex and made awful one-liners and took pictures of himself to sell to the local newspaper because he was too stubborn to accept money from his very well-off friend. A hand clutched at his shoulders, and suddenly, it didn't seem that big a deal.
"I know, Pete. I know. It's, like, through all this," even though the lies and the unspoken truths, "you're the only one I can rely on. Thank god for you, Peter."
Peter's smile flickered. The hand on his shoulder squeezed, and right when he thought the other would let go, Peter pulled him into a hug. "You will get through this, Harry. You're strong and you're brave and you're not alone," he said it so soft and sure, and all Harry could think of was falling; the scream that tore through his throat and the wind rushing past his ears, and the certainty that he would die. Then seeing Spider-Man. Spider-Man coming after him when kids were screaming and the way the superhero held him, but then he was slipping on skin-burning wire—
Harry buried himself into Peter's shoulder as he buried himself into Spider-Man's.
He smelt the same, he realized, because they were the same person despite the masks. He smelt like natural body odor and the cheap deodorant layered on so thick it overpowered his nose. Harry hated how he relaxed at the scent.
"You're the best guy anyone could ever ask for," stated Harry when they parted, hand still on Pete's shoulder because… because. Peter didn't seem to mind the lingering touch; his eyes wet.
"Ditto."
.
Before the kidnapping, Harry would be lucky if Pete picked up on the third dial. These days, Peter's the one calling him, unless he was out being Spider-Man, of course, but even then, as news copters televised his heroics live, Peter shot him a quick reply text. "Kinda busy," it read.
It shouldn't be that reassuring that Peter, while saving people from a burning building, took the time to shoot him a text. It was dumb and idiotic, but whenever Harry felt nervous, he thumbed his phone and opened his contacts. By the time he got to Peter's name, whatever nervousness he felt diffused like tea in hot water, leaving him nothing but calm and slightly warm. It was nice having a superhero on speed dial, he guessed.
.
It was late. Had been late for a while now, according to the clock and all concepts of lateness. He should be in bed, resting for his 8 AM chem tests—and really, he needed to get priority scheduling next semester because he did not want to do 8 AM ever again—but he hadn't heard the telltale thumps of Peter arriving home yet. He refreshed the local news site again. No update on Spider-Man. Harry couldn't tell if that was good or bad.
His head had begun nodding off without his permission, the laptop still glowing with blurry headlines and news reports, when he heard it. A thwip. Thumps. Cursing. Peter sneaking in from the balcony. He gave it a few minutes. A slow whine of pain. A hiss. More curses.
Peter was a grown man, Harry reminded himself. He could take care of himself—but, his brain reminded him, he once cut himself on a broken beaker so deep that he needed stitches. In senior year. Harry sighed and suppressed the ballooning yawn.
He trudged the scant distance to Peter's room and knocked on the door. Most of the time, Pete left his door unlocked. A bold move from the guy with a secret identity, and so he could barge in… except it was late and he was not going to coach Peter through a revelation freak-out when there was class tomorrow.
"Pete, you okay? I heard some thumping. You're not having a party in there, are you?"
A weak laugh sounded from the other side of the door before it dissolved into another hiss. Worry settled at the bottom of Harry's throat like bile.
"I'm fine. No party in here. Just getting changed for bed. Go back to your room."
"You sure? I feel like I need to check if-"
"No, don't-" Several thuds got louder and louder. The door yanked open, revealing a wild-haired and wide-eyed Peter, who leaned on the doorknob as if that would convey the epitome of 'all right'. "No party, no siree. So why don't you go back to bed-" There was a cut on his cheek. He wasn't wearing the suit, which solved the revelation freak-out problem, but the tee he was wearing was low enough that Harry could spot the bruise on his collar bone.
"You're a mess," he stated.
Peter winced. "Yeah. Kind of, uh, tripped on the way home. But don't worry, nothing's broken, and I didn't have my wallet stolen, so that's an outstanding day in my book."
Harry recognized that wince. It was the wince Peter gave Aunt May when she asked him where his Flash-administered bruises came from. It was the wince he showed before he lied to her and puppy-eyed Harry over her frail shoulders into keeping quiet. It was that wince he gave to Harry now.
He shoved himself into Peter's room and pretended not to see the spider-suit Peter hurriedly kicked under the bed. "Huh. No party here. Guess you were telling the truth."
The darkness made it hard to tell, but he could feel Peter rolling his eyes. A chill crept over his arms and the back of his shoulders. He tiptoed across the fallen college papers and strewn clothes and closed the still-open balcony doors. A lone web dangled from the balcony's roof but he ignored it. "Well, since you don't have a party here, that means I can get the first aid kit in peace."
Peter's shout of, "Do you even know first aid, Mr. I-have-private-doctors?" followed him across the hall. By this point, having noticed the fluctuating inventory of their singular first aid kit, Harry had taken it upon himself to attend a first aid training class. He retrieved the kit from behind the bathroom mirror and, noticing its lightness, reminded himself to restock.
"It's late," reminded Pete as Harry pulled out the rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball. "I know you got chem in the morning, I can take care of it."
"Sit down and stop fussing, Parker. Or do you want me to call Aunt May and tell her about your days skipping classes?"
"Okay, I'm shutting up. Sheesh. Straight to the Aunt May card, huh?"
"I wouldn't have to pull the Aunt May card if you were sensible for once."
Peter snorted.
.
The rest of their session was quiet. The room dark save for the dim lamp on the bedside table, Peter's red digital clock, and the moonlight streaming in from the balcony doors. He angled himself opposite the lamp as he pressed the soaked cotton ball against Peter's check. His patient didn't hiss or wince, but his hands fisted the blankets and he hunched over like he used when they first met; before Harry, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben nagged him out of it. Like this, he wasn't the Spectacular Spider-Man, but he wasn't Peter Parker either.
He was something else during this midnight hour. Suddenly, his psych professor's words echoed back to him. Something about the duality of man.
"Thanks, Har," said Peter as Harry pressed a Power Ranger band-aid over his cheek. There wasn't much he could do for the bruise on his collarbone (or his stomach or his back; it was getting harder and harder to pretend not to notice these things) besides ice it, but at least Harry wasn't blind to it. At least Peter could get help from someone.
"No problem, Pete. It's a two-way street, you know?"
"Hm?"
He packed up the medical kit. Peter sagged against the bed like a man fighting gravity and failing. Harry clicked off the lamp. "Our friendship is a two-way street. I take care of you and you take care of me."
It may have been dark, but Harry couldn't miss the slight smile if he tried. Tired, wry, helpless, but shining in the dim glow of the digital clock. "Oh jeez, Osborn. You must be super tired if you're getting this mushy on me."
A yawn broke free from his lips. Oh, he was so going to bomb tomorrow's exam. Somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to care too much. "Yeah, you're right. I'm heading to bed. Night, Pete."
"Night, Har."
When Harry got back to his room, he refreshed the news site one last time. There, in bold Times New Roman font was the title: Spider-Man saves a 24-hour convenience store from late-night robbers.
.
"I can come with you," offered Peter. Again.
"No," snapped Harry, because as much as Peter wanted to protect him, he needed to protect Peter too. The only reason his dad kidnapped him was to hurt Peter, and who knew what Norman was capable of, even confined to a bed? If it was him though, only Harry… Well, Norman had never held an interest in Harry before and he wasn't going to now.
It was always about Peter, wasn't it?
The 'no' must've been too harsh because Peter stepped back as if he'd been slapped. Harry steadied his breaths.
Pete, thanks for the offer, but it's my dad and I-" His voice broke. Lying to his best friend had never been easy. "I just want to see him alone. Besides, don't you have a ton of homework piled up? You'd better get on that before you fall behind again. I don't think the professors will take the 'I'm sick with chickenpox' excuse again."
"You're right," said Peter, eyes averted.
Harry put on his coat. The bruising from yesterday had faded into non-existence, but Peter still walked like he'd been beaten up. Maybe one day he'd let Peter visit, but it wouldn't be while he was still injured from being Spider-Man.
"You'll text me if—"
"Yes, I'll text you if anything goes wrong, and when I get there, and when I leave, and when I get back. Pete, no one's seen Green Goblin since that night. Spider-Man said on live television that we won't have to worry about him anytime soon. I'll be fine."
"And do you trust him? Spider-Man, that is?"
The question rang loud in his ears. He glanced over his shoulder to find Peter staring at him with a solemn look that could only be called the duality of man; chin high but shoulders hunched, eyes like steel but the tiniest quiver in his lip. He couldn't comprehend what Peter expected: reassurance, flattering, praise, damnation — so he said the only thing he could think of:
The truth.
"I trust him with my life. And why wouldn't I? He's already saved it once."
Doubt clouded Peter like a physical shroud. Harry adjusted his coat and checked his watch. "Look, it'll be like all the other times I've visited Dad. I'll sit by his bedside, he'll be out of it 'cause of the meds, I'll talk to Bernard and try to dodge reporters and stuff. It'll be boring, but it'll be fine."
.
True to his word, the trip was fine. Norman Osborn had weeks before he could wean off the medication given to him, and until then, Harry sat at his bedside and tried not to dwell too hard on the crimes his father had committed. So same old, same old. This time, though, he also returned with Peter's camera. He really should've taken returned it long before then, but life had a way of messing with your head and your priorities.
By the time he arrived back at the apartment, Peter was gone. He sent him a text mid-way through grabbing a glass of water. "Made it back alive :)," it read.
A text popped up 10 minutes later. "Great. Had a few errands for Aunt May. Will be back an hour tops."
Two and a half hours later, the front door jiggled open. Harry didn't pay it any mind as he typed up a report for his psychology class.
"Hey, I realized I said I was gonna be back in an hour, but you wouldn't believe—" Peter pointed at his camera sitting on the coffee table. "Is that my camera?"
"No, it's a new camera I bought for you."
"Harry, you didn't have to—"
"I didn't. It's your camera. I found it under the couch while I was cleaning."
Hands slammed on the counter, breaking Harry from his typing. Peter leaned in, eyes narrowed. "Since when do you clean?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you would've been, I don't know, grateful? 'Thank you, Harry. I was looking for this for ages. I've been struggling and complaining so long with the temp they gave me. Thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful—'"
"Okay, okay," Peter laughed, and like that, the inconceivable lie was forgotten. He turned the camera on and swiped through the photos. "I owe you one. I swear you saved my life, the other camera was serviceable, but it didn't have a timer and…"
Peter trailed off as if realizing he'd let something slip. Harry, once again, pretended not to notice. He was getting good at that.
Then Peter coughed and quickly changed the topic. "Hey, do you want to see some photos I took? It's been so long, I don't even think I remember half of these—"
"Already looked."
"What!?" Peter fumbled with the camera and if it weren't for his sticky…whatever made him stick to walls, Harry thought he would've for sure seen the camera crack against the floor. "You didn't look at all of them, did you?"
His eyes darted toward Harry, then away. Toward. Away. Harry didn't see what the fuss was. It was just photos of Spider-Man (masked), Aunt May, Harry, and—
Ah.
Harry finished the sentence he was typing and leaned back on the couch. He had to act casual. Peter never did do well with teasing. Still, he couldn't help but let a grin slip when his friend kept avoiding his eyes. Pete was just way too easy to rile up. "Yeah, I saw your photos of MJ. You know, I won't be mad if you try to get with her. We've broken up—"
"You mean MJ dumped you."
"She didn't- I didn't- Is that what she told you? Because if so, she's lying. I dumped her first and as the more mature party, I call bull."
Peter frowned.
"Hey, okay, lighten up. I'm joking. But not about the 'won't get mad' part. She dumped me. I'm over it. Heck, I can set something up, if you want. Nice little picnic date with the three of us, but I bail halfway through and you get the girl of your dreams."
Harry wriggled his eyebrows. The frown lingered. Harry kept wriggling his eyebrows, and when that didn't seem to work, had half a mind to walk over there and pinch Peter's cheeks until he smiled.
"…I don't know," said Peter, right before Harry was about to just do it. "With college and my job and… I don't think I have time for a girlfriend."
And yeah, he got it. Peter was Spider-Man. He was struggling with college and a job as is… Still, if MJ knew his secret—unless she didn't? Left with too many questions and not enough answers, Harry floundered with, "I'm sure she'll understand."
Peter set the camera down. "Yeah, no. I don't think it'll work out."
A wave of relief hit Harry at those words. It was rotten, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders—maybe he wasn't as over the breakup as he thought—but despite whatever he felt now, Harry knew it wouldn't last. If Peter ever decided to go after MJ, he'd step aside, because his best friend deserved happiness. With Uncle Ben, finding out his best friend's dad was a psychopath, and having J. Jonah "I hate Spider-man" Jameson, Peter deserved all the happiness in the world.
And if Harry could, he'd give Peter every ounce of happiness he could carry.
.
Weirdly, it had turned routine. Wake up early, cook breakfast and lunch for him and Pete, attend class, do homework, order in or cook dinner, check to see if he had to buy any food or medicine for tomorrow, wait for the thumps that meant Peter was sneaking in, sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Even Peter had grown lax under the routine: becoming less and less overprotective—except for when Harry visited his father, of course. He began forgoing sneaking the extra mile, letting Harry take care of him and the little day-to-day minutiae.
"You're a lifesaver," Peter stated as Harry offered to do the dishes; an offer he wouldn't have given in a million years before this. Before Spider-Man.
"Yeah, well, you still need to tutor me before final exams."
"I will. I promise."
Harry knew Peter meant the promise in that earnest way he meant everything he said, but Peter had his job, Spider-Man, and college. Even living under the same roof, there was no conceivable way his roommate could find the time to tutor him. Still, Harry didn't hold it against him.
.
It dawned on him one Saturday afternoon, washing dishes while Peter did his homework—even if Peter thought it was better Harry didn't know—he could still tell him: "Hey, I know. I've known all along. It's not a hindrance or a burden and I could help you. There's nothing you can do about me knowing and I could help you be Spider-Man."
But Peter could be stubborn. Peter had a novel-length history of rejecting help—it had taken Harry months just to talk Peter into sharing an apartment paid by Norman—and if he found out that Harry had been helping him this whole time...
'Best to keep it a secret. For now,' thought Harry as he placed the dishes to dry. 'I will help you, Peter Parker, whether you like it or not.'
.
The curtains blew in the wind; the balcony doors wide open. Laid across the futon sat a lump hidden under white cotton sheets. A body. The gun shook in his hands; the unyielding handle digging into his palm. The curtains swayed. He removed the sheet, prepared for his father's slack body: the puncture wounds in his gut; the disheveled remnants of what once was.
Instead, it was Spider-Man who looked back at him. The red and blue suit was torn to shreds, tufts of hair poking out from holes in the mask. He couldn't see the eyes. For some indiscernible reason, he needed to see the eyes. He lifted the mask only to find Peter's lifeless eyes staring back at him. Somewhere, a gun fired off. He was falling, stomach swooping, a scream tearing from his lips—
.
When Harry awoke, it was to a pounding headache and his back against the icy floor; his blankets twisted around his waist. The dream lingered underneath his eyelids; Peter's dead body, the sound of a gunshot, and before he woke up, a tiny but still sweat-inducing flash of the laughing Green Goblin.
Fuck.
He kicked off the blankets and pressed a hand to his aching head. Standing to his feet, Harry gazed upon the clock. 2 AM. He tried to imagine himself in bed, but the nightmares lingered when he closed his eyes. So much for sweet dreams. He dragged himself out into the hall where a dim blue glow shone from the living room, along with the muted laugh track of a late-night television show.
"Pete?" he asked as he stumbled into the living room proper, finding his roommate tucked under an afghan and holding a throw pillow to his chest.
"Sorry," Pete grabbed the remote and lowered the volume. "Did I wake you?"
"No, I…" He settled next to Peter and glanced at the TV. Whose Line Is It Anyway was on, but the volume was so low he couldn't hear the punchline, much less the jokes. His throat closed up, but he powered through it. "Nightmares," he admitted.
"Oh."
"You?"
"Same," he said, and nothing else. Harry didn't ask. Peter no doubt received tons of nightmares as Spider-Man. Heck, it wouldn't surprise him if Peter had more sleepless nights than him. He leaned over and snatched the remote, raising the volume until the laughter drowned out the screams in his ear. Peter handed him a corner of his afghan and they played tug of war until they had it settled over both of them; their knees brushing and Peter's breath whistling near his ear from the closeness.
They watched two episodes of Whose Line before it switched to infomercials. During that time, Peter loosened his death grip on the pillow and slumped his head onto his flatmate's shoulder. The nightmare which had haunted Harry into the waking world dissipated with every brush of brown locks against his neck and every inhale of Peter's shampoo. Alive. They were both alive and nothing could take that away.
Harry's eyes staggered close. The television blurred. Sleep beckoned him, but common sense reared its head. School tomorrow. Superhero-ing. Bad backs. He sighed and shook Peter awake.
"C'mon, time for bed, Sleeping Beauty."
He helped Peter to his bedroom, dragging him past the costume on the floor and the web-shooters on his bedside table. The drowsy web-slinger gave little protest until Harry tried to untangle himself.
"No," he murmured, sleep-slurred and yet awake enough to grip Harry's wrist with iron-clad strength. "No, can't go. Can't- hold on. C- climb—"
Harry's breath hitched. It had crossed his mind that Peter could've had nightmares of that night, too; the wind shoving them unbalanced, the far-off lights, cars honking below them—but he didn't dare think on it too hard. From the way Pete acted, cool and collected, it was as if that night never happened, but he should've known better. Trauma didn't disappear that easily.
He grabbed Peter's grasping hand with his other one and thumbed circles on the back of his palm. "Hey, it's okay, Pete. I'm safe. I'm safe and I'm here, right across the hall." 'That's right,' he thought, 'we're only a hallway away from each other.' "We'll see each other in the morning."
Peter let go, though his hands were still reaching out. Harry stepped back, but not before he squeezed his friend's hand one last time.
"Good night, Pete."
The response was slurred, but it stayed with him long after he left the room. "G'night, Har."
.
Finals were coming up. Harry had two papers to write, three tests to study for, and shopping to do. He should do those things. He told himself to do those things. One of them. Any of them. Twenty minutes later, having not moved an inch from his seat, he resigned himself to doing nothing more than staring at his shoes and the shag carpeting they should've never bought.
He'd been in danger again today, but the funny thing was: it was the furthest thing from his mind. Yeah, sure, he'd rather have not been held at gunpoint, but at least it wasn't the Green Goblin this time. Four thugs on the street took one look at his clothes and thought to themselves, 'He'd be good to rob', and yeah, maybe he shouldn't have worn that expensive jacket to the rundown drugstore, but in his defense, it was chilly and it was the first jacket he grabbed out of the closet.
"Rich and easy money," they had said; gun pointed to his temple. Harry, surrounded and defenseless, had resigned himself to fate and pulled out his wallet—
And then Spider-Man came in, flipping off walls, shooting webs. He had the worst comebacks ever, but they were bad in a nostalgic kind of way, like the cheesy one-liners from '80s movies they liked to watch. He webbed one guy to the wall and did a back-flip ending with a 10-point landing on the underside of a fire escape, and Harry was so enraptured that he forgot that, oh yeah, he was part of a mugging and there were three other muggers around.
The fourth guy, unseen, pressed another, different gun to Harry's head and told him to be quiet and move. Heart in his throat, the steel muzzle shoved at his forehead, he complied. He remembered shaking feet and hands snatching his wallet and a loud, panicked cry of, "Harry?", but that wasn't all he remembered. No, what he remembered most was what happened after. After they were webbed up. After the day was saved.
Spider-Man kissed him.
Peter Parker kissed him.
Fast and bruising and so inexperienced, it was a struggle not to laugh in Peter's face. One second he was staring at the mugger knocked out cold on the ground and the next Peter was kissing him as if his life depended on it, and then he was apologizing, rolling down his mask— "Sorry, I didn't mean to- I am so sorry—" and then he was swinging away, leaving Harry to call the cops and give a report with burning lips, muzzle indents, and the sort of confusion typically reserved for advanced physics problems.
He recalled his father's words from weeks ago. The trembling fist. "Heart." He had thought it meant he was Peter's best friend, but if that wasn't what it meant... If Norman knew, then…
But no, what about Mary Jane? Peter loved MJ. He'd said as much a week after they first met freshman year. "That's Mary Jane. I've known her since I was six. I'm kind of in love with her." Aunt May knew Peter loved Mary Jane. Uncle Ben—God rest his soul—had known Peter loved Mary Jane…But then what did this mean? What did the kiss mean?
He'd read articles before. Listened in health class. Listened to Peter as he re-explained health class before finals. Adrenaline led to spiked hormones, which could lead to…certain situations—but... it couldn't have been only adrenaline, right?
His eyes alighted on the camera sat atop a stack of National Geographics. He grabbed it and scrolled through the digital library until he hit the pictures he didn't remember posing for. Heart. His mind flashed to that night; the way Peter—Spider-Man—jumped after him without hesitation. Harry turned off the camera and placed it back where it belonged. He rested his forehead against his steepled fingers.
Always two steps behind, aren't you, Harry?
The doorknob jangled. Harry lifted his head as Peter entered the apartment and rushed towards him.
"Hey, you okay? I heard you were hurt. Is everything okay? Did they arrest the guys?"
His throat dried. He tried to focus on Peter's eyes, but his focus kept straying to the bottom of his chin. The pink of his lips. "Where'd you hear that from?"
Peter winced. His eyes darted elsewhere. "Uh, Spider-Man? No, I mean… I was taking pictures while he was saving a- a kitten from a tree. He mentioned you getting into some trouble with some burglars…"
Right, because Peter and Spider-Man 'hung out' while they took pictures. Because, apparently, Spider-Man knew Peter roomed with the infamous Harry Osborn. "And did he say anything about after?"
Peter stilled. The room was so silent, that one could drown in it. 'You kissed me,' Harry doesn't say. 'You kissed me and you have a crush on me, except you're not supposed to because you've loved MJ since the second grade.'
"No," Peter said, eventually; haltingly. "No, he didn't say anything about after. Did something happen," his Adam's apple bobbed with his lie and he fidgeted with the hem of his sweater vest, "after?"
"No," Harry replied because two can play that game. "Nothing happened, except he didn't help me deal with the cops. What's the point of being a superhero if he doesn't take care of everything?"
Peter laughed, but it was too loud and too strained. What a shit liar. It was a wonder Harry didn't find out sooner. Peter's shoulders slumped, and it was hard to tell whether it was from relief or disappointment. His gaze kept flicking to Harry's lips, though. Harry found he didn't mind the attention as much as he thought he would.
"But seriously," said Peter, voice gone soft, "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Actually, I'm feeling better than ever. Don't worry so much." He smiled, but he couldn't tell if it was a convincing smile. His roommate was in love with him. Okay, there was no telling if it was love—but Peter definitely wanted to kiss his brains out.
So where did that leave them?
.
Being best friends with a science nerd meant that, even if he didn't want to, it was inevitable he'd learn science through osmosis. Namely, the scientific method. You posed a question. Researched. Tested a few theories. Received an answer. The question of the day was: Did Peter Parker have a big, fat crush on him? And if so, which kind: romantic? Sexual? Something else?
It was time Harry did some research.
.
"Hey, Pete," he laid across the couch in a classic Titanic 'Draw me like one of your French girls,' pose; hair artfully tousled. "How was class?"
"I'm going to die," Peter replied, ignoring Harry's very suggestive pose and planting his butt on Harry's ankles. Harry drew himself up and withdrew his feet before Mr. Oblivious could squish them.
"I mean," Mr. Oblivious continued, blowing on his cup ramen and stirring his meal with what-could've-been chopsticks or two splinters plucked from a construction site, "I understand having tests during finals but a test and a report in one class? And they want 20 sources for a paper about low-field electrical circuits. I can write the paper with less than half of that."
He dug his toes into Peter's thigh. "Good, then maybe that means you can finally tutor me."
"Shit," said Peter, which summed up his thoughts on that. He forgot. Again. Harry would've been offended if he didn't understand why. "I swear, I'll do it. I'll- Wait, we can do that now."
Peter evacuated the couch. "C'mon," he said as he waddled over to the kitchen table in his stained white tee and threadbare pajama bottoms. "Time to learn some science!"
Harry groaned. His head thumped against the armrest so hard he swore the world flashed white.
.
Slurps of ramen punctuated the impromptu tutoring session; noodle juice dripping onto his textbook from flicks of wet chopsticks. Harry found himself preoccupied with other things while Peter prattled on.
"Hey," he said when they came across the periodic table in the glossary. "Are you copper and tellurium? Because you are cute."
"Save it for the girls, Romeo," Peter said, blushing. Interesting. It would've been more interesting if Harry didn't know that Peter blushed at every little thing, but maybe Peter blushed harder when it involved people he liked-liked? But Pete was pretty shy, and getting him in a crowded place with his busy schedule would be near impossible.
Harry sighed and placed his chin on the butt of his palm. He tapped his cheek. How to find out what Peter wanted without giving himself away...
He glanced at Peter from the corner of his eyes. He had greasy ramen sauce dripping off his chin and a stray piece of noodle stuck to the corner of his mouth, and he realized then that the actual question wasn't how Peter wanted him. The actual question was: did Harry want him back?
Immediate response provided by his brain: no, of course not. Sure, Pete was cute—in the nerdy, dorky, boy-next-door way but there was no way he could-
But he was also Spider-Man and Spider-Man was...
Harry hesitated. The first word that popped into his mind was 'hot', but was he? Was Spider-Man hot? He recalled the powerful arms that held him tight, the rippling muscle under tight spandex, the comforting voice in his ear, before concluding that: yes. Yes, Spider-Man was hot.
"What are you thinking about so hard?" asked Peter, his lips shiny from the ramen.
"Spider-Man's hot," replied Harry without missing a beat.
It was then, as Peter was choking on his cheap, dollar store cup ramen, that Harry remembered that Peter was Spider-Man, and Spider-Man kissed him, and he just told him he was hot to his face.
Instead of denying it, as any sane person would, he doubled down.
"Uh, I mean, you see it too, right? Like the way he," he searched his brain for the right descriptors, but it was as if someone had pulled a fire alarm in his mind, "swings?" he finished lamely.
"The way he swings?" Peter repeated, eyes watering. He reached for the paper towels with clawing hands and Harry leaned over to grab them.
"Yeah," he said as he handed Peter the entire roll, "like, I wish he would swing my way, you know?"
Peter fumbled with the roll. It fell to the floor between them. "You swing that way!?" He ask-shouted as he bent over to pick it up. When he popped back up, his elbow smacked the ramen off the table, spilling noodle remnants onto the floor. Peter cursed, scraped his chair back, then ripped a towel and dropped to his knees to start cleaning. Furiously. Man, Harry didn't even know he could turn that red. It was kind of cute.
A minute and a half minutes passed by before Peter paused and stared at Harry with 'caught in the headlight' eyes. "I, uh," he said, "I didn't mean for that to sound so aggressive. I, it's great that you swing that way! I didn't know you, uh, swung, uh, at all."
Me neither.
"Yeah," said Harry, because if he didn't stop him, Peter could go on forever and because he had the sneaking suspicion that he had always swung. That way. "I swing that way. Or," he did a see-saw motion with his hand, "it's more like half and half. Three quarters and a quarter? I don't exactly have it written down." He forced his see-sawing hand to his side. "It's new. Really, really new."
"Oh."
The tutoring session was informative, but not for chemistry, AKA what he should've been studying for. And final exams were in a week.
Well, shit.
.
He was adjusting his cuff-links when Peter entered. He fiddled with the tie and checked himself in the mirror. In typical Parker fashion, Peter didn't notice him until he was blinking at him from over the back of the couch.
"Oh hey, Harry. You're dressed up nicely. Got a date?"
"Oh, yeah," Harry leaned against the couch and did his best cat-caught-the-canary smirk. "Hot Blonde from French class. Es magnifique."
"Es is Spanish," Peter answered, as if on automatic. "In French, it would be c'est." Then his eyes dipped downward and butterflies erupted in Harry's stomach. That was definitely a disappointed look. That was definitely a 'the guy I have a crush on is preparing for a date and I'm sad' look. To put the cherry on top of the cake, Peter muttered a weak, "Good luck on your date," like a dejected kid left alone in the playground.
He tussled Peter's hair and dodged the swipe that followed. "I'm joking, Pete. This is for Communications. Gotta do a presentation and they told us to dress up business-like."
"Oh," said Peter with the most happiness injected into one syllable that Harry had ever heard. God, what was he supposed to do? His roommate had a crush on him. His roommate kissed him while dressed as a superhero. He had a maybe-crush back. How was this his life?
"Wish me luck," Harry said with a wink. Peter ducked his head, but the tip of his ears burned red.
"Good luck," he mumbled.
When Harry exited the apartment, he had to spend five minutes crouched on the stairwell to calm his pounding heart.
.
It occurred to Harry, laying in bed after the first awful day of finals, that there had been something bubbling in his chest lately. Something that he'd long missed ever since this whole superhero/supervillain started. It was fun, he realized, and he grasped the idea that coalesced in his brain like a lifeline because if there was one thing Harry Osborn knew how to do, it was to have fun.
.
It was pure coincidence that Peter entered the flat while Harry was in nothing but a towel, rooting through the fridge for a drink. Honest. But coincidence or not, Harry couldn't let an advantage slip by.
"I'm home," Peter said as he threw his keys on the counter. "Thank god that was the last test or else-"
Harry put the milk carton—which he may or may not have been drinking straight out of—back in the fridge.
"Harry," he squeaked.
"Oh hey, Pete," he gave a jaunty wave while clutching his towel-knot. He'd tied it tight, but you could never be too sure, "how'd your exams go?"
"What are you- Shouldn't you be dressed? It's 30 degrees outside; aren't you cold?"
He rolled his shoulders and closed the fridge. "The heater's on. In here, it's nice and toasty."
God, he could see it too; the way Peter followed the motion of his shoulders, traced them to his biceps, his abdomen, lingering on the slight curve of his hips. Harry didn't like to think of himself as vain, not like Flash and his fancy cars or his former boarding school classmates with their designer clothes, but he wouldn't be lying if he said he could get used to Peter's adoring gaze.
Peter, who darted his eyes away after too long a beat, and preoccupied himself by taking his coat off.
"Toasty or not, put on some clothes. Aunt May always said that if you left yourself unclothed too long, heater or not, you're bound to get sick."
"Yeah, yeah. I will." It was as he was passing Peter on the way to his room that a wicked idea overcame him. Peter stood, hunched shoulders and flickering eyes, and it had been a long time since Harry remembered him being this unnerved—the last time involved a flagpole, Peter's underclothes, and Flash cackling. He paused, water dripping on the stone floor from his still-wet hair.
"Hey, Pete. You can contact Spider-Man, right? Like, a way to call him to take his photos or something?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I do." Peter said, looking him in the eye, the abs, the legs, before forcing his gaze away. He was blushing. Harry had to fight not to grin. Cute. His best friend was cute.
As if realizing the implications of his statement, Peter hastened to add. "I mean, kind of. It's half and half; sometimes he leaves me on hold for days and, uh- what was the question? What- Why are you asking?"
A shiver ran down his spine despite the heater blasting a few feet away. He could do this. He placed his naked arm against the pillar that marked the space between the kitchen and the living room and leaned in like the bad boy love interests in the movies did. Yeah, he might run away from a fight and squeal during a horror movie, but he could still be classified as a bad boy... right?
"Think you can give me his phone number?"
Peter's head whipped up. "What!? Why would you- Why would you need that?"
He licked his lips, aware of how Peter's eyes flicked down to follow the motion. "I never thanked him for saving me from those muggers, or the Green Goblin, and I thought... Well, you have his number. I'd like to thank him."
Peter tugged at his earlobes and rubbed the nape of his neck. "I… He doesn't like me giving out his contact info. It's… I promised him I wouldn't."
.
"Hey, that's okay. I didn't want to thank him over the phone, anyway. If you could tell him to meet me on the rooftop of the ESU's south-side building, that'll be great. Saturday. 10 AM. Tell him not to be late." He left before Peter could argue otherwise, throwing a "Thanks" over his shoulder as he went. When he got back to his room, he danced his way into warm clothes before the jitters could seep in.
He was doing it. He was going to ask Peter on a date. Or Spider-Man. Same difference.
It was a risk. Peter might not show up. He might try to do everything in his power to dissuade him, but if Harry showed, and Peter knew he would show, then Peter would come—as sure as New York City lights.
Everything after that?
Well, the future was a mystery for a reason.
.
Harry bundled the scarf closer. It was Peter's scarf, knitted by Aunt May. He'd clucked at him when he was heading out the door and shoved it into his hands. "I still think this is a terrible idea," he had said. "I messaged Spider-Man, and he hasn't responded, so he might not even show."
Harry glanced at his watch. It had taken him 15 minutes to get to the rooftop. Peter should be by any minute unless he wanted his dear friend to wait an hour in the freezing cold. He shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed out across the campus. Snow hadn't come to New York yet, but frost still covered the sidewalks and everything felt muted. The students had gone home for winter break and here he was, four flights of stairs on a Saturday morning just for a chance at having a superhero sweep him away. Or a chance to sweep the superhero away. Whichever.
Thwip.
"It's a little too chilly to be out, don't you think, Osborn?"
Harry smiled. He checked his watch as he turned. Five minutes delay wasn't bad for a guy who was perpetually late.
"You sound like Pete," Harry said with a roll of his eyes.
Immediately, Peter—Spider-Man—squared his shoulders and coughed. When he spoke again, it was in a lower register. "You said you wanted to meet me?"
"Yeah, I wanted to say thank you for saving me. I… It was scary with Green Goblin and with the burglars. You've saved my life twice.
"All in a day's work, citizen." Spider-Man puffed out his chest as if he would fly up, up, and away—and god, if he wasn't sure it was Peter before, he was sure as hell now. The superhero deflated, before saying, "Look, I'm sorry for-"
But Harry wasn't here for apologies. He was here to sweep. "Hey," he pulled out the Tupperware container, still warm to the touch, and offered it to him, "I made it this morning, to thank you for the lifesaving and whatnot. I'm not the best cook in the world, but I figured," he shrugged, lopsided, and shook the container. "It's a good ol' American breakfast."
"It's past breakfast."
"A good ol' American brunch."
Peter laughed and accepted the Tupperware container. When Harry offered the fork and brought out his own brunch, he hesitated. "Wait, we're eating here? Now?"
"Why not?" Harry smiled as he cracked open the lid and the steam hit his face. Thick honey syrup and meaty eggs and sausages filled his nostrils. "What? You don't want to have brunch with me on a university rooftop?"
"No, I..." Peter took the fork in one hand but it still hovered, unsure in the air. "I'd love to."
Harry was adamant to keep his eyes on his food as Peter rolled up his mask to his nose. He speared a waffle and brought it to his mouth, humming in delight as spongy goodness exploded on his tongue. He had never been an outstanding cook, but you could never go wrong following one of Aunt May's recipes.
Beside him, Peter let out a pleased hum.
"Good?" he asked.
"Tastes like something I'd get from home," Peter replied, a grin on his face, and Harry had to stifle his laugh from the irony. They sat there, eating their meals in silence. It was a brisk winter day, the kind where the sun shone bright but the wind still stirred goosebumps along his skin. They finished around the same time, and Peter was quick to thank him for the meal.
"Really, you shouldn't have," he said with that disarming politeness that threw Harry for a loop the first time they met; before he uncovered the dry assholish-ness that lingered underneath, "But thank you. If that was all-"
Harry snatched the wrist headed for the mask. "Wait, I've still got one more thing to say."
"What?" asked Peter, breath coming out in little puffs in the air, and Harry did what he suspected he had wanted to do since they first met.
He leaned over and kissed his best friend.
His lips tasted of honey syrup and he was as stiff as a log, but not for long.
"Okay, hold up, hold the phone," Harry laughed as he broke the kiss. Half because of the surrealness of it, half because midway through he realized Peter sprayed himself with the cologne MJ had given Harry on their first date; the generic kind that mall attendants gave you for free and could stink up a room faster than a skunk. 'Spider-Man might not even show up,' his ass. "Have you ever kissed someone before?"
Peter spluttered. Harry took that as a no. He should've figured.
Harry cupped Peter's face and tilted his head until it was at a near 45-degree angle. His thumbs brushed the mask and he couldn't help but rub his fingers across the bumpy texture. "First, your head goes like this; the angle's better so you don't bump noses. Second," he leaned in close, "you don't have to move your lips that much. We're not battling our lips for dominance here or anything."
"Tongues," corrected Peter, "It's- the cheesy romance novels usually have 'tongues battling for dominance.'"
Did he even want to ask? Harry waggled his eyebrows. "Why Mr. Spider-Man, how very forward of you."
Harry went in for another kiss. He set the pace slower this time and Peter followed, two hands landing on Harry's waist. "Better," he remarked as they broke apart.
"What is this? What's going on?" A pink tongue flicked out to lick puffy lips. "Why is this happening?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Harry's thumb skirted over the edges of the mask, to the pale white of Peter's cheeks. The skin under his fingertips was icy, and Harry wanted to smack his friend upside the head. Sure, get a scarf for him, but when he goes out, it's in nothing but red and blue spandex. He gave Peter one last peck before rolling his mask down for him. "I'm asking you out."
"What?"
"Well, it's kind of obvious that you like me and I like you, so," he drawled, "let's go out."
Silence; save for the chirping birds and the muted running of water from the fountain in the quad. Peter was unreadable with the mask on. Harry wished he hadn't tugged it down so soon. But then…
"Yeah."
"What was that?" asked Harry, though he was certain he heard right the first time. Shit. Don't smile too much. Stop smiling.
"Yeah," Peter said in his normal voice, before changing it for the gruffer one, "Yeah, let's do it. Let's go out. It… I've never gone out before so…"
Delight spread through Harry like wildfire; like Christmas lights post-Halloween. He took Peter's hand and squeezed, "Well, good thing you've got the best teacher around to tutor you."
.