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“This city is messed up, Pete,” Harry said, “We’re lucky Spider-Man is around to save people.”
“He wasn’t there, Harry,” Peter responded, “he didn’t save you.” His voice was weary, downtrodden, just as he was.
Harry shook his head, laughed a little, “He’s just one guy. Nobody can be everywhere at once.”
Pete hung his head in sorrow. It was clear they weren’t in agreement.
Harry added, “Spider-Man is just some guy, so when he’s not around, it’s up to us to be the heroes.”
Pete ran his hands through his hair, lifted his head again, tears in his eyes.
He opened his mouth to say something, but Harry knew what he was going to say and beat him to the punch, “You’re gonna say, ’No, Harry, this was too reckless, you shouldn’t—‘”
“Yes, I am!” Pete stood up, “You shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t—“ He stuttered, but Harry finished.
“Shouldn’t have gone in for you, yeah, I knew it. I don’t regret it,” Harry was completely calm.
Pete bent forward with his arms out, emphasizing his point, “Harry, please, look at you.”
“Pete, stop it with your self-deprecating, self—self—you’re worth it.” Harry sat up straighter in the hospital bed, and Peter straightened his back.
Harry was emotional now, stubborn as ever, “You’re my best friend. There’s no way I wasn’t going back in for you—“ Pete was shaking his head, put his hands on his hips, and turned toward the window, but Harry knew he wasn’t mad. Pete was just upset that Harry got hurt saving him, “—and you know, Pete, you know you would have done the same if it were me.”
Yeah, Pete would have, but he was a superhero with super-fast reflexes and speed healing, and Harry was not.
There was silence for a few moments, and Pete gazed out the window. They were on the tenth floor overlooking the city, and distantly, he could hear police sirens. He needed to leave.
He turned back around to do just that, to throw some empty excuse at Harry, but he couldn’t.
He couldn’t say anything and he couldn’t make himself leave.
Harry was right, Pete would have done the same, and they were best friends.
He couldn’t leave him.
The EKG started rising in tempo, and Harry started coughing.
Pete approached and gently pat his back, helping it to die off, but Harry just kept coughing, so Pete crossed the room to pour a cup of water and handed it over.
When Harry pulled his hand away from his mouth, they both looked at it. Blood.
Harry was coughing up blood, even had the audacity to joke about it, “Now, where did that come from?” And then resumed his coughing, shakily grabbing the plastic cup from Peter with both hands—and in the middle of drinking that water, he started coughing again, unintentionally spitting the water back into the cup, along with more blood.
The coughing wasn’t stopping, and the blood was absolutely not okay, so Pete hit the button to call the nurse and backed away as three entered to calm the situation.
He was smart, he was a scientist, he knew how to build a radio, but he was completely lost when it came to biology and medicine. He didn’t know what they were doing, or why they needed to lay the bed back, or why they were rushing around so much.
He could only stand back and watch as they called for the doctor, the noise only growing, and with hands on his head and tears in his eyes, they ushered him out of the room entirely.
~
Norman should be there. Where was he?
Harry only ever wanted to make his dad proud, and even when his only child is dying in a hospital bed, Norman couldn’t pay him any attention.
Pete sat alone in the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside Harry’s room, waiting to hear something, for someone to tell him something, anything. He could hear them inside the room fine, could eavesdrop all day, but he didn’t know what any of their jargon meant. He only knew it was bad by the tones of their voices and the rapid fluttering of their hearts.
He checked his phone again, another missed call from MJ.
For once, he didn’t know what to say to her. He’d have to explain why they weren’t in school, why they were in the hospital, and why Harry wasn’t going to…
Wasn’t going to…
He couldn’t finish the thought, tears welled in his eyes, and he pinched the corners, following the trail down his nose and sniffing.
Harry shouldn’t have run back in for him. He wouldn’t have been fine. They both would have been fine.
But Harry didn’t know that.
Because Pete hadn’t trusted his best friend with his biggest secret, his best friend wasn’t going to last the week.
The doctors would never say that, would do all they could to keep Harry alive, but in the silence of that room, while Harry was still unconscious, Pete could hear the blood flowing difficultly through his lungs, through his heart, through his spleen, through everything. He could hear his internal organs collapsing and giving up and dying. He could hear them slowly stop working, and the doctors wouldn’t find that out until Harry began showing side-effects.
Pete, why don’t you just tell someone so they can fix it?
Don’t you think he’s tried!
They wouldn't listen!
There were no side effects yet, and there’s so much bruising and internal bleeding and other problems that are more pressing. Why would they focus on an organ, two organs, all the organs, when there’s no proof that they’re failing?
Besides, while organ donation is a blessing, Harry certainly isn’t at the top of the list for anything.
Harry’s organs were going to shut down and die because they could no longer sustain themselves because Harry ran into a freaking collapsing building to save Spider-Man when Spider-Man didn’t need saving—but that’s not what happened, was it?
Harry saw his friend unconscious on the ground buried in rubble and ran back in to save his friend. He wasn’t saving Spider-Man, he was saving Peter.
If he only knew that Pete and Spider-Man were one and the same, he’d have known that Pete had survived collapsed buildings before, and he wouldn’t have done this.
If Pete would have just told him on one of the many, many occasions and perfect opportunities, but no. He’d wanted the secret all to himself. He wanted this double-life all to himself. He’d been selfish, and Harry was going to die because of it.
This was all his fault.
How was he supposed to explain this to MJ?
~
They knew now, the doctors. They knew his organs were failing. That’s why he coughed up blood.
Harry was sedated and asleep again, and again Pete was at his bedside.
The doctors tried ushering him back to his room for an exam but he was fine. He showed them how he could lift his arms and move normally, and they left him alone, puzzled.
Maybe he should pretend his ribs were still broken so no one figures out his secret…
There was a light knock on the door, and Pete answered softly, “Come in.”
It was MJ. School must be out already. Pete wasn’t paying attention to the time.
He couldn’t meet her eyes, be it due to sadness or shame, he wasn’t sure.
Her voice was soft, too, “I asked the front desk about you two, and she told me.”
Pete nodded, looked down at his hands in his lap, and opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. He didn’t know at all, and he probably looked like a fish, but she grabbed the other vacant chair and sat.
“I read about the accident, too.”
And then there was silence again. What could he say? He should say something, though. He was being weird and awkward, and she was apart of this, apart of them. They were the trio, the best of friends.
But what should he say?
“I know you, Pete. I know your body language. You’re sad and blaming yourself for something that was just an accident. And you’re—you’re grieving,” He looked up at her then, at her words, looked at her and saw that she’d been crying, she’d been worried sick, and his disdain for himself increased.
Of course, she was worried. He hadn’t returned her calls, hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given her any indication that he was alive, and she had to hear about the incident from an article and had to hear about him and Harry from the front desk attendant.
How could he be so selfish?
She was hurting, too.
He opened his mouth, but she spoke again, “Why are grieving for someone that’s still alive?”
Why did she know him so well? Now, he had to explain that to her, too.
~
“I know you’re him, Pete.”
Pete’s head lifted. He’d fallen asleep at Harry’s bedside and somehow had not woken until Harry spoke.
“Huh?” Pete replied.
“I know you’re him. I know your secret.”
“What?” That was the only thing Pete could muster, too shocked at Harry’s confession to formulate proper words.
“I’ve been suspicious for a while, but I know now.”
Pete couldn’t think of what to say. Should he deny it, tell Harry he was completely wrong, lie to Harry while he was on his deathbed? Should he admit it, admit that he’d been lying to everybody for years, and putting them all in danger? Should he apologize for this, for lying, for getting Harry hurt—
“Don’t bother apologizing, I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
They weren’t best friends for nothing, and sometimes it was scary how Harry could just read Peter’s mind like that. Maybe that’s how he’d figured it out.
Still, Pete remained silent, and Harry continued, “You were unconscious beneath a slab of concrete, and then I wake, and you’re perfectly fine and sitting beside me.”
Oh, okay, yeah, that’s fair.
“I know I’m going to die, Pete, so please, don’t lie to me. I’m not mad. I just wanted you to know.”
“God, Harry, I don’t—I mean, I can’t—I...” He just didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve sorta known you were him for a while now, but that’s what did it for me.”
Pete chuckled, “My speed-healing gives away my secrets. Ironic.”
Harry smiled, “I still went back for you anyway. I’d do it again, too.”
Pete just looked at him, looked into his eyes, and into his soul, and Harry was honest, completely serious. He’d have run back into that collapsing building to save Spider-Man.
“Oh, Harry—“
The door opened and a frantic Norman Osborn trampled into the room.
~
It was ten hours later when Harry’s body stopped fighting. He’d only been in the hospital 37 hours, his father by his side for ten, MJ for fifteen, and Peter for thirty-seven.
It wasn’t fair.