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“Don’t you get it, Pete?” Harry’s voice is slick like oil. It seeps into every crevice inside of Peter that has cracked open from missing his best friend. This man isn’t his best friend anymore, though; he’s barely even Harry. His eyes are wide and manic and the symbiote crawls along his skin possessively. Peter’s stomach roils and the urge to vomit wells up in his throat. None of this seems to bother Harry. He’s got Peter pinned easily to a brick wall, far above the streets of East Village. No one even knows they’re there. “Don’t you get it?” Harry spits again, his lips splitting into a wide grin. He looks crazed.
Peter swallows. “This isn’t you, Harry.” His throat hurts, probably from the symbiote wrapping around his neck and throwing him around earlier. The fight was a blur and Peter’s body aches; his mask got ripped off in the scuffle and left somewhere on the Eastside. Windchill bites at his cheeks and Peter wonders if Harry even feels it. He wonders if the symbiote keeps him warm. “Harry Osborn would never do this,” Peter adds.
He thinks of the research stations he painstakingly checked on. He thinks of Emily’s legacy, and how Harry was so committed to it. He thinks of the Harry Osborn who opened his house and home to Peter and MJ out of the kindness of his heart, not to show off or flaunt his lifestyle.
He thinks of the people Harry has killed, thanks to the symbiote. All the people carelessly felled like trees during Harry’s rampage.
“Shut up,” Harry snarls, though there’s a glint like fear in his eyes. “I’m finally free.” Harry draws in a deep, shuddering breath. His exhale is a puff of fog between them. “I’m not weak anymore. I’m invincible.”
Peter can feel tears welling in his eyes. He swallows again, wincing. “You weren’t weak before.” The urge to sob crawls up his throat and he bites it back along with the bile. “You were the strongest person I knew, Harry.”
Peter always thought so. Despite the life of luxury he was born into, Harry never settled for being another rich boy. He was dedicated to his mom’s crusade for saving the planet. He was dedicated to saving other people. He was loyal to a fault—not only to MJ and Peter, though he usually put them first. He stood up to his dad whenever he could, even when it didn’t change things in the end. Learning that Harry had been sick all along too, it had only strengthened Peter’s feelings. It solidified the knowledge that Harry Osborn was stronger than Peter Parker could ever hope to be.
It still feels that way now, albeit it for an entirely different reason.
Every fight with Harry has been harder than anything Peter’s ever dealt with before. The symbiote is stronger, faster, smarter. Harry was never much of an athlete before but now he could run laps around Peter like it was child’s play. One flick of his wrist and black, inky tendrils slam into Peter, a tilt of his head and the symbiote breaks a few ribs. Tonight’s fight had been the worst, least of all because Peter couldn’t focus. He still can’t focus, not when Harry is staring at him so intently, so crazily.
Peter blinks away tears. “Harry,” he rasps.
Harry growls in frustration, the noise morphing into a shout that echoes down the streets below them. Lights flicker on in nearby windows, but it’s dark enough that no one will see them. The symbiote looms around them, provides ample cover, suffocating. “You don’t get it,” Harry hisses. He sounds disappointed. “We could be gods, Peter. We could be unstoppable.”
Peter manages to shake his head. He raises a hand and lays it gentle over Harry’s, the one pressed to his throat. He doesn’t clutch at his friend, nor does he try to pull him off. He just leaves his hand there. Harry’s eyes, wide and black, stare at it like it’s a foreign object. Heartbreakingly, Peter wonders how long it’s been since someone handled Harry gently.
“Harry,” Peter murmurs. His other hand is pinned to the wall by the symbiote so he can’t move it, but he tries anyway. After a second of struggling, the symbiote melts away and Peter can reach for Harry’s face. He cups his friend’s cheek gently. “You’ve hurt so many people, Harry.”
Harry bares his teeth. “People hurt me.”
“I know, I know they did.” Peter runs a hand through Harry’s hair, surprised to be allowed to touch. “But you’re better than that, Harry. I know you are.” Peter hiccups around a sob he can’t quite stop. “I need you to be better than that, because that’s the Harry Osborn I fell in love with.”
Peter thinks of Otto. He thinks of Jefferson Davis. He thinks of Aunt May and Martin Li.
He thinks about how he couldn’t save any of them.
His heart aches with the thought that he might not be able to save Harry, either.
Peter cups his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and tugs him closer. Harry lets him do it, though he watches suspiciously until his eyes widen with realization.
In a voice that finally sounds like him, not warped by the symbiote or tainted with rage, Harry whispers, “Peter.”
Peter kisses him. It tastes like poison, bitter and clinging to his mouth. It’s not what he imagined kissing Harry would be like—and oh, how he used to imagine it. It’s not a romantic first kiss on top of the Empire State Building and it’s not a lazy kiss first thing in the morning; it’s not a grateful kiss when Spider-Man inevitably saves Harry from some thug and it’s not a kiss in the rain, desperate. It hurts, it burns. It feels like swallowing fire but Peter can’t back down.
Harry kisses him back, slowly at first and then more feverishly. He presses in closer, his whole body lined up with Peter’s. It’s hot despite the chill in the air, it’s stifling. His hands roam greedily over Peter’s body finally. Peter can breathe easier without the weight on his windpipe and wraps his other hand around Harry’s hip.
Eventually, the kiss feels more like what Peter imagined. It’s less like drinking bleach and more like a bitter cup of coffee. It still hurts, still makes his gut lurch, but it gives him some kind of hope, too. He finally pulls back from Harry and takes the slightest momentary pleasure in watching the dazed expression cross Harry’s face.
Before Harry can argue, before the symbiote can jut in, Peter presses his forehead to Harry’s. Eyes closed, he can almost pretend they’re anywhere else. He can pretend that his best friend never walked out of his life.
He can pretend it’s easy to lay his hand over Harry’s chest and spark up the last of his electric webs. He can pretend it’s easy to feel Harry’s body jolt against him as the shock spreads through the symbiote and into Harry’s chest. He can pretend it’s easy to feel Harry’s heart skip a beat, then another, and another.
When Harry’s heart stops beating, the symbiote finally peels away from the wall and Peter barely has seconds to react before they both go slipping off the side of the building. He wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and shoots a web up toward the water tower above them. Hanging there, he cradles Harry’s body close to his chest. He knows Harry’s heart will start again any moment, the shock only temporary. He has to act fast; his head is already spinning trying to find a solution.
He presses his lips to the crown of Harry’s head and sighs.
“I’m going to save you, Harry,” Peter says into Harry’s hair. “I promise.”