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Peter comes back.
In an ideal world, or he supposes a world in which Harry Osborn was anything but himself, he’d offer Peter some brownie points. At least he comes back a few hours later, rather than say, ditching town and returning once Harry had either checked into a mental institution or died from alcohol poisoning.
…Not like Peter would be able to afford a trip to Vegas, anyway.
He comes back, and it should count for something. After all, Peter was his best friend.
(It doesn’t. He shouldn’t have come. Fuck. Why did he?)
In one hand, Harry nurses room-temperature Brandy as some form of pseudo-medicine, a way to drown out the misery that he’s aligned himself far too often with nowadays. In another, his fingers cling desperately onto that damn slippery, silver blade.
(Harry is far too raw. Open wounds sprawled across his entire body, tattoos of sorrow. If Peter were to return now, he wouldn’t know what he’d do with himself. Cry, maybe.)
He’d consider the blade a lifeboat of sorts. And God, isn’t that ironic? That the only thing that makes sense to Harry’s deranged brain is a weapon belonging to none other than his father?
…The thought would make him laugh if he weren’t seconds away from sticking that blasted knife right into his hollow chest so he could just get it over with.
Alas. A knock rattles the balcony doors, unfortunately bringing Harry back to present, and therefore back to that pesky, twisted thing he calls “reality.”
And it is with this that a realization sinks in. There’s only one person who could possibly be awaiting him.
Unless we wanted to embark on the impossible. Say, Bernard had strangely snuck past a disassociated Harry and locked himself out on the balcony, or MJ suddenly acquired a new hobby that included rock-climbing the homes of rich New Yorkers.
(Somehow, the latter seems more plausible. Bernard isn’t an idiot.)
However, one option is more likely than them all: Spider-Man.
Harry swallows as he tears his gaze from trembling, calloused hands towards the balcony. Though dark circles dance in his vision from how much Brandy he’s downed, the resemblance is uncanny. Peter rips his mask off, and it’s the same features—although worn, bruised from a fresh fight—Harry had grown, quite easily and hopelessly, to love. It’s a terrible thing to admit.
It’s also the truth.
“Harry,” Peter whispers from afar. Glass separates them, muffling his soft-spoken name.
It takes an awful amount of energy to leave the chaise. It takes an awful amount of energy, when Harry eventually steps onto the balcony, to resist throwing himself into Peter’s arms. It’s cold. A hug would be nice right about now, he thinks.
Instead, Harry slams Peter against the brick walls, careful not to hit his head. He’s abandoned the room-temperature Brandy. Now, one hand grips Peter’s shoulder blade tightly, bunching bits of spandex in a primal sort of manner. Pins him. The other hand has a knife angled straight for the throat.
“Spider-Man,” Harry snarls, but it sounds hoarse, weaker than he’d like.
Peter stares back with this—wide-eyed, startled look. He nearly crumbles at the sight.
“Harry, it’s me.”
“You killed my father.” He feels like a broken record. Replaying the same song over and over. Nonsensical lyrics. The edges cracked, pops and sizzles. Broken. Broken. Broken.
“No,” Peter softly says, shaking his head. “No, I—”
“You could’ve told me.” The words come out tired. “I spent so much time making a fool of myself.” That’s when Harry actually does let out a little laugh, sheepishly running his fingers through his hair. Pinning Peter to the wall has been long forgotten; now, they simply stand inches apart, chests heaving. “Fuck you.”
The knife still lingers between them. Peter seems to have no intention of removing it.
“Your father,” he breathes out. “Before he died. He told me, Don’t tell Harry. I couldn’t—”
“Since when the hell did he give a fuck about me?” Harry asks bitterly. “Even better, since when did you care about my father, huh? You guys keep secrets from me now?”
“Harry, it was his death wish.”
“He’s my father. And you were my best friend.” His voice wavers. “God, didn’t I have the right to know? Wasn’t I—good enough?”
(“There are bigger things happening here than you and me.”)
Shit. He snaps out of it, grabs Peter by the shoulder again.
“Why are you here?” Harry hisses.
“I wanted—” Peter looks at him then, lips parted and eyes softened. He swallows, Harry’s eyes following the bob of his Adam’s apple with an eagerness no man should be allowed to have. “I wanted you to…to…God, I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted you,” Peter quietly says, “okay?”
Harry freezes.
“Maybe it’s selfish, but I wanted you to know the truth, I wanted you to know I was sorry. I wanted—I mean, Harry, you looked at me like I was some monster.”
“How could I not? You’re Spider-Man.” A lump forms in his throat. “It’s—it’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Harry wants to scream, wants to spit in the face of his best friend—no, in the face of his father’s killer, in the face of a traitor, a liar.
(You were all I had. I trusted you.)
But the confession isn’t a scream. Barely even a sound. It’s a whisper, vulnerably so.
“It’s me,” Peter says again, his voice breaking at the seams. “Just say my name.”
(It’s me. The same Peter he’d watched be thrown against lockers on his first day. Flash’s goons spitting out insults—Puny, Pansy, Penis—until eventually Harry got a little fed up, thinks they should pick on someone their size. Thinks it’ll make himself feel better if he’s not the weak loser anymore. Puny Parker’s one and only savior: a fucked-up teenage boy whose mom left and whose father wishes she’d taken him along for the ride, too. Harry Osborn, someone’s savior. The thought is laughable now.)
(It’s me. The same Peter who believed in him. The same Peter who’d read comic books with him, shoulders pressed flush together. He thinks I used to like it when Peter acted out the characters, how he’d stumble over the words awkwardly. Thinks I used to like it when he really got into it, when his voice became a little low, husky, when his eyes widened and when I wanted to kiss his stupid smile over and over until the comic book was abandoned on the floor. The same Peter who he loved even when love didn’t come easy to him. The same Peter who promised to be there, the same Peter who was his best friend, the only friend he had, the same Peter who promised—God, why did he promise? What the hell was that for?)
(The same Peter who broke his heart. It’s the same fucking Peter.)
It’s me.
“Right,” Harry says dryly.
No response.
He tightens his grip on Peter’s shoulder, on the knife. Both are weapons in themselves, anyway; Harry had seen how easily his best friend ripped out of those chains. At least that means Norman Osborn mustn’t have suffered much in his last moments, death sharp and quick. At least he wasn’t in pain for long.
(Often, he imagines his father dying over and over again. A fleeting memory. Sometimes, it’s by his own hands.)
Harry should really connect the dots. Don’t tell Harry. The Oscorp board specifically targeted at a cultural parade. His father’s erratic behavior, at least more so than usual. Tension lingering at Thanksgiving dinner. Peter’s mysterious disappearances. Don’t tell Harry. The distance. The distance as Harry threw himself blindly into vengeance, drunken nights and bitter hangovers galore. The distance.
Don’t tell Harry.
(Tell him what?)
But the Brandy is surely getting to him, movements sluggish and thoughts slow. Anger seeps into his blood, fizzing and bubbling beneath the surface, too. There’d be no room for anything else, especially devastating realizations about your father’s whereabouts during massacres. There’d be no room for rethinking the last year, the last nineteen-and-a-half years of his life. There’d be no room for anything other than Dad.
Norman Osborn always seemed far too big for this world, a towering, unreachable figure. Harry should’ve expected death sooner or later. Gods don’t stay in the mortal realm for long, anyway.
Though there is, admittedly, something also holy about how Peter stares at him. Moon-lit, star-kissed skin with a pretty little flush cast from a typical New York evening. Hair a forgotten thought, tangled and tousled from the mask’s ruthlessness, and yet it’s adorable, dirty brown locks Harry wouldn’t mind running his fingers through. Eyes still startlingly blue, startling in the way in which they shouldn’t belong to a young man but rather a ghost, someone who’s seen far too much. A haunted vessel.
Amidst bruises across his neck, amidst dirty scrapes against sharp cheekbones, Peter remains as beautiful as ever.
You are weak, a voice inside Harry’s head sneers, and he can’t quite tell whether it belongs to him or not.
The knife. Right, the knife! Harry slips it closer, to the point where the silver tip dangerously brushes against the nape of Peter’s neck. The knife.
“I should kill you,” Harry growls. “Prove to Dad I can do good for him at least this once.”
“Harry, I didn’t kill him,” Peter says softly, as though approaching a wounded animal. He definitely hasn’t processed the well-intended death threat yet. “I—admittedly, I certainly hadn’t helped with everything, uh, happening, but you know those wounds? The lethal ones? That wasn’t—me.” Desperate now. “You have to believe me. I…I can’t keep living like this.”
(Even though Harry was there when Spider-Man laid his father’s corpse down on the chaise, he still desperately clings onto the words. I didn’t kill him. That wasn’t me. It’s a nice thought, no matter how cheesy and unrealistic.)
Harry’s hand—the one heavy on his shoulder—moves up, following the slope of Peter’s neck until it lies dormant over Peter’s cheek. He shouldn’t be cupping the back of his scalp with this much gentleness, sincerity. He does, anyway.
Weak.
“You can’t keep living like this?” Harry bitterly laughs. “Look at me. I’m nearly six feet underground. Digging my own grave at this rate.”
“Exactly,” Peter breathes out. “And I have to watch.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I need to. Harry, I need you in my life. You’re my best friend, always have been.”
For some extraordinarily odd reason, the word best friend doesn’t seem to cut it.
“Yeah, well,” Harry says. “Wish you’d consider that before Spider-Man ruined us.”
“Don’t say Spider-Man,” Peter presses again, with a sort of plea in his blue eyes. “My name is right there.”
Peter.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Peter.
Peter, if I say your name, if I remember who you are—truly are—beneath the surface of Spider-Man and dead fathers, I might do something I’ll regret.
(Bullies. Lockers. Comic books. Varsity basketball tryouts.)
The truth is, Harry is hurt. And right now, he’s seeking a myriad of remedies for his pain.
“I don’t know,” Harry admits, and his lip is trembling, and tears might start streaking down his cheeks, cutting through the facade he’s tried so desperately to hold onto.
At this, Peter glances down at the knife, glinting in moonlight, then back up at Harry. This is unbeknownst to him, however, as he’s too caught in the motion of Peter subtly licking his lips.
“Try,” he says.
Peter.
Mid-way through his name, Harry drops the knife and tugs Peter by the hair forward. A distant clang, forgotten as their lips clumsily clash against one another, as Harry pulls and pulls Peter as close as he can possibly get. Skin pressed; hot, breathy, compliant.
He backs off for a second, gauging his best friend’s reaction. “Peter—” Harry whispers, then thinks better of it. It’s enough, maybe, to stare into how swollen and pink Peter’s lips have already gotten. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t owe Spider-Man any apologies. It happens anyway.
Peter stares at him for a brief moment, or well, maybe at his mouth now that he thinks about it. It’s not long before he takes Harry by the waist for round two.
Another kiss, though more heated, harsh around the edges. It’s intoxicating, how a little noise emerges from Peter’s throat when Harry slips his tongue in, exploring all that he’s been given. It’s probably some sort of blasphemy, also, to make out with his father’s—killer?—but all coherent thought has been thrown out the window in order to feel Peter’s lips on his.
He wonders whether this could’ve been possible back in high school. Had Peter felt the same as he did, hopelessly pining from afar, or was the kiss simply an act of pity?
(God, he hopes not.)
Harry pulls away when he tastes the faintest amount of saltwater on his mouth. It’s then that he notices tears streaking down Peter’s cheeks. A part of him is bitter. I should be the one crying. That’s all I ever seem to do nowadays.
The other part carefully wipes away his tears. An anomaly, really, where this rare gentleness came from. Harry certainly didn’t get it from his father, that’s for sure.
A soft, sad smile. “Peter.”
“He killed himself,” he whispers, and—and what? “It was an accident. If I’d known what would’ve happened to you, I would’ve stopped it somehow. I would’ve done anything. But Harry, he—hurt people.”
A chill runs down his spine. “My father?”
“Harry,” he says, voice breaking. “Don’t make me say it.”
Don’t tell Harry.
And suddenly, all the dots in the world have been connected. Fuck.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, sobered up and processing.
“Get out.”
Peter stills. “What?”
Harry lets go. If he were any more lovesick, he’d toss his trembling hands back onto Peter, fingers too reminiscent of claws in the hungry way they’d take him in. If he were any more lovesick, he would let Peter do anything to him. An open-mouthed kiss, a love bite across his neck, a tongue swipe at his collar bone. If he were any more lovesick, he would let Peter hurt him.
Hurt.
After all is said and after all is done, Harry is his father’s boy. No matter what.
“If you come back here again, I’ll kill you,” Harry says.
(It won’t be long before he’s alone. It won’t be long before he’s left to drown in mediocre Brandy once more, won’t be too long until he hears that damned, sickening voice, won’t be long until the blade meets the mirror.)
(It won’t be long before he’s not alone.)
Norman Osborn is the Green Goblin, Peter implies.
Some tacky maniac that flew on a hoverboard and haphazardly threw bombs in all sorts of directions. Some tacky maniac that nearly killed him in fact, a concussion that swelled his head to the size of a balloon. Some tacky maniac that went after MJ numerous times. That couldn’t have been his father.
Even after the big reveal, Peter’s still lying to him.
(Even after the big reveal, Harry still can’t accept the fact that maybe his father isn’t the god he always thought he was. Maybe his father didn’t actually care all that much.)
(It’s a little silly how he’d rather think of Peter as a stone-cold killer than admit the truth about Dad. But it’s not really his fault. Norman Osborn made him this way. Broken. Like father, like son, he supposes.)
Harry watches as his best friend steps back, pained.
“Okay,” Peter whispers, heartbroken.
It sounds more final than an actual goodbye.
And when Peter slips away from the brick wall, he doesn't immediately leave. Rather, he lingers at the edge of the balcony like a ghost, hands seemingly phasing through the railing. Then he turns around. Harry might be haunted by that sight forever, those fragile blue eyes and the quivering lips paired with them.
"I miss you," Peter says. Before Harry knows it, he's tugged his mask back on and swinging into the New York streets once again as Spider-Man.
His world is spinning, and it's not just from the Brandy.
...Fuck.