Archive of Our Own ^omega

Harry Osborn wouldn’t necessarily call himself a stranger to death.

After all, is it not his father’s death that drove him here?

Here: that is to say, collapsed on the floor of an abandoned construction site—that is to say, blood seeping out of him so easily it’s as though it’d always wanted to abandon his body, always thought of Harry as something too insignificant to stay for—that is to say, like father, like son.

The horizon is beautiful, he’ll at least admit that. Streaks of early morning, sun rays that slice through him just as sharp as the glider had done only moments ago. Beautiful.

Death is not a stranger.

Instead, Death wraps its long, lanky fingers over his neck and makes itself an acquaintance to Harry Osborn. Strangling him, really. Breaths only wisps of a gasp as black circles dance in his vision, blurring a world he’d never quite gotten the privilege of appreciating until it was far too late.

He’s been here before. Passed Death on the streets ever so often. It’s a wonder Harry hasn’t split his head in half yet. Brain damaged from bruising, from hallucinations, from the Osborn curse. Face scarred, ruined beyond repair. Torn asunder.

Harry knows he can’t come back from this, though. Not anymore. The universe has granted him anguish, sure. Agony. But it’s also granted him a death that isn’t so bad. Heroic, even. Beautiful—he wants to test the syllables on his tongue, no matter how heavy and dry it feels in his rotting mouth. Wants to scream the word at the top of his lungs. It’s beautiful, everything, all of it.

Beautiful, he thinks, looking into the eyes of Peter Parker. A striking shade of blue, too akin to an ocean of sorrow. Unshed tears sit there. Even on his deathbed, he still manages to hurt Peter. Weeks ago, Harry would’ve relished in the thought. He hurt me first.

Here is different. Here, all he thinks is, I’m sorry.

“Where’s MJ?” Harry somehow croaks out.

Peter musters a smile, and it’s a heartbreaking quirk of the lips. “She’s getting help. An ambulance, maybe. You’re going to be okay, Har.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, hating the fact Norman Osborn won’t be the only person he’s disappointing in his last moments. I’m dying, Pete. I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying.

“But I need her here,” he quietly admits. “I need her to know that I’m sorry. That she’s one of my best friends, and I love her. That I never should’ve…I didn’t mean to—”

Peter hushes him. It’s there that Harry finally processes he’s being held. Familiar arms wrap around his middle, the grip so strong and firm it’s almost enough to make him forget the clutch that Death has upon him.

“Don’t talk. Just keep fighting.”

Harry almost laughs. “God, Pete, I would love to. You can’t imagine how tired I am.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “But I can’t lose you again. Not after getting you back.”

“You don’t want me back,” Harry says faintly. “Okay?”

Peter shakes his head, and that’s when the tears start rolling down his dirt-stained cheeks. If Harry’s limbs were properly working, he would’ve wiped them all away. It could’ve served as an apology. Small, but an apology nevertheless.

“Harry, that’s not true.”

“I’m serious. Maybe you want the old Harry Osborn back, that snide motherfucker who barely passed Calculus and got high in his dad’s Rolls, but you don’t want me.”

“Why not?” Peter asks, soft.

“Because look at me,” Harry breathes. “I was supposed to be your best friend, yet I ruined us. I should’ve trusted you—”

“I didn’t exactly make it easy,” he gently says.

“Still.”

“Still,” Peter murmurs, “I was supposed to be your best friend, too, and I…” Too much to say, too little time. “I never should’ve done all those things.”

“I started it.”

“Well, I ended it. I said some awful stuff, Har. Knew it’d hurt you.” Peter swallows, and even in his final moments, Harry is still drawn to how his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “That’s not what you should do when you love someone.”

Harry sharply inhales. “Don’t say that.”

“What? Say I love you?” Peter cracks a weak smile. “It’s not any different than you telling MJ the same thing, you know.”

“It’s different.”

“Okay. How?”

How? Harry would chuckle if not for the underlying worry he’d cough out blood instead. MJ isn’t hopelessly in love with me, for starters. “I don’t think you know who you’re saying those words to.”

Peter softens. “I’ll always know you, Harry. No matter what’s happened between us.”

“That’s not it.” He bites the inside of his cheek and waits for a metallic taste to burn through him. “God, my father was wrong. I’m more like him than he thought. Greedy. I want more than I should, more than I deserve.”

Confusion flits across Peter’s handsome features. “What are you…”

“I want you to say I love you and mean it,” Harry whispers, “the way I do.”

He doesn’t understand. At first, that is. Peter may be socially inept at times, but he isn’t dumb. The way he purses his lips is already a sign that recognition will soon sink in.

With the little strength Harry has left, he sits up, barely. A wince follows shortly after.

“Harry—” Peter tries, but his words are cut short when Harry leans his full weight into Peter’s shoulder and sobs. “Hey, come on. I love you. Seriously.”

It’s as though his lungs were what the glider specifically targeted. He can’t quite seem to breathe, organs torn to shreds and time slipping through his grasp. As blood seeps out, desperation crawls back inside him. I need to tell him.

Wrong. Harry knows it’s wrong. Cruel, even. Peter would be better off thinking of Harry as his fucked up best friend who got his shit together in his last minutes. Peter would not benefit from a love confession, that’s for sure, his memory tainted by the awful truth.

Tell him.

But the desperation is hungry, gnawing at his broken bones. But Harry has spent his entire life hiding, contorting himself to be smaller—to be more easily digestible.

Please.

“Fuck, Peter,” Harry says, voice wavering. “I’m in love with you, okay? Have been, ever since high school. So, no. I don’t want you to say that. I don’t want any false hope. I’m dying, and frankly, it’s about time. If you could just…” He shudders, leaning closer into Peter’s warmth. “I don’t know, let it go?”

Peter rubs gentle, comforting circles across his back, and every time his fingers ever so slightly grace Harry’s spine, it sends sparks, electricity. Amidst the pain that chars him from the inside out, spasms and aches that are far too reminiscent of flames, Peter’s hands ground him. Not enough to save Harry, but—they’re appreciated.

“Okay,” Peter whispers, sounding a little torn, and leaves it at that.

Death is not a stranger. Death is no longer an acquaintance, either. Death is rapidly approaching, and it won’t be long before its hands consume his entire body, not just his neck. Which means he doesn’t have much time left.

Harry shifts back, pulling away from the safety of Peter’s shoulder to look him right in the eye. Granted, the world remains a haze. Pain resembling dark, inky splotches in his vision. Tears rolling down his cheeks. But even so, he still attempts to make out Peter’s expression. One last look of pity. Disappointment, maybe. That’s what he deserves.

For some odd, extraordinary reason, though, Harry is met with a tragic smile.

“You’re not dying,” Peter continues, and this time he doesn’t argue. Not only would it be counter-productive, but Harry isn’t emotionally inept, for Heaven’s sake he’s full with complicated feelings. He knows that Peter needs to believe such a naive sentiment.

Harry can sympathize, after all. He needed to believe his father loved him. It’s strange, to finally be seeing Peter’s side on his deathbed. But Harry supposes there’d be no other time for it afterwards, anyway. Might as well tick a box or two.

“Peter, I—”

Harry’s eyes flutter.

A wave of fatigue strikes him right down.

It must be too late.

With the last remaining bit of his consciousness, Harry surges forward, fighting against Death like Peter had wanted. And he so desperately aims for a kiss on the lips, thinks, I’ve been selfish before, one more time couldn’t possibly hurt. Wants too much.

It’s no use. He misses. Harry’s lips brush against the corner of his mouth, close to his jawline. Then, he’s slumping against Peter’s shoulder once more, exhaustion sinking its teeth ravenously. Death could be a friend. But more realistically, it’s a lover—a brutal, abusive one, who can’t seem to take no for an answer.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers. “I’m okay with dying, Pete. Let me go.”

He doesn’t hear Peter’s response.

Soon after, the light goes out. A horizon, so beautiful and rich with sun-kissed hues, disappears without a trace. And everything becomes a somber shade of black.

──────────────────────

Harry Osborn is not dead.

Rather, he wakes up to blinding fluorescent lights, an ache that swallows him completely whole, and an IV line in his arm. However, Harry also wakes up to the wish that he very much was dead, so that has to count for something, right?

He should be angry. The one thing he was sure of, death, and it never came.

Harry learns quickly, though, that he’s all out of rage. Only a quiet sort of sadness washes over him, and it does little to counter how Hell’s inferno scorches beneath his skin.

A nurse notices his delirious state. She, thankfully, makes no comment about the tears that start to stream down his pallid, sunken cheeks. Rather, with the click of a button, the kind woman doses him with something to ease all his worries and Harry becomes at peace with the world again.

Asleep.

──────────────────────

The next few days have him drifting on and off in a daze.

Harry learns, from the nurses, that he actually did die. Briefly, anyway. A pulse that’d slowed into nothing, that once leaped and soared through the black monitor before collapsing into a thin line.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Flat, he thinks, but not for long. Harry was told he came back with a gasp. Eyes fluttering open, wet with tears. Feverishly trembling. Alone.

It’d been a miracle, one of the nurses had casually commented while feeding him. We couldn’t believe how fast you recovered. A part of him wanted to tell her it would’ve been more empathetic to pull the plug than to reveal how close he’d been.

The other part of him—majority, and arguably the most sanest—stayed silent.

Harry learns, from Bernard, that there isn’t much waiting for him outside. Oscorp hasn’t been pleased with his performance as of late, that’s for sure. The Doc Ock situation certainly didn’t help, but with the added baggage of his deteriorating mental state and his little amnesia arc, Harry isn’t exactly proof of a model employee.

Any prestige behind his surname won’t matter in the end. Norman Osborn, it turns out, does not have a stellar reputation in the very company he built. All his scandals? Oscorp’s buried it all, both from the public and Harry.

He found some documents. A meeting transcript of Norman storming off after his duties as CEO were threatened; days later, the entire board reduced to dust. With the knowledge of the Green Goblin’s true identity, it doesn’t take a genius to see the connections. Soon, Harry will be fired—losing the last piece of his father he had.

…Bernard didn’t say those exact words, but he pretty damn well implied it.

Then, there’s Peter. Harry learns, from Peter, absolutely nothing.

Today is Peter’s third visit thus far. The last two, Harry had been as high as a kite, drugged up on whatever painkillers the hospital had graciously blessed him with that day. This time, though, he is unfortunately awake. Conscious enough, that is, to notice how nervous Peter is sitting at Harry’s bedside—his knee bouncing with enough tremor to cause an earthquake, his palms clenched against a measly bouquet of flowers, too reminiscent of fists.

Peter’s hands are still bruised from the fight. Faded, and much healed than the average guy, but wounds remain nevertheless.

Harry glances up. Peter offers a twitchy smile, like he’s not seconds from having an aneurysm. Sweat, even, is beading down his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, and it sounds weird in his mouth.

Clearly, Peter is deep in thought, so deep that he doesn’t even consider putting on a filter of sorts, because he blurts out, “I thought I lost you,” in response.

Oh. Harry blinks back, a little stunned. “Okay,” he slowly says. “Prepare to have your mind blown, Pete. It’s me, Harry Osborn, right here. In the flesh and everything.”

A dry laugh. “Before that. Before—the Green Goblin, honestly.”

His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“I don’t know.” Peter’s hands are shaking. “It’s stupid.” The flowers seemingly crumple under his grasp. “I used to think everything came easier for you, and I was a little bitter you didn’t ever seem to notice that. Like, I didn’t have money, or girls, or the confidence to defend myself from Flash’s goons. But you did.”

Harry’s throat tightens. “I don’t know if I’d call it confidence.”

“It was the closest approximation to confidence in Puny Parker’s mind,” he says. “I wouldn’t have dared to approach MJ if not for that spider bite.”

But you did is heavily implied. “Why would—” His mouth feels dry. “Why would me going after MJ mean anything?” I thought I lost you, Peter had said, and it’s such an absurd sentimentality Harry almost bitterly scoffs. He wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Still can’t.

“For a long time, I’d just assumed it would be us against the world,” Peter confesses quietly. “We’d graduate high school, move into an apartment together. Spend the rest of our lives reading comic books, watching generic action movies, still failing at basketball, somehow.” He looks away, almost ashamed, like Harry hadn’t thought exactly the same. “And then MJ told me you guys were dating, and I—God, I couldn’t believe it. The very girl I’d adored, the girl I knew I could never have, and you—you swooped in so easily.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Harry says faintly.

“I know. I know that now. But back then, it felt like you were slipping through my grasp, and I—I didn’t really understand why until it was too late, until you were dying.”

Dying.

Peter was there, he recalls. Cradled him in his arms. Everything else is a blur, though. Absence where there should be memories—unshed tears, fragile smiles, love confessions. Love. Harry doesn’t remember even saying the word love, let alone to the likes of Peter Parker. Pain had swallowed him in its entirety, and now—either Peter isn’t making a lick of sense, or Harry’s missing a whole lot of context.

“It’s you,” Peter shakily says. “It’s always been you. I just—I didn’t think it could ever happen. I thought I would spend my whole life losing you. Missing you.”

Harry recognizes the longing easily. If longing were real, something physical, a being to caress every crevice and curve of, he would recognize it even with his eyes closed.

It’s terrifying to see it displayed so prominently towards him.

“Okay,” Harry says, at a complete lack of words. “I’m, uh—I’m confused.”

A lopsided, broken smile. “That’s fine. I just wanted you to know.”

Before leaving, Peter drops the bouquet into a vase next to his bedside. Even when the flowers are doused in water, its buds still droop, wilting ever so slightly.

Harry stares at it longer than he should.

──────────────────────

The hospital would be a dreadfully boring piece to paint, he thinks.

Trekking through its halls, one hand on a wooden cane, the other mindlessly dragging a finger across the walls, Harry drowns in the lack of color. The fluorescent lights flicker ever so often, sure, but regardless—the hospital is much too reminiscent of a surrender flag. White. Painfully white.

He’s been thinking about pain a lot lately. Death, too. Death is surrendering in itself, no?

Harry’s been doing better. That’s what everyone says. Bernard the other day, though he can’t for the life of him understand why he visits. MJ, who’d come only once, when he was slightly hopped up on painkillers and could only offer a strained smile at her tear-stained apology.

She had nothing to be sorry about. Harry couldn’t find the words to tell her at the time, though. All he did was hold her hand and hope that was enough.

Then, there’s Peter.

Even after the long-awaited reveal that he, indeed, is Spider-Man, Peter remains an anomaly. He’s so—determined to go back to normalcy. Visits nearly everyday, tagging along a comic book from their high school days or another ridiculous J. Jonah Jameson tale in tolls. Visits, like he hadn’t said, I thought I lost you, with so much sincerity Harry wanted to cry. Like, I thought I would spend my whole life missing you, never meant a damn thing.

Harry isn’t one to break the normalcy. So, he smiles and nods and even though he doesn’t quite believe in divine entities, prays to God anyway that this is the right move.

Except, Peter now leaning against a stray vending machine, shoving coins back into his wallet, is definitely not a normal sight in the hospital. Nor is it normal how Harry’s breath catches, how the fluorescent lights capture the shine of his tousled hair so perfectly.

It’s upsetting, is all. To see how Peter’s blue, blue eyes brighten when Harry’s in his peripheral vision. To see how a smile tugs at those familiar lips and be completely unable to resist the imagery of them being swollen and flushed a pretty pink.

…Maybe the painkillers have more unintended side effects than he thought.

“Hey,” Peter says, breathless. “What are—what are you doing outside of your, uh, room?” Then he gestures, a little uselessly, at the vending machine. “Wanted to get you a snack. I think I wasted too much money on the bus fare, though.”

Aren’t you Spider-Man? Harry almost asks. Just web your way over.

“It gets a little stuffy in there,” he says instead, tightening his grip on the cane. “Besides, the nurse wants me to practice walking with this bad boy now that I’m set to leave in a couple of days.”

An undecipherable expression falls over Peter. “Right, that’s—um, that’s actually why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about…about that.”

Harry swallows. “Okay.”

“Bernard called me.”

“He—what?”

“He asked me to move in,” Peter says softly. “Just for a little while. He thought it’d be—good if I could be a part of the ‘recovery process.’ Said I—” He glances away, the words getting caught in his throat. “Said I’d make you happy. Despite everything.”

Well, that’s embarrassing. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bernard knows the true extent for his…fondness…for Peter Parker. His butler has always managed to hide away in the shadows easily. Watch from a distance. Keep the Osborn secrets close to his heart, and if one of them could be the Green Goblin, then—

Then Harry Osborn being in love with Peter Parker for quite some time wouldn’t be as hard a secret to hold onto for Bernard.

“Okay,” Harry says again, feeling more like an echo of a person. “Will you?”

“...Do you want me to?”

Do you want me to stay? The question—the fact that it even has to be asked—is laughable. Yeah. Yeah, I do, Harry wants to say. Stay. Please. Despite everything.

You killed my father echoes in the shadows. History, that fickle little guy.

Harry shrugs, which is harder than it looks when leaning your weight on a finicky cane. “I mean, Bernard wasn’t exactly wrong. You’re my best friend after all.”

Peter huffs a short laugh. “Yeah?”

For some reason, a lifetime of hidden meanings, of implication and subtext, seems to be woven into that singular word. Yeah? Really? Is that it? Am I ‘just’ your best friend?

Harry lets it wash over him, too afraid of addressing the truth even after all this time. That love confession sits forgotten, waiting to be uncovered. Absent.

“Yeah.” It hurts, a little, to say.

──────────────────────

Post-hospital plans include first and foremost visiting MJ’s apartment, whether he likes it or not. And so, freshly out of the haunting fluorescent glow, Harry adjusts to the familiar whirring of her ceiling light, warm and intimate in the cozy kitchen.

The last time he was here, he’d had her pinned against the wall, a grotesque sort of fury running through his blood. It’s not the most pleasant memory.

Though, neither are the rest—swollen, flushed lips, for example, after a particularly heated makeout session, then the uncomfortable silence that followed soon after. When the two dated, they didn’t talk. Couldn’t. Secrets lined behind the other, and while in MJ’s case it was, I’m a waitress, his had been I think I might be in love with my best friend.

They were two puzzle pieces, jagged and sharp, that could never quite fit together.

He wanted to love her. She didn’t know what she wanted. It was never meant to be, really.

But as friends? Well, bonding over their mutual affection—platonic or not—on Peter Parker was the first step. Once that domino fell, and he knows it’s shitty to say something like this, it was easier to see MJ not as the hot girl everyone fell to their knees for, not as the one who stole Peter from Harry, but rather—just as a person.

There was more to her looks. More to the facade Harry forced upon her.

Though, not everyone appreciates such a sentiment.

“And get this.” MJ absentmindedly swings her legs off the kitchen counter.

It’s a bit of an odd angle, to finally be gazing up at her from the bar stool he’s settled on. After all, he’d been taller. Though, this makes more sense. She’s always been larger than life.

“He tells me, straight-faced, turn slightly to your left,” she says. “That’s your best angle. Makes the camera think you’ve lost a few pounds.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “That’s fucked.”

“I know, right?” MJ exclaims. “God, I’m starting to wonder whether going into modeling was a good idea.”

“Why don’t you go back to theatre? I mean—acting was always your thing, wasn’t it?”

“The press certainly doesn’t think so,” MJ sighs. “With all the backlash, my agent wants me to cool off on auditioning for, you know, stage productions. It’s shooting stupid commercials like today from here on out.”

Right. Before the return of fatherly hallucinations and his hatred for Spider-Man—which inevitably expanded to Peter—they’d sat in a kitchen quite similar to this one. Granted, it was bigger, because Norman Osborn, of course, needed kitchens that fit the most exquisite and modern standards. But that very moment is far too reminiscent of simpler times, when the only problems in his life had been the deteriorating state of Peter and MJ’s relationship, and his selfishly growing desire to watch it crumble with a grin.

…Right.

“It sucks I can’t even really complain,” MJ continues. “I mean, it pays the bills, which I kind of desperately need. And modeling—you meet people. Industry that’s mostly about objectifying women but with a dabbling of networking and connections, too.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Have you met anyone?” he teases. “I’m sure there’s some cute photographers out there who wouldn’t mind replacing Pete.”

“I wouldn’t go as far to say I’ve met anyone.” She smiles, a shy and small sight. There’s a sad look to it, but he can’t tell whether it’s from the mention of Peter or something—something else. “Strengthened my relationship with a certain model, that’s for sure.”

Before Harry can ask questions, MJ changes the subject. “Besides, I’m not really in the mood to be replacing Peter anytime soon. He’s a bit of an anomaly.”

He cracks up at that. “Oh my God, yeah. Not everyone can say they’re best friends with Spider-Man, huh?”

“Exactly!” MJ says, relieved. “You don’t know how nice it is to finally talk about this with someone. It’s not like I’m a snitch, for Christ’s sake, and even if I were, no one would believe me, anyway. I used to date a superhero can only be said by delusional teenage girls.”

Harry’s throat feels dry. “When did he—uh, tell you? About…”

“Oh, he didn’t. Just happened to take off his mask during the whole Doc Ock fiasco,” she says. “Felt really stupid about it afterwards. I mean, the whole thing should’ve been obvious. Everything kind of fell into place after that.”

“Yeah, um,” Harry says. “All the times Peter’s flaked on us can easily be explained by, you know. Running around in a skin-tight arachnid suit.”

“Well, totally,” MJ laughs. “But also—I don’t know. Who else would devote their life to saving New York? I can’t think of anyone who’d fit that description as perfectly as our friendly neighbor Peter Parker.”

He swallows.

“I kind of wish he left a memo.”

There, a sympathetic smile falls over MJ. “Same. But you know why he does this. I can’t blame him for wanting to protect us.”

Bitterly, Harry wants to say—you, not us—but thinks it’d come out more resigned than anything. Thinks maybe the truth would seep out, all his insecurity consuming him until what remained of Harry was a sickly being of want. Thinks maybe Peter should’ve just fucking talked to him like a normal person if he really cared all that much.

“Speaking of,” MJ continues gently. “What’s going on with you and Peter? I—I know things weren’t…great for a hot minute…”

He lets out a startled laugh. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Whether or not MJ sees the deflection for what it truly is and simply wants to be nice or takes it—hook, line, sinker—that’s up for debate. “Oh.” She looks away, fidgeting with her hands. “I think Peter and I are better off as friends.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What? But…”

“But…” MJ shakes her head, smiling in spite of everything. “We could’ve made it work. I know that. And this isn’t a question of whether or not I love him—because God knows I absolutely adore his idiot self—but it’s more or less…” A shaky sigh. “We hurt each other. There was this whole breaking point, and it wasn’t exactly his fault, considering the whole—well, ‘Venom’ situation—but even then, things were already complicated. And I’m a little bit tired of complicated.”

Harry wonders if he’ll ever grow tired of complication himself. It seems like that’s the only thing he’s adapted to nowadays. Too, too familiar.

“Well, cheers to living a future that’s free of complications and boyfriends.” He offers a cheeky smile. “Join me in the single life. S’not that bad once you’re used to it.”

“I’ll think about it.” There’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “I’m not quite sure why you never put yourself out there. Like, come on. When’s the last time you went on a date?”

“...Back when we were in a relationship,” Harry awkwardly admits.

“Jesus Christ, Harry. It’s been three years.”

He groans. “I know, it’s just—well, you saw how I was with you. I’d been a shitty boyfriend. Like, obnoxiously shitty. Don’t really wanna subject another girl to that.”

Harry leaves out arguably the most important part—in which he’s never been all that interested in girls to begin with, and the only reason he’d ever had his sights on MJ was because of circumstances that had nothing to do with her.

She scoffs. “Hey, we were practically kids. No need to get caught up about that anymore. And besides…” MJ leans in, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I’ve seen how you act around Peter. I know there’s a softie in there, you’ve just gotta embrace it.”

Before he can even process his newly flushed cheeks or the implications behind MJ’s comment, their conversation is interrupted. Knock, knock.

She instantly beams. “The food’s here!”

“Wait.” Unintentional, really, how as she’s pulling herself off the counter, Harry tugs on her wrist. She turns to face him, her head slightly tilted to the side. An unspoken question patiently anticipating its answer.

“I just wanted to say thank you really quickly,” Harry says.

MJ lets out a warm giggle. “What, for getting us take-out?”

“For being there, even when I was a complete dumbass, and especially now. I swear to God, once I’m recovered, I’ll write a million plays for you to perform in.”

An amused twinkle lights up her blue eyes. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” Harry grins. “I’m thinking of deriving inspiration from my own life. You know that one time I completely sold out a local florist shop because I was busy getting a bunch of bouquets for you?”

“How could I forget?” MJ snorts.

“Well, what I’ve got in mind is a love triangle of sorts. Rich, snobby guy torn between his gorgeous girlfriend he keeps arguing with and the cute florist who somehow has the patience to deal with all his shenanigans.”

“I’m rooting for the cute florist,” she hums. “I think they’d be good for him.”

Looking back on it, Harry wonders why MJ said they instead of she.

──────────────────────

It’s some level of blasphemy, he knows, to be lying atop the chaise his father’s dead corpse haunted. But there’s some comfort within the act. To relish in the last place Norman Osborn touched, if only for a minute moment. To relish in the last place he could hold his dad in his arms without being pushed away like an afterthought.

Harry had never felt close to his father, you see, until this very deathbed.

It’s his first night back in the Osborn household, which was an unruly mistake, really, but where else would he go? The apartment he’d abandoned because Peter had uttered the words, I think I should move out, with such finality Harry swore it was a goodbye of sorts?

No, of course not.

And so he finds himself back in his personal Hell.

It hadn’t always been like this. Back in high school, when Norman was constantly away on business trips, Peter and him would wander these familiar halls with the reckless confidence only teenage boys held onto. Homework haphazardly scribbled down—at least on Harry’s behalf—and video games patiently waiting to be played, life seemed so simple then.

What went wrong?

He supposes he’d always been a little too emotional. Felt things so strongly his brain crumpled from the absolute pressure. Frontal lobe at an all time low, maybe.

But Harry didn’t ask for it. Some twisted punishment for being born defective. All he’d done, really, is love his father and it came with its own consequences, somehow. Nights locked in his room because he couldn’t bear to look into his father’s cold eyes after an argument—after ‘disappointment’ and ‘shame’ rattled his bones until the marrow turned soft, pathetic. Nights locked in his room because he didn’t know how to escape the visions that’d plagued him—voices and blurred sightings arriving from six feet under.

There were nights, too, where he hated Norman Osborn. Really fucking hated him. Hated him so much that Harry, at times, wished he’d been there before Norman died—delivered the final blow, even—so he could ask him the never-answered questions. Why was I never good enough for you? Did you care? Did you give a damn about me? I tried. I tried. I tried, Dad.

I tried so hard to make you love me.

Harry tries not to think about those nights. They were sacrilege. Sure, optimism died a long time ago, and along with that the grandiose idea of deities watching them fondly. Even so…

Although Harry may not believe in God, he sure believes in his father.

Well. Believed.

He’s not so certain anymore.

But that’s a thought he doesn’t necessarily want to address because it’d hurt, and he’s tired of hurting, tired of waiting for parental approval that’ll never come, tired of that fragile, guilt-ridden look Peter sends him every single time, tired of his ribs burning as though he truly was in Satan’s reign.

Harry closes his eyes, embracing the darkness, as if that’ll cease all the pain in the world. At the very least, maybe it’ll lull him to sleep, and maybe like father, like son, they’ll die in the same exact spot: this damned chaise.

If not, he thinks, all I’m asking is for the painkillers to finally kick in.

──────────────────────

Peter is officially moved in.

Or, in other words, he insists on washing the dishes even though he’s more of a guest than a roommate. But the house staff have left for the day, and Harry isn’t too keen on breaking the nonchalance of this very moment to throw a fit, so he lets Peter scrub stains off a plate or two.

It’s a rather domestic scene.

Harry watches him from afar, resembling a child in the way he feels so utterly small against the counter, legs idly dangling off his seat.

“And then, Aunt May—she’s waffling through coupons from her purse and going, ‘Oh, Peter, you need these more than I do,’ in that sweet old lady tone of hers, and I don’t know how to tell her that the last time I got eggs, some villain-of-the-week smashed them against a brick wall—”

If Peter were any ordinary guy, he’d question why his cupboards lack such essential groceries. But Peter is the same-old, same-old, and therefore Harry lets out a chuckle, because approaching him about his less-than-ideal financial state is sure to cross some line. Not that they haven’t trekked tense territory together already.

“Wait, let me get this straight. May doesn’t know about your, uh—?”

“Vigilante duties?” Peter guesses with a little smile. “No, not really. I think that’d be the thing to kill her off. Not the Green Goblin blowing up the damn house, but the idea that her ‘little boy’ prances around in a spandex suit to shoot webs at criminals.”

Harry swallows. He’d known of his father’s secret identity, of course he did, but it’s one thing to know and another thing to realize, fully, the damage that Norman Osborn did. His father murdered the entire board of Oscorp in cold blood, rendering poor civilians at the parade—those who were simply at the wrong place and time—lifeless. Threatened the lives of innocents, especially MJ.

…God, MJ. Caught in the crossfire like always.

He did that? Harry wants to ask. I’m sorry. I wish you’d told me.

Instead: “Why not tell her?”

Peter shrugs, a sheepish hunch to the shoulders. “Safer that way. You saw how people were already at my throat when I was only ‘Spider-Man’s photographer.’ If word got loose, even just to Aunt May, I don’t…God, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, Harry,” he says. “Besides, it’s like I said—it’d kill her. I haven’t exactly gotten the most ideal reactions from May about other things, let alone Spider-Man, and seeing how…”

Then, Peter trails off. Turning around, he resembles a sad puppy with those widened blue eyes.

“...Seeing how it’s gone for me before, I…” Peter mumbles. “I—I’m sorry.”

Harry blinks. “I thought we were done with the apologies.”

Peter tilts his head to the side. Maybe he is a sad puppy after all; his tight smile would perfectly go hand-in-hand with some folded dog ears. “I know, but I’m—I’m still hurt. Aren’t you?”

He looks away.

“Sorry,” Peter says. “I didn’t mean to be blunt. I mean, I’m no good with words—that was always sort of your thing.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who tried to ‘woo’ MJ with sappy poetry.”

His mouth falls agape. “How—I can’t believe she told you.”

A warm laugh escapes Harry’s lips, and for a moment, it’s as if he can pretend that everything is back to normal, two friends simply catching up. “I’m not judging, Pete. It’s just—sometimes I forget that you’re still the same Peter Parker I knew in high school.”

Peter frowns, absentmindedly scrubbing a squeaky-clean plate with a sponge. “Am I?” He’s been stuck on the same dish for far too long, clearly distracted by the conversation.

“Here,” Harry says, slipping off the stool. “I’ll help rinse.”

“Har, I’m a guest. And Aunt May—”

“I know,” Harry cuts him off, limping to the sink. Their elbows nearly touch when he manages to wedge into the little spot between Peter and the dish rack. “She raised you with manners. But don’t forget the influence that May had on me. Did you know how much shit she gave me for Thanksgiving?”

Peter shakes his head, chuckling a little. The frown hasn’t completely disappeared, just waiting to be addressed. A subtle downturn of the lips. “You were kinda out of line during Thanksgiving. If I weren’t, uh—occupied—at that time, I would’ve done the same.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. One hundred percent deserved it, I was a jackass. I’m just saying if May were here, she’d insist I do my part. So…” Harry reaches for the soapy plate, and when Peter relents, allows the faucet to wash away bubbles until he’s only met with clean china. “Let me do this one thing, Pete, alright?”

“...Alright.”

He shifts closer. When their arms brush against one another—sparks, a tingling of electricity that nearly makes Harry shudder—Peter doesn’t seem too bothered. Almost leans into the touch. Picks up a dirty dish like Harry isn’t trying to process his brain going a little fuzzy at the edges, a flash of white, the sickly desire swirling in his stomach, syrupy-sweet.

“Do you really think that?” Peter eventually asks.

“What?”

“That I’m still the same Puny—Peter Parker you knew back in high school?”

Harry pauses. “Well, essentially. Maybe you weren’t bitten by a radioactive spider then but you’re still like, the same person and whatever. Why?”

“I dunno.” His frown deepens. “Sometimes it feels like you—still see me as that scrawny little kid.”

Harry’s gaze flickers to their skin pressed together, heat radiating from the origins that is the muscle in Peter’s forearms. It’s enough to make him sweat. “You’re not a scrawny kid anymore, obviously. Spider-Man is proof of that.”

“But you’re always trying to—” He fidgets with the plate for a second before passing it on. “Do things for me, I don’t know. Even now. Does that make sense?”

“Elaborate.”

“Like,” Peter tries, “the shared apartment.”

“That was paid by my dad, not me.”

“Then what about after? Harry, you got me a meeting to see my idol as a birthday present. I doubt I’ve ever given you anything of that significance.”

“...Pete,” Harry gently says.

“And then when I needed you, when Sandman and that weird goopy alien from outer space teamed up, it’s like—it seemed like second nature to you, almost. To protect me.”

He swallows.

“I used to idolize you back then, y’know?” Peter says, laughing. “Aunt May swore that each time you entered a room, my eyes lit up and I—”

“Peter,” Harry repeats, pained.

“What?”

“I didn’t treat you like that because I thought of you as this—scrawny kid. I mean,” he relents a little, “maybe a tiny bit looking back, but not anymore, okay? You’re more than that, more than handouts. Always have been.”

Harry glances over, and he’s slightly star-struck at how attentive Peter’s ocean eyes are, laser-focused on him and only him. Seemingly clinging to Harry’s every word. He thinks if the world were to stop spinning, permanently frozen on its axis, he’d live in this moment forever. Let himself drown in the blue pools of Peter’s irises.

It’d almost be as good a death as dying in his best friend’s arms.

“Yeah?” Peter whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out.

“...What do you think of me now?”

They haven’t looked away once, holding each other’s gaze as if they were in a pseudo-competition. Though, what exactly he’s challenging Peter for—no idea, really.

“Don’t make me say it,” Harry softly says.

Peter parts his lips. Then, closes them tightly as though he’s changed his mind. Harry is drawn to the action the entire time, eyes a little too lost in the pretty shade of pink.

“I do those things for you because I—I want to, okay?” Harry continues, hurried. Maybe it’ll give Peter less time to truly process the impact behind his words, the implication. “I try to protect you because I… y’know, I trusted you. Trust you, I mean. It’s still—I’m still getting used to everything.” He winces. “What I’m getting at is that you’re my best friend and I…”

Harry looks away, overwhelmed by the warmth running alongside Peter’s forearm. His eyes are caught on the flowers Peter had gotten him at the hospital—sitting idly on the windowsill. Still not fully recovered, wilting at the edges, but better than last time.

Maybe one day it’ll properly heal. One day.

“...I guess I wanted you to need me as much as I need you,” Harry weakly says. It’s a feeble attempt at the truth—history not as fickle as the repressed memory that contains I love you—but hey, it counts as a start, right?

Silence.

When Harry musters the courage to turn back, Peter’s lips have already reached his.

It’s a curious thing. How Harry is instantaneously reeled in, some invisible force of nature pulling his hands around the nape of Peter’s neck. How the palm surely remains wet, cold and wrinkled from washing dishes, but Peter hums a pleased little tune in his mouth, and suddenly nothing else matters except for the man in his arms.

Peter’s running his soapy hands into his hair, tousling it further. Harry can’t help but push, press his lips harder against skin he never thought he’d be allowed access to.

The kiss had been gentle at first, honeyed and like the faint glow of dappled light. But with that sickly desire finally slipping out, finally given an outlet, the heat is seemingly unbearable. Amidst Peter’s mouth, fire laces his sweet taste.

Death may be an abusive lover, but Peter isn’t. Peter is light with his touch, earnest as he breathes out another, “I’m sorry,” against Harry’s ear, and it’s enough to send a shiver down his spine.

The kiss doesn’t fix everything. There’s work to be done.

But for now, he’ll take it.

──────────────────────

To no one’s surprise, Harry awakes to an empty, lonesome king bed—the only sign someone else had even existed being in the slight divot to his right.

He stares at it, like the shape of Peter will suddenly come to form before his eyes. He stares at it as though the slope of his best friend’s spine will be tangible again, something to slide his finger down while soft snores fill the air. He stares.

God. How pathetic is he?

With a sharp inhale, Harry gets up and pretends everything is normal.

Brushes his teeth. Spits. Washes away the taste of soft, puckered lips. He heads to the kitchen afterwards to seek out some much-needed coffee. From the corner of his eye, a dastardly sink taunts him. He tries his best to ignore it.

That’s where the incident occurred, where Harry currently represses the desire to run his fingers through his own hair, if only to remake the magical scene. That’s where Bernard so happens to be right now, actually, wiping down the counters nearby with a towel.

Harry swallows. Audibly.

Apparently so audibly that Bernard turns around, distracted from the task at hand. In the window’s reflected light, all golden, it smoothens out the creases aging him. For a moment, Harry is reminded of what the butler looked like back when he was just a boy.

It couldn’t have been that long ago. Right?

“Good morning, young sire,” he hums. “You’re up early.”

Harry shakes the deja vu off, opting to slump against the coffee machine. “I could say the same for you.”

Amusement wrinkles the corners of Bernard’s eyes. “It’s my job.”

“Bernard, I think you and I know you tend to do things outside of your jurisdiction.”

The light-hearted joke veers off-course. Frustratingly enough, Harry knows they’re on the same page, that the butler can tell when exactly his tone sharpens. A memory of a shattered photo frame flickers between the two of them.

His jaw tightens.

“Did you know about him?” Harry asks.

“Know what?”

“Cut the bullshit, Bernard. Did you know about Dad? About what he did?”

The old man turns away, wringing water out of the towel. At an excruciatingly slow rate, it drips down his calloused palms, worn from years of work.

Turn around, Harry thinks to himself, scowling. Don’t hide from me. I want to know. I need to know the truth. Instinctively, his hands ball into fists. Don’t I deserve it after all this time? After the shit everyone pulled on me?

Turn around. Please.

“Not exactly,” Bernard drawls from afar. “But I had my suspicions.”

“You just casually suspected you were working for a flying green freak? The fuck?”

“I suspected, much to my horror, that Norman flew too close to the sun,” he clarifies, careful with his word choice. “None of what I felt could be described as ‘casual,’ Harry. I couldn’t sleep the day I’d found him.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t remember the last time he was able to sleep even more than a wink. Rest barely came to him nowadays. I haven’t slept easy since then, either. We’re more alike than you’d think.

“You should’ve told me.”

“You know that’s above my pay, sir.”

He chokes back a laugh. Or not. “You make me sick, Bernard. You’re a lap dog only when it counts, huh? You’d rather spit in my face than treat me with an ounce of the respect you gave Dad. Is that right?”

“No. I didn’t tell you because of how much respect I had for you.”

“...What?”

“You loved your father so, so much, Harry. I couldn’t destroy what he meant to you.”

Something in him cracks. At first, the damage is little, only at the edges. Then it spreads throughout his twisted brain, cuts into that fragile heart. Everything that once kept him afloat seemingly shatters.

“I would’ve still loved him,” Harry says shakily, “if you’d told me.”

Bernard turns.

His gaze is warm, a fire that astonishingly hasn’t died yet. It’s comforting.

“I know. I know that now. If I could’ve foreseen what had happened next, what you would’ve turned into, what you and Peter went through, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Harry looks away.

“No more lies,” he whispers. “No more—no more hiding. I need you to be honest with me if you wanna stay here, Bernard. I can’t do that again. Any of this.”

“Yes, sire. Whatever you wish.”

The bottom of his lip trembles. There’s still one more question lingering in the back of his head. Now seems like the time more than ever.

“Bernard. Why did you call Peter?”

No answer. Only a contemplative hum.

“You said he thought he’d help me with the recovery process,” Harry adds on, desperately hoping his tone doesn’t betray any of his pathetic thoughts. “You said he makes me…he…he, y’know…”

Happy. You said he’d make me happy.

Bernard raises his eyebrow. “Well, does he?”

Harry exhales sooner than he should. Fast, loose breaths collapse from his shoulders.

“It’s not as simple as that.”

Peter, from the young age of sixteen, has made him feel dozens of contrasting emotions. To simply sum it up with happiness is wrong—should be wrong—because it had always been more than that.

Envy bubbling up in his chest until he could no longer think. Wounded pride that reopened every so often, bleeding live and center. Hormonal lust that could only be associated with teenage boys after gym class. This sorrowful, soul-sucking desire to hide away, to run until he’d left his best friend in the dust, until he couldn’t remember what the name Peter Parker represented anymore. This desire to be born anew, to no longer be different.

…Huh. It really had always been more.

“Do you want to know what I think, Harry?”

He slowly nods.

Bernard delivers his next words plain and simple, not a single embellishment added on.

“You’ll be fine.”

And yet no matter its forgettable nature, it sticks to Harry anyway. Lodges itself in a corner of his brain that doesn’t normally see the light of day. Stays. Firmly.

“Your predecessors didn’t often get the happy endings they dreamed of,” Bernard says. “But you’ve always been a bit of a black sheep, yeah?”

Loud and clear, Harry hears the message he’s sending.

Break the cycle. Break the cycle. Break that goddamn cycle and be happy.

──────────────────────

…Easier said than done.

For starters, Harry has officially been fired.

Attending a meeting to discuss “his future with Oscorp” whilst mildly high on painkillers could’ve been the final blow to Harry’s career, sure. But it more or less had to do with the scars ridden on his face, the very proof that Harry’s dedication matched the same as his father—dangerous. While his older co-workers often joked about how he practically looked like a ‘carbon copy’ of Norman, here they warily avoid eye contact.

I apologize for the sudden decision, the head of the table says coolly, but we thought it’d be more fair on you to be answered immediately. Now, you can focus all your attention on recovery. That’s what matters most after all; your health.

Harry, being the shrunken little boy he was raised to be, nods. Bites down any comments into his lips. Reveals no teeth.

If he had no inhibitions, though, what would he have said?

Oscorp was the last bit of my father I had left, Harry thinks. I don’t know what else to cling to now. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m lost.

I’m so, so lost.

But as per usual, the world moves on.

He signs all their paperwork. Agrees to the small sum of money they’ll send as “amends.” Takes his leave with as much grace as he could possibly muster. Assures the staff that his scars were from a ‘rabid’ dog’s attack, that his temporary amnesia was from a hit-and-run, that the wounds scattering his arms and legs are a trick of the light, that the fresh limp he sports is a simply coincidence, not at all related to the rest of the “freak accidents” that follow Harry around.

They don’t seem very convinced.

Privately, Harry thinks they should cut the subtlety and just ask if he by any chance wanted to fill the Green-Goblin-sized shoes Norman left for him. Privately, Harry wonders whether he failed or not.

It’s silly.

Stepping out of the Oscorp building reminds him of a weight being lifted off his shoulders, lungs given some more airway, breaths strangled rather than outright gone.

Except he’d been suffocated for so long.

Even the slightest freedom feels a bit like drowning.

──────────────────────

And another thing.

It all circles back to Peter Parker because let’s face it: ever since the day they met, Harry’s life has hopelessly revolved around him. Go figure.

Anyway, the matter of fact is Peter is as confusing as ever.

He’s still—Peter. Because of course he is. Because a man can’t change overnight, especially not one who’s so utterly firm in his identity and what he represents.

…The casual kissing is throwing Harry slightly off, though.

Peter’s schedule, to his knowledge, goes something like this:

1. Wake up at an absurdly early time for his morning patrols.

2. Swing by Harry’s for a quick breakfast and to kiss him on the forehead.

3. Attend college because unlike Harry, who ultimately dropped to have at least a little bit of a stake in his father’s company, Peter is still finishing up his last year.

4. Swing by Harry’s after class for a late lunch, a chaste kiss on the lips, and countless check-ins or reminders on Harry’s health.

5. More patrols. More pictures of Spider-Man. More old women who need help crossing the sidewalk. More robbers who need a sucker-punch to the face.

6. A quick meeting with J. Jonah Jameson to debate on his ‘lackluster’ photographic skills and whether the crime-fighting arachnid is an actual ‘menace’ to society as they know it. Peter usually loses.

7. Swing by Harry’s for dinner.

8. Leave at an absurdly late time for his night patrols.

9. Stir Harry ever so slightly awake to slip against his side when the guest bedroom is only a hall or two away from him. Cling to Harry as though he’s only a faint memory. Pretend everything is okay.

10. Repeat.

Slowly but surely, this seemingly perfect structure falls apart.

Today, for example, Harry finds himself tending to Peter’s wounds in the bathroom of the guest bedroom. The action is familiar. Rather than red welts and bruises coming from high school bullies, this injury stems from a world Harry wouldn’t dare approach, not when even Spider-Man arrives back bleeding.

“Ow.”

Much to Peter’s disdain, he currently dangles his legs off the covered toilet, leaning back into the tank with not much grace. Across his arm is a nasty gash, from a robbery that’d consisted of broken glass as a last-minute makeshift weapon. Harry had picked each and every shard out already, and now the only task left is to suture the wound.

“Harry, it’s—” Peter sharply inhales when Harry tugs on the thread, making sure the stitch is secure and in place. “It’s fine, seriously. I do this myself all the time.”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” Harry says, trying to keep his hands steady. “As a New Yorker myself, it’s kind of my civil right to ensure Spider-Man doesn’t die.”

Harry looks up to see Peter’s soft expression. He doesn’t feel small kneeling anymore. Instead, his knees seem to sink into the ceramic tiles, comfortable.

“Glad to see you’ve changed your mind about Spider-Man,” Peter jokes, but he’s not wrong. To tend to Spider-Man’s wounds may be about his best friend’s well-being, sure, but it’s also an apology—an act of service so opposite of cruel violence.

Harry swallows. “Me too.”

After the stitches are good to go, Harry gently wraps white gauze around Peter’s arm. Once finished, Peter stretches his bandaged limb ever so slightly. He offers a restrained smile, an unsubtle way to hide back a wince. “Good as new. Thanks, buddy.”

“Of course,” Harry says, meaning it. How could he not, when Peter looks at him through his eyelashes, half-drooped, like he’s something precious to behold?

Harry allows himself to stay within this moment. Rests his head against Peter’s chest, because he knows how easily tenderness escapes his greedy grasp; how split Peter’s time is between being Spider-Man and being Peter Parker; how Harry doesn’t fit nicely into either one of those identities, but he tries—so, so damn hard.

Peter ruffles his hair gently. “Hey. What are you thinking about?”

Harry’s eyelids fall, and for a moment, all that is in the darkness is Peter’s hand slightly scratching at his scalp and the smell of his old Chess Team t-shirt. He inhales.

“I don’t get why you stayed.”

With a flick of his thumb, Peter lifts his chin ever so slightly. There, Harry meets an icy shade of blue, muddled by innocent confusion.

“At the hospital. You said it’s you, it’s always been you.” Harry bites his lip. “Why?”

Peter’s fingers flutter over to his jaw. They trace down the rigid line almost like an intentional distraction. “You were my first friend.”

“And?”

“And I…” Peter looks away. “I ran away when it mattered most. I hurt you when I should’ve been there for you. I let everything with MJ and Spider-Man ruin what we had. So I’m—” He absentmindedly caresses the side of Harry’s cheek. “I don’t know. I’m trying to be better. I can’t lose you again.” His voice cracks. “I can’t lose you.”

Harry shifts closer until his arms can neatly wrap themselves around Peter’s waist. It’s a pathetic attempt at a hug, a pathetic attempt at keeping him close even when it’s become extraordinarily clear that their relationship is full of open wounds.

“You’re guilty,” Harry manages.

“What? I mean, yeah—of course I am—but that doesn’t mean—” When Harry leans back, he watches as Peter’s expression tightens, creases in his forehead. “I’m not doing this to resolve my guilt if that’s what you’re asking. I’m doing it because I…I…”

The words seem to get caught in his throat.

“...You? You what?”

“Don’t you remember?” Peter softens at a memory Harry has no grasp on. “After Venom attacked you, I had you in my arms and that’s when you…said it.”

“Peter, I was bleeding out,” Harry says. “Everything I said has been lost to delirium.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you knew. I thought you—” Peter’s shoulders tense. “I thought you meant it.”

“Peter, I have no idea what you’re babbling about.”

Peter shuts his eyes, tight, and it’s there Harry realizes he looks—afraid. He hadn’t thought Peter would pull his guard down long enough to show him nowadays. It makes him appear distinctly younger, all fluttery eyelashes and hollowed cheeks. His anger—anger that Peter was yet again hiding something from him—simmers down until it's only an itch at a scab. Harry could never really hate him in the first place, after all.

“You said you loved me,” Peter whispers. “You said you were in love with me. That you always have been. Since high school. But you wanted me to let go. Told me to not say it back. That it didn’t matter because—”

Because I was dying. Because I wanted you to know before I died. Because with my last breath, I wanted you to know how much you meant to me, how much I knew you wouldn’t.

Except things didn’t turn out the way he expected.

Harry feels split open, skin peeling off broken bones.

Peter’s throat goes dry for a second. Then, he continues, shakily. “And then—before you collapsed, before you went numb—you did this.”

A moment of reluctance stills Peter. After that, however, he goes for it, instinctively, like a prey animal drawn to a mousetrap. Inches forward, forward, forward until his mouth is only the slightest movement from touching his cheek. Then, Peter’s lip brush against the corner of his mouth, drags it across in a sluggish motion. So close to meeting, but not quite.

Harry’s breath halters the entire time.

When Peter pulls away, he can’t seem to look him in the eye.

“That’s,” Harry starts, “oddly romantic.”

He doesn’t mean to deflect.

“Yeah,” Peter laughs, restrained. “I thought so too. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop myself from visiting you as much as I could in the hospital. Aunt May said I was driving myself nuts by going after you like that, stupidly sitting at your side like that’d make you wake up any faster, but I just—I think you were my weakness. I think you still are, actually.”

It feels too good to be true and yet simultaneously the possibly the worst outcome of all time.

“Peter,” Harry says, “do you love me?”

His eyes are gleaming.

Harry continues, avoiding the gut-wrenching expression. “I think maybe I’d understand if you loved the old Harry Osborn. Kind of a fuck-up, but at least he had a pretty face and this unruly devotion for his father. But now I’m—” A laugh that scrapes against his throat, raw. “I don’t have that pretty face anymore. I have nothing left of my father.” It hurts. “Isn’t that funny? I destroyed myself for him, only to be left of nothing.”

He lets go of Peter’s frame. Sinks back down onto his knees. Holds himself up.

“I’m definitely not ‘boyfriend’ material,” Harry says. “Especially not for someone like you, someone who’s so good to a world that gives back stitches. So it’s fine if you don’t love me. You’ll tell Bernard you tried your best, and then we can move on. You won’t need to deal with how damaged I am.”

Tears start to roll down Peter’s cheeks. He resists the urge to shift closer, to wipe them away with a loving hand.

“Harry,” Peter says quietly. “You loved me when I was nothing, when I was just Puny Parker, when I abandoned you at your worst, when I threw my own self-hatred into your face, when I almost killed you. You loved me through all of it. I think I can deal with a little bit of damage.”

He crumbles at the sight of Peter’s hopeful, sad smile.

“I can barely walk,” Harry says, “without taking painkillers. I can’t look in the mirror because I’ll start spiraling into hallucinations. I don’t know if I’ll ever get better. That’s certainly more than a little bit of damage.”

The corners of Peter’s mouth curl ever so slightly, hitting another tear. It’s a beautiful sight. Hurts all at once, though.

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

Harry can’t stop himself this time.

He leans in, gently kisses every inch of Peter, and lets the salt of his sorrow dissolve on his tongue, never to be seen again.

──────────────────────

The flowers on the windowsill have barely bloomed. Petals that coil inwards, a fragile stem, a sign that it’d recovered from wilt not too long ago.

Sunrise seeps into the kitchen, speckles of light dancing over Harry’s cup of coffee. From afar, Peter is collapsed against the couch, asleep after a morning patrol went a little sideways.

There’s still more work to be done, Harry reminds himself. There’s still painkillers to be weaned off on. There’s still physical therapy appointments and psychologists to see. There’s still so much damage that unravels out of Harry at night and attacks at first sight—that “first sight” often being Peter. There’s still so much damage that spools out of Peter too, who tastes of death too, sometimes. Even MJ occasionally calls him, tormented by her own nightmares about the Green Goblin or Dr. Ock.

It certainly hasn’t been easy, but hey.

They’re trying. And that counts for something, right?