Chapter Text
“Oh my God.”
Harry’s world grinds to a halt. Everything fizzles out. Both the past and the present converge; Peter then, deep in its pages, frames slipping down his nose, fringe curtaining his concentration; and the book now, collecting snowflakes, abandoned in the discount section.
Floppy pages sag as Harry caresses its spine. Yellow creases cut through the dark cover like lightning, over the title and author, faded long ago from scratches. Proof of love, if you ask him. He traces what remains with his fingertip.
“Oh my God,” he repeats to nobody.
MJ manages to catch up with a scrunched nose. Book bags, heavy and sagging from her grasp and shoulders, threaten to slip. She would have worn one around her neck if possible. Already, her cheeks are bitten red from the cold—all the more reason to cosy up in a café somewhere soon. Preferably with a steaming cup of cocoa.
The weather had been nothing short of cruel this week. It bit through layers viciously, everything from gloves to scarves. Ice had become too familiar a taste. And worst of all, slush had accumulated along the street edges, spilling onto the pavements. Harry can’t recall a pair of jeans he hasn’t splattered mere seconds after leaving his car.
“Harry?” MJ calls out, barely audible over the howling wind. “What is it?”
His mind lags. Rooted, his attention darts between MJ and the book. Somewhere amidst the salad of memories—May’s sun-drenched kitchen in July, where Peter would read aloud in theatrical voices, to his pout and sulking once he lost it—he comes back to reality.
Right. The book fair. Hours of traversing a maze of human experiences. The whole of New York brushing past him, browsing the aisles. Countless books stacked in towers, piled on desks, displayed in cases. MJ insisted on rummaging each, and he agreed keenly. So many stories passed by their hands today; it was magical, in a way. The most fun he’s had all month. Yet, he cannot help but eye the doors periodically.
Harry should have guessed. The inevitable Peter excuse is inevitable for a reason. The worst part is that he would’ve enjoyed their adventure today. Harry can picture him perfectly: eyes gleaming between worn textbooks and sci-fi classics. And how happy he would have been to see this; slack jawed and inspecting it from every angle.
MJ frowns when Harry beckons her. Wordlessly, she joins his side.
“A Star Wars book?” she says with a breathy chuckle. “Don’t tell me you actually want to read that.”
“It’s not just any Star Wars book,” he beams, dry lips stretching with a sting. “It’s Darth Plagueis.”
MJ’s eyes flash with recognition. They’d seen books in various conditions today, from pristine and neatly packaged to beaten and torn. But never a wreck such as this. Harry passes it to her, careful, as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
“He wouldn’t shut up about it,” she mutters.
Everybody has been a victim at one point to Peter’s ‘Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?’. The words are etched in Harry’s brain in the exact way Peter says it, so much so, that he can’t hear Ian McDiarmid any more. A decade of friendship will do that to you. Particularly, since Peter insists on rewatching the saga once a year. How could Harry say no with the way Peter talks about these movies—as if possessed with love. And Harry, who would listen to Peter explain his grocery list in detail if he could, drinks it in eagerly every time. Which is why, by proxy, he knows bits of Mando’a, can name every known Sith chronologically, knows the Jedi code, most planets and creatures, and even the seven forms of lightsaber combat.
“It’s annotated,” says MJ, looking up at him through snow-laden lashes. “Look.”
The pencil is faded. In some places downright smudged in the margins. The handwriting is messy, albeit intelligible. Familiar, somewhat. Harry can’t quite place it. He catches a glimpse of one comment (‘That is not how xerophthalmia works’). It’s perfect. Peter wouldn’t even notice this isn’t his copy.
MJ’s eyes gleam. It takes a moment to discern it, but once he does, his stomach drops. Raw cold melts the edges of his enthusiasm. Thoughts scramble together, searching for something to say: a dismissal, a quip, something to cover his sudden shame with. Can she hear his heart drum over the harmony of honking cars and brutal wind?
Because the fact of the matter is Peter and MJ never made it work. Their romance concluded before it even began. Or so they claim. Harry ought to have been crushed; his two favourite people were fighting over their feelings for each other. And for a while, he was, particularly when their squabbles bled over to him. The world ripped, with Harry as a lone isle in the middle and them as two ships that pass in the night. And he let them berth when they needed to vent. MJ more-so than Peter, since he’s always off somewhere.
That was the crux of the issue, he suspects. He understands her frustrations now. Being his roommate entails the same, and it’s driving Harry crazy. Waiting, worrying, not knowing where or how or when he’ll come home. They don't speak of it, and pretend the friendship group wasn’t at the brink of becoming a shipwreck. But if one were to wonder—where does he go to? Why is he always peppered with bruises? And late to every occasion? Does MJ know? Of course, she knows; nothing escapes MJ’s keen gaze, not even Harry’s long-buried affections.
Which brings him back to the point: she’s looking at him knowingly. This camaraderie born out of Peter’s disarray—it allows them to talk without a word exchanged. In what universe did he think he could ever let anything pass by Mary-Jane unnoticed?
But she speaks not of it, choosing to nudge him instead. And Harry stands there, barely breathing, caught like a child with its hand midway through the cookie jar.
“Take it,” she smiles, sniffling. “He’ll love it. Hopefully, he’ll be more careful this time around.”
“Are you sure?” Harry stammers—whether it’s from his chattering teeth or apprehension, he’s uncertain. “Because I can leave it.”
She gives him a knowing look. “Harry.”
He sinks into his collar, fiddling with his pleaded scarf, brushing off snowflakes. Anything to avoid her gaze. If he were to speak again, he’s not sure a ‘Yes, yes, okay. I'm in love with him. Stop looking at me like that’ won’t come out. The thought smites him.
“Let’s go. Come on. I could kill for a cup of coffee right now.”
She hands Darth Plagueis back. The weight grounds him. The implications, however, make his head swarm. He should count his blessings—the idea that their trio could have burned down makes him shudder. MJ just handed him the match to light it all again.
He doesn’t meet her gaze until they pay and leave the fair.
He isn’t sure he can.
The dorm is empty, of course.
His father insisted, begged at one point (and how many people can say Norman Osborn begged them to do something?) for Harry to stay at the penthouse. And if he desired to ‘leave the nest’ as he put it, then Harry could have another penthouse of his own. Cage traded for a cage. Sometimes, when he bursts through the door shivering, when the electric kettle refuses to work unless the socket is at a specific angle, Harry wishes he had listened.
Deep down, he would never forgive himself for missing out on the university dorm experience. So he sighs, positions the socket just right, and waits for the water to boil. The windows had frosted over thanks to Peter, who, as usual, left them open for some reason. Harry shivers like a leaf while dressing, wraps a blanket around his shoulders and clutches onto it for dear life. If he were told the entire warmth of the universe had disappeared, he’d believe it without a second thought. A part of him wishes he could open his chest like a teapot and pour his piping tea inside. But alas. Portable heater it is.
While sipping, scorching his tongue like an idiot thirsty for a lick of warmth, he eyes his desk. A pile of assignments are tucked away on his laptop, begging to be finished. He can’t do it. Or won’t. There’s no motivation thrusting him forward, for they are all subjects his father chose. It’s ridiculous, and so is the guilt the more he thinks about his unfinished work. His professors aren’t the types he wishes to upset. In fact, most of them are overly friendly with him. Probably something to do with that Osborn next to his name. Rational and demotivation attempt to overpower each other—he knows life will be easier with no assignments late on Christmas, that it’s best to get them out of the way and end the night by binging a show. But the lack of motivation conquers all.
As the tea finally warms his belly, he sets the chipped mug aside, and his gaze finds Darth Plagueis again.
Oh, what the hell.
Maybe reading a couple of pages can kickstart his brain.
Before he knows it, days roll by. Between classes and wondering what to make for dinner so Peter can stop making noodles at four in the morning (with the same broken kettle, mind you), and a dose of more procrastination, Harry learns something terrifying.
He can’t put it down.
He reads carefully, inspecting the annotations of a stranger hellbent on discussing everything is if they were face to face. Harry wishes they could be. How many times has he caught himself smiling over a comment? They range from funny (‘The good news is there's no more cortosis for the Jedi. The bad news is there's no more cortosis.’), to call-backs Harry has no knowledge of (‘Congratulations, Darth Bane is rolling in his grave!’), and finally, references to real physics (‘Aharonov–Bohm effect?? In MY Star Wars book??’). Neither the back nor front cover has initials, though Harry has examined it a dozen times. Nothing indicates whose masterful commentary he’s blessed with. It’s not long before he reads just to see what the margins would comment on. All he knows is that they are hilarious, and once Christmas rolls around, Peter will think so too.
University work fades into a quiet little whisper through his conscience, too absorbed by the politics of another galaxy. No wonder Peter was so enamoured with this book. It’s good. Better than Harry expected of a tie-in book for a silly space movie franchise, for sure.
A bit of him wonders if he should ask Peter for more after Christmas. His collection used to make up a whole shelf back at May’s house. Would those books be just as good, or is this one an outlier?
The holidays draw near and so do his deadlines. It takes about a week for Harry to almost forget this was meant to be a gift for Peter.
Once he finishes reading, he’ll hand it over.
Maybe.
Palpatine placed his hand on Kim’s shoulder.
The small part you will play in the revenge of the Sith.
Harry, upon catching his eyes in the reflection of the mirror, just stares. Ha! They said the name of the movie. Toothpaste foam dribbles down his chin, cold and minty as the snow outside. He’s done some mental exercises, little things, for example, not immediately jumping to make himself impeccable even in the confines of his home. But the habit tugs fiercely at his thoughts. There are no paparazzi to swarm him. Nobody is camping on the opposite roof to get a blurry photo of his Spider-man pyjamas. And with Peter gone in the wind, nobody is around to witness Harry pace about, annihilating a chapter during his nighttime routine.
His phone buzzes from the room beyond; probably his father checking in or MJ sending a meme. But chapter seventeen is within reach, and he’s not so tired to quite call it a night yet.
What he should be doing are his assignments, but, oh well. Already he had cleaned every nook and cranny (mostly Peter’s discarded clothes and crumpled takeout), dusted all surfaces, did the laundry, made pasta and washed the dishes. With no wall to shield him from the guilt, like the toxic ex he’s never had, he turns to Darth Plagueis. He’s somewhat halved it. Along with that comes a whole host of emotions, like the inevitable hollowness a good book leaves once it's finished.
The front door slams. Harry damn near jumps out of his skin. Here he is, keeping the book open with one hand, washing off his toothbrush with another. Looking every bit the mess he feels—and now Peter decides to come home? Really?
Suddenly too conscious of the way he looks, Harry rests the book between his thighs while washing up.
“Har?” Peter calls out. There’s a familiar soft thud as Peter’s backpack meets the floor.
Harry spits out his mouthwash. “In here! Give me a sec.”
Confronted by his own reflection once more, Harry scowls whilst attempting to bring at least a bit of effortless order to his unruly curls. There was a time when it didn’t matter what he looks like in front of Peter. They’ve seen each other in all sorts of conditions—from hangover vomits to fever-stricken sweating through the sheets. He’s nursed Peter and Peter’s nursed him. But now his insecurities conspire against him, make him smooth out his faded shirt three times and check for residual toothpaste. Effortless, right? That’s the look.
Once he’s satisfied enough, he tucks the book under his arm. Wets his lips one more time for good measure. Whatever. He’s ready. And he looks cute. If MJ were here, she’d agree. That’s all that matters. She’d nudge him for stalling, push him through the threshold with a chuckle.
He isn’t prepared for what’s on the other side.
Peter is face down on Harry’s bed.
Autopilot takes hold and the door slams shut once again. Okay. The universe is definitely making fun of him. He wishes imaginary MJ were right here so he can freak out in peace, but he settles for staring down at Sidious’ face on the cover as if to scream ‘Do you see this shit?’. Not a peep leaves him. A moment is all he needs. Mostly to collect himself. To regulate his breathing.
Braver than a marine, Harry leaves the bathroom again.
In the darkness, illuminated by campus lights and towering buildings from between the blinds, there is a Peter-shaped outline. The edges of his shoulders and back are basked in yellow that only serves to accentuate just how ripped Peter is. For some reason. The sight is enough to flip Harry’s stomach.
How he longs for the days when he could flick Peter’s forehead and readjust his glasses without a second thought. Back when they used to practically cuddle when watching a movie, or swap clothes, or try each other’s milkshakes. Now an action like that would send him into cardiac arrest. Why did he have to go and feel all this? Even in the privacy of his own thoughts it feels weird. That man is his best friend. The Peter Parker. Figurine collecting, science geek, LEGO connoisseur. How can Harry think such thoughts about him? How could he do this to their friendship?
“Har?” Peter repeats, voice muffled and dripping in exhaustion.
What he would give to run out in his slippers and find MJ right now. To shake her like a rattle and yell ‘You were wrong. I can’t do this. But I’m down bad. No, I’m down atrocious for the only best friend besides you that I’ve ever had. I can’t do it’.
Despite the heart attack, Harry slips Darth Plagueis into his desk drawer and saunters over to the bed. His bed. On which Peter is currently sprawled over. As if he owns the place. Which, truth be told, he might as well do, for there isn’t a thing in this world Harry wouldn’t give if Peter would only ask. It’s normal to be in your best friend’s bed. They live together and that’s just what friends do.
“Hi,” he manages, swallowing the rock in his throat. “I’m here.”
Harry nestles by the bed’s edge. Far enough to give Peter space, but close enough that his inner voice screams. The weight shift doesn’t make Peter rise, but he does move so Harry can sit comfortably. What a gentleman.
Can Peter feel it? The way Harry's breath hitches; the palpitations of his heart; the tension shift; his gaze following the outlined dunes of muscle. Because just being around him makes Harry dizzy nowadays. MJ's reassurance from the book fair pushes to the forefront. His collarbones are on fire. If it's so obvious, if the whole world can see how badly he wants to smooth the crease between Peter's brows and kiss him stupid then…
Then why hasn't the man himself said a word of it?
In the dark and completely unaware of the chaos in Harry's head, Peter hums in agreement. What were they talking about? Oh, right. Absolutely nothing. Because Harry keeps seeing the uncomfortable scrunch of Peter's face, the ‘I’m sorry, I just don't feel that way’.
“How was your day?” asks Harry, more breathless than he should be letting on.
Peter lifts a hand with a placating gesture and a groan.
“Me too, buddy,” Harry smiles.
He reaches for the lamp on the nightstand, praying that he doesn’t brush against Peter in any way, mostly because he doesn’t trust himself not to scream. Warm light floods the dorm, bringing it to life. Peter buries his head further into Harry’s sheets (Lord.) like an ostrich. The shirt he’s wearing is unbelievably tight. Every movement is accentuated. Harry peels his attention away forcefully.
“Anything interesting today?” asks Peter.
“Uh,” Harry wishes he could swallow his nervousness. Reminder: friends don’t think about their friends like that. He concentrates on the window instead. The distant sirens, cold and warm light intertwining over the hard shapes and shadows of skyscrapers. The flaking snow. Anything but Peter.
“Nothing of note, really. I’ve got assignments to do but, uh, I guess I haven’t gotten around to doing them. I just can’t force myself to care. You know how it is. Actually, no you don’t.”
Peter chuckles. The vibrations of it coarses through the mattress. They're so close, Harry can feel all of it, can hear the yawns Peter tries to hide. He allows himself another look, or maybe phantom hands turn his head. What a sight it is. He relishes the outline of Peter again. In a better world he throws himself over like a blanket, terrorises Peter with a million neck kisses, and they fall asleep tangled like vine. If he weren't a coward, he would rake his fingers through Peter's nape right now, caress up to the crown of his head. He'd never actually do it.
But he's thinking about it. Isn't that terrifying enough?
“Do you need help?”
Harry exhales. “What?”
“With the assignments.”
“Oh. Oh, no. I’ll get them done. I’m procrastinating.”
“Hm.”
“It’s all business stuff. Thank you for the offer, though.” Harry traps his bottom lip between his teeth. “I guess you could help me with something. I’d like to go to bed.”
There’s a pause. The gears in Peter’s head turn. The bit of teasing offers some normalcy. He can pretend the enormity of everything new isn't crushing him under its weight. He's still Harry. Peter is still Peter. Some tension eases off his painfully straightened back just a little. But then he remembers he’s teasing Peter for being in his bed and heat thaws out his cheeks again.
“What’s stopping you?”
With the most teasing voice he can muster, virtually unruffled by his nervousness, he says, “Pete?”
“Mhm?”
The little noise is awfully haggard, and Harry almost, almost, feels guilty for what he’s about to do. With that in mind, he swallows the implications his mind is alarmed with, the images his words are about to conjure, and braces himself.
“You’re in my bed.”
To his credit, Harry has long been acquainted with Peter’s extreme reflexes and reaction time. So when Peter shoots up like a spring and lands on the floor with, frankly, an annoying amount of grace, Harry doesn’t flinch. Now, face to face, he can see Peter in all his wide-eyed and rose-cheeked glory. It’s not easy, but Harry doesn’t break eye contact.
“I’m so sorry!” There he goes. “I came in, and I didn’t even look where I was going. It’s been—I’ve had a rough day. That’s on me, I’m so—”
“Pete. Hey.” Harry waves his attention from the apology archives he keeps in the compartments of that genius brain of his. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”
Peter unwinds, rises to his feet properly. Then he flushes harder. Following his gaze, it led to Harry’s pyjama bottoms. Is there something on them? Had he mottled them with toothpaste foam? Was there something wrong?
“What?” Harry asks cautiously, hoping he’s not as red as Peter.
Peter snaps out of it, blinks a million times. “Nothing! Sorry, just, nice jams.”
“Thanks?” Harry exhales a laugh, looking down at the miniature Spider-men patterning his bottoms. There was a time where all he wanted to was strangle the guy, but then he buried the teenage angst, fixed what he could with Norman, and realised he ought to be grateful New York is safer.
Something in the way Peter’s expression flashes with recognition. Something in the way he said it…
Struggling to find his voice is one thing. Actually thinking about what to say is another thing entirely. Peter breaks the silence instead.
“I’ll just go to bed. My bed. That is my bed, right?”
Harry nods, not trusting himself to talk.
While Peter changes in the bathroom, Harry pretends to scroll through his social media. Maybe the awkwardness is apparent? The shift in their dynamic is obvious, to Harry at least. He could chew through his fingernails right about now. Who is he kidding; none of this is normal for them—the blushes, the breathless chuckles, the glances—maybe that’s why Peter looked at him so strangely. Like he’s seeing familiarity in a pool of novelty.
Harry is tearing them with these stupid heart-leaps of his.
“Goodnight,” Peter announces a minute after tucking into bed. He’s nothing but a blob of blankets and a bit of hair poking out. Facing the wall, away from Harry. Right.
Too-obvious nervousness grips him as he repeats it back. Then, he hits his head on the wall for good measure.
Sleep eludes him. So a quarter before two, he grows tired of marinating in turmoil and fetches Darth Plagueis again.
He can worry about everything real tomorrow.
He discovers he’s reading Spider-man’s copy of Darth Plagueis at the most inconvenient of times.
After another sleepless night, he’s about as beaten as they get. Coffee doesn’t help. But walking in the awful weather wakes him up enough. Today’s classes are mostly Norman’s picks and they’re scheduled with tedious gaps of not-so-free free time; which means more coffee and an overpriced sandwich are in order. The one thing he looks forward to is a seminar of environmental and energy justice after this. Until then, Darth Plagueis it is.
He sits at the very back of the lecture hall, fortified by rows of equally fatigued students. The professor reads off slides, dull and flat, and it’s hard to believe anybody wants to listen, let alone explain charts and stats for an hour.
But then Palpatine decides to kill Plagueis.
Harry feels the urge to run. But he’s as still as a mannequin, eyes blown as the events unravel. The margins are empty. He can’t imagine his book-pal ever being silent, but if there were any moment in this book that could achieve such results, it’d be this.
It takes three pages to see something underlined, but still no comment.
‘A tragedy, really, for one so wise. One who could oversee the lives and deaths of all beings, except himself,’
A ripple of sympathy travels through Harry. There is no joke, none of the usual quips. For a moment he can imagine a blank silhouette underlining this, clutching the pencil too tight, frustration bleeding through the harsh and crooked lines. What could be so relatable in this passage?
Harry’s focus shifts from the story and onto the new mystery. Did the previous owner see themselves in that sentence? Or somebody they know? What familiarity is there to find in words spoken so cruelly to a dying man by the apprentice about to murder him.
Just who owned this book before Harry?
Underlined in less scratchy lines comes:
‘You may be wondering: when did he begin to change? The truth is that I haven’t changed.’
Still no comment.
And then, just as Harry’s mind becomes a corkboard with red yarn connecting bits and pieces together, the next page offers something.
‘I needed to learn from you; no more, no less. To learn all of your secrets, which I trusted you would eventually reveal. But what made you think that I would need you after that?’
A name is written beside a shaky underline:
Felicia.
Harry traces it with his finger, as if it would magically reveal more. How interesting. Blinded by musings of who, how, and why, he breezes through the last few paragraphs before turning to the last page. It should have just been the end of the final chapter, a closing image to give the readers something to linger on. Instead, Harry is a statue, frozen on the spot. Adrenaline pumps through him as though he’d stepped off a rollercoaster.
One blue sticky note, crumpled and begrimed by its own graphite, greets him by the chapter end. Formulas pepper it. All sorts of chemical symbols overlap. In the same handwriting he’d grown accustomed to, the one he couldn’t wait to see…
“Oh,” Harry gasps quietly, vaguely aware students surround him.
Underneath the formulas are two words. Two words that turn him upside down, flip a bucket of ice over his head. Two words that make him drop the book in his lap as if he’d been scorched.
For Web-Shooters.
It takes surprisingly little to meet Spider-man.
Then again, it’s New York. If there’s no major crisis, then there’s a robbery, a mugging, car chases, and if not all of the above, a villain will be wrecking something somewhere. It's a miracle Spider-man gets anything done. Harry would have gone insane in his stead.
Thankfully (or not? Depending on how you view it) Scorpion had targeted ESU, only days after the big book discovery. It's Harry’s lucky day. Like the professional he is, Spider-man made quick work of the villain. By tonight there won't be evidence anything had happened at all. So this is Harry's one chance. He isn’t going to miss it.
The hero is perched on the ledge of the roof talking, probably to a speaker under the mask. He flinches as Harry bursts open the rooftop exit.
Harry should have been elegant as he saunters over and introduces himself. That would be the Norman in him. The Emily in him makes him jog across with a starstruck smile.
“Hi.”
Spider-man lags a second or two, eyes blown wide.
“Hello?”
The way his body language shifts to full alert makes Harry’s confidence waver. The tension in his stance. The stiffness…
Probably the last thing he expected to deal with today was an Osborn.
Harry wishes he were a shellfish that can just... retract into its shell. Up close, the prospect of standing before the Spider-man is insane.
Wind howls like a warning. Not even the afternoon sun can warm him. On the other hand, it’s enough to bring out the vivacity of Spider-man’s red, and the burnt tangerine of Harry’s hair. In his haste he’d forgotten his jacket, so he waves, crazed and with chattering teeth, clutching his hoodie for dear life.
Somehow he speaks.
“Hi,” he repeats like an idiot, “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Spider-man intones. An even, controlled coolness. A practiced nonchalance that isn’t quite rude, but a precedent for the conversation to come.
“I, um,” Harry begins, tongue heavy, “Here.”
Spider-man stares. There is a considerable gap between them, largely due to Harry’s caution. Nevertheless, he can’t sense hostility (though there should be, considering whose son he is) but self-consciousness creeps up on him either way. With trembling, stiff fingers, he pulls out Darth Plagueis from his sling bag.
For the second time within the span of two minutes or so, Spider-man’s mask-eyes grow unbelievably wide.
“This is…” He webs it out of Harry’s hands, tentatively inspecting it. It reminds Harry of the first time he held it. Like it was fine china.
“Yeah, it’s yours. I don’t think anyone’s looked through it. Except me.”
Spider-man assesses him with a squint.
“Sorry,” Harry says, gently amused. For a masked guy he sure is expressive. “I didn’t know until the very last page. I just thought someone donated it without erasing their annotations. And then, bam.”
“My old formulas,” Spider-man sighs. “I was wondering where they were. Man, this would have been useful to have five years ago."
Spider-man shifts his attention from the book to Harry as if it only now clicks what’s happening. It’s kind of adorable. He has the physique of a god, fine muscles wrapped in spandex—and the thing Harry finds most attractive is the way he chuckles as he pages through the book.
“You read it?” he asks in pure disbelief.
Tabloids have done irreparable damage to Harry’s public persona. Is he really perceived with such vanity? Even by Spider-man? Does he not like the type who’d read for fun? Does Spider-man think he’s a boring rich boy? Why does it matter?
“Uh, yeah.” His smile falters.
“That’s—where did you find it?” Spider-man beckons him somewhat closer to the edge, shuffling while sitting down. Taken aback, Harry stays rooted. He’s getting a bit of a mixed signal here.
“The book fair. In the discount section. You made good work of it.”
Spider-man's eyes linger on him for a long while. It grows a bit uncomfortable. An unmoving, masked man appraises him. What a concept. Harry’s blood flows right up to his ears, burning, like Spider-man had reached over and lit them with a lighter. The weight of his stare makes Harry shift from one foot to the other. He readjust his sleeves. Why is he so nervous? He’d met some greats through his father’s networking—Captain America, Iron Man, the Fantastic Four, but none of them made him feel this way. No one turned his bones into vibrating sticks. Maybe that was too much credit; he is freezing after all.
But no one else made his heart drum over the city’s hubbub either.
“It’s good,” he says, steering the conversation back. If he had sympathy for criminals, he’d feel bad now that he knows what being pinned on the spot by the hero feels like. An overflow of embarrassment drenches him. What a fool he must look like. “I didn’t expect it to be. But I couldn’t put it down.”
Silence.
“I never thought I'd like it for myself,” Harry continues, ignoring Spider-man's gawking. He paces in a half-circle, lest he turn into a popsicle. “But something changed. And now I…”
Has the winter sunlight always looked so beautiful? Reflecting off familiar glass buildings, coating the snow grounds in pallid hues, littering it with stars. It's breathtaking, but Harry's breath is gone because all he can think about is Peter yammering about X-Wings and Dreadnoughts.
“I love Star Wars. I've always loved it.” Harry hesitates. “I guess I’ve never… admitted that to anyone.”
This is so humiliating. What the hell is he doing telling Spider-man he's in love with his best friend before he admits it to MJ? Not that it’s obvious what he just implied. But Harry knows. And it’s horrific. It’s a train crashing at an unbelievable speed. An electric current frying him. He wants to bury himself in his hands and scream.
Fine. He’s in love with Peter Parker.
Fine, he’s known it since high school.
And fine, Spider-man can be the first to know.
What the hell, why not?
Instead of deteriorating on the spot, he finally meets Spider-man’s eyes. Just why does he look curious? Why does he digest the confession as if Harry said he's holding a bomb? He couldn't possibly know...
“This is so stupid, I apologise. There are probably people that need saving and uh, villains to stop. Sorry for taking up your time, Spider-man.”
As if snapped back into reality, Spider-man stands and flails his arms, “No! No, it's no problem at all.”
An eternity passes. Harry glares at the railing, then back at Spider-man, and an unspoken bolt of…something passes between them. Somewhere, someone is probably watching this on a security camera, or from their window, or from a rooftop, and they’re wincing. Spider-man seems equally taken with him, which is odd, but then again Harry is a good looking guy so—maybe he can dangle Spider-man’s behaviour in front of Peter to test the waters.
“I’m curious,” Spider-man begins with a genial tilt of his head. “What made you pick this book in particular?”
Harry can hear the smile in his voice. “I bought it for a friend.”
“Must be a pretty cool friend.”
With too much affection in his tone, and a little more warmth in his face, he says: “Yeah. He is.”
He is. Harry's heart leaps. He shivers, warming up his sides and forearms with fast strokes. What is he doing? Why didn’t he keep the book, pass it onto Peter on Christmas Eve and call it a day? The urge to weep, of all things, overwhelms him. How had it taken this long to realise… and how could he go on living knowing he had to keep it all under wraps. What if he scares Peter off and—
Spider-man nods. Satisfied, he returns to a perch on the edge, gaze sweeping the streets around before turning to say his goodbyes. This has gone long enough, and the awkwardness hasn’t eased one bit. The hero is probably weary, no doubt begging everything above for this conversation to end. If the roles were reversed Harry would have left long ago.
Then, Spider-man clears his throat. He pulls out a phone and stares at it for a tad too long. A shudder that chatters Harry’s teeth breaks him out of his trance.
He inhales sharply, extending the phone towards Harry, “Here.”
Irresolutely, he takes it. Is he going crazy or did their fingers brush? With a fresh flush to his face, he concentrates on the screen.
A contact fill page.
Spider-man is asking for his number.
What.
Sorry, what?
He looks up so fast he sees stars. This can't be happening. Spider-man is fiddling with his shooters, a very clear, very obvious distraction. Is he flustered? Unbelievable. Harry made Spider-man flustered? Stunned dumb, Harry runs through all the possible reasons, insinuations, and excuses, only to settle on nothing logical. His head spins. Alright. They're doing this. They're really doing this.
Harry’s fingers have never shook more in his entire life. He messes up his number twice, acutely aware Spider-man is pretending not to notice. After double, triple, and quadruple checking, he returns it. This is normal, right? It’s normal for heroes to ask random civilian’s contact information.
“Thank you. For the book. And the talk. I'm sure there's much in Star Wars you'll find perfect for you.”
At that, Harry chokes a laugh, wiping at his eye.
“Yeah. Like that green baby.”
With a chuckle, Spider-man leaps.
“His name is Din Grogu.”
Harry watches him swing away, propelling himself one building at a time. What a dude. In another life they could have been friends. If he weren't the Mayor's son. If Spider-man weren't a masked hero. They could have sat down to discuss Darth Plagueis. Afterward, he would have Peter play the movies on their cheap projector. He could already imagine Spider-man's jokes bouncing off Peter's.
Oh.
Shit.
He just gave Spider-man Peter's Christmas present.
Shit.
“Pete?”
The dorm is empty. Of course it is. It’s a constant, unalterable fact that Harry should accept, just as one might accept the sun is bright and water is wet. He can’t recall the last time he and Peter talked face to face, let alone sit down for dinner. The most he gets is a sticky note or a short text at ungodly hours. Weeks go by in radio silence. This isn't normal.
Maybe it’s for the better.
It’s in Harry’s favour, really. He can erase his feelings so much easier with Peter out of sight. But never out of mind. Never.
Feelings can bleed out. The knife in his heart will pop out, and the wound will renew.
With a grunt, he drops the grocery bags on a chair and swipes to his messages.
Last minute Christmas shopping is so unnecessarily nerve-wrecking.
Harry drags MJ along, pulling her in all directions by the sleeve of her jacket.
“Why does Star Wars need so much merch, anyway?” he mumbles, surveying the mountain of LEGO Star Wars sets before him. What would Peter want most? A Millenium Falcon? A Death Star? The helmets?
MJ leans on his shoulder.
“He’ll love anything you get him. Even if it’s that ugly thing,” she says, pointing to a Porg. It’s so hideous it’s kind of cute.
Around them is a tumult of parents, either in work clothes or oversized jackets, all scanning the aisles with as much conviction as Harry. How furious and apologetic will Peter be if Harry went ahead and bought the entire aisle? A lot, probably. He’d freak out, return them, and apologise to the staff a dozen times. That’s who he is.
“Or, you could just ask him to watch the movies with you. It’ll make his entire year,” MJ offers. “Maybe you can ask Spider-man for the book back.”
“I can’t. But you’re right, though. We didn’t have our annual summer rewatch.”
A vibration comes from his jean pocket. Harry slips his hand over his phone, and waits. If it’s one or two messages, it’s Peter. If it’s a few notifications in a row, it’s Spider-man. He waits, engaging MJ in idle chatter about prices and collector value.
Peter has been… strange, recently. There is nothing Harry can point to definitively— something he said, or did, or implied, that can warrant this behaviour. It’s a preview; a crude reminder of what will happen if Harry were to voice all those stupid swarming thoughts of his. What an idiot he is. He already blew it before it could ever start.
Three notifications. It’s Spider-man. Or his Youtube reminders for a stream he’d forgotten about unfortunately overlapping with Peter’s message. Either way, the idea that his chats with Spidey are frequent enough that he can recognise them without looking electrifies him. It’s the border between doing something you know you shouldn’t (like getting involved with a superhero) and possibly indulging in an unreachable distraction.
Spider-man is Harry’s equivalent of drinking himself into a stupor, a temporary haze flaming his insides, simply so he can forget his Peter problems for a few hours. If there were a venn diagram, drunk Harry could hardly notice there were any differences between Spider-man and Peter at all.
Is it healthy? Hell no. When future generations open dictionaries to look up “coping”, there’ll be an explanation detailing this situation instead of giving an actual definition. Does he feel unimaginable shame every time he hits send? Yes. Every smiley face, morning text, and stupid question he can easily google is like trying to quit an addiction. You know it’s bad, you know you have to stop.
But will you?
No. Obviously, no.
Harry is fed the fantasy of dating Peter through a red-and-blue straw and if he chokes on it that’s on him.
Then again, Spider-man is awfully complacent in all this, isn't he?
“Harry?”
Deja-vu hits him. He bites the bullet, allows MJ to see the jitters staining him. Harry’s feelings for Peter might be transparent to his closest friends, but Spider-man is the dirty little secret he can only write in a diary. There is no way Peter doesn’t know about his crush. Clueless, perpetually confused, would-forget-his-head-at-home Peter. But how would he react if he knew about this? Harry would like him to be jealous, but, realistically, he would only worry about safety. And that’s why if it ever came down to it, this little french flirt with a mask will never be his first choice. As if it’s even fair to call it a ‘choice’ when there’s no competition.
“Harry?” MJ repeats, shaking his arm. “What is it?”
He takes a deep breath. “Don’t.”
MJ blinks. Their gazes lock. What a joke his life is, about to spill his guts in the LEGO section of a store. He hopes whoever mops them up doesn’t see Peter’s name written all over.
“I know what you said. So, don’t. I’m not going to do anything about it.”
He busies himself sorting through slanted boxes, sorting them the way they should be: ready and waiting for small hands to snatch them.
“I know the feeling.” A stab. Impaling his heart, through his ribs, and tearing through the muscles of his back. “I know you.” Another one. “I know him.” Stop.
“MJ, seriously.” He’s short of breath. Like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t. Allowing himself one look, he locks eyes with MJ, and she's scanning for telltales. It must be all over him. Carved into his skin. The bitter stench of unrequited love. Bless her, she’s trying to take pity on him; and he’s not even letting her.
She envelops his hand. Green and black gloved fingers intertwine. Like a hug, instantly the tension pent up inside recoils through him and into her. Over-run with emotion, he wants to tackle her. To pour out how sorry he is for doing this. For putting all three of them in this discommoding position.
“Hey,” she says with the gentleness of a zookeeper trying to tame a wild animal, “Breathe. Please. Hear me out.”
He opens his mouth, ready to ask what she’s talking about, when he realises the pinpricks in his chest are from the lack of air, and not a baneful warning. MJ guides his breathing to normal, and stares down any customer who attempts to enter the aisle.
“I’m okay,” he croaks. He'd sunk low, but not to the floor. That's good. A fiery liquid spills out of his eyes, but he wills it back. Blinks it away. He’s being a child right now; he should be a man about this and accept the loss when it’s handed to him so gently (What a Norman thing to say). The trap was sprung before MJ even said a word. Probably before Harry processed his own absurdity. And now she’s clutching his bloody leg, trying to free him of it, and he’s whining like the wounded animal he is.
At the same time, they speak.
“I think I might be into Spider-man?”
“I think Peter feels the same way.”
Again, in unison.
“What?”
Harry scrambles to his feet, dragging MJ up with him. Their words flutter above, out of reach and screaming like newborns. A blink or two later, they’ve processed each other's bombshells.
“Spider-man?” She says, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. It’s rare to see her so off-guard. He ought to be proud. But no. On the contrary, he feels just as disarmed and naked before her.
“What are you talking about? Has he said anything?” he says, adrenaline pumping.
The eyes of the world continue to intrude on this little moment. All too aware they should get going, maybe move this to the parking lot where his driver (Norman insisted) will be privy to their ludicrous conversation. They should have been merriful, hands laden with bags, assignments and presentations long forgotten.
Instead… Well, what are they doing?
“Spider-man’s been talking to you?” she insists, ignoring his questions, with a palm over his chest. It's anger that comes in waves out of her. Though not at him, thankfully.
“Just a little, here and there…Texting and whatnot.”
Quieter, as if to herself more than for him, she says: “Oh my God.”
“No, I know. It’s crazy. But I just felt this connection, I can’t even explain it, MJ. I’m deflecting, I know. I’m trying to put Pete out of my mind and Spider-man just happened to be there, I’m very much aware, thank you.”
“Harry,” she tries, but he shakes her off.
“There’s something about him.”
More incessantly, MJ scowls. “Harry.”
“We need to get going. Can we—can we talk about it later?”
MJ looks as though she’s asking whatever is above to lend her strength, before nodding wordlessly. The atmosphere is tense as they carry the Star Destroyer to the checkout. A footnote is stuck on his tongue as the car trunk closes with a satisfying flump. An explanation he should give. An excuse.
“You think I should tell him?” he repeats, quieter now that they're alone. There is no outside world, just MJ twiddling her thumbs and Harry sweating profusely.
“I think he deserves to know. If it’s rejection you worry about, then go ahead.”
Harry wants to laugh. What a wonderful journalist this woman will become—reading through his thoughts like a script. What he is doing… He imagines the roles reversed, MJ coming to proclaim her undying love for Peter while Harry still hasn’t mended the pieces of his heart after their not-breakup that was totally a breakup. He wants to bawl again. Holding the vulnerability back like a broken dam, he inhales.
“MJ,” and then words evade him.
“I’ll always love him. But it’ll never happen, Har. He and I, we’re just too different in that aspect. Don’t hold back on my account.”
“And what if the same happens? In this strange world where you're right and he somehow reciprocates my feelings,” Harry follows his driver’s figure as he circles the car and reaches for the door. “What then?”
“Well,” MJ says, shining with feeling. Exasperation. Maybe a bit of finality. “How would you know if you don’t try?”
His driver slots himself inside. They fall into silence, a tacit conversation between them in the streaked shadows of passing streetlights. MJ holds onto his hand again, but this time he intertwines their fingers.
If you were to tell high school MJ and Harry they’d be in love with the same man… Well, they’d probably guess it’s Peter immediately. Who wouldn't fall in love with him?
And who could blame them?
“Stop texting you-know-who,” she whispers after a moment.
“Yeah.”
He won’t.
They both know he won’t.
