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Another bottle down, another drunk phone call, another voicemail ignored.
Ever since Harry's father died—or was killed, in his mind—he'd developed a problem, a parasite, something that held him by his throat and forced him vulnerable when he didn't want to be.
Ever since Harry's father died, Peter had been distancing himself. Harry was sure it was because he was getting closer to whatever evil lingered behind Spider-Man's mask. It was common knowledge that Peter would take photos of him for the Daily Bugle, much to Harry's vocal distaste. Or maybe, he thought, it was Harry himself whom Peter strayed away from. Maybe it was his disgusting addictions or mental decay caused by grief that caused Peter to distance himself.
Ever since Harry's father died, he'd been calling Peter Parker, missing him, because even if he was close enough to Spider-Man to essentially be his accomplice in Harry's mind, he still longed for what they had.
He took another sip, and suddenly he was in Peter’s room again, after his father's funeral, unbuttoning his shirt and tasting his lips and promising this'd never happen again as they embraced each other for the last time.
The only thing against his lips nowadays was the cold rim of the glass containing a surplus amount of whatever alcohol he could find remaining in his father's cabinet. But that was okay, because he could call Peter. And a sick bastard he was, because he would let it ring, giving Harry false hope, and letting him hear his voice, not authentically, but from his answering machine.
"Hey, it's Peter Parker. Call back later or leave a message."
And that was almost more addictive than the liquid that burnt his throat.
He'd get drunk to the point of sickness, rambling on and on about how much he missed him and begging him to return his calls. He'd then leave the phone dangling and crawl to the bathroom and hurl and sob. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the yearning that made him more sick.
Sometimes he could swear he'd feel Peter's hand grazing against his back to soothe him, or hear his gentle reassurances whispered in his ear, letting the hair stand up on his neck.
When Peter's birthday came around, he was there, but he was resentful. He was sober, and when he was sober, he was rational, not clinging to a hopeless desire. He would watch in silence as Mary Jane lingered closely, and Peter would gaze into her eyes as if they had shown him an endless night sky.
When Mary Jane left, and Aunt May was upstairs, and it was just him and Peter, he didn't look at him anymore. He got up, getting ready to leave, but something—perhaps it was the same parasite that brought Harry to the bottle—beckoned him to ask.
But he couldn't. He just stared at Peter, the gentle glow of the light behind him casting harsh shadows onto his face, yet he was still something above Harry, something Harry could never reach, something Harry used to have and was ripped away from.
He gave him a small nod, and could see within Peter's expression that he’d heard the phone calls, that he knows about them, but his tongue is stuck and his throat has grown tight. All he can muster is a short, 'Happy Birthday, Peter.’
Peter nods back, his expression softening just the slightest bit. And then Harry leaves.
Death was calling his name that night. He'd thought about it extensively. He scrambled to the cabinet, grabbing the first thing he laid his eyes upon. He didn't care what it was; he just wanted to get fucked up. The liquid burnt his throat and soothed his mind. His eyes watered, and he lay there, head pounding as he cried out in the empty room. It didn't take long for him to pick up the phone and dial the number he knew by heart.
He waited for Peter's voice, and it never came.
"Pete, I love you so much. I miss you, I wish you'd listen—I don't even know if you are or not. I just wanted to let you know—" He began to pant as he reached for his dagger, the best thing he could think of at the moment.
"That I don't think I can do it anymore."
And that was that. He shakily hung up the phone and prepared to die. He sat there for what felt like seconds, minutes, hours…
Before he knew it, he was in someone's embrace, being held protectively. He was being chided, but the voice was full of affection and love. Fingers ran through his hair. Gentle kisses pressed against the top of his head. Legs surrounding his body. The comforting plush of the mattress beneath him. This was better than any alcohol, he thought.
He woke up the next morning, cold and alone, with a bitter pain in his heart. He didn't know if it was a trick of the mind or if someone was really there. He longed for that man; he longed for the comfort, though, deep down, he knew he'd never find it again anywhere else but at the bottom of the bottle.