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Peter and Mary Jane were terrified as they stared down at Harry as he lay on the floor, weak and teetering the line of consciousness. Harry begged for them to stay, not to worry about what would happen to him, but Peter—uncaring about how selfish he was being—did not let that happen. He's saved Harry from more dire situations. Harry's survived worse. Harry had survived him.
The days spent at the hospital were blurred together. Mary Jane would come whenever she could, and Peter stayed the entire duration of visiting hours. Mary Jane sparked conversation with Harry, albeit slightly awkward since their last interaction. Peter stayed put in the corner of the room, and even when he was alone with Harry, there was an understanding silence between them.
It only took a short amount of time to recover before the doctors deemed Harry fit to be discharged. Mary Jane couldn't make it—she'd promised she would visit Harry as soon as she could—leaving Peter to take him home. He didn't have to, they were going to have to take a cab either way, but Peter felt the moral obligation to at least accompany him.
Peter didn't say a word as they got into the cab. Didn't even look at Harry—he couldn't. He hadn't, not since he's been in the hospital.
Mary Jane brought it up to him the day prior. It had been a few days into treatment. Harry was thirsty, so of course, MJ had considered it the perfect opportunity to talk to Peter privately.
They hadn't had a real conversation since the night at the jazz club. Peter wanted to apologize, to make it up to her, but he didn't know how to explain that it wasn't entirely him, that he'd sometimes feel as though he was watching himself from outside of his own body, terrified that he couldn't control his own actions, while knowing he was able to. Peter wasn't good at explaining. He'd always wish he could go back in time and properly explain what happened with Norman to Harry when he had unmasked him. He wished he could explain why his way of comforting MJ sounded so selfish and out of place. But he couldn't, and explaining, in his mind, caused more harm than good.
"What are you doing, Peter?" She asked as she stared at the options within the vending machine.
Peter cleared his throat. He hadn't talked much as of late. "What?"
"You won't talk to him. You won't talk to me. Do you even feel bad?"
Of course he felt bad. MJ didn't know that the guilt was eating Peter alive. She didn't know that he'd have recurring nightmares about what he did, about how he treated both her and Harry. She didn't know he spent many nights coming home after the hospital, hoping that maybe someone would finally defeat Spider-Man during a patrol, or maybe someone would break into his apartment and shoot him dead.
But instead, Peter settled with a protest, ensuring that he does care.
"I just don't think he likes me very much, MJ. Not to say that it isn't justified."
She furrowed her brows.
Right.
Peter had forgotten—MJ hadn't known much of anything that happened between Peter and Harry. She didn't know about the misunderstanding that Peter killed Harry's father, nor did she know why he had the scars on his face.
"It's just—It's a lot. I really don't want to talk about it."
"You're ridiculous," she scoffed, finally selecting the drink that Harry wanted.
Now, Peter sat in the back of the cab with Harry, who was staring at the window as the city passed them by. Peter had only glanced and turned away to look out of his own window.
They'd made it to Harry's penthouse. Peter helped Harry out of the cab quietly. He walked him to the elevator and took him to up. He dreaded this part, because he was forced to talk. He had to say goodbye, it'd be rude not to, considering it was just the two of them and he couldn't use the excuse of Harry sleeping or pretending to be asleep in the hospital bed.
Before he could open his mouth, though, Harry interjected. Harry hadn't said anything to Peter the entire time, either, so Peter was quite surprised he was being addressed.
"Pete, stay," he pleaded.
Peter still avoided eye contact, but he reluctantly nodded.
He didn't want to stay, but he would do anything to make it up to him.
Peter sat on the opposite end of the couch as Harry put on a sitcom. The conversations between the characters were lost in Peter's mind as he was deep in thought. The only thing that cut through these thoughts were the laugh tracks, which only made Peter feel as though he were being made fun of in his mind.
After a while of unintelligible conversations from the show and small fits of laughter from Harry, the T.V. clicked off and things were disturbingly silent.
"Pete," Harry started.
Peter hummed in acknowledgement, staring down at the floor.
"Pete, look at me. Please?"
Peter finally did. He was met with Harry's face, covered in scars that served as a reminder to Peter of how horrible of a person he had been the past few weeks. No—the past few years. The sweat on his palms and the back of his neck suddenly became apparent. There was a pit in his stomach, and he felt as though he was going to vomit.
Harry could sense something was wrong, and he frowned.
"It sucks pretty bad I have to live the rest of my life with these, huh?" Harry blurted, trying to ease into conversation, however, he didn't think about how that could make things worse.
Peter covered his mouth, swallowing thickly as he trembled. "I'm sorry, Harry."
Harry shifted his gaze downward as well.
"Look, I know you feel guilty. But why do you continue to avoid me? It's been this way since my father died. You won't return my calls, you won't spend time with me…" He trailed off.
"I know it's been different since I found out you were Spider-Man, but now, things are different. Pete, I— I sacrificed my life for you, is that not enough?"
Peter's grip on his knees tightened
"I told you to let me die, Pete. How do you think I feel, being saved after suffering for such a long time, only for my best friend to ignore me entirely and my ex-girlfriend to visit only out of pity? I have nothing left."
"I'm sorry, Harry. Please," he only felt guiltier by the minute. "I just don't know where to start."
"Well," Harry sighed. "You apologized. You showed up to the hospital every damn day. That's a good enough start for me. The next thing you could do is stop sitting far away from me like I've got the plague."
Peter nodded. He moved closer, not to the point of physical contact, but close enough.
"I wanted to apologize, too, Pete."
"Don't. I could've— I could've made things simpler."
"Either way, I saw what I saw, and my brain wasn't allowing for other possibilities, so I wouldn't have listened either way," he admitted. "I'm sorry for that."
Peter fidgeted with his hands. "Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah," Harry replied cautiously.
"What happened that night with Uncle Ben," Peter hesitated. "That's not really true. What most people say happened, didn't really happen."
Harry's eyebrows raised, not that Peter was looking at him, anyway.
"I told him I was going to the library. He insisted on giving me a ride, and I refused, but he did. We got into a stupid argument," he cleared his throat.
"After he left, I went to this event to get some money," he laughed. It was a watery laugh, the kind of laugh when trying to lighten the mood during an awkward conversation. "Money to impress MJ with a car. I won the event, but it wasn't exactly as advertised, and I got pretty angry with the guy when he handed me less money than what I thought I was going to get."
"What kind of event was it?" Peter could hear the smile in Harry's voice.
"Ah, I just got my… powers, and there was a wrestling event for a few thousand dollars. I won against the guy who put people in hospitals, but because they said three minutes on the flier and I beat him in two, they gave me only a hundred bucks."
Harry scoffed. "Now that's dumb."
"Yeah, but…" Peter trailed off before recollecting his thoughts. "Someone came in to rob the guy, I guess. I could've stopped him, but instead, I let him leave with the money. When I got outside, I saw that Uncle Ben had been shot, I knew that it was because of that robber. I cornered him, he put a gun to my head, and I killed him."
Things were silent for a moment. Peter looked up at Harry before speaking once more.
"Just recently, I found out that the man who I killed wasn't the one who killed my father. In reality, it was his accomplice. I killed that guy for no reason."
"Wow," Harry squeezed Peter's shoulder. "That's… a lot."
"I'm only telling you this because I'm trying to show you that I was in the same boat. I've been in the same place as you, only, I went through with the revenge, and I can't take it back. I've never told anyone the full story. Not even Aunt May. She knows something closer to the truth, and that it's my fault, but not all of the details."
"Thank you for telling me this, Pete," Harry sighed. "I'm glad I didn't go through with it. I would've felt really shitty."
Peter looked up at Harry again, and he saw the scars on his face. They haunted him. He could only think back to that night, and how he was so quick and content to end Harry's life. How he almost succeeded. All over a girl who rightfully did not love him, and who he had hurt very shortly after. He winced and Harry pretended not to notice.
He swallowed. "How'd you end up knowing I didn't kill your father?"
"Bernard told me. He told me something that confirmed everything you were telling me was true," Harry recalled.
Peter nodded.
They fell into silence again, albeit more comfortable this time. Peter felt a weight lift off of his shoulders after he told Harry what had actually happened that night. That night, when it happened, he did want to tell Harry, Harry was who he went to the most when he felt vulnerable or unsafe. He used to be, anyway. And Harry felt the same about him.
Peter moved closer, their legs now touching. He hesitantly lay his head on Harry's shoulder and sighed contently; he hadn't felt anything like this in a long time. In response, Harry moved to wrap his arm around Peter's shoulder.
Being this close to Harry—physically feeling his body against his own—brought Peter into a state of pure bliss. This was something he hadn't realized he yearned for so strongly since the end of their friendship. He let out a soft hum.
Peter hadn't realized it, but at some point he fell asleep on Harry's shoulder. When he slept, he would dream, and as of late, his dreams hadn't been treating him well.
The most recurring one disturbed him endlessly. His brain would use an amalgamation of the graphic things he'd seen when throughout his life—thanks to being Spider-Man—and haunt him with terrifyingly realistic falsified memories. This particular dream was one of them. In it, he would go back to Harry after removing the Symbiote, hoping to talk to him, only to find his body. His body would be covered completely in burns and there would be gashes and cuts from the impact and flying glass. Peter would freeze; staring and unable to look away. That was all it was, or it was all his brain allowed him to remember.
His head shot up from Harry's shoulder and began to panic. The reaction to the dream had certainly died down since the last few times he's had it, but he was still terrified nonetheless. Harry was unsure what to do, so he waited until Peter's breathing slowed to place his hand on his back, hoping to comfort.
Peter trembled as he finally took in his surroundings, remembering where he was. He looked over at Harry, seeing his scarred face—a reminder that half of that dream was real, that he had almost killed Harry.
In Peter's mind, if things didn't go the way they did, if the bomb had landed just one inch or maybe even a centimeter closer, his dream would have been a reality.
That fact pained him more than anything.
But Harry was here, and while things were going to take a while, he was content that things were as normal as they possibly could be after what he's done.