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Harry's dream had finally come true. Spider-Man was dead, but that also meant that Peter Parker was dead, and he never wanted that.
Throughout Harry's life, he was always told what he wanted, and what he had to do. He had to avenge his father. He had to kill Peter Parker, because all he wanted was to make him suffer for what he did.
Being alone, though, spared from hearing the constant voice of his father, leaves him to question things, and leaves him to his own autonomy. Those voices—those thoughts stemming from anything but his own mind—wouldn't ever truly leave him, but sometimes they'd quiet, and he'd be forced to face what he'd done because of them. After Peter was killed, Harry was left to experience exactly that.
Peter's body lay at his feet, still warm and covered in blood. Before he died—before Harry killed him—Harry saw the look of acceptance on his face. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it. Peter had everything Harry wanted: A loving family, a loving girlfriend who he was capable of pleasing, and while the fame wasn't for him, he still envied the amount of support and love Peter would get for merely existing. Harry would never understand when they were children, maybe sixteen years old, and Peter would marvel at his wealth or almost drop to the floor seeing the penthouse Harry lived in. He always thought, "How could someone so loved want a life so lonely like this?"
He was unsure if it was truly acceptance that he saw in Peter's eyes. He was ignorant to the burdens of being a vigilante, a hero to the people, and he was unaware of Peter's struggles, the issues he himself was dealing with. He considered the possibility that Peter was perhaps not expecting to be killed. He noticed that Peter avoided retaliating; He simply blocked or dodged any attack he could. The thought disgusted him in a way. Peter still cared, and Peter had some smug predetermination that he was too powerful, even against the Goblin Serum, and would simply kill his best friend if he so much as gave the smallest bit of effort. Harry refused to acknowledge that Peter would have been right.
Harry knelt down and gently turned Peter's body to see his face. He looked calm, his features rested with a lack of life that made Harry violently ill. Of course Peter would be lifeless after he murdered him. He knew he would see this sooner or later. He knew this was a fact of death. But to really see it, to see his best friend—someone he used to skip class with or spend late nights ranting about his father to—covered in his own blood and knowing he'd never move or speak or think again, it haunted him. It wasn't the first time he'd seen someone dead, and it certainly wasn't the first time he felt so viscerally conflicted about it. It took him back to the night he found his father. He had almost the opposite confused feeling. He knew he shouldn't have wanted his father to die; that was deplorable. But there was a definite feeling there that was unable to be ignored. Norman always felt untouchable and far away. Harry was aware that how he acted wasn't normal, but he was also aware of his privilege to have a father at all, to be wealthy and for his father to share said wealth with him. This was the root of the conflict. His situation couldn't have been that bad. People out there have gone through worse, how did he have the right to feel a sense of relief?
Harry then wondered if Peter felt the same conflicting feelings when killing Norman. Perhaps Peter killed Norman for him. Maybe with Harry's constant distress, and his behavior when it came to how Norman treated him, Peter thought it was worse than it actually was, and defended Harry. Of course, Harry's thoughts were like this, because deep down, he knew Norman deserved this. He knew Norman was not a good father, but he refused to accept it. Peter didn't care enough about Harry to do this for him anyway. He knew he was never enough. Not for his father, and not for Peter. He didn't deserve to be treated right, and he didn't deserve vengeance nor defense.
He knew he didn't have any right to do so, but he gently pulled Peter's body closer to himself. He buried his head at the base of Peter's neck. It came out like vomit; He tried to hold back his tears, but they fell uncontrollably. He shouldn't be allowed to feel this way. He did what he was supposed to, he completed his task, and that was that. But something told him that there was a misconception. Maybe all those times Peter begged to see him or to speak with him, he was going to tell him the truth, and that maybe things would go back to normal. But his father never left him alone, and the relentless expectations of his worthless son were not buried with his body.
He pulled Peter impossibly closer, the other man's back flush against his own chest as he sobbed. He moved a hand up to gracefully run his fingers through Peter's hair; what a disgusting juxtaposition.
Peter's blood began to stain Harry's fingers as they combed through his hair or rested against the wounds on his abdomen. He stayed in his position for God knows how long; and he himself felt as though he was bleeding out from the unending silence provided by the lack of voices and guidance in his head.