Fic: Tread Softly (Part 1)

Dec 17, 2014 00:41


I don’t know. I don’t know where I’m going.

Or how he ends up here. After being lost for so long, Peter Parker had finally found his path: First, figure out how to save Harry without killing him sooner or doing something worse, then join Gwen in England. With his blood, they could figure out how to make the spider venom work on Harry too. Richard Parker said he didn't manage to kill all the spiders, right?

Now Gwen is dead, Harry has taken matters into his own hands, and Peter is standing at the front gate of Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, pacing. “What are you doing?”

Here he is again, looking at what he has, seeing what he lost.

“What are you doing?”

He turns around; he turns back. He can’t do this; he can’t let go.

“Sir, can I help you?”

He looks up. It’s one of the guards.

“Sir?”

“No. No, just… Just passing by. Nothing. Thank you.”

Just like the last time with Harry, he runs.

“I’m here to see Harry Osborn…? Is he allowed visitors? I’m Peter Parker.”

He goes to Gwen’s grave; he comes back here. He can’t keep doing this.

Security squints at him from the guardhouse, suspicious. “Are you with the press?”

“No! I mean, yes, I’m a photographer, but look, I didn’t even bring my camera. I-I’m not here for an article or anything like that. He’s just…” He runs a hand through his hair, then puts it back in his pocket. “We were friends.”

“You were friends with Harry Osborn?” He’s used to the condescension and disbelief. No one believed that eight years ago either.

“Look, just…” He fidgets. It’s like a repeat of the day he heard Harry came back to New York, only much, much worse. “Just tell him I’m here, okay? And if he doesn’t want to see me, I’ll go.”

For a moment, the guard looks like he’s going to say no, but then he reluctantly stands. “Just wait here.”

~*~

Two boys skip stones on a lake in a New York City park. The first stone skips once before sinking, and blond who threw it shakes his head before picking up another stone as the other, a slight brunet in a hoodie and shorts, takes careful aim. The second doesn’t skip at all, and the boy groans. The blond tries again.

“I’m going away,” he sighs after the third stone, even though it skips twice. He dusts his hands off on his expensive gray two-piece.

“Another trip?” His companion turns. “When? Where? For how long?”

“Boarding school,” he corrects listlessly. “I don’t know, Pete. Six years, at least. Maybe more?”

“Oh.” Peter’s face falls, ever expressive. “What’s wrong with the schools here?”

“Nothing,” comes the reply, the older boy’s voice bleeding bitterness. “My father just wants to get me out of his hair.” He tosses the stone so hard, it makes a big splash in the water, doesn’t even skip once. "Throw me away, so I can stop being such a disappointment in his face."

Peter turns to avoid getting water in his eyes.

"You should be his son instead. He likes you better."

"C'mon, Har." He takes Harry's hands. "You know that isn't true. I wish I could be anything like you. You’re good with people. And cool, handsome, witty..."

"Are you hitting on me, Parker?" A bit of a laugh, a twinkle to blue eyes, a mischievous grin.

"What's that?"

He wraps an arm around the younger boy's shoulders. "Never mind. Let's go get ice cream."

"Okay!" Peter agrees brightly, leaning into him.

They get rum 'n' raisin and birthday cake ice cream and slide down the bannister back towards the lake. Peter offers him a spoon of ice cream as they walk, and he decides birthday cake is not a bad flavor. Peter doesn’t like rum ‘n’ raisin though. The other gestures wildly with his hands, tells him about the latest Stark invention, laughs at a joke he made, carefree and happy, and he doesn’t manage not to resent it.

“Harry?”

He looks up. In the glow of the sun that’s starting to set, his friend looks like he’s shining, a symbol of everything unattainable in his life.

“It’s far away, isn’t it?” Peter asks in a small voice.

“Europe,” he confirms, looking down.

The brunet steps closer, dismal. “Can’t you not go?”

He scoffs. “I wish my life were like yours - normal. Free.”

Thin arms lift to rest on his shoulders as Peter leans in, and for a wild moment, Harry thinks the younger boy is going to kiss him, but the other only presses their cheeks together in a tight hug.

“You’ll write, won’t you? I’ll miss you, Har. Promise you won’t forget me.”

“Of course.” He returns the embrace, at once relieved and disappointed. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Peter started crying. “How could I forget my best friend?”

~*~

“Mister Osborn, you have a visitor,” the guard announces at his cell door.

Harry Osborn turns for a better look in the mirror. A visitor? It must not be Gustav Fiers. “Who is it?”

“One Peter Parker.”

“Peter…” Rage, betrayal, excitement, grief - he wonders which one he expresses, which one makes his skin crawl green with madness, and the face in the mirror cackles.

"Will you see him?"

He wonders why Peter is here, if this is about his dead girlfriend, if they're going to fight, if he should dignify a social visit from another false friend. It's complicated, whispers the sharp stab of pain, and Harry doesn't do complicated, but with Peter Parker, he never could resist.

"I will. Bring him in."

"Peter," Harry greets as he's led into the visiting room in an orange straightjacket, drawing out the name in a vicious smile. "It's so good to see you."

Peter looks up as the guards lock the door behind the other.

He stands; he sits. He reaches out, aborts the motion. He can't bear to see his best friend like this, that sick shade of green creeping into his beautiful blue eyes, can’t bear to realize he can’t even be angry about Gwen. He should have tried harder to help Harry sooner. Or at least explained himself better.

"Don't do this, Har," he pleads in a whisper. He doesn’t know how to do this. The staff tell him that Harry is unstable, that he should tread softly, be careful what he says, but he doesn’t know what to look out for anymore.

“Tell me, Peter,” Harry says in his slow and deliberate way, circling the table to sit across from him. “Why should I do anything for you, when you wouldn’t even do one thing for me?”

“I was trying to protect you!” he insists desperately; why can’t Harry understand?

Harry lunges out of the chair at him, face stopping a bare inch from his own. “At least pay me the respect of not lying to me,” the other hisses through razor-sharp teeth.

No, no, he's doing it wrong.

Carefully, he leans forward, presses his forehead to Harry’s. “Why would you think I wouldn’t want to help you if only I could?” He cups the other’s greenish cheeks. “How did you get so twisted?”

“Because you could have, Peter,” Harry replies bitterly. “And you chose to protect yourself.”

“It would have killed you. Faster and more painfully. No, listen. Listen, please.” His vision blurs. “I couldn’t do that to you, Har. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t.”

Harry sits back down, looking away with a scoff. “Max was right, you know. You’re so selfish.” He rises, heading to the door and indicating to the guards to take him back. “Go away, Peter. Don’t come again.”

~*~

"Harry? Harry," Peter whines outside the bathroom door. It’s early in the morning, Aunt May is nagging at them to get to their breakfast, and Harry has been in the bathroom for close to half an hour. "Are you done yet? What are you doing in there?"

There’s clattering, shuffling, the sound of the blow dryer turning on and then off, Harry making a sound of frustration like a disaster has occurred inside before the door opens to reveal the sopping wet ten-year-old, blond hair sticking up in weird places and partly obscuring his sullen face.

“I’m trying to… I’m trying to dry my hair. It’s um…”

And Peter can’t help it - it’s probably harder than it looks. Heck, he’s not even sure what his friend is trying to do, but it’s hilarious. “Why can’t you use a towel like the rest of us?” he asks between guffaws.

Harry levels him a piercing blue glare. “It won’t look right if I do, and I swear I am never sleeping over again if you don’t stop laughing at me right this instant.”

Now, he’s pretty sure this is Harry’s first time sleeping over anywhere ever, and he’s secretly pleased to be the first - it makes him feel special. So he schools his face into some semblance of seriousness and raises his hands in supplication. “Okay, okay. What’s this special drying thing you’re trying to do?”

"Well, at home, they comb and put the dryer on it at the same time. Like..." He awkwardly tries to demonstrate.

“Oh! We should get Aunt May to help. I’ve seen her do it sometimes, for dinners and stuff.”

“No.” The look of pure and undisguised horror on Harry’s face cracks him up again, and the blond frowns and stomps past him.

“No, wait, wait.” He stops Harry with a placating arm around pale shoulders. "Don't be mad, Har, c'mon." He likes Harry. "Sit down and let me try."

The other turns to him reluctantly. "You'll ruin it."

"No more than you have." Harry looks ready to throw another fit, so he quickly adds, "You can't look bad anyway. You don't know how."

The blond smirks, that smile that makes him so popular, and sits down, combs his hair into the usual style. "It needs to stay like this. You remember."

Peter gets the comb under a lock of gold hair and holds the dryer over it like he saw Aunt May do. "Yeah, hard not to." He's been looking at it almost everyday for two years now.

"I can't decide if you're flirting with me or making fun of me, Parker."

"What's flirting?" he asks absently, flipping on the dryer and pulling the comb down the lock of hair with it before moving to the next lock.

"That's for you to find out." Harry examines Peter's work in the mirror. "And I suppose that's passable.”

“Just passable? Oh, c’mon! Aunt May says I’ll get a girlfriend someday. I hope she isn’t like you.”

Harry shrugs. “Then don’t get a girlfriend.”

Peter pauses, considering. “That makes sense.” He nods slowly. “Then she can’t be like you.”

He continues fixing Harry’s hair.

~*~

“I thought I told you not to come again.”

“I thought you would refuse to see me.”

As if he could. “As if I would run from you, Peter.” Harry sits down in the other chair. "So. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, Peter seems to take him in before smiling slightly. "You look good, Har."

There he goes again, with his brown doe eyes and false affections. The urge to hit him, hurt him, hold him down crawls under Harry's skin, but he only says blithely, "It comes and goes."

The boy has the gall to blink back tears. "I'm sorry, Har. I never wanted you to end up like this."

“This? This?" He stands abruptly, feels the change. "Are you calling me a monster?"

"No!" The look of pained horror on Peter's face burns him with sadistic glee.

He leaps over the table to bodily slam Peter to the ground. "After what you made me do?"

It pisses him off that Peter doesn't defend himself, just lets himself fall, his hands coming up, not to push Harry away, but to hold on to his shoulders - still pretending he cares when all that matters is protecting his itsy-bitsy secret.

Fuck you, Peter. "I could just rip your throat out with my teeth now. Isn't that nice?"

He could out Peter as Spider-Man here, force him to reveal the truth before the cameras he knows are recording their every move, but no, no, no. That would be too easy, too unsatisfying when Peter’s already quit, when he has so little spirit left to break. Peter is his. His to crush, his to ruin, his to tear apart when everyone else puts the fraud back together. And they will. They need to. But in the meantime, even these little hurts are like a salve unto his own wounds.

The guards come to pull him away, but he's not done, no. Oh, he's not done by a long shot.

"You're the monster here, Peter!" He struggles against their hold. "You destroy everyone you touch! Max, me, Gwen, her father, your uncle Ben! Isn't that right? It's all your fault!"

"No!" Peter cries, leaping towards him.

A moment later, a needle pierces his neck. Oh.

"Why did you do that?!" Peter wails as if from very far away. "You didn't have to- He wasn't going to do anything!!"

Oh, you have no idea, my friend; you have no idea. One day, I'll make you feel the pain I felt, Peter. You'll see, you'll see, you'll see... and Peter's dismay fades into the darkness.

~*~

”Peter, let’s go to the mall.” They’re in the library, studying.

The younger boy looks up. “Aren’t we going this weekend? We have tests tomorrow.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Harry whines, standing. “I don’t care about that, and you’ll ace it anyway. I wanna go now.”

Peter looks at his textbook and notes, then at Harry’s imploring face and caves. There’s little reasoning with his friend when he’s made up his mind enough to insist. He shuts the book. Harry’s right, at least - he’ll ace it regardless.

“What am I going to tell Aunt May? We can’t exactly hide it, but she’ll kill me if I tell her we went shopping when we were supposed to be studying.”

Harry grabs his hand and pulls him along. “When we get back, I’ll tell her I dragged you along.”

Which is the full truth, but still, “Harry…”

“Fine. Fiiine. We’ll say we left later like we actually studied, and we’ll reach your house a little later too, and then you just let me do the talking.”

Harry’s butler, Bernard, picks them up in the Osborns’ luxurious Aston Martin. They stop at Trump Tower for ice cream and crepes, and Peter’s never been here, but it reminds him a bit of Harry’s mansion. With its marble walls, mirrors and the bridge over the waterfall pool, it looks like something from another world. Everyone seems to know Harry and Bernard though, from the girl at the ice cream parlor to the attendants at Gucci. Harry tries on half the boy’s selection before picking out a belt and scarf and making Peter try on several jackets. Peter has never seen numbers that large on a price tag before, though, granted, he doesn't go shopping much. Despite his protests, Harry insists on buying him a blue woolen coat.

"It looks good on you, Pete."

That's true, and it feels positively luxurious, but "Har, I can't take this."

"Sure you can. I’m insisting." Bernard is already at the counter, paying for the items.

"Harry, I-"

"Peter, you are going to take it, and you are going to wear it, or you are not my friend," Harry interrupts with an air of finality that brooks no argument, and really, what can Peter say to that?

So he sighs, thanks Harry and lets them bag it. Bernard looks mildly affronted when he suggests carrying the coat himself, so he reluctantly hands the shopping bag over.

“Now, let’s go get some hot chocolate.”

“But we just ate!” Peter protests, following Harry out.

“Yeah, so? It’s just drinks. Besides, it’s on the way to the next store I really want to see.”

They head a fair way down the road and get hot chocolate that comes in little pots on tea light warmers with thin biscuits and fresh strawberries dipped in more chocolate. It is the richest and most delicious hot chocolate he has ever had - he only wishes they had marshmallows. As soon as he mentions marshmallows, Harry turns to Bernard.

“Can we get marshmallows anywhere nearby?”

“No, no, Har, don’t worry about it. We can get marshmallows next time,” Peter interjects quickly.

Bernard bows slightly. "I believe there are several candy stores in the vicinity that stock them, sir, yes."

Harry gestures expansively, at once "Wonderful!" and "See?", before saying, "Well, get us a bag then."

"No, no, Harry, please. Harry, it's not a big deal. We'll be done before it even arrives."

Before Harry can answer, one of the waitresses speaks up. "Um, Mister Osborn? We're just about to make another batch of our chocolate dipped marshmallows. If you’d like, we can cut some up for you."

Jubilant, Harry smiles - his most winning. “There you go! Yes, please do. What’s your name again?”

The strawberry blonde ducks her head a little, possibly to hide her freckles. “It’s Jess, sir.”

“Bernard, do remember to leave Jess here an extra tip for the fantastic service.”

“I will, sir.”

When the marshmallows arrive, Peter thanks Jess profusely. Harry seems delighted to watch Peter add the marshmallows to his cup, and he’s sure Harry is nothing if not generous when pleased, so he supposes it all works out, but he can’t help feeling like he’s troubled her unnecessarily. When they finish, they walk another block or so, then turn a corner where Harry insists on getting ice cream floats to drink as they walk, and then they’re in a camera store. Harry, as usual, is going to work his way down from the top of the range, so he asks to have a look at the latest professional model from Canon. Lifting it briefly, he decides it’s far too heavy and requests “something lighter but equally good.”

The store manager, a portly bespectacled man, informs him that lighter and equally good don’t come hand-in-hand (“more features, more parts, more weight, unfortunately”), but he does have one that is much lighter and as close as it gets given the size and weight. He takes it out of the box and sets it up to show Harry. It’s the Nikon Peter has been saving up for, but even on sale as it is now, he won’t be able to afford it till next year. Lately, he’s been thinking of getting a Sony instead - top of their range is about the price of a mid-range Canon or Nikon. Besides, he’s only just starting out - he can get the best tool once he’s mastered the art.

"Hmm..." Harry turns to him suddenly. "What do you think, Peter?"

"Ah? Um, that's a very good camera."

"You know how to use it?"

"Err... Somewhat?"

"Good, good. Can we test it?" The manager inclines his head in agreement, and Harry presses the camera into Peter’s hands. “Here, Peter, take some pictures of me.”

Peter turns it on, adjusts a few settings and takes aim. Harry poses, and he shifts to get a better angle before snapping the photo. He takes a few more shots -close up, full body, profile, bust and so on- in several poses before showing them to Harry on the screen.

The older boy nods approvingly. “Do you like it?”

Peter blinks. “Yes, of course, but do you?”

“Well, the photos look good, so I’ll take your word on the rest.” Harry turns to the manager. “We’ll take it.”

Bernard follows the guy to the counter to ring them up as Peter hands the camera over.

“No, no, you hang on to it.” His best friend loops the strap over his neck. “I can’t very well take pictures of myself, can I?”

“O-okay.”

They hit Saks 5th Avenue next, and this is clearly the store Harry really wants to see. They head up to the kids section, and Harry goes to town, trying tops, bottoms, blazers and shoes. Peter laughs and takes pictures as Harry catwalks out of the fitting room until Harry insists he try some clothes on too and makes Bernard take pictures of them both. Harry is about halfway through the shoe section when Bernard leans down to tell him it’s almost dinnertime.

“Crap! I told Aunt May I’d be back before dinner!”

“We’ll take these then,” Harry tells the sales associate calmly, indicating the two piles of items he’s decided he likes. “Bernard, my phone please. I need to call Mrs. Parker.”

“Harry?” Peter’s voice is a panicked squeak. “What are you going to say?! Harry!”

“Shh…” Harry signals for him to calm down, then, “Hello? No, it’s Harry. Mrs. Parker, I am so sorry. Peter’s with me. I offered to take him home, since Bernard was here, so we left a little earlier, but then there was a store I really wanted to see today, so I dragged Peter along.” He gives her his most imploring and apologetic whine. “Yes. Yes, of course. We only left half an hour early. That’s why we’re late. I got carried away, I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew shopping was so much better with friends! And Peter is… well, I don’t know that I’d want to do this with anyone else.”

And maybe Harry is just that good of an actor -he’s even gone all teary-eyed and a little choked up- but Peter really wishes he isn’t just making it up as an excuse for Aunt May. They’re friends, aren’t they? Best friends? Or is that just wishful thinking on his part? He and Harry are from different worlds. Today, he’s seen another glimpse of Harry’s, and he doesn’t dare to hope Harry won’t get bored of him soon enough. He feels plain amongst the dazzling stars that orbit Harry’s glamorous life.

“Of course. We will be back soon. Yes. I will. Again, I’m terribly sorry about this. Oh no, I couldn’t impose! You’re too kind. Well, I mean, when you put it that way, how could I? Thank you, Mrs. Parker. I’ll see you soon then. Bye!” Harry hangs up, takes a deep breath, then turns to face him with a victorious smile. “All settled. Just remember we left the school at half past four.”

He stands and slips the phone into Bernard’s pocket just as the butler arrives with the shopping bags.

“Bernard, Mrs. Parker insists I stay for dinner.” He looks in each bag before picking one out. “Don’t forget to take this one with you, Peter. It’s yours.”

Peter looks into the bag. It has the clothes and shoes he tried on earlier. “Harry…”

Maybe this is it. This is why they’ll grow apart, and in a few years’ time, Harry will forget they ever were friends, leave him behind just like his parents did. He doesn’t wear Gucci or Burberry or Armani, doesn’t buy anything new till what he has is worn out, shops at thrift stores instead of Fifth Avenue. This is what makes them so different, makes him inadequate to be by Harry’s side, makes Harry want to fix him.

“Don’t give me any of that ‘I can’t take this’ nonsense again.”

“Harry, are you… embarrassed by me or something?” Oh God, he’s going to cry. This is pathetic.

The blond turns, a mask of confusion and disbelief.

“Like, do I h- do I have to wear these to hang out with you? To be good enough to be your friend? So no one can say you’re- you’re mixing with the lower classes? Is that it?”

“What?” Blue eyes look hurt. “No! How can you say that? Is that what you think of me?”

Peter just shakes his head, swallows the lump in his throat and wipes his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He likes Harry, he really does, and he doesn’t want them to not be friends anymore. It hurts to even imagine.

“Oh Peter, c’mere.” Harry wraps his arms around him, and Peter buries his face in the soft fabric of the older boy’s scarf. “No, no, of course not. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Harry rubs his back soothingly. “I just… They look good on you, Pete. Even with your unibrow.”

Peter can’t help chuckling through the tears.

“I just want you to have them, okay? You look amazing in them. More amazing.” He pats Peter’s back again, then lets go. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

Peter nods, wiping his face. “Aunt May’s expecting us.”

“Yes, and you’ll always be my friend, Peter. No matter what. I won’t throw you away.”

~*~

He spends all the time he isn't at Gwen's grave in Roosevelt.

He looks over his father's work, tries to figure it out. There's got to be a way to make it work, to fix Harry, to control the mutation that turns him green and drives him mad. Perhaps some kind of anti-venom could be developed to reverse the damage. So he visits Dr. Connors, but the man isn’t terribly coherent. He breaks into Oscorp and steals all the remaining venom to study. But he's not his father, and he's not Gwen, and this isn’t really his area. He needs help, but if he reveals this to the wrong person, he could destroy the world, undo everything his father died for.

He misses Gwen.

She was like a beacon, and he’d all but lived by the brilliance of her mind and soul. In the darkness she left behind, he feels so lost, so helpless. He doesn’t know what to do, who to turn to. It’s hard to find meaning in anything without her light to illuminate it.

The sirens blare, the news speculates on Spider-Man’s absence, and Peter wonders what the point is. He can’t save anybody, not when it really matters. All he does is put the people around him in danger.

He reads the research again and again, file after file, till the words blur, and he falls asleep on the keyboard.

He visits Gwen; he eats whatever’s convenient; he does it all over again.

Until the day he passes the Coffee Bean on a street corner in Manhattan.

He buys their café crème and buttermilk currant scones with clotted cream and raspberry preserve. He remembers Harry likes preserves, but not jams (there’s an important difference), and he’ll drink lattes because they’re in vogue, but he really only likes his coffee with heavy cream (and scotch, but he’s pretty sure Harry only drinks scotch in some misguided attempt to live up to his father’s expectations). The silly boy; he shakes his head fondly.

But it’s worth it to see Harry freeze at the door to the visiting room as he rambles, “It’s gotten a bit cold on the way here, but I hope it’s still good. I um… was passing by, and I remember you liked it, wonder if you’ve had it since… well.”

Harry doesn’t answer, just sits down, pulls the paper bag over and starts eating in silence.

At least he seems to be enjoying it. He’s also no longer in the straightjacket, which must mean he is doing well. And ignoring Peter, who’s trying valiantly not to fidget from the awkward tension, fingers curling and uncurling in his pockets.

As Harry drinks half his coffee between scones, Peter stands abruptly and all but runs for the door. “Look, I-I’m gonna go, all right? Get out of your hair, and-”

“Why do you keep coming back, Pete?” Harry sighs the question, like a caress from another life.

He stills and turns. It hurts that they’ve come to this, that Harry has to ask. “You’re my best friend.”

“You betrayed me. When I needed you most, you betrayed me.”

“No, I told you we needed more time to figure out how to do it safely.”

“I was dying, Peter." Harry stands. "Dying! I didn’t have the luxury of time!”

“Your father lived with it for over thirty years, Harry!” He throws his hands up in frustration. “No, you couldn’t wait. You've never had to wait for anything. Anything you want, you want now, and you've always gotten it. I told you it wouldn’t work, Har! My mistake was forgetting that you can't be reasoned with once you've decided you want something!"

Harry slowly closes the distance between them and fists a hand in Peter’s collar. "You would have me rot away on the inside, a desperate haunted man whose search for a cure eclipsed his entire life,” he enunciates deliberately. “You would have me turn into my father." His voice drops to a whisper, blue eyes meeting brown. "I can't do that, Peter. I thought you’d understand, but all you cared about was her. I thought you were my friend, but in the end, you threw me away too."

Peter shakes his head, covers that pale trembling hand with his own. "That’s not true, Har. I'm going to figure out how to fix this. I won't stop looking, I swear."

Harry steps back, a wistful smile, a bitter laugh. "Some things that you throw away you never find again, Parker.” He leaves with the guards.

~*~

"Harry! Harold Osborn!"

Harry turns and stops, leans against the railing around the park’s lake. Peter is running towards him, red in the face and panting heavily.

"Peter. What's the matter?"

"Harry, why d-" He gasps for breath. "Did you really offer Aunt May and Uncle Ben money?"

“Why, yes. Did they finally decide to let me help them?”

“No! Why did you have to go and do that?!”

Blue eyes blink in incomprehension. “If I can help a friend, should I not try to do so?”

“No! I mean-” He spins full circle, running his hands through messy brown hair. "Yes. But I don't want your money, Harry! I’m not- I’m not some kind of charity!" He lifts the camera strap over his head and holds the Nikon out. “So you can take this back because I’m done processing all the photos on it like you asked. And I’ll bring all the clothes and sh-”

“Okay, okay!” Harry throws his arms around Peter. “I promise I won’t try to give your family money anymore!” Softly, he adds, “Just… please don’t return everything I’ve ever given you like we’re b- like we’re cutting ties. We’re- we’re not, right? We’re still friends?”

Peter sighs, returning the embrace. “Of course we are, Har. That’s why I don’t want it to be like that between us. Please stop trying to buy me. You can’t, and you don’t have to.”

Harry rests his head on Peter’s shoulder. It’s a little awkward because he’s taller. “I wasn’t, but… no one’s ever told me that before.”

“Oh Harry…” Peter tightens his hold briefly, then cards his fingers through blond hair.

His friend always acts like he’s all that, but even amidst his luxuries and admirers, Harry always seems so lonely and unhappy. It’s sad that none of his many “friends” have told him they don’t care about his riches, and Peter can’t help but resent Norman Osborn for being a neglectful father at the best of times. Sometimes, there are bruises Harry refuses to talk about, that he hides beneath those long sleeves and high collars, but most of the time, Harry may as well be an orphan too. Maybe that’s why they’re best friends.

Privately, a dark little part of Peter thinks Harry would honestly be better off as an orphan, then he could give up on that lost cause of a man, but he can’t really wish that on anyone, much less his best friend.

“Keep the camera, Pete,” Harry says, stepping back without letting go. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it. You make some real magic with that thing.”

The orange glow of the sunset casts a brightening shine on Harry’s lovely golden hair, warms his pale skin and makes his brilliant blue eyes stand out in even greater contrast. Peter steps back and snaps a picture. Harry blinks, then chuckles.

“What do you do with all these pictures you take of me anyway? I’m not going to get phone calls from modelling agencies soon, am I?”

Inexplicably, Peter finds himself blushing. “Do you want to? Get calls from modelling agencies, I mean.”

“Maybe?” Harry grins playfully, climbing up on the railing and perching one leg on it bent at the knee while the other dangles down, one hand gripping the top bar and the other resting on his bent knee. With his most winning smile, he teases, “How’s this for an audition photo?”

Peter giggles, but clicks away on the camera from several angles. Harry shifts poses a few times, the breeze tousles his preppy combover bangs into some semblance of natural casualness, and all in all, Peter thinks it’s a pretty great impromptu shoot.

Until Harry nearly backflips into the lake and he almost drops the camera leaping forward to grab the older boy’s hand and pull. The blond falls sprawling into his arms, and he staggers back a few steps.

“Whoa.”

Breathlessly, Harry only laughs as he regains his footing. “Show me,” he says, waving at the camera. “C’mon, show me.”

They weave over to a park bench and sit down. Harry presses him to his side with an arm around his waist, and they pick out photos. He’s going to be looking up modelling agencies tonight.

Part 1 | Part 2
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