FIC: Riptide, Spider-Man, Peter/Harry
TITLE: Riptide
AUTHOR: veuki
FANDOM: Spider-Man (1&2)
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Peter Parker/Harry Osborn
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own Marvel Comics' respective characters.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
SUMMARY: There's a Big Picture Peter is supposed to be looking at and he is; he just isn't completely sure he likes what he's seeing.
Peter’s weekly Biology Club meeting finishes by five, which means he gets home by five-fifteen and has dinner with his aunt and uncle by six. There's a little trouble with the car on the way back, but Uncle Ben pops the hood and they're back on the road within minutes. At five-twenty they stomp their muddy shoes on the faded mat near the front porch, and the red potted geraniums shiver as they spend two minutes fiddling with the screen door.
Harry arrives a half-hour late and nearly misses dinner, bringing with him a bright boyish grin and curls soaked from the rain. A clucking Aunt May prepares a plate of pot pie and biscuits. Harry waits by the fridge, which practically caves inwards from Peter's report cards and third grade crayon-and-construction paper relics. By the time Aunt May stops urging third helpings on both of them and Peter manages to drag Harry up to his room, the clock reads seven twenty-eight.
"We have studying to do," Peter reminds Harry for what feels like the umpteenth time. Harry’s eyes wander over the various posters taped to the wall, the Super Nintendo gathering dust at the corner of the room; focusing on anything but the spread of papers and books before them.
"I fucking hate history," Harry exhales, drawing out "fucking" to let Peter know how displeased he is, gargling the /ck/ in the back of his throat and letting saliva bubble, distorting the sound.
"That's really disgusting," Peter says, somewhat fascinated.
"Thank you," Harry responds courteously, then pauses, winces; lets out a long belch that Peter's aunt and uncle can most likely hear from downstairs. "Why do you even bother reviewing this crap? You get A's every time. If I hear Mr. Hoffman call you his 'star pupil' again I'm going to throw up on his orthopedic shoes."
"Careful, I think those are his only pair," Peter says, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his laughter. At least one of them has to be focused when they study (or at least, try to). "Okay. This is kind of tough. July 10, 1559. Henry II died and was succeeded by... blank."
"King James IV," Harry says confidently, rolling over on his stomach, wrapping the blanket around his ankles and propping his chin on his hands.
Peter shakes his head, fanning the edges of the pages with his thumb.
"John Hancock?"
Peter half-heartedly tosses one of his striped pillows at Harry. "Wrong continent. Didn't you review this stuff at all?"
"Nope," Harry says cheerfully, catching the pillow and wedging it under his flat belly. "Want to hear a dirty joke?"
"What?" Peter answers, caught off guard.
"Six white horses fell in the mud."
"That is so stupid," Peter laughs; pushes his black plastic glasses further up on his nose and emits another deep belly laugh, fingers slipping along the brown paper edges of the textbook.
"You're laughing," Harry points out needlessly. "I know, I kinda liked that one, too. What's red and crawls up a girl's leg?"
"Er," Peter says stupidly. "The Blob?"
"A homesick abortion."
"Holy shit," Peter breathes, clapping a hand over his mouth. He laughs again but the laugh is different; it's low and sort of shocked and guilty, and Peter's a little ashamed it ever escaped in the first place. "That's awful."
Harry flops onto his back again, curls spilling over tightly-shut lids as he speaks evenly. "That's what I think I was. Am."
His mother died when he was five; heart complications or other (Harry was vague and Peter didn't ask him to elaborate). He told Peter this under the Chinese elm behind their school three years ago, staring darkly into the filtered sunset, only semi-visible past the weeping branches. Harry hates his mother and is almost positive his mother hated him in return. Secretly, Peter believes Harry'll never know for sure, because he is almost certain that Norman Osborn has never once portrayed Harry's mother in an entirely truthful light.
Harry doesn't remember much about his mother. He remembers that she wore Ma Griffe perfume and had a collection of décolleté jackets that Mr. Osborn sold a short time after her death. Harry remembers crawling into his mother's closet and touching the jackets; running his small hands over sequined gold, purple glass, wine-colored silk beads. He remembers pulling those beads off, one by one, methodically stuffing them into the cracks between the floorboards and listening to them roll away. He remembers her screaming; he remembers his mother breaking her silver hand mirror against the back of his corduroys.
"Mommy's mistake that wouldn't fuck off and die," Harry says.
Sometimes, late at night when Harry stays over at Peter's house, Harry calls for his mother in his sleep. When this happens Peter always slides silently out of bed, touches his friend's shoulder, smoothes Harry's sweaty hair back from his cold forehead. He watches him sleep; watches over Harry, long after Harry has stopped whimpering and tossing and turning. Peter has never told Harry this.
Peter can't watch over Harry while he's awake, though. Instead, Peter looks back at his textbook and asks for the date of Queen Mary's inauguration; feels vaguely like a tourist snapping pictures of a car wreck, gaping at a chrome bumper wrapped around a telephone pole.
*
And then it happens; his gift, his curse, whatever the hell it actually is. It's something straight out of the Sci-Fi channel; bigger than George Lucas, the X-Files, but only to him. It's like opening the best present at Christmas while the rest of the world is permanently asleep. Peter doesn’t need his glasses, he’s ripped, and his fingers feel like Super Post-Its. He climbs walls, he jumps buildings; he's better than any superhero he's ever read about, ever dreamed of being.
Faster than Peter can breathe, blink, the dream is over. The rest of the world awakens, and Peter looks into his Christmas box and sees that his diamonds have turned to coal. He belts Mary Jane’s boyfriend in the gut (which he has secretly dreamed of doing ever since Mary Jane put on Flash's class ring), sends him flying down the hallway like a projectile shot via the Peter Parker cannon.
His euphoria fades when he notices Mary Jane, staring at him as though he has sprouted five heads. His stomach shrivels, curls up icy and heavy, and he does the only thing he can; he runs. Harry is a soft soundtrack made indistinct by dialogue, and Mary Jane is syncopated, allegro and andante and everything all at once; Symphonia in Red No. 1.
Uncle Ben and Aunt May have never set a strict curfew for Peter because he is always home by nine at the very latest. Gingerly pushing the door open to avoid the creaking of the hinges, Peter knows he has definitely broken his unwritten curfew tonight. The blue glow of his watch is a reprimanding authority figure all on its own-12:23, it beeps accusingly.
MICHELANGELO, Uncle Ben's handwriting accuses him, at about the same time the smell of fresh paint hits him, and Peter wonders when the world decided it really had it in for him.
As he considers heating up the leftover meatloaf in the oven, Mary Jane's shocked face and rose hair swims before his eyes. He's done a lot of stupid and embarrassing things in his life, but this has most certainly taken the cake. If he ever wished he could turn back time, twist the metaphorical hour-hand on the clock of life, now is his most desperate hour of need.
Peter toes off his sneakers at the foot of the stairs, skips the seventh (which always groans at even the slightest application of pressure). He shuffles his socked feet along the carpet, is static-shocked as he runs a hand along a stack of folded sweaters, turns on his heel into his room and reaches for the light switch-
-realizes that the light is already on because Harry is on his bed, long limbs drawn up, hand slightly bent near his head. As Peter chokes on a cry that was originally meant to be "Jesus Christ," but comes out as a short string of unintelligible consonants, Harry's eyes pop open.
"Sorry," Harry apologizes, sitting up too fast and wincing as his neck cracks audibly. "Sorry, Pete. Didn't mean to scare you."
"No, no, it's okay," Peter says, willing the pounding of his heart to turn slow and easy. "What-what're you doing here?"
"Your aunt let me in earlier." Harry yawns, voice becoming breathy, almost indistinguishable as his jaw nearly unhinges. "I was waiting for you. I helped paint the kitchen." Sure enough, robin's egg blue is spotted over his hands and jeans.
"Oh," Peter says. The balls of his feet rise. He debates sitting on the bed, swaying indecisively, and moves over to the desk chair. "Are they mad?"
"I don't think so." Harry jams his hands in the pockets of his cocoa-brown fleece shirt. "They were just a little worried. I told them that something came up and you were probably gonna be out late."
"Oh," Peter repeats. "Oh," and gets up off the chair, trudges over to the bed and flops face-down next to Harry. His nose is bends uncomfortably, squashing against his pillow.
"Hey," Harry says. "You okay, Pete?"
A long, long silence.
"Are you even breathing?"
"I wish I were dead," Peter finally mumbles into damp lime-colored cotton.
"Peter," Harry says, stifling another yawn and slowly lying down next to him. "Flash is no reason to wish you were dead. Flash is a walking, talking reason to feel infinitely superior in every way imaginable. He's a... a beefcake, sure, but he's no Einstein."
"I almost killed him, Harry."
"I think 'killed' is a bit of an exaggeration."
"But I did."
"Peter, shut the fuck up," Harry says calmly.
Silence.
"You didn't, okay? You didn't. And even if you did, it wouldn’t have been anything to write home about. The guy’s a fucking jerk."
"But I punched him halfway down the hall."
"Pete, do I have to remind you that he and his idiot gorilla posse have done a lot worse to you?" Harry shifts closer. "You just roughed him up a bit. Nothing serious. Honestly."
"It was serious," Peter mumbles.
"Oh for Christ’s sake, the prick deserved it," Harry says exasperatedly. "Will you stop beating yourself up about it? If I'd gotten half the chance I would have stuck his head on a fucking stake."
Despite Peter’s thoroughly depressing state of misery, he feels a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
"Pete," Harry says, breathing lightly, warmly on the back of his neck.
No answer.
"That really was fucking amazing," Harry says.
*
For the first few months after Uncle Ben's death, Peter has nightmares.
In his opinion it really isn't anything to whine or complain about, and even if it was there really isn't anyone he could whine or complain to. After all, it is his fault. He says this silently to himself, aloud when no one is listening. A huge, aching part of Peter has not yet accepted his uncle's death, and that only makes it worse. Peter knows the grief will slam him like a freight train when the shock really, really fades away and reality hits home, and the dread is slowly eating away at his insides.
Aunt May cries. She leaves her bed only to run her fingers over framed photos of Uncle Ben in the living room, and shuffles back upstairs when she is done sobbing, clutching the folds of her pink robe to her chest.
Peter touches her shoulder and sometimes she pulls away, sometimes she doesn't. She always apologizes afterwards, though, for being a "silly old girl". Peter never knows quite what to say in response. If you knew the truth, you'd never talk to me again? I'm sorry, it's my fault, I'm the real reason your husband is dead?
He clamps those traitorous words behind his teeth, but no matter how many times he opens his mouth to try and let them out all he ever hears is "I'm sorry" or "I love you, Aunt May".
Peter watches blood bubble out of the gaping wound in Uncle Ben's chest; listens to his creaky voice, made weak and nearly unrecognizable from the punch to his throat, the skin of his neck already bruised blackish-yellow. Sometimes, Peter can't quite make out his face; sometimes Uncle Ben is staring glassy-eyed up at Peter, and sometimes Uncle Ben's killer is watching him murderously, hateful lust sizzling in his dead black gaze. Peter often wakes with the sheets twisted around his legs, head throbbing, skin damp with cool sweat. He usually finds a sob caught in his throat; just hovering, waiting there for a moment of penetrable weakness.
And despite everything, he can't stop thinking about Mary Jane. He loves her; he loves her so much it hurts, renders him speechless and incapable of coherency. He shouldn't think of Mary Jane, not now, he knows he shouldn't. But he does, constantly, and he can't stop, and the guilt is a heavy demon on his shoulder.
It's almost ironic; he's stronger than any man alive, can jump a hundred feet and swing half a block through the air; yet he is powerless.
"I can't do this," Peter says savagely, slamming his biology textbook closed. It is a drizzling grey Sunday afternoon, one that perfectly suits his mood. He has been watching Mary Jane for the past hour through his window.
"Ask her out already," Harry says mildly, poring over a section of highlighted notes.
"I can't do that either." Peter exhales frustratedly. Mary Jane laughs at something somebody on the other end of the line says, tosses her red hair. "You know how you just-that time when you... we were on the museum field trip thing and you just went right up and talked to her?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you do that?"
Harry blinks, somewhat owlishly. "Er. I have no idea. I just... do?" He sheepishly shrugs. "Sorry. That's not much help." He rises with a groan, setting his notes down. Making his way over to Peter's window, he pulls the blinds down, effectively obscuring Mary Jane from view. "I think that's enough MJ-watching to last us both a lifetime."
Peter drops his face into his hands. "I'm in love with her," he mutters, gnawing his palms in between words. "I know, I know, I shouldn't be thinking about her right now. I just can't help it."
"You're allowed to think about whatever you want," Harry says, sitting next to him, taking care not to bounce the bed. "You shouldn't apologize for what you think. Period."
"But I shouldn't be," Peter whispers. "I miss..." He doesn't know what he wants to say. Mary Jane. Uncle Ben. His parents. Somebody. He tries again. "I miss..."
"You don't have to say anything." And suddenly Peter feels gentle fingers at his fly, working the zipper down.
What the...?
Somebody's hand is on my crotch.
It's unexpected, to say the least; some kind of fucking weird sexual deus ex machina. He's so numb that he can barely register Harry's touch, so it doesn't really even matter anyway. But Harry is slipping impossibly warm hands inside his boxers, slowly bringing him back.
Oh.
And...
Oh.
"Harry," Peter says softly, body still as Harry draws his cock out of his jeans. And again; "Harry." The unspoken question is thick in his voice, but he's not even sure what that question is. "What..."
"Nothing," Harry murmurs, flicking his thumb over the silky tip of Peter's cock. Quietly, "let me help."
Peter is hard instantly. He hasn't jerked off in weeks, months, and his body is as tight as a bowstring, the sinew of his muscles stretched thin. "What-?" he tries again, hips bucking into Harry's fist. He twines a hand in Harry's curls for support otherwise he will fall, and fall fast. Shivers are already racing hot through his kneecaps and vibrating in his thighs. Peter tries to speak but the words have melted, honey on his tongue.
"Yeah," Harry breathes, beginning to pant despite himself, jerking Peter a little faster, a little harder, pausing briefly to lick the arch of skin between his thumb and index finger. He bumps jawbones with Peter and grimaces, but he keeps the rhythm steady and unbroken. "Chicken Soup for the Adult Soul," he whispers into shell of Peter's ear, and Peter feels Harry's smile.
"Is that what it is," Peter says raggedly, flashing Harry a small smile even though Harry's eyes are closed. He laughs; it's the first time he's laughed in months, and it hurts, tears from his chest with the force of a small bomb. "You're weird," he sighs shakily, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the waves of pain cresting and crashing in his lungs, the waves of pleasure licking red hot molten at every pore of his skin-
-and Harry fumbles with his free hand, takes Peter's chin and leans in and kisses him hard; the kiss is sloppy and wet and messy and Peter's first, and Peter's teeth close reflexively around Harry's lip as he explodes with a soft cry.
"Peter," Harry exhales, shaking, as Peter returns to earth. He presses his lips to the corner of Peter's mouth, a pale imitation of a kiss, a far cry from the first. "Peter."
*
It's strange, Peter reflects, being with Harry.
Of course, he's not with Harry per se. Harry makes it clear to him from the start that they are nothing more than friends; friends who occasionally fuck. In the beginning, Peter didn't like it when Harry used the word 'fuck' to refer to what they did behind closed doors. He cringed irritably the first few times, but after a day or two he found he didn't give a shit. Peter didn't really care anyway; writhing beneath Harry, he tended to let things that truly didn't matter slide.
He guesses he just wasn't used to hearing it.
Peter returns to school after a few weeks, where things are relatively normal. His teachers beam pitifully at him, Flash glares bitterly whenever he passes him in the halls, and Mary Jane ignores him along with the rest of the school. Harry ditches fourth period French to eat lunch with him, and ends up dropping the class after receiving eight days' worth of cut slips.
Peter and Harry are still friends, much to Peter's disbelief. He wasn't sure he could look Harry in the eye again after what happened in his bedroom. He didn't, not for a few days, until Harry cornered him, pinned his wrists over his head, tore open Peter's jeans and ground against him mercilessly; twisted his hips until Peter came against Harry's denim-clad thigh, struggling hard to breathe.
Aunt May still tries to force-feed Harry and they still study together and Harry still hates doing it. Still is the key word there, because everything is still going, still in motion, uninterrupted, just like Newton said the perfect universe would be.
"What if people find out?" Peter had asked, to which Harry had bluntly responded, "Let them. It's none of their fucking business what we do in our private lives, okay," and that, apparently, was that.
It could almost be called strange. What he has with Harry is worlds apart from his fantasy world with Mary Jane that he has spun from Day One; still continues to spin. He and Harry are rough with each other like Peter would never dream of being with Mary Jane. Their teeth clack grindingly when they kiss. They rip each other's clothes, tearing holes and seams. Lost buttons are never found. Their hipbones knock and their fingers bruise, and there was blood only the first time but Peter never saw it again.
And then it's not always like they're fighting a battle; sometimes, it's different. Sometimes, Harry tugs him onto the bed and tells him to close his eyes, and Harry learns and re-learns everything about Peter, makes the crook of his elbow a mile long with his hands and mouth and breath, turns the length of his body into something vast and endless.
Peter learns about The Rules, too; because there are Rules when you fuck men if you are a man, and if you're someone like Harry Osborn, next in line for command of one of the largest biotechnology companies in the world, those Rules apply tenfold. Rule One, no kissing; Rule Two, no fucking the same person twice; Rule Three, no emotional attachment, and Rule Four, it can and will damage your reputation should it ever get out that you fuck guys, so keep your fucking mouth shut because it's none of anyone else's goddamn fucking business to begin with.
Peter learns that he is the only guy Harry has ever fucked more than once. He doesn't ask why he is the exception and Harry doesn't tell him. There are plenty of unanswered questions, and Peter-well, Peter's just fine and okay and peachy with that, and apparently, Harry is too.
It takes Peter longer to run through the unspoken checklist than he would expect. Harry obviously doesn't give a damn about Rules One and Two (obviously), and Rule Four Peter abides by, too, but Rule Three is something that Peter wonders about late at night, when it is too quiet outside and his mind is just a little too blank.
Peter used to jerk off regularly thinking about Mary Jane (before he started getting laid on a regular basis, anyway). He imagined the white swell of her breasts and her pink nipples, closed his eyes and saw her glossy lips wrapped around his cock, came with Mary Jane Mary Jane Mary Jane a strangled litany in the still of the night, beneath the scorching needles of the shower.
He finds that thoughts of her are becoming more infrequent, of making love to her and kissing her and having children with her, and that frightens him. But the days go by and life goes on and the fear fades steadily, and he loves her still but the world doesn't seem so accusatory and difficult as it used to be. And he doesn't feel so desperate and despairing and hopeless, and the nightmares have nearly gone completely.
One lazy afternoon, Peter is wrapped lazily in Harry's sheets, eyes closed as he dozes on and off. Harry traces Peter's hip, rubbing wide slow circles with his palm and tracing the bone with his fingers. The sunlight streams in through the Monticello windows, sends burnished gold shadows dancing on the cream walls, sunspots scattered everywhere.
"Pete," Harry says. Peter lets out a low sound of contentment, sighs and wriggles, rolls up into Harry's hands. "Pete," he repeats again when Peter doesn't answer.
He cracks an eye open.
"Pete. If I ever..."
"Spit it out," Peter mumbles, closing his eyes again.
Harry hesitates for only a few seconds before he takes a long breath, and Peter feels him take that metaphorical plunge into the deep end. "If I ever wanted to date MJ-and you weren't you know, with her, you wouldn't care, right?"
Peter opens his eyes, wide and kind of stunned this time, and turns his head so he can look directly at Harry.
"I mean, I don't know if you would. That's why I'm asking, obviously-"
"What brought this on?" Peter asks, not caring that he's interrupting.
"My father, a bit. I mean... Oscorp is going to be mine one day. They just did a spread about it in Newsweek. And I can't spend my life with..." A pause. Harry presses nervously, too hard against the low curve of Peter's groin muscle, still faintly slick with spit and come and sweat. Peter doesn't flinch. "You just can't, you know. If you're going to be famous."
Peter is silent for a few long minutes, tries to ignore the shark in his belly snapping at his insides. "Sure."
"You're okay with it?" Harry asks, clearly relieved.
"Yeah. Go ahead," Peter responds. "You've got my blessing."
"It's just-Mary Jane's the kind of girl I think I could love, and-"
"Fuck me," Peter whispers, cutting Harry off. The sentence hangs unfinished and that's just the way Peter wants it. He rolls Harry over, fumbling for the bottle of lube, kissing him fiercely, not wanting to hear anything more about Mary Jane. Harry is tense and unmoving, hesitant for only a second, but before Peter can breathe Harry has flipped him over on his back and wrapped Peter's legs around his waist and is sliding into him, one long deep thrust that nearly unravels him completely.
Peter breathes; closes his eyes and just goes with it, rides everything out and breathes. Says Harry's name and finds he can't stop saying it because once isn't enough; in their world, once is never enough.
*
"I want you to be my roommate," Harry says one day, biting the inside of Peter's thigh, licking a long slow wet stripe up his cock. "In New York. When I go to New York you have to come with me."
Peter throws an arm over his eyes, hacking out panicked moans. "Harry," he chokes, and thinks Holy fuck I'm going to fucking die.
"Say yes," Harry whispers, blows a cool stream of air over the head of Peter's cock.
"Jesus," Peter rasps, and then, "yes yes Harry yes-"
*
Graduation dawns bright and sunny. Aunt May cleans the house and puts a roast in the oven, wears a cerulean blue dress and lipstick and white gloves. Seeing her smiling at him, cupping his face and telling him how proud she is of him; it digs a hole deeper in Peter's chest, the one that's been there ever since Uncle Ben. And he knows how to get rid of it, but he can't; he can't break her heart, and maybe if he had the fucking balls to admit it he'd realize his silence is what it is because he's fucking selfish, and scared that Aunt May will never speak to him again. The logical, rational part of him knows that she deserves to make that choice, but his tongue is frozen whenever he tries, and each time she walks away-even if it's just to duck into another room-he feels a little emptier.
Harry tells him that their apartment will be secured and ready come fall, so during the summer he'll have to stay at home while Harry works at Oscorp with his father and will he be okay? Peter elbows him, grinning, and is promptly passed by Harry like a Thanksgiving bowl of mashed potatoes over to Mr. Osborn, who offers him sincere apologies and words of pity that Peter is just tired of goddamn hearing.
Peter watches Harry watch Mary Jane out of the corner of his eye.
*
"Hey, Pete... seven-thirty, my house. I'll order pizza. Don't be late. Bye."
beep
"Pete, it's eight-thirty-calling to make sure you're-"
beep
"Morning! Anyway, we were supposed to fuck... but it's fine. I just wanted to call and make sure you-"
beep
beep beep beep
you have no new messages
*
Peter checks his messages whenever he gets a chance (which usually rolls around between two and five a.m., a sweaty costume and burning muscles in tow). He gets the usual Aunt May "I love you and miss you" messages, and the telemarketer "you've just won a free trip to Disney Land!" messages-
-And then there are Harry's messages.
Listening to Harry's messages only makes it obvious and concrete, writing on the wall that Peter can never be in a normal relationship, and he is slowly beginning to realize that. He is barely home anymore. Spider-Man is his constant job, and he breathes eats lives sleeps protecting people. That is who he has become, and Peter is coming to terms with the fact that that is who he will always be.
What he and Harry have (and what, exactly, is as incomprehensible as far as enigmas go) no girl would tolerate, and certainly Mary Jane would never put up with it. Not many people, even; not just Mary Jane. There's a Big Picture Peter is supposed to be looking at and he is; he just isn't completely sure he likes what he's seeing.
*
Autumn finally arrives. The leaves turn red and blanket the ground in Central Park, a bronzed invitation of what they've both been waiting for. By the time Harry actually gets ahold of Peter on September second and Peter finishes packing his meager belongings on the fifteenth, it is the twenty-first before his bags are waiting to be unpacked in Harry's hallway. Peter doesn't even get a chance to knock before Harry flings the door open and wraps bony arms around him, slapping his back. Peter steadies himself by resting a hand on Harry's hip, slides callused fingers down to cup Harry's ass and realizes that Harry has gotten skinnier (if that is at all possible which, apparently, it was).
"Ah ah ah," Harry says, laughing, pulling back so he can take a look at Peter's face, fingers curled tightly around Peter's forearms. "Don't touch the merchandise."
"Well, okay," Peter says in a teasing sing-song sort of voice, slowly and deliberately disentangling himself from Harry's grasp, "if you wa-ant me to..."
"Don't be stupid!" Harry grins nervously, exhales hard, slides his fingers through Peter's shower-damp hair. His grin fades slowly as his eyes search Peter's face, and his gaze turns intense and searing. Peter shivers, his body already beginning to tense with anticipation.
"You got glasses," Peter says almost calmly, despite the gooseflesh rapidly rising underneath his sweater and jeans. He lifts a hand up to touch the wire frames.
"They're fucking annoying," Harry responds, though there's no vehemence behind his words.
"I like them on you," Peter says, smoothing an errant curl back from Harry's brow.
"I..." Harry begins, but apparently thinks better of whatever it is he was going to say, and deftly angles his head to kiss Peter.
"Harry," Peter whispers, trembling. Harry's mouth is only centimeters from his own and Peter doesn't know if he can restrain himself long enough to ask-"Are you okay?"
"What d'you mean?" Harry responds, glancing away, breathing against Peter's lips, mouth brushing against them slightly as he speaks. Peter jolts at the contact and shudders, seeing that Harry has jolted too.
"Are you... you know, okay? You seem... I don't know," Peter says, a hitched gasp catching in his throat as Harry grabs his hips and yanks, and his arms in his too-long sleeves go reflexively around Harry's neck to steady himself. His knees are already beginning to weaken. "Anxious."
"I'm fine," Harry says, "really."
A part of Peter urges him to press Harry, but Harry strips Peter with brutal efficiency and spins him around and all Peter understands is this, right here, right now. Harry yanks off his brown-and-blue striped tie and takes Peter's wrists, ties them tightly and loops them over the headboard, pulling Peter's knees back slightly so the long lean length of Peter's back stretches even more. Peter is positively quivering as he begs Harry to do something, anything; lets out a long, guttural groan as Harry traces smooth, elegant fingers down his spine in an infuriatingly slow, lazy manner. When Harry shoves his thighs apart and trails his tongue along the curve of Peter's ass, Peter bites back a loud cry and lets his head drop, hang limply from the tight arch of his back.
"Fuck me," Peter manages.
Harry lifts his head up and presses a spit-shiny kiss to the back of Peter's neck, panting despite himself. "Wait," he says.
"Fuck waiting," Peter says. "Fuck me."
Harry laughs breathlessly, and Peter feels Harry's cool slick fingertips pressing into him. "Now," he grinds out, shoving back at Harry mercilessly, sighing as Harry's fingers sink into him.
"Wait-just let me, just let me," Harry groans, dropping his forehead between Peter's shoulderblades.
"Give it to me," Peter says, expelling the words in a rush of air, "fuck me now, come on Harry please," and tries not to scream as he feels Harry push into him, one deep fast hard thrust that nearly has him over the edge. "I'm gonna-" leaves his mouth before he realizes it was there to begin with, a guttural fragmented sound.
"No, not yet," Harry says, one wet slick hand slapping Peter's hip. "Don't."
"Yes," Peter demands, clenching tightly around Harry, managing a smug smile as Harry moans. "Now."
"Now," Harry echoes. So Peter does, Harry following soon after. And when the beating of their hearts has returned to normal, Harry unties Peter's wrists and entwines their fingers loosely.
As night settles over them, Peter remembers a song he once heard; eyes of shadow-water, eyes of well-water, eyes of dream-water. But when he looks at Harry again, Harry's eyes are closed.
"Are you awake?" Peter asks, his voice drowsy and low. Harry doesn't respond.
*
Everything always adds up eventually. Two plus two makes four, one plus two makes three, and the equation is most definitely correct when Peter discovers Harry has been dating Mary Jane. Oh, yeah, so that fucking well explains everything; the furtive phone calls, "gonna be late working on stuff at the office". Things got rougher in bed and Peter started seeing blood, and now he understands why.
So he understands the recipe now: mix Peter Parker with one cup each of disbelief, shock, anger and hurt, shake well. Let stew at 450º fahrenheit for a few days for best results, underhandedly confront Harry before his father, know it's a shitty thing to do. Get unfairly pissed when Harry changes the subject. Smile smugly as Norman Osborn adulates him and Harry looks away, the unloved son.
Later, after Harry has gone to bed and quietly closed the door, effectively shutting Peter out, Peter thinks, that didn't really add up right, now did it.
*
Norman Osborn dies Norman Osborn, a courtesy that Peter promised to extend to a shell of a man before he faded in Peter's arms. "Don't tell Harry," he had choked, voice thick from blood swelling around his vocal cords, and then-
-Gone.
Peter remembers that voice on the way home to his and Harry's apartment, the sound of blossoming blood in speech and breath. He's heard it only once before, when Uncle Ben died with Peter's sleeve gripped in his hand.
He shoves his costume down deep under a few physics textbooks in his bag. Opening the door, he finds Harry sitting on the floor rocking his father back and forth in long, slow motions. Harry's curls obscure his face from view and bathed in moonlight, he looks impossibly young.
Harry lifts his head, face contorted, screwed up in anguish. "Peter," he says simply.
Peter doesn't ask what happened, and Harry doesn't tell him. Instead, Peter picks up the phone and dials an ambulance. He sits beside Harry and cups the side of Harry's stubbled cheek, brings it against his shoulder. Harry does not cry, but Peter feels his shoulders shake with tremendous effort as he struggles not to.
The silver moonlight retreats from the window, is replaced by red lights and wailing sirens, death's call.
*
Before it even happens Peter knows that the service for Norman Osborn will be large and festive and elegant, held in one of the most expensive churches in New York City. Harry arranges everything beforehand. Peter knows Harry is moving in a daze, hearing himself speak cordially from a distance, a sharp corner in his mind. Crabmeat sandwiches, oh, you're out, watercress is fine. White flowers. A simple headstone, nothing fancy.
Peter heard the scream of police cars, was nearly halfway out the window before he slowly crawled back inside. He really needs you right now, a voice in the back of his mind had whispered, and it was true. Harry was there for Peter when Uncle Ben died.
It's not an obligation; I want to.
Which is why Peter is curled up on the sofa in sweatpants and one of Harry's ragged Radiohead shirts, crunching sour grape Nerds between his back teeth, watching Seinfeld on mute with one eye and Harry talking on the phone with the other. The captions scroll against the television screen, highlighted in white.
"Yes... yes, it's this Sunday. Yes. Can I fax you directions? Sure, no problem, I'll hold."
KRAMER: THAT STUFF IS UNBELIEVABLE. I'D EAT IT OUT OF A DUMPSTER.
[LAUGHTER]
Peter finishes off the rest of the box of Nerds and grins. He must've laughed along with the rest of the nation too, because Harry bends his head and softly kisses him.
Peter slides fingers wrinkled from an earlier shower around the back of Harry's neck, deepens the kiss, and for a moment everything is silent and still and nonexistent around them.
Harry suddenly pulls back, looking slightly flushed and struggling to clamp the cordless phone between his shoulder and ear. "No, it was no problem. I've got a pen, yes..." Peter sniggers, and Harry flicks the back of his neck on his way back to the table. "Two oh nine... forty-five fifty-two. Got it. I'm sending them as we speak." A long period of silence. "Thank you," Harry says stiffly, his voice brittle.
KRAMER: YOU COULD HAVE INTRODUCED ME.
JERRY: I WOULDN'T KNOW WHERE TO START...
Peter doesn't even need to glance at Harry to know what he is thinking-more insincere condolences, great, thanks a bunch. Well, aren't you a bit of an insincere condolence yourself, seeing as you oh, I don't know, killed his father? the tiny voice in the back of his head nags.
Shut up, Peter thinks.
"Okay. Yes. See you Sunday. Thank you very much. Good-bye." Harry savagely jams his finger against the power button and flops down on the sofa, putting his long legs over Peter's knees and throwing an arm over his eyes. "I wish these people would stop calling me."
Peter doesn't know what to say, isn't really sure if there's anything he could say that would help Harry. So he simply rubs his thumb slowly around Harry's knee through his Armani slacks, remains quiet.
"Peter," Harry says, so softly Peter almost doesn't catch it.
Peter's answer is a low hum in the back of his throat.
"Thank you for being here," Harry whispers, hand still shadowing half his face. "Sometimes I feel like you're the only person left in the world besides me." He pulls his hand away, staring at Peter with impossibly dark eyes. "Does that make sense?"
"I think so," Peter says.
Harry sits up with graceful ease, swinging his legs off the sofa and bracing one hand on the cushion between them. Angling his head slightly, he presses his mouth against Peter's, kissing him lazily, almost gently. Peter is unused to the placidity of Harry's kiss. Harry hasn't touched him like this since before graduation, before the Mary Jane debacle.
Harry breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Peter's, one hand cupping the side of Peter's neck. "Want you," he murmurs.
"You've got me," Peter breathes, leaning in to kiss Harry again, but Harry pulls back slightly.
"Fuck me," Harry whispers.
This stops Peter in his tracks. He stares unabashedly at Harry, eyes wide. "Harry-"
"I want this," Harry says, and adds: "Please."
"Okay," Peter says, trying to ignore the liquid heat pooling fast in his belly because this is about Harry, not his dick. "Okay."
It's Peter's first time fucking Harry, and he's unsure and really, really nervous about what to do and what not to do, and considering the circumstances it matters a hell of a lot. But Harry is a patient teacher like always, murmuring, "Twist... bend your... just a bit, yeah. Deeper... ah!" He rakes both hands in his curls when Peter rubs slick fingers against his prostate, sighing and gasping and making noises that Peter could listen all day to. But when he clenches hard around Peter's fingers and pants, "Inside me now," Peter knows he can't. Harry wraps his legs high around Peter's ribcage and grips the sheets as Peter pushes fully into him, groaning.
"Fuck me," Harry snarls once Peter is in and sees Peter struggling for composure, "fuck me hurt me," and thrusts his hips up vengefully. But Peter merely shakes his head and kisses Harry's temple, rocking so slowly Peter thinks his heart will burst.
And just like that the anger fades from Harry's face, and a tear rolls down one carved cheek, salty and hot. Uncertain, Peter tries to pull away, but Harry's fingernails dig into his ass, drawing him deeper. "Don't stop," Harry begs hoarsely.
"I won't," Peter says, voice strained, blinking the sweat from his eyes as he smiles. Harry smiles back; it's tiny but real and all of a sudden his head is pressing back into the pillows and his come is spattering wetly against Peter's chest, and he's gasping hard, thrashing on the bed. That image of Harry is frozen in Peter's mind, painted boldly on the back of his retinas as his fingers tighten around Harry's sharp hips and the world goes dim for a few heart-stopping moments.
When he settles back down to earth, Harry is out cold with a hand underneath his cheek, lashes accentuating the dark shadows under his eyes.
"Harry," Peter whispers, hesitantly tucking a damp curl behind Harry's ear. He doesn't stir. "Harry, I'm so sorry."
*
The sky on the day of Norman Osborn's funeral is disgustingly, inappropriately blue. If the sun had been out, Harry just might have kicked the priest. His father's important business associates are there and so are their wives, clad in expensive silk black veils pretending to cry for someone they never knew. Harry places a solitary orchid on top of the coffin, the only flower his father could stand. He moves to the edge of the field near the wrought iron gates, away from the people gathered around his father's grave.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watches Mary Jane kiss Peter.
*
Peter leaves Harry's apartment only a few months after the funeral. He can fit everything he owns into a few duffel bags and he does exactly that before sitting down with Harry at the kitchen table near the window.
Peter's eyes are cast towards his lap. For a few minutes, all that is audible is the hum of the radiator and the ticking of the clock near the fridge. "I don't think I'm helping anymore," Peter finally says, quietly. "I think I'm hurting you."
Harry shrugs, stirring his coffee. He lets the spoon clink deliberately against the sides of the mug, knowing Peter hates that noise in particular. If Peter is bothered, he doesn't show it.
He knows what Peter is saying isn't the truth; Peter's twisting the truth just to spare his poor fwagile widdle heart. They have bitter fights, and they never bring up any actual issues and it's never gotten physically violent, but it's draining and exhausting and traumatic all the same. Peter is spent of energy nearly every day as it is, and the monster within Harry watches and rejoices gleefully. What are you doing, Harry thinks dizzily to himself when he sees Peter's face crumple after a particularly wounding insult or retort. This has to be an out-of-body experience, this isn't me, this isn't happening.
But it is; it already has, and that's why they're where they are.
"I found a studio apartment that's closer to school. Guess I won't be late, uh... so much anymore, huh?" Peter smiles, too brightly.
"Guess so," Harry responds at length.
"This is my new number," Peter says, tearing off a scrap of newspaper and scribbling on the corner with a red pen. He slides it across the table to Harry. "Will you call me? Tonight?"
"Maybe," Harry says, pocketing the number.
Something flickers behind Peter's eyes, but it is gone by the time he stands and lifts his hand half-heartedly. "I'll see you," he says, his head bowed. He disappears briefly into the bedroom for his bags and is out the door before Harry can really register what's happening.
Harry watches through the window as a taxi pulls up besides the apartment complex. A minute later, Peter is exiting through the front doors. The trunk of the cab pops open and Peter easily tosses his bags inside. He opens the door, but before he slides inside the cab he looks up at Harry's window.
Harry stares down at Peter as he waves again; then Peter is inside the cab, pulling the door shut, and the taxi is weaving down the streets towards five o'clock traffic.
Harry picks up the flower pot on the window sill and hurls it across the room. It shatters, dirt spilling across the floor, the pot breaking into clay shards. "God dammit," Harry screams, "god fucking dammit," and he doesn't recognize his voice, bitter and wretched and furious and lost, and he's sinking to the ground, his knees bending against his chest.
Peter, his mind echoes, but Peter is gone.
*
"Peter, it's me-"
beep
"I know you're not picking up and you have every reason not to, I just... Peter, I wanted to-"
beep
"-Ran out of time there. I talk too much, don't I? But that's all I wanted to say. I'm really sorry, Pet-"
beep
"Hi, Pete! It's MJ. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come see my play this Wednesday. Are you free? I can get you a ticket and everything. You've got my number so let me know. Say hi to Aunt May for me. Bye!"
beep
"Please call m-"
beep beep beep
you have no new messages
*
The next time they see each other is on Peter's birthday. Aunt May has decorated the house with crepe paper streamers and taped balloons to the railing of the staircase. Mary Jane is there, her hair falling softly around her shoulders, a lace skirt brushing the tops of knees as she smiles at Peter.
She is so beautiful it leaves him momentarily stunned. "MJ," he manages, and his eyes drift past her to take in-
-Harry.
He has changed, to say the least. He has gotten even more slender since Peter has seen him, pants practically hanging off his hips. His shoulders and chest have broadened, too, and his skin is more golden; not as pale as Peter remembered. His curls have grown longer. For a wild moment, Peter watches himself step forward and entangle his fingers in Harry's hair, in front of Mary Jane and Aunt May.
"You look good," he says stupidly, regrets it the minute it leaves his mouth.
"And you look exhausted," Harry says, laughing, and Peter notices the sheer nervousness and anxiety deep in the wells of Harry's eyes. Aunt May must've begged him to come, he realizes. Before he knows what's happening, Harry has briefly embraced him. The touch sends a shock through Peter and by the look on Harry's face, Harry has not gone unaffected either. "Happy Birthday, pal. How've you been? You never return my calls."
There's no anger in Harry's voice, just real hurt that pierces Peter deeply. Before he can answer, though, Aunt May announces that they all could stand to put a little weight on and takes Mary Jane into the kitchen so they can bring out food and cake.
So there they are; the two of them, alone. Ironically, Peter forgets everything he wanted to say before. So instead he says evenly, coolly, "I've been busy," and thinks immediately, that isn't really what I wanted to say.
"Oh, right," Harry says, and the hurt is still there, flares shadowy and pained, etched deep in the lines of his face. "Too busy taking pictures of your friend."
Peter knows exactly who Harry is referring to. Harry, like everyone else, couldn't avoid the Daily Bugle forever. When Peter actually returns one of Harry's numerous messages, the call usually ends with them shouting at one another about Peter's photos, about Harry's father's murderer. Tell me who the fuck he is you goddamn fucking son of a bitch, and I don't know you asshole stop asking me I said I don't fucking know.
Peter can't tell Harry the truth, can't bring himself to defend his alter-ego knowing how deeply it would wound Harry; so in the end Peter avoids the subject and refuses to talk about it.
"How is the bug these days," Harry whispers, and it's more of a statement than a question.
"Not now," Peter says. "Harry, I don't want to talk about this."
"He killed my father," Harry says lowly, controlling his voice. He closes his eyes and re-opens them, looking up at Peter. "If you knew who he was, would you tell me?"
And once again, Peter is between a rock and a hard place, somewhere they've both been before many times. As per usual, he can't outright lie to Harry or flat-out reject him, so he winds up staring at Harry, looking frightfully tormented. Harry pushes away from the table, his eyes unusually bright, biting his thumbnail as he strides away.
"Well, I'll just eat my hat if your cake is anything other than homemade, Peter Parker!" Aunt May declares proudly, returning to the living room with the glass platter bearing said cake. Mary Jane follows close behind, clutching a bowl of pretzels to her chest. "And you'll eat it, young man. All of you! You're getting too skinny. Oh, my... where did Harry run off to?"
"He went to the bathroom," Peter says shortly, taking a seat and smiling at Mary Jane, trying not to let the guilt swallow him whole. He knows Harry needs an explanation; it's one of the huge reasons behind the messages, the brutality of their fights, the chasm that has stretched between them. Harry needs answers, needs closure, something that will help put his father's death behind him; not a blow-off each and every time. But Peter can't give Harry the explanation he needs and ends up silent or refusing to talk about it, and watches the bridge between them burn just a little more.
*
When Peter manages to pull the plug on Dr. Octavius' machine, he barely escapes from the room before firemen and police come flooding inside. He ducks into a toilet stall on the floor below him, strips off his disguise and stuffs it in his jacket. Despite his rapidity, he is barely able to catch up with Harry, who has already traveled halfway down the block.
"Harry!" he shouts, and Harry and the Oscorp representatives surrounding him turn around.
"Peter," Harry says dazedly, lost and dirty, looking like a little boy. "Peter, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Peter says, wincing. "I was under a desk. Some firemen got me out." Technically that's a lie, but the wince isn't hard to fake. Pulling the thick cords out of the wall made Peter feel as though his arms and shoulders would pop from their sockets.
"I'm sorry," Harry says, blinking fast and looking thoroughly miserable. "I should've seen you."
"Hey, I'm okay," Peter reassures him, and realizes that the Oscorp representatives are still eyeing him speculatively. "Want me to take you home?"
Harry nods, turning to the two men on either side of him. "Warren, Vince... I'm going with Peter. I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"As you wish, Mr. Osborn." Then they're gone, and it is just the two of them again. Peter risks a smile at Harry. Harry tries half-heartedly to muster one in return and fails.
"Come on," Peter whispers, sliding an arm around Harry's waist, letting Harry lean on him. "Let's go."
It's only a few blocks to Harry's apartment. Peter tries to call a taxi halfway down the street, but Harry shakes his head and they keep on going. Surprisingly, the painful walk is over quickly, and before Peter knows it they're inside Harry's bedroom. Harry is kicking off his shoes, undoing his tie and pulling his shirt over his head, turning to gaze liquidly at Peter, hands falling loosely at his sides.
And Peter realizes that Harry does care about him; will always care about him, no matter how bad things get. Even though he hadn't returned Harry's calls and ignored him, he still arranged a meeting for Peter to meet Dr. Octavius, and had genuinely smiled when Peter flushed in delight. Don't worry about it, he had said when Peter profusely thanked him. You're my friend.
Harry is still watching Peter, waiting expectantly. Peter strips his shirt and jacket off, tosses them aside and unbuttons the first button of his dress slacks. Harry sits on the edge of the mattress and leans back, and Peter follows, framing Harry's face with his hands.
"Harry," he breathes. There are so many things he wants to say, so much Harry needs to hear, and not nearly enough time for it all.
Harry simply presses a hand to Peter's lips. "Shh," he whispers. "No talking, now." So Peter doesn't talk; he closes his eyes and is, feels, loses himself and lets the coiled spring of his body unravel, release. Harry grips his hand hard, breathes with him. Peter almost imagines he can feel the spray of the salty ocean dotting on, over his too-hot, burning skin, but in the end it's just him and Harry wrapped together in Egyptian cotton.
And that's good enough; more than.
*
In a fraction of the second it takes for Harry's palm and spread fingers to connect with Peter's cheek, a multitude of thoughts run through his mind. He's been drinking, everyone is watching, I hope Mary Jane isn't seeing this, I had it coming. But the moment Harry's hand snaps back to his side, fingers still clenched and ready to strike like an angry cobra, Peter's mind goes panicked and blank.
Figures, Peter thinks dully. And then he realizes the tie Harry is wearing is the one that Harry once used to bind him to the headboard, but that time is once upon the past and long gone.
"It's really pissing me off, your loyalty to him and not to your best friend," Harry snarls, his voice a hissing slur. "You stole everything from me, you stole MJ from me." His eyes have turned charcoal-black from fury; they roam Peter's face almost hungrily, waiting. Peter is frozen, though. His eyes are impossibly huge, and his expression is shocked and slack-jawed, and for the life of him he still can't think of anything to say.
When he doesn't respond, he feels Harry's lividity rise. Harry hits him again, arm snapping so quickly that Peter barely registers the slap, let alone the sting. His head jerks back, and the muscles in his neck buzz irritably. Is that what you think, that I stole MJ? he thinks, stunned. We can't be here, it can't have come to this. But it has, and really, what did he expect? This is what it all was leading up to; the finale, the climax, the culmination of too many blow-offs and a lack of much-needed explanations.
When Peter raises his eyes to Harry again, the anger in Harry's face has faded. Harry looks as if he's so full of pain he doesn't know what to do with himself, and the pain overflows black and wet in his eyes. "Peter," he whispers, and turns on his heel and leaves. Peter is swallowed by the crowd once again, cheek still red, mind still spinning. This can't possibly get any worse, he thinks, nails digging crescent marks in his palms.
Unbelievably, when Mary Jane descends the marble staircase with John Jameson, it does.
*
"How do I find him?"
"Peter Parker."
Harry rests his forehead against the cool porcelain rise of the toilet, eyes popping open as he feels nausea wrap red burning cords around his esophagus.
"How do I find him?"
"Peter Parker."
Harry fights a series of dry heaves, loses, and vomits half a bottle of fine scotch, gagging so hard tears drip down his cheeks.
HowdoIfindhimPeterParkerPeterParkerPeterPeterpeter...
"Shut up!" Harry chokes, grabbing his temples. His head pounds ferociously; there has to be drums beating against the insides of his skull or something else that would be equally nerve-wracking and shattering.
"Harry?"
At the sound of his name Harry nearly swallows his tongue, sucking in a squeak that isn't even a noise; it's an inhalation of panic, the frenetic sound of fear. He's crawling around the toilet, trying to wriggle into the corner of the room, but his limbs are shaking and they won't function properly, and he can't hide.
Suddenly, somebody's grabbing him and sitting him up against the wall, cupping his chin.
"Harry, look at me," says a voice, Peter's voice, and Peter sounds close to tears. "Look at me, please."
The last thing Harry wants to do is look at anyone. He wishes he could sleep forever like this, up against cool tile with his shoulders in Peter's warm hands. Of course he can't, though, that's ridiculous. So he forces his heavy lids to lift and stares into impossibly bright blue eyes, swallowing another wave of nausea.
"What happened?"
Too much. Everything. Not enough. He doesn't know where to begin, how to end this vicious cycle. What happened? Anything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong. He takes the sides of the toilet in a white-knuckled grip and vomits again, back quivering. Peter goes with him, holding his hair away from his face, one hand pressing hard against his forehead.
"Okay?" Peter asks gently when Harry stops throwing up, pushing sweaty curls out of his eyes.
Okay. More like sick with guilt. Harry is a small step away from utterly and completely hysterical. He tries, but can't force out the words he needs to warn Peter, to save him. He tries and tries and tries and fails every time, so in the end he just collapses in a frustrated, boneless heap of limbs against Peter, eyes blurred, voice thick with desolation and tears.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, pallid and shaking and sick. "I'm so sorry, Peter, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," Peter murmurs, slowly rubbing the back of Harry's neck. "You don't have to be sorry. Everything's gonna be okay, I swear."
Tears slowly seep from the corners of his eyes, across the bridge of his nose, running into his hair and ear. He can't remember ever feeling more lost. No, it's not, he thinks. No, it won't be. He knows just the opposite is about to face the both of them, catastrophe waiting in the wings for her entrance. And he's quiet in the face of her wrath, having forgotten his single crucial line.
*
For some reason Peter remembers their first time, as the chains ensconcing his body snap and fall to his ankles.
He almost can't bear to witness Harry's destruction. The dagger drops from Harry's hand as Harry sinks to the floor, staring thunderstruck and horrified up at Peter. "Peter," he breathes, betrayal, disbelief twisting the syllables into something unrecognizable and pained.
"Now you know," Peter says bitterly, quietly.
"Peter, you're-you ki-!"
"Where is MJ?" Peter cuts Harry off. The single speck of Peter's mind left that isn't boiling with anger and sick fear reminds him that if Harry ever need an explanation, now is it. Every other blow-off will pale in comparison to this one if Peter decides to do it.
But the clock is ticking, and time's run out. We never had enough time, he thinks, despairing for a brief moment. Maybe if we did, things would have been different.
"There are bigger things happening here than you and me," he says slowly. He watches Harry's eyes shutter and wither numbly, and knows that this is it; that's all she wrote, this is final, this is really the end.
And much later, he lies awake underneath the covers with Mary Jane spooned against him. A car alarm goes off in the distance as New York City wakes up from its brief slumber. Peter traces the soft white curve of Mary Jane's shoulder, feels the rise and fall of her chest, listens to her breathe. Sifts strands of her bright red hair through his fingers.
Tells himself he won't think about curls.
AUTHOR: veuki
FANDOM: Spider-Man (1&2)
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Peter Parker/Harry Osborn
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own Marvel Comics' respective characters.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
SUMMARY: There's a Big Picture Peter is supposed to be looking at and he is; he just isn't completely sure he likes what he's seeing.
Peter’s weekly Biology Club meeting finishes by five, which means he gets home by five-fifteen and has dinner with his aunt and uncle by six. There's a little trouble with the car on the way back, but Uncle Ben pops the hood and they're back on the road within minutes. At five-twenty they stomp their muddy shoes on the faded mat near the front porch, and the red potted geraniums shiver as they spend two minutes fiddling with the screen door.
Harry arrives a half-hour late and nearly misses dinner, bringing with him a bright boyish grin and curls soaked from the rain. A clucking Aunt May prepares a plate of pot pie and biscuits. Harry waits by the fridge, which practically caves inwards from Peter's report cards and third grade crayon-and-construction paper relics. By the time Aunt May stops urging third helpings on both of them and Peter manages to drag Harry up to his room, the clock reads seven twenty-eight.
"We have studying to do," Peter reminds Harry for what feels like the umpteenth time. Harry’s eyes wander over the various posters taped to the wall, the Super Nintendo gathering dust at the corner of the room; focusing on anything but the spread of papers and books before them.
"I fucking hate history," Harry exhales, drawing out "fucking" to let Peter know how displeased he is, gargling the /ck/ in the back of his throat and letting saliva bubble, distorting the sound.
"That's really disgusting," Peter says, somewhat fascinated.
"Thank you," Harry responds courteously, then pauses, winces; lets out a long belch that Peter's aunt and uncle can most likely hear from downstairs. "Why do you even bother reviewing this crap? You get A's every time. If I hear Mr. Hoffman call you his 'star pupil' again I'm going to throw up on his orthopedic shoes."
"Careful, I think those are his only pair," Peter says, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his laughter. At least one of them has to be focused when they study (or at least, try to). "Okay. This is kind of tough. July 10, 1559. Henry II died and was succeeded by... blank."
"King James IV," Harry says confidently, rolling over on his stomach, wrapping the blanket around his ankles and propping his chin on his hands.
Peter shakes his head, fanning the edges of the pages with his thumb.
"John Hancock?"
Peter half-heartedly tosses one of his striped pillows at Harry. "Wrong continent. Didn't you review this stuff at all?"
"Nope," Harry says cheerfully, catching the pillow and wedging it under his flat belly. "Want to hear a dirty joke?"
"What?" Peter answers, caught off guard.
"Six white horses fell in the mud."
"That is so stupid," Peter laughs; pushes his black plastic glasses further up on his nose and emits another deep belly laugh, fingers slipping along the brown paper edges of the textbook.
"You're laughing," Harry points out needlessly. "I know, I kinda liked that one, too. What's red and crawls up a girl's leg?"
"Er," Peter says stupidly. "The Blob?"
"A homesick abortion."
"Holy shit," Peter breathes, clapping a hand over his mouth. He laughs again but the laugh is different; it's low and sort of shocked and guilty, and Peter's a little ashamed it ever escaped in the first place. "That's awful."
Harry flops onto his back again, curls spilling over tightly-shut lids as he speaks evenly. "That's what I think I was. Am."
His mother died when he was five; heart complications or other (Harry was vague and Peter didn't ask him to elaborate). He told Peter this under the Chinese elm behind their school three years ago, staring darkly into the filtered sunset, only semi-visible past the weeping branches. Harry hates his mother and is almost positive his mother hated him in return. Secretly, Peter believes Harry'll never know for sure, because he is almost certain that Norman Osborn has never once portrayed Harry's mother in an entirely truthful light.
Harry doesn't remember much about his mother. He remembers that she wore Ma Griffe perfume and had a collection of décolleté jackets that Mr. Osborn sold a short time after her death. Harry remembers crawling into his mother's closet and touching the jackets; running his small hands over sequined gold, purple glass, wine-colored silk beads. He remembers pulling those beads off, one by one, methodically stuffing them into the cracks between the floorboards and listening to them roll away. He remembers her screaming; he remembers his mother breaking her silver hand mirror against the back of his corduroys.
"Mommy's mistake that wouldn't fuck off and die," Harry says.
Sometimes, late at night when Harry stays over at Peter's house, Harry calls for his mother in his sleep. When this happens Peter always slides silently out of bed, touches his friend's shoulder, smoothes Harry's sweaty hair back from his cold forehead. He watches him sleep; watches over Harry, long after Harry has stopped whimpering and tossing and turning. Peter has never told Harry this.
Peter can't watch over Harry while he's awake, though. Instead, Peter looks back at his textbook and asks for the date of Queen Mary's inauguration; feels vaguely like a tourist snapping pictures of a car wreck, gaping at a chrome bumper wrapped around a telephone pole.
*
And then it happens; his gift, his curse, whatever the hell it actually is. It's something straight out of the Sci-Fi channel; bigger than George Lucas, the X-Files, but only to him. It's like opening the best present at Christmas while the rest of the world is permanently asleep. Peter doesn’t need his glasses, he’s ripped, and his fingers feel like Super Post-Its. He climbs walls, he jumps buildings; he's better than any superhero he's ever read about, ever dreamed of being.
Faster than Peter can breathe, blink, the dream is over. The rest of the world awakens, and Peter looks into his Christmas box and sees that his diamonds have turned to coal. He belts Mary Jane’s boyfriend in the gut (which he has secretly dreamed of doing ever since Mary Jane put on Flash's class ring), sends him flying down the hallway like a projectile shot via the Peter Parker cannon.
His euphoria fades when he notices Mary Jane, staring at him as though he has sprouted five heads. His stomach shrivels, curls up icy and heavy, and he does the only thing he can; he runs. Harry is a soft soundtrack made indistinct by dialogue, and Mary Jane is syncopated, allegro and andante and everything all at once; Symphonia in Red No. 1.
Uncle Ben and Aunt May have never set a strict curfew for Peter because he is always home by nine at the very latest. Gingerly pushing the door open to avoid the creaking of the hinges, Peter knows he has definitely broken his unwritten curfew tonight. The blue glow of his watch is a reprimanding authority figure all on its own-12:23, it beeps accusingly.
MICHELANGELO, Uncle Ben's handwriting accuses him, at about the same time the smell of fresh paint hits him, and Peter wonders when the world decided it really had it in for him.
As he considers heating up the leftover meatloaf in the oven, Mary Jane's shocked face and rose hair swims before his eyes. He's done a lot of stupid and embarrassing things in his life, but this has most certainly taken the cake. If he ever wished he could turn back time, twist the metaphorical hour-hand on the clock of life, now is his most desperate hour of need.
Peter toes off his sneakers at the foot of the stairs, skips the seventh (which always groans at even the slightest application of pressure). He shuffles his socked feet along the carpet, is static-shocked as he runs a hand along a stack of folded sweaters, turns on his heel into his room and reaches for the light switch-
-realizes that the light is already on because Harry is on his bed, long limbs drawn up, hand slightly bent near his head. As Peter chokes on a cry that was originally meant to be "Jesus Christ," but comes out as a short string of unintelligible consonants, Harry's eyes pop open.
"Sorry," Harry apologizes, sitting up too fast and wincing as his neck cracks audibly. "Sorry, Pete. Didn't mean to scare you."
"No, no, it's okay," Peter says, willing the pounding of his heart to turn slow and easy. "What-what're you doing here?"
"Your aunt let me in earlier." Harry yawns, voice becoming breathy, almost indistinguishable as his jaw nearly unhinges. "I was waiting for you. I helped paint the kitchen." Sure enough, robin's egg blue is spotted over his hands and jeans.
"Oh," Peter says. The balls of his feet rise. He debates sitting on the bed, swaying indecisively, and moves over to the desk chair. "Are they mad?"
"I don't think so." Harry jams his hands in the pockets of his cocoa-brown fleece shirt. "They were just a little worried. I told them that something came up and you were probably gonna be out late."
"Oh," Peter repeats. "Oh," and gets up off the chair, trudges over to the bed and flops face-down next to Harry. His nose is bends uncomfortably, squashing against his pillow.
"Hey," Harry says. "You okay, Pete?"
A long, long silence.
"Are you even breathing?"
"I wish I were dead," Peter finally mumbles into damp lime-colored cotton.
"Peter," Harry says, stifling another yawn and slowly lying down next to him. "Flash is no reason to wish you were dead. Flash is a walking, talking reason to feel infinitely superior in every way imaginable. He's a... a beefcake, sure, but he's no Einstein."
"I almost killed him, Harry."
"I think 'killed' is a bit of an exaggeration."
"But I did."
"Peter, shut the fuck up," Harry says calmly.
Silence.
"You didn't, okay? You didn't. And even if you did, it wouldn’t have been anything to write home about. The guy’s a fucking jerk."
"But I punched him halfway down the hall."
"Pete, do I have to remind you that he and his idiot gorilla posse have done a lot worse to you?" Harry shifts closer. "You just roughed him up a bit. Nothing serious. Honestly."
"It was serious," Peter mumbles.
"Oh for Christ’s sake, the prick deserved it," Harry says exasperatedly. "Will you stop beating yourself up about it? If I'd gotten half the chance I would have stuck his head on a fucking stake."
Despite Peter’s thoroughly depressing state of misery, he feels a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
"Pete," Harry says, breathing lightly, warmly on the back of his neck.
No answer.
"That really was fucking amazing," Harry says.
*
For the first few months after Uncle Ben's death, Peter has nightmares.
In his opinion it really isn't anything to whine or complain about, and even if it was there really isn't anyone he could whine or complain to. After all, it is his fault. He says this silently to himself, aloud when no one is listening. A huge, aching part of Peter has not yet accepted his uncle's death, and that only makes it worse. Peter knows the grief will slam him like a freight train when the shock really, really fades away and reality hits home, and the dread is slowly eating away at his insides.
Aunt May cries. She leaves her bed only to run her fingers over framed photos of Uncle Ben in the living room, and shuffles back upstairs when she is done sobbing, clutching the folds of her pink robe to her chest.
Peter touches her shoulder and sometimes she pulls away, sometimes she doesn't. She always apologizes afterwards, though, for being a "silly old girl". Peter never knows quite what to say in response. If you knew the truth, you'd never talk to me again? I'm sorry, it's my fault, I'm the real reason your husband is dead?
He clamps those traitorous words behind his teeth, but no matter how many times he opens his mouth to try and let them out all he ever hears is "I'm sorry" or "I love you, Aunt May".
Peter watches blood bubble out of the gaping wound in Uncle Ben's chest; listens to his creaky voice, made weak and nearly unrecognizable from the punch to his throat, the skin of his neck already bruised blackish-yellow. Sometimes, Peter can't quite make out his face; sometimes Uncle Ben is staring glassy-eyed up at Peter, and sometimes Uncle Ben's killer is watching him murderously, hateful lust sizzling in his dead black gaze. Peter often wakes with the sheets twisted around his legs, head throbbing, skin damp with cool sweat. He usually finds a sob caught in his throat; just hovering, waiting there for a moment of penetrable weakness.
And despite everything, he can't stop thinking about Mary Jane. He loves her; he loves her so much it hurts, renders him speechless and incapable of coherency. He shouldn't think of Mary Jane, not now, he knows he shouldn't. But he does, constantly, and he can't stop, and the guilt is a heavy demon on his shoulder.
It's almost ironic; he's stronger than any man alive, can jump a hundred feet and swing half a block through the air; yet he is powerless.
"I can't do this," Peter says savagely, slamming his biology textbook closed. It is a drizzling grey Sunday afternoon, one that perfectly suits his mood. He has been watching Mary Jane for the past hour through his window.
"Ask her out already," Harry says mildly, poring over a section of highlighted notes.
"I can't do that either." Peter exhales frustratedly. Mary Jane laughs at something somebody on the other end of the line says, tosses her red hair. "You know how you just-that time when you... we were on the museum field trip thing and you just went right up and talked to her?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you do that?"
Harry blinks, somewhat owlishly. "Er. I have no idea. I just... do?" He sheepishly shrugs. "Sorry. That's not much help." He rises with a groan, setting his notes down. Making his way over to Peter's window, he pulls the blinds down, effectively obscuring Mary Jane from view. "I think that's enough MJ-watching to last us both a lifetime."
Peter drops his face into his hands. "I'm in love with her," he mutters, gnawing his palms in between words. "I know, I know, I shouldn't be thinking about her right now. I just can't help it."
"You're allowed to think about whatever you want," Harry says, sitting next to him, taking care not to bounce the bed. "You shouldn't apologize for what you think. Period."
"But I shouldn't be," Peter whispers. "I miss..." He doesn't know what he wants to say. Mary Jane. Uncle Ben. His parents. Somebody. He tries again. "I miss..."
"You don't have to say anything." And suddenly Peter feels gentle fingers at his fly, working the zipper down.
What the...?
Somebody's hand is on my crotch.
It's unexpected, to say the least; some kind of fucking weird sexual deus ex machina. He's so numb that he can barely register Harry's touch, so it doesn't really even matter anyway. But Harry is slipping impossibly warm hands inside his boxers, slowly bringing him back.
Oh.
And...
Oh.
"Harry," Peter says softly, body still as Harry draws his cock out of his jeans. And again; "Harry." The unspoken question is thick in his voice, but he's not even sure what that question is. "What..."
"Nothing," Harry murmurs, flicking his thumb over the silky tip of Peter's cock. Quietly, "let me help."
Peter is hard instantly. He hasn't jerked off in weeks, months, and his body is as tight as a bowstring, the sinew of his muscles stretched thin. "What-?" he tries again, hips bucking into Harry's fist. He twines a hand in Harry's curls for support otherwise he will fall, and fall fast. Shivers are already racing hot through his kneecaps and vibrating in his thighs. Peter tries to speak but the words have melted, honey on his tongue.
"Yeah," Harry breathes, beginning to pant despite himself, jerking Peter a little faster, a little harder, pausing briefly to lick the arch of skin between his thumb and index finger. He bumps jawbones with Peter and grimaces, but he keeps the rhythm steady and unbroken. "Chicken Soup for the Adult Soul," he whispers into shell of Peter's ear, and Peter feels Harry's smile.
"Is that what it is," Peter says raggedly, flashing Harry a small smile even though Harry's eyes are closed. He laughs; it's the first time he's laughed in months, and it hurts, tears from his chest with the force of a small bomb. "You're weird," he sighs shakily, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the waves of pain cresting and crashing in his lungs, the waves of pleasure licking red hot molten at every pore of his skin-
-and Harry fumbles with his free hand, takes Peter's chin and leans in and kisses him hard; the kiss is sloppy and wet and messy and Peter's first, and Peter's teeth close reflexively around Harry's lip as he explodes with a soft cry.
"Peter," Harry exhales, shaking, as Peter returns to earth. He presses his lips to the corner of Peter's mouth, a pale imitation of a kiss, a far cry from the first. "Peter."
*
It's strange, Peter reflects, being with Harry.
Of course, he's not with Harry per se. Harry makes it clear to him from the start that they are nothing more than friends; friends who occasionally fuck. In the beginning, Peter didn't like it when Harry used the word 'fuck' to refer to what they did behind closed doors. He cringed irritably the first few times, but after a day or two he found he didn't give a shit. Peter didn't really care anyway; writhing beneath Harry, he tended to let things that truly didn't matter slide.
He guesses he just wasn't used to hearing it.
Peter returns to school after a few weeks, where things are relatively normal. His teachers beam pitifully at him, Flash glares bitterly whenever he passes him in the halls, and Mary Jane ignores him along with the rest of the school. Harry ditches fourth period French to eat lunch with him, and ends up dropping the class after receiving eight days' worth of cut slips.
Peter and Harry are still friends, much to Peter's disbelief. He wasn't sure he could look Harry in the eye again after what happened in his bedroom. He didn't, not for a few days, until Harry cornered him, pinned his wrists over his head, tore open Peter's jeans and ground against him mercilessly; twisted his hips until Peter came against Harry's denim-clad thigh, struggling hard to breathe.
Aunt May still tries to force-feed Harry and they still study together and Harry still hates doing it. Still is the key word there, because everything is still going, still in motion, uninterrupted, just like Newton said the perfect universe would be.
"What if people find out?" Peter had asked, to which Harry had bluntly responded, "Let them. It's none of their fucking business what we do in our private lives, okay," and that, apparently, was that.
It could almost be called strange. What he has with Harry is worlds apart from his fantasy world with Mary Jane that he has spun from Day One; still continues to spin. He and Harry are rough with each other like Peter would never dream of being with Mary Jane. Their teeth clack grindingly when they kiss. They rip each other's clothes, tearing holes and seams. Lost buttons are never found. Their hipbones knock and their fingers bruise, and there was blood only the first time but Peter never saw it again.
And then it's not always like they're fighting a battle; sometimes, it's different. Sometimes, Harry tugs him onto the bed and tells him to close his eyes, and Harry learns and re-learns everything about Peter, makes the crook of his elbow a mile long with his hands and mouth and breath, turns the length of his body into something vast and endless.
Peter learns about The Rules, too; because there are Rules when you fuck men if you are a man, and if you're someone like Harry Osborn, next in line for command of one of the largest biotechnology companies in the world, those Rules apply tenfold. Rule One, no kissing; Rule Two, no fucking the same person twice; Rule Three, no emotional attachment, and Rule Four, it can and will damage your reputation should it ever get out that you fuck guys, so keep your fucking mouth shut because it's none of anyone else's goddamn fucking business to begin with.
Peter learns that he is the only guy Harry has ever fucked more than once. He doesn't ask why he is the exception and Harry doesn't tell him. There are plenty of unanswered questions, and Peter-well, Peter's just fine and okay and peachy with that, and apparently, Harry is too.
It takes Peter longer to run through the unspoken checklist than he would expect. Harry obviously doesn't give a damn about Rules One and Two (obviously), and Rule Four Peter abides by, too, but Rule Three is something that Peter wonders about late at night, when it is too quiet outside and his mind is just a little too blank.
Peter used to jerk off regularly thinking about Mary Jane (before he started getting laid on a regular basis, anyway). He imagined the white swell of her breasts and her pink nipples, closed his eyes and saw her glossy lips wrapped around his cock, came with Mary Jane Mary Jane Mary Jane a strangled litany in the still of the night, beneath the scorching needles of the shower.
He finds that thoughts of her are becoming more infrequent, of making love to her and kissing her and having children with her, and that frightens him. But the days go by and life goes on and the fear fades steadily, and he loves her still but the world doesn't seem so accusatory and difficult as it used to be. And he doesn't feel so desperate and despairing and hopeless, and the nightmares have nearly gone completely.
One lazy afternoon, Peter is wrapped lazily in Harry's sheets, eyes closed as he dozes on and off. Harry traces Peter's hip, rubbing wide slow circles with his palm and tracing the bone with his fingers. The sunlight streams in through the Monticello windows, sends burnished gold shadows dancing on the cream walls, sunspots scattered everywhere.
"Pete," Harry says. Peter lets out a low sound of contentment, sighs and wriggles, rolls up into Harry's hands. "Pete," he repeats again when Peter doesn't answer.
He cracks an eye open.
"Pete. If I ever..."
"Spit it out," Peter mumbles, closing his eyes again.
Harry hesitates for only a few seconds before he takes a long breath, and Peter feels him take that metaphorical plunge into the deep end. "If I ever wanted to date MJ-and you weren't you know, with her, you wouldn't care, right?"
Peter opens his eyes, wide and kind of stunned this time, and turns his head so he can look directly at Harry.
"I mean, I don't know if you would. That's why I'm asking, obviously-"
"What brought this on?" Peter asks, not caring that he's interrupting.
"My father, a bit. I mean... Oscorp is going to be mine one day. They just did a spread about it in Newsweek. And I can't spend my life with..." A pause. Harry presses nervously, too hard against the low curve of Peter's groin muscle, still faintly slick with spit and come and sweat. Peter doesn't flinch. "You just can't, you know. If you're going to be famous."
Peter is silent for a few long minutes, tries to ignore the shark in his belly snapping at his insides. "Sure."
"You're okay with it?" Harry asks, clearly relieved.
"Yeah. Go ahead," Peter responds. "You've got my blessing."
"It's just-Mary Jane's the kind of girl I think I could love, and-"
"Fuck me," Peter whispers, cutting Harry off. The sentence hangs unfinished and that's just the way Peter wants it. He rolls Harry over, fumbling for the bottle of lube, kissing him fiercely, not wanting to hear anything more about Mary Jane. Harry is tense and unmoving, hesitant for only a second, but before Peter can breathe Harry has flipped him over on his back and wrapped Peter's legs around his waist and is sliding into him, one long deep thrust that nearly unravels him completely.
Peter breathes; closes his eyes and just goes with it, rides everything out and breathes. Says Harry's name and finds he can't stop saying it because once isn't enough; in their world, once is never enough.
*
"I want you to be my roommate," Harry says one day, biting the inside of Peter's thigh, licking a long slow wet stripe up his cock. "In New York. When I go to New York you have to come with me."
Peter throws an arm over his eyes, hacking out panicked moans. "Harry," he chokes, and thinks Holy fuck I'm going to fucking die.
"Say yes," Harry whispers, blows a cool stream of air over the head of Peter's cock.
"Jesus," Peter rasps, and then, "yes yes Harry yes-"
*
Graduation dawns bright and sunny. Aunt May cleans the house and puts a roast in the oven, wears a cerulean blue dress and lipstick and white gloves. Seeing her smiling at him, cupping his face and telling him how proud she is of him; it digs a hole deeper in Peter's chest, the one that's been there ever since Uncle Ben. And he knows how to get rid of it, but he can't; he can't break her heart, and maybe if he had the fucking balls to admit it he'd realize his silence is what it is because he's fucking selfish, and scared that Aunt May will never speak to him again. The logical, rational part of him knows that she deserves to make that choice, but his tongue is frozen whenever he tries, and each time she walks away-even if it's just to duck into another room-he feels a little emptier.
Harry tells him that their apartment will be secured and ready come fall, so during the summer he'll have to stay at home while Harry works at Oscorp with his father and will he be okay? Peter elbows him, grinning, and is promptly passed by Harry like a Thanksgiving bowl of mashed potatoes over to Mr. Osborn, who offers him sincere apologies and words of pity that Peter is just tired of goddamn hearing.
Peter watches Harry watch Mary Jane out of the corner of his eye.
*
"Hey, Pete... seven-thirty, my house. I'll order pizza. Don't be late. Bye."
beep
"Pete, it's eight-thirty-calling to make sure you're-"
beep
"Morning! Anyway, we were supposed to fuck... but it's fine. I just wanted to call and make sure you-"
beep
beep beep beep
you have no new messages
*
Peter checks his messages whenever he gets a chance (which usually rolls around between two and five a.m., a sweaty costume and burning muscles in tow). He gets the usual Aunt May "I love you and miss you" messages, and the telemarketer "you've just won a free trip to Disney Land!" messages-
-And then there are Harry's messages.
Listening to Harry's messages only makes it obvious and concrete, writing on the wall that Peter can never be in a normal relationship, and he is slowly beginning to realize that. He is barely home anymore. Spider-Man is his constant job, and he breathes eats lives sleeps protecting people. That is who he has become, and Peter is coming to terms with the fact that that is who he will always be.
What he and Harry have (and what, exactly, is as incomprehensible as far as enigmas go) no girl would tolerate, and certainly Mary Jane would never put up with it. Not many people, even; not just Mary Jane. There's a Big Picture Peter is supposed to be looking at and he is; he just isn't completely sure he likes what he's seeing.
*
Autumn finally arrives. The leaves turn red and blanket the ground in Central Park, a bronzed invitation of what they've both been waiting for. By the time Harry actually gets ahold of Peter on September second and Peter finishes packing his meager belongings on the fifteenth, it is the twenty-first before his bags are waiting to be unpacked in Harry's hallway. Peter doesn't even get a chance to knock before Harry flings the door open and wraps bony arms around him, slapping his back. Peter steadies himself by resting a hand on Harry's hip, slides callused fingers down to cup Harry's ass and realizes that Harry has gotten skinnier (if that is at all possible which, apparently, it was).
"Ah ah ah," Harry says, laughing, pulling back so he can take a look at Peter's face, fingers curled tightly around Peter's forearms. "Don't touch the merchandise."
"Well, okay," Peter says in a teasing sing-song sort of voice, slowly and deliberately disentangling himself from Harry's grasp, "if you wa-ant me to..."
"Don't be stupid!" Harry grins nervously, exhales hard, slides his fingers through Peter's shower-damp hair. His grin fades slowly as his eyes search Peter's face, and his gaze turns intense and searing. Peter shivers, his body already beginning to tense with anticipation.
"You got glasses," Peter says almost calmly, despite the gooseflesh rapidly rising underneath his sweater and jeans. He lifts a hand up to touch the wire frames.
"They're fucking annoying," Harry responds, though there's no vehemence behind his words.
"I like them on you," Peter says, smoothing an errant curl back from Harry's brow.
"I..." Harry begins, but apparently thinks better of whatever it is he was going to say, and deftly angles his head to kiss Peter.
"Harry," Peter whispers, trembling. Harry's mouth is only centimeters from his own and Peter doesn't know if he can restrain himself long enough to ask-"Are you okay?"
"What d'you mean?" Harry responds, glancing away, breathing against Peter's lips, mouth brushing against them slightly as he speaks. Peter jolts at the contact and shudders, seeing that Harry has jolted too.
"Are you... you know, okay? You seem... I don't know," Peter says, a hitched gasp catching in his throat as Harry grabs his hips and yanks, and his arms in his too-long sleeves go reflexively around Harry's neck to steady himself. His knees are already beginning to weaken. "Anxious."
"I'm fine," Harry says, "really."
A part of Peter urges him to press Harry, but Harry strips Peter with brutal efficiency and spins him around and all Peter understands is this, right here, right now. Harry yanks off his brown-and-blue striped tie and takes Peter's wrists, ties them tightly and loops them over the headboard, pulling Peter's knees back slightly so the long lean length of Peter's back stretches even more. Peter is positively quivering as he begs Harry to do something, anything; lets out a long, guttural groan as Harry traces smooth, elegant fingers down his spine in an infuriatingly slow, lazy manner. When Harry shoves his thighs apart and trails his tongue along the curve of Peter's ass, Peter bites back a loud cry and lets his head drop, hang limply from the tight arch of his back.
"Fuck me," Peter manages.
Harry lifts his head up and presses a spit-shiny kiss to the back of Peter's neck, panting despite himself. "Wait," he says.
"Fuck waiting," Peter says. "Fuck me."
Harry laughs breathlessly, and Peter feels Harry's cool slick fingertips pressing into him. "Now," he grinds out, shoving back at Harry mercilessly, sighing as Harry's fingers sink into him.
"Wait-just let me, just let me," Harry groans, dropping his forehead between Peter's shoulderblades.
"Give it to me," Peter says, expelling the words in a rush of air, "fuck me now, come on Harry please," and tries not to scream as he feels Harry push into him, one deep fast hard thrust that nearly has him over the edge. "I'm gonna-" leaves his mouth before he realizes it was there to begin with, a guttural fragmented sound.
"No, not yet," Harry says, one wet slick hand slapping Peter's hip. "Don't."
"Yes," Peter demands, clenching tightly around Harry, managing a smug smile as Harry moans. "Now."
"Now," Harry echoes. So Peter does, Harry following soon after. And when the beating of their hearts has returned to normal, Harry unties Peter's wrists and entwines their fingers loosely.
As night settles over them, Peter remembers a song he once heard; eyes of shadow-water, eyes of well-water, eyes of dream-water. But when he looks at Harry again, Harry's eyes are closed.
"Are you awake?" Peter asks, his voice drowsy and low. Harry doesn't respond.
*
Everything always adds up eventually. Two plus two makes four, one plus two makes three, and the equation is most definitely correct when Peter discovers Harry has been dating Mary Jane. Oh, yeah, so that fucking well explains everything; the furtive phone calls, "gonna be late working on stuff at the office". Things got rougher in bed and Peter started seeing blood, and now he understands why.
So he understands the recipe now: mix Peter Parker with one cup each of disbelief, shock, anger and hurt, shake well. Let stew at 450º fahrenheit for a few days for best results, underhandedly confront Harry before his father, know it's a shitty thing to do. Get unfairly pissed when Harry changes the subject. Smile smugly as Norman Osborn adulates him and Harry looks away, the unloved son.
Later, after Harry has gone to bed and quietly closed the door, effectively shutting Peter out, Peter thinks, that didn't really add up right, now did it.
*
Norman Osborn dies Norman Osborn, a courtesy that Peter promised to extend to a shell of a man before he faded in Peter's arms. "Don't tell Harry," he had choked, voice thick from blood swelling around his vocal cords, and then-
-Gone.
Peter remembers that voice on the way home to his and Harry's apartment, the sound of blossoming blood in speech and breath. He's heard it only once before, when Uncle Ben died with Peter's sleeve gripped in his hand.
He shoves his costume down deep under a few physics textbooks in his bag. Opening the door, he finds Harry sitting on the floor rocking his father back and forth in long, slow motions. Harry's curls obscure his face from view and bathed in moonlight, he looks impossibly young.
Harry lifts his head, face contorted, screwed up in anguish. "Peter," he says simply.
Peter doesn't ask what happened, and Harry doesn't tell him. Instead, Peter picks up the phone and dials an ambulance. He sits beside Harry and cups the side of Harry's stubbled cheek, brings it against his shoulder. Harry does not cry, but Peter feels his shoulders shake with tremendous effort as he struggles not to.
The silver moonlight retreats from the window, is replaced by red lights and wailing sirens, death's call.
*
Before it even happens Peter knows that the service for Norman Osborn will be large and festive and elegant, held in one of the most expensive churches in New York City. Harry arranges everything beforehand. Peter knows Harry is moving in a daze, hearing himself speak cordially from a distance, a sharp corner in his mind. Crabmeat sandwiches, oh, you're out, watercress is fine. White flowers. A simple headstone, nothing fancy.
Peter heard the scream of police cars, was nearly halfway out the window before he slowly crawled back inside. He really needs you right now, a voice in the back of his mind had whispered, and it was true. Harry was there for Peter when Uncle Ben died.
It's not an obligation; I want to.
Which is why Peter is curled up on the sofa in sweatpants and one of Harry's ragged Radiohead shirts, crunching sour grape Nerds between his back teeth, watching Seinfeld on mute with one eye and Harry talking on the phone with the other. The captions scroll against the television screen, highlighted in white.
"Yes... yes, it's this Sunday. Yes. Can I fax you directions? Sure, no problem, I'll hold."
KRAMER: THAT STUFF IS UNBELIEVABLE. I'D EAT IT OUT OF A DUMPSTER.
[LAUGHTER]
Peter finishes off the rest of the box of Nerds and grins. He must've laughed along with the rest of the nation too, because Harry bends his head and softly kisses him.
Peter slides fingers wrinkled from an earlier shower around the back of Harry's neck, deepens the kiss, and for a moment everything is silent and still and nonexistent around them.
Harry suddenly pulls back, looking slightly flushed and struggling to clamp the cordless phone between his shoulder and ear. "No, it was no problem. I've got a pen, yes..." Peter sniggers, and Harry flicks the back of his neck on his way back to the table. "Two oh nine... forty-five fifty-two. Got it. I'm sending them as we speak." A long period of silence. "Thank you," Harry says stiffly, his voice brittle.
KRAMER: YOU COULD HAVE INTRODUCED ME.
JERRY: I WOULDN'T KNOW WHERE TO START...
Peter doesn't even need to glance at Harry to know what he is thinking-more insincere condolences, great, thanks a bunch. Well, aren't you a bit of an insincere condolence yourself, seeing as you oh, I don't know, killed his father? the tiny voice in the back of his head nags.
Shut up, Peter thinks.
"Okay. Yes. See you Sunday. Thank you very much. Good-bye." Harry savagely jams his finger against the power button and flops down on the sofa, putting his long legs over Peter's knees and throwing an arm over his eyes. "I wish these people would stop calling me."
Peter doesn't know what to say, isn't really sure if there's anything he could say that would help Harry. So he simply rubs his thumb slowly around Harry's knee through his Armani slacks, remains quiet.
"Peter," Harry says, so softly Peter almost doesn't catch it.
Peter's answer is a low hum in the back of his throat.
"Thank you for being here," Harry whispers, hand still shadowing half his face. "Sometimes I feel like you're the only person left in the world besides me." He pulls his hand away, staring at Peter with impossibly dark eyes. "Does that make sense?"
"I think so," Peter says.
Harry sits up with graceful ease, swinging his legs off the sofa and bracing one hand on the cushion between them. Angling his head slightly, he presses his mouth against Peter's, kissing him lazily, almost gently. Peter is unused to the placidity of Harry's kiss. Harry hasn't touched him like this since before graduation, before the Mary Jane debacle.
Harry breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Peter's, one hand cupping the side of Peter's neck. "Want you," he murmurs.
"You've got me," Peter breathes, leaning in to kiss Harry again, but Harry pulls back slightly.
"Fuck me," Harry whispers.
This stops Peter in his tracks. He stares unabashedly at Harry, eyes wide. "Harry-"
"I want this," Harry says, and adds: "Please."
"Okay," Peter says, trying to ignore the liquid heat pooling fast in his belly because this is about Harry, not his dick. "Okay."
It's Peter's first time fucking Harry, and he's unsure and really, really nervous about what to do and what not to do, and considering the circumstances it matters a hell of a lot. But Harry is a patient teacher like always, murmuring, "Twist... bend your... just a bit, yeah. Deeper... ah!" He rakes both hands in his curls when Peter rubs slick fingers against his prostate, sighing and gasping and making noises that Peter could listen all day to. But when he clenches hard around Peter's fingers and pants, "Inside me now," Peter knows he can't. Harry wraps his legs high around Peter's ribcage and grips the sheets as Peter pushes fully into him, groaning.
"Fuck me," Harry snarls once Peter is in and sees Peter struggling for composure, "fuck me hurt me," and thrusts his hips up vengefully. But Peter merely shakes his head and kisses Harry's temple, rocking so slowly Peter thinks his heart will burst.
And just like that the anger fades from Harry's face, and a tear rolls down one carved cheek, salty and hot. Uncertain, Peter tries to pull away, but Harry's fingernails dig into his ass, drawing him deeper. "Don't stop," Harry begs hoarsely.
"I won't," Peter says, voice strained, blinking the sweat from his eyes as he smiles. Harry smiles back; it's tiny but real and all of a sudden his head is pressing back into the pillows and his come is spattering wetly against Peter's chest, and he's gasping hard, thrashing on the bed. That image of Harry is frozen in Peter's mind, painted boldly on the back of his retinas as his fingers tighten around Harry's sharp hips and the world goes dim for a few heart-stopping moments.
When he settles back down to earth, Harry is out cold with a hand underneath his cheek, lashes accentuating the dark shadows under his eyes.
"Harry," Peter whispers, hesitantly tucking a damp curl behind Harry's ear. He doesn't stir. "Harry, I'm so sorry."
*
The sky on the day of Norman Osborn's funeral is disgustingly, inappropriately blue. If the sun had been out, Harry just might have kicked the priest. His father's important business associates are there and so are their wives, clad in expensive silk black veils pretending to cry for someone they never knew. Harry places a solitary orchid on top of the coffin, the only flower his father could stand. He moves to the edge of the field near the wrought iron gates, away from the people gathered around his father's grave.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watches Mary Jane kiss Peter.
*
Peter leaves Harry's apartment only a few months after the funeral. He can fit everything he owns into a few duffel bags and he does exactly that before sitting down with Harry at the kitchen table near the window.
Peter's eyes are cast towards his lap. For a few minutes, all that is audible is the hum of the radiator and the ticking of the clock near the fridge. "I don't think I'm helping anymore," Peter finally says, quietly. "I think I'm hurting you."
Harry shrugs, stirring his coffee. He lets the spoon clink deliberately against the sides of the mug, knowing Peter hates that noise in particular. If Peter is bothered, he doesn't show it.
He knows what Peter is saying isn't the truth; Peter's twisting the truth just to spare his poor fwagile widdle heart. They have bitter fights, and they never bring up any actual issues and it's never gotten physically violent, but it's draining and exhausting and traumatic all the same. Peter is spent of energy nearly every day as it is, and the monster within Harry watches and rejoices gleefully. What are you doing, Harry thinks dizzily to himself when he sees Peter's face crumple after a particularly wounding insult or retort. This has to be an out-of-body experience, this isn't me, this isn't happening.
But it is; it already has, and that's why they're where they are.
"I found a studio apartment that's closer to school. Guess I won't be late, uh... so much anymore, huh?" Peter smiles, too brightly.
"Guess so," Harry responds at length.
"This is my new number," Peter says, tearing off a scrap of newspaper and scribbling on the corner with a red pen. He slides it across the table to Harry. "Will you call me? Tonight?"
"Maybe," Harry says, pocketing the number.
Something flickers behind Peter's eyes, but it is gone by the time he stands and lifts his hand half-heartedly. "I'll see you," he says, his head bowed. He disappears briefly into the bedroom for his bags and is out the door before Harry can really register what's happening.
Harry watches through the window as a taxi pulls up besides the apartment complex. A minute later, Peter is exiting through the front doors. The trunk of the cab pops open and Peter easily tosses his bags inside. He opens the door, but before he slides inside the cab he looks up at Harry's window.
Harry stares down at Peter as he waves again; then Peter is inside the cab, pulling the door shut, and the taxi is weaving down the streets towards five o'clock traffic.
Harry picks up the flower pot on the window sill and hurls it across the room. It shatters, dirt spilling across the floor, the pot breaking into clay shards. "God dammit," Harry screams, "god fucking dammit," and he doesn't recognize his voice, bitter and wretched and furious and lost, and he's sinking to the ground, his knees bending against his chest.
Peter, his mind echoes, but Peter is gone.
*
"Peter, it's me-"
beep
"I know you're not picking up and you have every reason not to, I just... Peter, I wanted to-"
beep
"-Ran out of time there. I talk too much, don't I? But that's all I wanted to say. I'm really sorry, Pet-"
beep
"Hi, Pete! It's MJ. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come see my play this Wednesday. Are you free? I can get you a ticket and everything. You've got my number so let me know. Say hi to Aunt May for me. Bye!"
beep
"Please call m-"
beep beep beep
you have no new messages
*
The next time they see each other is on Peter's birthday. Aunt May has decorated the house with crepe paper streamers and taped balloons to the railing of the staircase. Mary Jane is there, her hair falling softly around her shoulders, a lace skirt brushing the tops of knees as she smiles at Peter.
She is so beautiful it leaves him momentarily stunned. "MJ," he manages, and his eyes drift past her to take in-
-Harry.
He has changed, to say the least. He has gotten even more slender since Peter has seen him, pants practically hanging off his hips. His shoulders and chest have broadened, too, and his skin is more golden; not as pale as Peter remembered. His curls have grown longer. For a wild moment, Peter watches himself step forward and entangle his fingers in Harry's hair, in front of Mary Jane and Aunt May.
"You look good," he says stupidly, regrets it the minute it leaves his mouth.
"And you look exhausted," Harry says, laughing, and Peter notices the sheer nervousness and anxiety deep in the wells of Harry's eyes. Aunt May must've begged him to come, he realizes. Before he knows what's happening, Harry has briefly embraced him. The touch sends a shock through Peter and by the look on Harry's face, Harry has not gone unaffected either. "Happy Birthday, pal. How've you been? You never return my calls."
There's no anger in Harry's voice, just real hurt that pierces Peter deeply. Before he can answer, though, Aunt May announces that they all could stand to put a little weight on and takes Mary Jane into the kitchen so they can bring out food and cake.
So there they are; the two of them, alone. Ironically, Peter forgets everything he wanted to say before. So instead he says evenly, coolly, "I've been busy," and thinks immediately, that isn't really what I wanted to say.
"Oh, right," Harry says, and the hurt is still there, flares shadowy and pained, etched deep in the lines of his face. "Too busy taking pictures of your friend."
Peter knows exactly who Harry is referring to. Harry, like everyone else, couldn't avoid the Daily Bugle forever. When Peter actually returns one of Harry's numerous messages, the call usually ends with them shouting at one another about Peter's photos, about Harry's father's murderer. Tell me who the fuck he is you goddamn fucking son of a bitch, and I don't know you asshole stop asking me I said I don't fucking know.
Peter can't tell Harry the truth, can't bring himself to defend his alter-ego knowing how deeply it would wound Harry; so in the end Peter avoids the subject and refuses to talk about it.
"How is the bug these days," Harry whispers, and it's more of a statement than a question.
"Not now," Peter says. "Harry, I don't want to talk about this."
"He killed my father," Harry says lowly, controlling his voice. He closes his eyes and re-opens them, looking up at Peter. "If you knew who he was, would you tell me?"
And once again, Peter is between a rock and a hard place, somewhere they've both been before many times. As per usual, he can't outright lie to Harry or flat-out reject him, so he winds up staring at Harry, looking frightfully tormented. Harry pushes away from the table, his eyes unusually bright, biting his thumbnail as he strides away.
"Well, I'll just eat my hat if your cake is anything other than homemade, Peter Parker!" Aunt May declares proudly, returning to the living room with the glass platter bearing said cake. Mary Jane follows close behind, clutching a bowl of pretzels to her chest. "And you'll eat it, young man. All of you! You're getting too skinny. Oh, my... where did Harry run off to?"
"He went to the bathroom," Peter says shortly, taking a seat and smiling at Mary Jane, trying not to let the guilt swallow him whole. He knows Harry needs an explanation; it's one of the huge reasons behind the messages, the brutality of their fights, the chasm that has stretched between them. Harry needs answers, needs closure, something that will help put his father's death behind him; not a blow-off each and every time. But Peter can't give Harry the explanation he needs and ends up silent or refusing to talk about it, and watches the bridge between them burn just a little more.
*
When Peter manages to pull the plug on Dr. Octavius' machine, he barely escapes from the room before firemen and police come flooding inside. He ducks into a toilet stall on the floor below him, strips off his disguise and stuffs it in his jacket. Despite his rapidity, he is barely able to catch up with Harry, who has already traveled halfway down the block.
"Harry!" he shouts, and Harry and the Oscorp representatives surrounding him turn around.
"Peter," Harry says dazedly, lost and dirty, looking like a little boy. "Peter, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Peter says, wincing. "I was under a desk. Some firemen got me out." Technically that's a lie, but the wince isn't hard to fake. Pulling the thick cords out of the wall made Peter feel as though his arms and shoulders would pop from their sockets.
"I'm sorry," Harry says, blinking fast and looking thoroughly miserable. "I should've seen you."
"Hey, I'm okay," Peter reassures him, and realizes that the Oscorp representatives are still eyeing him speculatively. "Want me to take you home?"
Harry nods, turning to the two men on either side of him. "Warren, Vince... I'm going with Peter. I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"As you wish, Mr. Osborn." Then they're gone, and it is just the two of them again. Peter risks a smile at Harry. Harry tries half-heartedly to muster one in return and fails.
"Come on," Peter whispers, sliding an arm around Harry's waist, letting Harry lean on him. "Let's go."
It's only a few blocks to Harry's apartment. Peter tries to call a taxi halfway down the street, but Harry shakes his head and they keep on going. Surprisingly, the painful walk is over quickly, and before Peter knows it they're inside Harry's bedroom. Harry is kicking off his shoes, undoing his tie and pulling his shirt over his head, turning to gaze liquidly at Peter, hands falling loosely at his sides.
And Peter realizes that Harry does care about him; will always care about him, no matter how bad things get. Even though he hadn't returned Harry's calls and ignored him, he still arranged a meeting for Peter to meet Dr. Octavius, and had genuinely smiled when Peter flushed in delight. Don't worry about it, he had said when Peter profusely thanked him. You're my friend.
Harry is still watching Peter, waiting expectantly. Peter strips his shirt and jacket off, tosses them aside and unbuttons the first button of his dress slacks. Harry sits on the edge of the mattress and leans back, and Peter follows, framing Harry's face with his hands.
"Harry," he breathes. There are so many things he wants to say, so much Harry needs to hear, and not nearly enough time for it all.
Harry simply presses a hand to Peter's lips. "Shh," he whispers. "No talking, now." So Peter doesn't talk; he closes his eyes and is, feels, loses himself and lets the coiled spring of his body unravel, release. Harry grips his hand hard, breathes with him. Peter almost imagines he can feel the spray of the salty ocean dotting on, over his too-hot, burning skin, but in the end it's just him and Harry wrapped together in Egyptian cotton.
And that's good enough; more than.
*
In a fraction of the second it takes for Harry's palm and spread fingers to connect with Peter's cheek, a multitude of thoughts run through his mind. He's been drinking, everyone is watching, I hope Mary Jane isn't seeing this, I had it coming. But the moment Harry's hand snaps back to his side, fingers still clenched and ready to strike like an angry cobra, Peter's mind goes panicked and blank.
Figures, Peter thinks dully. And then he realizes the tie Harry is wearing is the one that Harry once used to bind him to the headboard, but that time is once upon the past and long gone.
"It's really pissing me off, your loyalty to him and not to your best friend," Harry snarls, his voice a hissing slur. "You stole everything from me, you stole MJ from me." His eyes have turned charcoal-black from fury; they roam Peter's face almost hungrily, waiting. Peter is frozen, though. His eyes are impossibly huge, and his expression is shocked and slack-jawed, and for the life of him he still can't think of anything to say.
When he doesn't respond, he feels Harry's lividity rise. Harry hits him again, arm snapping so quickly that Peter barely registers the slap, let alone the sting. His head jerks back, and the muscles in his neck buzz irritably. Is that what you think, that I stole MJ? he thinks, stunned. We can't be here, it can't have come to this. But it has, and really, what did he expect? This is what it all was leading up to; the finale, the climax, the culmination of too many blow-offs and a lack of much-needed explanations.
When Peter raises his eyes to Harry again, the anger in Harry's face has faded. Harry looks as if he's so full of pain he doesn't know what to do with himself, and the pain overflows black and wet in his eyes. "Peter," he whispers, and turns on his heel and leaves. Peter is swallowed by the crowd once again, cheek still red, mind still spinning. This can't possibly get any worse, he thinks, nails digging crescent marks in his palms.
Unbelievably, when Mary Jane descends the marble staircase with John Jameson, it does.
*
"How do I find him?"
"Peter Parker."
Harry rests his forehead against the cool porcelain rise of the toilet, eyes popping open as he feels nausea wrap red burning cords around his esophagus.
"How do I find him?"
"Peter Parker."
Harry fights a series of dry heaves, loses, and vomits half a bottle of fine scotch, gagging so hard tears drip down his cheeks.
HowdoIfindhimPeterParkerPeterParkerPeterPeterpeter...
"Shut up!" Harry chokes, grabbing his temples. His head pounds ferociously; there has to be drums beating against the insides of his skull or something else that would be equally nerve-wracking and shattering.
"Harry?"
At the sound of his name Harry nearly swallows his tongue, sucking in a squeak that isn't even a noise; it's an inhalation of panic, the frenetic sound of fear. He's crawling around the toilet, trying to wriggle into the corner of the room, but his limbs are shaking and they won't function properly, and he can't hide.
Suddenly, somebody's grabbing him and sitting him up against the wall, cupping his chin.
"Harry, look at me," says a voice, Peter's voice, and Peter sounds close to tears. "Look at me, please."
The last thing Harry wants to do is look at anyone. He wishes he could sleep forever like this, up against cool tile with his shoulders in Peter's warm hands. Of course he can't, though, that's ridiculous. So he forces his heavy lids to lift and stares into impossibly bright blue eyes, swallowing another wave of nausea.
"What happened?"
Too much. Everything. Not enough. He doesn't know where to begin, how to end this vicious cycle. What happened? Anything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong. He takes the sides of the toilet in a white-knuckled grip and vomits again, back quivering. Peter goes with him, holding his hair away from his face, one hand pressing hard against his forehead.
"Okay?" Peter asks gently when Harry stops throwing up, pushing sweaty curls out of his eyes.
Okay. More like sick with guilt. Harry is a small step away from utterly and completely hysterical. He tries, but can't force out the words he needs to warn Peter, to save him. He tries and tries and tries and fails every time, so in the end he just collapses in a frustrated, boneless heap of limbs against Peter, eyes blurred, voice thick with desolation and tears.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, pallid and shaking and sick. "I'm so sorry, Peter, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," Peter murmurs, slowly rubbing the back of Harry's neck. "You don't have to be sorry. Everything's gonna be okay, I swear."
Tears slowly seep from the corners of his eyes, across the bridge of his nose, running into his hair and ear. He can't remember ever feeling more lost. No, it's not, he thinks. No, it won't be. He knows just the opposite is about to face the both of them, catastrophe waiting in the wings for her entrance. And he's quiet in the face of her wrath, having forgotten his single crucial line.
*
For some reason Peter remembers their first time, as the chains ensconcing his body snap and fall to his ankles.
He almost can't bear to witness Harry's destruction. The dagger drops from Harry's hand as Harry sinks to the floor, staring thunderstruck and horrified up at Peter. "Peter," he breathes, betrayal, disbelief twisting the syllables into something unrecognizable and pained.
"Now you know," Peter says bitterly, quietly.
"Peter, you're-you ki-!"
"Where is MJ?" Peter cuts Harry off. The single speck of Peter's mind left that isn't boiling with anger and sick fear reminds him that if Harry ever need an explanation, now is it. Every other blow-off will pale in comparison to this one if Peter decides to do it.
But the clock is ticking, and time's run out. We never had enough time, he thinks, despairing for a brief moment. Maybe if we did, things would have been different.
"There are bigger things happening here than you and me," he says slowly. He watches Harry's eyes shutter and wither numbly, and knows that this is it; that's all she wrote, this is final, this is really the end.
And much later, he lies awake underneath the covers with Mary Jane spooned against him. A car alarm goes off in the distance as New York City wakes up from its brief slumber. Peter traces the soft white curve of Mary Jane's shoulder, feels the rise and fall of her chest, listens to her breathe. Sifts strands of her bright red hair through his fingers.
Tells himself he won't think about curls.