Chapter Text
“So, it was like, what, Tuesday? Monday? I don’t know but it doesn’t matter because we did not have a visit planned for any day last week. Or a ‘check-in’, like they like to call it. But ugh. Harry, it sounds tame coming from me, but you need to hear the way they say it. Juuuuust checking up on you guys. So condescending. Drives Otto insane. So it’s Monday or whatever, and she comes in the lab, used her visitor’s pass from last time though it should really have a single-day policy–“
“The lady from the grant committee?”
Peter nods quickly, pausing to sip from his chocolate milkshake while Harry digs a spoon through the chunkier parts of his vanilla.
“Yeah. Theresa something?”
Harry winces both from impending brain-freeze and unfortunate recognition. “Ooh, I know her.”
“‘Course you do. Your dad mans these committees.”
Harry gives him a droll look. “Pete, bud, that’s a real generous assumption. My dad delegates.”
Peter huffs. “Okay, well, in this case, it felt more personal than that.”
“Why, ‘cause you turned down a job at Oscorp?” Harry rolls his eyes. “I’d say Dad got over it but it comes up at least a few times a month.”
“Otto’s been my idol since I was six years old, it’s not like I was trying to stick it to Norman–“
“Hey, I say there’s beauty in both. How’d the rest of the visit go?”
“Right, so, she brushed right past us, said something about reviewing the fruits of the city’s investments. And I was like, fine, sure, but listen, we’re about to run some tests, couldn’t you have called? And obviously I’m trying to handle it nicely, because if I let Otto steer the ship, we’d get half our funds cut within the week and I’m barely making anything as it is. He’s great but his diplomacy? It’s rocky. Like, there’s a reason he’s chosen to hole up in a lab and that’s seventy-percent of it.”
“If he’s got room for a third, I’d probably join him. Theresa find anything damning?”
“No. Nothing! Just doing a whole walk-through of the lab and making these weird passive aggressive comments. I swear, at one point? She took issue with our coffee grounds. Said it was an awfully expensive brand and that she’d have to look into the funds we’re allocating toward leisure. Like, leisure? You think a third cup of black coffee at midnight when I’m testing prosthesis materials is leisure?” Peter’s eyes are bulging and he’s no less scandalized by the matter now than he was a week ago at its occurrence. “Harry, Otto almost broke a mug. I would’ve handed him another for good measure.”
Harry’s laughing in a way that, among all the people he’s been forced to schmooze with, only Peter Parker and MJ Watson have regularly been able to trigger. With his mouth stretched at the corners ‘till his face vaguely aches and a bit of cold ice cream still smeared on the corner of his lip but without any thought given as to how the unrestrained behavior would look on an Osborn. He’s had enough tight-lipped smiles and haughty chuckles for a decade.
Since the waitress took their order and the frosty milkshake glasses were set in front of them, Harry’s brain has taken a backseat, for the most part. He’s letting Peter lead this conversation because he has missed him and there’s an avenue for escapism in every mundane detail of the research assistant’s day-to-day problems. Divergence from the weight of life-or-death that clouds the Osborn home.
Harry knows he has to break the news eventually but the food’s not even here yet. They have time. He has time.
Snowfall’s slowing the world around them. Maybe it’ll reduce everything to stasis, make the entire state the equivalent of a tank, and Harry can get better without ever having to say goodbye. Imperviousness to time will be yet another thing they share, simple as sips from a milkshake and fries off a plate.
“You know I’d talk to Dad if I thought it’d make any difference.”
Peter smiles. “I know, Har. But it’s not like you don’t have plenty on your plate. I feel like I never see you anymore.”
His fist tightens in his lap, curling against the rough denim of his jeans. Seeing more of Morgan Michaels and Curt Connors in the last few months than Peter…it’s no wonder Harry spares looks at old photos around the penthouse and feels like a shell of himself. Norman surrounded Harry with people working day and night to ensure he survives, and he’s grateful. But he should’ve been devoting his limited time to the people who coax him to live.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tracing the pad of finger down the condensation bubbling on the outer glass.
“No, hey, I get it. We’re not in college anymore. Can’t dedicate an entire day to scouting bad pizza in Staten Island.”
The memory’s bittersweet because it’s one of the last the trio shared before graduation birthed them anew and shoved them into conflicting routines. A supposedly legendary slice on the south shore of Staten Island was Harry’s ammunition against a skeptical Peter and amused MJ. He’d played up the description of stretchy mozzarella cheese and fresh tomato sauce over perfectly crispy dough with so much passion he felt like he was back in glee club. And it worked. Because Harry got what he was really gunning for that afternoon. A normal day with the people he loves so much it hurts, a ride on the ferry without his public-transportation-averse father to scrunch his nose at it.
He misses when he could wake up in the middle of the night, whisper Peter’s name across their shared dorm, and count on a reply. And on the nights that Peter was missing–either checking up on May or fulfilling photography gigs across Manhattan for extra cash–Harry would find him in the morning. Stumbling across their room on a time crunch while tugging a hoodie over his head or yanking at Harry’s blankets to revive him during a hangover.
Sometimes it all feels so far in the past. Taunting, unreachable.
He looks at Peter, older and more self-assured with that same warm smile he’s always worn. He digs a spoon into the melty contents of his cup and imagines his innards are faring the same.
“The pizza wasn’t that bad–“
“Harry.” He snorts. “We’re literally not having this argument again. Anyway, you were so hungry from dragging us around the island all afternoon that you would’ve defended any crime against the culinary arts.”
“Maybe your principles are that malleable but I could be past the point of starvation and still wouldn’t defend, like, pineapple as a topping. Or deep dish pizza.”
“Neither would I. And yet I think either would’ve been an improvement.”
“You’re suuuuuch an exaggerator. It’s in your blood. Get that checked out.”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“No, seriously. I think you overdid it with the chemical exposure all these years, bud. Made you prone to histrionics. Lab safety, my ass.”
“Okay,” Peter is laughing through his breathless reply. He’s going to say it, Harry knew he would, but it’s fun poking under his best friend’s skin anyway. “Burnt toast and–and cold American cheese. Tell me what sane New Yorker wouldn’t be a little dramatic when that’s slapped onto their plate.”
“The kind that can appreciate the fruits of a good adventure. Gold at the end of the rainbow, you know? It’s like, maybe it’s not what the leprechaun in the cereal commercials made it seem like but at least it’s real.”
“You’re losing me here.”
“All that science leaves no room for magic, huh?”
“Eh. You’d be surprised.”
It’s not a white flag or a friendly consensus that ends this debate. It’s the arrival of two warm plates of greasy diner burgers and fries–curly for Peter and waffled for Harry. The two lattes he drank with MJ–a refill was courtesy after the baristas started throwing cursory glances their table when they’d been hogging it too long–had done little to sustain him. Did wonders for his heart palpitations, though, not that he doesn’t get enough of that awesome little side effect at home.
So, he’s ravenous. And fortunately, Peter’s the last person to judge him for digging right in. Being that he’s the fastest eater Harry knows. Possesses the largest appetite too.
His friend’s reliable preoccupation with food buys him some time today. Nothing about his thoughts screams organized right now, so Harry eats in comfortable silence.
The diner’s got a jukebox in the back, closest to their currently occupied table. It’s always a little too sticky for Peter and Harry to bother feeding it coins and sifting through the catalogue. But an older man with no such reservations walks up to the dated machine to flood the place with his song of choice.
I hear hurricanes a-blowin’…I know the end is coming soon…
Harry’s chewing slows as the daunting lyrics zip over a misleadingly upbeat instrumental. The old man’s doing a little shoulder shimmy on his way back to his partner’s table. Maybe Harry’s the only one who’s finding this depressing. But he really doesn’t think silence was a hefty ask.
“Can I,” Peter pauses, mouth full of ground beef and oozy egg yolk, and scoops up a few curly fries, “ask you something?”
Harry thinks for a second. “No.”
“Good talk.”
He snickers. “What is it, Pete?”
His friend chews more methodically now, sorting through the crumbs with the same precision he seems to currently be applying to his thoughts. Harry’s easy smile flickers as Pete meets his eyes.
“Are you okay?“
Shit. Shit. He was doing so good, wasn’t he? What gave him away?
Harry doesn’t decide to play dumb so much as he lets the urge maneuver him like he’s a malfunctioning robot. “I’m fine. What’s, um, why d’ya ask?”
“That little scene in the aisle earlier, for one,” Peter says quietly and Harry tries not to flinch. “The way you looked at me, Har, I…I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “But if it’s trouble you’re in, even if it’s just the usual stuff with your dad, or something else…you know you can tell me.” Brown eyes zero in on his and Harry’s hands tremble around his burger. He drops it to his plate like it’s on fire and shoves more waffle fries into his mouth to delay a response.
“Nothing to tell unless my dad’s pain-in-the-ass galas count as trouble. Last one he had, I just about keeled over from boredom. Riiight into the ridiculous champagne glass tower. So impractical, by the way.”
Peter takes this all in without his usual humor. His eyebrows furrow. “The one in November? Courting donors for the art museums?”
“Yeah. Yep. That one.”
“You weren’t at that gala.”
Harry’s smile freezes. He wasn’t. He had a nasty flare-up that night and was hooked up to IVs and blinking monitors in the depressing confines of his room-turned-hospice. Not that Norman ever tolerated him calling it that. He remembers flipping past the coverage of the gala on the evening news and blandly watching reruns of The Honeymooners—the old sitcom returning to prime-time TV had been Harry’s sole reminder that the holidays were approaching. With the penthouse being stripped of the festivities this year, time hadn’t traveled differently. Just a blur between the seasons.
He’s not sure how Peter knows this. But he’ll dig this hole a little deeper. He’s come this far.
“Dude,” he laughs, invoking old Harry as much as he can. “I wish.”
Peter’s mouth scrunches, possibly in irritation. Harry somehow brings himself to take another bite of his burger even as his insides are roiling.
“You weren’t. I read about it in the paper.”
He squeezes the sesame-seed bun, watching ketchup leak over the bitten patty like a gush of blood. God damn it.
Keep on digging, Osborn.
“Surprise, surprise, they were too busy covering Mayor Osborn to get my good side.”
Peter puts his burger down. He fixes Harry with a stern stare. He feels like he’s at the principal’s office again, like that day in Midtown when the out-of-touch asshole forced him and Peter to sit through a heavily devised apology from Flash Thompson.
“Harry, the Bugle reported that the Osborn scion was absent. What are you talking about?”
Fuck. Harry cranks the gear shift back, steering aimlessly and hoping he lands himself in a safety zone.
“Wait, you’re talking about the one in Astoria? Right, right.” He shakes his head to himself, like he’d just gone and got some wires crossed. Silly him. “No, yeah, I talked my way out of that one. I was thinking of the follow-up party Dad had in the penthouse that weekend. Exclusively for the city’s biggest donors.” He makes himself roll his eyes. “Five straight hours of patting each other on the back. I wanted to drink myself into a coma.”
Coma was maybe the wrong parallel to draw here because Harry’s thinking of the tank again. While Peter is attempting to pick him apart.
The irritation melts from his friend’s features and the replacement’s so much fucking worse. He looks sad. Worried. Like he can already tell Harry is drifting away and he’s wondering why he won’t accept an anchor.
“You just look so tired, Har.”
“Gee, thanks. And I’d gotten dolled up today for you.”
“Shut up. Be serious.”
“I am, Pete, but there’s nothing to say. Yeah, I’m tired. So are you, spending your nights in that lab.” He snatches a few curly fries from Peter’s plate and tosses them into his mouth. “S’the way life goes for us post-grads.”
“Sure, but–“
Harry huffs around his mouthful, then swallows it down hard. “You wanna talk about which one of us is holding things back? Do you really?”
Peter looks stricken. “I’m not–I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah?” He scoffs. “I was with MJ earlier.”
He blinks rapidly and, strangely, seems to relax against the booth. “Oh. Yeah. I haven’t, um seen her in a…” He trails off under Harry’s pointed stare and realization hits him like a truck. He finally utters a weaker, “oh.”
“Oh? Pete. My two best friends broke up almost a month ago and I only find out before I’m–“ He clumsily reels that sentence back before he can mightily screw himself over.
“Before what?” Peter asks softly.
“Nothing.” Put a freaking lid on that huge mouth of yours, Osborn. “I just hate that you guys felt like you couldn’t confide in me. The way you two must’ve been hurting…” He swallows. The table between them feels immeasurably long. He wants to gather his best friend in his arms and stick to him like a pest. “I’m sorry for not being there.”
If Peter’s wounds had scabbed over the last three weeks without MJ, Harry thinks he may have just scratched them open. Peter’s eyes dim with a brewing storm the weather anchors failed to predict. There’s a weight to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. He stares at the last piece of his burger like he’s considering vomiting and swearing off food all together.
It swells Harry with guilt. He was going to bring this up eventually. But his initial purpose was to selfishly deflect.
“It was my fault,” Peter admits. “My-my job, FEAST…I let everything get in the way. I didn’t realize how much it was hurting us until it all came to a head one night.” He wipes his hands on a paper napkin then crumples it onto his plate. Harry hates knowing he effectively ruined his friend’s appetite. “Really wasn’t pretty.”
Harry makes a soft noise of consolation. Peter’s bottom lip is tucked between his teeth, a sure sign that he’s getting ready to divulge more. After blurting out the matter of the breakup to save his own ass, Harry owes him the silence he needs to think.
“We were going to move in together,” he laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “So I thought everything was fine. Shows how much I know.”
And Harry can’t exactly counter that sentiment with anything helpful. Peter’s the smartest guy he knows, has been since they were kids, but he’s also hopelessly clueless. Absorbed in things that Harry suspects he only knows the half of and often carrying the emotional intelligence of a rock.
He wasn’t just referring to the breakup when he accused his friend of holding things back. But he knows they can’t get into it now. Long-suppressed arguments are a luxury for people who have more time for the peace to settle in after. Any storm he triggers now would only bury him.
“How was she?” Peter asks him hesitantly. “When you saw her today.”
“She was okay,” he replies gently. “Dealing with the usual assholes at the Bugle but you know MJ. She holds her own.”
A smile ghosts over his mouth. “Yeah.”
“And she took up an improv class. Says she’s killing it.”
“‘Course she is. MJ saved our freshmen class’ adaptation of The Wizard of Oz when the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion forgot their lines on both nights.”
“Holy shit, and Miss Maroni chewed their asses out after. She was like–“ He makes his voice scratchier and miraculously stays in character while Pete’s smile widens. “You know what your assignment is for the rest of the term? Reflect on how you can be more like Mary Jane. Morning, noon, and night. And in your dreams. Look up how to lucid dream and walk a mile in Mary Jane’s shoes!”
“She was dead serious. Her sixth sense for bullshit was so freaky that those two were literally googling lucid dreaming methods during study hall.” Peter’s eyes crinkle when he laughs and Harry’s relieved they’re not as dim as before. It gives him hope that tonight will be salvaged yet.
Because Harry needs more of this. A grasp of normalcy before he has to form another weak goodbye.
The waitress comes by to check on them and Harry knows she clocks the napkin on Peter’s plate. She’ll drop off the check soon and there won’t be anything keeping them boxed in here. But maybe that’s easily remedied. Harry can insist on hot chocolate and a shared cone of truffle fries in Bryant Park. They’ll walk there together and have plenty of time to regenerate their appetites, and maybe the cold air will supply Harry with clarity and courage.
He wipes his hands and deposits his napkin beside his plate for now. Maybe if the waitress thinks he’s still slowly working on his food, she’ll wait on delivering that receipt.
“You okay, Pete?” he prods when the fog starts to drift across those hazel eyes again.
Peter nods vacantly. “Yeah. Honestly, it helps, knowing she’s okay. Just wish I could’ve asked her myself. I’ve got a lot to sort out, Har.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “But I can’t stop wondering if we’ll ever even be friends again. I don’t think I can handle it if I’ve ruined that, too.” He swallows, dropping his palm to the table, and stares at Harry earnestly. “It’d be like losing you.”
Harry’s heart is throwing a tantrum in its bone cage. Or it’s trying, in vain, to give him just enough juice to get all his parts working properly again. So Peter won’t have to lose him when they’re only a quarter into their confusing lives.
He has to tell him now. Right now. Just half of it. The part where he’s missing for several months. The part where he’s not a terrible friend because Peter’s not losing him, he…he just…has to make do without Harry. Like he has for the past few weeks. A leave of absence, so he can come back better and stronger and ready to seize everything that terrified him before.
“Midtown was your last chance to shake me off, you’re stuck with me now,” comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. An affectionate smile tugs at Peter’s mouth and, Jesus, Harry’s the worst person in the world. “And you and MJ just need time. But that seriously means sorting your shit out, Pete. Figuring out what’s important to you and following through.”
“You’re right.” He studies Harry with an unreadable expression. At this rate, his stupid heart is gonna shatter through its membrane.
Peter appears to be on the verge of saying something else, even shifting forward in his seat to deliver it, when his phone buzzes. A frown mars his forehead and he digs into his pocket to slip it out.
“Shit,” he mutters, his eyes widening at the screen then speedily flicking up to Harry. “I-I’m so sorry, Har.”
He’s heard this song before. Taken it in stride, even. But he can’t tonight. Please, please not tonight.
“There‘s an emergency at the lab.”
He’s not ready.
“Doc’s totally bugging out, he already wasn’t thrilled about how our volunteer test went so he’s on a short fuse today and I just need to check on him, the prosthesis–“
He hasn’t told him, this would’ve been easier if MJ was here but she’s not so Harry needed to suck it up but he hasn’t, he still hasn’t said goodbye.
“…hate to run out like this,” Peter is saying when Harry blinks at him, while a thirty-car pile-up unfolds in his brain. In the chaos, his friend has slid out of the booth and he’s fumbling through his wallet. “Dinner’s on me, okay?” He folds the crumpled bills beside their plates, as if money’s the matter of concern here, and squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “You’ll call me when you get home? I’ve also got some free time on Tuesday, we should meet at Leo’s.” A panicked glance darts toward his phone again and his fingers start to slip away from Harry. “I, um, really gotta go, but check your calendar, let me know? Love you, sorry.”
Not like this.
He grabs Peter hand before he loses him to the storm.
His head swivels back to him. “Harry?”
“Pete, just wait,” he urges. He covers his warm hand with both of his and squeezes for emphasis and in an attempt to get some control over the tremor in his hands. “Wait a second.”
Once his best friend walks out that door, there’ll be nothing between him and the tank. Harry’s not ready to stare oblivion in its unforgiving face.
Peter tenses. “What’s wrong?”
He thought he was brutally testing his own limits when he hugged MJ goodbye, while she reiterated how happy she was for him. But there’s always been less gray area with his fellow redhead, hasn’t there? She knows exactly how much he loves her and it’s sordid comfort for what’s ahead, but comfort nonetheless.
“At least let me buy you a slice of apple pie before you go,” Harry says with a weak laugh. It’s Peter’s favorite but he’s depressingly frugal and thus shies away from the ‘non-necessities.’
But the tall brunette keeps side-eyeing the exit, guilt written all over his face. “I wish, but Otto sounded close to a meltdown. Which is saying a lot for a guy who’s not always the greatest at conveying tone via text.”
MJ knows the size and nature of the place she holds in Harry’s heart, or has a pretty apt sense for it at least, but Peter doesn’t know. How could he? Harry’s never found the words and things need to be spelled out for his best friend with a head half in the clouds. And unless he becomes a wordsmith in five seconds flat, he’ll never do it. Peter’s trying to gently tug his hand free and Harry won’t let him because it’s not just a goodbye Peter will be leaving without. He’ll leave without the truth of what he means to Harry. The consequences of cowardice stick their blades in at the most inopportune time and Harry thinks he might die via emotional evisceration. He wonders if on some level, Norman was trying to save him from this most of all.
“I-I have to tell you something,” Harry says quickly.
Peter’s eyebrows raise. “Yeah? What is it?”
The words get choked in Harry’s throat.
“Not here,” he manages instead.
“Okay, um.” Peter glances down at his still-trapped hand. “You know what, forget Tuesday. I can get off work early tomorrow, how’s that? Doc’ll owe me for helping out tonight. I’ll text you–“
“Can I just come over?”
He feels pathetic asking. But the penthouse, with its endless evidence of Norman’s relentless search for a cure and Harry’s worsening condition, was the harbinger of death. He can’t go back, with only one semi-successful goodbye tucked under his belt and the suffocating silence nursing him to troubled sleep.
Peter’s eyes widen an almost imperceptible amount. They’ve never hung out in his apartment aside from when Harry helped him move in. Peter always insisted it was too small to host anyone. “Tomorrow?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight, I, um, I don’t know, Har. My apartment’s kind of in bad shape and who knows how long I’ll be at the lab–“
“Please.” A lump grows in his throat. “Pete, please. This can’t wait.”
He frowns at him in concern, and the feeling appears to overcome his inner conflict. “O-okay. Yeah, of course.” He musters a reassuring smile and Harry finally releases him. “I gotta go. But I’ll see you soon. We’ll talk as long as you want.”
Harry does stick around for a slice of pie. Blueberry, warm and with a scoop of French vanilla that he didn’t order but the waitress seems to take pity on him, looking lost in his empty booth.
On the second slice she coaxes onto his plate, he takes out his phone to aimlessly scroll and avoid her curious glances.
Social media is flooded with different, shaky camera angles of Spider-Man in the Upper West Side, giving chase to Vulture. Harry lingers on a video where the spandex-clad hero is dodging through a menacing swarm of the old man’s sharp projectiles with the grace of a ballerina, and wonders what it’s like to be invincible.
Norman isn’t pleased about Harry’s last-minute detour but he sends a driver anyway. Harry doesn’t fight it. It was a miracle he was even given the green light to walk the few blocks from the coffee shop to the diner, but trying to make it to Pete’s walk-up in Chinatown on his own would be idiotic. Manageable, maybe, if he’d brought his cane along. He may as well have, he’s done a shit job of subtlety. If he succeeded in anything tonight, it was making sure that Peter knows something is wrong with him. A big something he’ll be asking more and more questions about, now that Harry’s going to be locked into a small space with him. No jukeboxes or waitresses to fill the noise.
When he’s dropped off at the curb, the car idles behind him. Roger won’t leave until Harry texts him that he’s safe and inside.
“This…is where your friend lives?” Roger couldn’t help asking when the neighborhood came into view. In the backseat, Harry had bristled. He narrowed his eyes at the overhead mirror and replied tonelessly with “yes, Roger, thank you for the ride” before exiting the car so fast he gave himself a head rush.
Under the thinning snow that glows in the street lamp’s eye, Harry curls a hand into his pocket to remind himself that he hadn’t misplaced the crumpled twenties that Peter tried to buy dinner with. Like he was going to let that happen. If he hadn’t been panicking earlier, he would’ve scolded him. It made no sense to be born into a fortune if he couldn’t even make sure his friends ate without burden.
Another resident holds the door open for him and mumbles something unintelligible when he thanks them. Saved him a text to Peter so he could buzz him in. He’s not sure if he’s home yet. Not even sure he’s ready to face him if he is.
He only has to walk two floors up before 314 comes into view and the effort still forces him to lean sideways against the wall. He closes his eyes tightly against the almost vomit-inducing fatigue that he’d dismissed as long as he could. He’s so, so tired.
For a delirious moment, he considers that at least the tank will allow him to rest.
Through the stunningly thin walls, he suddenly hears a muffled bump inside Peter’s apartment, followed by a familiar curse.
“Pete?” He calls out in surprise.
A pause.
“Harry?” he returns in a nervous pitch. “Uh, one second, buddy. Just–tidying up in here, and–“ There’s a grunt of effort that makes Harry’s brows lift. “Ch-changing. I’ll be right there!”
“Pete, I don’t care what your apartment looks like.”
“Well you might care that I’m naked!” He retorts.
Harry’s face gets hot. He texts Roger the okay to drive off, then stares at the floor, swatting away the images floating into his brain. They shared a dorm, there’s not much he hasn’t seen, but still.
He eases his body off the wall but keeps a hand propped there to support himself. Peter’s still moving around inside like a mini tornado and Harry doesn’t rush him further. He is kind of intruding, after all. He’d feel worse about it if convenience wasn’t currently a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Finally, the lock unclicks and the door swings open.
“Hello again,” Peter says a little breathlessly, a warm smile on his lips. His brown hair is thoroughly ruffled from his hasty change of clothes. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a maroon tee shirt with a cartoonish image of an atom, surrounded by the phrase, never trust an atom, they make up everything. Jesus.
Harry kind of hopes there isn’t an afterlife if it means being cursed to a second plane without him.
“Hey,” he croaks. His shoulder brushes Peter’s chest when he’s ushered inside
The studio apartment is somehow more cramped than Harry remembers, now that Peter has completely unpacked and furnished, but it’s also homier. Framed pictures of May, Ben, Harry and MJ are lined up on the tables beside his window, below the photo wall Peter dedicates to the pastime and former freelance gig that he complains he lacks time for lately. On the massive desk next to his red-striped twin bed, Harry notices the repurposed laptop he’s had since college, next to a coffee mug that’s as punny as his tee shirt and a book of crossword puzzles, and wonders if he can find time, in the coming hours, to send him a new one. An inadequate parting gift, considering the circumstances? Maybe. But at least it’s a useful one.
Stars are swimming his eyes again, so he carefully props himself against the railing at the end of Peter’s bed. He watches foggily as his friend shoves takeout containers off the kitchenette’s counter and into a trash bag that he quickly ties up.
“Sorry for the mess.” He looks over at Harry and frowns when he sees the position he’s taken up. “You can sit, you know. My bed, desk chair, whatever. I’d say help yourself to anything in the fridge too but I, um, haven’t gone grocery shopping. Yet.”
Harry utters a thanks and sits on the edge of Peter’s bed, the springs creaking under his weight. He takes off his coat and hangs it over the railing.
Peter sits on his desk chair and rolls closer to Harry. He leans his elbows on his knees, knots his fingers together, and stares at him inquisitively.
Harry tries to smile, like the whole reason he’s here isn’t because everything in his life has sped downhill. “Worked everything out with Otto?”
His brows furrow briefly, then he nods. “Yeah. Crisis narrowly avoided.” He tilts his head. “What did you wanna talk to me about?”
He can do this. Can’t he? He practices the words in his head, exactly how he said them to MJ. He’s going to Europe. No, he doesn’t know how long he’ll be away. He’ll miss his friends so much but no, they…probably shouldn’t expect any responses to their messages. Or calls.
“The reason I invited you out tonight,” Harry begins carefully. “Why I needed to see you. It wasn’t just for the best burger in New York, Pete, it was–it was because…I’m…”
Dying. Slowly. Just like Mom. Except it’s not slow enough anymore, he feels like his feet are sinking into the soil of his grave, and he can’t bear it by himself.
His lips stay parted, his wide eyes frozen on Peter’s.
Peter straightens up a little more. “Harry?”
“I’m…” He roughly clears his throat. Dyingdyingdyingdying– “Leaving. I’m leaving.”
He feels hollow. Peter looks hopelessly confused and tries to follow the little thread that Harry unspools for him. “Leaving for where?”
“Europe. Dad’s idea, so I can oversee Oscorp’s international holdings. Earn my stripes or whatever.”
His eyelids flutter in a surprised blink. “Oh. Jesus Christ, Harry.”
“I should’ve–“
“I was so worried. You-you made it seem like–“ He huffs. “I don’t know. I honestly didn’t know what to expect when I came home today, but it wasn’t…that.” He rubs his palms over his face, exhaling. “God, okay. Please, for the sake of my blood pressure, give me a hint next time.”
“It’s not just that.” He’s barely able to process Peter’s relief while his own brain spirals into doom. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
Peter frowns. “Are we talking weeks or…?”
“Months,” he says faintly. “Maybe even a year, I have no idea.”
His friend looks crestfallen and it takes everything in Harry to not look away. “But you’re coming back, right? This isn’t some long-term solution to getting you out of Oscorp’s U.S. operations? No offense to your dad, but I know he wasn’t the happiest camper when you got more invested in your environmental initiatives.”
“I don’t know.”
“You…don’t know?” Peter plants his palms on his thighs and cocks his head. “You don’t know if you’re coming back?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Harry says quickly. His heart lurches to his throat. “I’m coming back. Eventually.” A tremor runs through his bottom lip. “I mean, I don’t know…if I’m ready.” He sucks in air and his eyes are stinging. “Pete. I don’t want to do this.”
It’s Peter’s face filling with sympathy that does him in. “Harry…”
He chokes on a sob, covering his face with his palm in embarrassment. The dam’s blown and he can’t fix it fast enough, he was stupid to think that he could fix anything by arranging this time with his friends today. There is no satisfying closure for a man on the brink of oblivion, is there? He knows that now. Norman will get in one last “oh, Harry, I told you this would happen” when his son stumbles into the penthouse with bloodshot eyes and gets ready to die.
Again, Peter says his name, frantic this time. Hot tears spill down Harry’s cheeks and he mangles the words “can’t do this, Pete” through breathless cries.
The bed dips beside him and Peter immediately gathers his sobbing guest into his arms. He strokes a palm through his hair and tucks his head against the crook of Peter’s neck. Harry’s tears are soaking through the collar of his dorky tee shirt and he tries to pull away, but then Peter snakes another arm firmly around his back, and Harry goes limp against him, this last, cruelly wonderful and solid thing in his life.
“I’m s-sorry.” For not telling him the whole truth, for staining his shirt, for using the rare hours his busy friend has to unwind just to cry up a monsoon in his apartment, for going out the way his mom did even though he promised Peter they’d be friends forever.
“Stop it,” Peter scolds, tucking his cheek against Harry’s temple. He’s so close he may as well be sitting in his lap, and of course he processes this when he’s too devastated by emotion to appreciate it.
His best friend’s pulse point races against Harry’s forehead, and he finds himself taking stock of every other bit of him that screams alive, alive, alive. His skin running hot, the shaky hike in his breathing before he folds Harry tighter against him, his cheek nestling into Harry’s snow-dampened hair. He curls right up in all of it because he’s terrified of the cold isolation that awaits him tomorrow.
“You should talk to your dad,” Peter whispers, scratching lightly at Harry’s scalp to soothe him. “If this is really about Europe, maybe…maybe he can make other arrangements. Maybe you don’t have to go.”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, sniffling. “I have no choice.”
“He can’t make you spend a year of your life abroad, Har. You’ve compromised with him so many times, it’s his turn to make a sacrifice.”
“S’just the way it is. This is important to him.”
He scoffs. “Yeah? Well, I care about what’s important to you. Your research, becoming an environmental lawyer like Emily. Your dream. You don’t even want this.” He hesitates. “Do you?”
“I don’t…not want it,” he admits, and another fresh round of tears coat his cheeks. “But I’m terrified. I don’t know what’ll happen, and I feel like I don’t have enough time.” He exhales. “With you. With MJ. I’m supposed to get a hold of myself by tomorrow and I can’t, I’m not ready.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter says softly, gliding a soothing hand down his spine. “Not even with the Atlantic between us. You know it’s the same for MJ. If you have to do this, we can talk every night, I’ll even speak to Norman and see if he can arrange a visit for me. Things should be slowing down in March, how does that sound? The two of us in Europe.” He laughs and the vibrations hum through Harry’s temple. “You’ll show me all the sights from your summer vacation pictures, hell, we’ll recreate them.”
Harry sobs harder.
“Harry,” Peter says, pained. He brings both hands to Harry’s head and encourages his tear-streaked face up. Without the hiding place he’d had in his best friend’s neck, and the cold air of the poorly heated apartment on his wet skin, Harry feels exposed and brittle.
His thumbs stroke his cheeks, clearing away the path of Harry’s tears with care. Peter’s warm breath fans his face and Harry’s eyes flutter tiredly.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Peter voices the very question that sheds light on everything gnawing at Harry’s soul.
So much. There’s so much he hasn’t told him. So much he hasn’t done.
His gaze drops to Peter’s mouth and he swallows.
Then he’s leaning in, inhaling their mingled breaths until he feels lightheaded, letting the tips of their noses brush.
If tonight’s his last as a human being with agency and feelings that threaten to consume him, he wants to kiss his best friend.
Peter doesn’t move a muscle, but he whispers his name. It’s not a question. It’s low, anticipatory. An invitation? God. His thumb skirts dangerously close to Harry’s bottom lip and he wonders if he passed out on the way to Chinatown.
He presses his mouth to Peter’s delicately, as if wading into treacherous waters and hoping the rip current doesn’t take him. He exhales choppily through his nose, steadies his hands against his chest and smooths them up over his firm shoulders. He’s dumbfounded when Peter responds, kissing him slow and sweet, like he’s precious, something to be sampled before he goes all in.
If he’d kissed Peter like this years ago, would he have gotten this response then? Can his best friend sense the death on him? Harry hopes not. Dear God, he hopes this isn’t a pity kiss.
And MJ. There’s a pretty hard rule about kissing your friend’s exes and Harry just snapped it in two. He doesn’t think there’s any addendums for when you’ve been in love with said ex since you were fifteen and smothered it like it was the embers of a flame. MJ loves Peter. Peter loves MJ. Harry is worming his way through the in-between, grabbing what he can before he goes under.
He breaks the kiss, his heart pounding. “I’m sor–“
“Don’t,” Peter cuts him off, then pulls him back in.
The sampling’s over–Peter, hooked on what he was given, kisses Harry like he means to take it all. He skims his thumb along the length of his jawline and the motion makes him sigh. Peter snags the opportunity to tease his tongue past his lips, licking methodically over the roof of his mouth, and Harry groans, pushing into him desperately.
Peter hoists Harry against him without warning, then flips him back onto the bed, moving over him with the sleek stretch of a panther. Harry gasps, struggling to kick off his shoes, and Peter laughs against his lips.
“Leave ‘em.”
“Dude. You have no standards.”
“Should you really say that,” Peter mumbles, pecking his mouth leisurely, “with allll that conviction,” he sucks Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth and lets it snap back into place, “while I’m kissing you?”
“Maybe not,” he squeaks and Peter’s low chuckle is rich like chocolate. Weeks of being prodded and fussed over and given shit news sprinkled in sugar, and it’s all led to this. Is it going out with a bang, or is it a sign of a brighter horizon? Harry isn’t sure. He’s still scared for his life. But right now, that fear feels like it might be the thing that keeps him kicking.
He loves Peter so much. Loves him enough to put up a fight.
If he loses, at least he’ll always have this memory, the flavor of his best friend on his tongue, the hard feel of him under his stupid science-humor tees, the puff of a laugh against his lips. All of it seeps into his membrane, preserved if he must carry it to a grave, but Harry wants to believe stasis will buy him the time he needs. That he won’t die from unforeseen conflicts. That GR-27 will finally be realized and he’ll be healthy, alive, and ready to carry out all the dreams he and Pete have talked about.
“Can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Peter murmurs, an edge of frustration working through his words, and he nips at Harry’s jaw reproachfully.
Harry smiles sadly, feels the swell of his face from his previously shed tears, and runs a hand through Peter’s hair. “I’ll be back.”
He tries to believe it.
If this goes south, there’s a letter penned out to Peter and MJ in his journal, explaining everything. He hopes they never have to read it.
“Good.” Peter closes his eyes and presses his forehead firmly to Harry’s. “Good, just…make sure you do.”
Harry can’t promise him anything, so he seeks his mouth out again, shivering when Peter relaxes into it with a sigh. They kiss languidly this time, and the lack of urgency is…reassuring. Like maybe they do have time, plenty of it, and this is only the start.
Eventually, Peter swings one leg back to the floor, balancing a knee on the edge of the bed. Harry stares up at him, a protest in his throat, when the brunette suddenly scoops him up against his chest, swivels around, and falls to his back against the thin comforter.
“Much better,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist, and presses a kiss to his curls. “You warm?”
“Yeah.” He rests his cheek on Peter’s shoulder and smiles tiredly. It flickers when he realizes something. “I should text my dad. He’ll want me home to, you know,” He swallows. “Prepare. For the big trip.”
“Oscorp gets you for the next several months.” He yawns. “Think it’s fair that I get you for the night.”
“Pete–“
“I’ll text him,” he assures him, brushing the tips of his fingers over his spine. “Let him know you’re safe. Okay? Breathe. Sleep. You’re exhausted.”
“Do I look that rough?”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Osborn, it’s sooo unbecoming.”
“I wasn’t, asshat.”
“Sure.” Peter chuckles. “You’re cute.”
“Never realized you thought so,” Harry mumbles.
There’s a pause. Peter tilts his head to press a few kisses along Harry’s hairline, then on his nose, then his mouth, where he whispers, “Always have.” He playfully ruffles Harry’s hair then watches it flop back into place, all disorderly. “Look, Harry. Earlier…I don’t know if you’re keeping something from me. I don’t know why you would, but…” He smiles sadly. “I’m guessing you’ve got your reasons. And since it’s your last night in New York, I’ll try not to pry. Just…remember that I love you. Doesn’t matter how long you’re in Europe, I always will.”
Tears well up in Harry’s eyes again and he can’t fathom Peter’s earnest features being blurred out right now so he quickly blinks them away.
“I love you, too.” His throat feels tight. “I wanna tell you everything. I just–“
“I know,” Peter murmurs. “Believe me.”
“When I get back, I’ll tell you what Oscorp’s been up to. I’ll tell you about Europe, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“But you can’t right now.”
“No,” Harry whispers. “I can’t.”
“Okay,” Peter concedes. He rubs between Harry’s shoulder blades, thumbs at a piece of his hair, and the thoughtful expression on his face seems to have concluded that a future, their future, is a forgone conclusion. “Raincheck, then. I’ll…cook for you and you’ll tell me all your family secrets? Cross my heart, I won’t tip them to the Bugle.”
Harry laughs tearfully and it feels like a release. “Sure, Pete.”