Excuse me while I laugh at writing skillz.
Fandom: Spider-Man
Title: Masks
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I wrote this back in 2005 I believe. Yeah. And made additions, changes over this 2 years. Is it any better? I like to think so. It was beta'd in 2005 by aefallen and aingeal_isilme. And never since. XD No spoilers for Spider-Man 3. [addenum] It's SLASH. M/M. Stay away if that's not your cuppa tea.
Some things in life were better left unsaid, words unheard, and sights unseen. Things he wished he didn’t have to know anything he didn’t want to; he knew there was someone he despised and he wished that hate had remained that simple. Someone once said that life was a rollercoaster ride, but his life was lacking the thrill of the steep plummet. And when he thought things couldn’t have got any worse as he was going down a steep slope towards a bleak destiny, fate twisted the knife that was already plunged into his heart.
Parker was supposed to be his friend.
Harry Osborn swept his hand across the tabletop angrily, knocking an empty glass and a liquor bottle to the floor, both shattering into shards that scattered over the rug and onto the polished floorboards. Papers that were on the desk fluttered and settled onto the floor. Suddenly light-headed, he put a hand to his head, trying to steady himself. Backing away unsteadily till he hit the wall, he leaned back for support.
Fuck. Why Parker?
Of all people living in New York City, it had to be Peter?
The very same Peter who he had been friends with since Midtown High; who tripped over his own shoes around Mary-Jane?
Harry piqued at the thought of Parker being responsible for his father’s death for the past two years. Yet, in those two years, Parker had continued playing the role of an apparent friend. How could he have done all that, so seemingly effortlessly, to someone whose father he had robbed? Thinking back on the times when he did favours for Peter just to show him he valued their friendship, he felt almost betrayed.
Get up, boy. Avenge me.
His father’s voice clearly resonated in his ears, and that was when Harry knew that he had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. He dragged his knees to himself, refusing to look around him. Afraid that he would see a familiarly stern visage in the mirrors that were hanging in the room. He needed to talk to someone. Then he realised-
Where are your friends?
-he had no one to talk to.
Where are they when you need them? You have no one, Harry! They’re not here for you. But I am. Listen to me.
Harry shook his head, still feebly trying to deny his father’s phantom, yet knowing he spoke the truth. For years he had been standing in his father’s shadows, admiring the air of authority his father wore like a well-cut suit. While his father was dutifully dedicated to OsCorp, he had barely noticed his own son, his only family. For a better life, Norman Osborn had said, once too often, since his wife’s death. Excuse or not, the irony was that despite all the wealth, Norman couldn’t give Harry what he wanted most.
Just like Parker.
His fingers curled and his face burned, a revelation coming to light. He had never thought of how similar they were: Norman Osborn, Peter Parker. The two people he thought he was close to, were both hiding behind masks. But his father was dead; Harry repeatedly drummed that fact into his mind. And Peter was the cause of that...
But Peter was Spider-Man and his father was the Green Goblin.
Peter was just doing his job of saving the city.
Harry bit his lower lip.
The memory surfaced in his mind. Vividly. Spider-Man, half-turned, back towards him... and his father, still, unmoving on the chaise longue. The slight breeze that came in through the balcony door, the overwhelming silence and the lump in his throat that had threatened to gag him on the spot. He swallowed.
He had detested his father because he felt that he could never meet what Norman had expected of him. His father had been a smart, harsh opportunist; Harry was an uninterested student who failed his subjects to irk his father, too soft to survive in the world of business. He hardly even knew what he wanted.
And now, he would never be able to make his father proud.
It’s all Spider-Man’s fault.
Harry wondered occasionally - mostly on the nights he stared at a half-empty vodka bottle in his hand - if his father hadn’t died, would their relationship have improved?
I will make it up to you, his father had said the last he saw him.
But ifs were ifs, and Harry was grasping at straws, hoping, wishing...
And still, the dead would never return.
He bowed his head.
A trickle of perspiration bead caught in his brow, he glanced up - a hand ready to wipe it away, only to catch sight of a piece of paper not too far from him, the messily penned words on it gradually swimming into view- part of his father’s research notes. He had been studying it earlier, but it made little sense, so he’d decided it was time to hit the bottle. Harry was no scientist, though he knew he could ace his way out of school if he had only paid a just little more attention in class. There were two people he might have trusted enough to ask, but Doctor Otto Octavius was dead, or so announced the six o’clock news. And the second person was someone he thought he knew, someone he called a friend, someone who was almost a brother to him.
Someone who would have been more than happy to aid him with all these science stuff.
He recalled the way Peter’s face lit up whenever anyone talked to him about science, being Physics, Chemistry or Biology, like a child on Boxing Day. Peter’s smiles were contagious - Harry would find himself grinning to himself, and he would then shake his head, sometimes teasing, or wondering if Peter came from a far off galaxy.
Fuck. He didn’t want to think about this.
It was like all he had ever known was a lie. His dreams had been ripped away from him, without a shred left for scraps.
How could he have been so fucking blind? Peter, not returning his calls. Peter, always in a hurry. Peter, who disappeared each time an emergency occurred. And he had thought Peter had something going on with Spider-Man, which had fueled his dislike for the bug even more so in the past two years.
Peter did, except that Peter was Spider-Man.
Parker will pay for this.
Harry crumpled the paper and threw it as hard as he could. It didn’t matter where it flew; he was frustrated. But he watched it fly anyway, to see where it landed- he would need the paper eventually.
Get up, son. Make him pay.
You swore it on your father’s grave.
Those words- sneering at him- were they his father’s or his own? He couldn’t discern.
For seemingly countless nights, the whispers stole into his ears, ceasing only when Harry yelled for them to stop. Those were the nights when he’d curse and swear with no one to hear him, save the austere walls and the leering exotic masks that decorated them. In the mornings after, he’d wake up with a throbbing headache, thankful that most of the rooms in the house had soundproof fittings.
His sanity had already been consumed, the day he hurled his glass at the illusion of his father in a mirror, the pieces falling away to reveal the entrance to his father’s secret lair. He couldn’t stop thinking of how his father could have led a double life. That the man he looked up to was capable of killing. And Harry, worried by vengeful thoughts that surfaced in his mind each day, had a mahogany cabinet to stand before of the accursed hole. He was afraid to succumb and the scotch seemed to help prevent him from doing so most of the time. Heck, he would have more than enough money to foot the hospital bills, if any.
Yet, he knew he was drowning in a sea of conflict. Struggling against the undercurrent of rational thought and desire, sinking without an end.
He had wanted Spider-Man dead.
He had wanted Peter. Just one look, one word from him.
Not him running around in some ridiculous outfit, trying to make the stupid world an ideal place. Not not recognising that Harry needed him.
Never returning his calls.
He had retaliated, by taking the chance Peter never took; he asked Mary-Jane Watson out. He didn’t want to see them together- he had been so selfish, so foolishly desperate for Peter’s attention. How could he had thought separating them was a good idea? Yet, Harry didn’t have the heart to tell Peter. Maybe he’d forget about Peter- Maybe he didn’t want to see the crushed look on his face- at least not just then.
Peter found out for himself on the day the Green Goblin killed OsCorp’s board of directors.
If there was one way of getting his ex-best friend’s attention, he could always don the green suit and-
Harry closed his eyes and perished that crazy thought; it was not his ambition to gain world recognition like his father. That ambition had driven his father to madness. Then it came to him that it might be what took his father away from him. He wanted to believe that so badly, but he had spent two years convincing himself that Spider-Man was the one at fault; he wasn’t ready to accept it.
Screw Peter. Screw everything.
Screw his father’s notes-
Harry paused, slowly furrowing his brows.
There was someone who might be able to understand it.
Harry picked himself up from the floor, and stumbled to the cabinet which concealed the room he hated so much. He had wanted to destroy everything inside, tear down the house and set the rubble on fire. Leave New York. If he couldn’t run from the truth, he should at least get rid of it so that it would no longer serve as a physical reminder. But he couldn’t and it tormented him to even be in that room. Just long enough to take a vial of the emerald-green fluid, he encouraged himself.
The sudden refreshing wind upon his face-
There hadn’t been a cold draft in the room before.
He sharply remembered the windows being shut, and they couldn’t have opened by themselves.
Someone’s here.
He spun around and looked up, but there was no one on the ceiling or anywhere. Harry didn’t know whether to feel glad that he wasn’t around or glad if he were. A part of him wanted to see Peter, to be comforted by his presence and concern, yet he felt he wasn’t ready to face the person who put him through all this grief. If Spider-Man was anyone else, he wouldn’t be so conflicted right now. Life was mocking him at every turn.
"Harry."
"Peter?" The name left his lips before he could stop himself, body turning towards the source of the sound.
Peter was standing in the corner of the room, looking back at him with eyes that made him forget he was staring right at the person who was responsible for his father’s death. He approached Harry slowly, seemingly uncertain of what Harry might do. At this moment, Harry, who was unable to say a word, who wasn’t sure what to feel, felt like his legs couldn’t support him any longer.
Peter, standing before him, in his casual mismatch of u-necked tee, washed-out jeans and a light gray, hooded, flannel jacket. Not wearing his red and blue outfit, though Harry was certain they were right there beneath the clothes.
And in an almost quiet tone of voice, Peter asked for a favour that they both knew Harry would decline. But he said it anyway. "Harry, I need you to hear me out."
Harry looked away, barely containing his anger.
Peter stopped an arm’s length away.
"Harry," his voice now sounded more urgent. "Please."
"There’s nothing to talk about, Parker," Harry scoffed quietly, and was amazed at his self-control.
"There is, Harry. There are things I have to say. Things I’ve wanted to tell you before but- I thought I had all the time to say it later- Harry, you’re my friend. You’ve always been my friend. You should know this- and- I wish I’d let you known sooner."
It was amazing how cheesy Peter's words always were when personal topics came to heart. Harry could far less be bothered with rolling his eyes.
"Harry, being Spider-Man never changed what I felt about you."
Harry started. It was what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this- he was supposed to be angry at Peter. He could deal with managing OsCorp and all its accounts, but this trying not to let his emotions go unchecked in front of his ex-best friend was as difficult as keeping hold of a slippery eel. Having drunk a bottle of vodka didn’t exactly help the situation either. There were many things he wanted to do but he couldn’t recall any of them in his current state.
"Harry-"
"I know, Parker"
"What?" Peter asked, expression bewildered, though Harry suspected that he knew what he was referring to.
The silence between them seemed to stretch like an expanding rift; neither moved.
"About my father," Harry finally said, watching Peter’s expression closely, and swallowing back his emotional tide. "I know about my father."
"Harry..."
The moment his name left Peter’s lips, the dam broke, along with Harry’s control over himself. He didn’t know if it was because of the way Peter was looking at him, morose, tensed and sympathetic all at once, or the way he said his name, almost like a whisper. It might have been that he didn’t want to hear Peter’s side of the story, in trepidation of coming to terms with himself that his father was worse than a criminal. But Peter had been his best friend and he was still alive. Harry didn’t want to lose the only person he had left in his world, which was on the verge of falling apart. Even if he was responsible for- He violently grabbed Peter by the shoulders, he turned him around to slam him hard against the wall.
"Why didn’t you tell me before, Pete? That my dad was- you were-"
And faltered when Peter didn’t put up any resistance.
"How could you do this to your friend, Pete?" Harry choked, anger giving way to another emotion.
"I didn’t mean for this to-"
"But it happened, didn’t it? You took everything from me."
He was standing too close- close enough to feel the and his lips were dangerously hovering near Peter’s. Oblivious Peter. Hopelessly sweet Peter. The same Peter who had inspired him to feelings he never had expected to have in high school.
If loss did come from inaction, as his father often said, Harry certainly didn’t want that to happen.
"When you’ve lost too much, Harry, all you can do is to take them back."
So Harry did, in the only way a Osborn knew- by force. He leaned in closer and meshed their lips together, hands finding themselves gripping Peter’s wrists over their heads, like a vice. His eyes were shut tight, and he kept them that way because he didn’t have the courage to find out that Peter didn’t feel the same way he did. He licked his lips, coaxing them to open and eventually succeeding. Muffled protests went unheard, silenced by a desperate kiss. Harry was certain that Peter’s hands would break free any moment, push him away, eyes wide. He could imagine the stunned expression on that flawless face, then the turning and running, to get as far as he could from him.
Peter moved his arms, but he didn’t break free, nor did he push him away. Before Harry realised it, his hands were back by his sides. This time, Peter was holding onto his wrists.
The kiss broke. Harry opened his eyes hesitantly.
Peter didn’t look stunned. Peter was just Peter. The same ocean-blue irises, same dark brown hair, the colour of dried autumnal leaves, a tuft falling over his forehead, that all too familiar knitting of the brows that Harry only saw when Peter was deep in thought.
"H- Harry, I-"
"Peter-"
"Harry, you- you’re drunk. Maybe you should... I could-"
Peter stammered, briefly looking a little flushed.
"Peter."
When Peter finally looked his way, and for an instant, Harry forgot if he had ever decided to love or hate him. For a moment, he felt like they were back in his father’s study. Harry, holding a long dagger in his right hand, ready to plunge the weapon downwards but frozen by the unmasked Spider-Man on the settee. The face of whom he recognised to be his friend’s; the face of whom killed his father Then in his indecision, the dagger slipped out of his fingers, slowly falling to the floor and time seemed to come to a standstill. He felt like he could never forgive him for his father’s death. In a way, Spider-Man did take Peter away from him, and he was furious of that.
Harry swallowed, a faint citrusy taste of oranges lingering on the tip of his tongue. Harry was amused despite himself - a thought as trivial as Peter having drunk fruit punch before making his way here surfaced in his mind. But this wasn’t the right time to laugh about anything.
"Harry-" Peter’s eyes searched his face. Harry could almost hear him thinking if he should talk about his father, or do whatever his original purpose of coming here was.
He had wished for this day to come, he had whatever he wanted to say planned out; he had envisioned the manner of Peter’s appearance- gagged and bound to a chair, on the floor, on a bed. All the things he had wanted to do- crazy thoughts of running his knife along his bare skin, leaving thin red cuts all over his body. But now that Peter was here, all he could see was the Peter he knew many years ago, when they were both friends, before they became housemates.
"Don’t hurt Peter," he had said to Doctor Ottavius.
Softly, Harry whispered, "Why do you do this to me, Pete?"
He pressed his forehead against the wall, then nuzzled against Peter’s neck, fingers pulling the collar away. He heard a sharp intake of breath and felt the lean frame stiffen against his. He tilted Peter’s head upwards, and left a wet trail as he moved up along the neck to find his mouth. He captured it quickly, hands slipping around him to remove the jacket, then slipping underneath the shirt, with the intention of pulling it off over his head.
Peter stopped him, hands holding his, voice bordering on a half-croak, "Harry, we can’t do this."
"Shut up."
And removed the apparel in one fluid motion, before Peter could do or say anything. After which, he froze momentarily at the sight of the accursed costume. He shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. His eyes and fingertips delicately surveyed the intricate lining of silver over prussian blue and blood red. He briefly recalled the times he talked of his dislike for the city’s hero - how could Peter have stood there and swallowed all this?
Peter looked vulnerable with his eyes closed. Peter had always looked vulnerable - perhaps this was why Harry never made the connection. His eyes fluttered open, as if reaching upon a decision, and leaned forward to kiss him. Caught surprised, Harry took a step back, hands flying to Peter’s hips for support. This time, their kiss was less gentle, less subtle. It was almost raw, hinting at desperation, and utterly unlike the awkward one he’d imagined to share with Peter years ago.
Peter snaked a hand between them, fingers nimbly undoing the buttons on his powder blue shirt and then stopping at the last button.
"Harry, I think," Peter said breathlessly in between their kisses, "I think we should talk first-"
"Stop thinking."
His reply was resolute, when in actuality, Harry didn’t want to think beyond this moment and even if he wanted to, coherency wasn’t exactly his strongest point now. He could feel the warmth of a trembling breath against his cheek; he could see the conflict that played out on Peter’s face through his half-lidded eyes, and Harry found himself strangely aroused by the notion that Peter seemed to be having some sort of internal debate.
As much as he wished Peter to abandon all responsibilities, like he himself would have, he knew far too well that it would be impossible in this setting without a hell lot of convincing. But as they moved along the wall with their anxious kissing and groping, Peter’s reached out a hand to hold onto something close by for support and ended up snapping the string that held up a painting- it came crashing to the floor and then everything stopped.
They stared at each other, catching their breaths. Peter, as if awakened, looked horrified; he snatched his jacket off the floor and fled. If he had said anything as he jumped out of the window, Harry did not hear a word.
Harry, who dropped to the floor and clutched his head, still recovering from a dream that got too real.
Harry must have fell asleep because he found himself curled in a foetal position on the floor, his joints stiff and his left leg completely numb. He winced as he tried to stand up. He must look like a mess, he thought, because the room was, whirling into place beneath his feet.
What happened between us? We used to be such friends.
God. He sounded like a heartbroken girl.
The clock that hung on the eastern wall announced it was noon. Eyes darting towards the mahogany cabinet, he recalled the strange fluid in the secret room - it needed analysing. Peter was out of the question; even if Peter was on speaking terms with him, he would most likely encourage him to make a quick disposal of it, being the responsible prick he was. Harry needed to reasons for his father’s death and he needed to seek the answers himself, not from Spider-Man.
For the first time, in god knew how many days, he knew what to do and was somewhat reassured. It was a start.
He pushed the cabinet aside until the hole was large enough to let him through. He really should have something hiding the entrance instead of the cabinet if he were to make more visits- maybe a tapestry because the mirrors were getting on his nerves.
Title: Masks
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I wrote this back in 2005 I believe. Yeah. And made additions, changes over this 2 years. Is it any better? I like to think so. It was beta'd in 2005 by aefallen and aingeal_isilme. And never since. XD No spoilers for Spider-Man 3. [addenum] It's SLASH. M/M. Stay away if that's not your cuppa tea.
Some things in life were better left unsaid, words unheard, and sights unseen. Things he wished he didn’t have to know anything he didn’t want to; he knew there was someone he despised and he wished that hate had remained that simple. Someone once said that life was a rollercoaster ride, but his life was lacking the thrill of the steep plummet. And when he thought things couldn’t have got any worse as he was going down a steep slope towards a bleak destiny, fate twisted the knife that was already plunged into his heart.
Parker was supposed to be his friend.
Harry Osborn swept his hand across the tabletop angrily, knocking an empty glass and a liquor bottle to the floor, both shattering into shards that scattered over the rug and onto the polished floorboards. Papers that were on the desk fluttered and settled onto the floor. Suddenly light-headed, he put a hand to his head, trying to steady himself. Backing away unsteadily till he hit the wall, he leaned back for support.
Fuck. Why Parker?
Of all people living in New York City, it had to be Peter?
The very same Peter who he had been friends with since Midtown High; who tripped over his own shoes around Mary-Jane?
Harry piqued at the thought of Parker being responsible for his father’s death for the past two years. Yet, in those two years, Parker had continued playing the role of an apparent friend. How could he have done all that, so seemingly effortlessly, to someone whose father he had robbed? Thinking back on the times when he did favours for Peter just to show him he valued their friendship, he felt almost betrayed.
Get up, boy. Avenge me.
His father’s voice clearly resonated in his ears, and that was when Harry knew that he had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. He dragged his knees to himself, refusing to look around him. Afraid that he would see a familiarly stern visage in the mirrors that were hanging in the room. He needed to talk to someone. Then he realised-
Where are your friends?
-he had no one to talk to.
Where are they when you need them? You have no one, Harry! They’re not here for you. But I am. Listen to me.
Harry shook his head, still feebly trying to deny his father’s phantom, yet knowing he spoke the truth. For years he had been standing in his father’s shadows, admiring the air of authority his father wore like a well-cut suit. While his father was dutifully dedicated to OsCorp, he had barely noticed his own son, his only family. For a better life, Norman Osborn had said, once too often, since his wife’s death. Excuse or not, the irony was that despite all the wealth, Norman couldn’t give Harry what he wanted most.
Just like Parker.
His fingers curled and his face burned, a revelation coming to light. He had never thought of how similar they were: Norman Osborn, Peter Parker. The two people he thought he was close to, were both hiding behind masks. But his father was dead; Harry repeatedly drummed that fact into his mind. And Peter was the cause of that...
But Peter was Spider-Man and his father was the Green Goblin.
Peter was just doing his job of saving the city.
Harry bit his lower lip.
The memory surfaced in his mind. Vividly. Spider-Man, half-turned, back towards him... and his father, still, unmoving on the chaise longue. The slight breeze that came in through the balcony door, the overwhelming silence and the lump in his throat that had threatened to gag him on the spot. He swallowed.
He had detested his father because he felt that he could never meet what Norman had expected of him. His father had been a smart, harsh opportunist; Harry was an uninterested student who failed his subjects to irk his father, too soft to survive in the world of business. He hardly even knew what he wanted.
And now, he would never be able to make his father proud.
It’s all Spider-Man’s fault.
Harry wondered occasionally - mostly on the nights he stared at a half-empty vodka bottle in his hand - if his father hadn’t died, would their relationship have improved?
I will make it up to you, his father had said the last he saw him.
But ifs were ifs, and Harry was grasping at straws, hoping, wishing...
And still, the dead would never return.
He bowed his head.
A trickle of perspiration bead caught in his brow, he glanced up - a hand ready to wipe it away, only to catch sight of a piece of paper not too far from him, the messily penned words on it gradually swimming into view- part of his father’s research notes. He had been studying it earlier, but it made little sense, so he’d decided it was time to hit the bottle. Harry was no scientist, though he knew he could ace his way out of school if he had only paid a just little more attention in class. There were two people he might have trusted enough to ask, but Doctor Otto Octavius was dead, or so announced the six o’clock news. And the second person was someone he thought he knew, someone he called a friend, someone who was almost a brother to him.
Someone who would have been more than happy to aid him with all these science stuff.
He recalled the way Peter’s face lit up whenever anyone talked to him about science, being Physics, Chemistry or Biology, like a child on Boxing Day. Peter’s smiles were contagious - Harry would find himself grinning to himself, and he would then shake his head, sometimes teasing, or wondering if Peter came from a far off galaxy.
Fuck. He didn’t want to think about this.
It was like all he had ever known was a lie. His dreams had been ripped away from him, without a shred left for scraps.
How could he have been so fucking blind? Peter, not returning his calls. Peter, always in a hurry. Peter, who disappeared each time an emergency occurred. And he had thought Peter had something going on with Spider-Man, which had fueled his dislike for the bug even more so in the past two years.
Peter did, except that Peter was Spider-Man.
Parker will pay for this.
Harry crumpled the paper and threw it as hard as he could. It didn’t matter where it flew; he was frustrated. But he watched it fly anyway, to see where it landed- he would need the paper eventually.
Get up, son. Make him pay.
You swore it on your father’s grave.
Those words- sneering at him- were they his father’s or his own? He couldn’t discern.
For seemingly countless nights, the whispers stole into his ears, ceasing only when Harry yelled for them to stop. Those were the nights when he’d curse and swear with no one to hear him, save the austere walls and the leering exotic masks that decorated them. In the mornings after, he’d wake up with a throbbing headache, thankful that most of the rooms in the house had soundproof fittings.
His sanity had already been consumed, the day he hurled his glass at the illusion of his father in a mirror, the pieces falling away to reveal the entrance to his father’s secret lair. He couldn’t stop thinking of how his father could have led a double life. That the man he looked up to was capable of killing. And Harry, worried by vengeful thoughts that surfaced in his mind each day, had a mahogany cabinet to stand before of the accursed hole. He was afraid to succumb and the scotch seemed to help prevent him from doing so most of the time. Heck, he would have more than enough money to foot the hospital bills, if any.
Yet, he knew he was drowning in a sea of conflict. Struggling against the undercurrent of rational thought and desire, sinking without an end.
He had wanted Spider-Man dead.
He had wanted Peter. Just one look, one word from him.
Not him running around in some ridiculous outfit, trying to make the stupid world an ideal place. Not not recognising that Harry needed him.
Never returning his calls.
He had retaliated, by taking the chance Peter never took; he asked Mary-Jane Watson out. He didn’t want to see them together- he had been so selfish, so foolishly desperate for Peter’s attention. How could he had thought separating them was a good idea? Yet, Harry didn’t have the heart to tell Peter. Maybe he’d forget about Peter- Maybe he didn’t want to see the crushed look on his face- at least not just then.
Peter found out for himself on the day the Green Goblin killed OsCorp’s board of directors.
If there was one way of getting his ex-best friend’s attention, he could always don the green suit and-
Harry closed his eyes and perished that crazy thought; it was not his ambition to gain world recognition like his father. That ambition had driven his father to madness. Then it came to him that it might be what took his father away from him. He wanted to believe that so badly, but he had spent two years convincing himself that Spider-Man was the one at fault; he wasn’t ready to accept it.
Screw Peter. Screw everything.
Screw his father’s notes-
Harry paused, slowly furrowing his brows.
There was someone who might be able to understand it.
Harry picked himself up from the floor, and stumbled to the cabinet which concealed the room he hated so much. He had wanted to destroy everything inside, tear down the house and set the rubble on fire. Leave New York. If he couldn’t run from the truth, he should at least get rid of it so that it would no longer serve as a physical reminder. But he couldn’t and it tormented him to even be in that room. Just long enough to take a vial of the emerald-green fluid, he encouraged himself.
The sudden refreshing wind upon his face-
There hadn’t been a cold draft in the room before.
He sharply remembered the windows being shut, and they couldn’t have opened by themselves.
Someone’s here.
He spun around and looked up, but there was no one on the ceiling or anywhere. Harry didn’t know whether to feel glad that he wasn’t around or glad if he were. A part of him wanted to see Peter, to be comforted by his presence and concern, yet he felt he wasn’t ready to face the person who put him through all this grief. If Spider-Man was anyone else, he wouldn’t be so conflicted right now. Life was mocking him at every turn.
"Harry."
"Peter?" The name left his lips before he could stop himself, body turning towards the source of the sound.
Peter was standing in the corner of the room, looking back at him with eyes that made him forget he was staring right at the person who was responsible for his father’s death. He approached Harry slowly, seemingly uncertain of what Harry might do. At this moment, Harry, who was unable to say a word, who wasn’t sure what to feel, felt like his legs couldn’t support him any longer.
Peter, standing before him, in his casual mismatch of u-necked tee, washed-out jeans and a light gray, hooded, flannel jacket. Not wearing his red and blue outfit, though Harry was certain they were right there beneath the clothes.
And in an almost quiet tone of voice, Peter asked for a favour that they both knew Harry would decline. But he said it anyway. "Harry, I need you to hear me out."
Harry looked away, barely containing his anger.
Peter stopped an arm’s length away.
"Harry," his voice now sounded more urgent. "Please."
"There’s nothing to talk about, Parker," Harry scoffed quietly, and was amazed at his self-control.
"There is, Harry. There are things I have to say. Things I’ve wanted to tell you before but- I thought I had all the time to say it later- Harry, you’re my friend. You’ve always been my friend. You should know this- and- I wish I’d let you known sooner."
It was amazing how cheesy Peter's words always were when personal topics came to heart. Harry could far less be bothered with rolling his eyes.
"Harry, being Spider-Man never changed what I felt about you."
Harry started. It was what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this- he was supposed to be angry at Peter. He could deal with managing OsCorp and all its accounts, but this trying not to let his emotions go unchecked in front of his ex-best friend was as difficult as keeping hold of a slippery eel. Having drunk a bottle of vodka didn’t exactly help the situation either. There were many things he wanted to do but he couldn’t recall any of them in his current state.
"Harry-"
"I know, Parker"
"What?" Peter asked, expression bewildered, though Harry suspected that he knew what he was referring to.
The silence between them seemed to stretch like an expanding rift; neither moved.
"About my father," Harry finally said, watching Peter’s expression closely, and swallowing back his emotional tide. "I know about my father."
"Harry..."
The moment his name left Peter’s lips, the dam broke, along with Harry’s control over himself. He didn’t know if it was because of the way Peter was looking at him, morose, tensed and sympathetic all at once, or the way he said his name, almost like a whisper. It might have been that he didn’t want to hear Peter’s side of the story, in trepidation of coming to terms with himself that his father was worse than a criminal. But Peter had been his best friend and he was still alive. Harry didn’t want to lose the only person he had left in his world, which was on the verge of falling apart. Even if he was responsible for- He violently grabbed Peter by the shoulders, he turned him around to slam him hard against the wall.
"Why didn’t you tell me before, Pete? That my dad was- you were-"
And faltered when Peter didn’t put up any resistance.
"How could you do this to your friend, Pete?" Harry choked, anger giving way to another emotion.
"I didn’t mean for this to-"
"But it happened, didn’t it? You took everything from me."
He was standing too close- close enough to feel the and his lips were dangerously hovering near Peter’s. Oblivious Peter. Hopelessly sweet Peter. The same Peter who had inspired him to feelings he never had expected to have in high school.
If loss did come from inaction, as his father often said, Harry certainly didn’t want that to happen.
"When you’ve lost too much, Harry, all you can do is to take them back."
So Harry did, in the only way a Osborn knew- by force. He leaned in closer and meshed their lips together, hands finding themselves gripping Peter’s wrists over their heads, like a vice. His eyes were shut tight, and he kept them that way because he didn’t have the courage to find out that Peter didn’t feel the same way he did. He licked his lips, coaxing them to open and eventually succeeding. Muffled protests went unheard, silenced by a desperate kiss. Harry was certain that Peter’s hands would break free any moment, push him away, eyes wide. He could imagine the stunned expression on that flawless face, then the turning and running, to get as far as he could from him.
Peter moved his arms, but he didn’t break free, nor did he push him away. Before Harry realised it, his hands were back by his sides. This time, Peter was holding onto his wrists.
The kiss broke. Harry opened his eyes hesitantly.
Peter didn’t look stunned. Peter was just Peter. The same ocean-blue irises, same dark brown hair, the colour of dried autumnal leaves, a tuft falling over his forehead, that all too familiar knitting of the brows that Harry only saw when Peter was deep in thought.
"H- Harry, I-"
"Peter-"
"Harry, you- you’re drunk. Maybe you should... I could-"
Peter stammered, briefly looking a little flushed.
"Peter."
When Peter finally looked his way, and for an instant, Harry forgot if he had ever decided to love or hate him. For a moment, he felt like they were back in his father’s study. Harry, holding a long dagger in his right hand, ready to plunge the weapon downwards but frozen by the unmasked Spider-Man on the settee. The face of whom he recognised to be his friend’s; the face of whom killed his father Then in his indecision, the dagger slipped out of his fingers, slowly falling to the floor and time seemed to come to a standstill. He felt like he could never forgive him for his father’s death. In a way, Spider-Man did take Peter away from him, and he was furious of that.
Harry swallowed, a faint citrusy taste of oranges lingering on the tip of his tongue. Harry was amused despite himself - a thought as trivial as Peter having drunk fruit punch before making his way here surfaced in his mind. But this wasn’t the right time to laugh about anything.
"Harry-" Peter’s eyes searched his face. Harry could almost hear him thinking if he should talk about his father, or do whatever his original purpose of coming here was.
He had wished for this day to come, he had whatever he wanted to say planned out; he had envisioned the manner of Peter’s appearance- gagged and bound to a chair, on the floor, on a bed. All the things he had wanted to do- crazy thoughts of running his knife along his bare skin, leaving thin red cuts all over his body. But now that Peter was here, all he could see was the Peter he knew many years ago, when they were both friends, before they became housemates.
"Don’t hurt Peter," he had said to Doctor Ottavius.
Softly, Harry whispered, "Why do you do this to me, Pete?"
He pressed his forehead against the wall, then nuzzled against Peter’s neck, fingers pulling the collar away. He heard a sharp intake of breath and felt the lean frame stiffen against his. He tilted Peter’s head upwards, and left a wet trail as he moved up along the neck to find his mouth. He captured it quickly, hands slipping around him to remove the jacket, then slipping underneath the shirt, with the intention of pulling it off over his head.
Peter stopped him, hands holding his, voice bordering on a half-croak, "Harry, we can’t do this."
"Shut up."
And removed the apparel in one fluid motion, before Peter could do or say anything. After which, he froze momentarily at the sight of the accursed costume. He shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. His eyes and fingertips delicately surveyed the intricate lining of silver over prussian blue and blood red. He briefly recalled the times he talked of his dislike for the city’s hero - how could Peter have stood there and swallowed all this?
Peter looked vulnerable with his eyes closed. Peter had always looked vulnerable - perhaps this was why Harry never made the connection. His eyes fluttered open, as if reaching upon a decision, and leaned forward to kiss him. Caught surprised, Harry took a step back, hands flying to Peter’s hips for support. This time, their kiss was less gentle, less subtle. It was almost raw, hinting at desperation, and utterly unlike the awkward one he’d imagined to share with Peter years ago.
Peter snaked a hand between them, fingers nimbly undoing the buttons on his powder blue shirt and then stopping at the last button.
"Harry, I think," Peter said breathlessly in between their kisses, "I think we should talk first-"
"Stop thinking."
His reply was resolute, when in actuality, Harry didn’t want to think beyond this moment and even if he wanted to, coherency wasn’t exactly his strongest point now. He could feel the warmth of a trembling breath against his cheek; he could see the conflict that played out on Peter’s face through his half-lidded eyes, and Harry found himself strangely aroused by the notion that Peter seemed to be having some sort of internal debate.
As much as he wished Peter to abandon all responsibilities, like he himself would have, he knew far too well that it would be impossible in this setting without a hell lot of convincing. But as they moved along the wall with their anxious kissing and groping, Peter’s reached out a hand to hold onto something close by for support and ended up snapping the string that held up a painting- it came crashing to the floor and then everything stopped.
They stared at each other, catching their breaths. Peter, as if awakened, looked horrified; he snatched his jacket off the floor and fled. If he had said anything as he jumped out of the window, Harry did not hear a word.
Harry, who dropped to the floor and clutched his head, still recovering from a dream that got too real.
Harry must have fell asleep because he found himself curled in a foetal position on the floor, his joints stiff and his left leg completely numb. He winced as he tried to stand up. He must look like a mess, he thought, because the room was, whirling into place beneath his feet.
What happened between us? We used to be such friends.
God. He sounded like a heartbroken girl.
The clock that hung on the eastern wall announced it was noon. Eyes darting towards the mahogany cabinet, he recalled the strange fluid in the secret room - it needed analysing. Peter was out of the question; even if Peter was on speaking terms with him, he would most likely encourage him to make a quick disposal of it, being the responsible prick he was. Harry needed to reasons for his father’s death and he needed to seek the answers himself, not from Spider-Man.
For the first time, in god knew how many days, he knew what to do and was somewhat reassured. It was a start.
He pushed the cabinet aside until the hole was large enough to let him through. He really should have something hiding the entrance instead of the cabinet if he were to make more visits- maybe a tapestry because the mirrors were getting on his nerves.