Chapter Text
Amputation.
That’s where this is headed. Harry is going to need an amputation.
His shoes are unfathomably tight. An increasing threat to his circulation.
Why he wore such needlessly lavish boots to a night out at a dirty boardwalk- where he will spend its entirety on foot- is beyond him, but here he’s stood. Though, he’s anything but still, shifting side to aching side to ease the pain.
It’s barely been five minutes, a fact that taunts Harry in the way seconds drag with each tentative shuffle of his feet that burns more than the last.
The public eye is one hell of a motivator to elevate your wardrobe, even more so when your best critic is also your worst critic. And more importantly, your own flesh and blood. But, even with the best stylist daddy’s money can buy, and a self proclaimed eye for the aesthetics, Harry will be the first to admit- albeit head hung low- that he’s committed some major fashion felonies.
Nothing gets the nostalgia stomach ache going like the humiliating image of a particularly garish sequin jacket he made the mistake of sporting in middle school. What could Harry say? He had a flair or two for theatrics, and that was before his glee club days.
It’s a memory that pales in comparison to this, unfortunately. But maybe, he hopes, his heels aren’t bleeding in the same way Peter had joked his eyes were at the mere sight of Harry’s beloved eye-sore of a statement piece.
Truth be told, and he definitely won’t tell it, Harry really only dressed up for one pair of eyes today. To make up for the sequins, of course.
If he’s frowning, it melts at the smooth voice introducing him, anything but intrusive, accompanied by a hand extending outwards. Peter flashes a quick but ever genuine smile. Harry melts again.
“Guys, this is my best friend Harry.”
No time to ponder the ache that torpedoes through his chest at that word choice when Peter goes on to mention his “overseas trip” with a concerning ease. The lie rolls off his tongue without so much as a slight hitch in tone as if it were cold hard facts, only nailing the suspicious coffin further when he closes with another upwards twitch of his lips.
Never has Harry seen him lie before. Not successfully. Not without a tell.
He wants to press further, but all eyes land on his restless back and forth glancing, leaving Harry to dig for his tried and true media trained smile.
His shoes are killing him.
A pause in the conversation allows Harry’s eyes to instinctively flit downwards, landing on Peter’s battered black converse. He wants to scoff, years of Osborn etiquette be damned. Peter never takes them off, and given how much of a cheapskate he is, he probably hasn’t since high school.
The canvas is frayed and battle-worn, holes on the sides revealing a sliver of- you’re kidding- Spider-Man socks. The dying scoff sat in Harry’s throat morphs into a laugh, then dies again when a cold wave of insecurity rushes up his back, leaving his feet aching again.
He’s overdressed.
Peter’s cheerful tone saves the day, derailing his runaway train of thought by mentioning the foundation- more specifically “his foundation,” and Harry cuts in.
“You mean we’re starting up a new research foundation.” He can’t help but giggle, something giddy rising in his chest at the mere mention of it.
Peter only smiles, the same one he always gives Harry, warm and wide, like it’s escaping and he can’t reel it in, crinkling his eyes and cheeks.
It takes every ounce of will he has to look away, and Harry turns to shake hands with everyone. His cheeks are burning with the effort.
Those smiles were always contagious, irritatingly so, and Peter’s too oblivious and kind to know he’s using them for evil.
Harry’s smiling too. Ear to ear. He can’t reel it in either, and he doesn’t try. The buzzing in his chest numbs his cheeks, sparking every nerve ending like a firework, and it feels good. He feels good. He didn’t think he ever would.
After some quick goodbyes, their crowd dwindles to three again. Like always, Peter and Mj. And Harry.
Harry would never admit it- though he probably wouldn’t have to given the way Peter reads him like a book- but something pangs in his chest every time he finds himself with his shoes hanging halfway off the sidewalk, teetering on the curb and stumbling into patches of grass behind the two high school sweethearts. Every time they linked arms or shared a drink with one straw.
Peter never noticed that though. Or, he never said anything, and Harry prays it’s the former.
That something swarming in his chest was never contempt for MJ, Harry’s certain. But, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t get that same swirling storm of something horrible in his stomach whenever he’d tag along to third wheel on their dates, leaving him to grapple with something much darker and more indescribable than plain loneliness. Something all encompassing.
They whisper at each other. What about, Harry isn’t sure, and that thick fog clouding his discretion throws all rational thought to the wind- which will certainly be blown back into his face later.
Tonight’s gonna be good if it kills him. And it’s already trying- below the ankle at least.
"Well they seemed nice! Too bad they're gonna miss out on the best night of our lives!"
Harry circles around Peter, walking a little faster than he even realizes, a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins from the slop of emotions in his head- most blobs suspiciously Peter shaped- putting a pep to his every painful step. That, and whatever the hell is actually pumping through his veins courtesy of his "treatment."
He stretches his arms out, urging everyone to follow, and grazes the shoulder of Peter’s jacket in the process.
Immediately speaking again to hide the hitch in his voice and ease the embarrassment creeping up beneath his now burning cheeks, Harry claps his hands together. "Alright, here's the plan."
What plan?
He marches on despite his waining confidence. Years of tagging along to host galas, and giving one too many ill-prepared speeches, has prepared Harry for this moment. "Tonight is the 'Greatest Hits' album of our childhood, and the top three singles: each of our favorite attractions."
Ignoring the way the heat clings to every damned inch of his face, seeping out from every pore via sweat, Harry speaks with his usual air of playful confidence- enough to cover up the occasional pause in his words when his voice catches- following behind Peter to the booth for the "Hydro Bench," and gives MJ a testy grin as he lowers onto one of the stools.
“Alright, let’s do this.”
Peter waves an arm over as he sits, then turns to look directly at Harry, narrowing his eyes like a challenge. The expression is innocent enough, but it only serves to crank the rising temperature on Harry’s, what he can imagine, are bright red cheeks.
“You have no idea who you’re up against,” Peter adds.
For one last dying attempt to escape the intense heat lamp of a gaze Peter’s got on him, Harry reaches over to grip his shoulders- adrenaline getting the better of him- and shake them as MJ chimes in with her own teasing from the stool opposite of him.
It works. At a cost, of course, because even though Peter’s attention is elsewhere and Harry’s hands have long since left the warmth of his shoulders, all that heat has swam directly onto his face again. The transfer leaves his fingers tingling with an odd chill and his cheeks anything but cool.
All Harry can think is, “God, why the fuck did I do that?”
MJ hits Peter with one last taunt for good luck, her words cutting through the blinding fog of embarrassment and confusion hazing over Harry’s rational mind- one he coincidentally always leaves at home when he’s with Peter- and he speaks again.
“Nah, Pete. you got this.”
He’s on autopilot now, system rebooted and defaulted to supportive best friend mode- a word that pulls the stool out from under his ass and sinks him into a new shame spiral. A wave pool that he can’t swim up for air from.
Friend.
And he totally means to unpack that recurring can of worms, but the attendant steps back and announces the start of the game, drawing him out of his wallowing like a rope pulled taut around his wrist- a buoy in a storm. With a sigh, Harry grips the gun firm enough to break it, and wills his thoughts into its stream.
He imagines it’s Peter’s face he’s shooting, as if he can spray his pining away like a misbehaving cat. It’s a brilliant idea that backfires instantaneously when it morphs into an image of actually spraying his best friend in the face, and Harry’s cursed brain runs with how utterly lewd it is. He chokes on air, moritified, and impossibly red in the face as he covers it up with a clearing of his throat.
Christ, it’s like he’s sixteen again, tugging at his turtleneck like a hot tangled ball of hormones, willing away any out of pocket thoughts that always seemed to spring up at the most inconvenient times imaginable.
Whatever nervous monster was clawing at his gut has grown tremendously in size now, pressing its body against the walls of his chest, wringing his throat from the inside, whispering truths he can no longer deny into his ear.
All of that is washed away when he presses down and the water starts to shoot.
Harry says something, a joke, he thinks- his vocal chords are definitely moving- but the thump of his heart in his ears drowns it out entirely. He keeps rambling anyway, words broken by a nervous laugh, and prays the sound of water against metal covers the way his voice cracks. “-and our returning competitors seem to be in the highest of spirits.”
“Harry-“ Peter tries not to laugh. “-what are you doing?”
Trying not to implode at the sound of your laugh.
“Distracting you. Duh.”
Distracting myself , he thinks, more honestly.
“And-“ He adds, drawing out the word. “-it’s working.”
It’s not working.
“Ohh, that’s dirty!” Peter laughs again and Harry sucks in a long breath at the irony of that sentence.
The stream of water darts around, completely missing its target as he shakily grips the gun harder, his hands starting to slip with how clammy he's getting, and though he can't see it, Harry knows Peter's winning. Especially when he hears that signature Peter snicker, low and cocky. It's a sound that usually lights a fire in him that results in someone getting a jab in the side via elbow, but the fire this one ignites is nothing of the sort- the heat blooming in Harry’s chest, its flame dancing and licking around his core.
He's gonna kill Peter. That bastard is lucky these water guns only turn so far, Harry thinks, unconsciously beginning to wear a slight scowl.
The thinly veiled fury overshadowed by the thick smoke of whatever the hell Peter's got him feeling now is cut through like a knife when a bright flash of light pulses in the corner of Harry's eye, the shrill ringing of a bell signifying yet another Parker win.
"And our returning champion keeps his crown!" Peter announces his victory as loud and smug as humanly possible, punching the air as he stands along with Harry who would have rolled his eyes if not for how utterly distracted he is, and that knife is only dug deeper into his chest when Peter taps his chest, wearing a shit-eating grin to match.
That action alone is enough to nearly knock the wind out of him, but Harry wills the oxygen to stay in his lungs, laughing, albeit breathlessly, along with MJ as she waves away the attendant and his incessant prize offer.
"I'd look good in a crown," Peter objects, and Harry can hear the smile in his words, which morphs his own into a frown because-
He would.
He would, and tonight’s going to be a long night.