Title: Knowing The Difference
Rating: T for heavy angst
Pairing: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
Disclaimer: These characters and their film incarnations are the sole property of Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, Marvel Entertainment, and Sony Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended, no disrespect is meant, and no profit will ever be made.
Summary: One-shot; movie-verse; spoilers for SM1. Inspired by the prompt "death at a funeral". A peek into the mindset of a friendship forever changed by secrets...and lies.
Archive?: Only with permission.

Author's Note: Over 800 hits and counting for "Consequences" -- wow! Thank you so much for your support!

Knowing The Difference

"Thank God for you, Peter," Harry says, flat and without much conviction. His hair is growing out, the wind catching the sun-streaked locks and ruffling them as if they were flames, and his words are nearly lost in the flurry of dead leaves that blow up and swirl around the both of you.

"You're the only family I have left."

When he looks at you, through narrowed eyes glassy with unshed tears, you can't help but open your arms to him. He responds half-heartedly, stepping into your embrace as you draw him in, and you know that his mind is still fixed on revenge. Even so, he feels smaller somehow, almost fragile, as if this loss had taken the best part of whom he was and left a shell behind.

A beat, and you sense something inside him breaking. The muscles in his upper body slacken as you tighten your hold, rocking your combined weight from one foot to the other. Time slows to a crawl, with MJ and Aunt May and all the other mourners blessedly fading into the background and leaving you this moment.

I've got you, buddy.

Good old Peter Parker, steadfast and true. The one friend Harry could trust above all others.

Maybe you could ignore Fate's cruelest of ironies if you simply held him tighter. So you do, just a fraction; and he whimpers, just a bit.

Not good; not good at all. The guilt runs deep, a jagged knife twisting in your guts, and you're suddenly on the verge of losing it.

If Harry were to ask you, here and now, with his face against your neck and his hands clasping your shoulders, Why did my father have to die?, you'd tell him the truth, without hesitation, and let the chips fall where they may. Why should you keep a promise to a madman?

Thankfully, he doesn't ask. He doesn't say a word.

The angles of Harry's cheekbones are still sharp with anger, and you feel his jaw clench as he rubs the side of his face against yours. His pale skin is rough and windblown; ears tipped with cold. Some part of you wants to tell him that everything's going to be okay; that you'll always be there for him, no matter what. Recite from memory all those hollow little phrases of comfort that well-meaning people like to toss around, hoping that this might stop the bleeding, or heal the wounds.

It can't. Not for him. Only another funeral will.

That morbid thought makes you shudder in its wake, bringing you back to reality as Harry finally releases you. He turns his back before walking away, into the wind, the tails of his heavy black overcoat flapping out behind him. His steps are aimless but he doesn't stumble, and he keeps his shoulders straight when he climbs into the back seat of the lead car, sunglasses sliding into place. The brave front prevails, for now.

But the road ahead is a hard one. There will be shadows and darkness, and empty rooms, and pain, and difficult choices, and long lonely nights spent wondering if he was ever good enough to be Norman Osborn's son.

Time for Harry to grow up...and time for you to keep your distance.

You can't pretend that nothing's going to change between you. It already has. You just accept it...and go on.

You live your life, looking up. He lives his, looking down.

And on those rare occasions when your two paths cross, you find that there's nothing much to talk about anymore...so you never return his calls.

finis