A/N: This has been sitting in my docs since May oh my good lord.

I saw Spiderman 2 opening night and the second I saw Dane Dehaan as Harry Osborn I knew he was going to plague my thoughts and dreams with his sad rich boy eyes and his devilish powerbottom swagger. And thus, this.

Harry Osborn had never been a shy boy, by any stretch of the imagination. He knew what he wanted and he got it, by any means necessary. Sometimes all it took was a flash of his billion dollar smile or a simple flick of his boyscout pocket knife and he'd have the moon on a string. He wasn't always like this. Sure, he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he never used to like the way it tasted quite this much.

It used to taste different, like new toys and fancy cars. Now all he could ever taste was cheap cigarettes, expensive liquor and strangers' cologne.

There are two benefits to being an Osborn; the money, and the sex. When you're an Osborn, especially a young desireable one like him, everyone you meet either wants to buy you or screw you. Every day is another party, every night another drunk idiot in his bed. As Harry sometimes like to put it, it's a constant diet of cock and cocktails.

Good god, he can't help but think. I went to Catholic school.

And sure, sometimes he'll have days where the entire universe feels like it's crashing down around him and he struggles to breath amidst the crowds of people, but that was nothing that couldn't be solved by blowing hundreds of dollars on booze and getting so trashed that he couldn't even remember his own middle name.

Yes, Harry was the perfect cliché; the fucked up, drugged out, slutty rich gay kid with worse daddy issues than Lindsay Lohan. He really did hate his father. Since he shipped him off to boarding school, the old bastard hadn't so much as called. Hell, at this point he would settle for a birthday card from his secretary or a text or anything to let him know anyone back home still gave a shit about him.

He hasn't heard from Peter since high school started. Last time they spoke they promised each other they wouldn't lose touch. Harry didn't kiss Peter, despite how badly he wanted to. Of course, he regrets it now. He's sworn to himself that if they ever see each other again, he will. He spends the rest of his time at boarding school dreaming about him, wondering what he looks like now, if he's gotten taller, how his lips might feel and what he might look like when he comes.

But then his father is dying and he's back home and it doesn't exactly go like he planned. He sees Peter again for the first time on the street, from his car. For a second, he can't move or breath or speak or do anything because damn, time has been good to his old friend. Once he can speak again, it's a shaky command to his driver to get them the hell out of there. Later, he ends up getting stoned in a field and crying his eyes out. He considers tracking him down and telling him everything, about his father and about his substance abuse and about how much he's missed him all these years, but he just goes back to his hotel and jacks off thinking about how this new Peter might taste.

It's a little awkward when they finally do talk.

Harry is all fake golden boy businessman, recounting his numerous fictional exploits with supermodels, trying his hardest to seem straight and probably coming off misogynistic. He doesn't know why he doesn't just tell Peter the truth, which was that he'd only ever had sex with one girl and he'd been so fucked up that she'd had to put her fingers in his ass for him to come, something that ended up being weird for both of them. Bile raged in his chest when Peter said he had a girlfriend.

"It's complicated."

He told him he didn't do complicated, since he was already lying anyway. That night he does coke off some guy's abs at a club and ends up getting fucked in the back seat of a car then walking home. When he wakes up, his father is dead and he only feels relief.