AN: a one-shot (fucking 5000 words later ugh) that I've been picking away at for quite some time. This fic killed me to write, but I'm happy to share it with you.
Currently gnawing away at the latest chap of YFMATS (hopefully I can update soon), but here's a little intermission of sorts. This is an AU where none of the shit in ASM2 happens, but Norman still dies and Harry still contracts retroviral hyperplasia. ANGST UGH.
...
Breaching the Surface
They are totally alone.
The beach itself is eerily empty, with only the shrill cry of birds and the wildlife. Harry's escort – he refuses to call the poor man a bodyguard – is miraculously not glued to the young heir's side. Peter suspects that Harry must have tied him to a chair back at the beach house. The man took his job seriously and as such Peter could not blame him for perhaps being too overenthusiastic in protecting Harold Theopolis Osborn from the big bad world. Apparently that had not stopped Harry tying the man to a chair though.
He fights off a snort and resting his palm across the bridge of his nose, the world goes dark. Well, red, as the sun pierces through the gaps between his long fingers.
It has been exactly one year since they had reunited. Peter remembers it vividly: they had been awkward, unsure of each other. Both of them had been quite cautious, faces taut with stress.
Inevitably, the ice between them had melted. However, new problems had arisen as they were wont to do. Harry had gotten thinner since that meeting, worriedly so. Whilst he could barely pick up instances of his declining health before, save for the twitching of his hands, now it was all too obvious. Harry was often tired and his limbs would shake violently at random intervals. He would still tear at his neck, as if to rip away the tell-tale mark of his impeding mortality. Over the course of the past year, Peter had still not quite managed to wean him off of the habit.
He is not sure of who had been more relieved to finally get Harry away from his dead father's office. Felicia had practically thrown them out of the building in the end; even whilst being carried out, slung over the shoulder of one of his guards, Harry had been still trying to run a business. It had been hilarious, but Harry's workaholic lifestyle combined with his ill state was not a joking matter. Peter makes a mental note to text Felicia later – he had promised to keep her updated on her boss's wellbeing.
Feeling wistful, Peter sighs quietly. It has been years since he has walked this sandy expanse and it forces a resurfacing of memories as quickly as the breaching of the waves. The good and bad sort.
The first summer that Peter spends properly with Harry Osborn, they are seven years old and they are both of them whisked away to one of the many Osborn family beach houses. By this tender age, Harry has clearly staked Peter out as his best friend, a title that is not bestowed so easily.
(Peter does not tire of the jealous gazes constantly boring into his back if it means that Harry is by his side)
It is also by this time that Harry's ambitious nature has begun to kick in.
Before too long, Peter's best and only friend is dragging him along with him to experience snorkeling, surfing, crabbing, fishing, and having fun with flotation devices. Norman watches over them steadily, something that Peter does not realise as abnormal until many trips later when Norman has left them to their own devices (Peter did not like the man's cold demeanor much anyway, so it had not been a loss). Nevertheless, at this time in their lives Harry's father even participates and teaches them how to fish with what could barely be called a smile upon his face.
This first trip had always stood out in his memory: new experiences, sensations, and the inevitable process of learning things the hard way.
One afternoon, they take out the boat onto the water with two-child sized donuts strapped to the back with a long rope. Harry looks even smaller now that he is positively dwarfed by his yellow life-jacket. It looks ridiculously cute on him, which Peter points out. Harry does not look pleased by the observation. Of course, it looks a bit more fitting on Peter, who is getting more gangly and tall with each day.
They clamber eagerly into the donuts, feet slipping on the canvas and catching on the sharp trimmings. They ignore the pain, overcome with excitement and begin to squeal when the boat engine suddenly fires up again and tugs them along at exhilarating speeds (for seven year olds anyway).
They hit a particularly nasty wave, and suddenly they are flying through the air.
Peter barely has the chance to realise what a terrible mistake he has made, before he's hitting the water with a harsh smack. Salt water goes up his nose, into his mouth, his limbs flail in the dark water and somehow, through the chaos, his glasses manage to stay perched upon his nose.
They are hauled, quite unceremoniously, back into the boat.
The saltwater burns the inside of his nose and throat. He chokes, spitting up seawater onto his chin, which he barely registers due to the tears streaming down his cheeks from the water getting into his eyes.
Doubled over beside him, Harry is no worse off. His pale blue eyes are ringed red from the water and he is coughing bitterly. He looks every bit the part of a sickly spoiled brat as he glares angrily at Norman. All the adults laugh at them and their cheeks burn in utter embarrassment.
Despite the pain, it is the best fun they have ever had. The exhilaration and the adrenaline rush quickly have them clamoring back into the donuts for the next hour.
The rest of the summer plays out in a similar fashion: getting ugly bruises and forging unforgettable memories.
(They had been happy; totally unburdened by the inevitable effects of time)
Spending his holidays with Harry becomes a regular occurrence, but every summer, without fail, they go to the beach.
Norman has long since stopped dragging them around, instead dumping them like a used napkin with the nearest bodyguard available. The first time, Harry had refused to speak for the entire day. That week had been particularly difficult as Harry stopped mid-activity more often than not and would burst into tears instead. With a great deal of patience, Peter sees him through each tantrum with a comforting hug and the promise of better things. He understands Harry's pain, but whereas his parents seemed to have had no choice in leaving him, Norman seems to willingly keep his son at arm's length.
At night, Peter clutches Harry's hand whilst he sleeps. Harry's face is stained with tears and his breathing is uneven. Surprising himself, Peter slips into the role of the comforter with unnatural ease. Seeing Harry's distress conjures up memories of Peter's own grieving. Harry had clutched his hand then, shocking Peter with his over-brimming confidence and charismatic nature. He had been a balm.
Harry sniffles. Peter grits his teeth.
In his mind, he wishes all the ill-will of the world upon Norman (thinking back, perhaps it had worked too well).
By the time they are nine they have discovered every secret nook and cranny of both the tourist beach a few streets away, as well as their own private beach just outside the beach house.
They are as thick as thieves and soon become a thorn in the side of the locals and a popular topic of conversation – half-fond, half-bitter. They are total mischief makers, though Peter is more reluctant than Harry to cause a stir.
Nearly every day they manage to give Harry's bodyguard the slip and cause rampant chaos around the tourist beach. In a particularly daring move, they had managed to nab every bottle of sunscreen across the beach (Harry had quite literally snatched a bottle from one woman in a bold move that left Peter with his jaw dropping).
They ended up drawing crude drawings all over the sand with the lotion and quickly incurred the wrath of every surrounding tourist on the beach. Norman had not been happy, but disappointingly enough he had not disciplined them himself. Instead, the poor bodyguard was left with the job.
It was not until they were back in New York that Harry revealed that Norman had gotten the poor man to go door knocking to each holiday bungalow to apologise on Norman's behalf with a gift of complimentary SPF 30+ sunscreen.
No longer was Norman missed.
When they are eleven, they are stunned by the dramatic weather change.
This time, it rains all week.
The sea has turned a tumultuous grey, and the waves angrily crash against the beach in succession. The sand is coarser and darker from the light showers. Only the bravest fishing boats are active upon the water, but everyone else is scarce.
The tropical rain does not sway them from having fun though. Instead, as they were wont to do, Peter and Harry took this as some form of otherworldly challenge. Still clinging to childish wants, they yearn to separate themselves as far as possible from the rest of the world. Wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Norman and everything he has ever represented: hatred, indifference, pure toxicity. A symbol of everything they despise about the world, encompassed purely into a person.
(Peter had always forgotten the fact that Norman Osborn was still Harry's father. At a young age, still so enveloped by Norman's influence, it had been impossible for the Osborn heir to truly break away. Life had seemed simple, yet he, Peter, had been so, so wrong.)
With a branch of determination that was not far from stupidity, both boys continued to explore the beachfront and every secret cave, as well as brave the thundering waters of the beach. Perhaps they had already sensed the ever creeping sensation of the inevitability of time and change, the loss of things, people.
Which is why - sometime during these gray final days, as they lay shivering in some cave upon the wet sand - it happened.
Harry had been beside him, staring transfixed at the ceiling of the cave with its slowly forming pillars. The cave was wondrous and pretty, like the skeleton of what could have been a wondrous cathedral. And a surge of jealousy had rippled through Peter. Which is why he had leant over Harry, as smoothly as you please, and blotted that view from him.
Harry had glared up at him with a pout.
"Get out of the way, you lumphead."
Peter had smiled toothily, "Nah."
The Osborn heir smirked defiantly and shook his head, "You're an ass."
They had both laughed until their sides ached, and still Peter had not moved. Caught up in the moment, he had leaned down until their noses were touching. Their breaths intermingled and the smell of sea salt went to their heads.
The kiss itself was small, insignificant and very sweet.
Harry wiped his mouth, "Ugh. You're a total ass."
But he was grinning.
Peter never returns to that beach. With no Harry, Peter is no longer welcome.
He was not stupid, but it had never truly clicked in his mind that some people were like keys – they could open doors to platforms that he – considering his social status - could only ever dream of. Instead he had tightly locked the slightest inkling of negative thoughts away, never wanting to place his best friend on a pedestal. Harry would have hated him for that, he despised pedestals. They reminded him of Norman.
(It was Norman who had made them helpless; cruelly separating two parts of what was clearly a whole)
With no Harry, the negative thoughts slowly begin to leak from the darkest corners of his mind. He cannot stop them. Without Harry, there is no control, no grounding of his darkest dreams.
Eight years pass so slowly and Peter can no longer afford to go travelling at the drop of a hat, so he makes do with whatever Aunt May and Uncle Ben can manage. Sometimes they will venture away away from the Big Apple, but never too far and accommodation is usually lacking. Not in a physical sense, but in that Peter feels that something is missing. The feeling never truly leaves him, even after such a long estrangement.
It was Norman who had torn them apart and ironically, it was he who brought them back together again. In the wake of the death of his own paternal figure, Uncle Ben, fate ordains Peter to be by Harry's side at the most crucial of moments. He empathizes, sympathizes, and can once again throw an arm around his friend's shoulder in utter understanding.
(Secretly, very secretly, he relishes in Norman's death which has brought Harry back to him and rid them both of Norman's toxic presence)
Initially, they are awkward at first, skirting around each other politely like ice-skaters on a rink. Soon, however, the ice breaks and they are forced back into close quarters. Harry has not changed much, but is quieter and bitterer. As if life has dealt him a particularly awful card. Peter thinks Norman could be the card, but there is something more to Harry's constant anger. It simmers silently beneath the surface, but Peter can see it in the gleam of Harry's icy eyes, the gentle shaking of his hands when they are meant to be still, and the sharp whip of his tongue when he speaks.
Harry Osborn is unhappy, depressed, and undoubtedly angry.
Peter knows that he himself has changed. He is taller, ganglier than ever before but also filled out (thank god). Harry glares at his wide-set shoulders, fit appearance, and superior height with what could be jealousy, but Peter is not very sure. It is a glance filled with longing.
When Peter finds out the real reason for Harry's frosty disposition he offers his sympathies and puts on a considerate face. However, in the privacy of his home, he screams at the wall and throws his things at the wall until Aunt May threatens to call the cops. He loves his Aunt May and so he shuts his mouth.
That is when he rediscovers the simmering within himself.
(Even from beyond the grave, Norman's legacy lives on to haunt their lives)
The beach, unlike them, has not changed.
The world around them seems smaller, quainter, but all the sensations remain the same. Smell, is one very distinct sensation. Inhaling deeply, he lets the briny air flow through him, almost tasting it on his very tongue. The air is thick with salt and the smell of rotting seaweed, and he just loves it. It is a raw scent, but not a bad one. Sort of like freshly mown grass, or of the brand of scotch that Harry loves so much (though when it seeps into your clothes, you rethink that).
Sound is very dominant.
He can hear the gentle, hypnotic crashing of the waves as they hit the sand, dumping shells and long strands of seaweed every which way. It is a loud sound, one which they can always hear from the house, but it has a strange soothing effect, all the same.
Harry tosses restlessly beside him, the sound of the smooth sand shifting beneath his body, and he sighs contently. Peter's ears prick up at the languid sound, and he becomes aware of the sound of his own slow breathing, the thump thump of his heart, which seems to quicken suddenly.
Touch; the sun is balmy and warms his skin just so. His free hand is resting upon his stomach, now clutching ever so slightly at his sand-beaten shirt. Despite the shade of the robust trees that serves to fracture the sun's rays, he can feel his face, ears, neck, all grow warm.
He releases his shirt, and his joints sigh in relief. His grip had been too tight.
Instead, he dips his hand into the granular sea beneath him. The sand is smoother, up here, near the bank and untouched by the water.
Curious, and soothed by the cool sand between his fingers, he gently cracks open one heavy eyelid to observe the boy lying beside him. Harry is now resting on his side, head slumped against his lifted arms, but more importantly is facing Peter.
Harry's eyes are closed, his dark lashes stilled. Peter is almost disappointed that he cannot see the bright globes that are veiled behind those pale lids, but as an opportunist, he sees his chance to survey the other without question.
Curled up so tightly, Harry reminds him of a cat snoozing away in the heat of the sun.
His hair is considerably darker, due to the seawater, but what droplets may have remained upon his skin have long since dried away. However, he is murmuring slightly, his shapely lips moving prettily, and his brow is slightly furrowed. Perhaps he is never completely at peace, but this is as close as Peter has seen him to being so.
Under the intense gaze of the sun, his skin has pinkened slightly, especially over the expanse of his bony shoulders. Peter has always liked Harry's shoulders. They've always seemed like nice little handles, perfect for pulling the other boy as close as possible.
He is still dying to do that.
So when they rise and fall, in time with his slightly muscled chest, Peter cannot help but let a strange little sigh escape his lips. Why does Harry make for such a divine sight?
To his alarm, one of Harry's beautiful blue eyes half-opens and looks him up and down.
Oh god, he heard him and probably saw him looking at him in that way…
"What was that?" he says incredulously, the slightest hint of a smirk playing at those pretty lips. Harry sounds as if he already knows.
Peter's mouth feels as dry as the air around him. The muscles of his mouth stretch outwards into the most awkward smile he can muster. Can he play it off…?
Instead he finds himself gaping, not unlike a fish.
Oh yes, very attractive.
After a minute, Harry makes an odd snorting sound that could be a laugh, before rolling back over onto his other side, leaving Peter to gaze helplessly at his sand-covered back.
Peter feels like he has missed something.
The night is utterly alive, out here, but in a way that is totally different from the night life back in New York. The night in Queens is heavy with the squealing of tires, the sounds of signs and horns blaring, or the occasional swearing match; but out here the darkness is laden with the squawking of birds and the strangely loud chirping of insects. The ocean, of course, can be heard too.
It is actually quite loud; in fact the mixture of tropical sounds is positively thunderous. But Peter loves it all the same.
Of course, he always has trouble adjusting between both worlds for the first nights arriving and then going back. Falling asleep to different tunes can be incredibly jarring, Peter realises.
They are no longer young, so with long lethargic days of doing nothing comes the freedom to do things that had previously been hidden from them. Yet still, apart from the years of estrangement and the newfound joys in alcohol, things have not changed very much at all. There remains a sense of magic within this place that cannot be touched by their past and present grievances.
Bad memories and nightmares have no place here, except in nostalgic drinking.
When Peter wakes up from an inevitably restless sleep, he finds himself upon the soft couch in the living room surrounded by empty pizza boxes and bottles of what had been differing substances.
He did not drink much, but Harry. Oh Harry.
It is late, late, late and it is the earliest hours of the morning, a period of stasis. The witching hour; the time when everything seems to stand deathly still, when the very world seems to stop revolving. Peter indulges in that knowledge, before becoming aware of just how very quiet it is. He cannot hear Harry breathing, but that is because Harry is not there.
Instead, the young heir is sitting out on the balcony wrapped tightly in a thin bed sheet on one of the beautiful wicker chairs, with a single glass of scotch in his hands. He is staring deep into the glass as if it were a dear friend, his eyes tracing each uneven cube of ice so very lovingly.
As Peter steps out into the warm night air he takes a moment to gaze upwards at the night sky, past the noisily swaying trees. The sky is beautiful in this place. The stars are utterly untouched by city lights and it always makes him feel so very small to see the smattering of glinting lights and celestial bodies.
When his leg brushes against Harry's wicker chair, he realises that he has crossed the balcony.
Harry looks up at him, smiling wistfully; "…thanks, Pete, for coming out here with me I mean."
"Y-yeah, no problem, man," Peter stutters, unsure of what else to say in reply; "…j-just whatever you need, I'm here, okay?"
Looking away, Harry hums thoughtfully under his breath.
Feeling whimsical himself, Peter takes a seat beside him and finds himself staring at the other quite openly. With his chin supported by his bony hand, Harry's pale neck is quite exposed to him. It draws him in, that delicious expanse of skin, and then his eyes finally rest upon the ugly green scar marring the side of it.
It is a permanent reminder of Harry's mortality and for Peter it is also a source of guilt.
They are quiet for a long time.
It is an enjoyable silence as they instead enjoy the conversation of this strange world around them; the distant crash of waves, the constant swaying of the trees, and their own quiet breathing that grounds them there.
"You were watching me today." Harry finally ventures, tracing the condensation upon the rim of his scotch glass. His eyes flicker up at him momentarily, but Peter catches his gaze nonetheless.
Peter's face heats up but he does not lie, "…yes."
"How do I look?" Harry asks distantly, still peering within the glass. It is an almost carefully expectant gaze.
A silence pervades them as Peter searches for the right words. The right answer.
"…you look better. Healthier."
It is not wrong, but is not right either.
Harry lowers his head and a deep sigh escapes him. It is a strange sound which makes Peter sit up straighter in his chair. It is tired, weary sound, of someone who has waited and waited, never quite getting what they want. It is telling of an age, of eternal patience that may have just been burned out.
In one smooth movement, Harry stands up, his small white feet embracing the wooden floor of the balcony. With difficulty, Peter forces his eyes away from Harry's thin ankles and petite toes.
However, the world is cruel, and as such Harry decides to stretch out his tired limbs, the sheet flapping in the night air around him like a cape. His skin is deathly pale, almost translucent under the ghostly lights that this night has provided. He looks like a spectre, or an angel. Peter's grip on the wicker tightens and it very nearly splinters beneath his grip.
Such is his frustration that in no time at all Harry is suddenly looming over him.
"It's late," Harry drawls, as he slides onto Peter's lap.
The sheet drops from his bony shoulders and onto the floor with a thump.
"H-Harry?"
Peter can hear his own voice crack and winces at the pathetic sound.
He feels the air escape his lungs as suddenly Harry's face is hidden at his neck, his hot breath against his ear, utterly drowning him in warmth. He tries his best to ignore the fact that Harry's hands are gripping his thighs with a forceful grip and that the other is only wearing his boxers.
"Well," Harry breathes against his skin making Peter shudder; "How do I look?"
"P-perfect. In every way that someone can be," Peter found himself murmuring against Harry's cheek. "…you look sad though. I want you to be happy forever."
"Really?"
Peter nods hurriedly, perhaps too eagerly. He winces. How damned cheesy.
"You're bolder, somehow," Harry says with a raised eyebrow, "Kind of like when you kissed me in that cave when we were twelve or something."
"Eleven." Peter corrects him automatically, before an astonishing blush smatters across his face. He was not used to being upfront in this way with Harry. It was utterly embarrassing.
Of course, Harry laughs, before burying his face back against Peter's neck. For a moment, he feels Harry smile against his neck and then feels him pressing a gentle kiss there. He pulls away to look at Peter, a searching glance in his eye. Whatever it is, he must have found, as Harry's lips are suddenly pressed against his own. It is a slow, chaste kiss.
As Harry's hand come up to caress his jaw, Peter grips his shoulders and deepens the kiss gently. They are both trembling ever so slightly, both from the coolness of the air and the sheer sense of resolution as they finally indulge in each other completely.
Peter sighs into the kiss and tightens his grip around Harry as the other begins to move his hips slowly with hesitant movements. His hands are now tightly wound in Peter's hair, an iron-like grip that makes him wince just a bit.
Wordlessly, Harry rocks against his thigh, his hair falling against his face with each brutal movement. Peter's breath catches in his throat. Slowly, his hands trail downwards, shaking, to clutch at Harry's bare legs that are so tightly clamped around him. His pale skin is cold and covered in goose-pimples, but Peter is not sure if that is due to the cool night air or not.
The wicker chair creaks obscenely beneath their combined weights as they rut gently.
A low whine escapes from Harry's mouth, quickly silenced by the embarrassed biting of his lip. Peter whines himself as he relishes in the sight. Sweat rolls down his neck, as he struggles to comprehend the situation. Harry's movements do not falter, and his lithe hands, which had been all but fused to his legs, have come up to claw at his shoulders. It is a tight, reeling grip.
With one startling movement, Harry throws his head back and a sweet, drawling sound escapes his lips. Peter's fingers start at the sound, and draw Harry even closer as the heat builds up between their entwined bodies. It is suffocating.
With his hair all but thrown back, Peter can better observe Harry's flushed features and half-closed eyes that are glazed with what can only be vindication. Hooking his fingers at the band of Harry's boxers, he begins to tug at them incessantly, muttering under his breath.
A murmured "Harry" sounds from his throat and he presses forward to kiss away at the pale column that is the other boy's neck.
"Hmm…?" Harry's movements slow.
"I'm guessing this makes you happy." Peter rasps, still stroking Harry's skin softly.
Harry lets a small smile cross his features, "You've always made me happy, Pete."
Peter smiles back and clasps Harry's face to draw him back in for another kiss. It is furtive, more hurried, as Peter attempts to convey all the love in his heart into a simplistic action. He never wants Harry to leave again and in turn never wants to leave Harry. He wants Harry to feel loved, as much as a person can be, and most importantly he wants him to know that he has value.
Harry shifts his hips suddenly and Peter swears under his breath. From the mischievous look upon his face, it had been very intentional.
"Harry…" he says warningly.
Harry tries to look innocent, "…what?"
"You're a jerk." Peter glares, but there is no real anger behind it.
Harry kisses him again and begins to grind his hips, his hands tightly clasped upon Peter's shoulders. Peter returns the kiss eagerly and his hands fumble to clasp Harry's thighs, which despite his display of confidence, are trembling beneath his touch. He splays his fingers over Harry's skin, tracing the pale expanse with a brand of enthusiasm years in the making. Harry suddenly inhales sharply into his mouth, as Peter's hands get too bold.
Smirking, Peter moves one hand to trace the skin of Harry's lower stomach teasingly. Harry gasps again and digs his nails into Peter's broad shoulders with a mingled sense of pleasure and the intent to hurt the other for teasing him.
Slowly, excruciatingly so, Peter admires Harry's skin with his hand, never quite going in the direction that Harry very clearly wants him to. Only when Harry bites his lip sharply, does he finally give in. He takes Harry's length into his hand and strokes him languidly, laughing breathlessly when Harry bites his shoulder and curses at him.
"What's the matter?"
"Fuck you."
He strokes Harry faster, watching with awe as the other comes undone in front of him. Harry violently bites his neck as he comes, spilling into Peter's hand with a muffled whine. Peter shudders at the sight.
With an exhausted glare, Harry strokes Peter's length harshly until he comes too with an awkward yelp. Harry collapses against him, their sweaty skin sliding together. He whimpers wordlessly against his mussed hair. Peter runs a soothing hand down his back, muttering nonsense against his chest. They stay like that for a moment, relishing in the friction of their warm bodies and the cool night air.
Panting, and flushed, Peter whispers brokenly: "I don't want you to be sad anymore."
Harry smiles whimsically against his chest, a sad light in his eyes, "I don't think you can do much more than hold me, I'm afraid. That might have to be enough for now."
Matching that sad smile, Peter's hold tightens around Harry. He makes a silent promise to never leave his friend, his other half. In his heart, he knows he can help Harry. They just need more time.
For now, in this safe place that is close to their hearts, he will simply hold him and somehow, that is enough.
He cannot solve Harry's problems just by wishing them away, all he can do is what he's always done: and that is hold Harry's hand and lend him all the strength he can possibly muster.