Harry was getting to know May better. This was the second time he's seen her, and she was looking fresher than she was at Richard and Mary Parker's funeral. The tops of her cheeks were tinged with pink and the veins in her ageing hands were less pronounced as she gripped the steering wheel of her car.

"Do you think your father will let you stay over for the weekend? Not just one night?" she asked.

"I don't know," Harry said. He wasn't going to give some slack and say "probably" either. Some weekends, his father couldn't care less about him being out of the house, and on other weekends, he scolded him and wanted him to stay in, study, and go to a fancy corporate banquet where they'd pose in front of the photographers, his father's arm falling away from his shoulders the very second the flashes stopped.

"Oh, I'm a fool. Maybe I should ask this first - would you like to stay for the weekend?" May asked.

"Yeah!"

"Good. It'll help Peter. With his parents gone, he's having a hard time."

"Does he cry all the time?"

"No, not all the time. He's always a little sad though," May explained. "That's why me and Ben would like you to spend the weekend with us. Your company will take Peter's mind off things, make him happier. That's what friends are for."

"Uh huh," Harry said. He never really thought about it that way. He thought friends were mostly for playing games with or for borrowing pencils from when you forgot yours at home.

May and her husband - Ben, he was called - showed Harry around their house in Forest Hills. It was smaller than Peter's parents' house, for sure, not that Harry liked it any less. Peter was the one who proudly displayed his new bedroom, which was already crammed with his stuff. The room featured books about the solar system or math, a poster of someone called Nikola Tesla, a small toolbox, a stack of video games... He didn't remember Peter ever having quite that many games. And the clothes folded up on his bed, not yet tucked away in their designated drawers, had their price tags on them.

Before supper, Harry and Peter went to the playground. Harry wasn't so sure if May got it right about Peter. He was laughing a lot, especially when Harry made monkey noises as he swung from the metal bars. You don't laugh when you're sad. Harry was sure about this because he was on a regular basis, mostly when his father wouldn't show up for dinner or when Harry would show him pictures he drew and he'd wave him off and say, "Later, Harry. I want to relax. It's been a long day at work." He didn't feeling like laughing at all in those moments.

For supper, they had meatloaf. May made it and Harry thought it was tasty - he never tasted something quite this homemade before. Ben liked the meatloaf so much he only ate half of it and said he would have the rest later, in order to savour it.

"Peter, don't you like it?" May asked, eyeing his full plate.

"It tastes... it tastes kinda funny," Peter said.

"What do you mean?" Ben asked.

"Dad made it different," Peter stated and shrugged. He scraped his fork against his plate listlessly. He had an extra serving of garden salad instead of the meatloaf.

Harry brushed his teeth in Peter's bathroom and stopped when he heard May and Peter on the other side of the door.

"Peter... do you think you'd be able to sleep in your own room tonight? I'm not saying you can't sleep with me and Ben. I'm just asking since Harry's here to keep you company."

Peter's reply was too quiet for Harry to pick up on, but he knew the answer he must have given when he came out of the bathroom and Peter was tugging the blankets over himself.

Harry quickly fell asleep on the air mattress Ben set up for him. Somewhere around midnight, he woke back up because he heard a whimper. Harry propped himself up and the whimpering stopped.

"Are you sad right now, Peter?" Harry asked into the darkness.

"Yeah, I'm sad."

"Because of your mom and dad?"

"Yeah..." Peter whispered, his voice cracking. Harry thought about the funeral and remembered what May did while he was crying - she hugged him tight. So if Harry did the same thing, it should work.

Harry lied down beside Peter and pressed against his side. He slid an arm across him and could feel Peter's chest shuddering from his little sobs.

"Shhhh..." Harry said. He didn't know where he learned to do that. He kept doing it though. "Shhh, Peter... Shhhh..." he kept saying into Peter's ear. Peter squeezed Harry's wrist, and in reaction, Harry pressed up closer to him. This was nice in a sad sort of way, Harry thought.

A few minutes later, Peter's grip on Harry's wrist slackened and his breathing slowed.

The next morning, Peter made toast for him and Harry.

"Wow, you're up early!" May said. "And making breakfast, no less."

"I slept really good," Peter said, smiling. He looked toward Harry, who was spreading peanut butter on his toast. "I dreamt about my mom and dad and we were on a spaceship. They told me that they had a house somewhere out in the galaxy, and that's where they're living now. And when I'm old enough, I could go live there with them too. Harry - you should come too."

"For sure I will," Harry said. Going away forever... it was a pleasing idea.

Harry tries ordering a beer. "I'm Norman Osborn's son," he said, but the bartender isn't having it. Desperate and mostly just frustrated, he adds, "My dad's dying. Just give me one fucking beer."

It works. The bartender slides a glistening glass over to him, saying, "Just this one, kiddo. No more."

Harry would've given her a good tip if she wasn't so hard to persuade. He drinks the beer and all it does is bloat his stomach rather than what he was hoping for - a therapeutic buzz to make today's events feel foggy and distant. Or at least kill his jet lag.

It was some tired-looking doctor Harry had never seen before who broke it to him. The disease would cripple, warp and shut down his father's whole body within a year or two.

"I'm sure you know that the best doctors at your father's company are working on a cure and ways to alleviate the symptoms he'll have," the doctor explained, peering at Harry with compassion behind her eyes. "And for your own grief, there's plenty of services available to you if you need any support. At the receptionist's desk, there's pamphlets that go over them, and they list other ways to manage the emotions that come with news like this. I'm really sorry. It's overwhelming to see a parent's health deteriorating. You might already miss your father and it might feel like he's already gone, but there's ways to deal with it. Remember that. Grief is temporary."

Harry walked out of the hospital, a crumpled look on his face. He chucked the pamphlet in a garbage can and wished he could do the same to the doctor's words. Grief is temporary. Yeah, okay.

The hospital was only a block away from Oscorp Tower, so Harry wound up walking by it even though he wanted to be far away from there. All the stress he was under famished him, which had him ordering a triple decker sandwich from a coffee shop across the street.

Judging by the amount of suits, lab coats, and blue-grey uniforms, this place was a popular spot for Oscorp employees. Harry waited in line and a few seconds later, sensed another customer lining up behind him. He was a fidgety man with the slightly disconcerting habit of talking to himself. "What should I get today? Had a bagel this morning so I can't get that. Gotta stay healthy. Gotta stay healthy..." the man mumbled out.

While Harry's life wasn't so great, at least he wasn't this nutter.

As the line crept forward a couple paces, the man tapped Harry on his shoulder. "You're Harry Osborn, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yep."

"I'm real sorry about your dad. Deep down sorry, Mr. Osborn. I heard he's a very sick man. News gets around fast, you know, 'cause that's what it's like here at Oscorp," he says at rocket-speed. "You know, my mom's health has been getting worse too and she does some crazy, crazy things sometimes - forgets she's been cooking, puts the shower on for no reason, that kind of thing - and it's like she's not there anymore, and that hurts, that hurts real bad, so I know what it's like a little bit. I mean, not exactly, but well enough, I'd say. Anyway, you'll be in my prayers, Mr. Osborn. I'll be praying for your father's health and praying that you'll get through the grief alright."

"Thank you," Harry said, though he wasn't feeling a whole lot of gratitude. He only felt worse.

Harry finishes off his beer and trudges out of the restaurant, that bartender staring at him the whole time. He shuffles into a cab. It's been a long time since he's been in one of these New York wrecks. It's the smell that makes them different from the cabs in Switzerland, the seats wreaking of B.O. and Febreeze.

Where he'd like to go next, Harry doesn't know. Just not to his father's house. Not back to the airport either, where he could get a private jet to send him back over the Atlantic and he could be sitting at his desk in his stiff school uniform within hours. So he asks the cabbie to take him to Central Park.

He fiddles with his phone. Earlier that day, he looked up the Parker's number and was weirdly comforted by the fact that it was exactly the same as it was over five years ago. Harry didn't even have to put the number in his phone - he could still rattle the sequence off in his head.

Harry needs to see someone familiar, is the thing. Peter is the only one he knows in New York City. Knows well enough to call up after a long absence and be confident he'd meet up with him if he asked. That's what he does - asks Peter to meet him at the park. He has to leave a message on voicemail, leaving out the heaviest piece of information about why he's suddenly back in New York City after deliberately avoiding the place for so long.

His phone never rings the whole time Harry's at the park. Back at the penthouse, Harry whips off his jacket, nearly tearing some threads at the shoulder from the force he does it with. The rooms are dark, depressing him even more. His father has to spend the next few days at the hospital, not that Harry really wanted his father in close quarters. Harry's attitude changes - it was a good thing to come to a dark and empty home.

His frustration burst back into him once he realizes his father doesn't have any whisky, brandy, wine, nothing with a single drop of alcohol in it.

Somehow, he succeeds at sleeping without an ounce of booze to tranquilize him... It winds up being an hour-long nap because he's woken up by a thump at his window. He's utterly terrified at first until his eyes adjust and he can see the city lights highlighting the features of a young man.

"Peter? What the hell? How'd you get up here?" he says as he lifts up the window pane.

"Since the last time you saw me, I've become a world-class gymnast," Peter says. Predictably, his voice has deepened to the point of nonrecognition.

"Seriously, how?"

"Never mind about that right now," Peter says, hopping onto the floor with impressive grace. There's a small bruise, freshly purple and blue, right by his eye. "I got your message. I was just really busy with... with stuff. School. I've got a big test tomorrow. Umm, yeah. Anyway, I... I heard about your dad. It came up in the news."

Feet dragging, Harry makes his way back to his bed. "Right... Saves me some explaining, I guess."

"I'm really, really sorry, Harry. It's horrible. I know."

For an awkward few seconds, they're just staring at each other, standing upright like soldiers. They're new people with a new dynamic, clueless as to how to navigate each other at this point in their lives. Then Peter goes up and hugs him. It's no quick casual hug either. His hands rub along Harry's shoulder blades and they sway a few times before stepping apart.

"You look good, by the way," Peter says. "Really grown up."

"Be honest, I look like shit. Came off a plane this morning and absorbed the grime of the city since then. But you, you look... you look..." Harry starts to say, hesitating because he's now really noticing Peter's face and figure. His legs have gotten longer, he's pleasingly trim, and his hair's adorably ruffled. Harry's face gets a little hot ."Um, you look healthy," he states.

Peter furrows his brow. "Well, thanks."

Harry would be substantially more excited about Peter's newly-acquired attractiveness if he wasn't feeling so terrible. They both sit down on his bed. They make small talk and normally Harry would be bored by it, except it's Peter, someone whose life he's genuinely interested in. He's at Midtown Science High School and is one of the top students in his class. He's been doing lab work with one of his father's employees - Dr. Curt Connors. And May's been doing well since his uncle's death a few weeks ago.

"So uh... is it just you here?" Peter asks.

"Yeah. Pretty much," Harry answers.

Peter bows his head to keep Harry from seeing the pity on his face. Harry doesn't mind it. He wants someone to feel sorry for him, and Peter's the only friend who would. The boys at his school? Once he gets back, they'll say, "Oh, sorry, man. That sucks. So do you think you can bring some drinks to tomorrow night's party?"

"This is all... kinda horrible," Harry mutters. He sets himself down on the mattress, his knees knocking into Peter's thighs.

"No kidding," Peter says. "If you wanna talk about it..."

"I don't know."

"That's okay too."

Harry closes his eyes. He has to. It's the only way he can say the next few words: "Could you stay for the night?"

Harry's bed is a big one. It makes no sense to have Peter sleep all the way down the hall in the dusty guestroom or to sleep on the lumpy sofa set beside Harry's dresser. Peter gets under the duvet.

Just like earlier, Harry falls asleep for a little while, then wakes up. He wakes up for no particular reason this time around.

He feels like he's sinking. Or drowning. Or suffocating. His father's dying... His father's dying. That's all he's thinking about and he can't get it out of his mind so he can get back to sleep. His skin is strangely cool, goosebumps forming on his arms despite the layers of blankets burying him. God, he should be in his dorm room wondering if it was worth it to go to English Lit class the next day, if his life were normal... Normal as in having a neglectful father instead of a terminally ill one.

Harry realizes he's crying when a tear trickles over his ear. He shudders from how cold he is. He just needs someone to lay their hand over his shoulder, or brush his arm. Something like that. He craved it, and that's why he's grateful when Peter turns onto his side after Harry sniffed and ruffled the blankets. Peter whispers, "Are you okay?"

"No, Peter."

Harry stays still, not wanting to be all pathetic by nuzzling up to Peter like a child. He's far from being a child. He knew how to manage his own money, he knew how to get through an airport by himself, he knew how to choose a well-fitted suit. He wasn't a goddamn child.

Yet it doesn't stop him from being absurdly satisfied when Peter drags himself across the bed and lays his arm on top of Harry's side, rubbing his forearm. Harry's not sure why, but he starts to properly cry, sobs and everything. This makes Peter get closer to him, close enough that Harry's forehead presses against his collarbone. Their legs fold into each other's and they could hear their breathing loud and clear. Harry's absolutely cocooned by the blankets and by his friend.

Protected and feeling laid bare, Harry feels it's safe to tell Peter the truth, the one that no one else today could decipher, not even someone smart like that doctor.

"I'm hardly even sad that my dad's dying, Peter," Harry weakly admits. "How do you get sad over someone you hardly love?"

"It's all okay, Harry," Peter whispers into his ear.

"How though? I know I should love him. But I don't. I'm just mad at him because he's going to die and take away the chance of us finally getting along, being a real father and son."

"And that's what you're sad about - for not feeling the grief you're supposed to. Right?"

"Yeah," Harry says shakily.

"It's really okay. That's all I can say. I don't think you're a terrible person for it or any-"

"I barely feel sad though, how does -"

"Harry, no."

"Even though we haven't had a great relationship, he's still my dad. I should be a mess because of that. Everybody expects me to be."

"It's okay not to be."

"Only you would think so."

"That's not true."

"Well."

"Harry..."

Tears flood Harry's eyes once more, and he lets out an embarrassing sob.

"Harry..." Peter says and slips himself down a couple inches so that his forehead could press against Harry's. Being this close to Peter, Harry's whole body flushes, flushes with the need to be even closer. With his sorrow blurring every other emotion in him, the need was strong but indistinguishable. What did he want, exactly?

Their lips were mere inches apart like this. Harry was daring, confused, and desperate enough to try something out -

He shifts his head upward and kisses Peter. Peter breathes out while Harry breathes in, with Peter yielding to his touch and going for more by slipping his hand to the back of Harry's neck, then toward his face, where he wipes the wetness on Harry's cheek with his thumb.

Harry's never, ever experienced a kiss like this, or even close to it. This sort of intimacy made life easier to deal with, and as weird as it sounds, it's a way take in Peter's life, allowing him to break away from his own. Whatever little sense it makes to everyone else, it makes a lot of sense to Harry. Based on the way Peter pulls away to catch his breath then and kisses him wholly once more, Peter gets it too.

Suddenly, the bedroom and all the other rooms and hallways surrounding it aren't gloomy and dark. Instead, they're soothingly still and quiet, just like Harry's mind.

With Peter's weight over him and warming him, Harry begins to dream. He dreams of stars and Peter's hand entwined in his as the little white lights swirl around them and bunch together, forming a galaxy.

"We're getting closer to home," Peter says. At that, Harry wakes up and kisses Peter again, thinking the journey there won't be too bad after all.