OOO

Bernard came to find them, wet and bedraggled, sitting awkwardly on the couch. Harry was half-undressed, wrapped in a blanket that was as drenched as he was, and Peter was in spandex with his arms wrapped around a wastepaper basket that reeked of vomit. Whatever his opinions or suppositions might have been, however, he kept them to himself. Rather than talk, he went about efficiently doing his work, turning off the sprinkler, getting Harry dry clothes and pretending not to know the reason why Peter was wearing spandex.

When they finally went in to the body, Peter held back. A few hours had lapsed and, his head finally clearing, he was afraid to be near Harry when the other boy was finally confronted with the reality of his father's demise. Harry pulled him with him, begging, however, and Peter could never say no. As soon as he lifted the mask away, Harry broke and Peter gathered him into limp arms.

They sank onto the floor, kneeling and mourning this time, and allowed Bernard to take care of the rest, piece by piece.

"I should be doing this," Harry whispered at one point, now curled up and watching Bernard. "But I just… I can't."

"Do what's right for you and don't worry about anything else," Peter replied, massaging his shoulder with one hand. "OK?"

Harry lapsed back into silence and leaned against Peter, falling asleep just as the sun was rising. Peter laid him on his side so that he wouldn't choke if he threw up while Bernard was out of the room. Then he went around the rooms, picking up the cast aside pieces of his costume, and pulled the gloves and mask back on.

"I need to get the glider," he told Bernard by way of explanation.

"Do what you must," the older man told him, not even turning from the body he was washing.

OOO

As soon as Peter made it back, he threw the glider onto the floor then crashed in an arm chair, falling into a fitful sleep. When he woke up the room was empty; Bernard came in and told him he could find Harry in the kitchen. He was there, bags beneath his eyes, alternately nursing a cup of black coffee and a glass of tomato juice, for the hangover Peter assumed.

"Hell of a night," Harry croaked. "Need something?"

"Water? I don't know. My head feels like splitting…"

"Take this." Harry passed him the juice. "So. Then. How much do you remember?"

"My arms are sore too," Peter groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Every muscle I have…"

"That's not answering the question, Pete."

"I remember your father's death," he whispered. "Clear as anything. If you want to know how it happened."

"Actually, I was referring to my drunken groping." He sipped his coffee. "Not that I'm not eager to hear about my dad too," he muttered, voice thick with sarcasm. "Jesus!" Setting the cup down, he buried his head in his hands. "What the fuck has been happening with my life Pete? How did I not know about you? How'd I not know about my dad? Am I that blind, that I can't see what's happening right in front of my face? Half the people standing in his way die, he's absent all the time and I can't figure that one out?" He looked up at Peter, eyes starting to well. "I thought things were getting better with him! We talked last night after… after I saw you with MJ. He said he wanted to make things up with me and I believed him. Thought he really wanted to fix things. That he was starting to be more concerned about me, about our relationship, that he was going to… that he was going to be a real father."

"Maybe he was," Peter looked at the tomato juice miserably. "I told you, he didn't want you to know. He wanted you to love him."

"He wanted me to believe in a lie; that he was somebody he wasn't, somebody good when all he was all along was a psychopath… He took information I gave him and tried to use it to kill my two closest friends."

Peter wanted to argue, to make the case for Norman. That losing your life's work would be a blow for anybody, that it was the serum that had done it not Norman himself. But Norman had been vicious and, Peter thought, he would rather allow Harry to work matters out for himself regarding his father. Better to support a live friend than sympathize with a dead enemy.

"… and as for the other thing – shit, Pete. I honestly don't know what to say. I mean, I was drunk. And a little pissed about earlier, that you two were… that you cared about each other and nobody about me. But I… I should have kept my hands to myself." He reddened.

"Harry?"

"I mean, I thought, few months back, that maybe if I dated MJ things would get better. That maybe I would quit having dreams. That I would be able to stop staring, stop trying to keep you around for all the wrong reasons. That I could be more like my father wanted me to be and convince myself and everybody else that I was normal.

"And then when I couldn't, when the feelings didn't go away, I thought that it would at least keep her from you, that what you felt would fade and maybe you would…" Harry sighed. "That's all over now, I suppose. I mean, it's pretty clear from the hospital the way you two feel." He snorted. "Guess this torpedoes any chance of convincing you to stick around, doesn't it?"

Peter froze. "Harry…"

"After all," he pressed on, clutching his coffee tightly, "you love MJ and MJ loves Spider-Man and you're Spider-Man so all you have to do is put two and two and two together, make it equal six and let the love story play out. Better than a storybook romance, isn't it? Childhood sweethearts and all that shit." He laughed again, a short, punctuated sound. "Don't think there's room for an unrequited gay friend in that equation."

"Look, if…"

"I thought I should be honest, though, you know? I mean, even if you didn't want me to know about you and MJ, it took balls for you to tell me about Spider-Man, tell me what really happened last night. I'll be up front, I thought about blaming it all on the alcohol. Wouldn't have been hard – you're probably the most trusting guy I know, you know, even when you shouldn't be. Might want to work on that if you're gonna keep doing the hero thing. But I thought…"

"God, Harry!" Peter finally interrupted. "Will you shut up?!"

Harry froze, stunned, his mouth open. "Pete?"

"Sorry." Peter blushed. "I didn't mean to sound… let me get a word or two in, OK? You're my best friend, Harry."

"Yeah…"

"And I think I might like you. Like you, like you. But I'm… shit Harry. I'm barely handling being Spider-Man. Something like this… I don't even know where to start. You know me Harry. I'm no good with stuff like this. I don't know what to say, what to do. I'm clumsy, I'm awkward, I usually screw everything up even if I don't mean to. And everything is so complicated right now that I'm not quite sure what to tell you. Although if it's any consolation… " he took Harry's hand and gave him a little smile of encouragement, "I did feel something last night, and it wasn't just the alcohol."

"Oh." He looked into his coffee. "And what about MJ? I saw you yesterday. In Aunt May's room, you were holding hands. You've loved her forever Pete, I've seen it; you've told me about it."

"I'll admit; I worship MJ. But people you put on pedestals – it never seems to work out in real life. As for her… really, Har, who do you think she would actually love, me or the costume?" He smiled, the edges of his mouth curving ever so slightly. "Besides," he teased, "you and I already live together. That's a pretty good start don't you think?"

Harry shut his mouth, then smirked. "Maybe I should have gotten us drunk sooner."

"Maybe you should move slowly," Peter replied, suddenly serious. "Harry, I care about you. As a friend and as… well, as whatever. And last night… well, as I said, if we're both of us being honest, I liked the way you touched me. Still – this isn't easy for me to sort out. And besides that, your father, whatever you feel about him, died last night and I played a role in that death."

"Are you trying to get me to dislike you? Because we both of us Osborns liked you better than we liked one another, you know."

"That's not what I'm saying. I want you to take your time, Harry. Bury you dad, take some time to think – some time to mourn. He wasn't the best person. But he was your father. Don't brush this off; don't act like it doesn't matter. Otherwise this whole mess will be hanging over both of our heads forever."

Harry nodded and stood up with a sigh. "I suppose this means I need to start explaining his death and planning a funeral." He poured the rest of the coffee out into the sink and leaned against it.

"Over the next few days… yeah. I know. But for now, Harry, let's go home." Peter took his hand. "Alright?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll have the car brought around. Get changed into something – whatever's in my closet should fit decently enough, bag up that suit and let's get the hell out of here."

OOO

Norman Osborn's death left a gaping, uncertain hole in the lives of Harry and Peter that neither seemed quite sure how to fill. In the week leading up to the funeral, the two darted about the apartment, wavering between approaching and avoiding. Harry allowed the preparations for the funeral and the business of the company that was suddenly in his hands to consume him. Peter ducked and kept his head down in his schoolwork during the day and kept clear of the apartment at night, swinging. Each stepped lightly, each shied away from discussing too deeply or examining too closely the events of that altering evening.

Then, two days before the funeral, Peter came back from patrol and found dinner waiting for him on his desk. It was nothing major, just a sandwich and a Pepsi. But on top of it was a small, scrawled note.

Keep up the good work.

Quietly, he slipped into Harry's room. The boy was beneath the sheets, clutching his pillow and snoring softly. Peter smiled, then walked over to his bedside and kissed his forehead. Beneath him, Harry stirred and his eyes opened a small crack.

"Hey Pete," he yawned.

"Hey Harry," Peter whispered. 'Thanks for dinner."

"Least I could do."

"I appreciate it. And… Harry, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. I don't want you to avoid me. A little space, maybe, but not… not nothing."

"I see. I thought you wanted me to move slow?"

"Yeah, but… not a standstill." He looked down. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say, to tell you, how to tell you…"

"Pete, come on," Harry threw the covers off, an open invitation. "You must be tired."

"Harry, this is what you call slow?" Still whispered, Peter managed to sound amused.

"Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to cuddle?" Harry smiled.

Laughing lightly, Peter slid off the costume and curled up next to Harry. They lay together in the darkness, skin to skin, each basking in the warmth of the other.

"So if I promise to keep making you dinner, will you promise to come home each night to eat it?"

Peter laughed again and moved in closer.

"I'd come back regardless; but I think you know that."

Harry sighed, contented, and nuzzled Peter's neck.

"Yeah, but it's nice to hear, all the same."

OOO

A/N: One more chapter after this and it will probably be complete. It'll hopefully be up soon, but in the meanwhile - I hope you enjoyed this one.