Harry sat in the shadows of his own home, feeling every bit the monster he now saw in the mirror now. It was as though that bomb had plunged him into realization, that the revenge he was seeking may not be what he was truly wanting after all. And it was frightening, inconceivable, even. After all, he hated Spider-Man with a passion, even more so after discovering that the man behind the mask was his deceptively soft-spoken best friend.
The moment he'd thrust that dagger into Peter's abdomen had been so satisfying, too. He remembered the bewilderment in his former friend's face as he'd shown him how he truly felt about him. And oh how he'd wished that he'd twisted it to further drive his point home and extract the cries of anguish he'd dreamed about.
But now Harry could only wonder to himself how things had devolved to this point. With him even frightening Mary Jane and using her as a means to hurt Peter. It all felt so terribly tragic that it made him wish he could turn back time to when they were still in high school. When his dad was still the man he looked up to. Not the cartoonish, vindictive parody that would forever taint his fond memories.
He wasn't sure who he was anymore either. Perhaps his reflection was evidence of that.
He thought he wanted to make Peter suffer. He thought he wanted to kill him, to make him truly understand how betrayed and repulsed he felt by what his friend had done to him. But it had begun to dawn on him that perhaps he was fighting a losing battle. That maybe there was some weight to Peter's words after all. That maybe he hadn't murdered his father. That maybe he was just a victim of circumstance.
Of course, that wasn't what Harry wanted to hear. He wanted someone to blame. He wanted someone to hate. And he'd never been particularly fond of Spider-Man to begin with. The fact that he hid behind a mask as he fought crime never sat well with him. Did he think he was some kind of savior? Was he an egomaniac who thought he was better than everyone else? How did he benefit from all he did? Over time Harry felt more and more sickened by the adoration and fervor surrounding him. Spider-Man wasn't someone to be celebrated. He was a circus freak.
A circus freak with his best friend's face.
He remembered the night he'd slapped Peter. It had been so exhilarating, like a steep dip on a wild ride. He'd struck his friend in front of a crowd, humiliating him. Degrading him like the schoolyard bullies from who he'd protected him. Before he'd walked off, he'd savored the look on Peter's distraught face, on the verge of tears.
And now Harry felt as though he were wavering.
As though something inside him was on the verge of caving in and giving up entirely. He felt so shaky, so weak, and so sick of himself. His own quest for revenge suddenly felt exhausting and he wondered how he'd managed to expend so much energy on it thus far. Was it really worth it? Was it really worth killing for? Torturing himself for?
He still had photos of him and Peter in his house. For some reason he'd not thrown them away despite feeling tempted to do so many times. Something inside him would make him hesitate whenever he felt like tearing them to pieces. The sentimentality attached to them nauseated him, but he couldn't fight the feeling. It would hit him like a bullet, and he'd hate himself for it, but he always ended up leaving the pictures alone.
A part of him wanted to go and find Peter. To apologize for all he'd done to him. To break down in tears and tell him that he just wanted the agony to end and for things to be okay between them again. Peter had asked him for help. And Harry had turned him down despite a part of him feeling touched by his friend extending a hand towards him after all that had happened. Regret had begun flooding him not long after he'd left, eventually to the point that he wished he'd taken his damn hand.
After all, in the end, wasn't reconciliation more beautiful than revenge?
A memory of Flash forcibly bumping into a bespectacled Peter, making his books tumble onto the ground flickered across Harry's mind. How Harry had stalked up to Flash and told him to take his ass elsewhere. How Peter had looked embarrassed and grateful at the same time, smiling lopsidedly at him as he helped him pick up his books.
Harry brought a hand up to his face, his fingers tracing the raised scars. At that moment, he wasn't sure what hurt worse—that bomb's fiery explosion or the indecision in his heart.
Or maybe...maybe it was the fact that a part of him may actually admired Spider-Man. And especially that it was Peter who was Spider-Man. The last person he would have ever suspected to be donning tights and socking masked villains in the face. For the first time in ages, a laugh escaped him.
Funny how things worked.