Ever since that fateful night, Peter's been tormented by it.
The moment Harry had taken his own life to save Peter's. It wasn't even the act itself that disturbed him as it was the look of horrible realization in Harry's eyes. As though he couldn't believe what he had done. Peter remembered the stabbing pain in his own chest the moment it had happened, how stupefied he'd been that the blades hadn't met their intended target as he felt they should have.
He still sometimes thought about it, whenever he was reminded of his friend. How it should have been him instead. Perhaps it was survivor's guilt, but Harry had meant a lot to him, even deep down while he was being manipulated by that black suit. He was his only real friend and it had felt as though he'd lost something irreplaceable that night.
He'd cried so much since then. Often when he was alone, because he didn't want Mary Jane to be aware of the guilt that plagued him. It would only verify that he was right for feeling like this. God, how he wished he'd had more time to say all that he had wanted to Harry. How much his friendship had meant to him, how he had always appreciated that he'd defend him when no one else did. And to tell him how much it meant that he'd come to help him when he needed it most. Like a knight in shining armor floating to his rescue, grabbing hold of his hand with the warmest smile despite his disfigurement.
And oh, how his stomach twisted every time he looked at a photos of Harry. Because they just reminded Peter of how heart-breakingly handsome his friend had been before he had dealt him a permanently-scarring lethal blow to his self-esteem. Peter had cried thinking about it, asking himself repeatedly how he could do such a thing. Even though he knew he'd been practically possessed by evil, he felt certain that a part of him had made that decision all on its own. He didn't have to fling that bomb back at him, yet he had. And he'd stalked off without even looking back, smirking proudly, confident he'd killed his former best friend.
Sometimes when he hugged MJ, when he held her in his arms...he'd tighten his grip, tears welling up in his bloodshot eyes. Imagine it was Harry he was holding instead. Because he needed that comfort. Anything was better than his total absence, leaving behind nothing but painful memories. And he felt so much more alone now. The truth was, he had secretly hoped that one day Harry would forgive him for indirectly causing his father's death. That they'd make amends not as Spider-Man and the Green Goblin's vengeful son, but as two close friends who had grown apart under tragic circumstances. That he could tell Harry about all of his secrets as Spider-Man, the criminals he encountered, and the near-death experiences as well. He almost wished Harry could even have joined him as a sidekick of sorts, but he knew he'd never truly have allowed it. So he wasn't sure what it was that made him ask Harry for help that awful day. How did he even know he couldn't take them on himself? He was right in the end, but still. The result of the rescue seemed almost more regrettable than what would have occurred had Harry stayed stubborn in his hatred of him.
And now he had his death on his conscience.
He wished he could fill the emptiness inside him with something of substance. Something that could restore the vitality that he so lacked nowadays. Something that made him feel like he was worthy of the title of Spider-Man once again. But whenever he defended justice now, it felt eerily mechanical. Like going through the motions with no heart and soul behind it. He never made any witty remarks, didn't feel uplifted like he used to when he caught a bad guy in his web, saving an innocent life.
It all just felt...hollow.
He suspected Mary Jane was aware something wasn't quite right with him as well. Sometimes she looked at him like he was the one who needed saving. Reminding him of what she'd said to him when she'd shown up at his door in her wedding dress. And perhaps it was true. Maybe he did need saving from his own inner turmoil. But was there any way to repair his tattered soul?
Maybe one day he would be back to who he used to be. Maybe one day he would feel something resembling happiness once again. But for now, he felt rooted to the belief that somehow, no matter what anyone else said, he was to blame for his best friend's untimely death.
In a twisted way, this was far more reassuring than any attempts to console him could ever hope to be.