Peter was worried about Harry.
He hadn't seen much of his friend...or whatever he now was to him...since he'd been unmasked by him. He'd tried desperately to get a hold of Harry, so he could attempt to make amends, to let him know how sorry he was that things had devolved to what they were now. He hadn't been truly rattled by Norman's death until recently. The more Harry scornfully wrenched himself out of his grasp, the more Peter's mind would drift back to that grisly demise. And how chilled he'd been by the shred of decency in the man's final words. Well, now he'd told Harry, whether or not he wanted to, and it was killing him inside to see his only friend want nothing to do with him.
There was one night when he'd come as close as he could get to having an actual conversation with Harry. He'd visited Harry at his mansion, knocking on the door with such taut nerves he could hardly resist the urge to retreat to his car. When Harry had opened the door, he'd stunned Peter with his charming grin. He'd invited Peter inside, and they sat in the living room, with Peter painstakingly avoiding sitting near the chair that he remembered draping Norman's body upon. Despite Harry's strange amiability, or maybe because of it, every moment of silence between them felt like a screaming siren echoing inside Peter's head, begging him to put an end to it as soon as possible. His friend spoke almost sluggishly, making Peter wonder if he was drunk or on some type of medication.
Harry had asked him how he and Mary Jane were doing. To anyone else, the question would have been deemed as innocent, but Peter didn't need a spider-sense to detect the undertones of resentment. The familiarity of it could have elicited a bitter chuckle out of him if he wasn't so tired. He hated that he almost pitied his friend, then. And he knew how much Harry would hate that, too. His concern for him gave way to fear when Harry had brandished a dagger—the same one he'd intended to stab him with—and examined it, stroked it. Peter didn't think Harry was planning to kill him with it. At least, not this time. No, the aching, almost pleading way he looked at the blade suggested he'd pondered hurting himself. Peter had walked over to Harry, carefully asking his friend to hand him the dagger, trying to keep his voice level. Instead of handing it to him, Harry had put it back in the drawer he'd taken it out of, and shot him a scowl as though he'd done him a massive favor by even remotely complying.
Harry was always moody, but his disjointed temperament was even more pronounced during that visit. To Peter's discomfort, he went from being jovial to distressed to antagonistic at the flip of a switch. Peter had decided he'd take advantage of the time his friend was giving him to try to really speak to him about the elephant in the room, hoping it might somehow snap his friend out of his stupor. And Harry's eyes had clouded over when he'd introduced the topic, his jaw clenching. All signs of levity dispersed as Harry gave him five minutes to speak his mind. A five-minute talk should have accomplished something, should have at least somewhat swayed his friend to his side. Peter had pleaded with him to understand that he hadn't purposely murdered his father, that he'd had a split second to think when he knew that glider was shooting straight towards him. That if he'd had more time, he would have shoved Norman out of the way.
Harry's eyes were cold and calculating as he spoke, fraying Peter's nerves and making him occasionally stumble over his words. He'd never wanted so desperately for someone to gift him with the salvation he so needed in order to be able to sleep at night again. He was at Harry's mercy and they both knew it. He needed Harry's acknowledgment of his remorse, his forgiveness for something that he was feeling more and more guilty about. When Peter was done telling his side of the story, telling Harry he still felt haunted by Norman's unhinged and cackling alter-ego, wishing his father hadn't gone out in such an undignified way, he could have sworn he'd seen Harry falter, relax a little. He wondered if he just may have gotten through to his friend.
But to his surprise, Harry's features contorted, and he claimed that Peter had an ulterior motive, that he was lying because he didn't want to lose his only friend. Not only was it partially true, but it also cut deep. Peter had averted his eyes and nodded to himself, feeling like his own self-doubts were validated. He could hardly register anything that had happened between then and his departure.
Harry hated him. His best friend hated him. And he felt like he deserved it.
Sure he'd never intended for the Green Goblin to die. If it were up to him, he would have hoped to seek some sort of therapeutic treatment for Norman, to see if the man beneath the mask could still be saved. And for Norman and Harry to have their reunion so Norman could say to his son the things he never could before his descent into madness. But unfortunately, life didn't work out that way — especially in Peter's world.
Instead, he saw something boiling beneath the surface in his friend, whose own psyche was growing increasingly brittle. He was seeing more and more of Norman in Harry of late and it was making Peter a jittery mess. Every alley he entered, every corner he turned, he half-expected to see Harry swoop in on a glider, cackling madly and donning a mask that mirrored his inner calamity.
It was all so exhausting and tragic it made Peter want to weep into his hands. Not only did he have this mess on his plate, but he was also juggling a job and his advanced college courses. It was amazing that he was able to maintain his sanity throughout it all. To be fair, he'd suffered from insomnia for a while now and he'd been so depressed he'd even recently lost his powers. The superhuman lifestyle had taken its toll on him, and every so often he'd consider not just throwing his suit away again, but setting it on fire. The ashes could scatter into the wind so he'd be far less tempted to return to the fray.
And oh, how good it felt whenever he was brave enough to peel off the suit and toss it aside. He'd hear sirens outside and tell himself the cops could handle it. Relieving himself of the responsibility made him breathe easier, made tears of gratitude prick his eyes. Oh, how it hurt to be Spider-Man, someone who had to shoulder so much blame and sorrow. Now he could return to being Peter Parker, even if it were just for a little while. But that was the problem, wasn't it?
That it was only for a little while.
Because the longer he waited, the more anxiety would creep in, taunting him with the knowledge that he could never resist the draw of heroics. Not for long, anyway. And so he'd curse viciously as he retrieved the suit and discarded his clothing so he could hastily put it back on and help whatever poor soul was in need.
Harry hated Peter. And Harry and Peter hated Spider-Man. Peter couldn't help but wonder if he'd have to see someone else he loved be buried under a mound of dirt because of him and his self-righteousness. He wasn't sure if his heart could take it. If anyone had to cross over to the other side, he almost wished it were himself.
And he hated how self-righteous that sounded.