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He’s hung over and debating whether it’ll really be worth going to class when he gets the call. He doesn’t really comprehend it over the pounding of his head, staring at the hand that’s started shaking since his eighteenth birthday with sleep tired eyes.
His father’s dying. Actually dying as in passing on, taking his last breath (descending to hell).
He meets the plane with perfect hair, ironed clothes and a mocking smirk.
(He sleeps the entire way there)
His father leaves with one last mocking word and a parting touch that leaves Harry’s skin crawling (one day he will look like that). The flash drive that apparently holds all of the ways he’s managed to keep alive over the years, (managed to drag out the inevitable) burns a hole in his pocket as the news is broadcasted to the world.
The famous Norman Osborn is dead and in his place comes his son. (Someone who hasn’t seen the city in eight years)
What a joke.
He doesn’t really blame those who doubt him, those who think that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t deserve the company based off of genetics. But since day one, Oscorp has been his inheritance, his father’s legacy and his duty to lead on. It’s why he’d been sent away, why his father paid little mind to the complete ball of misery, drugs and recklessness his son had become.
So yes, Harry could understand why they doubted, why they sought to see him crash and burn, but that didn’t diminish the complete and utter hatred he felt staring them all down at the head of the table.
(It felt rather good to put them in their place)
He still hasn’t looked at the flashdrive when he finds a sore on his neck, the skin inflamed and painful to the touch; a warning of what is to come.
He drinks until he can’t see straight and passes out in the office chair, the lights of the city gleaming mockingly behind him.
It is an accident. A case of fumbling fingers and tired limbs that has him dropping the flash drive onto the large black desk he’s taken up residence behind, a half empty glass in his hand. Files light up as soon as it touches the surface, a list of what is apparently research to reverse his ‘curse’ gleaming up at his tired eyes.
Harry hesitates as he places the glass down, shaky hands scrolling through the list until he comes across the name Peter Parker, right next to spider venom.
He clicks on it. (He almost wishes he didn’t)
Harry doesn’t like being denied what he wants. In fact, it rather pisses him off. They’ve always been a hotheaded pair, him and his father, greedy and selfish and possessive creatures; so when he’s told that he’s kicked out, when he’s told that he’s experimenting on humans willingly, that he himself gave the okay to lock another person into the hellhole that’s all for stopping his sickness, he could almost scream.
Instead he smiles, a cold and deadly thing, and walks himself out.
(He can get back the company later. All that matters right now is Peter. Peterpeterpeterpeterpeter-)
He’s been known to do stupid things, but he supposes breaking into an asylum, knocking out a couple guards and seeking to let out a so-called ‘patient’ tops the list. (He doesn’t really care)
Peter’s cell is rather large with a thick metal door that’s almost too heavy for Harry to push open, muscles straining with the effort. He wonders silently why they’d need such a fortified door to keep his old friend locked away and reminds himself just what this place is for.
Experiments.
The thought makes him sick.
"Peter?" He questions softly, eyes searching the rather darkened room. "Pete it’s me, Harry. I’m going to get you out of here."
There’s a soft rustle, the whisper of fabric reaching his ears and he turns, moving further into the room as he struggles to find the source.
"Harry," a familiar and yet oh so different voice answers, the sound seeming to come above him. "Harry Osborn."
Harry stiffens, turns slowly and comes face-to-face with an upside down Peter. "Jesus!" He gasps, staggering back a few steps as his heart races. "Don’t do that!"
The old Peter would laugh and take amusement in the fact that he’d scared the normally fearless Harry, this one merely blinks back, eyes wary. "You’re going to get me out?" He questions, twisting to land on his feet, the motion seemingly easy as he stood on long legs.
"Yeah." Harry nods, ignoring the fact that he’s pretty sure there wasn’t anything on the ceiling for his friend to hold on to. "And we have to hurry. The guards will probably be here soon. Especially once they find their buddies."
"What’s wrong with their buddies?" Peter questions curiously, following after Harry as he moves back into the hall, jogging through the rather gray building.
"I tased them," he answered distractedly, listening hard for any sounds of footsteps as he pauses at the main entrance.
"You tased the guards?" Peter echoes disbelievingly. "I knew that you were violent sometimes, but I mean--this seems extreme even for you."
"I’m only violent when people touch my things," He corrected, darting through the last stretch of hallway before sprinting towards the doors with the other male hot on his heels.
"Right," Peter muttered, rolling his eyes. "I forgot how much of a possessive bastard you are."
They get out with minimal mishaps. If getting caught by a dozen or so guards on the run to Harry’s car can be called minimal. He’d been worried for a moment, though he’d still snarled and turned on the taser in warning, eyes wild (because they weren’t taking Peter away again, no). And then his friend had darted forward, taking the men down with near ease and showing a rather frightening display of strength when he sent a rather heavy man flying several feet and into a car.
He dented it.
Harry tried not to think about what else could have been given to Peter during his father’s experiments.
"This place is just like I remember it," Peter murmured, eyes taking in the mansion uneasily.
"Yeah," Harry muttered, tossing his jacket onto the end of his bed. "Just like home."
"What uh... What happened to your father?" He shifted nervously, looking ready to bolt at any moment. "Is he here?"
"He's dead." The CEO answered, running a hand through his hair with a wince, the motion tugging at the growing rash on his neck. "That's the only reason I found out what they'd... what he'd been doing to you."
(He's found another reason to hate his father)
"Oh," Peter answers, relaxing slightly as he shoves his hands into his ratty jeans. "I mean, I'm sorry?"
Harry smirked knowingly. "But not really."
"Yeah," He smiled back, cheeks flushing slightly. "But not really."
"Are they going to look for me?" Peter whispers, hands clutching at his elbows as he curled into himself.
Harry hesitates before shaking his head. "I’m going to take back the company and shut that place down." He reaches out, gently running his fingers through unruly hair. "You never have to go back again."
Peter’s still tense, still unsure, but the touch eases the stiff line of his shoulders. (Progress)
"I can’t remember the last time I picked out my own clothes," Peter breathes, running his fingers over a soft cotton t-shirt.
"You can pick out anything you want." Harry smiles, shooting a glare at a disapproving employee and sending her scampering away. His clothes were rather tight on the other male, and Peter had wrinkled his nose at the expensive fabrics so he was still in a pair of ratty jeans and a t-shirt, hair wild and skin a little dirty. "It’s the least I can do."
"Are you sure?" Peter frowns, turning to his friend as he scratches at the back of his neck. "I mean, I don’t want you to think that you owe me anything."
I owe you everything, Harry wants to say. Instead, he says: "Pick out some clothes, Parker. I’d think you’d be tired of looking like a homeless person."
"Says the rich boy who probably still blow dries his hair."
He smirks. "That’s my servant’s job."
Peter snorts, fighting a smile. "You wouldn’t last a day on your own." He teases, knowing full well that Harry had already shown how false that was when he’d broken him out of his prison.
He raises an eyebrow, playing along. "It’s a good thing I don’t have to then."
It’s rather… normal for a while, considering just where Peter’s been for the last eight years while Harry’s been partying and doing nearly anything he could get his hands on. (When you know you’re dying, one tends to be less cautious) But the scars on his friend’s body will never let him forget.
Peter doesn’t seem that aware as he moves about the house, rediscovering old and new places with little hesitancy now that the threat of Harry’s father is gone, but the t-shirts he likes so much do little to hide the scattering white dots that mark the crook of his arm. He’s seen them on many a junkie before, though that, he had to say, was never something he particularly wanted to try. He didn’t like needles, and he figured he’d have more than his fill when he was bedridden and full of sickness, just like his father had been.
He was sure that there was more, that they hadn’t just used needles, that they had probably used all that they had to see how far Peter’s abilities and body can take, but he tried not to look. Harry didn’t deserve the growing trust in his friend’s eyes, not when he had done nothing to make sure Peter was okay after he’d left, not when he’d let it happen.
"Have you figured out how to take back the company yet?" Peter questions, shifting from a crouch into a standing position, putting his face level with Harry’s.
The Osborn yelped, stumbling back before righting himself, shooting a glare towards the upside down male. "You know, eventually the maids are going to wonder just how we manage to get footprints on the ceiling."
Peter sent him a sheepish smile, pushing away from the ceiling and landing on his feet, right-side up. "Sorry."
Harry sighed, pushing hair out of his eyes. "It’s fine," he dismissed. "I have a plan, but I’m going to need your help."
"My help?"
"Yeah," he nodded, flashing a grin. "Starting with the stuff you’ve been working on in the lab…"
"I don’t even know if they’ll work," Peter mumbled, tugging anxiously at his sleeves. "It was just… It was a random idea."
"You’re a genius, Pete." Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You have been since we were ten. They’ll work."
He grimaced, eyeing the supplies spread out on the table. "Are you sure? I mean, giving people a way to swing around the city may not be the best idea. Someone could be injured. You could be sued."
"Not people," Harry corrected, nudging his shoulder. "Just you."
"Me." Peter echoed disbelievingly.
He nodded. "You."
They work together, Harry supplying Peter with everything he required and occasionally stepping in to offer a few pointers. He watched him, smiling slightly at Peter’s grumbled curses and jittery limbs, his eyes bright despite the countless failures as he handles what he had thought he’d never hold again.
Harry had questioned how he knew so much when he had been imprisoned for eight years only to be told that apparently his father didn’t like dumb experiments, especially not when they had the potential for genius. He’d been working on a cure, Peter explained, eyes not quite meeting Harry’s.
He’d been almost afraid to ask if he’d found anything,
All the tests had been inconclusive. Peter had mumbled, changing the subject quickly. Not one subject had survived.
And that was that.
Harry sighed, staring at his shaking hand as he tugged his sweater further down his wrist. The disease was spreading, what looked like scales forming around the back of his hand. If Peter noticed he didn’t say anything.
"Yes!" Peter exclaimed, grinning brightly as he ran his hands along the line of webbing before throwing his arms out. He glanced up at Harry, practically wiggling like an over excited puppy as he gestured towards the device that had finally worked. "It worked."
Harry chuckled, moving to stand next to the other male, leaning against the office chair. "You ready for some trail runs?"
(Oh, he definitely was.)
It is not hard to find a place big enough for Peter to practice. What is hard is finding a place both big enough and empty. They don’t want to be seen after all. But as always, Harry manages.
“Wow,” Peter breathes, eyes taking in the free space, scanning the rafters above them. The ground isn’t that far, only a couple of stories perhaps, but it is enough to warrant a possibly serious injury if one were to fall. “Okay,” Peter mumbles, squaring his shoulders as he tugged at the bands wrapped around his wrist. “Here goes nothing.”
Harry barely even has time to blink, let alone stop him because god dammit, they should practice this before he goes swinging off into empty space, that idiot-
Peter lets out a breathless yell, the webbing catching on one of the metal rafters before he can hit the floor, sending him back up into the air. He fumbles enough times to make Harry’s heart resemble that of one going into cardiac arrest but eventually he manages to get the hang of it, finding a rhythm that leaves him beaming happily, body twisting to send him back up to where Harry sat, landing neatly on the edge of the wooden platform.
“So?” He grinned. “What do you think?”
“I think,’ Harry glared. “That you almost gave me a heart attack.”
Peter’s grin widened. “And?”
“And…” He drew in a breath, letting out a grudging mumble. “It’ll work.”
He was unprepared for the bear hug that came in answer.
“What are you doing?” Harry questioned, raising an eyebrow.
“Making a disguise,” Peter answered as if it were obvious.
“You call putting red fabric over your head a disguise?” He questioned disdainfully. “And why red of all things? Shouldn’t it be black? You’ll be like a freaking beacon, Pete.”
The webslinger huffed. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Keep working.” Harry advised, stalking over to his desk.
He barely hid a smile when Peter’s mumbled, “Everyone’s a critic,” hit his ears.
“Are you satisfied now?” Peter demanded, voice slightly muffled from behind the refined design of the red mask.
Harry gaped at him, eyes taking in the skin tight bodysuit with a spider perched on his chest. Somehow the only thing he managed to say was: “Is that spandex? Really, Pete?”
“You don’t like it?” And now he sounded sulky, voice put out. Harry could just imagine the pout on his face.
“I don’t dislike it…” He admitted, looking away from his friend’s slender yet oh so muscular body.
“So it’ll work?” And Peter’s grin could be heard through his voice, body wiggling slightly in his excitement and Harry was sold.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “It’ll work.”
“So,” Peter says casually, eyes glued to the shifting TV screen. “When are we going to get your job back?”
Harry blinked, eyes widening in surprise before he turned to look at his friend. “I didn’t think you’d want to start so soon--”
“Oh come on,” Peter huffed, waving his hands. “I made webshooters and a disguise and I’ve practiced as much as I can in an abandoned warehouse, there’s not much else to do but get those bastards fired.”
“Alright,” he started slowly. “We’ll start tomorrow if you want.”
“Good.”
And it was settled.
It wasn’t hard to get the evidence he needed to send the board packing, not really. Not when you had a wall climbing, web shooting, Peter Parker on your side. Before the month was done Harry was back in his office with a satisfied smirk, a mocking wave following his former employees out the door.
He had almost everything he could want, except for a cure.
(Except for Peter.)
He doesn’t know what Peter’s working on in the lab, he just knows that he gave him full reign, that he’s now a trusted employee and he’s safe. He knows that his sickness is spreading and that every day he’s scared of never waking up. He knows that he’s getting more and more desperate and he doesn’t know if he can take the question of whether Peter knows or not any longer.
“I’m dying,” he finally whispers over chinese food, causing the webslinger to freeze.
“...I know,” he finally answers, voice just as quiet.
Harry’s heart thuds painfully at that, and he shakes slightly before a warm arm wraps around his shoulders. He looks up into determined brown eyes and suddenly he is not so desperate because--
“I’m going to save you.”
He gives his blood without question, gives Peter anything he asks for really. The clock is ticking with no real set destination and Harry is scared of the idea that this day could be his last.
He has faith in Peter, of course he does, but they need time and time might not be on their side.
Harry wonders if maybe he should just-
Peter glances up at him, offering him a soft smile before turning back to the data displayed on his computer, lips pursed in concentration. His fingers fly frantically across the keys as a diagram flashes next to his desk, a simulator running through scans that Harry doesn’t really care to understand. What is probably hours later but feels like moments, there is a soft beep, the display flashing green as Peter jumps up with a relieved grin.
-kiss him.
“Are you ready?” Peter breathes, looking hopeful and yet oh so worried as he moves towards Harry with a long looking needle.
Harry smiles faintly. “As I’ll ever be.”
He nods, grabbing the CEO’s hand as he pushes the needle into Harry’s arm, emptying the green venom into his veins.
(He doesn’t let go)
It might hurt, his blood might boil in his veins and his bones might contort under his skin, but Harry doesn’t feel it because all that is there is Peter and his hand, holding on to him through his salvation and dragging him from the very pits of hell that scream for his soul.
(Harry’s not so scared anymore)
When he wakes up he feels weak (but strong), feels sick (but healthy), feels drained (but energized), feels dead (but reborn).
“Pete,” he breathes, eyes wide as he stares at his hand. His hand which is now free of sickness, which is no longer shaking. Tears burn his eyes. “Pete you- You did it-”
And Peter grins, eyes tired but oh so happy and Harry can’t help it, can’t stop himself from reaching out, from dragging him close and claiming those smiling lips.
He’s found himself in the past, yes. (And he’s found his future there as well)